THE SAVAGE QUIET SEPTEMBER SUN

The past is not dead. It's not even past.
-William Faulkner

Has enough time passed to start forgetting 9/11? This is a disturbing question for those family members, coworkers, and friends who lost someone on September 11, 2001 in the terrorist attacks. Still, in a most despicably callous way, it continues to be asked by some people who want to "move on."

Perhaps their motives are not as cruel as they seem, but they should understand that moving on is just not possible for some. People who disrespectfully tell us to "move on" have little or no concept of the nature of each person's individual type of mourning, and those whom the victims (of the worst attack on our homeland in United States history) left behind surely deserve something better than this.

This year the ceremony here in New York City has been "scaled back" considerably. New York's Mayor Michael Bloomberg and his administration have seen fit not to hold the Commemoration Ceremony at Ground Zero (the former site of The World Trade Center destroyed in the attacks) but at nearby Zuccotti Park (on Liberty Street between Broadway and Church Street). Yes, the names of the victims will be read as in the past, but it seems extraordinarily cold-hearted to move the ceremony away from the scene of the attacks.

The reason for this situation is all the activity happening at Ground Zero. If someone has never visited the city since the attacks, he or she would be amazed by the sounds and sights to be encountered there now. The pit or hole that once seemed a wasteland after the attacks has been transformed by workers, machinery, and the building materials necessary to create and recreate the space.

While this is commendable and truly in keeping with a desire to show the world that nothing keeps New Yorkers down, it seems more than ridiculous that all this activity cannot be stopped for one day to mark the sanctity of the ground where so many people died.

The question all along has been why Bloomberg and company wants to prevent the ceremony from happening at Ground Zero. Does the debate center on the safety of those participating in the ceremony who could be perceived to be in danger from the construction process happening at the site? If that is the case, I can understand Bloomberg's thinking, but it is difficult to believe that one area on the 16-acre site could not be secured for the purpose of marking this anniversary, especially with the day falling ominously on a Tuesday as it did the day the attacks took place.

The more disturbing question is this: Does the moving of the ceremony represent a desire by politicians, business leaders, and some members of the media to start putting thoughts of 9/11 in the dustbin? I know for a fact that some people are annoyed that the powerful emotions and feelings about 9/11 continue to resonate even six years after the attacks. I have heard (and other people I know have heard it, too) someone say, "Come on, isn't it time for you to get over it and move on?"

Perhaps, since they have no personal connection to the victims, they believe mourning and remembering are not good for the city, the economy, and tourism. I feel sorry for them for their lack of understanding and respect for those lost. I can only refer those who do not understand the desire to mark the day with remembrances to the quotation from William Faulkner listed above.

I hope they will start to understand that time does not heal all wounds, but apparently it magnifies the worst in some who have selfish motives. You want us to forget 9/11? Well, you will have to wait until all of us who lost someone that day are laid to rest ourselves, for September 11, 2001, is as vividly etched in our minds today as it was the day we experienced its horror.

Of course, some pundits will point to the past and ask what is remembered about other atrocities similar to 9/11. For example, the cry "Remember the Maine!" once rocked our nation from isolationist slumber into war with Spain. The Maine was a Navy ship docked in Havana harbor that was sunk by a bomb (reminiscent in some ways of the U.S.S. Cole many years later). 262 sailors died that 15th day of February in 1898, and for many years "Remember the Maine" was a phrase used to commemorate their loss. These days very few people even remember the incident, and all those family members of the victims are now long gone themselves.

Perhaps the most obvious comparison to 9/11 is the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Many movies have been made about what President Franklin D. Roosevelt called "a day of infamy," and anyone who has ever visited Hawaii probably has stopped at the lovely memorial that glistens in the sunshine over the remains of the U.S.S. Arizona. The memorial is a tangible attempt to galvanize memory and remind those born after the attacks about those lost. Sadly, there are fewer and fewer people remaining each day who can actually recall where they were the day the Japanese attacked our ships on a tranquil Sunday morning in December 1941.

Another example of the importance of remembrance is the Holocaust that devastated Europe under the Nazis. Museums have been built, the former concentration camps have been turned into powerful exhibits of an evil so horrific it defies understanding, and many books and movies have been made to chronicle this tragic aspect of the Nazis' time in power. Still, many of those people who were eyewitnesses are gone, and the often-heard line "Never forget" is spoken and heard less as the years pass.

It is essential that the citizens of this and all nations be reminded of such monumental incidents in human history. Yes, a memorial will one day be in place at Ground Zero, and that realization of suffering and loss in concrete and steel will remain long after those who lost friends and loved ones are gone. This is somewhat comforting to know, but it does not negate the suffering and duress still felt by those who lost loved ones.

Those people want and need a place to go to mark the anniversary, to stand in the space where their loved ones took their last breaths, to mingle with one another and remind the world that what happened on 9/11 is not forgotten (and should never be forgotten). This is not the dead past; this is a living and unrelenting horror that affected (and continues to affect) the lives of those left behind.

Friends and family of the victims try to move forward each day, but the calendar always manages to come around to that month and day again. What was a seemingly regular Tuesday in September changed their lives, their country, and their world forever. It is not time to forget nor will it ever be time to forget. Remembering 9/11 in the most respectful, meaningful, and public ceremony every year is the single best way we can show the world that we will not only remember, but we will also do everything in our power to make certain nothing like 9/11 ever happens again anywhere in the United States.

We might not be able to have the ceremony at Ground Zero this year, but one day in the near future the Freedom Tower will soar into the sky, and the 9/11 Memorial will mark the footprints of the World Trade Center towers. When that day comes it will be essential that the Commemoration Ceremony takes place there every year forevermore. In this way the past will not be dead or even past, but alive in the memory of Americans and citizens of the world until the end of time.

