Edwin Cohen, Ph. D.

I Wish I had Said That

February 7, 2017 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

(Actually I have said that, but I was not the first.)

Greater and, sometimes even lesser, minds than mine have uttered sayings that have stayed with me over the years, and in some cases, changed my life or at least some of my attitudes toward life. Some are so simple as to be almost obvious, and yet they all bear a bit of profundity. I share them with you, including comments when appropriate. (They will not be on the final exam.)

“Life is too important to be taken seriously.” Oscar Wilde. (On a magnet attached to our refrigerator.)

* * *

“I’m not the man I used to be; and I’m not sure I ever was.” Sammy Davis, Jr. (Dealing with reality can be so depressing.)

* * *

“For years I searched for the perfect woman. Then one day I found her. Unfortunately, she was searching for the perfect man.” Groucho Marx. (Now there is some real philosophy.)

* * *

“Do the best you can with what you’ve got.” John Warren, my Principal at Downey Senior High School where I taught ages ago. (He said it to me many times and I in turn said it to my students and to my own children many, many times.)

* * *

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow. You’re always a day away.” From “Annie” by Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin. (How did they know about my exercise routine?)

* * *

“You are never guilty of a crime you did not commit; you cannot lose something you never had.”, Robert Penn Warren in “All The Kings Men.” (This one dramatically changed my life–for the better.)

* * * *

“I did not come to America to eat grass.” By a dear friend who escaped the Nazis and is no longer with us. (Although I was born in America, I share his disdain for vegetables and salads.)

* * *

“Politics: from the Greek ‘Poly’ meaning many, and ‘Tics’ meaning blood sucking parasites.” Kinky Friedman, folk, singer, poet, and sometimes politician. (A bit cynical, but I love it.)

* * *

“Belladonna: In Italian, a beautiful woman; in English, a deadly poison; showing the similarities between the two languages.” From “The Devil’s Dictionary,” by Ambrose Bierce. (To my lovely wife: “Just kidding, dear!)

* * *

“If you take away all the phony tinsel in Hollywood, underneath you will find the real tinsel.” Fred Allen, radio comedian long ago. (Probably still true.)

* * *

“The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers.” Dick the Butcher in “Henry VI, Part 2” by William Shakespeare. (A bit drastic! How about just the ones who want to go into politics rather than working for a living?)

* * *

“My whole family has been bothered by immigrants ever since we came to this country.” Senator Rawkins in “Finian’s Rainbow.” (I am the child of immigrant parents. Unless you are a Native American, you are one of us also.)

* * *

“Oh, dainty duck, oh dear!” Bottom the Weaver in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by some guy named Shakespeare. (I had to include at least two quotes from old Will.)

* * *

“Mann tracht und gott lacht.” Old Yiddish proverb which translates to “Man thinks and God laughs,” somewhat like Robert Burns’ “The best laid plans of mice and men . . .”

* * *

“Grandchildren are the reward for not having killed your children.” Unknown source. (We are fortunate to have two wonderful children, but there were times when . . . I wonder if they ever had thoughts about us and wanted to . . . never mind.)

* * *

“I don’t give ‘em hell, I just tell the truth and they think it’s hell.” President Harry Truman. (Elected Official speaking Truth???? What an archaic thought!)

* * *

“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” The first twelve words of “A Tale of Two Cities,” by Charles Dickens. (How in the dickens did Dickens know what life would be like in the 21^st Century?)

Random Thoughts

January 2, 2017 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

… while Watching Electrons Exciting Pixels

PROFOUND CONJECTURE #1. If Apple announced that they were introducing an I-Buggy Whip next Thursday, by next Monday lines would already be around the corner so that one can “Be the first on my block to have an electronic buggy whip.” (Next question: What’s a buggy whip?)

VISION OR A MIRAGE? #1. One day last week I actually saw (Ah seen it with mah own eyes!) an SUV make a full stop at a red octagonal sign. The guy in the Prius behind him almost rear-ended the SUV, then floored the Prius, drove around the truck (that’s really what an SUV is), and saluted the SUV driver with 20% of a full hand salute. My heart simply skipped a beat at such a momentous occasion.

OPINION #1. Kaep, you blew your credibility by not voting. It is not only a right, it is a duty. Try taking a knee on the national anthem of China, Russia, Saudi Arabia, or 67.38% of the other countries of the world–no matter how well you play football.

OPINION #2. Does anyone know how many shootings, stabbings, poisonings, garrotings, blastings, and other forms of making people dead appear every week on television? You will never see, however, a mother breast-feeding her small child. That beautiful act of love, of course, is rated immoral and not fit for consumption by our genteel, sensitive American public that worships television violence and football. Half the adult population of the world has those thingees, and the other half get induced to buy cars, beer, and other commodities just by glimpsing them.

PROFOUND CONJECTURE #2. How do you protest an election unless you know of some violations of the law or other hanky-panky. The purpose of an election appears to be the gathering of votes on an issue or candidacy and a good percentage of the electorate will be disappointed every time. The only person I know of who has claimed that the Presidential election of 2016 was rigged, turns out to be the guy who won. Maybe the protest should have been directed toward the Electoral College, an antiquated system that resulted in two of the past three Presidents, both Republican, winning despite the other candidate having more votes. What are the chances of a Republican Congress and President overturning the E. C.? (Hey, those are my initials.)

PROFOUND CONJECTURE #3. If Apple came out with the I-Buggy Whip, how long would it be before Samsung, LG, and others flooded the market with less expensive versions? One month? Two? (I can see a young couple on their first date in a lovely restaurant. Both have phones in their right hands with thumbs flying at supersonic speeds. We will not ask what they are going to do with the I-Buggy Whips in their left hands, but we may ask how they will get the food into their mouths. I find the vision unappetizing and frightening.)

VISION OR MIRAGE? #2. Later the same day I saw the SUV come to a complete stop at an octagonal sign, I was waiting for a traffic light to change so I could turn left. Of the twelve cars waiting, one of three with turn signals on, was a certain German luxury car–yes, with its turn signals just blinking away like Christmas lights. I was unaware that German cars have turn signals. As Hamlet said, “They are more honored in the breach, than in the observance.” (He was not referring to turn signals.) I will not identify the maker of the car, but its initials are the same as Matzo Balls.

SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #1. If you are opposed to same sex marriage and, like me, find the thought of being intimate with a person of the same sex to be totally undesirable, marry someone of the opposite sex and stay out of other people’s lives.

SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #2. If you are opposed to abortion, do not have one. This particularly applies to men who are extremely vocal in their opposition, although when I think of it, I cannot recall knowing personally any man who has had an abortion. (I have known a few that I felt should have been aborted.) For those who insist that the Bible stands opposed to abortion, I would like to quote from the Good Book: Genesis 2, 7: Then the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.” A fetus cannot enjoy the breath of life until it exits Mommy’s tummy and gets slapped on its bottom. (I am aware that I have not convinced or changed even one person’s opinion, but that ends my sermon, except for repeating “stay out of other people’s lives.”)

SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #3. The election is over; live with it. I personally have voted only for Democratic Presidential candidates since 1952. Somebody always wins; someone else always loses. Donald Trump becomes the 45^th President of the United States for better or for worse, and we should all hope it is for the better. He deserves a chance to make that happen. If, however, you identify as a Muslim, Hispanic, or Black, you might want to be especially watchful and vigilant. That is based on campaign rhetoric by politicians, and we all know how little truth is dispensed in those speeches by ALL parties. As a Jew, I thank those groups and Ivanka’s marriage and conversion for taking some of the pressure off us. We are usually first in line for grief. (If by some chance there should be a second term or if he has been crowned “Emperor for Life” by the senior Senator from Kentucky who evidently thinks the Constitution is just another piece of paper from Charmin, then we too can join in the vigilance. Oh, dear, that makes two sermons.)

SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #4. Is Donald Trump perfect? Are all Muslims? Hispanics? Blacks? Jews? Democrats? Republicans? Brits? Any human beings–other than my grandchildren? We all know the answer to that question, except when it refers to ourselves. I think the words of the great philosopher Marx apply here. No, not Karl. Groucho, who once said the following. “For years I searched for the perfect woman. Then one day I found her. Unfortunately she was searching for the perfect man.”

VISION OR MIRAGE? #3. On the same day, the very same day, that the SUV came to a full stop at a stop sign. Yes, the same day that the MB flashed its turn signals, I surfed the television that evening and saw another amazing sight, in addition to those two traffic experiences. On a Spanish speaking station I saw, honest, a flat-chested woman. What a day that was! I could hardly sleep that night.

SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #5. There are no simple solutions.

This old Democrat wishes good judgment, good decisions, and good luck to President Trump. If he does well, then you, I, and this magnificent country all do well. Can we ask for anything more than that?

Happy 2017!

Reality & Happy Holidays

November 30, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

Whether we like it or not, on Friday, January 20, 2017, Donald Trump will be inaugurated as the 45^th President of the United States of America, the richest, most powerful, and, in my opinion, the greatest nation on the face of the earth now or in the history of the human race.

I freely admit that I did not support Mr. Trump’s candidacy, I voted for Hillary Clinton, and I blanched at the thought of his becoming POTUS. The citizens of the U. S. have spoken with ballots and, for better or for worse, I, and everyone else on this little blue ball in space, must accept the fact that Mr. Trump will become our Leader, regardless of our fears and trepidations. For whatever it is worth I welcome him, wish him well, and hope and pray that his Presidency will be fruitful, well-intentioned, successful, and peaceful. He will be my President, as well as yours, and I pledge my support to him. (“Support” does not necessarily mean agreement.)

The analysis of Mr. Trump’s election victory we must leave in the hands of the pundits, historians, and those who feel that if we insert enough information in a bank of computers, the result will be WISDOM. It is not. (I seem to remember that in the early days of the electronic revolution there was an expression GIGO: Garbage In; Garbage Out.) The geniuses and political analysts on radio, television, and other media stumbled all over themselves trying to understand how Mr. Trump won. The real issue is not how, but the acceptance of the fact and the need for all Americans to give a sincere pledge of support.

All of us, regardless of ethnicity, party affiliation, or depth of interest can probably and should agree on one factor: the process of electing people to major office has become divisive, rancorous, mean-spirited, and just plain old ugly. It seems like the opponent of any elected official from the most modest to the President has been characterized as un-American, subversive, child molester, or terrorist.

Why anyone would even want the job puzzles me. (Does the word “egomaniac” come to mind?) The path any candidate faces is indeed a daunting one. Our first President, George Washington had to deal with just thirteen states. He had a budget smaller than most major cities today. His only major international challenger was George III of England. Today, the Prez must deal with fifty states and whole mess of territories. Does anyone really know how much the national budget is today? How much is a trillion of anything? Moreover, he has to deal with umpteen nations run by fellow egomaniacs that have ascended to power by birth, by election, or by killing a few hundred thousand of their fellow countrymen, women, and children. Some groups even exist outside of traditional national boundaries and controls. Any President must know business and finance inside out, be a psychologist, be a diplomat, be an expert on everything there is know about military life in the 21^st Century, and must be willing to put his/her finger on the button that will in moments exterminate the human race as well as a few other species that do not deserve annihilation. Those of us more modest in our ambitions must just hope for the best and wish our leaders well.

Regardless of political affiliation, almost everyone I have spoken with agrees that our election process must be shortened and that the disgusting, immoral amount of money spent must be reduced. (The exception to those who wish these changes lies with, of course, the media.) Perhaps the country can establish a procedure whereby the entire election process must occur within six months, June to November. All candidates can say what they have to say at least three hundred times in that period of time—before it gets too repetitive and obscene.

Perhaps a list of twenty-five acceptable charities could be provided to all candidates. For every dollar the candidates spend, they must contribute a dollar to one of the charities.

To be sure, shortening the season and controlling spending would be contingent on Congress acting on these proposals. Djdfikekdjdfuerksklj (Excuse me, but the thought of Congress acting on anything got me so excited that I could not control my fingers on the keyboard.)

This timeless prose was written November 9, the day after the election. You, of course, are reading it in December. I would like to make a prediction relative to political happenings between November 9 and now. I predict the following will have announced their candidacy for 2020:

FIVE Members of Congress who have never accomplished anything;

FOUR White supremacists;

THREE Defrocked college professors who are Holocaust deniers;

TWO 72 year old men dressed in tattered jeans, tie-dyed tee shirts, with gray hair in long pony-tails, and carrying signs that read “VEGAN LIVERS MUTTER;”

ONE 61 year old woman from Genoa, Italy, to whom Cristofo Columbo appeared in a vision, touched her inappropriately, and told her she was born in Sunbury, Pennsylvania, and is, therefore, eligible to be POTUS;

AND (sung) A PARTRI–IDGE IN A PEAR TREE.

Oops, I forgot Carly and Bernie

I HOPE EVERYONE HAS A MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY HANUKAH, OR HAPPY WHATEVER, AND A JOYFUL, PEACEFUL, AND HEALTHY NEW YEAR!

Giving Thanks for Old Memories

November 5, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

The number of people who affect our lives can be quite large, although it will vary from person to person. Parents, siblings, other family members, clergy, teachers all contribute to whom we become in our adult lives. Many change our lives, for better or worse, in such small increments that we may not even be aware of them. Often they too are unaware that they have initiated change in people they barely know, may have totally forgotten, or, indeed, never even met.

I should like to pay homage to some who affected my life in ways that they probably never knew.

