Newspapers Go Extinct: Less Left

Yes, I'm still in mourning mode for my dear father-in-law, but there's only so much crying one can do. Tears are partly a function of memory and observation, and partly a function of sympathy. When I'm with people who are lachrymose--whether overhearing a heart-felt thank you, witnessing the love in a wedding ceremony, or even just watching someone I care for tearful in a personal, momentary clutch, I choke up.

Alone, I have fewer cues to cry.

And so I'm relieved to be invited to a friend's birthday party, and even to read the newspaper.

There are far too many articles here in Seattle, and even in national publications, about the closure of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, which began publication in 1863 as the Seattle Gazette. It's set to go online-only, probably in the next few days. The Sunday paper in the Emerald City has long been a cooperative effort of the town's major daily, The Seattle Times, and the P-I, so today's op-ed page was a death-watch. Several letters scorned the way-left stance of the P-I; more lamented the loss of a second print voice.

Dinosaur that I am, I was actually witness to the closing of another city's second-tier newspaper two decades ago. I'd worked for a couple years as a features reporter for the LA Times, then wrote a book, and then got a job at Los Angeles' other daily, the Herald Examiner, writing editorials. My boss was Tom Plate, now a national columnist, and I was one of three staffers charged with coming up with positions the paper would represent as its own.

Working in the grand structure that housed the Her-Ex was a kick; its sweeping double stairway and colorful copula topping the edifice (below) viewable from two freeways made it a landmark much in the same way the P-I's globe (photo above by Josh Trujillo, Seattle P-I) is a symbol of Seattle. In the newsroom, however, I remember many times shuddering when I saw rats scurrying across the floor.

I didn't last too long in that job, feeling claustrophobic and cooped up sitting inside all day, drinking far too much of their triple-loaded coffee. I much preferred chasing down stories, or free-lancing, because my time was my own.

But it hardly mattered, because a few years after my departure, the once-venerable Hearst paper--pardon the pun--folded. Its readership had declined as The Times' had grown--nobody wanted an afternoon paper anymore, and it was tough to see what the Her-Ex offered that The Times didn't. As a kid in LA, the Times had a conservative editorial position, the Her-Ex more liberal. But then they, like most papers across the country, both slid to the left, shadowing each other.

Did the Internet murder the Los Angeles Herald Examiner? Impossible, there was none. The paper had never recovered from a huge, decade-long labor strike that ended in 1977, during which time The Times comandeered the city; the Her-Ex then hobbled along and sputtered out in 1989. But I think that just as important in that collapse was an ingredient feeding the implosion of papers across the country--lack of balance in viewpoint. I am not sure about the Rocky Mountain News, but I know the San Francisco Chronicle is staunchly liberal. And of course here in Seattle, both the Times and the P-I share a perch on the left.

When we first moved here to Seattle, we subscribed to the P-I, because it was the only morning paper. The Times published too late to set the day and its events. When The Times switched to morning, in direct competition to the P-I, I compared the two, turning pages of each paper side-by-side, looking at the coverage, the depth, the writing, the perspective, even the layout. We switched immediately to The Times--it was clearly superior to the P-I.

I guess I'm saying a few things here. First off, all of the biggest papers nationally echo each others' views of news, editorial orientations, and types of articles they choose to feature. I noticed, for example, that our Seattle Times regularly offers admiring coverage for local authors--if they're gardeners, novelists or intellectuals on the left. But not a word about local authors' new more conservative releases (I'm thinking of five local authors now), even when titles reach NY Times best-seller status, and motivate 500 fans to stand in line at a local book-signing on a rainy night.

To be sure, the availability of the news on the Internet has severely harmed published newspapers. Anything major and breaking sends me to the Web. I want the transcript of a major presidential speech instantly; I want to compare the coverage of six or seven outlets within minutes. Like other news-centric folk, I'm poor on patience.

But my third point is that there's something worthwhile and unique about a physical newspaper. I love the feature stories, and the accompanying photos, and I like to think about the placement of articles in relation to what's also deemed important for the day. I like to skim headlines and choose what to peruse in depth, and I like sitting outside in the sunshine, when it's available, in brightness that would obscure my laptop's monitor, with a cup of coffee and biscotti. Sometimes I clip articles, and often artful photos that convey color, design and feeling. Just to scotch-tape them up in my world awhile.

If newsprint disappears, will I take the time to click on each page of the Style section? Will I follow links through all the local news? Will I ignore useful ads that I would have leafed through if stuffed in my morning bundle?