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vicl04 at 7:33:02 AM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

I have complained before about the various subplots that have bogged down 24 over the years, but it seems that last night we had subplots as the main event throughout most of the hour. While sometimes these subplots add tangible moments to the rising action (like Lennox’s slick maneuver to get Karen to resign), the rest seem rather annoying and cloying and not important in the grand scheme of things.

Last week we left our hero Jack as he placed a plastic bag over his brother’s head (the evil brother Grim/Graem/Graham). Avid fans of 24 were just salivating at the prospect of Grim getting his just desserts, but Jack needs him for info and torture is just a way to break a guy fast. In terms of a spineless wonder like Grim, that took all of about ten seconds (even Audrey lasted longer under duress), and he divulges the truth about their father, their company, and the five missing nukes.

So here we have the first example of skeletons in the closet, the Bauer family closet to be more precise. Grim engineered some kind of deal that brought nukes from Russia in order to have them neutralized and recycled and maybe to become part of the Homer Simpson Memorial in Springfield. Nevertheless, Grim screws up by hiring this Charlie McCarthy character (with a more annoying Australian accent that Croc Dundee) who promptly sells them off to Abu (Mr. Clean) Fayed, who just recently used one to nuke Valenica and wipe out twelve thousand people (and also has four more waiting in the wings).

Admittedly, this rather damaging evidence is something Grim wants to hide, but Jack forces him to take off for Charley’s office to check the bloke’s computer. As Jack and Grim leave the palatial estate, we get a glimpse of Grim’s Trophy Wife looking even better than last week. Grim mumbles something about this turn of events but the key moment is the exchange of eye contact between Jack and Trophy. Jack, man, you really need to take a few minutes and talk to that girl.

Meanwhile, back at the underground bunker we have Tom (more Twitchy by the Minute) Lennox locking horns with Karen (I’m Not Some Liberal Do-Gooder) Hayes and it’s getting ugly. I don’t even mean the script or the actors, I mean the subplot. There’s talk of wearing each other down, but truthfully it’s wearing the viewer down. It’s just a very slow-moving subplot, but also necessary because Lennox is trying to realign the Cabinet and get the Prez Wayne on board. To do so, Twitchy can’ t have Karen around anymore.

To whom does Twitchy turn but Rob Lowe’s little brother. Little Bro is on Twitchy’s team, and his job is to help get rid of Karen. The answer is simple: get to her through her beloved Bill Buchanan. Swifter than one can sing “Obli-Di, Obla-da, life goes on…” Little Bro has come up with some dirt on Bill. Twitchy calls Karen on it. Something to do with Bill having Mr. Clean in detention and letting him go (yada-yada-yada), but it’s enough to get Karen squirming. She warns Twitchy that he has skeletons in his closet (example number two), which causes him to look over his shoulder and think about the blow-up doll back in his office. Still, he is undeterred and gives Karen an hour to resign or else.

We switch to CTU headquarters, where the Three Amigos of subplots emerge more prominently than ever. Milo (Still Asking Why I’m Here), Nadia (I’m Middle Eastern and they’re watching me), and Morris (my accent is almost as annoying as Charley’s) have formed a triumvirate of insignificance. Unless one of these three are going to figure in the story in a major way later on (and, admittedly, we are through just one fourth of the season now), their interactions border on ludicrous most of the time.

The powers on high (no doubt directed by Twitchy) have limited Nadia’s “access,” (this has always been a source of contention in the bowels of CTU) to a level that inhibits her productivity. Milo, in a rare show of any concern for someone else, goes to Bill in the old upstairs office (where Jack used to hold court and shoot tranquilizer darts into George Mason) and fights for Nadia’s honor (please, don’t let there be a romance between these two). Bill is ever stoic for a few seconds before caving in and telling Milo why Nadia can’t do her job. Milo goes back downstairs and gallantly (for him) lets Nadia use his access code. Warning to the writers: Please, these two are not Michelle and Tony and don’t even try to go there.

In yet another seemingly meaningless subplot at the detention center, we’re getting more of the same (sort of a broad view of the rights of Muslims across the social, economic, and political spectrum being objects of discrimination) . Walla Walla Walid is still undercover, trying desperately to get info from one guy who smuggled a cellular phone into the detention camp. Sandra (I’m a lawyer and the Prez’s Sister) Palmer is still fighting for his rights, but it all goes badwhen the guys realize Walla stole the cell phone and beat him senseless.

By the way, our gal Chloe determines that there is no bad content on that cell phone (somehow or other Walla was able to transmit its contents to CTU). Now, this brings me to an even more important matter here. Because of this subplot mania, if you will, our intrepid CTU computer geek gal is being seriously cut from the picture. I really want and need more Chloe-Jack time (and that usually means Jack talking to her in the field on his cell phone). I am really hoping that gets back to its usual level soon, because I am tiring of these others who wouldn’t know how to taser a pesty drunk guy in the bar or wield an M-16 like our Chloe.

Of course, the final (and most important) skeleton in the closet has to do with the Bauer family, Jack's until now unknown brother and father (and former girlfriend and her son). These people have helped to shape the Jack Bauer we know, and his antagonism toward Grim obviously emanates from something far deeper than the current issue of nukes. This also connects the extended metaphor of skeletons in closets used throughout the show to illustrate hidden agendas (Twitchy and Karen), loyalties (Milo & Nadia and Karen & Bill), clandestine promises (Twitchy and Little Bro), that go far beyond the phantom Bauer family.