JIMMY GRIGGS: Because Jimmy also would be in his mid-eighties and we have not seen each other for seventy plus years, I seriously doubt that he would remember me. While his contribution to my life was not a major life changer, it was important and perhaps even profound. I was small for my age in the pre-teen years, but Jimmy was even smaller. While I could outrun just about anyone and could use my sense of humor against just about everyone, Jimmy just had to act tough, so quite often he would chase me home after school, never catching me, but letting me know what would happen if he did catch me.

Third Street in Sunbury, PA, is an unusual street. The Pennsylvania Railroad (we called it “The Pennsy”) tracks run through the middle of the street, southbound on the west or river side, and northbound of the east side, with sidewalks on either side of the tracks. Jimmy and I were twelve or thirteen and he was chasing me north on the east sidewalk when I decided I had had enough running. With no real plan of attack, I was neither fighter nor lover at twelve, I turned, made a stern face, held my clenched fists shoulder high, and started to move toward Jimmy. Drum rolls, organ music, and flashing colored lights are appropriate here because, you got it, Jimmy, my nemesis, turned and ran away from me.

He had taught me a lesson about bullies that I never forgot. Nor was I ever afraid of such people again. Better yet, never did I ever have to fight anyone. Although my mouth occasionally got me into trouble, it never failed to bail me out from bullies. Thank you, Jimmy!

MRS. MADVIG: Mrs. Madvig was my final senior semester English teacher at Washington High School in Los Angeles. She was, in my opinion, a fine teacher and person, so I did good work in her class. Doing good work in class was not my usual modus operandi. Indeed, I did not do much good or even poor work in most classes unless I liked the teacher and subject. I, like many teens, was lazy, angry, sullen, withdrawn, and, unlike others, with a sharp sense of humor that was often mean spirited. I had just three interests: baseball, basketball, and looking at girls (while scared out of my wits that they might look back).

One day in class Mrs. M. had us do a read around of some work long forgotten. When we finished, she said, “Edwin, may I see you after class?” When the bell rang, I went up to her desk where she said, “They are having auditions for a play in room 201 after school today. I think you should tryout.” The guys would play ball without me that day while I “tried out.” The play was an old-fashioned melodrama with two acts one hundred and fifty years apart, so only the vampire appeared in both acts. Guess who got the part of the vampire? Come on, guess!

I not only got the part, but I found I could make people laugh without hurting anyone. I discovered the recognition as a person that I longed for. Through my teacher’s simple request to try out, I found my lifelong passion. For the next fifty years plus I studied theater, acted in well over fifty plays, compiled two readers theater full length plays, directed and produced many plays, and, most important, taught theater in high schools for eleven years and in universities for over thirty. Through Mrs. Madvig’s simple request, this poor, unfocused kid experienced a profound, life changing path that led to a productive, positive, and enjoyable life and career. I am sure she had no idea, but thank you, Mrs. Madvig, from the bottom of my cothurni! (Look it up.)

STEVE ALLEN: Mr. Allen and I never met or even corresponded. To the great star of television, I was just another of the tens of millions of dedicated, unknown fans. Yet he too, or his old radio program in Los Angeles, had a real and positive influence on my life, an influence that began long before he was a nationally known star.

In the spring of 1948 my parents and I were living in Carlsbad, California then a small village along the Southern California seacoast—not the fine, well populated resort it has become. I was seventeen and in my junior year at Oceanside-Carlsbad High School. One evening a buddy and I walked the two miles to Oceanside to see a movie. By the time the movie was over, we had some doughnuts, and walked back to Carlsbad, it was well after eleven o’clock.

When I entered our apartment, my father was sound asleep, but my mother was doing something strange in those pre-television days: staying up and listening to the radio. I, of course, asked what she was listening to and was surprised by her answer: “This young guy claims to be a disc jockey, but he doesn’t play records. He plays the piano, interviews Hollywood celebrities plus the audience, and he is really, really funny.” She was referring, of course, to a quite young, unknown except locally, Steve Allen, and his late night radio show “Breaking All Records.” Both Mom and I, late risers and sleepers, became fans instantly and followed him through his rise to fame and success.

At that time Al Jolson reigned as the leading entertainer in the U.S. and probably the world. He appeared one night on Allen’s show, and in the course of the interview remarked that he had been to the Hollywood Ranch Market the night before and bought a bunch of bananas. While it may not sound so astounding to adults who have experienced television and the internet virtually all their lives, it was a moment of wonder for a seventeen year old naïve and unworldly kid. AL JOLSON, A DEMI-GOD OF SHOW BUSINESS, WENT TO THE MARKET TO BUY BANANAS! He was an ordinary human being just like all the rest of us. Wow!

That summer my family moved to Los Angeles, I entered my senior year of high school, and discovered that on Friday nights Allen would fill the Jack Benny radio studio and do his show from there with a real audience. In high school and community college it become almost a pilgrimage after the Friday night football games to drive to Hollywood and be part of his audience. One night Allen had two young performers on the same show. The first was a radio actor who talked about the new police show that he was developing. His new program would show police life as it really was, not through romantic Private Investigators. The actor’s name was Jack Webb, and the show “Dragnet,” which soon radically changed the picture of police work on radio and television. “All I want are the facts, Ma‘am.”

Allen then interviewed a young, rather small but highly energetic Black man who sang, played drums, tapped danced, and did imitations that were spot on. The young man just was beginning to get a reputation in “the business.” He and his father appeared with his uncle’s jazz band, The Will Mastin Trio. The father’s name was Sammy Davis, Senior. (I wonder what ever happened to “Junior“?)

If we take the insight that performers were simply people with special talents and combine it with the newly acquired passion I received from Mrs. Madvig’s simple request, one can easily understand the effect on an impressionable teenager, an impression that has lasted a lifetime. Thank you, Mrs. M.! Thank you, Steverino!

BASEBALL: Through the ups and downs of my life (thankfully a lot more ups than downs) my family and baseball remained the rocks and constants in my life. How can I say it? I can’t. Instead, please listen to James Earle Jones’ speech before he ventures into the cornfield in “Field of Dreams.” He says it all, and with that unique voice. (Sadly, we cannot capture that magnificent sound on paper.)

I give bundles of thanks to those listed above, to my family, and to the countless others who contributed to whatever constitutes the person known today as “Edwin Cohen“.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO EVERYONE.

Vanity of Vanities

October 6, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

A Corrida with Comments from Ecclesiastes

To every thing there is a season,

And a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

A time for war, and a time for peace.

The time had come for his grand entrance. The small square of sunlight at the far end of the long, dark corridor invited him into the bright sun-drenched arena. The comfort and security of the cool, shady waiting year lay behind him as he was thrust into the world of life–and death.

