13 April, 2026 2 2 Comments

What Happens When We Stop The Presses

April 13, 2026 By 2 Comments

April 9 was Local News Day in America.

As a former journalist, I still subscribe to newspapers, blogs and social media feeds that cover the state of the industry. They talk about the work. They typically don’t celebrate, because frankly there’s not much to celebrate.

Newspapers have been hit hard — real hard — by the Internet. Artificial intelligence poses yet another threat, siphoning off the web traffic that already-dwindling ad revenue depends on. These trends lead to cuts in local newsrooms, and when that happens, we lose something very important: our ability to be informed, to connect, to understand the issues and to make good decisions.

Good journalism holds those in power accountable. Strong local reporting builds community pride, because when you tell the stories of people trying to make a difference, it serves as an impetus for involvement and connection. That ultimately makes for closer, more resilient communities.

At its best, local news serves as the equivalent of the office water cooler — a place we could go to learn what was happening at City Hall, at our schools, in sports, business and culture. It was one of those coveted “third places” where a community could gather around shared information and actually talk to each other. What a concept.

Much of it has gone away. And we are left sorting through the slop served to us by billionaire gatekeepers. Yuck.

Give me the days when the local publisher and editor lived down the street, showed up at Chamber meetings, had breakfast at The Green Owl and sat through long city commission meetings so they could soak up the flavor of the community they were part of.

I think of how much people will miss about their communities if there is nobody there to tell its stories. Consider our own Delray Beach. All the wonderful characters who came here and wrote chapters.

I think about the people who shaped this town as I travel its streets.

When I pull across Lake Ida Road and drive by the Achievement Center for Children & Families I think of its founder Nancy Hurd. Barely 5 feet tall, Nancy built an early childhood learning center that started in a church and grew into a national model. Nancy was a force of nature. I adored her and I relished telling her story as a reporter for the Delray Times in the 80s and 90s.

The center did such a great job that Governor Lawton Chiles came to visit and see for himself. “Walkin Lawton” they called him. He reminded me of Abe Lincoln. The visit was tightly choreographed. But Nancy made sure I had an exclusive with the Governor. We weren’t the biggest paper in the market, but she appreciated our desire to tell her story with care and depth. She took care of me and thousands of others.

As I head east to Swinton and south to my  office, I drive by St. Paul’s Episcopal Church where my friend Father Chip Stokes used to serve before becoming the Bishop of New Jersey. Chip was an early leader in race relations, a calm port in any storm. Chip is a quiet leader who cares deeply for people, especially those new to America who came here seeking opportunity.

Newspapers covered his ministry. And we were better off  for knowing about his work.

If not for local newspapers, we would not have known about all the volunteers who worked for our police department. Back in the day, we read about all the World War II veterans who retired to Florida and decided to volunteer their time as Citizens on Patrol.

I remember reading and writing stories about Leo Erbstein. Major Erbstein as he was known, with his handlebar mustache, sharp sense of humor, and deep commitment to helping our police department was a larger-than-life character. Unforgettable.

A few weeks ago, I went to see my friend Shelly Pittleman hold court at the Weisman  Community Center in West Delray.

On Fridays, Shelly packs the room with seniors for a program he calls “Positively Pittleman.” He reads news stories, riffs on current events and invites guest speakers to share their stories.

It was wonderful to witness. Just pure magic. And I thought, this should be in a community newspaper. Everyone should know about this program and about Shelly who spends just about every waking moment volunteering in the community.

Yes, we miss a lot when we lose our storytellers.

Yeah, yeah, I know that sometimes journalists get it wrong. As a former elected official, I used to get angry when reporters missed the mark. But they are not the enemy of the people, in many ways, community journalism was the glue that bound us together.

There are many reasons why we feel estranged from one another: divisive politics, the dangerous algorithms that keep us angry, too much time in front of screens. All of it contributes to the toxicity we experience. But I believe the diminishment of local journalism is also a reason for our estrangement — maybe more than we realize.

Strong local news builds strong communities. It’s just that simple.

