2 March, 2026 2 2 Comments

Loyalty

March 2, 2026 By 2 Comments

I don’t admire Mitch McConnell.
In fact, if I had a list of least favorite people, he’d be on it and near the top.  I’m glad he’s retiring.
And to prove I have some bipartisanship in me, there are many people in my party who should move on too. Here’s looking at you Chuck Schumer.

Public service should be lifelong, but I’m not sure that serving in elected office was meant to be a decades long affair. There’s a need for new blood and a need for senior statesman to move into mentorship roles.

This creates two happy circumstances: room for new leaders and a clear lane for people with experience to share their hard earned wisdom.
But let’s get back to Senator McConnell for a moment.

Recently,  I saw a piece in the Washington Post about the race to succeed Mitch that made me feel a pang of empathy for the man. (Luckily it passed quickly and it may have been indigestion).
The story talked about a three way primary in which all the candidates are running away from McConnell and his political brand.
Mind you this is Kentucky, McConnell’s home and a state he has served (sorry I don’t have another word) since 1985. This is a Republican primary and the candidates have assessed that McConnell, a longtime party powerhouse, is toxic.

But the idea of toxicity  is not why the article struck me. Instead, I thought about politics and endings, and the fact that it seems happy endings are so elusive in that line of work.
Imagine a pursuit in which the most likely end game is defeat, disgrace or disgust.  Why would anyone jump into that pool?

I’ve been following politics since I was a kid.
It was discussed at my dinner table,  I majored in political science in college, read books and newspaper articles on the subject and continue to follow the topic into my dotage.
The state of the field has not gotten any better during this time. In fact, in my opinion, it has gotten a lot worse.
Still, the toxicity surrounding politics doesn’t seem to dissuade people from lining up for their turn in the barrel.

In my decades of observing politics on the local, state and national level I can think of only a few examples of elected officials who left us wanting more.
Usually that means leaving before fatigue sets in. As Kenny Rogers said; “you got to know when to fold them.”
Few do.

In the Washington Post piece it was reported that one candidate ran an ad where he put a cardboard cutout of Mitch in the trash.
Yikes.
All three candidates are former McConnell interns. So much for loyalty.
I guess the old adage is correct. If you are looking for loyalty in politics buy a dog.
Still, it’s hard to find a parallel in real life—the exceptions being business and pro sports. Just ask Bills coach Sean McDermott.  Or Dolphins receiver Tyreek Hill. Or a CEO who misses his numbers. Years of winning, profits and touchdowns don’t count for much in a culture that values what have you done for me lately and more important, what can you do for me right now.

Two of the three former interns once referred to the Senator as a mentor, one said McConnell changed the trajectory of his life.
Now they are not only distancing themselves but criticizing each other  for allegedly being close to him.
I guess everyone has an expiration date.
Truth be told, there were people I was once close too but no longer admire or associate with. And there are people who feel the same way about me. After decades in business, journalism and now philanthropy, I can’t think of a single enemy I made in the private sector. But in politics I have a few.
I suppose it goes with the territory. I think  I’ll will stick with my dogs—they don’t judge and yes they are loyal.
loyal.

