Category: OpEd (Page 4 of 5)

Just about 75 years ago to the day, Harry S. Truman made what is arguably the most difficult decision any President of the United States has ever had to make. In early August 1945 he decided to drop the atomic bombs on Japan.

Truman, the 33rd President of the United States, had unexpectedly come into office a few months prior, after the death of FDR. Until late April 1945, he did not know the bombs existed. My suspicion is that he wished he never learned they did. But he had to play the hand he was dealt.

33 never shied away from his decision. He never shirked his personal responsibility. No doubt he was the Commander in Chief and it was his responsibility, but with great power comes great responsibility.

We may debate the rightness or the wrongness of his decision, but we cannot debate that it was his call to make, as he was the only person in America, or the entire world, with the responsibility on his shoulders. He made it, and subsequently, he owned it in a manner fitting the placard he kept on his desk stating The Buck Stops Here.

75 years later, the bucks have stopped accumulating in the Oval Office. In fact, the office is bankrupt. No bucks have passed into it in three and a half years, or if they have, they have just kept on going without anybody thinking of stopping them.

The 45th President of the United States has inherited an issue that trumps the decision to drop the atomic bombs. He did not create the issue, but he is responsible for leading our response to it and for helping the world deal with it. Sadly, he does not understand what it means to be a leader, and he has no idea how to lead us in a concerted, unified response. The result is a sub-optimal chaotic response that is, quite literally, killing us.

In his view, all he has to do is talk about his acts, his decisions and the great job he is doing, while at the same time undermining all the attempts to manage the response in states that are on the other side of the fence politically. I guess he thinks that telling us enough times that either the problem will just go away or that he is handling it effectively will make it true. The shocking part to me is that there are Americans who still believe him.

I have lived for 65 of the 75 years since the bombs were dropped on Japan. My first recollection of politics and political leaders occurred when I was forced by my mother to watch the Nixon Kennedy debates prior to the 1960 election. In those days, we only had one TV in the house, not one in each room. So, I really did not have a choice. That was the first time I saw Richard Nixon. It was not love at first sight, even for a five year old.

From that point forward, until 45 came along, Nixon was firmly established in my mind as the oiliest, smarmiest, least trustworthy President ever to hold office. Sadly, I long for him to be back in office today. At least he was a statesman and enough of a leader to collect a few bucks.

With all due respect to Carole King and Gerry Goffin, I woke up that morning feeling fine. There was somebody special on my mind…

Unlike most recent days, that particular Saturday was going to be different. Change, glorious change, was in the air.

Our granddaughter, Portia, was coming over, and she was staying for the weekend. My Porsches, the four wheeled kind, as opposed to the two legged kind, were going to be a tad jealous. Most likely, I would not even notice them that weekend, because Portia would garner all our attention.

Yup, I thought, it was going to be an interesting weekend, and that was before I knew Portia’s dog, Stasi, was coming, too. If I’d have known Stasi was coming, I would have gone back to sleep, hoping to hibernate the weekend away. It’s not that she is a bad dog, she isn’t. It’s just that she loves to look out the windows and bark at everything passing by. She and our dog, Jake, love each other and have a good time, but they really raise a ruckus. Stasi takes a lot of work without Portia being here. Having both at the same time always feels overwhelming. Of course, Pam and Kim knew on Friday that Stasi was coming, but they opted to keep me in the dark. Most likely that was a good idea.

Pam loves being a grammy. She is really good at it. She is referred to as Grammy Pammy. I love being grumpy. I am really good at it. That is why I am referred to as Grumpy, with no need to qualify it further, as adding Harry on the end of it would be redundant, not to mention the fact that Harry does not rhyme with Grumpy.

As I lay in bed, I felt more excited about a weekend than I had in quite some time, despite all the extra work Pam, and to a much lesser extent I, was going to have to do.

Since Covid-19 began, most days are pretty similar for us. The Beatles sang about love everyday in Eight Days a Week, using the impossible number eight to stress how they loved their partner everyday. If they wrote the same song today, they would title it Eight Mondays a Week. Not to express their love, but to lament the sameness of every day during the Covid-19 lockdown.

I led a pretty regimented, read consistent, life prior to Covid-19. Some might have said I was on the OCD spectrum. I would disagree, as I believe my actions were predicated on the fact that I did what I did in the way I did it to maximize my benefit while minimizing the cost I incurred in terms of hassle, time, money, pain etc. I felt my behaviors were outcome based and not driven by irrational fears.