But local journalism costs money, and the advertising and subscription model isn’t cutting it anymore. I think part of the answer is philanthropy. That’s not easy either, because local news — while critically important — is competing against an ocean of good causes.

Still, I maintain we are at risk when stories go untold, when local officials look around and see that nobody is watching, and when issues go uncovered.

We are at a critical juncture in Palm Beach County. A stunning amount of news is happening all at once. West Palm Beach is becoming a major city before our eyes. Financial titans are pouring into the county to set up offices. Real estate is changing rapidly. Technology is transforming our lives and our society, and while that’s exciting, there are troubling things to be concerned about.

Right now, much of it is going unreported or underreported. That puts us in peril.

Journalism may not solve these issues, but it shines a light on them. And when that light dims — or is doused — we all lose.

Loss of an artistic giant

We got the new sad news over the weekend that Lou Tyrell, a titan of local theater passed away suddenly and unexpectedly.

Lou was the founding director of Theatre Lab on the campus of FAU and served as an Eminent Scholar in the Arts at the university.

Lou was well known and highly regarded in the local arts community. Theatre Lab is a treasure. If you haven’t attended, I highly recommend that you do.

In honor of Lou’s life and contributions, Theatre Lab is dedicating the 2026 Owl New Play Festival, which opened this weekend, to his memory.

I was recently back in touch with Lou. I got to know him when he was involved in Delray’s Arts Garage some years ago.

We reconnected when I started writing plays. He was a kind man, generous with his time and knowledge.

He will be deeply missed by all those who knew him. But his influence will last.

 

 

 

 

6 April, 2026 23 23 Comments

We May Never Pass This Way Again

April 6, 2026 By 23 Comments

When I heard that Dash Crofts had died at 85, I was reminded of something unsettling.

 

The music stays. We don’t.

 

Crofts, half of Seals & Crofts, was part of the soundtrack of my youth—though I hadn’t thought about him, or them, in years. Their songs weren’t always front and center. They lived in the background, floating through long summer days, woven into moments that felt ordinary at the time but permanent in memory.

 

“Summer Breeze makes me feel fine, blowin’ through the jasmine in my mind.”

 

When I hear that lyric now, I’m back at a pool club in Stony Brook, New York. Endless summers. Families spending entire days together. Kids chasing tennis balls across hot pavement. The steady click-clack of mahjong tiles. A line at the snack bar for cold Sprites. Music pouring out of oversized boom boxes, filling the air without asking for attention.

 

No one checked a phone. There was nowhere else to be.

 

“See the smile awaitin’ in the kitchen

Food cookin’ and the plates for two

Feel the arms that reach out to hold me

In the evening, when the day is through.”

 

The song reaches across decades to a version of home that no longer exists except in fragments. A feeling more than a place.

 

For me, Seals & Crofts were never just songs. They were markers—quiet signposts along the road.

 

One of them was “Fair Share,” which I first heard in the movie “One on One.” I was 13 when it came out. I took a date to see it at the Smith Haven Mall. We sat side by side, eyes locked on the screen, both too afraid to look at each other.

 

For two hours, we stared straight ahead afraid to look at each other. 

 

My eyes never moved. Neither did hers.

 

When the credits rolled, we walked out the same way we walked in. 

 

One of many missed moments that were still to come.

 

And yet, those were the days.

 

Another Seals & Crofts song, “We May Never Pass This Way Again,” carries a different memory. I was in my dorm at college, standing in the hallway of Hart Hall, watching three young women singing at the top of their lungs into hairbrushes, using them as microphones. Behind them, a window framed Lake Ontario in all its quiet magnitude.

 

They were graduating, I was staying.  Life was just beginning for all of us. The road ahead felt long and wide and full of possibility.

 

I married one of those women.

 

It didn’t last. But that’s not the point. I have many fond memories and that was one of them. 

 

We believed we’d always find our way back—to Oswego, to that hallway, to that version of ourselves.

 

We didn’t.

 

We visited once or twice. But not in the way we imagined. Not with the same feeling. And then, somehow, 40 years passed.