23 February, 2026 9 9 Comments

Democracy Dies In Cost Cutting

February 23, 2026 By 9 Comments

I grew up believing in newspapers.
They were institutions — imperfect, sometimes infuriating, but essential. Sacred, even. You didn’t mess with them. You didn’t hollow them out. You didn’t treat them like a line item on a spreadsheet owned by a man worth $240 billion.
Recently, the Washington Post laid off roughly a third of its workforce. More than 300 people. The sports section — shuttered. The books desk — gone. The flagship podcast Post Reports — suspended. The entire Middle East bureau was eliminated. The Ukraine bureau chief was let go. A correspondent learned she’d lost her job while reporting from a war zone.
Let that sink in. A reporter covering a war — an actual war — got an email telling her she was done.
This is the Washington Post. The home of Ben Bradlee, who stared down a president and published the Pentagon Papers. The home of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who brought down a corrupt administration with shoe-leather reporting and the stubborn belief that the truth matters more than power. The paper whose motto — “Democracy Dies in Darkness” — used to mean something.
Now it reads like a warning label they ignored.
I spent more than 20 years in journalism. I know what a newsroom feels like when it’s humming — the ringing phones, the arguments over headlines, the adrenaline of a story breaking wide open. I also know what it feels like when the cuts come. The silence that follows. The empty desks. The people who gave everything to the craft walking out with a box and a severance check.
It never stops hurting. And it never stops mattering.
What’s happening at the Post isn’t just about one newspaper. It’s about what we’ve decided journalism is worth in this country. The answer, apparently, is not much — not when the owner has a yacht worth $500 million, a wedding that cost $50 million, and a company that just invested $75 million in a movie about the First Lady.
But he can’t find the resources to keep reporters in the Middle East.
Jeff Bezos bought the Washington Post in 2013 for $250 million. At the time, he was hailed as a savior. Here was a tech visionary who understood that great journalism needed investment, not austerity. He poured money in. The newsroom grew by 85 percent. The Post became a digital powerhouse, competitive with the New York Times for the first time in a generation.
And then something shifted.
In late 2024, Bezos killed the editorial board’s planned endorsement of Kamala Harris — an unprecedented intervention that sent 250,000 subscribers running for the exits. Former executive editor Marty Baron called it “cowardice, with democracy as its casualty.” Woodward and Bernstein issued a joint statement calling it “surprising and disappointing.” Columnists resigned. Editorial board members stepped down.
The damage was self-inflicted and staggering. And instead of course-correcting, Bezos doubled down. He installed a management team that reshaped the opinion section around libertarian ideals, drove away more talent, and alienated the very readers who had sustained the paper. He hired a publisher, Will Lewis, who didn’t even show up for the call announcing the layoffs.
Sally Quinn, widow of Ben Bradlee, put it plainly: “It just seems heartbreaking that he (Bezos) doesn’t feel the paper is important enough to bankroll.”
Meanwhile, over at the New York Times, they’re thriving — 12.8 million subscribers and growing, heading toward 15 million by 2027.  Warren Buffett’s Berkshire Hathaway just announced a large stock purchase.
The Wall Street Journal is doing fine. The difference isn’t the market. It’s leadership. It’s commitment. It’s the willingness to invest in what a great newspaper can be rather than strip-mining it for what it used to be.
The Post’s reporter Emmanuel Felton, who covered race and ethnicity, said it best after he was let go: “This wasn’t a financial decision. It was an ideological one.”
And Caroline O’Donovan, the reporter who covered Amazon — Jeff Bezos’s Amazon — was among those cut. You can’t make this stuff up. Actually, you can. It would make a hell of a third act in a play about a billionaire who bought a newspaper and slowly strangled it.
Here’s what bothers me most. When Bezos bought the Post, he talked about civic responsibility. He invoked Katharine Graham. He said the paper would follow important stories “no matter the cost.” Those were beautiful words. They were also, it turns out, just words.
A man with $240 billion in personal wealth chose to gut one of the most important journalistic institutions in American history rather than sustain it. He chose to protect his relationship with political power rather than hold it accountable. He chose his business interests over the public interest.
That’s not stewardship. That’s abandonment.
The Post Guild said it right: “A newsroom cannot be hollowed out without consequences for its credibility, its reach, and its future.”
Former executive editor Marcus Brauchli added: “The Post occupies a singular place in American journalism. It needs visionary and independent stewardship that is equal to its journalism, worthy of its promise, and necessary to meet this important moment in history.”
I think about the reporters who were in the building that day. The ones who stayed up the night before finishing their stories, knowing they might be locked out of the system in the morning. The ones who got the email with the subject line that told them their role had been eliminated.
Those journalists didn’t fail. Their owner did. I know what that’s like. I stood in a newsroom when layoffs were announced my heart racing and aching at the same time. And I’ve made those announcements myself when ownership failed to figure out a sustainable path. Sometimes business goes that way. It’s awful and it’s painful, but the papers I worked for and eventually led didn’t have near the financial and technological resources of Mr. Bezos.
Jeff Bezos will be fine. He’ll fly his rockets and sail his yacht and throw lavish parties. His legacy, however, is another matter. When the history of American journalism is written, there will be a chapter about the billionaire who had the resources to save the Washington Post and chose not to. Who had the chance to be Katharine Graham and became something far less.
That chapter will not be kind.
For those of us who love journalism — who believe that a free press is not a luxury but a necessity — this is a gut punch. But it’s also a call to action. Support the reporters. Subscribe to the outlets that are still doing the work. Demand better from the people who own the institutions we depend on.
Democracy doesn’t just die in darkness. It dies in indifference. It dies when the people with the power to keep the lights on decide it’s not worth the trouble.
Don’t let them make that decision for you.
16 February, 2026 0 Comments

Don’t Let Go of Valentine’s Day Just Yet

February 16, 2026 By Leave a Comment

 

I have a curated list of love songs on Spotify that numbers 984 songs. That’s 64 hours and 17 minutes of music about one of my favorite subjects.

I also have a separate list of unrequited love songs for when I’m feeling unrequited — if you know, you know. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen much these days. But that was my vibe from 1976 through much of the ’80s. Sigh.

Anyway, being on the wrong end of breakups builds character and appreciation, too. When the love is returned, you’re thankful. In my case, very thankful. I mean like off the charts thankful.

My taste in love songs varies — from Americana and rock to soul and schmaltz–I  cover the landscape. So in that spirit, and in honor of Valentine’s Day, I offer my ten “off the beaten path” love songs for your consideration.

These offerings are not the most popular or best love songs. If that were the case, I’d lead with “Something” by The Beatles or “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys. No, these are offbeat selections designed to give you a playlist when all else fails.

Here goes.

1. “Laundry Room” — The Avett Brothers

This song is about the bittersweet nostalgia of first love. It’s a remarkable song about stolen moments, innocence, and bliss. “Tonight I’ll burn the lyrics because every chorus was your name.” Chills.

2. “Fair Play” — Van Morrison

This song is off the great but somewhat forgotten Veedon Fleece album from 1974. It’s not a traditional love song, but it is a romantic tune— more impressionistic than garden variety. In it, I hear longing, literature, and a whole world. Van is the man.

