Today's MOSTLY SHORT STORY: If Even for a Moment.

While my stepson Jeremiah and I were exploring our new village in Sicily, Motta d'Affermo, we found ourselves in one of only two small grocery stores in town. They're kind of the equivalent of what we call a bodega here in the States - you can get a little bit of everything. In the case of Motta, that includes locally made pasta, incredible panini sandwiches, dish soap and toilet paper.

Motta d' Affermo, Sicilia, F LoBuono

We needed a cigarette lighter or matches to be able to light the stove in our new villa. Well, of course, the ONLY 2 items that they didn't have were those. No big deal, Jeremiah said, I saw some at the other store.

So, we turned to leave the store and head the flew blocks to the other bodega. As we did, we noticed that we were being approached by a local man. He looked perhaps in his 40's and was, quite frankly, a little unkempt. His clothes were worn and dirty and he looked as tired as they were. He had a shoulder bag slung around to the front of his body and one hand in it. With the other, he was gesturing to us with a vigorous wave.

We thought that maybe he was preparing to give us a pamphlet or brochure - surely something to sell. But, being experienced travelers, Jeremiah and I were prepared for whatever might come.

As he came closer, I began to realize that he was not a vagabond at all but was dealing with some type of mental and physical challenges that were affecting his appearance.

When he finally reached us, he removed his hand from his satchel, and low and behold, he had produced a used - by working - souvenir cigarette lighter. And, he wasn't selling it to us, he was giving it to us!

With outstretched hand, slowly, in Italian, from what I understood, he said, please take this and have a pleasant and safe journey.

We all smiled completely and with great joy, for it was one of those special moments when you realize that good people come in all forms and can be found all over the world.

I responded in my basic Italian, molto gentile, signore, molto gentile.

Then we went our separate ways to continue our different journeys knowing we shared the same path, if even for a moment.

Today's MOSTLY TRUE SHORT STORY: A Night in Trastevere

 

3/9/23

Well, here I am again, alone in a magical spot, not by design but by circumstance.

I'm drinking delicious red wine while sitting outside in a tiny, relatively quiet café, deep in the heart of an otherwise buzzing Trastevere. In an odd coincidence, great American Blues is playing in the background. I tell the owner, me piace la musica!

So far, Rome has been her magical self; full of surprises and contractions. She's dirty, rude, ancient, sublime, frenetic, frustrating, and fantastic. In just 3 days here I've already experienced so many highs and lows. It's definitely a love/hate relationship.

The Romans themselves are very much like their city: awful AND wonderful, both at the same time - much like we New Yorkers. I think that I may actually love the place. It may be a hell of a lot older than New York but one thing is for certain - their 'tude is pretty the same as ours!

They call it the Eternal City, and for good reason. The place seems to be mostly in an eternal state of mass confusion and decay. Yet, it not only survives, but thrives and continues. Around every hidden corner, I find another ancient vestige of long gone glory. They drive like savages and can manage to squeeze a car into a parking spot the size of a shoe box. And, everyone smokes cigarettes like fiends. Everyone. It's quite a turnoff for me to see an exquisite woman, dressed impeccably, burn one as she sashays by.

As I sit and sip, a couple of young women, speaking in their native German, take the small table next to me. The difference in the Italian language and German is of great contrast to me. Even when the Italians are loud (often), the sound and melody to their speech has a calming rhythm to it. On the other hand, the Germans, even when whispering, seem to be shouting.

I continue to sip, listen, and observe. Then, at one point, the bartender, waitress, and, obviously, a regular patron decide to come outside and stand near by table to have their conversation - and, of course, their CIGARETTES. They happily drag away, filling what was once sweet night air with a suffocating layer of smoke.

I quietly take my last sip, raise myself out of my chair, and make my way back to my hotel.

Ah, Roma, I love you so!

Today's MOZEN: A Moment of Grace

They are usually fleeting; normally lasting only a few minutes. They also come at the oddest times and usually under the simplest of circumstance. They may be ephemeral but those brief Moments of Grace are always spiritual - at least to me.

It's a warm feeling of well-being, when all is right with the world. At that very moment, your stars have aligned, your ducks are all in a row, a steady course has been set, and everything, in its own time, will be just fine. You have no doubts.

I had just such an experience last night. It was cold; below freezing - the kind of weather for a nice cuddle under a warm, hand-made quilt. 

