By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. I am witnessing two women in battle. One is fighting for her life and the other is fighting for her death. Both want to control their destinies with dignity. My sister, Bonnie, has been through years of painful cancer treatment. The treatment itself caused unexpected consequences for which she was unprepared. The cancer went into remission in fall 2024 but returned with a vengeance in spring 2026. At that point, she was offered the option of a stem cell transplant, which has the potential for a cure. She said, Yes! Bring it on! My friend Jill has suffered miserably for decades with Crohn’s disease. Painful surgeries and unsuccessful treatments have left her with profound hopelessness. Following the most recent operation, the doctor informed her she would be facing additional surgeries with little chance for a positive outcome. Now in her 70s, Jill made it clear to her doctors, family and friends she did not want to continue living with such pain and compromised quality of life. She said, No! I’m done! What these two courageous women have in common is the privilege to choose between life and death, and the right to fight for the dignity they each deserve. Jill lives in California, a state where people have the legal right to medically assisted termination of life. Bonnie subjected herself to a stem cell transplant. It required harvesting cells from her body, a round of chemotherapy, and then the implantation of the engineered cells back into her body. This procedure wiped out her immune system. She had to move from her home and live in the hospital and an apartment close to the hospital for several weeks. She was barred from some of her favorite activities for 6 to 12 months. She has suffered physically and emotionally as she has fought for the freedom to live a healthier version of herself. Jill, on the other hand, did not have more treatment options or a rosier future. Her latest hospitalization was the last in a long saga without a tolerable ending. Like Bonnie, she has suffered physically and emotionally. Finally facing her fate, Jill began the struggle to free herself from the bondage of illness. She informed her family and medical team that she wanted to enlist the help of hospice and have a medically supported death. Both women were desperate to get home to their own beds, their families, their dogs. Home is the place where they both find comfort and safety. Bonnie looks forward to recuperating with dignity. Jill, with no hope for recovery, can plan a dignified exit. It’s easy to speculate what we would do in their circumstances, but nobody can really know unless we could walk in their shoes. It is nearly impossible to stand on the outside witnessing the excruciating quandary women like Bonnie and Jill face. Friends and family often feel helpless to ease the burden of their loved ones. As a psychologist and strategy consultant, I have helped many friends and family members of patients like Bonnie and Jill understand their role at times like this. I have suggested they ask themself two questions: What does the patient want me to do? And how can I support them in a way that serves them rather than myself? The first way to be supportive is to really listen to what the patient wants, even if those wishes are contrary to how you feel. Like Jill, my brother-in-law, Sherwin, had been suffering from painful dialysis treatments three times a week. He saw what the future held for him and decided he did not want to live with the restrictions and poor quality of life. He announced to our family that he would be terminating dialysis, knowing that within a couple of weeks his kidneys would fail and he would not survive. The family was alarmed by Sherwin’s announcement. His wife and grown children attempted to talk him out of the decision. They tried to get him to consider other options, but Sherwin was quite certain about his decision. At that point he needed his family’s support to face the end of his life. Without it, he would have died with a sense of loneliness. Soon the family realized they were advocating for more dialysis because they were not ready to let go of Sherwin. When they set aside their self-serving hopes, they were able to be with Sherwin in ways he needed them during the little time he had left. Instead of being emotionally alone, he was surrounded by a loving and supportive family. Another way to show up for a loved one in distress is to ask them directly what you can do that would be helpful. We shouldn’t assume to know what anyone needs in their situation. Many people project themselves into the scene and imagine how they would feel, but this is often not at all what the patient actually wants. Finally, we must read the room! This is extremely necessary because it goes right to a patient’s dignity. When I go to Bonnie’s for a visit, I never know how she is feeling. Is she having a moment of relief that her treatment worked, or is she grieving the loss of time and activities she missed over the years she was doing battle with cancer? I don’t want to appear on her porch all smiles if she is underwater with sadness. If I visit Jill, I don’t want to bring doom and gloom to her if she is has made peace with her decision and hopes to have a light, easy conversation. Most importantly, we must not attempt to control the fate of others or the choices they make for themselves. They must have the dignity to choose how they want to live or die. We can be respectful and supportive without being in front of them pulling, or behind them pushing. It’s more helpful to be next to them on the path they have chosen. 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

Merrill's bio photo at the Insider during the pandemic Marilynn (“Merrill”) Lynn Katz Hansen was a popular early contributor to the Insider. She was a legal assistant and frustrated writer who wished she could be Nora Ephron “if only for a day.” Writing from West Bloomfield, Mich., Merrill brought her own brand of humor and creativity to our fledgling publication at a moment when we and our readers were struggling to find our way through the pandemic. We are deeply grateful to have worked with her, and offer her family our sincere condolences. To remember Merrill in her own words, we offer this archive of her essays for the Insider. Dinner, Anyone? – July 30, 2020 https://www.theinsider1.com/post/dinner-anyone Some Women Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Vote in 2020 – September 11, 2020 https://www.theinsider1.com/post/some-women-shouldn-t-be-allowed-to-vote-in-2020 It Takes a Village…of Idiots – October 9, 2020 https://www.theinsider1.com/post/it-takes-a-village-of-idiots Why I’m Dumping on Trump, and Ridin’ with Biden – October 28, 2020 https://www.theinsider1.com/post/why-i-m-dumping-on-trump-and-ridin-with-biden