 

And so it goes.

 

Life fills up. Kids, jobs, deadlines, obligations. The days become structured, then crowded, then gone.

 

“We may never pass this way again” isn’t just a lyric. It’s a truth that reveals itself slowly, then all at once.

 

I’m reminded of a line from one of my favorite shows “The Office.”

 

“I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”

 

We never do know. Not really.

 

The moments that feel small—the ones we barely notice—are the ones that stay. The background music. The laughter from across a room. The way the light came through a window at a particular time of day.

 

Last week, Paul McCartney released a new song at 83. It’s called “Days We Left Behind.” It’s beautiful, classic Paul. And in it, he sings:

 

“Nothing ever stays…

No one can erase the days we left behind.”

 

Nothing lasts forever.

 

Not summers.

Not songs drifting from a boom box.

Not the people we thought we’d always be.

 

But the memories—somehow—do.

30 March, 2026 4 4 Comments

To Theatre With Love

March 30, 2026 By 4 Comments

Some theatres are grand, some are bland, but all are magical.

“The arts have a higher purpose. They are here to enrich our lives, expand our vision, enlighten our world, challenge our reality, enable our core beliefs, improve our humanity, activate our imaginations, and to bring into the world that which could not exist but through this vision, talent and invention of artists.” – David Rainey, founder Studio for Actors Houston.

The theater was standing room only.

Every seat taken, every inch of space claimed by people who had driven over, walked over, struggled to find parking — and made their way inside to watch something that had no algorithm behind it, no streaming subscription, no skip button. Just people, on a stage, doing the thing humans have been doing for thousands of years: telling stories to other humans in the same room.

This was Sea Shorts, produced by the Lauderdale by the Sea Players — a community theater festival that just wrapped its tenth year.

Two weekends, six performances, nine short plays, and a company made up entirely of volunteers.

Every actor, every director, every person who schlepped a set piece or adjusted a light or handed out a program: doing it for love. Nothing more, nothing less. Love.  That’s the secret sauce. There is nothing that comes close.

I had two plays in the festival this year — “Love After Love” and “Time Table.”

Being selected was an honor. I was genuinely moved by this production. Not because of anything I wrote. Because of what happened in that room.

What Community Theater Actually Is

There’s a tendency to use the phrase “community theater” with a slight wince — a polite softening, as if to say: “it’s not the real thing but isn’t it sweet”. That instinct is completely wrong, and Sea Shorts dismantled it in about ninety minutes flat.

The actors were charming, funny, and talented. The directors made real choices. The audience laughed in exactly the right places, went quiet in exactly the right places, and gave the kind of sustained, full-room applause that you can’t manufacture. That’s art and passion meeting community.  It’s electric.

This is what theater was always meant to be — not a luxury for those who can afford the ticket, but a gathering place for everyone.

Why It Matters More Right Now

We are living through a strange and fractured moment. Economic anxiety is real. Social trust is fraying. We spend enormous portions of our lives staring at screens that are specifically engineered to outrage us, isolate us, and keep us scrolling. In that context, the act of sitting in a room full of strangers — laughing together, tearing up together, startled by the same moment — is not a small thing. It feeds your soul.

Theater doesn’t let you look away. It doesn’t offer a comment section. It puts a human being a few feet in front of you and asks you to pay attention, to feel something, to be moved. And here’s what I watched happen at Sea Shorts: an audience of people sat together and shared the same emotional experience. For those ninety minutes or so, they were one room. One community. That’s magic by the sea.

The People Who Make It Happen

I want to say something about the volunteers who produce festivals like Sea Shorts, because they don’t always get their due. These are people who hold day jobs, manage families, navigate the ordinary chaos of adult life — and then show up to rehearsals on weeknights, haul set pieces on weekends, and pour themselves into the work because they believe in it.

That’s a serious commitment.

That’s love.

And the result is not some lesser version of theater. It is theater, in the fullest and most honest sense of the word.