3. “On a Bus to St. Cloud” — Gretchen Peters

Jimmy LaFave and Trisha Yearwood have recorded versions too, but Gretchen’s take sweeps me away. She’s the one who wrote the song, which is wistful, wise, and weary. I loved it so much that I wrote a play about its characters. My play is nowhere near as good as the song.

4. “Save Me a Saturday Night” — Neil Diamond

I know you take a risk when you publicly state your affection for a Neil Diamond song. But this one — and dozens of others — are great. Who can argue with a narrator pleading for a romantic evening with his beloved? I can’t. The song is awesome. Period.

5. “Sweetest Decline” — Beth Orton

This beautiful song explores finding beauty in the mess of emotional decline. The lyrics ask us to embrace life’s messy moments and mistakes. Don’t hold on to regrets. Let them go. They are lessons.

6. “What Led Me to This Town” — The Jayhawks

The Jayhawks are the best band nobody has ever heard of. Well, that’s not exactly fair — they have tons of fans. But they should have been bigger. This song explores themes of arrival, reflection, and weariness. And midway through, there’s a confession of — you guessed it — unrequited love. The words level you.

7. “Come Monday” — Jimmy Buffett

This is a bit of a cheat. The song was a hit. But it’s also an excellent love song. It’s about missing someone, and it conjures up the days when you counted the hours and minutes until you could be with your loved one again. That ache is there, and Jimmy brings it. Man, I miss that guy in this world.

8. “If Not for You” — Bob Dylan

Bob can flat-out write. He’s a poet. “If Not for You” is just beautiful.

9. “Getting in Tune” — The Who

This song made the soundtrack of Jerry Maguire. It had me at “I’m getting a little tired of having to say, do you come here often. But when I look in your eyes, I see the harmony and the heartache softens.” Pete Townshend’s words, Roger Daltrey’s voice. A match made in heaven.

10. “Stars” — Dan Fogelberg

An early song from an artist who died way too soon. “Stars” is about heartache. Its specificity is devastating — and a reminder that art breaks through when you write precisely about a feeling or experience. Somehow the specific becomes universal.

I’m writing a play about that now. It’s called 2 A.M. Battle Creek. I’ll keep you posted.

Meanwhile, I hope you had a great Valentine’s Day. May you find, keep, and appreciate love.

9 February, 2026 0 Comments

Vinyl Memories

February 9, 2026 By Leave a Comment

Vinyl memories.

I can’t part with my old albums.

I’ve thought about it. But I can’t.

Friends of mine have done so. One sold his entire collection. Another put his vinyl out to the curb years ago when the compact disc took over music.

But I just can’t do it.

I don’t play my albums. But I still cherish them.

Some years back, I bought a cheap turntable, but for some reason I couldn’t rekindle the old habit of sifting through my record bin to see what grabbed me. I do have at least one buddy who still spins his records. I envy him.

Still, I can’t bring myself to sell or donate my albums. And they will never go to the landfill—at least on my watch.

Why?

What explains our attachment to things we never use?

I think I’ve figured it out.

Albums are memories.

And I just can’t discard them.

Recently, my wife bought me a display “thingamabob” (I don’t know what else to call it) that holds albums. You hang it on the wall and place records into sixteen compartments. I finally have a place to put just such a display.

After years of plotting, wishing, and planning, I finally have a corner of the house I’ve turned into my very own mancave.

It’s a place where I can escape to write, make calls, and listen to music and podcasts without bothering anyone else—or being bothered.

The dogs follow me in when I retreat there. But they don’t have opinions on my listening habits and never critique what I’m writing. They play. Then they sleep on the couch. And I find their presence to be good company.

I have a golden retriever who purrs like a cat and a chihuahua who thinks he’s a lion.

They never judge.

They’re always content.

Gracie and Emmitt are a reminder of what’s possible if you can somehow figure out a way to live in the moment.

Anyway, we hung my thingamabob a few weeks ago. I got to sift through a bin of albums to populate the sixteen spaces.

I didn’t have to look at more than one bin before it was full.

Sixteen memories.

Sixteen albums.

The beauty of the display is that I can swap them out every few months and hang other memories. Half the fun is choosing what to display. The other half is standing back and looking at the finished piece of work—my little corner of the house that’s completely mine.

Sorry if that sounds selfish. But it’s nice to have some square footage that reflects my own taste. Or lack thereof.

Either way, I make no apologies.

If I want to display a Neil Diamond album, I will and proudly.

(Alas, Neil didn’t make the cut this time.)

I chose “Damn the Torpedoes” by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers because I love Tom Petty, miss him now that he’s gone, but mostly because my late mother went to Sam Goody at the Smith Haven Mall when I was fifteen and home sick with something. She wanted to cheer me up. When she came home and handed me the record, I remember thinking:

I have the coolest mom.

Yes, “Even the Losers Get Lucky Sometime.” Petty fans will get the reference. My friend Scott will know that I’m referring to a near fatal car accident we luckily avoided when we were kids. Songs are also memories.

I picked Boston’s self-titled debut because I love the album cover and because every song on that remarkable record was good. Every. Single. Song.

I chose Bob Seger and CSNY because they’re great. Bob is retired now. Crosby has passed. We saw Graham Nash post-COVID in Coral Springs a few years back and he was so good. I’ve always loved Stephen Stills’ voice and Neil Young’s music.

