1 June, 2026 10 10 Comments

To All The Dogs I’ve Loved Before

June 1, 2026 By 10 Comments

Gracie

Dogs.

Can’t live without them.

At least I can’t.

I’ve had a dog in my life since I was 4 years old—that’s more than a half century of mutts, mixes, rescues and retrievers. There’s been a cat or two along the way, two birds, hamsters, gerbils, a snake and my son’s bearded dragon. Hopkins was an acquired taste, but a good chap, nonetheless.

But the one constant has been a dog. Thank goodness for those four-legged love bugs.

I happen to believe that dogs are enjoying a “moment” these days.

Social media has made dogs stars. In fact, one can make an argument that the biggest beneficiary of social media is the dog, with cats also benefiting from the exposure on YouTube, Instagram, Tik Tok and Facebook. Cats seem to rule Blue Sky, the new platform developed after X went full toxic waste dump.

But dogs, those furry, funny, fantastic creatures–well they are a cut above in my opinion.

We have two at present.

Gracie, a five year old golden retriever and Emmitt, a five year old chihuahua/lion mix whose temperament would have made him a great heavyweight boxer. Unfortunately, he’s an MMA fighter trapped in a tiny body.

Still, when he and his 65-pound sister go at it, we worry about Gracie getting hurt. In true golden form, Gracie puts up with a lot and never complains. Many a time I have come into the living room and found Emmitt hanging by his teeth off of Gracie’s lip or ear. She of course seems amused by it all. I’m convinced that if humanity got a dose of Golden Retriever DNA we’d never have a war, or even a bad day.

If you look up “good” in the dictionary it wouldn’t surprise me if it had a picture of our beautiful golden girl.

Still, Emmitt has his charms. First, he’s adorable with soulful brown eyes that look at us with gratitude. He’s fiercely loyal and loves us a whole lot.

Diane rescued him three years ago after his owners were murdered in a horrendous 4th of July tragedy in Texas. A Maine based rescue drove across the country to get him and a few other abandoned dogs and we were fortunate to be chosen as his new family. They rescue us too, you know.

Diane and our son Sasha met the rescue caravan on the Maine/New Hampshire line and after a few days rest and relaxation in Portland they made the long drive back to Delray to meet Gracie.

It was love at first sight for all of us.

Emmitt

Randy was rescued by Animal Rescue Force.

That’s how it is with dogs and very few other things in life. We have a mystical connection to our pets.

People have commitment issues, romances ebb and flow, we gain and lose friends, but once a dog sets its eyes on you it’s game over. The love is instant, deep and eternal.

Only ‘eternal’ is just a few years. Yes, dogs don’t live long enough and when you lose one it stings. Last week, three of my friends lost their dogs. My heart aches for them. It’s a real and enduring loss.

I still think of all the great ones I’ve lost along the way—Tina who was struck by a car right in front of me, Rusty and Snowball who lived long lives and saw me through from grade school to college and beyond, Magnum a magnificent golden who loved my children and endured “dress up” and endless games of fetch and Casey who was said to be shy but who warmed up as soon as she left her foster home. She jumped in the car with our family and never looked back.

Casey’s description on the Everglades Golden Retriever Rescue website played ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” when you clicked on it.  We did and we had a marvelous run which included lots of visits for pup cups at Kilwin’s downtown.

During Casey’s reign, Diane adopted Randy, another feisty chihuahua from the Animal Rescue Force, a wonderful nonprofit that used to set up shop in the CRA parking lot during Delray Affair.

I remember meeting Randy for the first time. He bit me. But within days it was all good. That cool chi was with us for almost two decades.

When it came time to let him go. The wonderful Dr. Jim Grubb came to the house. I couldn’t bear to watch. I’m not proud of that, but I just couldn’t. We said our goodbyes and I walked outside speaking to the heavens and asking that they take care of my brave little guy. Dr. Grubb always sends a card that talks about the Rainbow Bridge. I figure it’s true, because if anyone would know, Jim would. We will see our friends again—waiting for us on the other side of the bridge.

We added another rescue named Sophie who was found running the streets of Miami. We loved Sophie a lot. She was killed one day while on a walk in our neighborhood by an unleashed dog. For months, I couldn’t go down that street. I think about little Sophie often.