Jack’s search (with a reluctant Grim dragged along for the ride) for Charley and his computer brings them to yet another mysterious office building. Outside there are CTU personnel sitting in a car as sentries, and we get a quick glimpse of them and know they’re going down (just like those extras who used to beam down with Kirk on Star Trek). Jack quickly finds the computer but its files have already been compromised.

This is when we have the Shakespearean moment we have been waiting for all throughout the episode: Jack encounters his father. Is the old man mad in a King Lear-like way (his hair looks worse than Trump’s)? Or is this a case of something like Hamlet facing his father’s ghost, learning a necessary and compellingly ugly truth about family, life, and his place in the world? It may be a little of them all as Jack’s Dad begs for his other’s son life (though the idea of Grim going to prison is such a pleasant thought).

There is a brief father-son reunion, but it is tempered by time and the situation at hand. It does not seem at all plausible that this wealthy Phillip (Stretch Cunningham) Bauer would be taking on security guards assigned by Grim and lying in wait for Charley. It does set up this magnificent moment when Jack is once again torn between family and duty, but he quickly straightens his back and knows Grim made the wrong choice and millions of people can’t die in order to protect him.

This is when Grim becomes Edmund (King Lear’s bastard son) and sets the guards upon Jack and Stretch. Who needs the word “legitimate” anyway, right? Grim reveals himself as the evil person the viewer has known him to be (connecting the dramatic irony begun in last week’s show). Jack and Stretch are handcuffed and dragged off to a van as we see the dead CTU agents in their cars. Which brings up an important point: how many totally inept CTU agents have been killed over the last six seasons? Anyone with numbers please let me know.

The episode ends with Grim driving off, no doubt to get back to Trophy and see if he can beat President Logan in the quickie department. Jack and Stretch are loaded into a van to be taken off to certain death (yeah, right). We know that Charley has found someone to help Clean with the nukes, that Karen is on a plane home to LA to fall into the arms of her man Bill, and our Three Amigos will no doubt be even more annoying next week. Finally, we must assume that Twitchy (fresh off his victory of ridding himself of Karen) is probably celebrating back in his office with the blow-up doll in his closet, having a very meaningful discussion about skeletons.

Until next week, Klaatu barada nikto!

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Oprah Winfrey participated in a star-studded opening ceremony for her new school in South Africa yesterday. Despite the attendance of celebrities like Mariah Carey, Sidney Poitier, Spike Lee, and Tina Turner, the real stars of the day were the girls who assisted Oprah as she cut the ribbon to the entranceway of her new $40 million Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy located on a 50-acre site just outside the city of Johannesburg.

This school is a realization of Oprah’s dream to do something significant for those who have not. It was also built in response to former South African President Nelson Mandela‘s request. When she met Mr. Mandela several years ago, Oprah asked him what was the most pressing need in his country, and he explained that it was education. Oprah’s response is certainly more than impressive, and its purpose is to provide the girls with maximum opportunity for scholarly success in an environment that is not only conducive to learning but also provides them with every amenity. While this bothers some, Oprah's goal is to make the experience not just a daily respite from real life but about altering their lives forever.  

As I watched Oprah “defending” herself on CNN’s Larry King Live last night, I felt a sense of outrage. In these days before we celebrate the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. on a national holiday here in the United States, I find it troublesome that people are questioning Oprah’s motivation for building this school. Confounding and basically silencing her critics with her benevolence, Oprah has maintained her dignity while eloquently explaining her reasons for building the school in South Africa. As she has done this, she echoes the passionate call of Dr. King to make life better, not just for people of one race in one place but, for all people everywhere.

The objection some critics have made about the school is insulting, not just to Oprah, but to all people in this country and the world. Why criticize someone for spreading goodwill and doing good works? It reminds me of those critics who complained about Madonna and Angelina Jolie adopting babies from other countries. Instead of lauding these women for their good intentions, people complain that there are babies in this country that need to be adopted and schools that need to be built.

While I certainly agree that these things need to be done here as well as abroad, I think people are missing the most salient aspects ofthese situations. Most significantly, Oprah has worked very hard for her money and came up the hard way from poverty in Mississippi. No one should question what she does with her money simply because it is her money.  She has every right to go out and buy herself sports cars, yachts, jewelry, and anything else she desires. The most amazing thing is the fact that Oprah has seen fit to be so magnanimous as to spend this money on those who have not. It should not matter where the school is built, but more that the motivation was to help the needy and rectify an abhorrent situation (lack of education and dignity for these impoverished South African girls).

Most of all, the actions of Madonna, Angelina Jolie-Brad Pitt, Oprah, and others who want to help those in need anywhere is a way to inspire similar philanthropy everywhere. I find this to be a kind of spreading the wealth and love to all, engendering a truly "world without borders" mentality. Besides setting good examples for everyone to follow, it allows us to understand the significance of good works and the need for those who have to do more for those who have not. It builds on Dr. King’s legacy of dreaming for a better world, especially for the children, who are the most important resource on this planet but often the most neglected.

Yes, most of us don’t have Oprah’s financial resources, but that doesn’t have to stop us from volunteering our time someplace to help those who are needy. There is also the option of doing charitable work through a church, temple, or mosque and finding within ourselves the compassion and love that is so desperately needed by so many others. If nothing else, writing a check (no matter what the amount) to a reputable organization is a way to help feed, clothe, and educate children in need.

Oprah’s legacy as a television personality, author, actress, and publisher are a given. She is a media icon in this country and around the world, and it’s not surprising that (based on my own observation as a school principal for seven years) she is one of the most popular subjects for written reports during Black History Month (celebrated every February in the USA). Girls identify with her and want to write about her phenomenal success, but boys like her story too because they understand that through hard work, determination, and talent, Oprah rose to the top of her field and it means they can too.