I picked “Candy-O” by The Cars. I saw them twice at Nassau Coliseum with childhood friends. Ric Ocasek and Benjamin Orr are gone. But my friends are still here. Still in my life.

That matters.

I have a poster of every Beatles album on my wall, but I wanted the Fab Four represented, so I chose a slightly beaten-up copy of “McCartney” and “Rock and Roll” by John Lennon.

Maybe I’m amazed that I’m still very much a Beatles fanatic.

Bruce Springsteen didn’t make the cut either, because I already have huge framed photos celebrating “Born to Run” in my little corner of the house.

Jimi Hendrix did make it, though.

“Are You Experienced”?

At this stage of the game, I am.

But I wasn’t when I first got that album and marveled at Jimi’s prowess.

Inspired, I bought a cheap electric guitar from my backyard neighbor Bob. For twenty bucks it came with an amp that barely worked. I spent two whole weeks trying to figure out how to play before giving up my guitar hero dreams.

I defaulted to much more realistic aspirations:

Pitch for the Yankees.

Win Wimbledon.

Neither happened.

And yet things worked out.

I used my Dunlop Maxfli racquet as an air guitar. And I included my favorite Yankee, Thurman Munson, in my play “The Café on Main”. I owe Ron Guidry a shout-out in a future script. Oh how I loved to watch “Louisiana Lightning” pitch. (Those who know, know.)

Billy Joel made the wall because I’m feeling a particular way about Long Island these days.

So did Elvis Costello, who we saw perform at Jones Beach.

The Doobie Brothers are represented because I went to see them at Nassau Coliseum with a few friends. My buddy’s sister, Linda Cohn—future ESPN icon—drove us.

Linda liked hanging out with us, even though we were younger. We made her laugh. And we liked the fact that she knew a lot about sports.

A future hint of what was to come, delivered to us on rides in a Chevy Impala.

I think you get the drift.

There are two more bins of memories waiting to be displayed.

I look forward to sifting through the years.

As Billy Joel sang: “They say that these are not the best of times, but they’re the only times I’ve ever known.”

Here’s to the best of times.

Here’s to vinyl memories.

And here’s to having a space in your house free of color schemes, design rules, and any style other than your own.

2 February, 2026 0 Comments

Let’s Work Together

February 2, 2026 By Leave a Comment

We are all pieces of the puzzle. All of us.

 

Recently I read a beautiful magazine piece about an Amish community in Maine that harvests ice from a frozen lake.

The story detailed how the community works together to harvest, cut and store ice used for refrigeration.
It was a lovely story that detailed how the community has a tradition of working together.
Working together.  What a concept.
From early childhood through our school years we are taught to collaborate.
It takes a village, we are told.
“Coming together is a beginning. Keeping together is progress. Working together is success,” said Henry Ford.
“Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much,” adds Helen Keller.
The list of sayings go on and on.
And yet, we don’t.
Or at least our so-called leaders don’t. I call them so-called because I don’t think you can lead if you can’t collaborate.
The best businesses assemble teams to achieve goals.
The best nonprofits enlist the community and attract talented staffs and volunteers to tackle challenges.
In my role as a foundation executive, I’m seeing great collaborations taking shape around brain health and neighborhood revitalization among many other efforts.
I’m seeing collaboration on workforce development, providing pathways to college and addressing childhood trauma. I’m also seeing collaborative efforts to build and nurture an entrepreneurial ecosystem.
It’s heartening. 
But there’s one aspect of our society that is not collaborating. One important sector that refuses to work together. 
In fact, this cohort does the opposite. They fight. They undermine each other. They focus on themselves and fail to do their jobs which is to serve us. We, the people. 
If you haven’t guessed, I’m talking about our elected officials. From Washington to our state capitols and our City Halls, we are witnessing dysfunction.
Dysfunction is costly.
Dysfunction is exhausting and dysfunction poses a threat to future progress and threatens past achievements. 
We, the people deserve better. 
We live in a time of great promise and great peril. 
Artificial intelligence, quantum computing, breakthroughs in science, medicine and robotics come with both opportunities and existential challenges. 
Because the stakes are so high we need to do better. We need to demand more from those who seek to lead us—at every level of our creaky system. 
This needs to be addressed immediately. You can feel important aspects of our system melting away. It’s visceral. It’s real. And it’s relentless.
We best wake up. Because if we don’t we will lose institutions we spent decades and billions of dollars to build. And once we lose our institutions, we’re in deep trouble. Once broken, there’s no guarantee we can get them back. 
Going forward, I will only vote for people who want to work with others. People who are open to learning, who may admit that occasionally they are wrong. 
That sounds so trite, so basic and yet it must be said. 
We have politicians who tell us they’ve never been wrong. It’s unimaginable, hubris. We wouldn’t tolerate this behavior in our children or are work colleagues. And yet, we allow our elected officials to run their mouths and lie openly to us. It’s corrosive, dangerous and disgusting. And we the people, stand for what we tolerate. If they are allowed to do this, if their own “teams” won’t reign them in, we must.
If you are looking to be elected so you can “own” your opponents, I’m not interested. 
But if you want to serve, if you want to stand up and deliver I’m all ears. 
That means working across the aisle, listening, caring about outcomes not headlines and having an ability to change your mind if you hear new information and an ability to veer from the party line if the facts warrant a change. 
I want leaders, not sycophants. I long for thinkers not puppets. 
I suspect I am not alone. 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Sent from my iPhone
26 January, 2026 0 Comments

Rejection, Acceptance & The Importance of Trying

January 26, 2026 By Leave a Comment

“I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.” -Sylvia Plath.