By Marilyn Mars / Santa Fe, New Mexico It’s a rainy Sunday, so you decide to stay indoors and give your bedroom a good clean. Looking under your bed, you come across boxes and boxes of who-knows-what living below the bed frame. You pull them out, coated with dust bunnies, and lo and behold, you suddenly realize where those old family photographs went. You inherited them from a parent, didn’t know where to put them, so under the bed they went. What compels us to hoard old photographs? Sometimes, these photos capture an irretrievable moment from long ago. Other times, the photos were passed down to us, and there’s guilt attached to letting them go; people feel as though they are throwing away the person or the event pictured. You may have taken the photographs at special family gatherings. Whatever the case, these meaningful print images can also become an albatross around your neck Clutter simplified is anything that blocks the flow of energy in a home. One of the many varieties is sentimental clutter, printed things from your past: photographs, old cards and letters, copies of Playbill from Broadway shows, journals, yearbooks and the like. Sentimental clutter often consists of items you hold onto for too long because of the memories and emotions they evoke. Yes, these items are deeply personal, but they can also pile up and tie you down. As a clutter-clearing expert, I’ve become a detective when I’m working with people and their sentimental papers. I've learned to ask a lot of questions to get to the root of why people are holding onto these items. More often than not, these nostalgic relics have been cast aside in boxes, bins or in the back of a closet, never to be looked at or enjoyed. Yet when my clients come across these items, they display a strong emotional tug to keep them. I worked with a woman I’ll call Betsy, who had kept 16 large boxes of old photographs packed in a guest room closet, untouched for over 20 years. She knew she needed to downsize but the thought of letting these photos go was painful to her. And going through them was even more painful. I pulled out one box, and we sat down together and began to sort. The more we sifted through the photos and talked, the easier it became for her. She realized that it was the memories she was holding onto, rather than the physical photos in front of her. These memories lived within her and had shaped the beautiful person she had become. Did we get through them all? Yes! Did it take two full days? You bet! But the 16 boxes had gone untouched for more than two decades. Betsy culled the images down to two boxes. The freedom and joy she felt after we finished this process is hard to put into words. Another story that speaks to this topic is one of my favorites. I had been working with a woman I’ll call Lisa for a few weeks, clutter-clearing and making a lot of progress. Then one day we came across some poems from her ex-husband. She clearly felt a sense of emotional turmoil upon seeing them. They were from a time when things were good between the two of them. They had divorced two years earlier, and these poems were the only thing left that still tied them together. Lisa’s aim was to sell the house and move on with her life. I asked her a series of questions exploring more of what these poems meant to her. It became clear that the letters represented some untapped grief. She was holding onto something from the past that was blocking her from moving on. We ended the session with the poems still on the shelf. One week later, I received a phone call from Lisa. Thinking more about the poems, she realized how sad she was that the marriage did not work out. These poems were a constant reminder of that. She decided to do a ceremony and burn all the poems, which were clearly weighing her down. The very next morning she got a call from her ex-husband. She hadn’t heard from him in six months. He called to inform her he was now ready to sign the papers that would allow her to sell the house. For two years, the co-ownership of the home had lingered. When she was finally able to truly let go of this emotional connection, represented by the poems, something dramatically let go and she could now move on with her life. To me, this is an example of how sentimental clutter can not only weigh on us but also block things in our life. I’m not suggesting you let go of everything from times gone by. I’m simply inviting you to become curious about what your sentimental belongings currently mean to you. Exploring this might give you the freedom to choose what stays in your home and what does not, a chance to let go of the items that burden you and keep those that you cherish. Here are a few tips to help you get started with your own photos: Throw away those that are blurred or out of focus; people or places you don’t remember; and duplicates or nearly identical photos. Ask yourself as you go through your photos: How often do I look at or enjoy them? Do they add to my life or is it a burden to keep and store them? How much time am I willing to put into sorting and storing them? What will be their fate when I’m gone? Marilyn Mars is a clutter-clearing expert and educator, whose passion is discovering the underlying reasons why we hold on to things that no longer serve us in our current lives, Marilyn has worked one-on-one with clients around the country for 15 years and teaches virtual classes year-round. A native of Long Island, N.Y, she took a road trip to Santa Fe in 2001, fell in love with the mountains and decided to stay. She and her husband Guillermo are dedicated hikers. www.marilynmars.com

By Rick Fishman / Oakland, Calif. Before Detroit gave the world Motown nostalgia, before Los Angeles gave us the Knack, and before Blue Note Records had a president named Don Was, there was the Bar Mitzvah network in Oak Park, Mich, and a very serious band made up of 12-year-old boys who believed, with total conviction, that they were on the edge of greatness. We were called The Royal Jammers. I know this because I named the band. At that age, naming a band was almost as important as actually knowing how to play. Maybe more important. You could fake a guitar chord, but you could not fake a name. The Royal Jammers sounded regal, musical, and just vague enough to suggest we knew something that the adults didn't. We did not, of course. We were kids from suburban Detroit, operating somewhere between Hebrew school, grade school, puberty, and the powerful gravitational pull of girls at dance parties. The original band included Link Wachler on drums; his brother Andrew Wachler on guitar; me, Ricky Fishman, also on guitar; and a creative kid named Doug Fieger. Doug’s mother was my fifth-grade teacher, and she had decided that her son should meet me. I think she saw me as some kind of confident male figure, which is a very generous description of a boy with a guitar, a Bar Mitzvah coming up, and no visible life plan. Still, she thought Doug and I might connect. Doug wanted to play guitar, and I gave him his first lessons. That is my claim to rock and roll immortality, or at least my right to a free drink when the subject comes up. The Original Royal Jammers: 1962 (clockwise from top left) Link Wachler, Andrew Wachler, the author and Doug Fieger We played the songs every young band played in those days, “Louie Louie,” “Money,” “Twist and Shout,” and anything else with three chords and enough attitude to make girls look in our direction. The Kingsmen were all-important. But then, on February 9, 1964, everything changed. The Beatles appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, and 73 million people watched. For kids like us, it was not television. It was a calling. America did not just see a band that night. It saw haircuts, boots, screaming