Despite all the personal and professional triumphs of her career, it is obvious that Oprah is most proud of building this school. Whatever her legacy is and will be, she can always be remembered as the founder of a place that not only bears her name but carries on the mission of education even after she has gone. Listening to her speak to Larry King, I was struck by Oprah utter lack of pretentiousness. This has always been the secret of her success: she is not one of them; she is one of us.

Even with all her wealth and celebrity, Oprah is the epitome of that old cliché: down to earth. In a poor country on a poverty-stricken continent, Oprah has made a difference. It should matter not where she made this difference, but that she made it at all. We should celebrate her vision, her dedication, and her allegiance to the notion that the whole world is ours, and in that there is responsibility to make it a better place. She has certainly done that and more with her new school, and people everywhere would do well to try emulate her generosity in the biggest and best way within their means.  

 

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Most of us are five days into the new year and already disgusted by the negative news bombarding us: Trump and Rosie, encephalitis scares, the sanctity of the our mail in question, Lindsay Lohan’s appendix, and more troops on the way to Iraq to name just a few. So, when a feel-good story comes along, especially here in New York, well I just want to shout to the world about it. Why? Because we need more positive stories, particularly ones that show we New Yorkers are more kind and generous than our reputations that have painfully proceeded us.

Submit for your approval (with apologies to Rod Serling, I’ve always wanted to say that) the story of one Wesley Autrey,

(http://www.nypost.com/seven/01052007/news/regionalnews/subway_superman__proves_his_medal__as_mike_hails_hero_regionalnews_dan_kadison__david_seifman_and_rita_delfiner_with_additional_reporting_mark_bulliet_and_heidi_singer.htm)

a New Yorker who has been dubbed “subway savior” and “subway saint” by the media here in New York. The fifty year old construction worker was on his way to work on Tuesday morning and somehow stepped through the looking-glass into the world of notoriety and celebrity. All of this did not come cheaply, for when the proverbial chips were down, Autrey literally jumped into action.

While waiting for the subway in the 138th Street platform in Harlem, Autrey (who was with his young daughters Shuqui, 6, and Syshe, 4, at the time) witnessed twenty-year-old student Cameron Hollopeter fall off the platform into the path of an oncoming train. In what MTA Executive Director Elliot Sander hailed as “a death-defying act of bravery,” Autrey leaped from the platform to the tracks, pushed Hollopeter and himself into a well, and held the young man down as the train raced into the station.

When Mayor Bloomberg bestowed the Bronze Medallion (the city’s highest civic award) on Autrey in a ceremony at City Hall yesterday, he said Autrey “makes all of us proud to be New Yorkers.” I certainly agree with that and will even take it a step further: Autrey makes us all aware of something called civic duty, something that has been painfully lacking in the world around us. His actions are laudable because they are so infrequent, and yet there is in such behavior the thing that just might make others change their ways.

Educators often talk about “teachable moments,” and this rescue by a regular fellow going about his everyday routine definitely qualifies as that. It’s a lesson in courage, in love of one’s fellow human beings, and in shedding that selfish shell that many of us tend to ensconce ourselves in on a day to day basis. Mr. Autrey didn’t stop to think about much before leaping into action. He didn’t have time, for one thing, but he also ignored his own safety and reacted.

We often talk about heroism in generic terms. Sometimes jokingly we’ll say to someone who has just changed a light bulb or taken out the trash, “You’re my hero.” Like the word “love,” “hero” is often misused. In Wesley Autrey’s case it is completely justified and offers a new look at the concept of being heroic. We don’t have to be someone with superpowers to achieve heroism; the heroic act comes from the regular person thrust into extraordinary circumstances. Oftentimes, as Mr. Autrey has said, it’s just about doing the right thing. “What I did is something that any and every New Yorker should do. If you see somebody in distress, do the right thing, you know, help out. Okay, that’s it?”

Amazingly, the man is as eloquent as he is brave. “That’s it?” You bet it is. The equation is simple. Every day heroism doesn’t have to involve jumping into danger to save someone. It could be as easy as holding a door for someone, helping a senior citizen carry heavy packages, or watching a neighbor’s child in an emergency.

The heroic can often generate sublime moments such as Mr. Autrey is experiencing now. I am certain as he leapt into action on Tuesday morning, he never would have imagined the ceremony at City Hall, the free MetroCard for a year (to ride the subway), a vacation to Disney World, a $10,000 check from the aforementioned Donald Trump (who happens to do lots of nice guy things that many people don’t hear about), and an appearance on <i>The David Letterman Show</i>.  Mr. Autrey’s motivation was strictly based on his natural instinct to do something good to change a potentially horrific situation.

Teachable moments are few these days, but in this early January of 2007 we New Yorkers (and the rest of the world) have been fortunate to get to know Wesley Autrey. Hopefully, his selfless behavior will inspire others to do the right thing if they are ever faced with a crisis. As Mr. Autrey noted, “Good things happen when you do good.” How right you are, Wesley Autrey. How very right you are.

 

   

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Please let me make it clear immediately that I am no fan of Saddam Hussein. A ruthless thug, a merciless killer, and a power-craving lunatic for certain, Saddam created the atmosphere in Iraq that caused millions to suffer persecution. Despite what I believe has been an ill-advised American military venture in Iraq, there is no question that Saddam’s own repugnant behavior as president of his country caused two military invasions and the loss of many more lives.