That, for me, would be the loss, because with my impatience, the answers to the above questions would be no. I'll check out the major stories and skip the rest in favor of checking my email, narrowing my world, restricting the breadth of my awareness, especially on local and human-interest levels.

But I do think it's too late. We've moved on to an economic and psychological scenario where high-speed connections have formed entitlements to events and even others' thoughts, instantly. In a way, that's great, because the amount of information available in that split-second is vast (if not accurate) and anyone with a computer can now collect opinions and viewpoints from varied sources rather than a single powerful printed editorial page.

Today we've had snow, pelting rain and hail, and now the wind is howling but the sun has broken through. Quick, time to grab my Style Section and biscotti and head outside.

Snapshots of Zayde...

A typical pose--Zayde delights in the sunshine and the beauty of nature in one of his crumpled hats last May in Seattle.

This was taken for the family passport he used at age 23 to "make aliya" (move) to the fledgling state of Israel for the first time, with his wife and baby son, in 1949. A lack of secure work and housing caused their return to the United States.

This photo, ca 1967, at the family's Los Angeles home, seems to be a role-reversal. The dad has the beard, the teen college student is clean-shaven.

Below, Zayde presents his book, Hidden Light, to a group in Los Angeles last April.

I'm not sure, but I think this might be his graduation photo from Central High in Philadelphia.

Remembering Zayde's Zing

Though he was a deep and brilliant man, David, my father-in-law, most clearly radiated a single, powerful characteristic--joie de vivre. But Zayde, (Yiddish for "Grandfather," and his affectionate nickname used by my children and hoards of adoring adults) didn't just enjoy life. He didn't just smile a lot and bask in the good things. Zayde internalized the beauty, bounty and genius of the "natural" world, and then like the shiny foil-cardboard reflector sunbathers use to intensify the rays, bounced it back to others around him, stronger and more recognizable.

There was a morning. And then there was Zayde's morning, where he'd step outside, his Indiana Jones brimmed hat slightly askew, the chin rope dangling under his broadly-smiling face. He'd stand there a few moments admiring the vista, inhale deeply and proclaim joyfully the Psalmist's praise, "Ma rabu ma'asecha, Hashem!" ("How wondrous and varied are your works, O God!" Ps.124:24) And by his exuberance, you knew it was an amazing day.

Zayde was always proudly Jewish, but he only began his studies in earnest, inspired by my husband's own quest, after the age of 50, when he perfected his Hebrew and memorized the Five Books of Moses so he could read them flawlessly in proper "trop" (cantillations) for the congregation in services. He started applying the knowledge gained as a physicist/professor to his research of Torah, finding shocking "coincidences" between biblically-described phenomena and recent scientific discoveries. Some of them became the basis of his 2008 book, Hidden Light: Science Secrets of the Bible.

He'd always wanted to live in Jerusalem, first attempting the adventurous move in 1949 at age 23, when the Jewish state was fresh and immigrants were welcomed to Quonset huts and tents, often in communal farms called "moshavim." With his young bride and infant son (my husband), he sought an income and permanent shelter; after six months without finding either, the couple returned to a dingy basement apartment in Philadelphia, and with merit scholarships and his bio-chemist wife's income, completed his bachelor's of science, master's and doctoral degrees at Penn.

It was then that he left his Yiddish-speaking Mama behind in Phillie (where he'd won the [Knowledge of] Shakespeare Prize at the elite public Central High School) and moved with his bride and then 6-year-old son to a new job at Convair (later General Dynamics) in San Diego, to devise guidance systems for jets.

The hardy Ukrainian stock that had spurred Dave's father to leave his family behind, make the perilous crossing to America, and eke a living as a barrel-maker (reuniting two decades later with his wife, Sarah, who had suffered the loss of their five daughters to disease and starvation in the aftermath of World War I) inspired Zayde to apply to NASA just as the space race was heating up. After stints on the Gemini and Apollo efforts, he was so exhilarated by the physical training and excitement of space, he became one of six scientist-astronauts set to orbit the earth--only to be scrubbed just short of blast-off by periodontal problems. I think he considered that process the zenith of his lifetime.

Nothing could stop Zayde, large or small. He took a professorial gig at UCLA while working at Electro-Optical Systems, and then moved on to start his own fiber optics company in Santa Monica in the late 60s. By the '90s, he'd grown his business to hundreds of employees, but everyone considered him "the tinkerer" because he couldn't resist creating. He held dozens of patents and when he finally sold the company to Amoco in 1990 to realize his dream of "making aliyah" to retire in Israel, he lasted two weeks before epiphanies for more innovations led him to start yet another business, Jerusalem Optical Link Technologies (JOLT).