As he burst into the ring with swift, powerful strides, a distant, lonely trumpet sounded twice, first short, then long.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

Defiantly and with confidence born of strength and courage, he bolted across the warm sand, stopped, and tossed his head in challenge. He glanced about and surveyed the circle of yellow that was to enclose his battlefield, remotely aware of the myriad eyes focused on him. All the eyes watched him, and would continue to watch him during the next few moments as he fulfilled his raison d’etre; as he accomplished his sole purpose in life; as he died.

That which has been is that which shall be,

And that which hath been done

Is that which shall be done;

And there is nothing new under the sun.

The hot Castillian sun made him keenly aware of his great strength. He could feel its warmth loosening the large, well-defined muscles of back and

legs. At the same time it sharpened the senses that controlled the awesome force of those muscles. The fresh, clean air made his entire body feel alive and vibrant. Strength and courage radiated from his being.

He wanted to move, to fight, to feel the exhilaration of contact and combat. He wanted to show his strength and courage, his might and power.

Then he had his opportunity. From behind the wooden railing which encircled the arena, stepped a brightly arrayed figure which cautiously approached and beckoned a challenge to him. The figure goaded and coaxed him to charge. His muscles tensed and he bolted toward the figure, confident that he would meet and destroy it.

As he charged, he expected the dynamic feeling of his body being jarred by contact. He anticipated feeling the resistance of the object as he smashed into it, demonstrating his power. Instead he felt nothing but a gentle flow of air on his body.

He was startled, angry. Then other figures, similar to the first, appeared and repeated the challenge. He attacked again and again, each time expecting the joy of contact, but each time there was nothing. He became aware that the many eyes had developed into a grand encircling voice, mocking his every charge.

All was vanity and striving after the wind,

And there was no profit under the sun.

Bewildered, he found himself running in circles and panting heavily. Next time he would make his mark. Next time they would know his might. Next time, however, the frustration and anger mounted and began to replace courage and inner strength.

He stopped, then tried to catch his breath in order to strive again. As he stood confused and wondering what to do next, it was decided for him. He heard another trumpet call and watched a large, padded figure enter the arena to challenge him once more. Standing and watching for just a moment, he singled out the large figure and attacked.

At last he felt the wonder of his massive, powerful body meeting the resistance and driving into the side of the large figure. Now they would know

his might and would have to reckon with his strength. For an instant he felt exhilarated. Then, without realizing when it began, he felt pain, a deep, numbing pain in the back of his neck. His adversary had somehow wounded him. He knew not how he had been hurt, and knew of only one solution: attack, attack, attack.

The fury of his attack increased. His legs forced against the ground harder and desperately. The harder he pushed, the more the wound pained, but still he drove on. Under his skin something was twisting and separating sinews. His head seemed to get heavier while the wound screamed for relief. Then he eased the attack, retreated, and stood back, along, bewildered, and hurt. He had been defeated by pain, and, for the first time, knew the pain of defeat.

The warm blood flowed down his back and along his sides. Now that there was no longer contact, the pain cried even louder. He could not straighten his neck. No more was he as strong, as powerful, as sure. Courage had begun to leave him. He was ready to quit, but that was not in the plan. It would not be that simple.

There is one that is alone,

And he hath not a second;

Yes, he hath neither son nor brother;

Yet is there no end of all his labor?

Now a new figure darted toward him, approaching quickly and at the last instant it dodged to avoid him. At once there was more pain. Something new was sticking in his flesh. Now he was furious; now he would fight with a strength and power too awesome for belief. As he searched for something to attack, another figure ran toward him and there was more pain. More objects were embedded in his back. Then a third repeated the insult.

With each attack his massive head and sharp horns counter-attacked, but each time he missed. He felt the weight and sting of the barbs hanging from his back and neck. Every move jarred them and tore at his flesh. For a moment he forgot the deep wound in his neck , but when he tried to raise his head, he was painfully reminded. He wanted to shake the objects from his back, but the movement only aggravated the pain. If only they would stand and fight, but instead they attack and run; attack and run.

He then noticed that he was alone in the arena. His enemies had disappeared. Wanting revenge, he looked for something to attack, but there was nothing. Turning slowly, he kicked the sand as a challenge. Were they afraid to answer his challenge? Now he stood and snorted. Then the noise faded and an expectant quiet filled the arena. Proudly and gracefully the answer to his challenge emerged from behind the wooden barricade.

When thou vowest unto God, defer not to pay it.

The wounds were forgotten; the pain somehow pushed back and overcome; the anguish meant nothing. The only matter now was to meet, to fight, and to destroy the tormentor who faced him. The smaller figure approached the great hulk haughtily, and with slow, easy, deliberate movements, issued its own challenge. This he answered eagerly.

The mighty giant followed every movement. His heart pounded faster. His muscles tensed, as before. Again he felt the power and pride he had once known. Once–twice–three times he pawed the ground. Then he charged.

Remember then thy Creator in the days of thy youth,

Before the evil days come,

And years draw nigh, when thou shalt say:

“I have no pleasure in them.”

The huge body formed an irresistible force. All his strength, weight, and speed he directed toward pounding fiercely into the other. He lunged, expecting to feel the slight body give way under his neck and shoulders–expecting it to crumble under his sharp hooves. But there was only the feel of cloth flowing across his body as he sped past the elusive target.

Curse not the king, no, not in thy thought.

His hooves dug deep into the sand in order to stop the charge. Again the jeering noise surrounded him. He turned and charged again, moving more quickly and viciously than before. Again he failed. Again! Again! And yet again. Each time the longing for victory, more intense; each time victory eluded him; each time the mocking roar mixed in his ears with the steadily rising sound of his own pulse. Each time he was certain he would conquer and destroy; each time there was nothing but the gentle brushing and more frustration.

For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope;

For a living dog is better than a dead lion.

For the living know that they shall die;

But the dead know not anything,

Neither have they any more a reward:

For the memory of them is forgotten.

He was tiring rapidly, the open wounds aching. His muscles were softening and begging for rest. His breathing was deep, painful, and convulsed. His mind bore thoughts of resting on grass in the shade, of drinking cool water, of being away from this place of pain, anguish, and humiliation. He could not, however, stop. There was to be no rest. His role was to strive until he won–or died.

Panting, he paused for a moment, then charged again, although the charge was slower, weaker, and less certain. This time he was not surprised or angry when he failed. He hardly even noticed the explosion of noise. Mechanically he charged twice more. Each had less vigor than the one before. Then he simply stood, breathing heavily, staring at his tormentor bewildered, confused, and afraid.

And one shall start up at the voice of a bird,

And the daughters of music shall be brought low;

Also, when they shall be afraid of that which is high,

And terrors shall be in the way . . .