Whether you’re a writer, musician, artist or job applicant rejection can be soul crushing.

You can read all the case studies about famous people who overcame rejection and it helps. A little bit.

Yes, J.K. Rowling was rejected by 12 publishers for Harry Potter, Michael Jordan was cut from his high school team (that must have been some team), Walt Disney was fired from a job for a “lack of ideas” and Decca declined to sign The Beatles in 1962 because they thought guitar bands were on the way out. Those stories provide some comfort for the rest of us mortals.

Perhaps my favorite rejection saga is the story of Abraham Lincoln.

Before becoming the 16th President of the United States in 1860, Honest Abe faced decades of business failures, political defeats, and personal losses.

Consider this curriculum vitae.

1832: Defeated in his first run for the Illinois State Legislature and lost his job.

1833: Failed in a general store business venture, leaving him with a debt that took him 17 years to repay.

1836: Suffered a severe nervous breakdown.

1838: Defeated in his bid to become Speaker of the Illinois House of Representatives.

1843: Failed to secure the nomination for a seat in the U.S. Congress.

1848: Lost his bid for renomination to Congress.

1849: Rejected for the position of Commissioner of the General Land Office.

1854: Defeated in his first run for the U.S. Senate.

1856: Lost his bid for the Vice-Presidential nomination at his party’s national convention.

1858: Defeated by Stephen A. Douglas in a high-profile second run for the U.S. Senate, despite gaining national attention from their debates.

Lincoln was said to have a “slip not fall philosophy”. After a loss he once said: “My foot slipped from under me, knocking the other out of the way, but I recovered and said to myself, ‘It’s a slip and not a fall'”.

 

Despite these “slips” he ended up being a pretty good president. More than 160 years after his death, we quote him, glean lessons from his leadership style and long for a president who will unite us.

All the examples of rejection and failure mentioned above worked out in the end.

Rowling did OK. Michael Jordan had a pretty good career and Disney certainly proved that he had some enduring ideas.

I share this because as a writer, I experience a fair amount of rejection.

As a new playwright, I’m sending my work out into the world and …waiting. And waiting some more.

Most of the time you send your work to a theater or a festival and you hear nothing back. Crickets.

Other times you get a kind email encouraging you to try again—next year.

And sometimes you get a yes.

We celebrate those wins. We post them on social media, email our friends, share them in playwriting groups and we’re greeted with kind words and encouragement—all of it deeply appreciated because rejection stings. It just does.

My writing coach, Jack Canfora, tells me I have a good batting average.

Playwriting seems to be a little like baseball. If you’re a ball player and you fail 7 out of 10 times but get hits with your other three at bats, you’re an All Star.

By that measure, I suppose I’m doing OK.

I get a fair number of “acceptances”—meaning my plays get chosen for a festival, a reading, or a production of some sorts.

Still, those rejections hurt.

Again, I turn to my friend and coach Jack who describes himself as an “award winning and award losing playwright”.

I like that.

Truth be told, the rejections shouldn’t hurt because the stakes are low— at least for me.

I don’t rely on my writing to make a living.  I used to, when I was a journalist in my younger years, but no longer. I’m also at a stage in life where I write for pleasure, no pressure, no expectations, just the joy of staring down the blank page and seeing if I can fill it with something that I can tolerate. If I like it, I might send it out into the world. If I don’t, it sits in a folder, which I may or may not ever look at again.

Like most people who write, I’m in service to the muse. For close to 40 years I’ve been thinking like a writer, looking at the world with the goal of finding something I can write about.
It’s a good way to live, I suppose. You learn to look closely at your surroundings, you notice things and you lean in. It’s a way of life.

There is no happier moment than when your work touches a nerve or elicits a positive reaction. And consequently, even though it shouldn’t hurt because it doesn’t really matter, it hurts when that work misses the mark. When someone reads your words and says “no thanks.”

I’ve been selected and rejected. I’ve been accepted and passed over. It’s our lot in life.

To quote The Godfather: “This is the life we have chosen.”

We just keep writing and hoping for a yes.

19 January, 2026 0 Comments

MLK 2026

January 19, 2026 By Leave a Comment

Every January, we quote Martin Luther King Jr., share a line or two from the “I Have a Dream” speech, and remind ourselves that progress has been made.

And it has.

The arc of American history has bent in meaningful ways because of the moral force Dr. King helped unleash. But if King were only relevant as a historical figure, a chapter in a textbook, we would not still feel the uneasy tug of his words. We feel it because much of what he warned us about, and hoped for, remains unfinished business.

King did not speak only about racial harmony in the abstract.

He spoke about systems.

He spoke about poverty, access to opportunity, fair wages, voting rights, housing, education, and the corrosive effects of fear and dehumanization. He challenged not just personal prejudice, but the structures that quietly keep inequality in place. In a time when economic anxiety, political polarization, and cultural division dominate our headlines, his insistence on justice rooted in dignity feels less like history and more like a live wire.

