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Brain Coast Taking Shape

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.

Loyalty

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.

Democracy Dies In Cost Cutting

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.

MLK 2026

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

And it has.

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

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

He spoke about systems.

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

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

King also warned against complacency.

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

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

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

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

Who counts?

Who is heard?

Who is protected?

Who is left behind?

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

Where Is The Love?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regardless, I kind of liked what I was seeing.

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

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

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

Some of my neighbors and fellow Facebookers felt otherwise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are a few markers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food for thought.

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

 

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

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

Kris Garrison

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

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

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

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

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

Alphonso Mayfield

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

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

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

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

His loss, at age 46, hits hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next week….

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry…

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

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

So is Dylan.

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

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

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

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

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

My friend Andrea is a poet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking Ahead: Notes On A New Year

Wishing you a happy, healthy and safe new year.

Looking Ahead: Notes on a New Year

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

2025 tested that belief. For a lot of us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What am I wary of?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will be missed.

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

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

Front Row Blues

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

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

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

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

—Phillips Brooks

An Extraordinary Life

An extraordinary life

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Isn’t that beautiful?

That happened everywhere Tony went.

Gratitude followed him like a shadow.

 

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

 

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

That’s what legends do.

They wake up with purpose.

They live to serve.

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

 

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

But through it all, Tony never wavered.

He never stopped caring.

He never gave in to anger.

He never lost hope.

He responded to darkness with light.

He met judgment with kindness.

He met despair with possibility.

That’s rare.

That’s heroic.

That’s Tony.

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

The message was clear:

People are counting on us.

Meetings can’t be missed.

Lives are at stake.

 

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

We got the message.

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

 

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

 

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

There will never be another Tony.

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

But here’s the part that gives me comfort:

People like Tony live on.

His legacy is alive in every person he helped recover.

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

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

 

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

Those ripples endure.

They always will.

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

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

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

Tony was a bright light.

And that bright light will continue to burn bright.

It lives in us now.

It is our turn to carry it forward.

Thank you.

 

Celebrating Placemakers

Carol Coletta

Here’s to the placemakers…the visionaries who build our communities.

Placemaking– the art of planning and designing public spaces that strengthens the connection between people and the places they share—breathes life into our cities.

The best placemaking is community-driven and focuses on the social, cultural, and emotional life of a space—not just its physical features. At its best, placemaking helps communities create public spaces that are welcoming, active, inclusive, and reflective of local identity.

It turns people into co-creators, honors everyday life as rich with possibility, and transforms parks, streets, plazas, and neighborhoods into vibrant places where community can flourish.

It’s an art form.

I’ve been thinking about the special people attracted to this pursuit of late.

First, we lost Kathy Madden, a legendary placemaker, with long time ties to Delray Beach and then my friend Carol Coletta received the 2025 Urban Land Institute’s Prize for Visionaries in Urban Development, the most respected and prestigious honor in the land use and development community.

If the name Coletta rings a bell its because two decades ago, we hired Carol to help us draft the Delray Beach Cultural Plan, a wonderful vision that in a roundabout way led to the creation of the Arts Garage, which has become a local jewel and an important cultural institution in South Florida.

I discovered Carol through her excellent radio show “Smart City” which used to air on public radio. I used to wake up early on weekends to catch the program. Later, I was thrilled to be on the show to talk about what we were building in Delray Beach.

I recruited Carol to help us devise a strategy for the arts and culture in Delray Beach. She worked with the community and produced a plan that 20 plus years later is still relevant and actionable. Yes, she’s a visionary.

Since those days Carol has left her mark on cities. As president and CEO of the Memphis River Parks Partnership from 2017 to 2024, she led an effort to raise more than $100 million for riverfront improvements, including $61 million for the award-winning Tom Lee Park, a national model for inclusive public space.

These days Carol is a Bloomberg Public Innovation Fellow at the Bloomberg Center for Public Innovation at Johns Hopkins. Prior to her current position, she held leadership roles at the John S. and James L. Knight Foundation and The Kresge Foundation.

She’s the real deal. But besides her resume, she’s a terrific person whose passion for cities and placemaking is contagious.

I’ve kept up with Carol through the years following her work and occasionally reaching out to say hello. Here’s some things she’s taught me and others.

Four lessons for transformational placemaking:

  1. You Have to Really Want Change—and Be Ready to Persist

 

Transformative placemaking is not for the faint of heart. Carol reminds us that change always meets resistance, and nostalgia—“the most powerful hallucinogenic”—can stop a community in its tracks. Visionary leaders must be prepared to push through doubt, fear, and opposition. You can’t create great places unless you’re willing to fight for them.

I’m intrigued by her reference to the nostalgic “hallucinogenic.” I get caught up in nostalgia—often. And when I was an elected official I ran into that mindset whenever we proposed change. In hindsight, just about every major project or initiative was met with resistance—often tied to nostalgia. Such an interesting insight.