I must admit that the benefit I derive from some of my actions is kinda insignificant. One of my habits, a holdover from my more intense running days, is that when I buy a new pair of running socks I number each one with the same number, enabling me to match them up after each wash, thereby ensuring that each sock in a pair is run in for the same number of minutes and washed the same number of times, resulting in consistent wear patterns and the avoidance of sock related blisters. As the number of minutes I run each week has dwindled as my age has increased, the likelihood of me getting a running related blister has decreased significantly, but I still dutifully number each sock. So maybe I have an irrational fear of blisters and am on that spectrum after all.

But I digress. Each week in the Covid-19 lockdown has a cadence. There has been very little variability. Even though I had limited variability prior to Covid-19, at least Pam and I did stuff. We ate out. We went to concerts. We saw shows. We saw movies. We saw friends. We went to our respective gyms. I did stuff on my own. I drove my cars for fun. I had cronies. Our lives were full. Of course, we really enjoyed the weekends we had no plans, as they were so relaxing.

That all changed with Covid-19. Now the only cronies I see are the checkers I know at the market and the lady behind the counter at the bagel store. I really enjoy chatting with them, as doing so makes me feel like life is almost normal, despite our masks muffling our conversations and hiding our facial expressions. We do see a handful of friends in an extremely socially distant way and that also helps us feel more normal.

But the reality is that we have very little we can do outside the house, which results in a daily sameness that permeates us to our cores. So instead of cherishing weekends without plans, now we cherish ones with plans. That is human nature, I suppose.

None of that mattered on that Saturday morning. What mattered was that I woke up feeling fine and there was someone special on my mind…

People have been espousing this sentiment for millennia, ever since Aesop uttered it in his fables in ancient Greece.

Americans have been espousing it for over 200 years. In 1792, Patrick Henry, in his last public speech, said, “Let us trust God, and our better judgment to set us right hereafter. United we stand, divided we fall. Let us not split into factions which must destroy that union upon which our existence hangs.”

In 1858 Abraham Lincoln referenced it in his House Divided Speech, opening with, “A house divided against itself, cannot stand.”

Apparently, we need to reiterate this sentiment, because we currently live in a house more divided than at any time since the Civil War. Thanks to 24 hour news channels, we are bombarded with biased stories all day, every day. For many of us, the result has been the utter disbelief of anything the other side says is true. Generally, this is dysfunctional, but not deadly.

It is deadly now, as we live in the era of Covd-19, a novel disease without a cure as of yet, a disease that scientists have proven is primarily transmitted via particles in the air, a disease that can infect a carrier without manifesting symptoms, a disease that takes several days for symptoms to appear, a disease that is running rampant across the globe, with its current epicenter in the United States.

Scientists around the world have determined that wearing a mask is crucial to slowing the spread of the disease. Logic tells us that slower spread is better than faster spread until a cure is found or a vaccine is developed. The logic is irrefutable. It is not debatable. More spread means more illness, more hospital stays, more economic impact, and, eventually, more death.

So why is there any debate? Why do we not have a national mandate to wear masks? What irreparable harm comes from mandating their use? No one is espousing that they be worn forever. In my opinion, if wearing a mask prevents the spread of one case of Covid-19, it is worth the sacrifice of each of us putting a mask on each of our faces. But we will not be preventing the spread of just one case. If we wear masks we will be preventing the spread of thousands or, more likely, millions, of cases.

Maybe I am just too much of a bleeding heart to understand what the true cost is of wearing a mask. Maybe I do not sufficiently cherish my right to be free. Maybe I put too much faith in the scientists. I mean, they were wrong about wearing masks several month ago. How do I know they are not wrong now? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Or maybe not. None of the maybes matter. The absolute fact is that we are facing a common enemy. An enemy that can strike at each of us at any time. We need to fight it with a cohesive, unified strategy. We need to put our bias, our divisions, our beliefs aside and act in a manner that is best for all of us, not in a manner that is best for each of us. To not do so, results in a divided house, which, quite possibly, will fall in on itself.

I didn’t intend my statement to be taken in a self-centered, woe is me, my life sucks, the world is ending sort of way, though Pam, and then Kim, took it that way. Ever since, I have been the butt of their jokes, even more so than usual. My statement was so funny to them that they even told our friends what a stupid comment I made. I guess it’s good that I have thick, old man, skin.

I had been sitting at my desk, where I have been spending the vast majority of my waking hours this year, when, for some reason, I started thinking about Uber, and how I may never take one again for quite some time. This led me to reminisce about last year.

2019 was a crazy year for me. For the first time in my life, work turned me into a road warrior. I flew over 60,000 domestic miles, traveling every two or three weeks, either to Northern California or to the East or South East. I was at the airport so often, I began to recognize the baggage handlers and the ticket agents, not to mention the flight attendants. It got so bad, I started drinking alcohol, usually bourbon, on the homeward flights. I had never done that before.