The opponent who controlled his destiny turned his back to him and walked proudly to the side of the arena. He was now alone, tired, hurting, and defeated. The other was gone but a moment. When he nodded to the crowd and returned, the giant sensed the inevitability of the situation and the futility of the struggle. Ages ago the outcome had been decided, but he would not make it simple. Courage, bravery, and honor had shaped his life; now they would shape his end.

A good name is better than precious oil;

And the day of death than the day of one’s birth,

. . . For that is end of all men.

His strength had been drained; his might had waned; but the courage remained. Although the pain surged through his body, he held his head as high as possible and attacked once more. His lungs and frame aching, he charged

again, but with his head ever so slightly lower. Each charge was less powerful. Each time his head drooped lower. He paused again, and then, by reflex, charged for the final time.

And the dust returneth to the earth as it was,

And the spirit returneth unto God who gave it.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,

And striving after the wind.

On his final charge a sharp, searing pain entered deep into his body. He stood still, silent, trying to breath, trying to summon enough energy for one more charge. Time hung suspended. The pain lessened. His vision blurred.

Then there was nothing.

Things that do not exist: Zombies, Space Aliens, Privacy

September 4, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

An Open Letter to Debbie and Draymond

Dear Debbie and Draymond (and to the readers of ALIVE MAGAZINE):

You gotta be kidding! Did you really expect something put out into electronic space to remain between yourself and the intended recipient? Debbie, you are obviously a bright, accomplished person and a U. S. Representative in Congress. In addition you are a most attractive woman, and I confess that I especially kvell about one aspect of your background (Wasserman Schultz + Cohen = MOTs or Members of the Tribe). You organized, unfortunately without the credit you deserved, a four day national committee conference that came off beautifully (I personally would like to have a little more spontaneity other than from Bernie’s people). You obviously have a dynamic brain between your lovely ears, but are you really so naïve (dumb) as to believe that electronic information goes from just one person to just one other person without the Russians, the Chinese, and 726 teen age boys with severe acne reading it?

Everyone who has ever been on a nominating committee, whether it be with a small local organization or a gigantic national committee, has their favorite candidates for whatever position, but if they are smart, they do not publicize their choice or certainly do not send it out for international consumption. That is why Roberts’ Rules of Order specifically states that a member of a nominating committee cannot be a nominee. On the Internet!

Oy, Debbie! Debbie!

Draymond, you, as you well know, are a magnificent, championship caliber, all-Pro basketball player. As one who in his younger days enjoyed playing the game, I realize that in addition to your natural advantages of height, speed, and coordination, you had and have the discipline and desire to achieve at the highest level of the sport. (Discipline and I were total strangers.)

Do you really think the entire world, however, is interested in seeing pictures of your private parts? Oh, it was an accident! Sure. Perhaps (come on) you are really so naïve (dumb) as to believe that electronic information goes from just one person to just one other person. As a professional athlete, you must realize that in ten years you will be a has-been; an over-the-hill jock. Do you think that any reasonable school board would hire you to coach their children? (Reasonable and School Board are probably contradictory terms. As Mark Twain said over a century ago, “For practice God made idiots, then He made school boards.” That discussion, however, is for another time.)

Mr. Green, you are physically advanced way beyond most of us. Maybe it is time you thought about growing up and becoming an adult. Can you imagine a coach telling young players, “First you have to learn how to handle the ball; then you need to know how to knee a guy in the groin; and then you send images of your . . .” Get the point? I hope so. I personally love to watch you play ball, but most of your life will happen after NBA basketball. So now a great, big “Oy!” for you too.

Now to both of you, Debbie and Draymond, as well as to 325 million Americans, and to 7.5 billion Earthlings I say unto you:

THERE AIN’T NO SUCH THING AS PRIVACY.

For all of us: if you have credit card, YOU HAVE NO PRIVACY; if you have some kind of bank account, have ever taken out a loan, or if you have ever passed within 100 feet of a bank, YOU HAVE NO PRIVACY; if you have and use a computer, YOU HAVE NO PRIVACY, if you have a cell phone, forget about it, YOUR PRIVACY IS LONG GONE. If you use a card or your phone number at a supermarket THEY KNOW MORE ABOUT YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES THAN YOU DO. Ever contribute to a legitimate charity? Guess what? Yep, it’s gone.

Our privacy began to die when they cut down the fruit trees in Saratoga and Palo Alto and planted silly silicon baubles and toys that may have some usefulness for business, but are mostly grown-up playthings for the adolescent in us. I personally know people who if you say, “How are you?” they have to consult Siri or some other disembodied voice that rattles off blood pressure, pulse rate, body temperature, and cholesterol count before the person can answer, “Pretty good!” And then it’s there for everybody. (All right, I do not know anyone like that, but I will bet they exist.)

The number of people and organizations that know more about us than we ourselves know boggles the mind. And, unless you opt out, they sell the information about you and me to other people and organizations. (My cynical mind thinks they sell the info even if you do opt out.)

What is the moral or lesson to this open letter? It seems pretty simple: Gentlemen, if you are going to say “I love you” to someone, either whisper it in her ear or in a private, extremely private, place. If you decide to email it, realize that your wife and the recipient’s husband will both probably read it and you will never be the chair of national committee or a great athlete. (You might want to go online first and discover the cost of a good divorce lawyer.

Sincerely yours,

No way will I tell you my name. That is PRIVATE. (Nuts! You probably already know it anyway.)

And Then I Wrote…

August 4, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

This month my lovely bride and I will celebrate our 50^th Wedding Anniversary by taking a ten day cruise to Alaska. When the travel agent asked what we looked forward to the most, we both replied, “Being pampered.” Both of us have had some physical problems this year, so we simply want to rest and have our needs taken care of. This will be our twenty-eighth cruise.

People travel, of course, for a variety of reasons: relaxation, sightseeing, aiding those in need, seeing other cultures, and simply for bragging rights at cocktail parties. Remember the couple who return from a trip to Europe and tell about having dinner with the King and Queen of Sweden. When asked how it was, the wife replied, “He was nice, but she was a bit haughty.” On their next trip they insisted that they had dinner with the Prime Minister of Great Britain and his wife. The answer again, “He was nice, but she was a bit haughty.” She lost all credibility after visiting the Pope in the Vatican.

My wife Shirley and I are people watchers, as well as sightseers. We’ve met some delightful folks over the years, and, yes, we have met a few whom we would not describe as delightful. We have been on tours that we adored, just as we adored some of our “on our own” explorations. We both enjoy cruising and those gigantic ships are really quite inexpensive resorts: lodging, food, entertainment, transportation, shore tours, shopping (for Shirley), recreation, and classes all for $100-500/day per person depending on the accommodations, the cruise line, and destination.

Vacations, touring, and cruising, however, are even more fun when they are almost free, free, or even include getting paid. I personally have been fortunate enough to have had eleven such experiences, nine with “the Boss.”

