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By Bobbie Lewis / Detroit About 15 years ago my husband Joe and I started to think about where we’d want to retire. We aren’t snowbirds and we had no interest in moving to Florida or Arizona. Two of our three adult kids live in Detroit, as do we, and the third lives in New Jersey, which holds no attraction except our only two grandchildren.   We thought buying a condo in central Detroit seemed like a good idea, and 2015 seemed like a good time to do it, because construction was about to start on a light rail line that would run three-plus miles from downtown Detroit to the New Center area – and eventually run out to the suburbs. Property values would undoubtedly increase once the line was operable.   A helpful realtor showed us a few apartments in a 14-story building called the Park Shelton in Midtown Detroit. It was a great location – right on Woodward Avenue, the city’s main drag, across the street from the Detroit Institute of Arts, the Detroit Public Library and the Detroit Historical Museum and in between the campuses of Wayne State University and the College for Creative Studies.   The Park Shelton, which will celebrate its 100 th anniversary in January, has an illustrious history. It opened as The Wardell, a residential hotel intended for extended stays. It was listed in the National Register of Historic Places in 2017. The name comes from Fred Wardell, who owned the Eureka Vacuum Cleaner Company.   Artist couple Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo stayed in the building in the early 1930s while he painted his famous mural, “Detroit Industry,” at the Detroit Institute of Arts. The building was sold to Sheraton Hotels in 1941 and renamed the Wardell Sheraton, then the Sheraton, then the Park Sheraton. In 1952 it was sold to Louis Schleiffer. He could no longer use the Sheraton name so he changed the spelling slightly and the building became the Park Shelton. In the 1970s, it was converted into apartments, and in 2004, into 227 condominium units. The Park Shelton opened as the Wardell Apartment Hotel in 1926 The Park Shelton today We looked at a half-dozen apartments in the building and decided the only location we really liked was the southwest corner, which had unobstructed views of Woodward Avenue and the Cultural Center and direct sunlight all day. We told the realtor we’d be interested in a unit in that southwest corner but only on the sixth floor or lower, figuring if the elevators ever went out (which, lol, they have been known to do) we would be able to walk up without too much difficulty.   A few weeks later the realtor called to say that the southwest corner unit on the fourth floor was available. The building had fairly recently been converted from rentals to condos, and the tenant, a professional organization for advertisers, did not want to buy it. They left a few months later.   We took the plunge and bought the unit, even though we were not yet ready to move. Our realtor helped us find excellent tenants and managed the rental for us – which easily covered our mortgage payments and condo fees – for a small fee.   The tenants were there for three years and would have stayed longer –indeed after we decided not to renew their lease, they bought another unit in the building –but in 2018. my husband decided he was tired of home maintenance and yard work. We got ready to put the four-bedroom house in suburban Oak Park where we’d lived for 40 years on the market and made plans to renovate the apartment.   The planning and reno, which included a totally new kitchen, two renovated baths and construction of an office space, took more than six months. We finally set a moving date – and then Covid hit. Our moving date turned out to be two days before the statewide Covid lockdown.   Our first year was far from the urban living experience we’d anticipated. The light rail, now called the QLine, was not running. All the cultural and educational institutions were closed, as were all the restaurants and many of the stores. We couldn’t meet our neighbors. Shopping trips required extensive planning.   Slowly, slowly, life opened up. The museums and campuses started to revive. The QLine started running – and it was free! The restaurants on the building’s first floor reopened. A residents’ association, for owners and tenants alike, was formed and hosted gatherings where we could get to know others in the building.   Our building population is diverse, with residents of every hue, many of them graduate students and medical residents at the nearby Detroit Medical Center. We feel very safe in our neighborhood, which is patrolled by both the Detroit Police and the Wayne State University security department. Being in a high-rise with a 24-hour concierge undoubtedly helps too. There's an adjacent, access-controlled parking deck for our car. Our visitors park on the street, and no one has had any problems.   As an aside, we know white families who live in single houses or townhouses in Midtown or downtown, including some who send their children to Detroit public schools. We also know white young adults who are buying houses in Northwest Detroit neighborhoods their grandparents abandoned in the 1950s, '60s and '70s. The neighborhoods never deteriorated like some areas of the city did -- and these young people don't care if they are the only white residents on their block. Indeed, Detroit's era of white flight seems to be ending, although the population of the city overall is still three-quarters African-American.  Now, although we do miss our old neighborhood and the friends who lived nearby, we are in sync with the city. We can walk to Orchestra Hall, where we have season tickets to the fabulous Detroit Symphony Orchestra. We can take the QLine to the Detroit Opera House and the Fisher Theater, home of touring Broadway productions, and to the Detroit Riverfront. We aren’t sports fans, but if we were, we’d have easy access to Ford Field, Comerica and Little Caesars Arena, where we could watch the Lions, Tigers, Red Wings and Pistons – with no need to pay for parking!   City living may not be for everyone, but we think we made the right choice.     Philadelphia native and long-time Detroit resident Bobbie Lewis retired after a career in public relations and communications for nonprofit organizations. A graduate of Antioch College, with master's degrees in journalism and administration from Temple University and Central Michigan University, she is an award-winning contributing writer for the  Detroit Jewish News. From 2017 to 2025, she spent her summers at Chautauqua Institution as co-host (with her husband, Joe) of the Everett Jewish Life Center in Chautauqua.

