Mourn the slain of every color and domain Oppose the violent and profane and wisdom of the criminally insane Violence begets violence, there ain't no gain Tyrannical politics fanning the flame No common decency to ease the pain Just surging hatred toward fellow man In the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave Nobody's right unless someone is wrong Each one of us deciding who does belong Not a different tribe or religion Blindness stands in way of our Founders' vision that we are endowed by our Creator Who sent forth a lover, not a hater Who stood only as tall as the smallest one and told us to love each and everyone But we keep trucking a different lane At speeds too fast to mourn the slain and foot too heavy to hit the break and a fury too blind to see our mistake.
People of Gotham, have you lost your Vulcan minds? Mets fans, have you been infiltrated by front-runners who switch their allegiance as casually as they transfer from the 4-train to the 7-train? Have we collectively sunk into deep despair as we watch the villains pillage our city in the absence of its protector?
Indeed, we have.
We've seen the movie before. It was released in 2012, the very same year Matt Harvey first took the mound in Gotham Citi Field and gave the few who still believed, hope. He put the franchise on his shoulders and was invincible. He wrestled headlines and models away from the Yankees Captain and brought back a swagger reminiscent of his Hall of Fame predecessors Tom Seaver and Mike Piazza. He walked the tightrope and he did backflips on it with the snap of his cape before disappearing into the shadows to await the next arrival of would-be assassins from DC, Philly and The Bronx. If he let up just one run, the fat lady would sing in her operatic voice.
How many games have we watched where Matt Harvey was brilliant while his teammates flailed at the plate, unable to scratch out a base runner, let alone a run. As if the lack of offense wasn't enough, his teammates would crack under the pressure of a routine pop fly, a tailor-made double-play ground ball or a Little League throw from first place to home plate. Did he complain? No. He simply asked for the ball and another chance to take the hill and carry the gigantic load his teammates, his franchise and his city placed upon him.
Now, Atlas, it's time to shrug.
Matt Harvey of the New York Mets
The booing after the debacle against Washington and the swelling negativity from the Mets in their own broadcast booth has reached a fever pitch. Like the movie, the hero has become the villain and the city has turned its back on him. The chorus of boos bleeds into anarchy until the hero vanishes and begins to question himself and his ability. He retreats to the cave while the larger-than-life image thrust upon him is incinerated in the streets amidst mayhem and lawlessness. He wrestles with his own self doubt until he stares at himself in the mirror unvarnished. Then, like the Phoenix, he rises from the ashes with a fury, stronger, more powerful than ever before to save his city from itself.
Among the boos and the naysayers you'll find the You Gotta Believers. They'll be wearing a mustard splattered jersey with the top two buttons undone and the number 33 on their backs. They will gather behind their leader with the indomitable knowledge that giving him the ball when he extends his right hand is the same as Commissioner Gordon climbing to the top of police headquarters to send his signal over Gotham.
Often times a long journey can lead you back to the beginning. Such was the case in my quest to uncover the model featured in the El Dorado Spa Resorts & Hotels by Karisma TV ad.
You know the one, she's wearing a white string bikini, leaning against a four-poster bed on a sandy beach, watching a man in blue boardshorts approach. It's a stunning ad, produced by Dorn Martell from Tinsley Advertising with original music by John Jay Martyn and Jimi Ruccolo on guitar. I uncovered all of these contributors, including the voice-over-artist, Jodi Krangle, in my search for the woman in the white bikini.
Katie Luddy for El Dorado Maroma
What prompted me to set sail on this odyssey? While the sensuous ad targeting the luxury traveler was the vehicle, the catalyst was as ancient as Helen of Troy, desire.
"I wish that was my butt," said my wife.
"Me, too," I said. But whose butt is it?
A Google search led to countless other searches, taking apart the ad over and over again on YouTube, going through stacks of portfolios on Instagram of models featured under the #karismaexperience banner, all to no avail. The pursuit was maddening. I'd throw my hands up in disgust or pause due to waning battery power. If I was researching a cure for cancer, one might understand my being overzealous, but the owner of a perfect posterior? It was crazy.
Katie Luddy for El Dorado Maroma
I was beaten. My ego was bruised. I pressed on.