After teaching for two years, I decided it was time to try my hand at professional theater, specifically, acting. I tried it for several months to no avail and decided that I did not want to continue that lifestyle in order to become an “overnight sensation” after twenty-five years. I, therefore, enrolled at U. C. L. A. in order to pursue an M. A. in theater. The classes I took were marvelous, but I did not like the regimentation of the performing area. I acted in two plays and, without realizing it, happened to be in residence at the university at the proper time to be eligible to tour the Orient with a show from the school sponsored by the U. S. O. and the Department of Defense.

We performed at bases in Southern California, then flew in military cargo planes to Japan, Korea, Okinawa, Wake Island, Guam, and Hawaii. We averaged one or two shows a day for about six weeks; flew around 45,000 miles; and we were paid the magnificent sum of $7.00 per day from which we had to pay for our rooms and meals. Most places did not charge us, so I came home with a camera, a tape recorder, and a few—very few—dollars in my pocket. I also came home with incomparable memories, pictures, and stories with which I have bored family and friends for over half a century.

After I abandoned the career that never was, I returned to teaching high school in the Southland. Four rather successful years later, I read about a organization which had campuses all over western Europe. They taught classes in language and culture and toured in the countries where the language was spoken. Teachers who recruited eight or more high school students could accompany the students as “chaperones” and receive the trip free. I tried, unsuccessfully, to recruit students for a Spanish program. (Why Spanish? I have no idea.) When that failed, I recruited four students for one of the French programs and four other kids from the area who had signed up on their own were assigned to me, giving me my eight and the free trip.

After a few days in Paris we went by coach to the mountains in southern France at Villard-des-Lans where we were housed in a school for French students with respiratory problems during the regular school year. High in the Alps, the views and clean air (we were from the L. A. area) delighted us. Because I had rather extensive residence camping experience, I was named assistant principal and received a small stipend. The money, however, paled beside the adventure.

The following year the organization offered me a position as principal, but I did something else. What was it? Oh, yes, we got married. The year after that, however, I went back as a principal, accompanied by my new bride. We spent three weeks in Melun, a suburb of Paris, then another three weeks on the French side of Lake Geneva at Evian-les-Bains, where the girls’ dormitory was a renovated 12^th Century castle. Talk about wonderful experiences—and I got paid nicely. Small children prevented a return for other summers.

About a decade later, while at Purdue University, I taught a full semester, four credit hour course in American Musical Theater. After my retirement in 2000, I adapted the course for Elderhostels (now called “RoadScholars”) and for the Diablo Valley College Emeritus program. In April of 2004, while reading the Travel Section of the San Francisco Chronicle, I found a story detailing lecturing on cruise ships, listing two agencies that contracted lecturers. I sent resumes to each of them. About three weeks later I received a phone call asking if I could do the musical theater program on an Alaskan cruise out of Vancouver, Canada. A quick check of our calendars (four seconds flat) prompted a loud, definite, joyful “yes” answer, beginning a four year love affair with virtually free cruising.

Of course, I had to adapt what had originally been a full semester course, later four to eight hours, in order to accommodate cruise schedules that varied from two to five hours. I never knew what my schedule or hours would be until we were on the ship itself. The number of people attending the lectures ranged from twelve to 200, and we met some fascinating people, including the mayor of one of the largest cities in the U. S. and a retired sports editor of the New York Times.

In the four year period from 2004-08 Shirley and I enjoyed eight cruises: two to Alaska, two to the Mexican Riviera, two back-to-back in Hawaii, one from Florida to San Diego through the Panama Canal, and one from New York City to the Caribbean. We had to pay the agencies $25 or $30 per day per person, but, with one exception, we had ocean view cabins with everything available to us that any other passenger enjoyed. Actually there was one and only one restriction: we had to agree, in writing and notarized, that we would not play Bingo, which is not much of sacrifice to people who do not play the game. Why no Bingo? I never did get a definitive answer to that question.

When the recession of 2008 hit, however, the cruise lines stopped contracting lecturers in the arts, and we had to pay full price (ugh!) for any subsequent cruises, including the one this month. Additionally, the cruise lines insisted that lectures all be on Power Point, which I find boring and too regimented. One other factor dictated that it was time to “pack it in”: I turned 78 in early 2009.

When we cruise now, we have to balance the budget, the calendar, and our aging bodies. But, it was sure fun while it lasted.

Anchors Aweigh!

I Love a Parade—And Fireworks

July 8, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

Is there anyone out there in reader land who does not love a parade, especially one with fireworks? Can you resist the music of marching bands, brightly costumed marchers, and skyrockets of every color and design? If so, you have our deepest sympathy (and loosen up).

Some parades honor national groups in the U.S., such as Chinese New Year or St. Patrick’s Day. In countries where there is a national or totally predominate religion, parades are held to honor holy days, such as El Dia de los Muertos. In San Francisco, however, three people getting together for lunch can form a “Three People Getting Together for Lunch” parade.

The month of July contains three big days for parades: in the U.S. we have our Fourth of July, Independence Day, festivities in virtually every city, town, and hamlet; our neighbors to the north have Canada Day on July 1 (Eh?); and France’s Bastille Day, celebrating the start of the French Revolution, occurs on July 14.

While no marching bands or exploding fireballs will accompany this article, here are some experiences I personally have had with unusual, off-beat, and exciting July parades and fireworks:

In 1965 while teaching at Downey High School in Southern California, I had somehow discovered an organization that sponsored programs for high school students, taking them to a variety of countries in Europe where they would study the local language during the week and sightsee on weekends. (The programs, including airfare, room and board, and classes for six weeks, cost about $600.00.) Never having been to Europe, I was anxious to give it a try, despite the necessity to recruit eight students to get my trip free. With Spain as my first target, I came up empty. The people who sponsored the program knew of my camping, teaching, and youth experience and told me that if I could recruit four more students for France, they had four kids without chaperones from our area. Success!

The eight wonderful youngsters and I flew from Long Beach, California to New York, then to Paris, France, where we spent about five days, including July 14—Bastille Day. We were given “tickets” to the parade. Tickets? The tickets gave us the right to find a place to stand on the sidewalk along the parade route. We ended up being about eight or ten rows from street, standing there for about four hours.

Was it worth it? You’re darn tootin’. The parade lasted about two or two-and-a-half hours with marching bands, military groups, firemen, police, school bands, and just about any group you can think of plus fireworks that evening. It was a delight, but the most wonderful part for this Los Angelino (via Sunbury, PA) was the location: PARIS, FRANCE.