From Neutrality Studies

By Carol Segal / New York City It is unlikely that any two lovers could possibly know each other’s bodies as well as a seasoned jigsaw puzzle devotee knows the puzzle they work on from start to finish.   Working on a jigsaw puzzle is an astonishingly intimate experience. As the puzzle takes shape, you, the serious puzzler, become hyper aware of every nook and cranny, every curve and every edge. Your eyes become laser-focused on the subtleties of each piece in a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. You become mesmerized by detail, contour, every nuance of color, the range of chromatic hue. When you're immersed this deeply into a puzzle's pieces, the total picture is no longer important. Instead, it is the hunt, the conquest, and the insertions. They quickly become the obsessions.   Perhaps you are looking for that piece with the azure blue on one end and the green tree leaves on the thin insert end. But there is a dusting of sunlight in the middle that must not be confused with the piece bearing similar clues that belongs on the other side of the puzzle in the pool of blue water and a blurred seaweed leaf and the indication of a fish’s bubble wake.  Every female puzzle piece groove has a male puzzle piece counterpart and only the exact one will fit precisely into her unique curves and concavities. Your eyes learn to assess each piece’s shape with shameless scrutiny; you’re looking to see if it has a long connecting end or a stubby one or if it has a shallow pocket or a deep one.    As a child, I already sensed the thrill of fitting jigsaw puzzle pieces into their places.  Perhaps it was an inborn heightened spatial awareness: the pursuit of perfect lines, as I was an aspiring ballerina early on.  Seeing shapes and details with my eyes, imprinting them in my mind, and then replicating them were second nature.   When I was young and did jigsaw puzzles with a friend or two, there was the added excitement of competition.  Who would be the first to find all the end pieces and complete the frame?  Who would zero in on completing an entire corner? Most covetous of all, who would grab the last piece, triumphantly and single-handedly finishing the puzzle?   The years passed and a short dance career was realized, college studies came, followed by marriage and children.  My puzzle time was pushed aside. I barely touched a jigsaw puzzle for a couple of decades.  When I came back to them during the pandemic, I discovered a surprising new haptic dimension.   As you root through the pieces in the puzzle box, your eyes scan for that elusive one that is going to connect something big. Jigsaw puzzle pieces don't look the same to you now; each one is distinct to your experienced eye, expertly honed to super-powered vision. Then suddenly, the quest has come to an end; you find that piece that joins an entire section into synchrony. You see the pattern; you see every curve and indentation line up. Under your fingers, you feel the sweet, sensual snap  of pieces finding their place.   The solitary jigsaw puzzler may go deep into its meditational qualities, but to share the activity with one or more equally devoted puzzle aficionados at the same table opens up the personal space for ongoing conversations or light debates or even singing together.  Coinciding activities do not disrupt the tactile senses. Chatting while searching the box, debating while testing different insertion possibilities here and there, singing while snapping pieces into their places.  No matter how many dedicated puzzlers may converge around the puzzle at the same time, they still experience the unspoken triumph of the find, as they slip those lone pieces into the only ones that await their completion.   In these uncertain and chaotic times when nothing seems to cohere, a jigsaw puzzle can often help to put the pieces together.   Born and raised in Portland, OR, Carol danced with the Portland Ballet Company for six years. After moving to New York City in 1979 and marrying a musician a few years later, she built a flourishing career as a personal trainer. Her business has spanned four decades and continues to this day, now specializing as a senior citizen fitness consultant. Two children and three grandchildren later, she is a published memoir essayist: “25 Miles to Go Now” Feminine Collection , 2018; “Warm Bread,” The Cooks Cook, 2023. Her first novel is nearing completion.