Still, despite “his crimes against humanity” and all the horrendous things the man did, his execution does not make me satisfied in the least. As a fairly faithful Christian, I do not condone the death of another person for any reason by any means. The execution of a person by the state, whichever state it may be, does not eradicate its violation of one of the Ten Commandments. “Thou shalt not kill” is not prefaced with anything like “except if it is a judicially condoned execution” and, in my mind, this is one of the most essential commandments, one that delineates a civilized society from that which is just a barbaric state.

I often hear people talking about capital punishment as a deterrent for crimes. I think if we examine the history of most murderers, rapists, kidnappers, and whoever else may be eligible for the death penalty, we can see that its possibility does not stop them from going out and committing the crime. As for brutal dictators, I am sure Saddam’s swinging from the gallows doesn’t put a shiver in their spines. They are not going to stop their troops from slaughtering innocents or their secret police from torturing people because of a possible execution. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Pol Pot, and Slobodan Milosevic are all perfect examples of past leaders without any concerns about a system that might eventually bring them to justice and execute them.

Once a leader like Saddam is captured and convicted, the moment is ripe for setting an example to others of his ilk. Instead of executing him, place him in an irrevocable sentence of life in prison with hard labor (with emphasis on the hard). Make his life, whatever is left of it, as miserable as he made other people’s lives. This takes the onus off a state that allows executions and, more importantly, it shines a light on that state as a beacon of civilization.

Besides the fact that I personally think that the state should not kill someone, there is an even more important issue at stake here. By killing the convicted person in a state-ordered execution, we are giving that prisoner the easy way out. In my experience it seems that most of these “death row inmates” who have been merciless thugs and killers want out. They do not want to suffer in a small jail cell for another thirty or forty years; they want to go out in some kind of glory. Even now there are former Saddam loyalists in Iraq who are looking at his death as “glorious” and as part of the war against the Satanic American government. Saddam’s martyrdom and rise in stature as a legend is a given, especially in Sunni dominated parts of Iraq (and other countries as well).

By giving Saddam what he ultimately wanted (make no mistake, Saddam wanted death because he could not accept his confinement in American hands), we have handed his followers and insurgents his head on a silver platter. He becomes something of a hero, the guy who stood up to the Americans, much like Mel Gibson’s William Wallace stood up to the English and died for it in the film Braveheart. This also relegates the current Iraqi state to the status of American lapdog,  because Saddam’s hanging will certainly be sensationalized by our enemies and used to foment even more anti-Western, anti-American acts of violence.

We had a wonderful opportunity in the capture of Saddam Hussein to show the world our decency and civility. This was a chance to highlight our American values, to let everyone know we are a nation of law and order and, above all, justice. We could show everyone that even a man as ruthless and brutal as Saddam Hussein would receive equitable treatment and then punishment after conviction. A life sentence would have pushed Saddam into a long nightmare of confinement and suffering and eventual obscurity (does anyone ever really think about someone like Charles Manson or David Berkowitz anymore?); his execution gives him an easy exit and makes him relevant to all those who would opposed the USA and its allies all over the world.

I know there will be many who disagree with me, but I believe the fallout from this execution will become very apparent early in the new year. We will understand that this miscalculation will have reverberations from the Middle East to Indonesia, and in the end the death of one tyrant will seem inconsequential in light of the enormous political and economic upheaval that will negatively affect us in 2007.         

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This television season has been a series of annoying, and I believe, unsuccessful attempts to cash in on past successes, most notably on Fox’s 24 and ABC’s Lost. Admittedly, I am hooked on both these shows, but they set a rather high standard on the quality meter; therefore, these new shows that try to be the next 24 or Lost always seem to fall flat and force me to click the remote.

An example of this kind of swing and miss attempt is ABC’s new drama, Day Break. There has to be a gimmick or a twist to be like the other two shows (24 takes place in “real” time over twenty-four hours; Lost features castaways from a plane crash living on a deserted island). Day Break plays around with the twenty-four hour concept, but in the case of detective Brett Hopper (played by a standout Taye Diggs) he has to live the same day over and over again.

The following synopsis of the show comes directly from ABC.com:

Taye Diggs (Kevin Hill) stars in this action-packed thriller that takes a bad day and multiplies it by infinity. Detective Brett Hopper (Diggs) is having a hellacious day; the kind of day where nothing goes his way and he just can't wait to put it behind him... only he can't, because he's living the same day over and over again.

So I liked the hook and it was compelling enough to get me to watch the 2-hour season premier. Unfortunately, the show lost me over that one hundred and twenty minutes because of inconsistency, implausibility, and incredulity. The basic story line makes sense, especially for the first thirty minutes in. Hopper is being set up for the murder of the ADA; he tries to figure things out, and finally ends up on his back in a stone quarry where some guy warns him to cooperate after showing him a video of his girlfriend Rita (the lovely Moon Bloodgood) getting murdered and his sister and her children being threatened.

I thought, “Okay, this is cool,” after the first half hour, but as we moved into the second cycle of the new day things just don’t make sense. There were two additional cycles of the day in all, including various elements and different plot twists in each of the twenty-four hour blocks. The problem that I have with this is that people get killed and are not dead; a woman gets saved in one version of the day, for example, (Hopper stops her from being hit by a bus), but in another version of the day she is rushed to the hospital and seems to be dying.

Also, in the third cycle of the day Hopper’s partner Andrea (Victoria Pratt) gets shot and killed as she tries to save him from thugs. Hopper feels very guilty about this for a moment, but then he is off in his car and we can assume that he must be thinking, “Ah, she’ll be okay; there’s always tomorrow.”