With many unsolved mysteries, one has to assemble evidence and weigh it against the known facts to draw a conclusion. Even when this occurs, the researcher is always haunted by a lingering doubt, how can I be sure?
My conclusion is that the woman in the white bikini is 27-year-old model Katie Luddy from Rochester, NY via Miami, FL. While I have written to Katie via comment on Instagram, I haven't heard back(I completely understand, there are a lot of creeps and weirdos online).And so, dear reader, I submit my evidence for you to see for yourself.
The long journey to uncover the woman in the white bikini has ended. It spanned several continents, multiple locations and many languages before leading me back to Katie Luddy, who, as it turns out, is a fellow alumnus of the University at Buffalo, where she studied architecture and design before moving to Miami to allow the world to study her own architecture and design.
Katie Luddy via Facebook from April 2014
After all of this toil and the satisfaction of a job-well-done from my wife, I could use a vacation.
NEW YORK, Jan. 31 -- A young man was rescued from a local business in Midtown yesterday that was run by brain-eating zombies.
"At first I didn't realize I was among the undead. There was not a lot of chit chat in the office and coworkers seemed to stare blankly at their screens all day. It was similar to my last job," he said.
The young man would see coworkers assemble and leave the office together around lunchtime, but only a few would return. These coworkers along with his managers often walked by him as if he was invisible.
"I said hello to one woman each day who was always standing by the coffee machine, although no coffee ever seemed to come out of it," he said.
He reports the work was mindless and that his biggest challenge was remembering his Windows login.
"When I'd struggle to remember my password, a crowd of coworkers would gather near my cubicle and grunt at one another, but once I logged in, they'd vanish," he said.
It was when the young man had trouble with his login and called tech support that a coworker lunged at him from a nearby cubicle.
"She was trying to bite me," he said
When he ran to human resources to report the incident, other coworkers poured out of meeting rooms and offices giving chase. When he got there, the administrators leaped across their desks firing employee manuals toward his head. He was able to duck down and exit through a nearby fire escape out to the street.
"I thought the incident was strange, but I still wasn't sure if I had to report back the next day," he said.
After describing the scene to a friend, the young man alerted the authorities who discovered the office was a zombie lair.
The NYPD held a press conference saying that zombies were hiring young, unsuspecting professionals to feed on their brains and incorporate them into their occult.
"Once the supply of new brains ran low, all hell broke loose," said Sergeant O'Leary. He cautioned citizens that other zombie dens were likely in operation, luring new hires to join their "growing company."
It's been two years since I predicted The Ascendancy of Dylan Penn and Ireland Baldwin, so it's time to take inventory. To date, the celebrity scorecard still has the Jenners and Kardashians leading the popularity contest, but the margin is dwindling. Last month, Dylan Penn and Ireland Baldwin crashed the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show in New York with Ireland apparently leaving her lingerie behind in the dressing room. This spawn of Hollywood royalty is serious in its pursuit of modeling and acting and draws hordes of paparazzi by birthright. While the emergence of Ireland's cousin, Hailey Baldwin, and the increasing popularity of Gigi and Bella Hadid prove formidable, the glowing embers of this dynamic duo are beginning to fan into flames and ascend the nation's tabloid rankings. Take a look:
Dylan Penn and Ireland Baldwin at Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2015.
Dylan Penn and Ireland Baldwin at Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2015.
Dylan Penn and Ireland Baldwin at Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2015.
The choices that confront us today are confounding: products, recipes, TV shows, cocktail parties, radio stations, sporting events and so on ... The weight of deciding is bone crushing, sending us to those safe harbors we construct such as snack cabinets and wine cellars. Too much of anything is dangerous and not enough of it is maddening.
In the past week, I raked the leaves on the yard, fixed the gaping hole in the side of the house, roasted a 22-pound turkey, replaced the hard drive on my computer and had a heartfelt debate about elementary education. If asked how I accomplished any of it, I would shrug my shoulders and say "YouTube,"
The inundation of how-to's and DIYs are possible now that we can download information quickly from the cloud and not worry about storing it past the point of immediate need. My brain can only handle so much: address, social security number, kids' names, outcome of the Florida State vs. Florida game (Noles won!) before the distraction of what's for lunch pushes it all aside.