By Laurence Lerman / New York City The xenomorphs bring it home to the Blue Planet in Alien: Earth SCREEN TIME For nearly five decades, the Alien franchise has thrived on a simple but potent conceit: the terror of the unknown, lurking in the cold vacuum of space. Since Ridley Scott’s 1979 classic Alien , the ever-sliming, ever-deadly xenomorph has stalked through sequels, prequels, spin-offs, comics, and video games — yet always kept its distance from Earth. That is, until now. FX’s Alien: Earth , the handsome (and expensive!) eight-episode streaming series that premiered on August 12, doesn’t just break the franchise’s television barrier; it finally plants the horror on our home turf. It’s a bold recalibration — and the boldness pays off. Set two years before Scott’s original film, the series envisions a future ravaged by corporate overreach and technological hubris. The setting is less spaceship corridor than corporate dystopia: gleaming labs, grimy back alleys, C-suites where mega-conglomerates scheme with AI systems far too powerful for their own good. It’s a world that feels alarmingly close, as if the nightmare was always destined to creep from the stars to our own doorstep. Sydney Chandler’s consciousness is transferred to a manufactured body At the center of this new take is the singularly named Wendy, played with electrifying precision by Sydney Chandler. Wendy’s a young woman whose consciousness has been transferred into a synthetic body and she’s the first of her kind — equal parts pioneering miracle and existential crisis. Wendy is both soldier and soul-searcher, battling extraterrestrial monstrosities while grappling with the question of whether she herself qualifies as human. Chandler’s performance channels shades of Sigourney Weaver’s iconic Ripley from Alien but adds a new vulnerability: she isn’t just fighting for survival, she’s fighting for her own legitimacy. Alien: Earth’s creator is Noah Hawley—the man behind FX’s popular Fargo (2014-2024), based on the 1996 Coen Brothers classic, and Legion (2017-2019), a superhero series taken from the Marvel Comics character of the same name. Hawley steers his latest Intellectual Property adaptation with a trademark blend of cerebral and visual flair. He writes or co-writes every episode, and directs two, including the standout “Episode 5,” — a nerve-shredding voyage aboard a doomed spacecraft that recalls the haunted-house-in-space atmosphere of Scott’s Alien while unleashing a menagerie of new alien horrors. (Its title, “In Space, No One…” pays direct homage to the original.) At this point, it’s the series’ high-water mark, and confirms that Hawley knows exactly when to honor tradition and when to jolt the mythology forward. The show’s alien creatures, too, are worth the price of admission. Some are oozingly faithful to artist H.R. Giger’s original xenomorph designs, while others are fresh nightmares: insectoid predators, parasitic organisms, and tentacled, multi-eyeball creepy crawlers that feel as unnerving as they do bizarrely plausible in their biology. The effects lean heavily on practical craftsmanship, with CGI deployed sparingly to flesh out what latex and animatronics can’t achieve. They all look (feel?) remarkably tactile — creatures you could almost reach out and recoil from. Timothy Olyphant is a synthetic scientist with an agenda Thematically, Alien: Earth takes big swings. Questions of identity, mortality, and the ethics of consciousness run through every episode. Wendy’s relationship with Kirsh, a synthetic scientist played with wry menace by Timothy Olyphant, becomes a mirror for the franchise’s oldest question: what separates us from the machines we create? Meanwhile, corporate overlords like the sinister Weyland-Yutani company manipulate alien encounters for profit, loudly echoing ideas that were introduced in the earlier films but updating them for an era obsessed with data, biotech, and AI. Not everything lands perfectly. Philosophical detours occasionally bog down the momentum, and the pacing wobbles when too many storylines compete for attention. And, yes, a handful of visual effects lack the polish of the big-screen entries. But even these missteps feel like the byproducts of ambition — a willingness to stretch the canvas wider than the familiar “monster loose on the ship” template. Creatures from outer space aren’t the only danger What makes Alien: Earth so compelling is that it works as both an expansion and a homecoming. It honors the claustrophobic dread that defined the original, but it also dares to ask: What if the nightmare were never out there , but always waiting here ? That shift makes the show resonate in ways one wouldn’t have initially expected. As the first season barrels toward its September 23rd finale, no renewal has yet been announced. But its critical acclaim, strong audience response, and the sheer scope of its world-building suggest this won’t be the last time Earth gets a visit from the xenomorph and its slimy buddies. After 46 years of terror in the stars, Alien: Earth finally turns the series’ gaze back on us. The monsters have landed, the corporations are hungrier than ever, and humanity itself may be the most fragile organism of all. It’s a thrilling, unsettling reminder that sometimes the scariest destination for a series packed with interstellar organisms is the one place we can’t escape: home. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist, a former editor of Video Business -- Variety's digital media trade publication—and husband to The Insider's own Gwen Cooper. 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 Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City The author was dazzled by meeting Groucho Marx when she was a young theatrical apprentice, AT WIT'S END At a meeting long, long ago, with a potential publisher, after Joany, my sister and co-author, pitched several ideas, the publisher asked, “Do you have children?” She explained that she wanted a book of baby names. One of us said, “Neither of us has children, but we both have names.”  We got the deal.  And Joany and I became onomatologists (people who study the origins, meanings and usage of names). To publicize Name Me, I’m Yours , our first book, we were sent on a media tour, enabling us to collect enough new material for a second name book, The Perfect Name for the Perfect Baby . Along the way, we met the Sianci family.  They had a baby girl and named her Nancy Ann.  