(Author’s Side Note): The following year I had paid off my 1963 Buick convertible, had a few bucks in savings, and decided to take the summer off. My plan was to drive up to San Francisco to see some friends (one in particular), then go camping in Yellowstone, the US and Canadian Glacier Parks, followed by Jasper and Banff Parks. After the parks I planned to drive to Vancouver, BC, and take a freighter home to L. A. I got as far as Yellowstone when I decided to return to San Francisco. Just before leaving the park on July 14, I noticed that in the Southeastern corner of Idaho lies a small town named “Paris.” The irony was too great to resist. I drove to Paris, explained to the lady at the motel that one year before, to the day, I had been in Paris, France. She was totally unimpressed. Indeed, I am not sure she had even heard of that other Paris. I stayed overnight on July 14, then drove to San Francisco where I proposed to that particular friend. (This August we will celebrate 50 years of delightfully happy marriage—98% of the time.)

About five years ago my wife Shirley and I flew to Calgary, Canada, rented a car, drove to the almost unbelievably beautiful town of Banff, and checked into a hotel for few days in late June, not realizing that July 1 was Canada Day. Our room was on the third floor with a balcony overlooking the street where the parade would pass. On a delightful day we sat on the balcony and saw all the bands, the horses and riders in full regalia, and cheered and applauded as if it were our first parade experience. That night we saw a modest but fun fireworks exhibition.

Back in Calgary for a few days prior to returning home, we discovered that the Calgary Stampede was being celebrated. We walked down a street, saw a large group of people, asked what was happening, joined the folks on the sidewalk, and saw a parade several times larger than the one we enjoyed in Banff. Two surprises neither of us will forget.

Perhaps the best and least expected July thrill of all, however, happened right here in the good old U.S. of A. when we attended an Elder hostel in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We also visited Taos, Madrid, Albuquerque, and then went south to Carlsbad to explore the caverns and to watch the jillions of bats fly out at dusk to get some supper—not a good time to be an insect. While in the town of Carlsbad, someone told us of a July 4^th celebration near the Pecos River just a few miles away.

Sitting in bleachers with about 150 to 200 other people, we city slickers wore casual clothes, (casual for Walnut Creek or Lafayette). Most everyone else wore bib overalls with usual “accessories.” Nothing much happened until dusk, which in July and that far south arrives fairly late. We chatted with the large man sitting behind us. He dressed in the “uniform” of overalls, boots, and beat up Western hat and seemed like a “good ole boy” probably named “Bubba.” We discovered that he was in the oil discovery business and probably worth 114 times what retired professors and counselors had in the bank. He was absolutely a gentleman and well educated, crushing our stereotypes, and his little daughter stole our hearts.

The parade consisted of no marching bands, but a series of small boats decorated tastefully in red, white, and blue flowers, bunting, and pictures, while patriotic music played over a loud speaker. Afterward a fireworks display over the river dazzled us. It certainly paled in size compared to Bastille Day or the Calgary Stampede, but it filled both of us with patriotism that bordered on fervor.

We have seen fireworks and parades in Venice, Los Angeles, San Francisco, London, and a several other places, but the Independence Day along the Pecos River near Carlsbad, New Mexico, is the one we remember most fondly because it represented our country and an America which still exists, at least to some extent, the way it has for decades.

So, happy 1^st to our Canadian friends; happy 14^th to the French; but most of all, happy July 4^th to all of us proud nieces and nephews of our Uncle Sam.

And Then I Wrote…

June 9, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. Leave a Comment

AND THEN I WROTE . . .

$13.9 TRILLION? $18T? $19T? OMG!

Many people will recognize those unimaginable numbers as amounts assigned to the national debt by various people attempting to induce panic. The $13.9 trillion number adorned TIME magazine’s April 25, 2016 cover. TIME also added that every citizen owed $42,998.12 in order to pay off the debt. The $18 and $19 trillion numbers were shouted out as ‘absolute truth’ by political candidates (Bernie and Hillary) in the current election circus, which is approaching its fourth birthday.

These numbers, which frighten many people who have never dealt with statistics, are totally spurious. Yes, we have a national debt somewhere within all the figures thrown out. These Halloween-like numbers are usually quoted by those who claim to have knowledge of business. To this I say, in my best literary fashion, “Phooey!” Let me explain.

Suppose you were asked to do an analysis of Steph Curry’s basketball skills. You could say, “Too short to do much rebounding; has questionable ankle.” Do you think that leaves out some of Mr. Curry’s unique skills with the big round ball?

If I, as a theater person, were asked to analyze Tom Hanks as an actor, I could say, ”Can’t sing: can’t dance; high-pitched voice; nice looking, but rather ordinary.” Do you think I may have overlooked some of Mr. Hank’s many, many wonderful qualities?

Let’s assume you, dear reader, have a few extra bucks burning a hole in your wallet, so you decide to buy a few shares of stock in either ABC or XYZ companies. Would you research the two companies’ liabilities only? Of course not. If you have any business sense at all, you will also research their—here comes the magic word—ASSETS. Curry and Hanks also have considerable assets in their professions that were not mentioned. Don’t be fooled by those scary guys quoting silly numbers because they often neglect to mention ASSETS.

This realization may came as a surprise, and a disappointment, to some folks—especially politicians. The United States of America has many, many assets, and I am not counting the more abstract assets of freedom of religion, speech, and a whole big bunch of other really good stuff.

AND SO, TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT, I HAVE A PLAN TO ERASE THE NATIONAL DEBT AND GIVE EACH CITIZEN HIS OR HER SHARE OF THE PROFITS. I WILL OUTLINE MY BRILLIANT (I SAY MODESTLY) PLAN BELOW.

#1. We auction off all the properties under the National Park Service.

Just think how much Yosemite alone could bring from creative developers, not to mention Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, and, even closer to home, the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. There are over 400 more parks, etc., throughout the country (Listen to that cash register jingle).

#2. Next we sell every building and property the government owns in the U. S. and throughout the world. The IRS, courts, embassies, consulates; they all go, along with the art work, statues, and documents they contain. Just contemplate how much grain the Congressional buildings could hold. If not grain, how about fertilizer? Although, they probably could not match the amount of fertilizer that has been emitted from those buildings in our lifetimes. Washington, D. C. could become America’s new boom, though it would need to change its identification to Washington, V. C., Village of Columbia. Aside from the buildings, think of the money saved from bloated salaries, undisclosed perks, and extravagant vacation trips from Congress members alone!

#3. Next to go would be every battleship, aircraft carrier, destroyer, cruiser, canoe and rowboat. How many Silicon Valley billionaires have thought to themselves, “Gee. I’d love to have my own aircraft carrier.” Tanks, artillery, jeeps, automobiles, helicopters, bombers, fighter planes, etc., would be sold simultaneously with the naval vessels. Uniforms, rifles, small weapons, mess kits, tents, mess hall cookware and serving utensils would follow, including those assigned to the worst form of torment one human has ever perpetrated on another: creamed chipped beef on toast.

Think of the value of these sales: no more inflated salaries to people with inflated egos and not much else to offer. Current military academies could change to only be funded during wartime efforts if necessary. And, finally, the last U. S. government official left standing can pass out checks to all the citizens.