girls, and a new career path for boys who had previously been told to become doctors, lawyers or dentists. After that night, Doug became even more driven. He seemed to understand that music could be bigger than a gymnasium, bigger than a social hall, and maybe even bigger than The Royal Jammers. Sadly, his parents were not especially eager to drive us to rehearsals for the Bar Mitzvah gigs, where we had become almost a weekly junior band for The Zan Gilbert Orchestra, the adult band that played almost every Bar Mitzvah party at the time. Doug left the band around September 1962, right before my own Bar Mitzvah. This created a crisis. Not a national crisis, but in our world, it was close. I heard about a musician who did not live in my own Key Elementary School district but in the Dewey Elementary School district of Oak Park, named Don Fagenson, who had recently left another boy band in the area called the Saturns. I never fully knew why Don left. My guess is that, even then, Don had musical opinions. Strong ones. He already knew one more guitar chord than I did, which, in the meritocracy of 12-year-old rock ‘n’ rollers, made him highly qualified. I let him into the band. We also added Sammy Gun, who played piano and the melodica, an instrument that seemed to be part piano, part harmonica, and part comedy prop. Suddenly, we were complete. We had guitars, drums, a piano, a melodica, ambition, and no fear whatsoever. The Royal Jammers: 1963 (clockwise from top left) Drew Wachler, Don Fagenson, Link Wachler, the author, and Sammy Gun We gigged almost every weekend at places like: The Raleigh House, B’nai Moshe’s social hall, Shaarey Zedek’s social hall, Knollwood County Club and almost every synagogue in Oak Park, Huntington Woods and Southfield, Mich. during those years. Each of us got paid $5. This was serious money. The girls were crazy for us, or at least that is how I remember it, and at my age I reserve the right to improvise a little. Don and I became best friends, with sleepovers, neighborhood wandering, and the usual low-level trouble boys get into when they are smart enough to be bored but not yet smart enough to be useful. I even met my first girlfriend, Karen Spiwak, near where he lived at the Stratford Villa Apartments in Oak Park. The Royal Jammers: 1964 with Zan Gilbert’s Bar Mitzvah Junior Band Eventually, Don, mostly Don, wanted to move in a new direction. We started another band, and once again I took responsibility for the name. This time I called it The Opalescent Hobnails, a phrase I found while reading one of my mother’s books on antiques. Did it sound like a psychedelic band name? Absolutely. Did we know what it meant? Absolutely not. In the 1960s, not knowing what something meant could actually be an advantage. The Opalescent Hobnails: 1967: (from left) the author, Mike Loceff, Don Fagenson and Art Hirschfield, Playing at the Clinton Junior High School Valentine’s Day Dance The truth is, all of us were motivated by the same sacred teenage principles: play music, meet girls, get invited to parties, and seem more mysterious than we actually were. Being in a band was a very effective strategy. It was certainly better than standing against the wall at a dance, trying to look relaxed while wearing a clip-on tie. Years passed, and the two DF's from my childhood, Doug Fieger and Don Fagenson, found their own extraordinary voices. Sharona Alperin and Doug Fieger at the author's 28th birthday party at his apartment in Los Angeles in 1979. Photo (C) Rick Fishman Doug was the leader and main singer of The Knack, and in 1979 he co-wrote the song “My Sharona.” It caused a cultural detonation. The song reached No.1 on the Billboard Hot 100, stayed there for six weeks, and became Billboard’s top pop single of 1979. I had known Doug when he was a creative kid learning guitar. Years later, both of us were living in Los Angeles and we were very friendly from 1976 to the early Troubadour days. I got to witness the Knack become the hottest band in town. Bruce Springsteen and Doug Fieger in 1978 performing together at The Troubadour At the Troubadour, everyone came to see the Knack, including Steven Stills, Bruce Springsteen and Ray Manzarek of The Doors. Many famous traveling musicians passing through Los Angeles seemed to turn up. Everyone wanted to see the hottest band in Los Angeles, and I watched the whole thing break open from the inside. I introduced Doug Fieger to the man who would become his manager, and I saw the teenage fans, the entourage, the excitement, and the madness that followed. At the center of it all was Doug’s special relationship with Sharona Alperin. She was 17 years old in 1978 when Doug met her, and he was 25 when he wrote the song that would become one of the defining hits of the era, “My Sharona.” I traveled to see the band in San Francisco and Miami. It was fun, glamorous, ridiculous, and completely real. Don Fagenson became Don Was, co-founder of Was (Not Was) with David Weiss, both classmates of mine from Oak Park, both talented creative partners. Don Was quickly became one of the most respected producers in America. He went on to win six Grammy Awards, including Album of the Year in 1990 for Bonnie Raitt’s Nick of Time and Producer of the Year in 1994. Don became president and chief creative officer of Blue Note Records, one of the great jazz labels in history, in 2012. Last summer in San Francisco, I saw him perform with his new band, The Pan Detroit Ensemble, and during that weekend he received a lifetime achievement honor from SFJAZZ. We were able to spend some time together after the show and it reminded me of that wonderful history we shared and all the places he still frequents in the Motown where we all grew up. Not bad for a kid who got into The Royal Jammers because he knew one more chord than I did. Don Was and the author at the San Francisco Jazz Festival in 2025 Looking back, it all seems laughable and touching at the same time. Oak Park, Bar Mitzvahs, $5 gigs, melodicas, make-out parties, mothers driving boys with guitars, and the mysterious cultural power of Jewish suburban adolescence. We were not trying to change the world. We were trying to get through the weekend, get paid, play loud enough to be noticed, and maybe catch the eye of a girl across the room. But there was something real inside all of that youthful noise. The boys I played with all went on, in one way or another, to find success in their own lives and in their own chosen directions. Some became famous, some became accomplished in ways far from the stage, but I think that all of us carried something from that Oak Park world, a certain confidence, humor, drive, and belief that you could make something happen if you just stepped forward and played your part. Sometimes history starts that way. Sometimes it starts with a fifth-grade teacher, a garage, a few chords, a Bar Mitzvah circuit, and a bunch of boys who think they are already famous. And for a little while, at least in Oak Park, we were. Doug Fieger and the author in Las Vegas at the Knack concert in 2009. Doug passed away from lung cancer the following year at age 57. 