She became Nancy Ann Sianci. The Dwopp family had a boy they named Wayne.  Of course, that led us to sing “Wayne Dwopp keeps falling on his head.”  Can you blame us? The Wind family named their children North, East, South and West (no, Kanye is not the father). Incidentally, Mrs. Wind’s name is Augusta. Joseph Barr, a former mayor of Pittsburgh, named his son Clark and his daughter Candy.  I guess it’s better than Crow and Iso. The author and her sister Joany's first book, We met a father who was a financial advisor.  His three daughters were named Cash, Gamble and Chance.  His two dogs were Stocks and Bonds. When we were introduced to a young woman named Ilys, she proudly explained that her name is an acronym for ‘I love you so.’ A man named Aziz Izzet told us that his name is pronounced as if you were opening a bottle of soda slowly. (I bet you just tested it out by saying his name slowly.) “A name is a blueprint of the thing we call self .”  Wouldn’t it be ironic if I didn’t name the poet, Diane Ackerman, for her quote? An old southern custom was to combine the first two names of a baby’s parents.  Example: John and Martha = Jartha.  It didn’t work out so well when the parents’ names were Ferdinand and Eliza = Ferdiliza. Economist and bestselling author, Howard J. Ruff, married Kay Felt who then became Kay Felt Ruff.  Probably not, since they had 13 children (although some were adopted). George D. Bryson stopped in Louisville, Kentucky on his way to New York.  At the train station, he asked for the name of the city’s leading hotel.  He went to the one mentioned and when he registered, he was given the key to Room 307.  Just as a lark, he asked the desk clerk if there were mail for him.  He was handed a letter addressed to George D. Bryson, Room 307.  It turned out that the room’s occupant before him, was another George D. Bryson from Montreal.  Eventually, the two Georges met to share their amazing story with each other in person. My own name is responsible for some memorable moments.  When I’m introduced to people who are on in years, occasionally they will burst into song, “Lydia, oh Lydia, oh have you seen Lydia, Lydia the tattooed lady.” It’s from the Marx Brothers film, At the Circus . When I was a teenager, I was an apprentice at the Ivoryton Playhouse in Connecticut. Each week there was a new play with a new cast including a star. One week the play was Time for Elizabeth starring Groucho Marx. When we were introduced and he heard my name, he didn’t sing the song.  He just gave me the biggest, slyest smile I had ever seen.  It was the thrill of a lifetime. And if that weren’t enough, years later, I was invited to a party at my across-the-hall neighbor’s apartment.  That’s where and when I was introduced to one of the guests, Yip Harburg.  He wrote the lyrics to Lydia the Tattooed Lady .  Yup!  Yip!  Another thrill of a lifetime. Not all thrills when it came to my name.  My name also led to humor. My grandmother had a friend named Mrs. Starkoff.  For all I knew, ‘Mrs.’ was her first name.  My grandmother seemed to have had several friends with that same first name. 6-year-old "Lydiot" Mrs. Starkoff was different from the others.  She would talk to me as though I were a person and not a child to be ignored.  She prided herself in knowing my name…sort of.  If I wasn't in the room she was in, and she wanted to talk to me, she would call out, “Lydiot!”  No one ever corrected her.  During her visit, I was Lydiot. We all held back our laughter until she left. Gary Null, radio show host, author and alternative medicine advocate, wanted only one of us on his radio show where we could promote our book. I lost the toss-up and wound up doing the show.  Usually, when we were on a show for the first time, the announcer or host would ask how we pronounced our name:  Why-len or Will-en? Right before airtime, Gary asked me, “How do you pronounce your name, Lid-ia or Lie-dia?”  I replied, “Lid-ia and I wouldn’t lie-da-ya’” Funny, right?  Gary didn’t think so and the show went downhill from there.  And I wouldn’t lie da ya’!                                  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 Andy Borowitz  September 18, 2025 Jimmy Kimmel should have stuck to acceptable comments, like suggesting that homeless people be executed. (Kevin Winter/Getty Images) Donald J. Trump got a podiatrist’s note to avoid the Vietnam War, but he’s all in on the War on Laughter . In July, he applauded CBS’s cancellation of Stephen Colbert. Last night, he crowed about ABC yanking Jimmy Kimmel, and warned Jimmy Fallon and Seth Meyers that they could be next. Soon, the only comedian left on TV will be Karoline Leavitt. Trump’s attempt to silence those who mock him is straight out of the autocrat’s playbook—and while he has never demonstrated an ability to read, perhaps Stephen Miller reads it to him softly when he tucks him in at night. But if Trump thinks trampling on free speech will serve him well, he hasn’t thought this through. By gagging his critics, he’s destroying his chance at the one thing he values even more than Emirati crypto billions: the Nobel Peace Prize. You see, the Nobel folks really like free speech. For example, this is from their announcement of the 2021 award to two courageous journalists: “The Norwegian Nobel Committee has decided to award the Nobel Peace Prize for 2021 to Maria Ressa and Dmitry Muratov for their efforts to safeguard freedom of expression, which is a precondition for democracy and lasting peace. Ms Ressa and Mr Muratov are receiving the Peace Prize for their courageous fight for freedom of expression in the Philippines and Russia. At the same time, they are representatives of all journalists who stand up for this ideal in a world in which democracy and freedom of the press face increasingly adverse conditions... Without freedom of expression and freedom of the press, it will be difficult to successfully promote fraternity between nations, disarmament and a better world order to succeed in our time.” Oopsy! In addition to his War on Laughter, Trump might want to rethink his $15 billion lawsuit against the New York Times . Nobel Prize-wise, that’s kind of a no-no. And since it bears repeating, let me say what I said earlier this week : as the quislings in corporate media continue to bend their knee to our senile wannabe dictator, I have never been more grateful that I don’t work for one of these craven companies. I work for you. Onward.