The Lauderdale by the Sea Players have been building something real for a decade. Sea Shorts in its tenth year isn’t a happy accident — it’s the result of hundreds of people, over hundreds of rehearsal hours, choosing to invest in something that belongs to their community.

What This Does for a Playwright

I came to Sea Shorts as a writer. I left as a believer. It happened to me at the Delray Beach Playhouse as well. And when I travelled to Columbus, Ohio to share a story that happened here in Delray.

There is a particular kind of joy that comes from hearing a room full of people laugh at something you wrote or watching them lean forward in their seats because they want to know what happens next. It’s humbling and thrilling in equal measure. But more than that — more than any personal satisfaction — I was moved by the simple fact of the gathering itself.

That’s what theater does. It gathers us. It says: come be in this room, with these people, for this hour. Leave your phone in your pocket. Pay attention. You might feel something you haven’t felt in a while. You might look over at the stranger sitting next to you and realize you’re both crying, or both laughing, and in that moment, you are not strangers at all.

 

That’s the power of local theater. That’s why it matters. That’s why we need it — maybe now more than ever.

If there’s a community theater near you, go. Buy a ticket. Or find a volunteer night and show up with a willingness to work. You’ll be surprised what’s waiting for you inside that room.

Remembering

We lost two fine people recently that I wanted to remember in this space.

Sonya Costin was a close friend of our family, a fixture in Delray Beach for decades and an all around wonderful person.

She was married to her Seacrest High School sweetheart former City Commissioner Bob Costin. The duo ran Costin’s Flowers & Gifts in downtown Delray for over 45 years.

Bob and Sonya used to joke that they were downtown before downtown was cool.

How true that was.

Bob and I hit it off while serving on the Commission together and we became close to Sonya as a result. That meant dinners out (mostly Longhorn and Il Girasol) and time together during holidays. We even went to a destination wedding together in Florence, Italy and to Lake Tahoe together.

We have nothing but fond memories of the Costin’s. We lost Bob a few years back. I miss him and think of him often.

Bob and Sonya enjoyed time in their “chalet” on Lake Burton in Georgia and went all over the country in their prized Bluebird Wanderlodge.

Sonya was a teacher and a graduate of FSU. She encouraged my daughter who went into education.

Memorial contributions may be made to the Achievement Centers for Children & Families, 555 Northwest 4th Street, Delray Beach, FL 33444, visit www.AchievementCentersFL.org for more information.

Sonya will be missed by all those who knew her.

We also send our condolences to the family of Ivan Ladizinsky who passed March 12 at age 92.

Ivan served as the city Public Information Officer during my term in office. We worked on annual reports, town hall meetings, newsletters etc., during that time. He came to us after a distinguished career in TV where he nurtured the careers of Ted Koppel and Charles Osgood. He was a kind and gentle man.

We wish his wife Karen and four children solace during this difficult time.

 

 

 

23 March, 2026 10 10 Comments

Driving Around These Parts…

March 23, 2026 By 10 Comments

I try not to be a scorekeeper.

I really try.

But lately I’ve been keeping score of how many near misses I experience while driving to and from work in downtown Delray Beach.

Last week, the score was 14 near misses, that’s more than two a day since I work 5 days a week. Mind you, I work three miles from my home. And I don’t go anywhere near I-95 when I “commute.”

It’s gotten dangerous around here my friends. I know I’m not alone in that assessment.

I thought I’d share my experience in the spirit of—oh OK—venting.

I’m calling this essay “Surviving Delray Beach: A Driver’s Field Guide to Urban Combat”.

Let me be clear: there are many things to recommend about Delray. The restaurants, the vibe, the ocean — all magnificent. But the moment you get behind the wheel anywhere near Atlantic Avenue, you are no longer a driver. You are a contestant. Welcome to the game. Nobody told you the rules because there aren’t any.

Here’s a field guide to some of the hazards you’re likely to encounter.

The Pedestrians Who Don’t Need Traffic Signals

 

Somewhere along the way, the crosswalk signal became advisory in Delray. Merely a “suggestion”, like the “suggested donation” at a museum — acknowledged, considered, and promptly ignored.