I am not by any stretch of the imagination an accountant, but I would bet that the total would be three or four times what they claim we owe: “$42,998.12” (TIME magazine’s cutesy number…they could have added $1.88 and called it $43,000, but why make it easy for us?). Every citizen would then get exactly $223,146. 54—not enough for an aircraft carrier, but maybe enough for a life boat. (I made up that number from my perverted imagination. It contains my two birthdays: the actual delivery date and the day I got my honorable discharge from the Army.)

One important concern I know some of you may wonder regards American defense and safety from our friends and enemies. Although we no longer have the Western wilderness to protect us as in George Washington‘s days, we still have oceans on our east and west. Additionally, virtually every country in the world has some sort of religion that it professes to follow and most of those religions emphasize love, peace and the value of our fellow human beings. Sure there are some little, fat, strange leaders who like to sing, “We have nuclear weapons, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!” and others who insist that their nuclear experiments are for “peaceful” purposes to help out the common, ordinary people whom they haven‘t cared about in centuries.

FEAR NOT: Part of my plan takes care of such exigencies. We will keep one or two thousand young people on duty in the silos where our nuclear, intercontinental weapons are stored. If the worst scenario should happen, then across the entire planet, we all will sing the 1960’s folk song, “AND WE’LL ALL GO TOGETHER WHEN WE GO.” Just think, however, Americans will go with no national debt, some real money in our pockets, and absolutely no liabilities or assets.

Fiddlin’ Around with Lenny and Jascha: A Reminiscence

May 7, 2016 by Edwin Cohen, Ph. D. 1 Comment

Although we shared the same last name and many friends called us the “Cohen Brothers,” Lenny and I were not related. We enjoyed a close, warm friendship and shared many ideas and ideals, not the least of which ran something like “life is beautiful and new adventures lay just around every corner.”

In our thirties Lenny and I were big men, and both having a thirst for whatever life had to offer. Lenny was six feet two inches and weighed about 210 pounds. He had an almost childlike innocence about him with a shock of Huck Finn blond hair that denied his worldliness. He had been a frogman in the U. S. Navy and an alternate on the Olympic swim team. I was then about three inches shorter than he and five to ten pounds heavier with, as I described it, “a layer of fat to protect the muscles.” I was the runner and ball player; he the swimmer.

We never competed in the other’s territory. Neither of us cared much for alcohol, although we would have an occasional drink together, especially when we attended shows in Las Vegas. One cold evening we sat in a bar each nursing a cocktail while waiting for another friend to join us for dinner. At the time we both were involved with a national organization that had “Union” in its title, although it was a loose confederation of institutions that had nothing to do with labor unions.

One of us remarked that the “Union” had made a mistake doing something long since forgotten. The man next to me at the bar angrily shouted out, “What the hell is wrong with unions?” When he aggressively turned toward the two of us wearing topcoats and looking like hitmen, his facial expression said, “Oh, dear, I just committed suicide.” We assured him that we were both pro-labor and that our “union” was a different kind. Although he offered, we bought him a drink and the “confrontation” ended quietly.

At the time I lived in Hollywood trying to become rich and famous as an actor—neither worked out—while Lenny lived on the apartment side of Beverly Hills, as opposed to the mansion side. Our favorite restaurant was Cantor’s Deli on Fairfax and we met there at least once a week. When a party was seated at Cantor’s, the server, then called a “waitress,” would place a basket with a variety of breads and rolls on the table. When Lenny and I sat down, they would place one basket in front of each of us.

One evening while chatting with a friend named Jack, we informed him that we were going to get some pie for dessert, asking if he would like to join us. He thanked us, but said he would rather go home. As we started to leave, and without any signals, Lenny walked by Jack’s right side while I walked by the left side, both of simply lifted 5′ 8″ Jack simultaneously under his arms and the three of, Jack in the air, left the building with Jack saying, “Hey, guys, how about we go get a piece of pie for dessert?” We did.

Lenny was a magnificent story teller, so good that some of us wondered if the stories were authentic. Years later by accident I discovered that both his war stories and his romantic exploits were, indeed, factual.

In the 1960s I was youth director in Southern California for an umbrella organization, while Lenny was the youth director for one of the affiliates. I was just a tad skeptical when I received a phone call from him saying that he had gotten Jascha Heifitz to speak to his youth group on two conditions: no publicity and the only adults who would be there would be adults who might normally attend such a group—namely Lenny and I.

For those who do not know or who may have forgotten, Jascha Heifitz was unchallenged as the greatest classical violinist in the world during the mid-20^th Century. He was from the Russian school of music that emphasized three things: technique, technique, and technique. When Fritz Kreisler, another great violinist, heard Heifitz’s debut concert, he reportedly said about himself and other fiddlers, “We might as well take our fiddles and break them across our knees.” Although Heifitz was older than the “Cohen brothers,” he and I shared a birthday, February 2; he and Lenny died within a few months of each other in 1987. He is still considered one of, if not the greatest violinists of all time.

Heifitz at the time was teaching master classes in violin at U. C. L. A. A few weeks later, however, I received another call from Lenny: “Heifitz broke his leg and cannot appear.” Although the L. A. Times ran stories about the broken leg, I could not help wondering if this were a Lenny fantasy. Then, a few months later came the next call: “Heifitz will be at the youth group” on a specific date.

On a cold, rainy, windy March night, the maestro appeared with a violin case which held a Guarneri and a Stradivarius. The teenagers would have been vastly more impressed if a famous pop singer or guitarist appeared, but they had to settle for the best in the world. The youth group was composed of children from Beverly Hills—not the apartment side—and one youngster had the temerity to ask what the two violins were worth. Heifttz answered about $300,000. (In the early 21^st Century I heard that the Guarneri was worth about $2,000,000 and the Stradivarius about $4,000,000.)

After a demonstration of the difference in sound between the instruments and two short pieces played to perfection, of course, it was time to leave. Heifetz still used a cane, and to get to the exit, we had to cross a marbleized floor that was fine in dry weather, but our shoes were wet. In one of my many less than intelligent moments, I offered to carry the violins for the maestro. He handed me the case and thanked me. I started to cross the marbled floor when I had a vision that is as vivid today as it was some fifty years ago. I had become Curly, the fat, bald one of the Three Stooges, and was carrying a violin case when I slipped, did a 360 in mid-air, and landed on my derriere atop $300,000 worth of violins. I froze. Mr. Heifitz asked if I would rather he carried the instruments. I apologized, and he said he understood.

Occasionally today, I will see and hear Jascha Heifitz on the Arts Channel, on video, or on the radio. I think to myself, “I carried that instrument.” Then my now eighty-five year old face gets a warm, nostalgic grin and I think to myself, “Yeah, Cohen; for about fifteen feet!