By Naomi Serviss / North Kingstown, Rhode Island Love him or leave him, Billy Joel, the self-effacing mega-hitmaker from Hicksville, Long Island, has long infiltrated impressionable psyches with pulse-quickening lyrics and ear-worm melodies. Including mine. Critics piled on early, proclaiming catchy tunes and lyrics trite, derivative, sentimental and schlocky. What do they know? After viewing HBO’s newly released documentary, Billy Joel: And So It Goes , they will eat their words. This two-part homage to raw talent polished and served hot, is a mesmerizing inside-and-out dissection of Joel’s roller-coaster life. So far. Documented are his traumatic childhood with an unbalanced mother, three failed marriages, bouts of suicidal depression, alcoholism, tabloid scandals and unrequited love. Unrequited love from his long-distance father, Howard Joel. The documentary highlights fan-favorite performances, including the autobiographical and seminal “Piano Man.” Joel, 76, wearied of his trademark hit after the umpteenth time laying it out for adoring concertgoers. Since then, his reconciliation with and appreciation for the heart-tugging ode comes full circle. After a 10-year-long gig and performing 104 shows at Madison Square Garden, Joel has left the building. A contributing factor in choosing a definitive exit was a recent diagnosis with the brain disorder hydrocephalus, once deemed “water on the brain.” The condition has left him feeling unsteady and off-kilter. Like being on a boat, he’s revealed in interviews. The first half of the film, by Susan Lacy and Jessica Levin, premiered in June at the Tribeca Festival. It deep dives into Joel’s early career days and first marriage to Elizabeth Weber. The second half dishes on his travails with second and third marriages to supermodel Christie Brinkley and celebrity chef Katie Lee Biegel. Alcohol was another bedfellow. Being coerced into rehab didn’t succeed. Joel acknowledged that until an alcoholic wants to quit, no outside pressure can wean imbibers off the juice. He returned to performing live after participating in “12-12-12,” a benefit concert for Hurricane Sandy relief. He was re-hooked. Joel’s relationship to his Jewish identity is highlighted after he discovered that his paternal grandfather, Karl Joel, had owned a textile factory in Nuremberg. Nazis hijacked it during the Holocaust. It became the manufacturing site of the striped uniforms worn by concentration camp prisoners. Joel has worn a yellow star on his lapel during concerts in homage. Considering that he hasn’t released a pop-driven album since the 1993 release of “River of Dreams,” his popularity continues to astound and fortify early fans’ devotion. Its hauntingly beautiful cover tune is an all-time favorite, with meandering melody, infectious beat, do-wop rhythm and dreamy percussive persuasion. Joel’s fourth marriage to former Morgan Stanley executive Alexis Roderick and fathering their two young girls has stabilized a rocky life. He’s content and grateful for his iconic pop music foothold, despite the unexpected medical calamity. Viewers who considered Joel a lightweight tunesmith may change their tune after watching. Full disclosure: as a fellow former Long Islander, my kinship for Joel’s formidable talent is biased. I knew his mother, Rosalind, Roz among friends. When my husband Lew was hired by Newsday in 1983, we moved from Orlando, Florida, to a sight-unseen derelict roach-infested apartment carved out of a decrepit house in Huntington Station, N,Y. Emily was six months old. I was recovering from back surgery, and we were connectionless. I found a women’s support group housed in a historic church on Huntington’s Main Street. An eclectic crew welcomed newcomers and long timers. There I met organizers Anne and Andie, who befriended me. Strict rules protected our privacy, including no outside discussion of tales, gripes, grievances or sorrows. What happened in group stayed in group. Meetings opened with Anne asking, “What’s new and good?” That icebreaker induced both laughter and tears. A petite, raven-haired participant with strikingly dark eyes introduced herself. “I’m Roz Joel. Billy Joel’s mother.” We became friends. When I first picked her up at home for an outing, she showcased photos of Billy and Christie throughout. The Uptown Girl’s natural beauty illuminated tables and bookcases. “That’s nothing. Look at her mother,” Roz said, pointing to a photo of Christie and her look-alike gorgeous mom. Roz, a complicated woman with volatile mood swings, figures heavily throughout the film. Joel unguardedly shares painful recollections with compassionate warmth. The unvarnished documentary unfolds with passionate, revealing memories. Humor threads throughout the nearly five-hour film, lightening the mood when dark anecdotes threaten bleakness overload. He’s evolved into a sober, grateful and appreciative mensch. Lucky stars have kept him alive. After viewing the musical icon’s compelling history, you’ll be grateful they have. Naomi Serviss has written for the  The Insider , the New York Times , Newsday , the New York Post, the Boston Herald , the Providence Journal , the Philadelphia Inquirer , Broadway World , Stage Magazine , Temple University's alumni publication. and numerous travel/spa magazines. including Spa Asia . She and her husband Lew, who were Manhattan residents for 15 years, recently moved to Rhode Island, her birth state. Janis Joplin, their pandemic rescue pup, approves.