The horrible events in our country and around the planet are brought to us immediately and replayed countless times by news organizations for shock value. Helpless, we look to politicians to correct these ails and protect us while they lobby for our trust. It's a game of Whack-A-Mole. Push one problem down, another immediately takes its place, it's too much.
As I write, the view from my window is lit with color and stillness. It's quiet and peaceful outside. just not enough.
It used to be the words dripped off my pen like honey, now it seems they're only in it for the money, They come and go as they please, proving to be no more than a tease, At times they'll disturb my sleep, coming on in torrents that appear too deep, Moved by the fear that I may drown, I reach for a pen to write them down, Then I get the feeling that they're only using me, waking me from my sleep to set them free.
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore - And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over - like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? - Langston Hughes, 1951
Hard to believe 25 years have passed since Miller's Crossing was released. While I often think of the film, there is one line in particular that rings true, "Nobody knows anybody. Not that well." It's a line from the gangster Tom Reagan who's played by Gabriel Byrne.
I once took the Amtrak from Penn Station, NY to Union Station, DC with Gabriel Byrne. We disembarked at the same time and I stood behind him in line for the taxi cabs across from our Nation's Capitol. I recall his silver metallic wheeled bag hit my foot while we were waiting and for reasons I can't fathom, I asked him if I could take his picture. He politely said no and I waited an eternity for the line to move and him to get in his cab.
That line, written by the Coen Brothers, echoed in my mind the rest of the evening. "Why the heck did I ask Gabriel Byrne for a picture? I know better. I'm a New Yorker."
Truth is, I don't why I did it. I don't think any of us know why we do what we do. It's all a crap shoot when we leave our homes each day. I never know what I'm going to have for lunch. How does anybody figure any of it out?
It's astonishing when people think they do know you. They say things they believe to be true and most of the time it flies way off the mark. We just ignore them, change the subject. How bout the weather? Maybe we can agree on that.
"Nobody knows anybody. Not that well." For some strange reason we think we do know people, just not what we ourselves are going to wear tomorrow.
You finish ironing your wrinkle-free shirt and head downstairs to the breakfast nook where sunlight filters in through the window and out to the doo-wop of blue jays and the hustle and bustle of busy squirrels. The day has begun, but your body still clings to its late-night torpor. Coffee percolates its pleasant aroma and you reach in the cupboard for a box brought to you by General Mills, Kellogg's, Post or Quaker Oats. You pour the contents into a familiar bowl, add milk and Snap, Crackle, Pop!They're Gr-r-reat and Magically Delicious!
Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker.
The box sits opposite you with a friendly gaze of Dig'em, Toucan Sam, Tony the Tiger or "Cap'n Crunch-a-tize me" with their gentle nudge to go get 'em. The snappin', cracklin', poppin' whole grain oats or rice or corn join the chorus as they're waking up, too. The sunlight in the room is golden like Honey Smacks, Combs, Cheerios and Bunches of Oats and you reach for your phone to check your texts, emails, Instagrams, local news, scores and what other people are tweeting about the latest episode of Game of Thrones, Scandal or The Bachelorette. You finish your cereal, put the spoon and the bowl in the sink and the box back in the cupboard. You no longer see the squirrels or hear the birds. You are programmed to begin your day.
Later that week, you find yourself standing in the cereal aisle and you notice the abundance of yellow and orange colors shining down on you and think for a split second: Did I remember to put my bowl in the sink this morning?
Marketers know the genesis of all of these ideas and the deliberate decisions that culminate in those magical moments leading up to conversion. The cereal aisle reminds us with its bright colors and cartoon characters and punchy tags to go beyond the box to stir that feeling ... you know, the one you had this morning when you were listening to the blue jays and your world awaken.
In one week dis May, we said goodbye to Don Draper, B.B. King and Dave Letterman. While I'll miss all three, Letterman's void is the widest and the deepest as I've watched him for most of my life and most of his late night career.
Dave Letterman on NBC.
When it was Late Night with The World's Most Dangerous Band led by the incomparable Paul Schaffer, Letterman's antics were unpredictable, unusual and darn funny. I can recall being sick one summer and it seemed the only relief was Letterman and his "crash cam," a camera mounted on a skateboard that would crash into bottles and other visually impressive obstacles that would shatter and splash. Back then it seemed like Johnny Carson was Dave's opening act.