The biggest issue is not these other people living and dying, but more that Hopper gets through the day even after being shot. To make matters worse, his girlfriend wakes up next to him on what is supposed to be the start of the same day and finds him lying next to her in a pool of blood with a bullet wound (stay with me here), which he wouldn’t have received until later that day. Yes, of course he has been through the day before, but so has Rita. If Hopper can stay shot, then why doesn’t she stay dead? Why doesn’t Andrea stay dead? And, for that matter, why is the day repeating itself in the first place?

If this is all sounding a tad familiar, of course one would say it reminds him or her of Bill Murray’s classic little gem, Groundhog Day. The repeating of the twenty-four hours is the same (even the alarm clock clicking off the same time every morning is here), but the difference lies in the tone and theme of the two works. Murray’s film plays with his disgruntled and glum personality, nudging him along slowly but surely to some kind of awareness of life and love and happiness. We slowly understand the reasons why this over-the-hill news reporter keeps living the same day over and over again; the same can’t be said for Day Break.

I really tried to like this show. I wanted to get into something good to hold me over until the return of 24 and Lost (in January and February respectively) next year. Unfortunately, I feel more annoyed by the concept than anything else. Diggs is a solid presence in the role, but it would have been better to give him a vehicle worthy of his talents. Give him a straightforward detective series and I’d watch that. Make it about serial killers, or better yet, put him on the trail of incorrigible network executives who just want to score with the next big show irregardless of the sentiments and intelligence of an audience that can see through their machinations like a screen door on a submarine.

So I will bid adieu to Day Break before I get too annoyed with it (sort of like I did with Jericho and The Nine after threeepisodes each). My time is precious (as is everyone’s), and I just can’t invest sixty minutes into a show that has not dotted its I’s and crossed its T’s. It’s really too bad. Mr. Diggs deserves better. More importantly, so do we the viewers.


vicl04 at 3:45:40 PM EST Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own

This Halloween season has been distinctly different for me; I am having a difficult time of it because I lost my mother and aunt earlier this year. Memories keep swirling through my mind of Halloweens past, when Mom took us trick-o-treating as little kids and Aunt Margie used to come over to the house and celebrate with us. My mother had been an actress in many of our church’s theater productions, so she encouraged my desire to role play all the time but especially at Halloween. Even when I got older and dressed up, Mom delighted in seeing my costume, though a few years when I was something rather grizzly and gory she would scold me for being too extreme. My aunt always gave me a Halloween card and a little gift (even right up until last year). I think I looked forward to the day so much because they had taught me early on that this was not a day of fear but one of magic and delight.

When I was a teenager living in Queens, New York, my friends and I dressed usually as derelicts or zombies and went around the neighborhood with cans of shaving cream and a dozen eggs stuffed in our pockets. After an evening of bombing buses with eggs and zapping fences, doorways, and parked cars with shaving cream, we would embark on the long walk up the winding hill to Cypress Hills Cemetery to visit the site of Harry Houdini’s grave. The legend was that Harry promised his wife that if he could find a way to come back that he would do so on Halloween at midnight. Over the years we encountered numerous goblins and ghouls congregating at the gravesite, but the famous magician’s spirit never materialized.

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday, and even long after some of my friends hung up their costumes for what they thought was forever, I celebrated the day with fervor and passion. During my undergrad and grad school years, a good friend had a Halloween bash every year (the fact that he lived in an apartment above a funeral home only added to the haunted excitement). In subsequent years I went with my friends (who came back to the day of tricks and treats as they got older) to a local tavern where a costume contest was held every Halloween. Once I became a father, the day took on even more significance and I celebrated it anew because of my daughter’s excitement.

While I have been trying to hang on to these good memories, it has been and uncomfortable time for me. When I walk around town and see all the decorations, I get very depressed and sick to the point of almost vomiting. At one time I was thrilled by decapitated corpses, swinging skeletons, and hobbled zombies found on porches and front steps, but now they make my heart ache. The fake coffins I see in shops and store windows with vampires or corpses hanging from them are not funny anymore, and the Styrofoam tombstones with their supposedly humorous epitaphs decorating lawns seem cruel and despicable. R.I.P. (Rest in Peace) is not something that is at all humorous but rather painful to think about now that Mom and Aunt Margie have passed away.

Still, as everyone keeps telling me, I have my daughter to think about, so I have gone through the motions this year. Going through the motions is supposed to be good for me, according to family and friends. “It’s called getting on with your life,” someone who means well said to me recently. And I do want to accomplish this; I really do, but it’s not all that simple. I try to think of other things, keep myself busy at work and get some writing done at home, but the thoughts of either Mom or Aunt Margie are always there. I dream about them being alive; I dream about them dying; I have disturbing dreams that wake me and have no recollection of what they were about. Mostly, I try to get through the day and hope I can sleep at night.

All month I’ve been subjected to what is now the Month of Halloween. As soon as the calendar hits October 1st, people are decorating their houses and lawns and the stores are overflowing with all things spooky. It becomes overwhelming because it feels like something that is being force-fed to me, like all the political commercial frenzy on television in these weeks before Election Day. In fact, Halloween and the politicians’ campaigns are a rather grim but apropos juxtaposition of reality and fantasy; I just can’t decide which one to categorize as fantasy.

I have been to the pumpkin farm, the party store (to get my daughter’s costume), and the Halloween store for some decorations. I reluctantly decorated the house to make my little girl happy. This is my attempt at participation, at moving on somehow, but it’s always a struggle. When we went to a children’s party last night, I stayed in the shadows and tried to remain a quiet pirate (an old costume I found in my closet) in the corner. I watched the kids playing musical chairs, bobbing for apples, and dancing to the music, but the joy I wanted to feel (and hoped to feel) was just not there for me.