By Andy Borowitz  August 28, 2025 Nicola Abraham on Unsplash GREENLAND ( The Borowitz Report )—A spokesperson for the government of Greenland informed Donald J. Trump on Thursday that, while it is highly unlikely that the territory would ever choose to become part of the United States, it would only consider doing so after reading a complete and unredacted copy of the Epstein Files. “It would be devastating for Greenland’s spotless reputation to be ruled by a pedophile,” the spokesperson, Hartvig Dorkelson, said. “And we’re certainly not going to accept a character reference from Ghislaine.” In order to expedite Greenland’s receipt of the Epstein Files, he offered Attorney General Pam Bondi the territory’s email address, adding, “We’ll forward them to Canada.”

By Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. The author and her husband, Jeffrey Markowitz, enjoying the OPHS 55-Year Reunion for the Class of 1970 ↓ Gallery of Reunion Attendees at the Bottom of the Page ↓ As the years have steadily marched on, I always look forward to reunions or even a simple gathering of classmates to celebrate happy occasions or to remember someone who left us too soon. When talking with former classmates, time stops and memories come flooding back. Oak Parkers  are tightly connected no matter where we live and share an unbreakable bond. It doesn’t matter if we see one another regularly or haven’t kept in touch for decades–the spark lingers. On July 26th my husband Jeffrey and I were excited to meet up with old friends and acquaintances at the 55-year reunion of the Oak Park High School Class of 1970, held  at Zerbo’s Market and Bistro in Commerce Township, Mich. I was a proud member of that class. Jeffrey graduated from Oak Park in 1968 and knew many of the people from my year. We were both looking forward to spending time reminiscing and catching up with people from our past. There was something incredibly special about growing up in Oak Park, MIch. Opportunity wrapped its arms around us and the city provided outlets for sports and entertainment on various fronts. Our school system was top-notch and rated among the best in the nation. We were the lucky ones, but still too young to realize these gifts or have a deep appreciation for them. We were simply having fun. The passing of time put this into perspective. I cherished my high school days. The teachers were extremely dedicated, and they were part of the fabric that helped to mold and guide us through the ever-changing decade of the ‘70s. I was inspired to become a teacher due to the passion, amiable environment, and excellent curricula that my teachers provided. My teaching career spanned 34 years, and I loved it (minus all the meetings). Class of 1970 Yearbook The reunion committee selected the perfect venue for our gathering. The size of the room accommodated over a hundred guests, and it was easy to mingle. People flew in from Colorado, California, Kentucky, and Chicago, to name just a few, for an opportunity to spend time with old friends. But as the evening wore on, it became clear that it was impossible to talk to everyone I desired. After brief conversations or a glance across the room where eye contact was the only messenger, time kept ticking. Looking at the faces of former classmates brought me back to those special moments in our lives. No one escapes the aging process, but some people are more fortunate than others. If I didn’t readily recognize someone, I quickly glanced at their name tag and graduation photo. I could then visualize them as if 1970 were still here. Graying hair, receding hairlines or no hair at all didn’t erase the memories. No longer were conversations laser focused on our career trajectory. Now, many people spoke deeply about their adult children and grandchildren. Retirement plans, either in progress or on the horizon, were of interest. Some  expressed their desire to stay in the workforce for as long as possible. Amazingly, a few classmates were lucky enough to still have healthy parents in their lives — anywhere from 90 to 100 years young. Memories from the 1970 Revoir I was in a perpetual state of awe as friends recalled stories from the past. Sammy Gunn  told me a tale of sixth grade antics. He said, “I had the mumps, and you came over to visit me. Since you were my girlfriend at the time, you gave me a kiss on the cheek. I then proclaimed to my mother that my mumps were cured.” Barbara (Feinberg) Kronick reminisced about practicing the “Tighten Up” in front of a mirror in my bedroom. Says Barbara, “It was the most popular way to dance in the late ‘60s and we had to make sure that we had it down pat. The song blared in your bedroom for hours as we watched ourselves perfect the moves.” But at the top of the list was a story about young Abie Seiderman, may his memory be for a blessing. Abie decided it was time for recess right in the middle of instruction in our sixth-grade classroom. He bravely walked to the closet and took out a large ball and began to throw it around the room. Everyone took part in the action, and our teacher had absolutely no control over the situation. Abie was sent to the principal’s office, and our inept teacher was eventually fired due to many similar occurrences in the classroom. As people continued to talk throughout the evening, a montage of senior graduation pictures and videos from past gatherings were on the screen for all to view — it was done well but was bittersweet. I was deeply saddened to look at the pictures of the many classmates who had passed away. But at the same it was joyful to view pictures of special celebrations — Sweet Sixteens, high-school athletics, and classmates just having fun. It was a blast from the past. A week after the reunion I was informed that an uninvited guest was fraternizing with our group at Zerbo’s— Mr. Covid crashed the party! At first only a few classmates reported that they tested positive for Covid. Then, in the next few days, the number of cases increased. Luckily, Jeffrey and I dodged the demon bullet. I suppose it’s the risk we take when gathering in large numbers. Fortunately, everyone recovered with no adverse consequences from the dreaded disease. I know that another reunion is already in the works for July