I spent over 50 nights in hotels, generally ones that were functional, but not luxurious. I got used to working out in postage stamp sized hotel gyms, usually going to them at between 4 AM and 5 AM to ensure no one else was using them. I ate many, many meals alone, either in hotels or restaurants. Rarely did I use room service, as I found it too claustrophobic.

And, of course, I took lots of Uber rides. More than I could count, and more than I care to remember, though none were bad. The good news was that I took full advantage of my Amex Platinum card Uber and airline benefits, thereby essentially paying for the card’s annual fee.

When I wasn’t traveling, I was working from home or visiting clients. My days started early, as I was always at Equinox in Beverly Hills by 5 AM during the week.

This year I commute to my den where my desk is, though I have made lots of trips via Zoom, Skype, Microsft Meetings, Google Hangouts, etc. I cannot image going to the airport, staying at a hotel, or getting into an Uber. I struggle to even want to drive, having put about 500 miles on my Cayman, my daily driver, since November, though I have put about 200 miles on my 89 Carrera, driving it to Shelby’s sporadically and once in a really blue moon going somewhere else. I would need to review my credit card statements to determine the last time I bought gas.

I have not eaten in a restaurant since early March, and I have no idea when I will go back to one. We do take out on a regular basis, so we are keeping some restaurants in business. Generally, I have been cooking more, though I have to admit my diet is not as clean as it was last year, as I have given in to the desire for Covid-19 comfort foods, especially homemade pizza, beef stew and that all-time artery clogger, tuna lasagna, on a regular basis.

Lastly, I have not been to Equinox since early March, and after 17 or so years, I terminated my membership. I have no desire to be near anyone else while they are working out. Instead, I have been sleeping in, sort of, running outside, and doing a homemade calisthenics routine, complete with jumping jacks, on a regular basis. I have purchased a Tonal and can’t wait for it to arrive some time next month. Ironically, I seem to be healthier since not frequenting the gym at the butt crack of dawn. My blood pressure is down, despite being irritated by DT everytime I listen to the TV.

As I sat at my desk and had that random thought about Uber, all of the changes I was experiencing this year flashed through my brain, and, as is usually the case, without a pause and without any context, I blurted out to Pam, “My life is so different this year!”

Clearly, I was well aware that I was not alone. Everyone’s life is different this year. I was also not complaining, as my life, despite Covid-19, is still really good. I was just stating a fact. None of that mattered. Pam heard what she heard, not what I was thinking or intending, and I have been the butt ever since.

Make no mistake about it, we are at war, a war that is affecting the population of our entire planet. A war being fought against an invisible enemy, an enemy that can subvert our family, our closest friends and our neighbors and turn them into our greatest foes.

I am 65 years old, and this is my first war. I came close to being drafted for the Vietnam War, and I remember the fear I felt and the tension in my body as the days wound down to the day the Selective Service System, also known as the draft board, would be assigning me a draft number. Thankfully, the draft ended, and I did not have to serve. I cannot avoid serving in this war. My goal is to do so with honor and integrity.

My dad fought in WW2. He was a member of the greatest generation, volunteering to serve in the Air Force. During the war he performed Herculean acts, all the while knowing his life was at risk every hour of every day for months on end. It took mental toughness, the support of comrades and family, and, yes, a splash of alcohol to survive.

My dad was a flight engineer with the 73rd Bomb Wing. He was part of one of many B-29 squadrons stationed on Saipan, one of the Mariana Islands. He participated in more than 30 bombing missions over Japan, including the dreadful firebombings, which turned the tide of the war in the Pacific.

For a portion of the war, he had it pretty easy, acting as a training instructor in Florida. His worst injury during that time, a broken foot, occurred while playing handball. The remaining portion of the war, when he was stationed on Saipan, was hell for him.

Throughout the years following WW2, he suffered in silence, never really discussing the war or his actions during it, though on numerous occasions he would tell us that he consumed lots of alcohol to numb his senses. When he did discuss it, he usually glossed over the details.

In the late 90s, when he and my mom attended a reunion of the men who fought with the 73rd, some of his heroic acts came to light. Many men from his crew told stories about my dad, how he was a hero, and that without him, none of them would have survived the war. My dad never told us the full extent of the danger they experienced daily, though he did laugh and say, “I used to sit on my flack jacket while we were flying to protect my testicles from the shots from below,” an act I was very happy to hear about.

To a man, his crew wanted to discuss one particular mission. It started like all the others did, as they flew from Saipan to Tokyo to drop their load of bombs. It ended much differently.