When I was at SUNY Buffalo, my roommates and I could barely afford rent much less cable or a decent TV. We'd have to shift the furniture around the living room to get reception and somehow, The Late Show always came through clearly. We'd gather like clockwork and no matter how broke we were, someone would scrape together a joint and we'd be glued to the set, critiquing his monologue, wondering whether or not his guests were really upset or if they enjoyed sparring with him. Who can forget Madonna's "nice rug" and his immediate retort "nice swim cap?" When I got back to NYC, I was determined to see him live and fill up on pizza and bagels.
I took my mom to my first show. I recall Nathan Lane was a guest and he killed it. I also recall getting a coffee from Hello Deli for the first time. The next show I had tickets to was on St. Patrick's Day in March of 1998 with Van Morrison and The Chieftans as the musical guest. The show was overbooked and I was turned away; however, the staff said I could come back to any other show as long as I let them know a day in advance. I picked his May 1, 1998 show, which was his 1,000th. Salma Hayek was supposed to be the first guest, but she cancelled at the last minute, leaving Norm MacDonald to cover two segments before Pearl Jam played Wishlist. I took my best friend to that one. We were seated in the balcony and while they discourage you from getting up, we both had to use the bathroom due to an aggressive happy hour beforehand. I remember running through the Ed Sullivan Theater and back to my seat just in time to see Pearl Jam take the stage.
In the year 2000, I worked across the street from Dave Letterman and would see Paul Schaffer on the street and Biff Henderson on his smoke break often. From high above, we could see where the guests arrived on 53rd street. I remember watching The Edge unload his guitar from a black SUV on October 29, 2001. Later, I would catch that performance on my rabbit-eared TV. For those who did not have cable then, CBS was the only channel you could get after September 11 as its antenna was on the Empire State Building.
Pumpkins blowing up on 53rd Street, Audioslave playing atop the marquee and the infamous Hello Deli Saga are memories I owe to Dave Letterman. Like a sailor out at sea, the iconic intro "From New York ..." was a beacon on the horizon welcoming you home, the image of the Tribeca Bridge, a bridge you once shoveled snow from despite its being covered, as familiar as the street you grew up on and Dave Letterman standing in the doorway, centerstage, smiling that smile, happy to see you ... and you, happy to see him each night.
Twitter's first quarter earnings report was a debacle. It was leaked early and the miss on expectations launched a fire sale similar to a Christmas tree lot on December 26. CEO Dick Costolo dove back under his desk, hiding from the angry mobs calling for his resignation.
From Silicon Valley to Wall Street to garages and basements around the world, it seems everyone is offering advice on what Twitter should do to regain its mojo, so I'll toss my marshmallow stick on the bonfire, too: Twitter should take a page from Calvin Harris.
Taylor Swift and Calvin Harris
In full-disclosure, I had no idea who Calvin Harris was until a colleague of mine returned from Las Vegas this week with photos and wild accusations that this DJ makes "$100 million" a year for pushing buttons! I was incredulous, but a quick search on Google turned up an article from Forbes that confirms Calvin Harris' earnings were $66 million last year ... for pushing buttons!
Turns out this DJ knows all the right buttons to push and my radio dial has found his music many times without my knowing it. Calvin Harris is able to manipulate emotions through his medium of electronic dance music much the way Walter-White-type chemists have done with MDMA. He certainly has his magical fingers in many honey pots and has recently been seen with Taylor Swift leaving fans of both musicians salivating in anticipation of their break-up song while fearful of an ill-advised collaboration similar to John Mayer and Katy Perry's Who You Love.
Dick Costolo, Jack Dorsey, Evan Williams and Biz Stone of Twitter
So what can Twitter learn from Calvin Harris?
It needs to reconnect on an emotional level with its users. The Twitter experience has yet to evolve to capture a sense of intimacy now that the party has grown in number, leaving its members wandering about with their hands by their sides. Calvin Harris knows what buttons to push to get those hands in the air. He adds new wrinkles and chronically innovates to build on what's familiar to his audience to lead them back to those heightened, intimate experiences that drew them in in the first place ... I feel so close to you right now, it's a force field / I wear my heart upon my sleeve like a big deal ... Twitter should listen to him.