Today was a stormy and windy day, matching the tumultuous feelings that have been brewing within me all month. I walked up to the store to get the paper and noticed the Halloween decorations being knocked around on lawns and porches, and I felt happy to see one ghoul swaying in the gale-force winds to the point of its body being ripped away from its head and blown across the road to certain destruction under the wheels of a vehicle. When I returned home and sat by the front window sipping my coffee and reading the paper, a painful solemnity overwhelmed me as the autumn leaves swirled in mini tornadoes around my front yard. The almost barren tree branches flapped madly against the side of my house, reminding me that an even colder and darker season is yet to come.

As I sat there I became aware that perhaps that was why I have been so distraught about Halloween. It’s not just the heft of the traditions of ghosts and the assorted other goblins and ghouls that is bothering me; I know that the year is moving into what is known as “the holidays,” and that scares me more than any witch or vampire can. I realize that this will be the first Thanksgiving and Christmas since my mother and my aunt passed away, and I shiver with the thought of having to deal with carving a turkey or making merry without them.

I suppose I will face these things when they come, going through the motions as everyone says I should. I am doing that now and hoping that Halloween will soon be over. Even when all the decorations disappear, their scars will linger, but I am determined to have the big bowl read for Tuesday evening. Each time the doorbell rings, I will answer it and suffer through the words “Trick or treat,” throw some booty into each child’s bucket or bag, and try to even smile. I’ll be pleasant to the kids and say hello to their parents, but each moment I’ll be thinking that going through the motions isn’t easy or pleasant or anything but the most arduous thing I’ve ever had to do.     

vicl04 at 2:46:16 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own

Tomorrow it will be five years since that deceivingly beautiful day when jet planes and tall buildings went from objects of awe to symbols of tragedy. I have never been able to look at a plane in the sky the same way, and I do have trouble staring up at tall buildings and not thinking about 9/11. Living in New York doesn’t make things any easier, especially in Queens where there are two airports and a rather spectacular view of Manhattan. Thus, not a day goes by that I am not reminded of that horrific day, nor does a night go by that I do not face the possibility of disturbing dreams.

For those people who have said to me (or to members of my family) “It is a long time now; you really ought to get over it” or something inconsiderate like that, I can only say that I don’t think it’s something we can get over. My sister lost a good man that day, a fire lieutenant who led his men up the stairs in the South Tower while civilians were streaming down them. Steve was an integral part of our family, more beloved than any of us told him in life, and we have to live with that as part of our grief. The truth is that I always admired and respected what he did for a living, but I never could find the words to tell him that. Now, I have to deal with that along with all my other feelings that seem like they will never go away.

After five years my sister has “moved on” as some people might say, but I can see in her eyes and hear in her voice that is more of a mechanism to survive, less defensive than offensive, and I know she sheds her tears in private and deals with a monumental grief that just does not enable one to “get over it.” There is only the hope of tomorrow being another day, still knowing that within three hundred and sixty five days September 11 will have to be faced again, as if she is not dealing with it all the other days of the year anyway.

Still, this day must be remembered with reverence and never forgotten. People I know sometimes talk about Pearl Harbor in the same breath as 9/11. My father, who enlisted in the Army right after December 7, 1941, and fought in Europe during WWII, sees many similarities in the two attacks, but as a patriotic old guy he also sees vast differences in how our country responded to them.

Of course, his generation gave so very much in a battle for the survival of the free world. It is understandable for him to believe that Americans are not facing up to the 9/11 attacks in asimilar fashion. He points to people complaining about gas prices being so high now as a prime example, because in his time there was rationing and sometimes one could not even find gas to put in the car. People didn’t like that but understood it was part of their sacrifice for the war effort.

While the nature of the sneak attacks is similar, there are differences to be found that can be argued about and cause people to get very angry. I don’t feel any compulsion to go into the matter here, but let it suffice to say that what has happened in the five years since 9/11 is obviously very different than what happened in the five years after Pearl Harbor. After WWII, people rejoiced in the streets on VE and VJ Day and there was a sense of definite victory and peace and security once the war was over.

Unfortunately, now all this time after 9/11 there is neither peace or security for the American people. While we seem relatively safe at home, most Americans (myself included) believe that another attack on our homeland is coming. I can honestly say that is one of the reasons I can’t look at airplanes or tall buildings without trepidation, and even riding a subway or a bus is not without its frightening moments after what we’ve seen in Madrid and London.

Still, after five years, we must pay homage to those lost, never forget what happened on 9/11, and care for those who are survivors. Their pain and suffering never go away. There are also those first responders, people who risked their lives at Ground Zero to help dig for victims in the smoldering debris. Now they face a barrage of health problems and seem to be getting little or no help from those in power. This is more than a terrible situation; it is a disgrace. Any person who worked at Ground Zero (or who volunteered) should have every cent of his or her health care covered by the government. Anything less is a travesty.

As I look at the pit where the World Trade Center once towered into the sky, I feel a sense of revulsion and anger. This place is hallowed ground and tourists gawk at it daily, while men are working down there, but the pace seems painfully and almost deliberately slow. I know that there were problems with the plans for the Memorial, the Freedom Tower, and the design of the rest of the 16-acre site, but all of that was political minutiae unworthy of those lost on 9/11.

Maybe I am wrong to want to speed up the process, but I think it’s the only way to get the victims’ families, friends, and co-workers closer to that magical “closure” everyone used to talk about in the weeks and months after 9/11. Speaking from personal experience, I can tell you honestly there is no such thing as closure. The book is always opened, and the pages may be turned, but somehow the end is just never any nearer and the story gets longer and longer.