After that devastating incident, Randy helped us welcome Teddy, another golden rescue (thank you Golden Retrievals) and Teddy…well he became a Facebook legend. Cancer took my soul dog too young, but I still see his handsome face when I reach for my phone. He’s my screensaver. A life saver too. That dog was something special.

They all are.

After Covid, which was almost lights out for me, I asked Diane if she would consider another golden.  I just feel happiest when there’s a golden in my life.

She agreed. And soon puppy Gracie joined us. She makes us happy—every day. I’ve never seen a sweeter dog. She loves everyone.

I’m moved to write this after a hectic month of travel without our dogs. I miss them horribly when I’m gone. But when we came home, we’re greeted like The Beatles at Shea Stadium.

Yes, dogs are a major responsibility. They require love and attention. They shed and they feel very entitled to your meals. Goldens are like Velcro, there’s no privacy with a golden around. Everything brought into the house is sniffed, scrutinized and checked to see if it’s edible.

Mail gets shredded. Stuffed animals get eaten and everyone who comes to visit is fair game for lots of affection or in Emmitt’s case barking.

It’s all a joy.

And oh, so short.

Now if only I can figure out how to get this duo to like the long car ride from Florida to Maine.

Here’s a poem that says what I just tried too much better than I can.

By Billy Collins

 

As young as I look,

I am growing older faster than he,

seven to one

is the ratio they tend to say.

 

Whatever the number,

I will pass him one day

and take the lead

the way I do on our walks in the woods.

 

And if this ever manages

to cross his mind,

it would be the sweetest

shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.

25 May, 2026 4 4 Comments

The Creative Life

May 25, 2026 By 4 Comments

Where it started for me and I’m sure others.

Memorial Day 2026…I found this story of a Civil War soldier that I thought was beautiful and sad. If you get a chance, look up Major Ballou’s letter. It’s remarkable.

Major Sullivan Ballou is remembered not only for his service in the Civil War, but for one of the most moving letters ever written by an American soldier. Just before the First Battle of Bull Run in 1861, Ballou wrote to his wife Sarah about his love for her and his willingness to sacrifice everything for the Union. He was killed in battle a week later at the age of 32.

On Memorial Day, Ballou’s words remind us that behind every flag and every ceremony is a human story — of love, duty, sacrifice, and the families forever changed by war. His letter endures because it speaks not only to patriotism, but to the cost of service borne by ordinary people asked to do extraordinary things.

 

You find out via email.
“Thank you for sending your play. We received a record 647 submissions for our festival and regrettably we can’t produce your work this year.”
They go on to say how brave you were for sending your work, how appreciative they are for your submission blah blah blah.
Yes, the theatre world is polite.
Yes, the competition really is that fierce.
But it does take a little out of you when you get that dreaded rejection.

It reminds me of junior high school when you would bravely cross the gym floor after spending two hours working up the courage to ask Regina from sixth period Earth Science if she would like to slow dance only to have her tell you no. Talk about crushing.

I once got so nervous asking a young woman for a date that I forgot her answer.
I walked away from her locker so fast I  couldn’t remember a word she said.
It must have been yes, because a few days later she told me she had to cancel because her uncle was taking her fishing.
I never worked up the courage to ask her again.

My supportive friends, ever sensitive to my feelings, made t shirts memorializing the incident. I can’t complain though, I eagerly awaited any misstep to make fun of them. Yes, being a teenage boy in 1980 should have come with a suit of armor.

Playwriting feels a little like what I just described.
You walk across the imaginary room (by hitting send on your heartfelt work) and wait eagerly for acceptance or denial.
Denial stings—momentarily. You mean my play didn’t jump out among the hundreds of entries from across the globe to earn its place in your festival? Who are these judges anyway? Don’t they know talent when they see it?

Oh wait, maybe I don’t have what it takes, who am I kidding. I have no training and no business putting pen to paper. Who would want to see my plays anyway?
Sigh.

But you persist, because you know you must. Writing is fun so you keep typing.

And then lightning strikes. You get an acceptance —also via email from some theater you’ve never heard of in a town you’ve never visited and suddenly you are on top of the world.
Look out Neil Simon, here I come!

Just like that your confidence is restored and you Google the town and the theatre and you begin to imagine what it will be like to hear your words come to life in a distant locale.
A reason to persist, a reason to keep creating.