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 Marilyn Mars / Santa Fe, New Mexico Have you ever thought about what you keep in the dark? Maybe it’s old love letters stashed away in your attic or the memory of a time when you knew you needed to speak up but chose not to. Maybe it’s an emotional grief that you pushed past, never allowing the feelings to come to the surface. Bringing these things into the light could create an emotional upheaval, so naturally you bury them, or put them behind closed doors, creating a stagnancy somewhere in your life. As a clutter-clearing expert, I see no distinction between hiding parts of ourselves, whether emotional, mental or spiritual, and actual physical clutter in our homes. Our homes mirror us, reflecting our stories, interests, beliefs, values, and even the things we hide. They can even reveal how we feel about ourselves. Think about all the things we store away: photographs of times gone by, a deceased loved one’s possessions, sentimental items in boxes, and clothes that no longer fit. These are not the things we display prominently for others to see. I worked with a woman I’ll call Annie. She had an insight that prompted me to write this article. Annie was surprised and curious why she and her home felt so much lighter after we clutter-cleared all of the things hidden from sight. Her goal was to be able to express her feelings more freely with the people in her life. She didn’t want to hide how she truly felt anymore. So, we worked on her closets, cabinets and all the other areas behind closed doors, particularly the areas she doesn’t go into often. We went from item to item as she made decisions about what she wanted in her life and what she didn’t. We focused on what felt true to her at this chapter in her life. She realized much of what was sitting static were items from her past. Things she hadn’t dealt with. When we made room for her to make clear decisions on each item, allowing her to feel what she had suppressed, Annie began to breathe easier. She was on her way to letting go of emotions that she had long buried. .When we avoid or hide things, it affects us. Whether an item is visible or behind closed doors, on some level we feel it. Your subconscious mind knows all of the undecided things that continually nag at you. This is a topic close to my heart. I grew up in a setting that encouraged suppression and hiding aspects of myself. It’s taken many decades for me to be able to stay present with myself, speak my truth, and take a lot of pauses as I smile at my humanity. As a result, clutter-clearing has become a lifestyle for me. There’s a connection between my mental wellbeing and my environment. I choose what I want around me as I change and grow Our willingness to feel why we hold onto things can help us choose more freely what we want in our lives and what we don’t. If you’d like to breathe a little easier, I invite you to tackle an area that’s been hidden away. Before you begin, take a moment to notice how you feel. I recommend you start with a small, less emotionally fraught area. Here are a few questions to help you get started: When did you last use or enjoy this item? Does it help you or hinder you in your life at this time? Do you get a full-body YES from that item that you want it in your life? Most importantly, pay attention to how you feel as you go through your belongings. Notice your breathing, your posture and any other sensations you experience. After you’ve completed this small area, keep your awareness on your feelings. I’m challenging the notion that out of sight means out of mind. Clutter-clear a dark area and bring it into the light. As a wise teacher once told me, don’t take my word for it. Try it yourself. Marilyn Mars is a clutter-clearing expert and educator, whose passion is discovering the underlying reasons why we hold on to things that no longer serve us in our current lives, Marilyn has worked one-on-one with clients around the country for 15 years and teaches virtual classes year-round. A native of Long Island, N.Y, she took a road trip to Santa Fe in 2001, fell in love with the mountains and decided to stay. She and her husband Guillermo are dedicated hikers. www.marilynmars.com

By Jeffrey D. Sachs / En Route Seven hundred fifty years ago, a Venetian 17-year-old set off east and didn’t come home for a quarter of a century. Marco Polo left the Venetian lagoon in 1271 with his father Niccolò and his uncle Maffeo — three merchants on horseback bound, eventually, for the court of Kublai Khan. Their expedition ran on one horsepower per traveler. Our troupe of four — my wife Sonia, our friend Patrick Zhong, his son Jimmy, and me — has just set out along that same road east, where West meets East along the ancient Silk Route. I won’t pretend we’re roughing it the way young Marco did. Our caravan is an all-electric BYD Denza, and the top models in that line reach an astonishing 1,582 horsepower in one quiet and smooth ride. But strip away the horsepower and the seven and a half centuries, and the journey is the same: curiosity pointed firmly eastward, a belief that the surest road to peace runs through human encounters, and a long line of strangers who turn into new friends around the second cup of tea. We call it the Marco Polo Drive of Peace, Culture, and Sustainable Development — 12 countries, 15,000 kilometers, 43 days, from Rome to Hong Kong. We began, fittingly, in the Eternal City, home of the Papacy, because like the Polos before us, we are carrying a message from the Pope eastward, in our case Pope Leo XIV’s new encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas, a plea for peace and for the wise and humane use of our powerful new technologies. The Polos once ferried messages between Pope Gregory X and Kublai Khan across a divided world. The aim, it turns out, has not changed all that much over 750 years. From Rome we pointed the car north, and in Bologna we stopped to charge — and here the 21st century announced itself with a flourish. Using BYD’s “flash charge” and its remarkable Blade batteries, we charged to 97.5 percent in under nine minutes, before our espresso arrived. Marco Polo measured his progress in seasons and mountain passes; we measure ours in minutes at the charger, and in the remarkable ease of crossing Eurasia without burning a drop of oil. This, in short, is a main message of the trip: that the green technologies now arriving can serve humanity, knit us closer together, and lighten our environmental footprint all at once. As I write, we are rolling toward Venice — the Polos’ own hometown, the city from which their journey began and to which, a quarter century later, they returned. From there our route turns to Croatia and Serbia, Bulgaria and Türkiye, across the Caucasus into Georgia and Azerbaijan, over the Caspian into Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan — Khiva, Bukhara, Samarkand, names that still host travels across the steppes — and then finally into China, to Xi’an and Shanghai and Shenzhen, ending in Hong Kong in late July. Several governments have prepared a warm welcome for us, and we look forward to sitting with political, business and cultural leaders along the way — and, just as eagerly, with students, drivers, shopkeepers, and the young people who are inheriting this interconnected world. Our firm desire is not only to talk but to listen. For those who’d like to come along, I’ll be teaching an online course as we drive — a moving