We must honor those lost on 9/11 tomorrow and must do so every year hence, and in doing so we take this generation forward and prepare the next one for its role as keeper of the flame. We Americans must mark this day as sacred and honor those lost for the sake of those who died as much as those who have not yet been born. It is what must be and what must continue to be done, or else when I am my father’s age I might be talking to my children and grandchildren and comparing Pearl Harbor and 9/11 to another attack. Unfortunately, I believe that one could be more devastating than Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined, and that is more frightening than silver jets in a blue sky on 9/11 or any other day since.

vicl04 at 9:57:35 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Give me liberty or give me death.

-Patrick Henry

July 4 is the day that many Americans feel at least a little patriotic. How does this love of country manifest itself? Usually, in the number of hotdogs and hamburgers barbecued or the intensity of the fireworks display or the newly unfolded flag battered by the wind against a blue sky. I know in my case the sight of the flag does get to me somehow, making me think about how many men and women died in order for it to still fly freely across this great land. Of course there were the members of my own family (uncles, cousins, my grandfather, and my father) who fought in the Navy, Army, and Marines to whom I feel an extra sense of gratitude, especially for making it back home.

There was a cartoon in one of the local papers a couple of days ago that really hit my emotional buttons. People were standing around eating and drinking at a barbecue and one of the very little kids asks something like, “Why are we celebrating?” In the next frame in a hazy bubble there was a figure of a Revolutionary War soldier huddled in the snowy cold of Valley Forge. I apologize for not knowing where I saw the cartoon or the name of the artist, but man, did I find that visually arresting. I have not been able to stop thinking about it since I saw it.

I guess the point is knowing what we have and understanding what we might not have. Patrick Henry’s words make it very clear that some things are worth fighting for and ultimately, even dying for. If one can’t be free then one is essentially dead; therefore, the struggle of the revolution was a necessary and compelling one, charting a course not just for the American colonists but for all human beings who longed for dignity and freedom whilst under the oppressive yoke of tyrants.

Obviously, the men who almost froze to death at Valley Forge embraced Patrick Henry’s words. The same can be said for those brave souls who fought to keep the Union from being torn asunder, the Doughboys who crawled through the muck and mire of trenches in World War I, and the GI’s who changed the fate of all human beings in World War II. Can we imagine what this world would be like if everyone reacted differently to George Washington’s call? To Lincoln’s hope to save the Union? To the desperate situation of World War I? To the barbaric attack on Pearl Harbor?

I remember my father telling me how his brother and he ran out and signed up for the Army in December 1941, weeks before the call to duty came in the mail. They weren’t waiting for a decree to defend their liberty; they were ready to join the cause immediately because not to do so would be not only unpatriotic, it would be foolish because “liberty” for everyone was at stake.

For inspiration and guidance one needs only to turn to the Declaration of Independence. Granted, it’s an old document now written and signed by long dead men; however, the words spring forth in my mind as eternally visceral and vibrant. The unrelenting truth set forth in Jefferson’s plainly eloquent words rises to the level of scripture, for in reading it one is elevated to heights seemingly sacred. The straightforward first paragraph is like the first page of Genesis in the Bible, for what it is as a narrative but also what it represents as a preamble to all the amazing events to follow:

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

In this way Jefferson captures the attention (if not the conscience) of King George and the leaders of Britain in a way that calls upon the sanctity and dignity of the human race as evidence of a need for independence. Also, by sending this message as a “declaration,” Jefferson and the signers of the document make the bold action even more decisive and obvious. They are not asking permission for freedom; they are taking the initiative themselves and will be free of their own accord.

The very next paragraph of the document is, in my mind, the most powerful and sacrosanct of all words written about human beings and their right to be free.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

If we think about it, these words have never been more meaningful or essential than they are today. Ever since they were written, they have inspired people the world over to be free. They are quoted by freedom fighters; they are seen as the inspiration for an arduous journey to come to the USA to live, and they highlight a need for human rights everywhere. They are even the real reason why terrorists everywhere hate us, because to embrace the essence of these words destroys any hope for success for the tyrants and thugs who prey on the weak and oppressed.

I remember one of my favorite Star Trek episodes from the original series involved the words from the preamble. On a planet many light years away, Kirk and his crew are caught in a vicious civil war. As the “rebels’ slowly take over the capital and capture Kirk and crew, it becomes clear that they are fighting for much the same thing as the American colonists did so long ago. Somehow a copy of the Declaration of Independence has made it across time and space (as well as a tattered American flag), and as the rebel leader begins to read the words written by Jefferson, Kirk recites them because he knows them by heart. While it is of course fictional, I think this episode makes clear the far-reaching and eternal power of Jefferson’s words and their meaning for all people who long for dignity, equity, and freedom.

So, on this July 4th, I recognize some self-evident truths. Among them are that no matter how I (or anyone for that matter) feels about the war in Iraq, there are over a hundred thousand American men and women there who deserve and need our support. Putting politics aside is never easy, but we must remember that those service people in Iraq are kindred spirits to those who were at Valley Forge, Gettysburg, the Ardenne, Normandy, Iwo Jima, and so many other places.

I revel in having an opportunity to live in a country where dissenting opinions are part of the fabric of the flag; I enjoy the freedoms put forth in the Declaration and happily worship the god of my choice; I raise my child in a country where demonstrating against the war is as patriotic a practice as supporting it. Most of all, I celebrate the fact that I am very fortunate to live in the United States of America, and today I wish my country and all its citizens a happy 230th birthday, and we should celebrate with passion and vigor because this is the day that changed the way the people of the world saw themselves, which is the best self-evident truth of all.

vicl04 at 9:48:45 AM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own