He'd use his big-kid charm to get nearly anything he wanted. In San Diego, when his four obstreperous boys were small and the budget that barely afforded their modest, boxy house on a busy Point Loma street didn't allow for Sunday swimming, they'd have their pool party--even if they had to nonchalantly saunter onto assorted hotel premises and pretend they belonged there.

Vacations meant a grand tour camping the National Parks with the family, Dave's thrill being hiking and savoring each forest path. In the midst of briskly clambering the trail he'd suddenly pause, drink in the sky and trees, and exclaim, "Boy, is this beautiful!" or "What a GORGEOUS day!" Even at home, Zayde enjoyed rough-housing on the living room floor as much as his sons did.

He was a fabulous father-in-law, bursting with ecstasy at my wedding to his oldest son, dancing in such a frenzy he turned crimson. But he could be tender, approaching with a smile and loving hug, saying "oh darlink!" When he was with us for Shabbat, I always treasured the blessing he'd bestow, resting his fingers gently on my hair and bidding me softly to be like the Jewish mothers, Sarah, Rivka, Ruchel and Leah, a daughter who, along with my sisters-in-law Jane, Michele and Anne, he loved as much as his precious boys. He was equally sweet with his grandchildren, frequently asking with a lilt, "How are you, kinderluch?" But he didn't mind putting some force in his instruction to my sometimes slacking son, "You listen to your Baba now!" adding, "Do it for your Zayde."

But he was known most for his enduring childlike wonder over even the tiniest surprises. About 20 years ago, he bought a revamped apartment in our neighborhood to become one of five dozen families who learned Torah with our Rabbi, the only means of becoming a member of the synagogue he and my husband had founded on Venice beach, known for its home hospitality. Each week during services, my husband would quietly inquire which families were "hosting," and who was "available" as a guest. Sometimes the match-ups worked perfectly, and other times there were too many (mostly) young people "available," and members would be pressed into action to throw together a properly festive Shabbat meal.

Zayde, unattached at the time, was often one of those who hadn't made Shabbat plans. Though a non-domestic sort, he'd cheerfully accept a table-full of guests, and was famous for leading them up the stairs and into his livingroom, sweeping piles of papers off of the folding tables that served as his desk, flourishing a white tablecloth over it, and heading for his tiny tube kitchen. He'd root around in the mostly-vacant fridge, throw open the cupboards, and in a minute or two emerge, victorious: "Here's a can of tuna, a tub of garbanzo beans and some lettuce--we've got a FEAST!"

This was the man who attended high school and college with Noam Chomsky and emerged in his later years as right-wing as they come on both Israeli and American politics. Make no mistake, though he felt the gravity of the center of the world in Jerusalem, where he lived for the last 19 years, he remained an American patriot, having served in the US Navy during World War II. He was a talk radio devotee, listening to his son via Internet and podcast, regularly faxing pages-long comments, or phoning with an animated "Hi, Sonny!"

He viewed the world in capital letters, with exclamation points, savoring the people, the perspectives, the panorama, and he'd bring it all back to Torah, to the miracles of God's creation, the stunning amusements divinely built into numbers, cycles and seasons. His genius synthesized the pieces, almost the way he most enjoyed a plate of food--mixed into a melange of flavors, topped with the fire of hot sauce, the piquant zing that made his life so special.

Conservative Whiz-Kid Picks Smart Mentor

The lead article in today's New York Times Style section, my Sunday morning reading of choice because of its entre pre-recession into a parallel universe of outrageously priced purses, too chic nightlife, melodramatic tales of love, and snigglingly direct wedding announcements, highlights a precocious political pundit. Atlanta's Jonathan Krohn, age 13, is profiled because of his audacious pursuit of the limelight, after countless calls to radio talk shows, self-publishing a book that purports to express the essence of conservative belief, and a recent piece de resistance speaking at the Conservative Political Action Conference last week in Washington D.C.

Though Jonathan is portrayed as obnoxious and arrogant, his parents appear refreshingly perplexed by their progeny. His mother, Marla, observing her son engrossed in writing to the exclusion of all else, "got tough," according to the boy. "She’d say, ‘If you don’t stop writing now and go outside and get some exercise, I won’t let you finish this book!’” When Jonathan exclaimed over the policies of Barack Obama, his father "buried his face in his hands" and moaned, "Oh, Jonathan!"