One of King’s most radical ideas was that nonviolence is not passive. It is active moral resistance. It demands discipline, courage, and imagination. In an era of social media outrage and instant condemnation, his model asks something harder: to confront injustice without becoming shaped by hatred, to seek transformation rather than humiliation, and to remember the humanity of even those with whom we fiercely disagree. That is not easy. It never was. But it remains one of the few paths that reliably builds lasting change instead of short term victory.

King also warned against complacency.

He spoke often about the “tranquilizing drug of gradualism,” the temptation to delay justice because the moment feels inconvenient or politically risky. Today, whether we are talking about racial equity, economic mobility, voting access, or how communities care for their most vulnerable, that warning still applies. Progress that moves too slowly for those suffering in the present is not neutral. Delay has a moral cost.

Perhaps most importantly, King believed deeply in the power of moral imagination. He asked people to envision a society that did not yet fully exist, and then to act as if it could. That kind of imagination is desperately needed now. When cynicism feels safer than hope, King reminds us that hope is not naive. It is a discipline. It is a decision to believe that people can grow, institutions can change, and the future can be better than the present.

Remembering King should not only be about honoring a dream. It should be about accepting a responsibility. His life challenges each generation to ask: Where does injustice persist in our time? What comfort am I protecting instead of confronting? How am I contributing, even quietly, to the world I claim to want?

King is relevant today not because the past repeats itself exactly, but because the moral questions remain the same.

Who counts?

Who is heard?

Who is protected?

Who is left behind?

As long as those questions are unresolved, his voice continues to echo, not as a monument, but as a call to action

12 January, 2026 2 2 Comments

Where Is The Love?

January 12, 2026 By 2 Comments

Social media is an interesting place to visit (but I wouldn’t want to live there.)

Spend five minutes on Facebook and you’ll see the full spectrum of human interaction. Spend two minutes on X and you’ll need a shower.

Recently, I went doom scrolling on Mark Zuckerberg’s creation and found myself marveling at the stunning array of opinion.

One post celebrated someone who has taken up art in her retirement with kind words of support and praise for the beautiful work being created.

Another expressed admiration for a woman who has overcome a health issue with a barrage of loving words expressing thanks and appreciation for the strength it takes to battle a disease.

But a few posts down, past the pictures of dogs, kids and great nights out at restaurants I found a post about the new Sundy Village.

In full transparency, I haven’t been there yet. But I drive by it every day and have watched the project take shape during months of construction on my way to work.

For weeks, I saw a statue of a guy wearing a hat sitting amidst the dirt and heavy machinery. Who was it? Could it be a statue of John Shaw Sundy, Delray’s first mayor?

I thought it was interesting to see the transformation of the landscape and the preservation of some historic homes including the Sundy House, the mayor’s iconic home said to be the oldest in Delray.

Regardless, I kind of liked what I was seeing.

John S. Sundy and family at his home on South Swinton Avenue.

Pebb Capital, the developers of the project, did not take the easy way out. In a world where developing retail is increasingly difficult, Pebb leaned in. There’s no residential buildings on the site, its office, retail, restaurants and services. Pretty bold in today’s world.

There’s also no parking garage.  All the parking is underground and out of sight, an interesting and expensive choice that’s aesthetically pleasing. I find all of it fascinating.

Some of my neighbors and fellow Facebookers felt otherwise.

“Disgusting,” was one word that was used. Hmm, I thought. Disgusting? That’s a harsh word, usually reserved for stuff that arouses revulsion.

Pretty soon, like in most posts of this ilk, it degenerated into screeds about Delray Beach itself.

“My hometown has been ruined,” cried one post.

“We are Fort Lauderdale,” said another. And I thought, “have you been to Fort Lauderdale lately?”

“We are Miami,” said another. And I thought, well Delray has surely changed (what hasn’t) but Miami? That’s kind of a stretch.

“No longer quaint,” someone else weighed in. Well, we’ve been hearing that since Atlantic Avenue made the turn from moribund to vibrant a generation ago.

“Ruined the whole town,” said another. Well, that’s quite an indictment.

From there it got worse—with complaints about New Yorkers (good lord is that tiresome) and “idiots” who buy houses with no driveways or side yards.

Now to be fair, there were quite a few posts singing Sundy Village’s praises, design, vision and execution. There were also quite a few defending Delray Beach itself.  Hallelujah!

Still, all in all, I think there’s something missing around these parts—and I think it’s civic pride.

I don’t have any data to back up my instincts, just a feeling that we love to gripe about Delray and Florida as a whole.

I’ve been guilty of this myself. But as I thought about it, I came up with a caveat. When I complain, it’s mostly with an eye toward improvement and it comes from a deep well of affection that has been tested at times but remains intact if tattered.

A good example is my notion of patriotism. You can criticize something and still love it. So, while I am a proud American, there are times when my country breaks my heart. That only happens when you love something. If you are devoid of feelings—you just don’t care.

I feel the same way about the New York Giants. Love the team, can’t stand how bad they are these days. Still, I’m rooting for the G-Men.

But I think there’s something going on here that ought to be addressed. Don’t ask me how, but we can use a dose of civic pride.

So, what might we look for? What might be a sign that pride is on the upswing?

Here are a few markers.

