Originally Published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, feb. 2011
Every once in awhile, there are reports of principals ruining schools by harassing teachers, trying to fire them on flimsy grounds, looting the budget for their own personal reasons, etc. The teachers, and often the parents, complain about the principals, yet can do nothing.
This calls into question the way we hire principals. As I understand, principal candidates must be certified, then appear before school districts, who then make the choice.
But if the teachers will be the ones who deal with principals on a day-to-day basis, why should they have no voice in the hiring process?
In today’s America, people talk constantly about democracy, but democracy really functions only in a very narrow sphere. In the workplace, whether public or private, things operate in a top-down manner no different than those found in any foreign dictatorship.
Instead of having a few administrators select the principals, why not have the Department of Education, which certifies supervisors, provide a list of qualified candidates to the schools themselves? Then, a committee of teachers would interview the principal candidates and make their selection on real criteria — what it would be like to deal with that principal on a day-to-day basis.
While the teachers’ opinions wouldn’t be the only ones counted, they still would be an important part in the selection process.
Then the students would get a real lesson in democracy, not just from the pages of a book.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Death of a Magazine
By Raanan Geberer
(originally published in "Mr. Beller's Neighborhood"
For seven years, I worked at Energy Saver’s News, a trade magazine that reported on commercial and industrial energy conservation. Six of those years were at the old Fairchild Publications building on East 12th Street near Fifth Avenue. It was a great neighborhood to work in: We were near both Stromboli Pizza and Ray’s Pizza, Cinema Village, the Jefferson Market Library and the Cedar Tavern. If I was willing to take off a little extra time from lunch, I could even walk to the East Village, to St. Marks Place.
We also had a pretty colorful crew of creative people at work, almost all of us in our early or mid-thirties. So many of us had played in rock bands that we once, just for the hell of it, had a rock band of our own. One of our statisticians had dropped out of Yale Medical School. At the other end of the spectrum, two of our reporters had previously been a truck driver and a security guard, respectively. One guy, who didn’t work too hard but was always cracking everybody up, later became a well-known TV comedy writer. The magazine’s founding editor, who left a few months after I came, was just beginning to write a series of best-selling novels about his Vietnam War experiences.
The work was pretty dull – “such and such hospital in Tempe, Arizona saved $30,000 a year by installing new Trane chillers” – but we felt good about the fact that we were encouraging people to save energy and help the environment. And during lulls in the work, we had a great time playing word games in the office.
Because there were so many different magazines in the same building with their own staff (including many attractive women), you felt like you were part of the same family – well, sometimes. I remember one of the few times we tried to cooperate with one of the other Fairchild magazines. Our editor, Robbie, went upstairs to the Supermarket Times editor, told her that we had a great story about energy conservation in supermarkets, and asked if she would like to print it, too. She just looked at him and said, “Well, we only print stories about supermarkets!”
The magazine had been founded in the 1970s at the height of the energy crisis, but by the time I came, the energy crisis was over. The first sign of trouble came about four years after I started working there. We always had several reporters in “bureaus” – one person in Washington, D.C.; one in Houston, one in San Francisco, one in Pittsburgh and one in Chicago. One day, after rumors about less and less advertising, the head of our publishing group, whom we rarely saw, gave us an ultimatum: Cut the staff in half! The bureau reporters, except for the one in Washington who followed government legislation, had to go. “I told them not to do any work for these last two weeks,” our editor, Robbie, confided in me.
About a year later, the group publisher retired. Fairchild, which was busy cultivating a high-fashion image with Women’s Wear Daily, W, and Home Furnishings, didn’t know what to do with us and the other technical magazines. So they arranged that we would get transferred to another publishing group within the Capital Cities-ABC group, Milltown Publishing, located in Newton, Mass. Milltown was best known for its automotive publications, and our new publisher, Harry Cuddy, was a hard-drinking, tough-talking, rugby-playing guy whose main claim to fame was having once been a successful used car dealer. They also took us out of the Fairchild Building and gave us a cramped space in an anonymous, soul-less building in the Midtown business district.