 

The Delray pedestrian does not wait for the little white walking man to appear. That little white walking man is for other people. People from, I don’t know, Ohio.

Instead, our Delray pedestrian steps into the street with the serene confidence of someone who has already made peace with their mortality and is just trying to get to City Oyster before it gets crowded.

 

They don’t look at you. That’s the key detail. They look through you or at their phones. You are the obstacle. They are the destination. You will wait.

 

And you know what? You do. Because they’re already halfway across the street anyway and it’s too late to honk. But oh is it tempting.

 

 

The Green Light: A Color That Has Lost All Meaning

 

Here is something the Florida Department of Transportation did not account for when they engineered traffic signals: the smartphone.

 

The light turns green. You wait. Nothing happens. You wait some more. Still nothing. You begin to wonder if you’ve died and this is your personal purgatory — a stretch of Atlantic Avenue or Swinton that never actually moves. Then, gently, almost apologetically, the car in front of you lurches forward because the driver has finally — finally — concluded whatever they were doing on their phone.

 

What were they doing? Nobody knows. Texting? Checking Instagram? Reading a deeply important email from a local blogger?  Making a stock trade? Rewatching a TikTok they’ve already watched twice?

The content doesn’t matter. What matters is that the light has now been green for eleven seconds and you have collectively traveled four feet.

The technical term for this is “distracted driving.” The local term is “Tuesday.”

 

Federal Highway: Now Featuring Bonus Lanes Going In Both Directions

 

Federal Highway is a road running straight through the heart of Delray. It has clearly marked lanes, clearly marked directions, and a meaningful percentage of drivers who are operating in complete defiance of both.

 

I do not know what causes someone to decide that the southbound lanes are, for their purposes, northbound. I have theories. Maybe their GPS gave up. Maybe they’re from a country where this is standard. Maybe they’ve simply been to Too Many Brunches and things got directionally fuzzy after a few mimosas. Whatever the cause, the effect is the same: a car coming straight at you in a lane you were reasonably certain was yours.

The correct response is to brake, swerve gently, and take several deep breaths. The tempting response is to ask, loudly and alone in your car, what on earth is happening. Both responses are valid. Neither fixes the problem.

 

The E-Bike: Safety Optional

 

The electric bike has transformed Delray Beach. People who once would have had to interact with traffic only occasionally can now interact with it constantly and at surprising speeds.

 

The Delray e-bike rider operates in a fascinating middle space between bicyclist and vehicle — subject to the laws of neither, governed only by an invisible code of risk taking. They will dart out of a side street without looking. They will cut across two lanes while on a phone call. They will appear, fully formed, from between two parked cars as if conjured by the universe specifically to test your reflexes.

 

And they are fast. This is the part that catches you. You expect a bicycle. You get a bicycle that has had a very important conversation with electricity, and the result is a two-wheeled projectile doing 25 mph through a gap that a sensible person would not walk through.

 

They also usually get away with their daredevil behavior. E-bike riders in Delray have developed a kind of chaos immunity. It’s impressive, honestly. Infuriating, but impressive.

 

The Guy on the Regular Bike Downtown

 

There is one specific man — and I believe it is always the same guy, though I cannot prove this — who rides a regular bicycle through downtown Delray as though he is auditioning for a role in a film about a person who has never seen traffic before.

 

He weaves. A lot.

Left, right, then left again, threading through moving cars with the unhurried grace of someone who decided long ago that traffic lanes are aesthetic rather than functional. He has no helmet. He may or may not have hands on the handlebars — this varies by observation. He is relaxed in a way that triggers something primal in everyone watching him.

Cars swerve. Drivers gasp. And he glides on, indifferent, peaceful, somehow always fine.

I think he might be a kind of civic spirit. A guardian of chaos. Delray’s answer to the sphinx — a riddle at the center of things, never fully explicable, always present.

 

A Word of Encouragement

 

Here’s the thing: once you accept that driving in Delray Beach is participatory theater, it becomes almost enjoyable. Almost.