I’m just back from a trip to Maine, where my play “The Get” got a wonderful, staged reading at a beautiful synagogue as part of a Jewish play festival.
The acting was sublime. The director was fabulous. The other plays— four chosen from an international crop—were all terrific.

One other playwright, Michael Petshaft, a veteran writer and college professor from Connecticut was there. We were treated like VIPs, introduced to applause, approached afterwards by audience members who asked questions and wanted to talk about what they had just seen.

It’s very cool.

Magical. Inspiring.

It made me want to go home and write and write and write. And that’s what I did.

When my plays are selected I always like to connect with the director and actors. I like to thank them for their generosity, for putting in hours of time preparing and for having the courage to stand in front of a large crowd and perform.
I also like to get to know who they are.

In this case, our director Ann Tracy was a veteran of theater and a retired radio personality in Milwaukee, Denver and San Diego. She was lovely to work with.
The actors Hal Cohen and Claudia Hughes were also veterans and very talented. Claudia was a dancer, oil painter and well known local actress. Hal is a physician with an impressive background as an actor and playwright himself.

The event was a fundraiser for a local synagogue. I’m thrilled that they chose theater to gather their community to celebrate their mission which includes a heavy dose of community.
Live performance is one of the few things we have left that allows us to get together and share an experience in real time with our neighbors.

Many of us are stuck behind screens, doom scrolling, losing time on our apps—alone.
Theater, music, dance, comedy in a club or theatre or in this case a sanctuary allows us to mix and mingle.
A good play inspires us to think and talk to each other. Perhaps the story moves us in some way.  I think it’s essential civic infrastructure and maybe more important than ever. We can’t let the algorithm win. We have to stay human.

In about a month, on June 27-28, people in our community have a chance to attend the 7th annual Playwrights Festival at the historic Delray Beach Playhouse. The festival features local playwrights, local actors and local directors working together to tell short 10- minute stories. If you come, I promise you will be swept away.

The level of talent here is amazing.

This is the third year I’ve participated.
My full- length play “The Cafe on Main” —the very first play I ever wrote —started at this festival as a short.
The Arts Garage helped me develop it into a full-length, which was also a great experience.
Thanks to festival directors Marianne Regan and Dan Bellante, I’ve gained a whole new hobby since turning 60.
I’ve made friends with the actors, directors and fellow playwrights.
I’m taken by their talent, warmth and dedication.

This year I wrote a play called “The Romeo’s” (retired old men eating out).
It’s a sweet little story written for older actors and their affection for their favorite server.
I hope you can make it. The other plays sound great. For tickets visit https://na01.safelinks.protection.outlook.com/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.delrayplayhouse.org%2F&data=05%7C02%7C%7C3a736bba24c64f8117e508deb9b1520e%7C84df9e7fe9f640afb435aaaaaaaaaaaa%7C1%7C0%7C639152368390894652%7CUnknown%7CTWFpbGZsb3d8eyJFbXB0eU1hcGkiOnRydWUsIlYiOiIwLjAuMDAwMCIsIlAiOiJXaW4zMiIsIkFOIjoiTWFpbCIsIldUIjoyfQ%3D%3D%7C0%7C%7C%7C&sdata=eBApUKEcAPP11s4lVE6pO1KxiYLioIJqqb5W29YdbhI%3D&reserved=0.
Please support local theatre. It’s important. I guarantee you’ll make new friends and enjoy the experience.

 

17 May, 2026 2 2 Comments

Dreaming Of What’s Possible

May 17, 2026 By 2 Comments

Visiting the HQ of Chicago Beyond was inspiring.

If you want to restore your faith in humanity spend a few days with people working in philanthropy.

