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.

22 December, 2025 0 Comments

Front Row Blues

December 22, 2025 By Leave a Comment

The opposite of “Bob Uecker” seats. If you know, you know.

A few weeks ago, we went to the Fern Street Theatre in West Palm Beach to see the delightful play “Dear Jack, Dear Louise.”

I’m a fan of the playwright Ken Ludwig so when I saw that the theatre department at Palm Beach Atlantic University was producing one of his works I jumped on it and snagged tickets in the front row.
I thought it was great. The actors, singers and dancers in this amazing production were a few feet from us. I felt like we were in my living room.
My partner wasn’t as thrilled. She will go nameless, but I was advised “please, no more front row seats.”
This puzzled me. I mean we just had a wow experience enhanced—I thought— by our proximity to the performers.
So I asked why and was told that being too close made it impossible to zone out, cough, etc.
Fair enough. That’s honest. And next time I will shoot for second row seats but it got me thinking.
Isn’t it the point to pay attention?
For me, one of the pleasures of live performance is it places me in the moment and I stay there.
When I’m at home watching Netflix, I’m often scrolling on my phone, nodding off, playing with the dogs and generally daydreaming.
But at the theatre I’m in it. I’m listening. I’m watching. I’m off the phone and if the play is doing its job I’m in the story.
I find it a great respite. My phone, full of texts, emails and notifications will be there waiting for me when the show is over.
Attention is what I love about theatre.
At a time when distraction is constant and authenticity feels scarce, the theatre remains one of the last places where we must show up fully, listen closely and connect honestly.
Count me in!
Magic happens when we show up.
Knowing this, I recently gave myself a challenge. 
Let me see if I could pay attention at home, in my comfortable chair, with a chihuahua on my lap and a golden retriever staring at me with a toy in her mouth begging for yet another game of tug of war. 
I’m proud to say I did it! 
I started with the amazing Beatles Anthology documentary on Disney Plus. 
I saw it 30 plus years ago and had forgotten how amazing it was. As a lifelong Beatles fan, I was cheating a little bit. I mean it’s not hard for me to immerse myself in the music and the story of my favorite band. The songs remain sublime. The charisma of John, Paul, George and Ringo radiates off the screen and the story itself is remarkable. So much amazing footage to enjoy , so many songs that just make you feel good. Breathtaking…
Now Disney Plus, at least my version, has a lot of ads. And so I was able to indulge the dogs, check my phone and lose four games of tug of war while the ads ran. 
Armed with the confidence that I could pay attention to the content if I really put my mind to it, I upped the ante and rented one of my favorite movies while my anonymous entertainment partner was out at a party last week. 
I ordered the 1979 movie “Starting Over” starring Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, Candice Bergen and one of my favorites Charles Durning. 
“Starting Over” is a criminally underrated romantic comedy and I’m pleased to report the movie holds up despite being 46 years old. 
It’s funny, touching and I’ve been a fan of Burt Reynolds for decades. When I was a cub reporter I did a story about the Burt Reynolds ranch and met his dad Burt Sr. A year later, I interviewed Burt himself when he filmed an episode of B.L. Stryker at the Cathcart House (now part of Sundy Village) on Swinton Avenue. What a thrill! I got to meet and interview Burt and his co-star Maureen Stapleton. He was gracious once he was convinced that I wasn’t working for the National Enquirer which was just up the road in Lantana. 
Anyway, I made it through “Starting Over” without any commercial breaks. It helps that I’ve had a crush on Jill Clayburgh since “Silver Streak” and once clipped her picture out of Newsday because I thought she looked like the girl I liked in English class. When I presented the photo to the young woman after class, she looked at me funny. I think she was insulted. Turns out, my Jill look alike grew up to be a prominent prosecutor. Here’s hoping the statute of limitations on poor flirting strategies has passed. 
But I digress; the point is paying attention is possible. It’s hard, but still doable. 
It just takes a front row seat, or Beatles music or great stars acting in a beautifully written story with music by Marvin Hamlisch. 
Now if I can just make it through a Giants game.

Wishing all of you a wonderful Christmas season.
“The earth has grown old with its burden of care, but at Christmas it always is young.”

—Phillips Brooks

15 December, 2025 0 Comments

An Extraordinary Life

December 15, 2025 By Leave a Comment

An extraordinary life

On Saturday, I was honored to speak at a celebration of life for Tony Allerton, a civic giant who passed in September.
Tony was uncomfortable with the word legend, but that’s what he was and still is, because his good works will outlive him and all of us.
I was asked by a few folks who couldn’t attend the event at the Drug Abuse Foundation to post my remarks. Here they are.

 

My heart goes out to Tony’s family and the thousands of friends he made during his extraordinary life. It is a great honor to speak about his impact today.

Tony’s loss leaves a void…we are blessed to have known him, but we miss him terribly. We always will.

This has been a year of loss—the Delray Beach community lost several bright lights in 2025, people whose spirit made this place so special. Tony Allerton was one of those people. He was so special and his light burned bright.