You stop fighting the pedestrians and start marveling at their boldness. You stop being annoyed at the green-light daydreamers and start appreciating that we live somewhere leisurely enough that people can afford to be that distracted. You start clocking e-bike riders the way birdwatchers clock birds — oh, there’s another one, look at him go.

Federal Highway wrong-way drivers remain inexcusable. I can’t spin that one.

But the rest of it? It’s Delray. It’s loud, slightly unhinged, and completely itself. Buckle up, pay attention, and for the love of all that is good, do not assume that a green light means go.

 

It means probably go—just as soon as the driver in front of you looks up from their phone.

Note: The author survived the writing of this piece and three trips down Atlantic Avenue this weekend.

16 March, 2026 3 3 Comments

The Art of Community

March 16, 2026 By 3 Comments

Kerry Koen was more than a fire chief, he was a leader, teacher, mentor and role model.

This time of year, I always think about the events of February/March 2005 when Jerrod Miller, a Delray Beach teenager was shot and killed outside the Delray Full Service Center by an off-duty police officer working security at a school dance.

I was mayor at the time.

I have a file of emails I received around this time—the good, the bad and the ugly.

Last week, I opened an old email from Kerry Koen, my friend who passed away last year. Kerry was fire chief at the time. He was a wonderful chief and an even better man. I miss him terribly.

We were still sifting through the wreckage of the shooting—the anger, grief, shock etc. when Kerry took the time to send me a short but kind and thoughtful email. He was that kind of guy; sensitive, smart, a man with a big heart and an unquenching desire to learn and share his thoughts. I loved that about him.  I miss our phone calls and meet ups where he would share what he learned with me. Those calls and get togethers continued decades after we stopped working together. They continued until hours before his death. He was a teacher and he taught me and others right up until his last breath.

In the email, Kerry told me had attended a graveside service at the Delray Beach Cemetery to support two of his fire department employees who lost a family member. Kerry was always there for his people, his door and his heart were always open.

Delray was still raw a few weeks after the Jerrod Miller shooting. It was a fraught time.

Kerry had a special relationship with Zack Straghn, a local leader, civil rights icon and businessman.

They met frequently at Donnie’s on 5th Avenue for coffee and conversation.

When Zack passed away, Kerry was grief stricken. Although struggling with his own health issues, Kerry championed a plaque at the beach to honor Zack.

Mr. Straghn fought for and achieved access for people of color at our municipal beach. It was a fitting tribute. Kerry organized a committee, raised money and oversaw the design and wording of the tribute. I urge you to visit it near the pavilion. It’s beautiful.

In the email, Kerry shared that he had run into Zack at the cemetery. Two old friends. Two people who loved and respected each other.

But as I mentioned, it was a tense time. The death of Jerrod Miller exposed old issues that have bedeviled Delray Beach and frankly our nation since our founding.

And the wounds were fresh…we were still struggling to make sense of what happened, still struggling to find a way forward.

Kerry noted that he was at the funeral not as chief, but  as a friend as a  “little part of a big Delray family.”

I was struck by Kerry’s use of the word family. It resonated with me. It speaks to what we all long for when we seek belonging, when we seek community.

I don’t think it’s a  betrayal of Kerry’s memory to share his thoughts. In fact, we talked about it toward the end of his life. Kerry supported my writing and he was a muse of mine. He knew that and I think he liked being one. He often pitched me topics to write and think about.

Also, as a teacher, I know he wouldn’t mind me sharing what he learned and so generously shared with me as a young mayor at the time struggling mightily with the pain the city’s family was feeling in the wake of losing a teenager with his whole life ahead of him. Here’s what he wrote.

“After the service, Zack and I were standing about 50-60 feet away from the crowd.  We sorta grabbed each other and both seemed to want to say something to the other.  Zack said all that needed to be said… “I know what we have been through, but I’ll tell everyone I know the same thing ….”Delray isn’t a bad town… it just isn’t” ……  We both seemed satisfied…. knowing this whole thing will be worked through because of the sprit and love in the hearts of individual Delray folks and the greater, community family.