classroom on the history of the Silk Road, on sustainable development, and on the old, stubborn, necessary idea that nations are far better off cooperating than colliding. You can sign up through the SDG Academy; the road is open to anyone with a curious mind. The sign-up page is here: https://sdgacademy.org/course/the-marco-polo-drive/ I return to one core belief as the kilometers tick by. Many so-called geopolitical strategists and politicians argue that the civilizations of East and West are fated to clash rather than cooperate. Marco Polo knew better. At the far end of the longest road to the East, he found not enemies but a brilliant, sophisticated civilization eager to trade ideas as readily as goods. The Silk Road has never been a single thread, much less a wall. The Silk Road from ancient times has been a vast network of interconnection. Globalization is a mark of civilization, from ancient times to our own era. Let us work for a globalization of peace, the harmony of diverse cultures, and sustainable development for all of today’s young people, the Marco and Maria Polo’s of the 21st century. Our Denza hums where the Polos' horses once plodded. The encyclical we carry has a new title, but the message is the same: if we meet face to face, peace stops being an abstraction or formula, and becomes a daily reality and joy. More soon, from somewhere further east. You can follow the trip on social media: YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/orULhtZKuac Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/share/r/18Z61NqMNz/ INS: https://www.instagram.com/p/DYfGb9djXPW/ TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@projectmarcopolo/video/7641262493460860193 X: https://x.com/themppofficial/status/2056405221429948777 Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/posts/silkroad-documentary-themarcopoloproject-ugcPost-7462170494323126272-JslJ? Jeffrey Sachs has been traveling since his parents opened his eyes to the wider world more than 65 years ago. In addition to being University Professor at Columbia University, he is widely known to flight crews and airport lounges. A flight attendant recently asked, “Dr. Sachs, have your really flown 2 million miles on our airline?” He didn’t know for sure, but it is likely. This is his first long-distance electric vehicle trip. He and wife Dr. Sonia Sachs have visited all and worked in almost all the 12 countries on the route, but they very much look forward to connecting these wonderful sites along the Silk Road.

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By Andy Borowitz June 15, 2026 Jim Watson / AFP via Getty Images WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Taking his milestone birthday in stride, on Sunday Donald J. Trump told reporters, “I may be eighty, but I have the brain of a four-year-old.” “People who think I’m too old should take a look at this UFC fight,” he argued. “That’s an idea that could only come from a four-year-old’s mind.” Trump said his self-assessment was corroborated by doctors at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, who told him at his most recent exam that his cognition had scored at a four-year-old level. In the first official act of his ninth decade, the president renamed RFK Jr. “The Donald J. Trump Robert F. Kennedy Junior.”

By Laurence Lerman / New York City Clark Gable helps Vivien Leigh keep her chin up in Gone with the Wind (1939) SCREEN TIME In just a few weeks, the United States will celebrate its 250th birthday—a milestone certain to inspire no shortage of speeches, retrospectives, and arguments about what the country has been, what it is, and what it ought to become. At a moment when Americans seem divided over everything from history and politics to patriotism itself, even a birthday can feel like a battleground. The movies tell that story well. The Ku Klux Klan was a poisonous force in post-Civil War America in The Birth of a Nation (1915) For more than a century, American films have helped the country imagine itself. From the distorted historical vision of The Birth of a Nation to the democratic idealism of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, from the disillusionment of Easy Rider to the entrepreneurial aspirations of The Social Network, these films reveal a nation continually revising its own story. America never arrived at a final version—it simply kept changing the narrative. The Myth America's earliest movie myths were often as revealing for what they omitted as what they celebrated. No film demonstrates that more starkly than The Birth of a Nation, D.W. Griffith's technically groundbreaking but deeply racist 1915 epic, which helped shape popular perceptions of American history while promoting a profoundly distorted view of it. By 1939, Hollywood was offering competing visions of the nation. Gone with the Wind presented a sweeping, romanticized version of the Old South, while Frank Capra’s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington celebrated democratic idealism and the belief that integrity could still triumph over corruption. Taken together, the films reveal an America already arguing with itself over history, identity, and national purpose. Long before Hollywood began questioning the country's assumptions, it helped create them. The Doubt By the 1950s and 1960s, America's cinematic self-confidence was beginning to fray. The myths remained powerful, but filmmakers increasingly seemed interested in testing them rather than celebrating them. Gary Cooper stands alone in High Noon (1952) High Noon marked an early turning point. On its surface, Fred Zinneman’s 1952 effort is a classic Western about courage. Beneath that, though, lies a pointed allegory about the Hollywood blacklist, with screenwriter Carl Foreman transforming the town's unwillingness to stand beside Marshal Will Kane (Gary Cooper) into a critique of those who remained silent during the anti-Communist witch hunts of the decade. The end of the world approaches in Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964) The doubts only deepened. Stanley Kubrick's 1964 satire Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb treated Cold War leadership as a theater of absurdity, questioning whether the people entrusted with civilization's survival were any more rational than the rest of us. Dennis Hopper’s 1969 road drama Easy Rider challenged another cherished belief: that freedom and individuality would inevitably be rewarded. Al Pacino (l.) and Marlon Brando keep it in the family in The Godfather (1972) Then came 1972’s The Godfather, which reframed the American Dream in darker, more transactional terms. Its criminal empire feels unmistakably American—not because it celebrates corruption, but because it asks uncomfortable questions about how power, wealth, and legitimacy are acquired in the first place. If earlier films imagined virtue and success moving hand in hand, Francis Ford Coppola’s masterwork suggested the relationship between them might be far more complicated. The Fracture Moving further into the Seventies, doubt was giving way to something deeper. The question was no longer whether America's institutions, values, and assumptions could withstand scrutiny. It was whether they had been hiding something all along. Leatherface gets his point across