I’m just back from a whirlwind visit to Chicago where we visited with leaders  from the legendary MacArthur Foundation and organizations called Lever for Change and Chicago Beyond.
Thanks to the Bank of America philanthropic services team doors across the nation have been opened to the philanthropy I have the privilege to co-lead, The Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation.
As we gear up to expand our giving, we take what is called “What’s Possible” tours to grow our knowledge, expand our network of experts we can tap into and to observe how other foundations operate.
These tours have been invaluable.
They are also inspiring and quite frankly taxing because keeping up with the thought leaders in this field forces us to stretch intellectually.
What’s wonderful about philanthropy is that no two foundations are alike.
In others words, if you’ve seen one foundation, you’ve seen one foundation.
That’s enables the new kids on the block (us) to drop in and glean ideas about how to be effective, as well as learning what to avoid. After all, throwing money at a problem is not the best way to move the needle.
What I love about this space is the generosity of the practitioners.
These are busy people. But they always make time to share their work, offer advice and hand over  their playbooks. Generosity is about more than giving. It’s about sharing knowledge and helping your peers. I look forward to the day that we can help others serve effectively.
The importance of philanthropy is heightened these days thanks to tough economic conditions and government funding cuts to nonprofits and social services.
More is needed and more is expected from the philanthropic sector to fill the gaps left by  cutbacks.
My belief, and it’s shared by my foundation peers, is that philanthropy can do a lot, but it cannot replace government investment in programs and research.
The key word in that sentence is investment. Lifting people and communities up pays dividends. Letting them sink creates costs. Asking everyone to pull themselves up by their bootstraps is a great saying but we all need help and some need more than others.
What we’ve learned on these trips is that philanthropy is risk capital. That makes the sector super important. In business, life and community building those who take risks move the needle. We can learn from their failures and successes. This is where innovation can happen.
At all three stops in Chicago, we heard about lessons learned, risks taken, new approaches that could be shared and further developed.
Chicago Beyond was founded by Liz Dozier, a true American hero who turned around a troubled high school and then founded a philanthropy that invests in local leaders who are in the trenches making a difference across America.
The lessons learned from those “proximate leaders” are shared nationally. Chicago Beyond is helping education, improving prison conditions and investing heavily in birth centers to help women bring babies into the world safely.
Lever for Change is helping foundations make big bets all over the world. We learned so much from their approach to vetting, managing and monitoring investments.
As for the MacArthur folks, they were truly inspiring.
We spent time with their Chicago Commitment team who concentrate on Chicagoland, a fascinating place with a wide variety of assets and challenges.
We capped the day with a meeting with MacArthur’s renowned President John Palfrey, a remarkable leader who is making big bets on programs to preserve Democracy, save local news and lift communities.
For me, the MacArthur meeting was especially personal. It was the MacArthur Foundation that funded our Downtown Master Plan in 2001, an effort I co-chaired while serving on the City Commission.
That plan added fuel to the fire lit by previous leaders, strengthening our core  by promoting downtown housing, race relations, downtown parks, the addition of parking infrastructure and so much more. That plan and that process was a highlight of that era and continues to pay dividends today. All thanks to MacArthur’s bet on Delray.
A generation later, I had a chance to personally thank its president for their investment. Now it’s time to pay it forward. And we plan to.
10 May, 2026 2 2 Comments

Lists Are Fun. But..

May 10, 2026 By 2 Comments

Paul Simon is on the list. He’s earned it.

Note: Due to travel, I’m going to post on Sunday for the next two weeks. Wishing all a Happy Mother’s Day!

Lists are trouble.

Whenever I see publications release “best of” lists I know they are inviting debate and a fair share of vitriol.
But maybe that’s the point.
So that’s the lens I took when I read the list of 30 best living American songwriters in the New York Times.
It’s an eclectic collection: from Bad Bunny and Jay-Z to Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton.
Like most lists of this ilk, there’s plenty to agree with and plenty to roll your eyes at.
Again, I think that’s the point.
 But what’s been wild to witness is the anger the list has unleashed.
On the list of pressing issues facing us today; rising gas prices, stubborn inflation, a generation forced to live in their parents’ basements and war a list of the best American songwriters would seem to be pretty low on the tally of things to get excited about.
Tell that to Rick Beato, a YouTube music influencer who released a critical video to decry the list. Or to Chris Willman who wrote a sizzling piece about the list in “Variety”:

“Where in the Actual Hell Is Randy Newman? And Other Questions Raised by the New York Times’ Greatest Living American Songwriters List.”