of 2030. The committee doesn’t waste any time moving forward with plans. I’m sure it will be arranged with the utmost care since we will be inching toward our late 70s. And, hopefully, Mr. Covid will decide to sit this one out. Gallery of Reunion Attendees Alan Feldman, Steve Cash, Michael Barron, Bennett Mazell, Marshal Goren (L to R) Tony (Anthony) Morris and Bev Thurman Ronnie Berger and Lee Weinstein Michael Barron and Judi Markowitz Joe Daniel, Larry Reynolds, and Dennis Bowles (L to R) Denny Boren, Judi Markowitz and Jeffrey Markowitz (L to R) David Boyer, Dennis Bowles and Sammy Gunn (L to R) Denny Boren, Jeffrey Markowitz and Howard Kuretzky (L to R) Judi Markowitz and Marilyn (Zaks) West Sheri (Fallen) Schey and Andee Barenholtz Judi Markowitz is a retired high school English teacher of 34 years. She primarily taught twelth 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 Carol Segal / Manhattan An ongoing series of stories by Insider readers. Do you have a pandemic tale of your own? Please send it to editor@theinsider1.com Written in April 2020 When you live in a New York City apartment and you look at night at the windows of apartment buildings across the street or across the courtyard, it’s like looking at illuminated snapshots formatted on the pages of a photo album. That scene looks like lit-up snippets of a hundred people’s lives. Yet, New Yorkers learn to ignore the people in the windows; we don’t want to invade privacies or be inappropriately observed ourselves. We try to respect everybody’s right to live their lives freely with the shades up. But during every evening’s 7:00-7:02 p.m. “Essential Workers Appreciation Clap,” the rules are changed. People are leaning out of those windows, reaching hands out to make noise, waving and smiling. We shout our thanks to the bus drivers who pass by, the food delivery men on bicycles, the doormen, the officers in New York Police Department squad cars, the taxi drivers. For the first time ever, we are reaching toward each other from inside our windows, seeing faces we never saw before. On one such night, I see the head monk step out the front door of the Korean Buddhist Temple that occupies a brownstone directly across the street from me. The rarely seen abbot is standing on his stoop, tapping his meditation bell with a stick as his contribution to the clamor. I catch his attention and raise up my hands to clap directly to him. He mirrors my motion. I clasp my hands together and yell across the street “I see you. Stay strong!” He motions the same back to me. I open my arms wide in a gesture of welcome and inclusiveness. He does the same. I crane my neck to look at the windows above my head and wave to a woman who lives with and takes care of her wheelchair-bound mother. I’d learned days earlier that the older woman asks to be positioned at the window when the clapping begins. Tonight, the daughter draws her mother’s hand to extend outside the window so that I may see that she is there and enjoying the sound of the people. I rarely think to open my kitchen window because it faces the back of the building, a rather dark and gloomy interior courtyard of brick walls and pigeon poop-covered air conditioners. But tonight, my spirit is on fire because the human connection is pulsing strong and alive.  I hear clapping and pot-banging from this side of my building, too, and the energy compels me to open my bleak kitchen window and stick my head out. This has me facing another side of my own building where I see into the window of my 88-year-old widowed neighbor sitting at his dinner table, still grieving the loss of his wife, suffering from the effects of Parkinson’s disease, often sad and lonely in his daily life. His home healthcare aide catches sight of me, raises the shades all the way up so that the elderly gentleman can see me, and I throw kisses to both of them. Something makes me look upward to the window of new tenants who just moved in last week, and a strange woman is standing there. I motion to her to open her window.  I yell “We welcome you!” The woman clasps her hands to her chest in thanks. I yell “When this is all over, we will get acquainted over a glass of wine!” and she yells back “And I will hug you!” I don’t even know her name. From my kitchen window, I can also see the back of another brick building full of windows and vertical columns of small balconies. After the two-minute applause-fest, a man on his terrace sings one song each night on a microphone, accompanying himself on his electric guitar. One evening it was Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Tonight, it is “Let It Be.” He sings off tune much of the time, but his passion is palpable. Although I cannot see him from where I am, I yell my “thank you” multiple times toward the brick facade, hoping that my voice echoes and bounces from building to building, and that he may hear my faceless appreciation. This nightly tradition has become an increasingly loud and passionate roar of encouraging voices, cowbells, spoons hit against pots, whistles, honking cars, whoops and hollers, even tambourine-shaking. It has heightened my consciousness of the human spirit. We New Yorkers know that we are at the epicenter of this most virulent storm. We know that as we cheer to see each other from our windows, the body bags are piling up across the park. The human race has been knocked to its knees and is fighting for its life. Yet, for two minutes every night between 7:00 and 7:02 p.m., we are looking hard for each other in our snapshot windows, we are reaching out to one another while staying far apart, and in these bizarre times of forced distancing and isolation, we’ve never felt closer. Born and raised in Portland, OR, Carol danced with the Portland Ballet Company for six years. After moving to New York City in 1979 and marrying a musician a few years later, she built a flourishing career as a personal trainer. Her business has spanned four decades and continues to this day, now specializing as a senior citizen fitness consultant. Two children and three grandchildren later, she is a published memoir essayist: “25 Miles to Go Now” Feminine Collection , 2018; “Warm Bread,” The Cooks Cook, 2023. Her first novel is nearing completion.