in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) Released in 1974, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre transformed the American landscape into a cinematic nightmare. Made on a shoestring budget by filmmaker Tobe Hooper, the movie arrived amid post-Vietnam disillusionment, economic uncertainty, and a growing sense that the country's best days were behind it. Its rough, rural horrors felt less supernatural than homegrown—and beyond control—as if the darkness had always been there, waiting just beyond the horizon. Dustin Hoffman (l.) and Robert Redford take on Watergate in All the President's Men (1976) Two years later, Alan Pakula’s All the President's Men brought a similar anxiety into the halls of power. The Watergate scandal exposed corruption at the highest levels of government and shattered public trust in institutions that earlier films had largely taken for granted. An unhinged Dennis Hopper shows Isabella Rosselini an evening she won’t forget in Blue Velvet (1986) And then there was Blue Velvet. David Lynch's 1986 masterpiece begins with one of the most iconic images of American innocence ever put on film: white picket fences, red roses, manicured lawns, and small-town tranquility. If The Texas Chain Saw Massacre suggested that the nightmare was out there somewhere, Blue Velvet proposed something even more unsettling—that it might be hiding in the backyard. The Reckoning The myths never disappeared—they just became harder to accept. The national story remained intact, but its cracks were becoming harder to ignore. Brooklyn smolders in Do the Right Thing (1989) Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing confronted one of America's oldest and most persistent realities: race. Set on a single Brooklyn block during the hottest day of the summer, the film refuses easy heroes, villains, or solutions. More than three decades later, its arguments about community, power, and belonging remain unresolved. No Country for Old Men offered a different kind of reckoning. The Coen brothers' 2007 adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's 2005 novel follows a sheriff struggling to understand a world that no longer seems to operate according to familiar rules. Whether the country has changed or merely revealed what it has always been remains unclear. Jessie Eisenberg plays Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network (2010) Then came The Social Network, which gave one of America's oldest myths a distinctly 21st-century form. In the eyes and words of director David Fincher and screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, the frontier has become Silicon Valley. Reinvention, ambition, and self-creation remain central to the national story, but now they unfold through algorithms rather than railroads. The Unfinished Story Taken together, these films reveal not a single American story but a succession of competing visions—about race and democracy, freedom and power, innocence and corruption. They are less a timeline than an argument, one that has played out on American screens for more than a century. That may be the real lesson on the eve of America's 250th birthday. The country has spent 250 years debating who it is. The movies have simply left a remarkable record of that conversation. 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 Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. The patriarch who turned away My grandfather, Chiel Flasterstein, never acknowledged my dad as his legitimate son. There was no proof to justify this claim. My dad was born in 1916, in Janowa, Poland, after my grandfather left the country to find his fortune in America. My grandmother, Minnie (Minucha) discovered she was pregnant after his departure, and wrote to Chiel once she knew his location. Combining his travel time by boat and the slow delivery of mail, Minnie’s letters eventually reached my grandfather long after my dad was born; thus, producing unfounded doubt. Minnie and Chiel had two sons before he decided to leave his family and undertake the perilous journey to America. They had a profitable farm, but Chiel thought he could do better. 1926 Passport photo. Grandma Minnie with her three sons: (top left) Morris; (bottom left) Benjamin, the author's father, who later changed his name to Robert/Bob; and (right) Oscar Dreams of becoming a successful businessman took hold of Chiel’s mind. He bought into the stories that promised an affluent lifestyle awaiting those who ventured to America. According to the lore at the time, the country was overflowing with wealth and the streets were said to be paved in gold. The author's great-grandfather Avraham in 1926 This fantasy lured my grandfather to an unknown land, placing the responsibility for the farm, and now, three young children, squarely on my grandmother’s shoulders. It was a burden beyond comprehension, but one that she met with determination. As it turned out, Chiel’s dreams never came to fruition. He landed in Pittsburgh, and wound up hustling dry goods for a living. It was a far cry from being a successful owner of a farm, but he was determined. My grandfather worked for 10 years in order to secure passage for his family to sail to America. My great-grandfather even accompanied them on the journey. My dad finally met his father, when he was 10 years old. From that day on, my dad was treated like an inconvenience due to my grandfather’s relentless doubts about his legal place in the family. These thoughts lingered in my grandfather’s mind until his death. I can’t fathom the depth of the hurt and disappointment my dad endured throughout his life. From time to time, my dad shared childhood memories about his father. He told me that my grandfather kept a small notebook and pencil in his shirt pocket to keep track of business dealings. Every time my dad asked him for a nickel or dime, my grandfather would record it and expect repayment in a timely fashion. As the mistreatment continued through the years, my dad decided to leave his family’s home. His brother and sister-in-law opened their home to him. The author's father, Bob Foster, a proud volunteer in WWII at 27 years old He was in the Battle of the Bulge, worked as an interpreter and drove a tank. When my dad was in his 20s, he decided that his birth name did not reflect who he wanted to be. Having never liked it, he chose to leave behind the name Benjamin and adopted the more American-sounding Robert Foster. (His friends and his family called him Bob.) His brothers soon followed his lead, changing their surnames to Foster as well. Shaped by the wounds of childhood, my dad grew into the exact opposite of my grandfather. As a child, whenever I asked my dad for money, he readily handed it over. In fact, he never expected me to return any leftover change after making my purchases. When I offered, he would say, “Keep it.” My grandfather’s attitude toward my dad had a far-reaching impact, creating a ripple effect that extended to my siblings and me. My sister Gayle, my brother Alan, and I grew up without truly knowing our grandparents. Granted, they only spoke Yiddish, but language shouldn’t have been a barrier from giving an occasional hug or even a kiss. Bob and Marian Foster doing what they loved the most–spending time with their grandchildren. It