Tony was a “get it done kind of guy” and we need these people. They are the people who move the needle….the people who ensure progress, the people who enrich and save lives.

And so when I think of Tony and how we can cope with the grief we feel, I think there’s an arc we can follow….gratitude, remembrance, testimony, legacy and blessing.

And those are the five things I want to leave you with today…

At his essence, Tony Allerton was a man who exuded optimism, love, empathy, and care. In a world that can often feel hard, cynical, even unkind, Tony stood tall and stood out. He was someone you could always count on to find a way forward, a way toward a better future—a path toward grace.

He lived 97 years, that’s a good run. but for people like Tony… it never feels like enough time. He leaves a void in so many lives, but he also leaves a legacy of hope, compassion, understanding, and belief in others that will ripple through this community for generations.

 

If that sounds like an exaggeration, then you didn’t know Tony. All of us here, we knew Tony.  We know Tony didn’t just touch lives—he transformed them.

One of the great privileges of my life was getting to call Tony a friend for nearly 40 years. And when you’re my age, it’s not every day you get to share lunch with someone 36 years your senior—especially when that someone is a local legend.

 

Earlier this year, I had the honor of having lunch with Tony at Granger’s. We were deep in conversation—grilled cheese sandwiches, stories of Delray through the decades, old memories—when a gentleman walked across the restaurant, grabbed our check, and thanked Tony for a lifetime of good deeds.

Isn’t that beautiful?

That happened everywhere Tony went.

Gratitude followed him like a shadow.

 

During that lunch, as we talked about the past—about his arrival in Delray in the 1950s, about the people he’d known and the mayors he’d worked with, I noticed something extraordinary. While we reminisced, Tony didn’t live in the past. He honored it, yes, but his heart beat for the future.

 

At 97 years old, Tony was still raising money for Crossroads, still searching for ways to help more people recover, still dreaming up what was next.

That’s what legends do.

They wake up with purpose.

They live to serve.

Tony understood recovery because it was his struggle too. And because of that, he became a beacon—a model of what’s possible when someone chooses a life of sobriety, service, and dignity.

 

The word recovery carries enormous weight in Delray Beach. Over the years, we’ve seen tremendous compassion—and, sadly, we’ve also seen fear, intolerance, even cruelty. While we’ve been called a welcoming community. We’ve also heard people use the ugliest words to describe those who come here to heal.

But through it all, Tony never wavered.

He never stopped caring.

He never gave in to anger.

He never lost hope.

He responded to darkness with light.

He met judgment with kindness.

He met despair with possibility.

That’s rare.

That’s heroic.

That’s Tony.

Some of the very best people I’ve met in my 38 years in Delray came here to recover. Many stayed. Many built successful lives. Many are community leaders today. And Tony played a role in every one of those stories because he believed, fundamentally and ferociously, in people.

 

His civic résumé alone is breathtaking—Delray Beach Playhouse, Rotary Club, Lake Ida Property Owners Association—but his truest, deepest work was with the Crossroads Club, the nonprofit he led for more than four decades, quietly saving lives every single day.

 

Thousands of people owe their sobriety, their second chance, their dignity to Tony’s steadfast leadership.

I will never forget the day he walked into my office at City Hall after I was elected to the Commission in 2000. He told me Crossroads needed a new home—somewhere out of the path of downtown’s progress, somewhere with parking, somewhere to grow.

 

And then he said the line I’ll never forget:

 

“When we shut the lights downtown, we need to be turning them on in the new building.”

The message was clear:

People are counting on us.

Meetings can’t be missed.

Lives are at stake.

 

He said it once with that warm smile… and then again, leaning forward, with that Tony intensity that made you sit up straighter.

We got the message.

And that’s exactly what happened. Lights down, lights up. He loved telling that story and I loved hearing it.

 

Tony’s wisdom, compassion, courage, and clarity guided so many of us—me included.

 

We are told, as leaders, that people are replaceable. And in many aspects of life, I suppose that’s true. But I’m here to testify:

There will never be another Tony.

You can’t go to the shelf and pluck out another leader with his heart, his humility, his joy, his fight.

But here’s the part that gives me comfort:

People like Tony live on.

His legacy is alive in every person he helped recover.

It’s alive in every life saved, every meeting attended, every family restored.

It’s alive in the thousands of ripples of good he set in motion.

 

There are people doing remarkable things today because Tony once believed in them. There are children growing up with sober parents because Tony gave someone the courage to walk through the doors of Crossroads. There are men and women who found grace, purpose, and redemption because Tony was there to show them the way.

Those ripples endure.

They always will.

I’m grateful to my friend Steve English for making sure I had one last lunch with Tony. It was a gift. A blessing. A moment I will hold close for the rest of my life.

To Tony’s family—your loss is profound, and my heart is with you. But what an extraordinary blessing it is to have loved and been loved by such a man.

And to all of us who were touched by his life:

Tony was a bright light.

And that bright light will continue to burn bright.

It lives in us now.

It is our turn to carry it forward.

Thank you.