The left-leaning Times seems to snicker at this hopelessly un-hip kid in his sweater-vest, but does show him to be up with the latest best-sellers, which clearly form the source of his understanding of politics. In the large photo splashed across the Style Section, prominently displayed, face-front on the shelf immediately behind the prodigy is perhaps the most authoritative book on American history: "The 10 Big Lies About America," by Michael Medved.

Purim Costume Musings--and Dangers

Addendum to previous post about Purim costumes (which you should read to make sense of the first half of this post):

I'd been debating a suggestion that my mustashio'd husband portray Super Mario, who has a feature that would work perfectly: a pert, red newsboy cap, boasting a prominent letter "M." But we'd still need the outfit's basics, and where could we borrow those overalls? Not many farmers in our suburb, and this would be a one-wearing purchase.

My husband's sartorial taste goes to plaid flannel lumberjack shirts and "relaxed" jeans. But costuming him as Paul Bunyan is lame, and I'm not sure how I'd dress up as Babe, the Big Blue Ox. And Babe doesn't cast the flattering silhouette I normally prefer. (I could wear blue head-to-toe, paint my face and top it with fake horns on a headband, but I'd be a rather pathetic enormous beast.)

How am I going to motivate my man to trade his usual shlumpy attire for something more fanciful? My only hope might be to start the festival's imbibing with some of his favorite craft beers a little early.

If we go with the Mario scenario, my daughter says a friend of hers could perhaps loan me the pink tube dress that was her Princess Peach garb at a recent party. Since when is a tube dress appropriate for a princess? I'll think about buying some pink netting or tulle to pouf it out a little. Then I'll look like a frumpy ballerina...

Just a few more days to put this together. I think we need some further help here--please!

Now I'm going to tell you the story of the picture, below. I cannot restrain my laughter every time I see it.

Our middle child, who is very creative and independent, at age 7 decided she was going to make her own Purim costume, and that it had to be...a box of Cheerios. She searched until she found a corrugated box that was large enough to cover her body, a rectangle not-too-deep so it would look just like the Cheerios box (ie a rectangular prism). She covered it with yellow paper and painstakingly copied the lettering and bowl of oat circles she saw on the front of the cereal, including, of course, the huge "O-U," the letter U inside a circle that indicates its contents are certified kosher. She cut out holes for her head and arms, and left the bottom open for her legs.

On the night of Purim, she needed assistance to lift the box over her head, and pull her limbs through the holes. With her hair in a ponytail with matching yellow headband, off we all went to hear the reading of the Book of Esther (Megilat Esther) at the Chabad House in Seattle's University District. It's a brick building in the style of Chabad's 770 Eastern Parkway headquarters, with lots of steep stairways.

As we were walking down to the level where the Megilla would be read, my daughter, unable to see her feet, slipped and ended up on her back in the stairwell, flailing like a flipped tortoise in its shell. In the photo, a friend and my other daughter (back to camera) were trying valiantly to right my Cheerios girl, stuck supine an interminable couple of minutes.

I do love that child (she's the one who texted me about Mario). Don't even ask what happened when she got into her head that she just had to go the next Purim as a bunch of grapes--the fruit-'o-the-vine being blown up purple balloons...

Mario and Princess Peach? Or--how to dress for Purim?

The Jewish holiday of Purim is fast approaching, and I'm scrambling to find costumes for my husband and me.

To be honest, my husband, the curmudgeon, eschews costumes, which are much more than mere folly on this most joyous and raucous of Jewish festivals. Purim celebrates the events described in the Book of Esther--when Persia's King Ahashverosh was persuaded by Queen Esther, a Jew taken to the royal harem against her will, to nullify evil minister Haman's genocidal decree. This is the one scripture where God's name is never mentioned (except in code), which exemplifies the theme of the holiday--the hidden nature of God. In that vein, we wear costumes to hide our external identities, and imbibe alcohol so we internalize the confusion of reality with appearances.

So my husband's reluctance to dress up represents more than mere laziness or embarrassment--it's a small rebellion. Especially when I go to the trouble of creating a costume for him. In the past, he's been more amenable--one notable year when I was about to give birth to our second daughter, I made Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head costumes from burlap bags, cutting out and drawing enormous features from posterboard, and buying him a silly plastic bowler hat. Another year I made us both Zorro costumes; I got t-shirts and bandannas from the Army surplus store when we were bikers. The shirts were black, and read, "Kill 'em all; let God sort 'em out" (I think it was). Somebody asked if he was in the so-and-so military unit, which apparently used that logo.