Willman was positively flabbergasted. 
Take a breath, fellas.
It’s only a list. Perhaps released to spark conversation. Mission accomplished.
The comments on the list from the masses were also equally fierce.
Where’s Joni Mitchell? (Not eligible, she’s from Canada).
Where’s Brian Wilson? (Unfortunately, he passed and the list consists of living songwriters).
Why Springsteen? (Some commenters didn’t like his politics, but regardless he did write “Thunder Road,” “Born to Run” and hundreds of other great songs).
What about Kid Rock? (Really?)
The list included Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan and Carole King.
It didn’t include Don Henley, Stevie Nicks or John Fogerty. (Shameful).  Also missing: Billy Joel, Jason Isbell and the Avett Brothers. (Also shameful).
Still, the list had names I’ve never heard of and I’m a pretty big music fan.
But rather than offend me, I decided to dig into to those I didn’t know. Some were good. Some were head scratchers.
Oh well, it’s just a list.
There is so much more to fret about.
Like why isn’t Don Mattingly and Thurman Munson in the baseball hall of fame? Or why does my friend insist that Dave Concepcion should be included?
Some things are pure mysteries.
That’s where we find the fun.
Here’s the list in no particular order.
Nile Rodgers
Stevie Wonder
Lucinda Williams
Jay Z
Paul Simon
Taylor Swift
Brian & Eddie Holland
Missy Elliott
Dolly Parton
Willie Nelson
Lionel Richie
Young Thug
Diane Warren
Josh Osborne
Brandy Clark
Fiona Apple
Shane MacAnally
Babyface
Stephin Merritt
Romeo Santos
Carole King
Outkast
Mariah Carey
Kendrick Lamar
Valerie Simpson
Bob Dylan
Lana Delrey
The Dream
Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis
Bad Bunny
Bruce Springsteen
Smokey Robinson
4 May, 2026 0 Comments

Purpose Built

May 4, 2026 By Leave a Comment

Many things have changed since the year 2000 in Delray Beach.

We’ve grown up, I suppose.

The town is big business these days. High real estate prices. Big-time commercial rents. Famous people spotted hanging out in our once sleepy downtown.

I’m not one of those who laments change. I understand that it’s inevitable and in many cases preferable. Stasis is not only impossible, it’s boring.
But I am nostalgic. Genuinely so. And I’ve learned that my favorite part of every endeavor is the climb.

I’ve been astonished at the success of Celsius, the energy drink my company’s founder discovered years ago and poured his heart into building. But as much as I’ve enjoyed seeing the company soar, I still recall the early lean years with fondness.
There were unsung heroes along the way — people who worked hard to build the brand. They were special. They were essential. Many didn’t make it to the mountaintop with the company, but their efforts were early bricks. They mattered.

I’ve also enjoyed watching Delray evolve over the nearly 40 years I’ve lived and worked here.
Those were my thoughts last week when I attended the Purpose Built Communities annual conference in Jacksonville. Purpose Built is a nonprofit network that brings proven tools to its members to help revitalize neighborhoods. The Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation is invested in Rise Coleman Park, a Purpose Built network member in West Palm Beach. We’ve also visited and been inspired by Lift Orlando, which has done a remarkable job lifting up a community holistically.

Sitting with network members from across America, I was reminded of my early days in Delray — a time of visioning, organizing, investing and dreaming. This is what I fell in love with. The civic pride. The aspiration. The neighborhood leaders who stepped forward and became something larger than themselves.

It was a time of high civic engagement. Charrettes — community visioning meetings — drew large, spirited crowds. Town hall meetings filled the Crest Theatre. Church gatherings to craft neighborhood plans attracted people of all ages. There were different ideas and opinions, but there was unity as well. Everyone was committing to lifting this city up. And they did.

When I ran for office in 2000, there were two animating issues — neighborhoods and the downtown. Neighborhood leaders were concerned about crime and appearance; they were asking for more information and hungering to be involved. It made for an exciting and lively time.
Same for the downtown. People wanted restaurants and retail. They wanted vibrancy, but they also wanted human-scale development and beautification that made the downtown pedestrian-friendly and safe.
These thoughts flooded my mind as I attended sessions and chatted with community members from across the country who came to Purpose Built Communities to learn, connect and better their neighborhoods. It’s intoxicating being with these kinds of people. They are change agents. Civic heroes.

While much has changed in the generation since 2000, one truism remains: it’s people who drive change. Their passion. Their love of community. Their ambitions and dreams. The technology has changed, the scale of money needed has changed, the dynamics of our economy are very different — but sit in a room full of people who are fired up about their neighborhoods, and none of that feels like the point. The human factor is the point. It always has been.
If you can inspire and support people to get off their couches and make change, your city will thrive. It’s just that simple and just that complex.
When we move together, we move differently. I borrowed that line from Jotaka Eady, one of the speakers at the conference. She lit up the room. Her message: we are enough. Indeed. We are more than enough.
People are joyful when they work in community together toward a common goal. We need more of that in our world today. A whole lot more. We can live in silos. We cannot thrive in them.