On this night, I was fortune to have access to both.

So, when it was time to sleep, I quickly stepped out of the chilled air and slid myself between the sheets and under the quilt. My girlfriend, Amanda, was already in bed and rapidly approaching sleep. I immediately came close to her to spoon against her warm body, She responded gently to my presence, eagerly accepting my embrace.

Then, as an added bonus, my little bear of a cat, Joe, jumped onto the bed and quickly ensconced  himself at our feet, providing further warmth and comfort.

Within seconds, that feeling washed over me: it could only be described as a State of Grace! It was if I was bathing in the pure light of simple satisfaction. At that brief, fleeting moment in time, my existence was as complete as it would ever be.

I drank it in deeply, as I would from a tumbler of the best bourbon.

I giggled gleefully, sighed. And smiled. Broadly. Completely.

And, then I slept. . . 

When You Think About It. African American History Month

You may be hearing the year 1619 quite a bit lately. It’s a seminal date in African American history as it was the year when 20 black African slaves were introduced into what would eventually become The United States of America at the nascent Jamestown settlement in Virginia. It is therefore often cited as the beginning of the black African presence here.

That may be a convenient date. However, the history of Africans in The New World is much longer and much more complicated.

The presence of black Africans in the Americas, mostly as slaves, can be traced back to the late 1400’s with their presence in what would become part of the modern United States as early as 1526.

That’s a nearly 500-year presence.

And, for far too much of that time, Africans have born the burden of bondage in one form or another. Remember, millions of others came to these shores bearing hardship and tragedy, but virtually only black Africans were brought here completely against their will and literally in chains.

Now, we say we have made progress with eliminating racism like that’s a badge of honor! But shouldn’t we be questioning why our society is so deeply rooted in racism in the 1^st place???

But have we really?

Just to prove how far we still must go, another young black man was literally beaten to death for mostly just being BLACK – and in the ultimate irony, by 5 other black policemen!!

So, yes, February may be African American, a.k.a. Black History Month when we celebrate the contributions, against staggering odds, of our black brothers and sisters but what does it really mean if there is no justice. Without it, there can be no peace.

When You Think About: Santos and the GOP. Perfect Together

First, let it be said that I ALWAYS felt that George Santos was a phony - from the very first time that I saw him.

I had no idea who he was as he was not a candidate in my voting district. But, of course, as an unexpected winner for Congress in his, he was being given a considerable amount of coverage on the local TV news.

I was watching his victory speech with my girlfriend. Much to her dismay, I'm sure, she will have to act as my witness; from the very first frame of video, I swear that I could tell that he was an out-and-out phony. In fact, once again as my girlfriend would attest, I was flabbergast that I seemed to be the only one noticing! I mean, his supporters were roaring in the background.

Everything about Santos (the name he is currently being identified as), to me, reeked of insincerity: his smile, his body language, his clothing, his copious amounts of what appeared to be make-up, his remarkably straight, ultra-white teeth, spray-on tan, and his "little boy" haircut.

Of course, at this point, none of the details had been released defining him as a lying sack of shit. It was just a feeling, a vibe. I've been a photographer for a LONG time and one of the keys to any success I may have had lies with my ability to get a sense of people/situations to capture them in the light of THEIR truth.

Frankly, I couldn't believe that he was elected. But, obviously, he was chosen by the voters and their decision would have to be respected. (How all of his deceit went undetected by his opponents and the press until now is a story for another post.)

That is until HIS SHIT STORM OF LIES TOOK OVER HIS LIFE!

Rather than spend a considerable about of time to document ALL of his blatant LIES, let me streamline the process by simply saying, if his lips are moving, he's lying. He tries to defend himself (when he bothers to) by saying they're not lies but embellishments. Screw that - I know a lie when I hear one!

I'm not a psychiatrist but I think it safe to say that the man has some type of pathological condition that simply prevents him from telling the truth.

But, that's not my problem or ultimate concern. What IS is the Republican response to the situation.

Mr. Santos, despite a growing groundswell of opposition, refuses to resign and, so far, the GOP leadership, led by Kevin McCarthy, has not only generally turned a blind eye, has even appointed Santos to a few important Congressional committees! 

Any reasonable person should/would legitimately ask, why, especially in the face of such irrefutable evidence, would you do so?

Well, the answer is simply - and, unfortunately, typical of today's Trumpian GOP; they need his head count to keep their razor thin majority in the House - thereby, once again, demonstrating their lust for power over the integrity of our very Nation.