 

  1. Think Bigger and Smaller at the Same Time

Great public spaces require a big vision—not just a single park or plaza, but the context, connections, and complementary uses that allow a place to thrive. But we can’t forget the small stuff either: plants on a porch, a flag on a stoop, a neighbor’s handmade sign.

Carol calls this the balance between engagement and agency. Engagement is when people show up to a meeting. Agency is when they shape their block with their own hands. Transformative places embrace both scales.

 

  1. Lead With Narrative—the Soft Infrastructure of Place

 

Storytelling is not decoration; it’s foundation. Carol’s work at Tom Lee Park shows how a powerful local story can animate an entire public realm, giving a place emotional meaning and civic identity. Narrative turns a park into a memory, a plaza into a shared inheritance.

Great placemakers don’t just design spaces—they surface stories that bind a community together.

Frances Bourque, the founder of Old School Square, was the best example of a local storyteller that I’ve encountered. She used narrative (and it was natural for her to do so) and built an army of civic changemakers who bought into the vision.

 

  1. Design for Belonging—On Purpose

 

Connection doesn’t happen by accident. Carol argues that public spaces must start with the explicit intention to mix people across lines of class, race, and background. At a time of increasing income segregation, parks and plazas may be among the few democratic spaces left where diverse people can encounter one another.

Placemaking at its best creates welcoming, inclusive, human environments where everyone feels they belong.

As for Kathy Madden…well she leaves behind a remarkable legacy. We lost her in October. It’s a big loss for those of us who value placemaking. While I’m in fairly regular touch with Kathy’s husband, Fred Kent, legendary founder of the Project for Public Spaces (PPS), I only met Kathy on a few occasions. But she was Fred’s partner in life and placemaking, serving as co-founder of PPS and later co-founder of the Placemaking Fund, Placemaking X and the Social Life Project–global networks aimed at expanding the reach of placemaking even further. Despite health challenges, she remained active and engaged, still showing up (virtually or in person) to conferences and summits, including recent gatherings in Mexico City and Toronto.

Kathy is perhaps best known for her work in placemaking education. She co-authored and wrote several books and articles, including the PPS best-selling publication “How to Turn a Place Around”, translated into more than ten languages. She also launched PPS’s popular training course of the same name. In fact, the very term “placemaking” first appeared in Kathy’s educational materials, describing PPS’s collaborative approach to the design and management of public spaces.

I’ve read many of her works and she taught me a lot about what it takes to make a place.

She wanted people to understand that great places aren’t designed by experts working in isolation; they’re shaped by the people who use them, love them, and depend on them every day.

Delray was Kathy’s second home for 68 years. She had deep family ties to our town. Fred remains deeply involved and the two created a series of interesting in-depth articles about Delray that can be found on their Social Life Project website.

Delray was not just one more project location — it was part of her personal geography, a place she kept returning to and cared about deeply.

I recommend reading “How Delray Beach’s Atlantic Avenue Can Become the Best Main Street in Florida.” Here’s the link: https://www.sociallifeproject.org/delray-beach-atlantic-avenue/

We Remember, We Mourn

This has been quite a year.
I’ve literally lost count of the friends I’ve lost. Today, I want to call your attention to two more special people who passed in recent days: Keith O’Donnell and Tom Johnston.
I don’t relish writing these tributes but I think it’s important to celebrate the lives of extraordinary people who made a difference in our community.
Keith was a local legend in real estate and civic affairs. He was a thinker, a believer. He liked big ideas. He saw the big picture and remained focused on what I call “the big rocks.”
He played a major role in bringing corporations to Boca Raton and Palm Beach County. He was involved in just about all the big initiatives that you can think of in Southern Palm Beach County and beyond.
Lynn University, the Arvida Park of Commerce, the Congress Avenue corridor in Delray, downtown Boca, Mizner Park and the list goes on.
I can’t remember exactly when I met Keith. I know we served on the Business Development Board of Palm Beach County together. I know he was active when I was elected official and he was at the center of some of my company’s work in recent years including the purchase of the old Office Depot headquarters and the Bank of America assemblage on US 1.
I considered Keith to be a friend and a teacher of sorts. He always left me with something to think about. He was a big believer in Boca, Delray, Boynton and all of Palm Beach County.
He saw places and immediately knew how they could be better.
I will miss Keith. He left his mark on our community. He was a long term player. And we need those.
Last week, we also lost Tom Johnston, a retired teacher, all-around good guy and the man known as “Mr. Garlic” thanks to his long term affiliation with the Garlic Festival.
Tom was a former neighbor of mine. He was a favorite teacher for many children who attended Banyan Creek Elementary School in Delray and he and his late wife Beth were active in many local activities.
Tom had a wonderful laugh. He also had a great sense of humor and was always quick with a kind word, a timely text and a good joke.
They don’t make em like Tom or Keith anymore.
I sure wish they did.