But for many years now, he won't dress up at all. I go all out, 'natch, looking completely ridiculous in my half yellow-half red jester costume with matching dual-pointed and pom-pom'd hat (I paint my face half red, half yellow, of course). A couple years ago when it was pertinent, I was Martha Stewart, with my apron and toque over a striped prison uniform, ankle bracelet dangling. When Disney was the theme of a Purim seuda we attended (the luncheon that is one of the four Purim mitzvot, ie commandments), I came as Minnie Mouse, with red, white and black polka dot skirt, proper ears with bow, whiskers and tail.

So Purim has quickly returned and once again, I'm faced with the costume dilemma. But yesterday, my daughter texted me with the message, "All my friends decided that (my husband) has to go as Mario, and you should be Princess Peach!" Her friends, evidently, agreed that my husband looks like Mario, with his dark mustache. I know nothing about the Super Mario games, but thanks to Google, I found that all I need to be Princess Peach Toadstool is a poufy pink dress and a tiara.

But after clicking through 158 pages of costumes online, all I found was a too-short, flirty version of Princess Peach, a polyEsther (couldn't resist) number for about $50. I've never bought a costume before and certainly won't (and all my previous home-made attempts fill three huge bags of assorted garb and props). I don't own a pink poufy dress, alas. What to do? Purim's next Monday night and Tuesday! Ideas?

Coping with Financial Absurdity

My husband passed me a page of USA Today, where psychiatrist Judith Orloff was spinning her book on "Emotional Freedom" into something related to the economy. That's what just about every author has to do these days--because losing money has become the great unifier for the middle and higher classes, the ones who normally buy books but won't anymore unless it has to do with finances.

If you haven't lost your job, then you've probably lost value on your house. Or your stocks went down (most middle class folk nowadays own at least some stock) or your bills went up. Our natural gas bill is a killer, because it's been darn cold this winter. Al Gore, I'm waiting for Global Warming.

So this psychiatrist was trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and say what great opportunities adversity provides: "Sometimes people discover unexpected strengths; they get creative. Retired people may focus on making the best of what they have left, guarding it...[as if they have a choice??] It's an opportunity to show kindness and generosity to others in trouble."

Being upbeat used to be called positive thinking. Norman Vincent Peale got a best-seller and several sequels out of it, starting with The Power of Positive Thinking, in 1952. I have fond memories of my mom reading Dr. Peale's inspirational newsletter, "Guideposts," which she kept by her bedside. There was no one more optimistic than my mom. Of course, Dr. Peale's Positive Thinking was preceded by Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People (1936) followed by the pep-talking How to Stop Worrying and Start Living (1944).

But, as a mental health professional myself, I'm doomed to analyze my malaise about the demise of our family's net worth. (Albert Einstein: "The hardest thing in the world to understand is income tax") It's not that now we have less--far less--for the future. Or even that we'll have to cut back, since we're already masters of thrift.

What bothers me is the years we sacrificed in so many ways to save money--which now seems useless. I can't get back the hot afternoon when I went thirsty because I felt the cost of a bottled drink was too high. Or the evenings when instead of being together as a family, my husband was on the road earning a small speaking fee. Taught me great respect for single moms and dads, who shoulder the roles of two parents every day.

But if we (especially my husband) didn't have such a driving work ethic, we would have had more time together, closeness, and certainly more precious family memories.

That's the source of rue for me---not the loss of money, but the loss of our life, the time and the discomfort and the passing something desired by, simply to balance the budget or save for something, or put money away for the kids' college tuitions. Nothing unusual, just what people do to get ahead.

But that's what I think Americans resent with the new Obama tax plan. Even those receiving tax cuts, or low-bracket citizens receiving outright gifts from fellow taxpayers, will see their earnings--their time--buy less as inflation pushes costs for basics ever-higher.

At least Judith Orloff offers this comfort: "Money doesn't have to do with self-esteem. I've treated so many people with all the money in the world, and they feel horrible about themselves." (Now that's encouraging!)

Or perhaps she's merely echoing John Lennon and Paul McCartney's lyrics from "Can't Buy Me Love." The gist of Orloff's book, apparently, is that you shouldn't just let out your negative feelings but rather consider possible consequences before venting.

Duh. And it's also no surprise that wealth doesn't guarantee happiness. But as Sophie Tucker said, "Rich is better." Or, asks Henny Youngman, "What's the use of happiness? It can't buy you money."

Don't get me started. We might just laugh through the tears of this Alice-in-Wonderland absurdity yet. One final thought from the late, great Bob Hope: "I love to go to Washington, if only to be nearer my money."