The first sign of change came over a minor matter – Harry, who traveled back and forth from New York to Newton, decided that all our folios at the top of the pages would have to be the same color, rather than red for heating and air conditioning, yellow for lighting, blue for oil and gas pricing, and so forth. Then he started having arguments with Bob DiGerolimo, our longtime ad manager, and we heard Harry calling Bob a “fucking moron.” Soon, Harry was out of there. But the most alarming trend was that whenever one of the editorial staff left, he was replaced by a new employee – but in Newton. Harry even talked about “getting a new core group together in Newton.” Larry, our equally tough-talking technology editor, confided in me, “You know, this newspaper does a lot to help the environment, but Milltown couldn’t give a rat’s ass!”
Then, one day, I heard Robbie yelling from Harry’s office, “Do you mean you’re firing me?” Harry brought the Washington, D.C. staffer to Newton to make her the editor. Larry went back to the Midwest, and I was alone in the New York office. It was just a matter of time before they laid me off and shut down the office completely. When Harry came into my room with a personnel official, I knew why. Harry was polite, for a change, and explained that this had nothing to do with my work, which he actually thought was good. Because I had been at Energy Saver’s News for so long, Milltown gave me 18 months severance pay, which was nice. Maybe they should have given me the opportunity to work in Newton, but the whole thing happened so fast, I couldn’t think that quickly. I called Robbie. “Kick Harry for me!” he said.
Milltown had the magazine for two or three years, then sold it to another publishing group, which changed its name and moved it to another part of the country. That magazine was sold twice more after that, moved offices at least one more time, and changed its named yet again.
I looked at it recently on the Web – there’s no trace of the old Energy Saver’s News. Even the type of news they cover is different. If I called them and told them about all the fun we had in Greenwich Village, they would probably be at a loss for words.
(originally published in "Mr. Beller's Neighborhood"
For seven years, I worked at Energy Saver’s News, a trade magazine that reported on commercial and industrial energy conservation. Six of those years were at the old Fairchild Publications building on East 12th Street near Fifth Avenue. It was a great neighborhood to work in: We were near both Stromboli Pizza and Ray’s Pizza, Cinema Village, the Jefferson Market Library and the Cedar Tavern. If I was willing to take off a little extra time from lunch, I could even walk to the East Village, to St. Marks Place.
We also had a pretty colorful crew of creative people at work, almost all of us in our early or mid-thirties. So many of us had played in rock bands that we once, just for the hell of it, had a rock band of our own. One of our statisticians had dropped out of Yale Medical School. At the other end of the spectrum, two of our reporters had previously been a truck driver and a security guard, respectively. One guy, who didn’t work too hard but was always cracking everybody up, later became a well-known TV comedy writer. The magazine’s founding editor, who left a few months after I came, was just beginning to write a series of best-selling novels about his Vietnam War experiences.
The work was pretty dull – “such and such hospital in Tempe, Arizona saved $30,000 a year by installing new Trane chillers” – but we felt good about the fact that we were encouraging people to save energy and help the environment. And during lulls in the work, we had a great time playing word games in the office.
Because there were so many different magazines in the same building with their own staff (including many attractive women), you felt like you were part of the same family – well, sometimes. I remember one of the few times we tried to cooperate with one of the other Fairchild magazines. Our editor, Robbie, went upstairs to the Supermarket Times editor, told her that we had a great story about energy conservation in supermarkets, and asked if she would like to print it, too. She just looked at him and said, “Well, we only print stories about supermarkets!”
The magazine had been founded in the 1970s at the height of the energy crisis, but by the time I came, the energy crisis was over. The first sign of trouble came about four years after I started working there. We always had several reporters in “bureaus” – one person in Washington, D.C.; one in Houston, one in San Francisco, one in Pittsburgh and one in Chicago. One day, after rumors about less and less advertising, the head of our publishing group, whom we rarely saw, gave us an ultimatum: Cut the staff in half! The bureau reporters, except for the one in Washington who followed government legislation, had to go. “I told them not to do any work for these last two weeks,” our editor, Robbie, confided in me.