While over the Bay of Tokyo, his B-29 was hit, and it was hit hard. While it was still able to fly, the damage to the plane was extensive. It suffered instantaneous pressure loss, causing my dad’s eardrums to burst, which resulted in partial hearing loss for the rest of his life, though he had it easy when compared to the others of his crew who were either unconscious or dead.

The plane was a mess. Not all engines were operating. The rear gunner was partially sucked out of the plane, but was still stuck in what was left of his bubble. Smoke was everywhere.

A Japanese fighter was pursuing them, trying to finish them off. The crew took evasive action. They hit the deck, almost literally, dropping to about 100 feet above sea level. As they passed through 300 feet, the Japanese fighter stopped pursuing them, assuming they would splash into the Pacific.

My dad, as flight engineer, knew they would not be seen at 100 feet because they were below the radar floor, but he also knew they had bigger problems than losing the fighter because they were over 500 miles from Saipan without oxygen, flying slowly in thick, moist sea air. The likelihood of them having enough fuel to get back to base was practically nil.

As flight engineer, he knew all the specifications of the plane, and his job was to use every trick he could think of to save fuel and get them home. No one expected them to return. As the other planes in the squadron returned to Saipan, they reported that my dad’s plane was hit and most likely lost at sea.

Over four hours after the other planes returned, my dad’s plane limped to East Field in Saipan and ran out of gas as it reached the runway. Against all odds they made it back, knowing that they would have to do it all over again. His strength and courage during those times is inspirational to me.

I am not equipped to be on the front lines of this war, which is being fought in labs and hospitals and fire stations and police stations and grocery stores and farms and packing houses and other critical industries across the globe. Our scientists, doctors, nurses, police officers, firemen are our fighting force, but our clerks, truck drivers, meat packers, farmers, farm workers, delivery workers are also on the front lines.

At best, I can play a support role, sort of like those who bought war bonds in the 1940’s, doing what they could to further the war effort. Instead of building planes and other war devices, I need to do what I can to prevent the inadvertent spread of Covid-19. I need to make it as easy as possible for our current combatants to do their jobs, and I need to act in a way that protects their health.

Sadly, we need to fight this war on two fronts. The first is finding a way to beat the infection. The second is to do it without killing our economy. We cannot focus solely on the first and ignore the second, but focusing on the second will make it tougher on our combatants to fight the first.

Memorial Day is a week away. This year it will hold special significance for me. I will be tearfully thinking of my dad in a way I have not done in years. More importantly, I will be respectful of all our past and current combatants, especially the current ones who did not volunteer to be combatants, but instead were drafted into the fight. I will express my appreciation for their acts, both in my actions and my words. I will do everything I can to enable them to to do their part in this war as safely as possible. I will tell everyone I know to do the same.

I am proud of my dad. I’d like to think he would be proud of me.

Since the Covid-19 pandemic began, the status of toilet paper has soared. An item that no one but the environmentally obsessed thought about, has become a bellwether, making the news almost daily.

It is the canary in the coal mine for me. The sudden surge in demand for toilet paper due to hoarding was just the tip of the iceberg affecting the availability of and the demand for toilet paper in the future.

The reality is that there is a toilet paper shortage and there is a toilet paper surplus at the same time. Demand surged due to hoarding, but overall demand did not change. Instead, ongoing consumption has shifted to homes from commercial and industrial buildings. The result is that the well established supply chain for toilet paper is in disarray. Sales to the commercial channels have plummeted, while sales to consumers have sky rocketed, creating both a shortage and a surplus.

The supply chain will adapt, but it will take time. Consumers will need to identify additional sources of supply. Bulk purchases, at the case level, may become the norm. Direct sales from the manufacturer or a large wholesaler to the consumer will most likely increase. The last big change in the toilet paper supply chain was when Costco entered the market and sold private label toilet paper in bulk packaging. Now even Costco is having (t)issues keeping up.

Other supply chains are equally disrupted. The food chain is in utter disrepair. A large percentage of the sales of food are direct to hotels, restaurants, etc. Demand for goods in that segment of the market has fallen to the floor. Toilet paper has issues, but at least it does not have a short shelf life. Fresh food, on the other hand, is very perishable. Farmers have no buyers for their products at a time when grocery stores are clamoring for supply. Though, already we are seeing farm to table mean farm to dining room table, as farmers are reaching out directly to consumers.

Thankfully, we exist in a capitalistic system, one that rewards those who have the courage or the intelligence to change with the times. Capital will be reallocated. Supply chains will change. Jobs will be created. Efficiency will be sought.

We will change faster than the rest of the world. Hopefully, it will be fast enough to get the right goods to the right place at the right price. If we watch toilet paper carefully, we might have a good idea as to how we are progressing.