Voter turnout: Do citizens care enough to vote in local elections?

Civic engagement: Are citizens informed and keeping up to date on news and happenings?

Volunteerism: Are residents volunteering? Do they support local organizations and nonprofits. Do they belong to a civic organization?

Is Delray Beach just an address or is it your home?

Santa Monica, a pretty city in Southern California, surveys their citizens regularly and has created what they call a “Well Being Index.”

The index measures the happiness and quality of life of residents.

Santa Monica analyzes six key metrics—outlook, community, place and planet, learning, health, and economic opportunity—using data from city departments, research institutions like the RAND Corporation, and social media. While 68% of residents report being happy, recent reports have highlighted concerns about financial stress, a lack of time for leisure, and inequalities experienced by certain communities, according to santamonica.gov.

While that nearly 70 percent figure is pretty good, many residents do not feel a strong sense of belonging in their neighborhood.

That finding intrigued me, so I dug a little further. Some residents feel connected due to their history in Santa Monica. while others feel a disconnect due to gentrification and cultural changes.

Regardless, I like the concept of a survey. Santa Monica claims it is the first city in the world to measure and track its citizens’ happiness. They’ve been at it for over a decade.

The idea sprung from a simple question: what is the purpose of government? Is it to keep people safe? To make sure the toilets flush? Yes, but what’s the overarching purpose?

Santa Monica believes the answer is simple: to improve the well-being of its residents.

Food for thought.

Meanwhile, I am going to make it a point to visit Sundy Village. I may even look for that statue or try to find the spirit of John Sundy, our first mayor. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him.

 

Note:
I wrote far too many obituary/tributes in 2025. I delivered far too many eulogies. I was hoping for a respite in 2026. It’s hard to lose people you love.

So far, 2026 is off to a tough start. We lost two good people recently. I want to tell you about them.

Kris Garrison

Kris Garrison was a lovely person who was a prominent planner in Palm Beach County for over 35 years. She worked for the county and the school district and was town manager in Gulfstream for a spell. I really liked and respected her.

When I served on the city commission, we were focused on education issues and Kris was a huge help. She served the district as its Planning & Intergovernmental Relations Director.

She also served as Executive Director of Planning, Zoning & Building for Palm Beach County, overseeing six County Divisions.

She was a force. Smart, easy to work with. She was a visionary with a big heart.

At the time of her passing at the young age of 64, Kris was serving as a North Palm Beach Councilwoman. They were sure lucky to have her. We were lucky to know her. She will be remembered.

Alphonso Mayfield

Last week, I also learned of the passing of Alphonso Mayfield, who served as president of SEIU-FPSU. Alphonso was a formidable union leader with a blindingly bright future.

We would meet periodically at the Coffee District in Pineapple Grove to talk  politics and the plight of communities and workers.

He was intellectual, tough, fair, always prepared and I would come away from these meetings endlessly impressed with his insight. He was a great political mind and while his portfolio was Florida—a huge undertaking—he was also focused on the southern United States.

Talking shop with a guy like Alphonso keeps you sharp. He was a tough-minded, no nonsense kind of guy, but I sensed a softness too. He was dedicated to his family, his membership and communities in need. He understood the struggle of workers. He understood the nuts and bolts of politics, and he was dedicated to making change.

His loss, at age 46, hits hard.

Born in Mississippi to a working-class family, Alphonso understood the plight and troubles of regular workers, and these early experiences shaped his outlook and his passion for economic and social justice. He was appointed as the Interim President of FPSU in 2009 and was elected to serve as the President in 2010. He had been president ever since.

My heart goes out to his wife Alexis and his daughter Eden.

On a brighter note, if you want to see a feel-good movie run don’t walk to see “Song, Sung Blue” starring Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson.

The movie is based on a real-life husband and wife team called “Lightning and Thunder” who fronted a popular Milwaukee-based Neil Diamond tribute band in the 90s.

The performances are amazing. Jackman and Hudson have chemistry that crackles off the screen.

We saw the movie on a big screen at the Movies of Delray —still the best way to see a film despite the annoying lady three rows in front of us who couldn’t stay off her phone. That darn blue light…oy.

I’m a Believer that you should put the phone away for a few hours and not act like you’re a Solitary Man (or Woman) at the theatre.

Until next week….

 

 

 

 

 

5 January, 2026 2 2 Comments

Poetry…

January 5, 2026 By 2 Comments

I can feel a love of poetry developing.
Another late life love proving that you can grow, evolve, learn and enjoy new things at any age.

Prior to this recent development, I never really appreciated, understood or enjoyed poetry.
But I’ve always loved song lyrics. I think the best lyrics are poetry.
Springsteen is a poet.

So is Dylan.

I thought John Lennon’s lyrics were magical—”In My Life”, “Norwegian Wood” and “Strawberry Fields” transport me and millions of others to a special place of joy.

Over the weekend, we saw a production of “Both Sides Now” at the Delray Beach Playhouse. It was incredible. Truly special. The show celebrates the words and music of Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen.

When put to music, their poetry elicited tears from the audience. Only art, only poetry, can do that.

Still, conventional poetry? It’s never been my thing.
That’s beginning to change.

In the past year or so I discovered Mark Nepo, rediscovered Robert Frost and found myself seeking out poetry during particularly tough or joyful moments.
Some poems land. Some poems don’t but I find if you make an effort the poem will meet you half way.