Obviously, they deserve one another.

Today's MOZEN: Color Blind

Growing up in the 60's in Fort Lee, NJ wasn't exactly like "Leave It To Beaver". But it sure wasn't quite "The Jeffersons" either.

Neighborhoods were not flashy but, rather, solidly working-class with a fair amount of ethnic diversity featuring a healthy mix of Irish, Italians, Christians, and Jews. However, the racial component was virtually lily white. There were a handful of Asian families but I can't recall a single black family that we even knew of much less associated with. In fact, I really didn't experience any aspect of black life until I attended university at Rutgers in Newark!

However, despite that deprivation, since I was so into athletics as a young man, most of my roll models were black! I don't think that it was some type of spiritual awareness but much more practical: I loved playing football and most of my favorite players were, well, black.

I remember my first encounter with a professional football player - who also happened to be black. His name was Sherman White and he was making an appearance at the local Shop Rite. I was about 12 or 13 and since I lived just a few blocks away, I walked to the store early so that I could get a good spot to meet him.

When I did, I thought I saw a god. He was big. He was handsome. He was incredibly well-dressed, and his dark skin made him look like he was carved out of a block of ebony. I swear his feet never touched the ground when he walked - like a mythical black panther.

It never occurred to me that role models came in particular "colors." Now, I understand that it is important to see others who look like us and have achieved great success to show us the possibilities - especially for minority communities. But, at that time, it simply didn't matter to me - he was a pro and he looked and acted the part. That was fine by me.

Furthermore, my favorite player on my favorite team (the NY Giants), Ron Johnson, was African-American. I even wore his jersey #30 in his honor for my entire playing career. I even went to great lengths to find and wear Puma football shoes - just as he did.

Of course, my parents played an important part in emphasizing the only truly important thing about a person is their strength of character, not the color of their skin. That just seemed natural to me - and it still does.

Today's MOZEN: A MOST VIOLENT GAME

In my day, I was a pretty damned good football player, mostly as a defensive specialist - good enough to be named captain of both my high school and college teams. Unfortunately, most of those teams weren't very good but that's not the point of this post.

What IS most important was that I loved playing - until I didn't.

I have to admit right off that part of my initial attraction was that it IS a violent game and I was so gentle in my soul as a boy I was afraid that if I didn't "toughen up" I would never make it in the world I was most familiar with - both my father and his brother were excellent players in their day and I wanted to make them proud. In fact, my father would go through great lengths to attend my games and often offer needed and eagerly accepted advice after a contest.

On the other hand, my mother hated everything about football; so much so that she never attended any of my games AND I had to hide ALL injuries I may have incurred (and I had a few) from her - my father instructing me, for the sake of peace and harmony, to "keep it between us".

So, in a very real sense, I had something to prove, mostly to myself, and football would be that vehicle.

I wasn't very big at all but I was quick, strong, and fearless. I followed the instructions from my coaches to make punishing tackles by "putting my face in there". I did that so many times that I stopped counting how many times that I broke or damaged my nose! Still, I persisted. That was the point - persistence against all odds.

For as many punishing hits that I delivered I received back, in at least equal measure, every blow leaving a lasting impression - even now when I close my eyes tightly, I can still envision the little flashes of light that came with EVERY blow to my head. Still, I believe that I managed to escape that violent game mostly with no long-lasting ill effects.

So, one would reasonably ask, why would someone expose themselves to such potential harm - for fun?

Well, like the game, the reasons, at least for me, are complex.

I had something very personal to prove, especially to myself. And, in it's own way, football did that for me. For every time I was knocked down, I found a way to get up. I'm sure that there are better ways to learn this but it worked for me!

And, the nature of the game itself is one that can bring awe to the observer. Allow me to explain: in my post-football career, one of my jobs was as a news cameraman. As part of my duties, I was able to shoot some professional football games from Giants Stadium. I also had the privilege of photographing multiple space shuttle launches. And, I will say this; being on the sidelines for both is an awesome experience of power and explosive energy, the only difference is that one is mechanical and the other completely natural.

However, at one point, the game held nothing for me BUT violence. Besides, I had pushed a 5'10", 190 lb. body as far as it would go. I was NOT going to be a professional football player. And, you know what, it all worked out in the end.