 

8 December, 2025 2 2 Comments

Old Friends, Bookends

December 8, 2025 By 2 Comments

Technology–in this case–has strengthened the bond.

Regular readers know that since Covid, I have been participating on twice monthly calls with a rotating set of old friends.

We meet via Zoom every other Wednesday evening to spend an hour or two with people we have known for 50 plus years.

What started as a way to cope with the pandemic, has turned into an important ritual for a set of guys who grew up on Eastern Long Island in the 70s and 80s. We are now in our 60s.

A recent call had a smaller than usual contingent of participants. It’s the holidays—people travel for business and have busy social calendars. But in 5 years of wonderful, fun, lively and enjoyable conversations, this call may have been at or near the top. At least it was for me.

I won’t betray the confidence of my buddies and disclose the contents of the conversation, but it was deep and special in a way that you can only find with people you know and trust for a long time.

It ended with a discussion about friendship itself, the loneliness epidemic in America and how our kids’ experiences have been so different from ours.

We concluded that we grew up in a golden age. We weren’t captured by screens, algorithms, smart phones, social media and endless distractions designed to keep us swiping, clicking, viewing and scrolling.

We played video games—Pacman, Super Mario Bros—but we were together in arcades with other kids fishing for quarters in our Levis before heading outside to shoot hoops or play stickball.

It sounds trite, but if you could hit a Spalding (and if you have to ask what a Spalding is, I can’t help you) over the Linger’s house across the street you felt like Babe Ruth. It didn’t hurt that when you went to retrieve the ball –if you were lucky—you might run into one of the Linger sisters—always a treat.

Ahhh memories.

Anyway, we know that what we have is rare and precious. Americans—especially men, especially young men are lonely. There is a brand new #1 best selling book on the subject by Scott Galloway, a popular podcaster and NYU marketing professor.

The book, “Notes on Being A Man” is a treatise on everything ailing young men: suicide, depression, lack of purpose, disengagement.

The stats are stark and dark:

Young men are 4x as likely to die by suicide, 3x more likely to suffer an addiction or homelessness, 12x more likely to be incarcerated and men are dropping out of college at higher rates creating a 33:66 male/female grad ratio. On the social front, the news is also grim.

Here’s a stunner: 45 percent of 18-25 year -olds have never approached a woman in person. Wow.

People need purpose, relationships and mentors, Galloway posits. And today, they are lacking all three.

My generation had all three.

We believed dreams were possible, we had friendships and many of us had career and life mentors who changed our lives.

My friends on the call agreed that we grew up during a magical time in a magical place. Of course, it wasn’t all laughs. There were heartbreaks, there were family issues, there were friendships that didn’t last and career hurdles we didn’t see coming. Two of our friends jumped into pools senior year and broke their necks. One survived, one didn’t.

When I talk to these guys, I see two faces on the Zoom call. I see my friends at their present age, with thinning hair (or no hair) and I still see the kids I hung out with. They were good athletes, funny, smart and very Long Island. I mean we went at each other in a particular way that is hard to explain unless you were there. We looked for any and all openings and we pounced. I think it toughened us up. But we knew it was all good fun. We knew, then and now, that we were the guys who had each other’s backs no matter what.

I never felt alone. Ever.

Still, after this call I became curious as to why we’ve been able to maintain these relationships through the decades, through the miles and the fact that we don’t see each other for years at a time. I mean we haven’t been a part of each other’s daily routines since 1982.

I asked the guys on the call for their thoughts. Why us? How did this last?

I’m not sure we know.

The guys grew up to be amazing men. Great dads, husbands, in short it’s a band of mensches. I’m proud of these guys—everyone one of them. Well, most of them. Sorry I couldn’t resist.

Sure, we have a lot in common, we do share a common history. We know each other’s families, we know about old girlfriends, favorite teachers and we had a lot of memorable adventures. All that helps, but I’m not sure it fully explains the magic of enduring friendship.

Some guys rotate in and out—but they are always welcomed back. And they know that they can call any of us in the wee hours and we would move mountains to be there with whatever was needed.

I’m doubly blessed, because I have my old buddies and I’ve made incredible friends who I can see on a regular basis.

The night after our call, I went to Hyde Park in Atlantic Crossing, with two of those guys Randy and Scott. We sat in this lovely restaurant and thoroughly enjoyed the company and the conversation. Of course, I told them about “the call” and asked them what they thought the secret sauce was to old friendships that last.

They had an answer, and it made some sense.

We went through ‘The Wonder Years’ together, the “new” friends opined. That means a lot.

The Wonder Years, once a great TV show, has become a term that describes the sheer magic of growing up. A time of discovery, adventure, fun, goofiness, innocence, curiosity and coming of age joy.

I shared my wonder years with these great guys who are now scattered throughout America. We developed a bond—dreaming of the future while having a great time growing up and goofing off.

From the 70s to the 2020s, they’ve been a constant. We are in it, happily, for the duration. And I’m thankful. I also realize that these too are wonder years and I treasure every moment.

 

 

 

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