was a daily ritual for both of them. The author with her daughter Lindsay. Todd, one of her sons, being held by Grandma. We were kept at an arm’s length and simply didn’t realize the void they created until much later in our lives. We naturally assumed this was their usual behavior with all of their grandchildren. But the opposite was occurring right under our unsuspecting eyes. This became abundantly clear a few years ago while at a family dinner. My cousin, Mel, was reminiscing about his Bar Mitzvah and broke out the photo album for a walk down memory lane. When a picture of our grandmother appeared, my cousin spoke about his warm relationship with our grandparents. He then confided that he was very close to our grandmother and they shared a deep and loving connection. This revelation blew me away. I was mystified and immediately felt that the legacy of “The Little Bastard” had left its mark on us. After listening to these stories, my sister and I asked Mel if we grew up in two different families. My brother chimed in and said, “I didn’t even know those people.” I recall the slights my mom and dad endured because of our grandfather’s attitude. One was quite pronounced; his two brothers were given money to purchase homes, and my dad received $50. It was a slap in the face. My mother never got over this hurtful act and spoke of it often. My dad, on the other hand, appeared to have compartmentalized the pain and carried on. In retrospect, my dad was an apt pupil. He mustered through the turmoil and chaos of his own childhood and learned life lessons about family from the disfunction he witnessed and paid them forward. I recall visiting my grandparents on Sunday mornings after going shopping with my dad and bringing groceries to their house. We would visit for a short while and the only interaction I received was a brief glance in my direction. My dad worked hard for our family and gave beyond his means. He would leave the house before 5 a.m. for work but never skipped a beat to kiss me and my sister goodbye. I always felt that peck on my cheek, even though he thought I was asleep. Bob Foster, the author's father, happily retired in 1984 And when his eight grandchildren came on the scene, my dad embraced the opportunity to share his warmth and devotion. He never stopped giving and I am proud that all of his grandchildren still talk about him and share their special memories. My dad passed away in 2001 and left behind strong bonds. Unlike his father, my dad was present and showed up every single day for the family. Miraculously, "The Little Bastard" survived the taunts made by his father and managed to come out on the other side as a man who was respected and loved deeply by his family. Judi Markowitz is a retired high school English teacher of 34 years. She primarily taught twelfth grade and had the pleasure of having her three sons grace her classes. In addition, she taught debate, forensics, and Detroit film. Judi has four adult children and nine wonderful and energetic grandchildren. She is married to Jeffrey Markowitz, whom she met in high school. They now spend much of their time running around with their grandkids. The View from Four Foot Two is Judi’s first book.

By Bonnie Fishman / Palo Alto, Calif. My first chemotherapy treatment My family has a few expressions that are so fitting for my circumstances now–the journey of a stem cell transplant to cure an aggressive form of lymphoma. We say, “You have NO idea!” Or “You don’t know the half of it!” And if it’s really, really awful, and I want to walk away and not deal with the whole mess, I say, “I just can’t!” My genetically engineered cells being transfused back into my body On April 17, at Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto, my T-cells were removed from my blood and shipped off to a lab in New Jersey, so that they could be genetically modified in order to kill off my cancer cells. On May 16, I began chemotherapy for three days to weaken the cancer cells. Then the modified cells were returned to my body through an infusion in my chest by catheter on May 21. All very sci-fi. This was the beginning of Bonnie-in-a Bubble isolation. During my two-week hospital stay, the engineered cells were busy multiplying and “eating” the cancer cells. Sounds pretty easy, huh? Au contraire. You have NO idea! I felt like I got hit by a truck. While my body was busy attacking the enemy, I had a high fever, I ached all over, I had neurotoxicity where I was confused, I couldn’t remember what you might have told me an hour ago, I had terrible tremors, and I could hardly get out of bed. Did I leave anything out? I couldn’t type, think, read, do puzzles or basically feed myself. You don’t know the half of it! As far as eating goes, I was on an unrestricted diet. Patients could order whatever they wanted from 6 am to 8 pm. The menu was quite extensive, particularly for a hospital. I learned how to dodge food that I knew was going to be inedible. I zeroed in on safe choices. Breakfast was steel-cut oats, cottage cheese, and blueberries. Every day for two weeks. Rule No. 1: don’t drink the coffee. I had Starbucks delivered after breakfast! The sign outside my hospital room door. This is who I am. My usual choices for dinner were mac ’n’ cheese, peas, and hamburgers. I kept it simple. Boring, yet simple. It didn’t really matter because I had no appetite anyway. Finally, after two weeks in the hospital, I was cleared to go “home,” to a one--bedroom suite in a nearby hotel where I live in isolation with a caregiver for the next 2 1/2 weeks. My caregiver rotation has been my sisters, my husband, my cousin Carol from Minneapolis, and my lifelong friend, Elissa. The point of not being able to go to my real home is that transplant patients need to be close to the hospital in case something goes awry and they need to get medical help quickly. Also, every three days I’ve been visiting the cancer clinic for labs, vitals, consultations. Last Monday, my sister Marcia and I were assigned a treatment room in the furthest hallway, in the last room. We had already been waiting in the reception area to get in there since 3:15 pm. Now it was 4:30 pm. We waited and waited. At 5:45 pm, the PA came in very apologetics They had forgotten about us. It was a miscommunication between two PAs. It was so late that I was getting ready to order pizza! A typical hospital dinner––a salmon taco, mac 'n’ cheese, peas. The mac ’n cheese was not half bad! I’ve been settled in at the hotel since June 11, but I’m planning on going home on Thursday, June 18. The highlight of my day is ordering food from Grubhub, something I’ve never done before because I rarely eat out or get food brought in. I’m so much happier cooking for Bob and me at home, AND the meals are much better. The good news about the deliveries here is that Palo Alto has some great restaurants. It has the most diverse ethnic food imaginable, from Burmese to Persian to Thai to Indian to dumpling houses. Unusual tacos? Wonderful salads? Phenomenal grilled sandwiches? Seafood restaurants? Palo Alto has it all. We’ve managed to mix it up and try everything. I have another week of isolation. It’s been lonely for sure. I physically don’t feel normal yet. A stem cell transplant is brutal on your body, so it will take weeks if not months to regain my strength. My brain is still foggy and I can’t string thoughts together. I have trouble processing what someone is telling me. So not my style! All that being said, I’m grateful for the opportunity to have had this treatment. Out of all the people in this country who would benefit from the transplant, only 20 percent get it. Some of these people know about it, while others live in an area where it’s not available. I’m hoping I will be cured and I’m done with four years of dealing with cancer. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. 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 Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City & Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel The Maven Counts The Ways: Why do I love Lydia Hope Wilen? Her voice is softly silken like a muted trombone. She not only talks tachles; she knows what it means. Her sense of humor is a curious blend of Robert Benchley, S.J. Perelman and Henny Youngman. Lyd and her sister Joany wrote more practical self-help books than Dr. Ruth. She worked for Dr. Ruth, so there's absolutely nothing I can teach her about eagles and honeybees. Nobody–not even Travis Green who coined my handle–ever says "Hey Mave" more affectionately than my Lyd-ee. Unfortunately, she knows 70.7 percent of my jokes and listens so attentively that I never mind when she delivers the punch line two seconds before I start my exhale. Lyd is the only person in captivity who bought my book Tales of Brooklyn, read it cover to cover and then told me "I love you and your book." (That saved her from doing the obligatory book report.) When she laughs it has the pungency of Good Health Seltzer and the liveliness of a grasshopper. Hungarian grandma, Etel Friedman, warned me against loving a Litvak but she didn’t know Lyd. We're so much on the same page about comedy that when I told Lyd to watch Tin Men and Diner, she was shooting dialogue at me faster than the Lucky Strike auctioneer. I love Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Al Bowlly and The Great Jimmy Durante, and that's Lyd's weakness now. When my sweetheart says, "I Love You Mave" THAT is that thing called LOVE! Lyd's the only one who ever let this monotone sing a love song from start to "Red Sails in the Sunset" finish and made me believe that she loved it. Lyd knows I love hockey; she didn't know from it when we met, so she gave it a try; made me feel good and watched a few playoff games. "Puck is too small, goes too fast and I can't follow it. Sorry." I love her 'cause she didn't bullshit me! She did suggest that the hockey puck be replaced by a hamantaschen. It would be easier to see. Confession: I've been a "Leg Man" since my 582 Marcy Avenue, Brooklyn days. The minute I got a look at my lover's gams on a photo taken when she was in the movie Network with William Holden, my temperature zipped past "heat wave" and beyond. A look at Lydia's legs or Network's Girl with the Gams Since I love her so much, I can only get mildly pissed that she's reluctant to wear that hot dress she wore in that movie and still has and says it still fits. It's gotta be love if I'm left smiling after we hang up on the phone. I would have loved her folks because singing, dancing and just off-the-cuff funning was part of their DNA. She's a good healthy devotee in such a nice way, you get the warm feeling that The Great Lyd is your private nurse. Not many gals would almost kvell over The Hoosier Hotshots singing, "I Love Bananas Because They Have No Bones." There's a tune, "You Make Me Feel So Young." Many times I get the feeling that it was composed with me and Lyddy in mind. Put it this way, Lydia Hope Wilen makes me feel loved just as the tune says, "Come Rain or Come Shine.” And if you think this Cupid caper of mine is direct from the heart, well -- as my dad liked to say, "I don't mean 'maybe' either.'' Lydia’s Turn: Long-Distance Love I’m going to be telling you personal things that I probably shouldn’t be writing. Ah, but who are you going to tell, huh? Daylight Maven Time It is seven hours later in Israel than it is in NYC. When I go to sleep at 11 p.m., Stan is waking up at 6 a.m. Want to hear romantic? Lately, he wakes up at about 5 a.m., calls me with his soft, sexy, sleepy voice and sings a few lines from a wonderful old love song and then he goes back to finish his night/morning sleep. And I go to bed with a smile. By that time, I will have sent Stan emails that will be waiting for him when he goes online in his morning. When I get up in my morning, I have his answers to my emails waiting for me. I’ve been getting up earlier than usual these days. Hmm. One of my emails is Stan’s idea of a getting-to-know-you “Question of the Day.” I ask tough questions that Stan never not answers and his answers lead me to say to him: “Who but you?” Q & A example If, every time you entered a room, there would be theme music, what would that music be? Stan’s answer: “Semper Paratus” (Always Ready), the United States Coast Guard motto and march. Do you know anyone who is not in the Coast Guard that would have that as an answer? I don’t. Well, now I do. Another Q & A example What word would you turn to in the dictionary to find a picture of you illustrating that word? This hockey maven, writer, reporter, historian, musicologist, mentor, dad, grandfather, podcast prince (and more I’m sure) says that if you find his picture in the dictionary, it would be next to the word dreamer. DREAMER! Stan never stops surprising me. Telephone Tsouris Don’t get me started when it comes to Spectrum, my landline provider. For weeks, it was telephone torture and three technicians testing equipment, replacing the modem, updating whatever could be updated. Nothing helped. Talk Is Cheap – Ah Now A few times I splurged and called Stan on my cellphone at $2 a minute. When I mentioned it to a friend, he made me aware of WhatsApp. What’s Up with WhatsApp? The microphone is at the bottom of my phone, beneath the keyboard.. The speaker where Stan’s voice comes through, is at the top of the phone. Matt, the Insider’s tech whiz, suggested a headphone to prevent carpel tunnel syndrome from having to turn the phone back and forth during our conversations. That should happen by the time you read this. Music Maven in Addition to Hockey Maven Mave’s romantic and sometimes weird songs were all born before 1960…same as us. We all know wonderful old songs, but you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Here are some unusual titles on Stan’s playlist: “Since They Stole the Spittoon from the Corner Saloon, The Guys Can’t Go Pitooey Anymore” “Celery Stalks at Midnight” “Who Ate Napoleons with Josephine When Bonaparte Was Away” Oops! I’m past my word allowance and I haven’t even gotten to Stan’s references, requests, joke-telling, and our attempt at sexting. Maybe next month. For now, I’ll end with Rhyme Time "The Raven" The Maven For Better or For Verse Stan is affectionate, supportive, and kind He’s exceptionally bright with an eidetic mind. A total mensch is Stan the Man, He makes people laugh like no one else can. This poem is far from Poe's classic “The Raven” ‘Cause it isn’t Poe who is cravin' the Maven. 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 . . . 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)