My friend Andrea is a poet.

She has been kind enough to send me her work which is touching, funny and very relatable.
She’s involved in a group called “Poets on the Fringe” which has open mic nights at a coffeehouse in Boca. Many of the poets also share their work at Delray’s wonderful Arts Garage.

Inspired by my friend, I’ve written a few poems and one even got published last year in a poetry anthology called “Alone Together.” Seeing my poem “Sit Spot” in a book was a thrill. But I haven’t yet found the courage to stand up in public and share. I will someday—maybe. I’m not quite ready.

Recently, my friend sent me a video of her reciting her poetry at an open mic night. I was struck by the joy on her face. It made my day. I’d like to experience that feeling. So someday. Maybe.

The same friend helped me discover the work of Andrea Gibson, an amazing poet who died tragically at age 49 in 2025.

I loved reading Gibson’s poetry and I highly encourage you to seek it out. Her story is a sad one, but she did leave an amazing body of work.
I found a newsletter Gibson wrote shortly before dying. It was basically a list of things she loved.
Gibson introduced the list with a great piece of advice: “the world is heavy right now, friends. Spend some time every day reminding yourself why the world is worth saving.”
Indeed it is.

Be thankful for the people who introduce you to the poetry of life. Those brave and generous enough to share it too.

29 December, 2025 0 Comments

Looking Ahead: Notes On A New Year

December 29, 2025 By Leave a Comment

Wishing you a happy, healthy and safe new year.

Looking Ahead: Notes on a New Year

I’ve been thinking about clocks lately. How arbitrary they are. Midnight on December 31st doesn’t really change anything—the same problems we went to bed with, we wake up with on January 1st.
And yet. There’s something we need about the ritual  of turning the page, isn’t there? The permission to believe that what comes next might be different from what came before.

2025 tested that belief. For a lot of us.

The economy found its footing in ways the forecasters predicted and ways they didn’t. Inflation cooled, but not enough for the family at the grocery store doing math in their head before they reach the register. The AI revolution kept accelerating—creating efficiencies, yes, but also a quiet anxiety about what we’re becoming when machines do more of our thinking. We gained tools. I’m not sure we gained wisdom about how to use them.

In public health, we saw breakthroughs that deserve celebration—new HIV prevention options that could transform lives, childhood cancer deaths continuing to fall—and we saw trust in institutions erode in ways that make the next crisis harder to fight. The homicide rate dropped significantly in cities that had seen so much pain. That’s worth noticing. Worth saying out loud. Because good news has a way of getting lost.

What I’m looking forward to in 2026 is mostly small. Local. The places where connection actually lives.

I’m looking forward to communities continuing to figure out how to take care of each other when the systems above them can’t or won’t. Mutual aid networks. Neighbors knowing neighbors. The nonprofit sector—despite the funding whiplash and the burnout epidemic among its workers—keeps showing up. That’s not nothing. That’s everything, actually.

I’m looking forward to the arts doing what they do in uncertain times: telling the truth, holding a mirror up, reminding us we’re not alone in our confusion. Theater, especially. There’s something about sitting in a dark room with strangers, watching people work out their humanity in real time, that still matters. Maybe more now than ever.

And I’m looking forward to watching the next generation of local leaders step into roles that will test them. City councils. School boards. Community nonprofits . That’s where democracy actually lives—not in the fever dreams of cable news, but in zoning meetings and budget hearings and the hard work of showing up.

What am I wary of?

The impulse to retreat. When the world feels overwhelming, there’s a pull toward the private—my family, my bubble, my curated feed. Understandable.  But also dangerous. Democracies don’t die from dramatic coups nearly as often as they die from citizens who stop paying attention, stop participating, stop believing their voice matters.

I’m wary of the way technology is fragmenting our sense of shared reality. When we can’t agree on basic facts, we can’t solve problems together. That’s not a partisan observation—it’s a structural one.

And I’m wary of cynicism masquerading as sophistication. The easiest pose in the world is the knowing shrug, the assumption that nothing will ever change. I spent seven years in local government. I know what’s possible when people decide to show up. It’s not perfect. It’s almost never fast. But it’s real, and it matters.

So here’s what I say as we step into 2026: Stay specific. The antidote to despair isn’t optimism—it’s action. And action happens in specifics. One meeting. One relationship. One hard conversation that you’ve been avoiding.

The clock is arbitrary. But we’re not. Happy New Year.
Notes:

Condolences to the family of Dick Hasko who passed December 22.

Mr. Hasko was the long time director of environmental services for the City of Delray Beach.

I had the pleasure of working with him for seven years. I always enjoyed his company and thought Dick did an exemplary job.

Mr.  Hasko  was widely credited with starting the city’s reclaimed water program and also stepped up in a major way during the many hurricanes we faced from 2004-2006. His intimate knowledge of our aging drainage system allowed him to deftly manage the storms making sure our lift systems worked despite the stress of the storms.

He will be missed.

I was remiss in not mentioning the loss of Betty Diggans a few weeks back.

A legendary Delray businesswoman and downtown advocate, Ms. Diggans was widely known and universally loved. She will be remembered and missed by all who knew and loved her.

Next Page »