I suppose that George Sauer, the late, great NY Jet wide receiver who quit at the height of his career, said it best when writing for the NY Times (paraphrasing):

Football is a game of great contrasts. On one hand there is incredible skill and grace and on the other, brutal violence. When I could no longer rationalize the difference between the two, I quit.

Of course, at this time, our attention lies with Damar Hamlin of the Buffalo Bills. May he recovery fully and continue his life unabated.

Today's MOZEN: GIVE THANKS!

It seems that I've been around a lot of death lately. I suppose the fact that I'm approaching 68 years-old has a lot to do with it. I, like all of us, have had friends who have not had their fate allow them to live their lives as long and completely as I already have. It's a privilege, indeed.

Of course, another factor that comes into play is Social Media. For all its ills (and there are many), it allows us an almost instant connection to others whom we would not ordinarily hear about - at least for some time, if at all.

And, it sure seems to be happening an awfully lot lately.

But, then it got me thinking; well, death has always been with us. Always. Just because we are not hearing about it doesn't mean it isn't happening every nano second in every corner of the globe.

Simply put, in the ultimate paradox, there is no life without death.

So, we'd better get used to it - if you haven't already.

I know this is terrifying for most - even those of great faith. And, I understand. It scares the shit out of me too! I love my life and want to live it as thoroughly and as long as I can. But that doesn't mean I can't or don't accept death. It means I'm working on understanding it.

I'm just not ready - yet.

There are cultures that still embrace physical death far more than our modern society allows for. In a tradition we now feel almost barbaric, wakes, including the body of the deceased, were held in a loved ones home. It certainly connected us more powerfully to the fact that we will all meet the same fate - whether we are ready or not. 

I'm getting to the age where I'd better be!

But, all of us, no matter what our age or relative station in life, should experience all the joy - and sorrow - life has to offer. Because, like it or not, someday, we will not have that privilege.

If and where we may wind up after we are done with this gig, I cannot say and never will know - until I do.

In the meantime, I will GIVE THANKS for the very breath of life I now enjoy.

Today's MOZEN: I'M BACK!

 

As I get more involved with my podcast, BEING FRANK, and teaching at Fordham University, I've been left with less time for my first love, writing. But, I will always return to her because I am compelled to. So, here I am.

I must, however, state that there IS another factor that has curtailed my output. And, that is; how many times can you write basically the same thing - over and over again? It's like the proverbial and legendary Groundhog Day!

Still, it must be said again.

Donald J. Trump is a terrible human being, a grifter, liar, and thief. Of course it involves politics - his suck - but, it goes beyond that - he is just plain bad for our Country for more reasons than I can to write about - again.

So, there. I did say it - AGAIN.

Why?

Because, as I write this post, reports have us anticipating an evening announcement where His Orangeness will proclaim his candidacy for President in 2024.

And his minions will roar with approval.

However, this time, hopefully, there is a difference.

You see, this time, based on the very poor performance by GOP candidates, particularly those hand-picked by Mr. Trump, in the recent mid-term elections, those minions have been greatly reduced in number! They seem to eating one another (figuratively, of course).

Look, as is the case with most cults, he will always have his hardcore supporters who, quite literally, would die for him. But, I believe that number will NEVER exceed 30% again.

And, that my friends, is good news. Perhaps, just perhaps, we will live up to what Winston Churchill allegedly said about us: 

You can always count on the Americans to do the right thing - after they have tried everything else*.

*It cannot be verified that he actually said that, but he should have!

Today's MOZEN: Our Miracle Cure.

Every family has their own urban myths, legends, and folklore.

Ours was the miraculous healing power of a tube of goo known as A&D Ointment.

Despite being only reasonably sure that the ingredients included at least an infusion of vitamins A and D, my mother used it on EVERYTHING - from blisters to burns to gaping wounds. Diaper rash, scratches, hangnails, hemorrhoids, and even sore nostrils from too much blowing could be cured by it.

Applied liberally to any affected area, its incredible healing powers went to work almost immediately. I swear that if you rubbed it on your chin over a toothache, the pain would subside - at least that's what we were led to believe.

And we not only used it on ourselves; our pets were the recipients of the A&D treatment, too. It a dog had any type of rash or wound - yup, you got it - a healthy gob of the goo was applied - usually with great effectiveness.

So, to this very day, if one were to open my medicine cabinet, one of the first things that would come tumbling out would be a tube of A&D Ointment.