I deeply believe that in the final analysis, Delray people will step up to the plate and deal with Delray’s issues….because Delray is  that kind of place, and “it isn’t a bad town…it just isn’t”.

This is the definition of community. People connecting with each other over the long haul, through the ups and downs, in triumph and in tragedy, through our differences which are many and inevitable we find common ground. We connect, we sometimes disagree and if we keep an open heart we can come together again because we have built a reservoir of good will.

At this funeral, Zack and Kerry reconnected in the wake of Jerrod Miller’s death. Just two old friends, with lots of respect for each other, wanting to reach across the divide and just be people.

We’ve lost some of that in our society, but it’s there, waiting to be tapped if we want it. It’s still there. And if we need reminding we can just go to the well and find it again.

Kerry mentioned in the email the family’s faith that “someday ….in the fullness of G-d’s time, they know they will all be united again.”

Amen. We’re counting on that.

Alfred “Zack” Straghn was a leader, mentor and inspiration.

 

9 March, 2026 2 2 Comments

Brain Coast Taking Shape

March 9, 2026 By 2 Comments

For about 9 years, Patrick McNamara, President and CEO of the Palm Health Foundation has been beating the drum for a concept called the “Brain Coast.”
The goal is to brand our community as an important hub for brain health, research and education.

While the concept has been around for a while it’s beginning to gain significant momentum thanks to Pat’s leadership and passion for brain health.
One of my colleagues on the Delray Beach City Commission used to say it takes a monomaniac on a mission to move big ideas forward.
You need passion. You need commitment. My friend Patrick has both—in abundance.

The Carl Angus DeSantis foundation recently  invested in the effort because we like to make strategic bets on special people and big ideas.
The Brain Coast is a big idea. The vision is to harness the neuroscience firepower in our area to improve brain health, fuel research and create an ecosystem that will have global significance.

Last week, I attended the inaugural meeting of the Brain Coast Advisory Council to help sketch a path and a plan.
I’m excited and hopeful that our community can make it happen.

Years ago, as a Business Development Board member, I remember hearing BDB CEO Kelly Smallridge talk about branding our area as “Wall Street South.”
At the time, nobody really took the effort seriously. There’s nothing wrong with Palm Beach County of course, but Wall Street South? It seemed like a leap.
But today, Wall Street South is a reality with financial firms and hedge fund titans pouring into Palm Beach County.

We can envision a similar trajectory for the Brain Coast. There is already an impressive array of talent and institutions, devoted to brain health and research dong great work right here in our backyard.

The Max Planck Florida Institute, the Stiles- Nicholson Brain Institute, the Marcus Neuroscience Institute, Florida Atlantic University, UM Health, Cleveland Clinic, Scripps, the Alzheimer’s Drug Discovery Foundation and others have clustered in our community bringing cutting edge science to our county from Jupiter to Boca Raton.
I’ve had an opportunity to be involved with Max Planck, the Alzheimer’s Drug Discovery Foundation and FAU. The effort devoted to brain health is impressive. I recently toured the Stiles- Nicholson Brain Institute and was blown away by the work being done in their labs under the watchful eyes of Dr. Randy Blakely.

At the advisory council meeting last week, I got to listen to neuroscientists from Miami, the UK and elsewhere talk about the potential of the Brain Coast initiative.
Joining us via phone were Susan Magsamen, who wrote a seminal book on neuroarts, an emerging field that is already producing remarkable research on how the arts improves brain health and Dr. Harris Eyre, a researcher who has helped to build a similar ecosystem in Houston.
It’s an exciting time.

With an aging population, the time is ripe to improve brain health so we can offer help and hope to people with dementia, Parkinson’s, substance use disorders, bipolar disorder etc.
It will take a lot of work and coordination for the Brain Coast to reach its considerable potential. But leaving last week’s meeting I am bullish.
The elements are there: talent, capital, passion and commitment.
It takes a village and last week the village gathered to discuss possibilities. Magic happens when great minds collaborate.

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.

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