By John Woodford / Ann Arbor, Mich. NAACP leader Derrick Johnson decided that President Trump would be the first president to be uninvited to address the civil rights organization This June, the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People) announced that for the first time in its 116-year history, it would not invite the sitting US president or vice president to address its annual convention. In justifying its unprecedented decision, NAACP president and CEO Derrick Johnson used some militant-sounding rhetoric. He accused President Donald Trump of “attacking our democracy and our civil rights,” of believing “more in the fascist playbook than in the U.S. Constitution,” of signing “unconstitutional executive orders to oppress voters and undo civil rights protections,” of “illegally turn[ing] the military on our communities,” and of “personally benefit[ing] from the U.S. government.” Neither Johnson nor I can declare, without a judicial ruling, that Trump has committed an “unconstitutional” or an “illegal act.” But while I agree with the gist of Johnson’s criticisms of the president, I maintain that the NAACP’s non-invitation is an instance of folding up one's tent and retreating before a battle rather than an example of defiance or dissent. Unlike the universities, corporate media, white-shoe law firms or other institutions that have buckled under Trump’s actions and threats to hurt them economically, the NAACP was under no such pressure, so far as the public knows. Furthermore, the seeming snub is probably just what Trump would hope for, much like Brer Rabbit’s being thrown into other briar patch. The president was freed of the burden of even having to feign a respect for law, fairness and progress against historic injustice. Even African leaders whose homelands Trump has called “shitholes” have sat down to negotiate with him, not because they like or admire him but because they’re realistic that he’s someone to be reckoned with because of the office he holds and the power still inherent in that position. So they hold their noses, display the maturity and discipline required of leaders, and do the best they can for the people they represent by negotiating with Trump and his retinue. In modern times, President Ronald Reagan was perhaps the “free world” leader most associated with political views and moves that were hostile and damaging to the interests of Black Americans. But when presidents speak publicly on democratic freedoms and civil rights, they know the nation and world are listening, and they, or their speechwriters, tend to want to look as honorable as they can. As the following excerpt shows, Reagan presented himself as a champion of what today might be called Diversity, Equity and Inclusion when he addressed the NAACP at its convention on June 29, 1981 : "A few isolated groups in the backwater of American life still hold perverted notions of what America is all about. Recently, in some places in the nation there's been a disturbing reoccurrence of bigotry and violence.… If I were speaking to them instead of to you, I would say to them, “You are the ones who are out of step with our society. You are the ones who willfully violate the meaning of the dream that is America. And this country, because of what it stands for, will not stand for your conduct.” My Administration will vigorously investigate and prosecute those who, by violence or intimidation, would attempt to deny Americans their constitutional rights." When staunch reactionaries among a right-wing president’s supporters hear such words, they may feel dismayed, or they may dismiss such comments as a smokescreen their leader was wise to deploy. But many moderate voters agree with those sentiments and even expect their leader to live up to them. The NAACP, however, has freed Trump and his image-makers from having to decide whether to take the high road or go low. Trump improved his vote totals among Black, Hispanic and Asian men and women in 2024 versus 2020 election, but the NAACP’s snub is unlikely to weaken his support from this voting bloc because a non-event has no impact. Instead, the NAACP’s refusal to engage with the White House is more likely to increase the apathy that has infected so many voting-age U.S. citizens of all backgrounds rather than overcome it. Before Reagan’s speech at its convention, the heads of the NAACP back then, Benjamin Hooks, and Margaret Bush Wilson, the first woman to chair the group’s national board, met with the president in the Oval Office to iron out the details of his appearance. But such formalities did not prevent Wilson from expressing her assessment of Reagan’s record when she introduced him. According to historian Gil Troy, whose 2007 book Morning in America depicts Reagan as a unifying communicator, Wilson did not shy away from declaring her opposition to his politics: “When she [Margaret Bush Wilson] introduced him before his speech to the NAACP's 1981 national convention in Denver, she openly attacked him for reviving ‘war, pestilence, famine and death,’ visibly upsetting Reagan and his wife Nancy Reagan.” But Wilson was the kind of gutsy, effective civil rights leader in short supply today. Two years after the Reagan speech, she temporarily ousted Hooks as the NAACP president, citing his incompetence and possible malfeasance in several areas. But the organization’s board — yet another example of an “old-boys network” — overruled her and barred her from speaking at its next convention. She then resigned and returned to practice law in her native St. Louis, until her death at 90 years old in 2019. The NAACP’s decision to silence Trump at its convention was not courageous, wise or effective. If its leader Derrick Johnson truly though the president is following a “fascist playbook,” he would have been doing his organization and the country at large a great service by forcing Trump to run those plays on an open field. John Woodford lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he retired after two decades as the executive editor of Michigan Today , a University of Michigan alumni/ae publication. His career in journalism includes editing and/or reporting duties for Ebony  magazine, Muhammad Speaks  newspaper, the Chicago Sun-Times , the New Haven Register , the New York Times  and Ford Motor company publications.