 

27 April, 2026 10 10 Comments

The Cliffs We All Meet

April 27, 2026 By 10 Comments

I just finished the new Jim Collins book, “What to Make of a Life”, and it’s been quietly following me around the house for days.

I sit down to write, and I hear a sentence again. I take a walk and think, yes, that’s exactly what it felt like.

Collins spent ten years studying 34 remarkable lives — astronauts, musicians, suffragists, scientists, people whose stories you’d think you already knew — and built the whole book around three words: cliffs, fog, fire.

A cliff is the moment the ground you’ve been standing on is suddenly gone. The diagnosis. The phone call. The election you lost. The child who moved out. The job that ended. The career that peaked and then, imperceptibly at first, began to descend. Cliffs are not always tragic. Sometimes the cliff is a triumph so complete that you wake up the next morning and don’t know what the next morning is for. Ask any Olympian what happens the week after the closing ceremony. Ask any founder who finally sold the company.

The fog is what comes next.

And the fire — the fire is the thing Collins spent a decade trying to understand. Why do some people, after the cliff and through the fog, find their way to a second burning? And why do others, just as talented, just as loved, never quite get the flame going again?

I don’t have a neat answer. I’m not sure Collins does either, though he works hard at it and earns every page. What I have, instead, after finishing the book, is a feeling. And the feeling is this: the cliffs are not the interruption of your life. The cliffs are your life.

 

We are raised, most of us, to believe in a certain arc. You go to school, you work hard, you build a career, you raise a family, you retire, you rest. A single clean line, rising gently, like the approach to a summit you’ve been told is up there somewhere in the clouds. The brochure version.

But nobody lives the brochure.

What we live instead is a series of plateaus and drop-offs. You climb for a while. The view is good. You get comfortable. And then one Tuesday the floor gives way,and you find yourself in a country with no map, trying to remember how to breathe. Some of those drop-offs you choose. Most of them choose you. A few of them — and these are the ones we don’t talk about enough — were disguised as promotions, as weddings, as the thing you wanted most in the world and then got.

Getting what you wanted is a cliff too. Maybe the most disorienting one of all.

 

I keep thinking about the fog. Collins calls it a “befuddling fog,” and the adjective matters. It isn’t a clean sadness. It isn’t a grief you can name and honor and set on a shelf. It’s something stranger and more embarrassing — the inability to locate yourself. You know the feeling. You stand in the kitchen at three in the afternoon and realize you’ve been standing there for a while. You open your laptop and close it again. You read the same paragraph four times. You’re not depressed, exactly. You’re not grieving, exactly. You’re lost, and the worst part is there’s no one to ask for directions because the landmarks you used to navigate by aren’t there anymore.

I think we owe each other more honesty about the fog. We tell each other about the cliffs — the divorces, the deaths, the firings — because those have language. The fog doesn’t. The fog is the six months after, or the six years after, when you’re supposed to be fine, when the casseroles have stopped arriving, when everyone else has moved on to the next chapter of their own book, and you’re still standing in your kitchen at three in the afternoon wondering who you are now.

If you’re there — if you’ve ever been there — I want you to hear this: the fog is not a failure of character. The fog is the weather. It comes in off the ocean whether you like it or not, and it burns off when it burns off, and the only real mistake is believing you’re the only one who has ever been lost in it.

 

Here’s the part of Collins’s book that caught in my throat. He found, in studying those 34 lives, that the people who burned brightest late weren’t the ones who avoided the cliffs. Nobody avoided the cliffs. The cliffs are the price of admission. What those people did, again and again, was ask themselves a different question than the rest of us tend to ask.

Not what do I have to do now?

Not what would make me look successful again?

But: what do I want to be responsible for?

Read that one more time. It’s the whole book in a sentence. The people who found their second fire were the ones who treated the cliff not as the end of the story but as the moment the story got honest. Who looked at the rubble and asked, genuinely, given all of this, given who I am and what I now know, what do I want to carry forward?

Most of us, when we fall, spend the fog trying to climb back to the cliff we fell from. We want our old life back. We want to be the mayor again (for the record, I never did), the CEO again, the young parent again (guilty), the person we were before the diagnosis. That’s human. That’s the first instinct and it deserves compassion.

But the people who found their fire didn’t climb back. They walked. They took what they had learned on the high – ground and brought it down into the valley and started building something new out of it. Not a replacement. A continuation. The same fire, in a different hearth.

 

I’m past sixty now, and one of Collins’s most beautiful data points is this: across all the biographies of Benjamin Franklin, fifty-three percent of the pages are still ahead of him at age sixty. More than half. In an era when most people didn’t see sixty at all.

I think about that every morning now.

I think about the cliffs I’ve already been over, and the ones I can see coming, and the ones I can’t. I think about the friends I’ve lost and the ones I’m still lucky enough to annoy on bi-weekly Zoom calls. I think about the plays I haven’t written yet and the ones I have, and whether any of it matters. I think about what I want to be responsible for in the time I have left, and the answer is not the answer I would have given at thirty-five.

Maybe that’s the grace of the cliffs. They force the question younger selves are too busy to ask.

If you are standing at an edge right now — if you’ve just fallen, or you feel one coming, or you’re deep in the fog and can’t see your own hand in front of your face — please know two things.

The first is that you are not alone, and you are not broken. The cliffs are not a deviation from a life well lived. They are how life gets lived.

The second is that the fire is still possible. Not the same fire. A new one. Lit from the same flint, in a different wind.

Walk toward it when you’re ready. The fog will burn off. It always does.

And if it hasn’t yet — trust that it will. Find someone to sit with you until it does. But have faith that it will.

20 April, 2026 2 2 Comments

Empathy As An Antidote

April 20, 2026 By 2 Comments

Empathy may be my favorite word.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately — partly because I get to work in a field where it’s the price of admission, and partly because I’m not sure our world has enough of it left.

A few years ago I left business behind and entered the world of philanthropy. Every day, foundations across the country work with nonprofit partners to solve — or at least ease — problems and suffering. It’s a fascinating space, and an empathetic one by design. You can’t do this work without first trying to understand the lives of people you’ve never met.

I have the honor of serving as the executive director of the Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation, which serves Broward and Palm Beach Counties. We are trying to build something designed to last forever. That’s both humbling and inspiring.

Our pillars — health and wellness, faith-based giving, leadership and entrepreneurship, and civic innovation — reflect the passions of our founder, Carl DeSantis. Mr. D, as we affectionately called him, asked me and a trusted colleague to build the foundation from the ground up. It’s a great capstone to my career, and a responsibility I feel every day.

We lost Mr. D in 2023.

He was a singular American entrepreneur — a leader in nutrition, consumer products, real estate, hospitality, and beverages. He founded Rexall Sundown, one of the country’s largest vitamin manufacturers, and was an early believer and spiritual godfather of Celsius, which revolutionized the energy drink industry. But what I remember isn’t the business. It’s the man. Funny, humble, sensitive, visionary, kind. You didn’t work for Carl. You worked with him. He was forever challenging his people to “use their brains” and help him create.

Carl was also the most empathetic man I’ve ever known. I think it’s why we became close.

When he saw a need, his instinct was to help. His success allowed him to indulge a very big heart, and he did — quietly, constantly, without fanfare. He believed in giving people a hand up, not a hand out. He created what we came to call “ripples” of goodness that spread to places I don’t think he fully grasped. People he never met had better lives because of him.

That’s what empathy does. It doesn’t just make us feel better. It changes things. When we approach a problem with empathy for the person on the other side of it, we start finding solutions that blame, vitriol, and contempt always overlook. Empathy opens a door. Hatred slams it shut.

I see this every day. Our partners are in the trenches — meeting people where they are, listening before prescribing, treating those they serve as neighbors rather than cases. The results are real. Lives change. Communities get stronger. None of it happens without empathy as the starting point.

Which brings me to the thing I can’t stop thinking about.

We live in a divisive age. We fear each other. We are estranged from people who are different from us and from people who simply disagree with us. We’ve confused contempt for conviction and cruelty for strength.

Empathy is the antidote. It’s not soft. It’s not naive. It’s the hardest and most useful thing we do in this work — and it’s precisely what’s missing from the rooms where our biggest decisions get made.

Carl understood this instinctively. He didn’t talk about empathy. He practiced it. And the ripples are still spreading.

I hope, somehow, they reach the places that need them most.

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.

 

 

 

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