About a year later, the group publisher retired. Fairchild, which was busy cultivating a high-fashion image with Women’s Wear Daily, W, and Home Furnishings, didn’t know what to do with us and the other technical magazines. So they arranged that we would get transferred to another publishing group within the Capital Cities-ABC group, Milltown Publishing, located in Newton, Mass. Milltown was best known for its automotive publications, and our new publisher, Harry Cuddy, was a hard-drinking, tough-talking, rugby-playing guy whose main claim to fame was having once been a successful used car dealer. They also took us out of the Fairchild Building and gave us a cramped space in an anonymous, soul-less building in the Midtown business district.
The first sign of change came over a minor matter – Harry, who traveled back and forth from New York to Newton, decided that all our folios at the top of the pages would have to be the same color, rather than red for heating and air conditioning, yellow for lighting, blue for oil and gas pricing, and so forth. Then he started having arguments with Bob DiGerolimo, our longtime ad manager, and we heard Harry calling Bob a “fucking moron.” Soon, Harry was out of there. But the most alarming trend was that whenever one of the editorial staff left, he was replaced by a new employee – but in Newton. Harry even talked about “getting a new core group together in Newton.” Larry, our equally tough-talking technology editor, confided in me, “You know, this newspaper does a lot to help the environment, but Milltown couldn’t give a rat’s ass!”
Then, one day, I heard Robbie yelling from Harry’s office, “Do you mean you’re firing me?” Harry brought the Washington, D.C. staffer to Newton to make her the editor. Larry went back to the Midwest, and I was alone in the New York office. It was just a matter of time before they laid me off and shut down the office completely. When Harry came into my room with a personnel official, I knew why. Harry was polite, for a change, and explained that this had nothing to do with my work, which he actually thought was good. Because I had been at Energy Saver’s News for so long, Milltown gave me 18 months severance pay, which was nice. Maybe they should have given me the opportunity to work in Newton, but the whole thing happened so fast, I couldn’t think that quickly. I called Robbie. “Kick Harry for me!” he said.
Milltown had the magazine for two or three years, then sold it to another publishing group, which changed its name and moved it to another part of the country. That magazine was sold twice more after that, moved offices at least one more time, and changed its named yet again.
I looked at it recently on the Web – there’s no trace of the old Energy Saver’s News. Even the type of news they cover is different. If I called them and told them about all the fun we had in Greenwich Village, they would probably be at a loss for words.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Why So Many Young People Hate Israel, and How To Fix This Situation
By Raanan Geberer
In a recent, excellent article in Dissent, Mitchell Cohen distinguishes that “the Left that Learns” from the past and “the Left that doesn’t learn.” Specifically, he’s talking about Israel, and distinguishes between those who are critical of Israel but seek to be fair and those for whom anti-Zionist rhetoric strays uncomfortably close to anti-Semitism. Before we go any further, I will say that I, as a member of J Street and a longtime reader of Tikkun, consider myself a member of the former camp.
Cohen says those who “don’t learn” – from historical incidents such as the Russian “Doctors’ Plot,” where anti-Zionism was used as a stand-in for anti-Semitism – subscribe to certain beliefs, attitude and behaviors, such as:
1) Zionism is an alien implant into the Middle East, created by imperialism. The age-old Jewish religious attachment to the Land of Israel is either ignored or ridiculed.
2) The very existence of Israel is un-democratic and discriminatory.
3) Israel’s misdeeds should be criticized ad infinitum, but other injustices, such as Darfur, can be summed up in one perfunctory sentences.
4) Any problem between the Arabs and Israel can be blamed on Israel exclusively. Even the existence of Hamas can be blamed on Israel.
As good as the article is, however, there are several points I believe it overlooks. For example, let’s take a look at some of the most prominent groups that I would consider hardline anti-Israel: the International Solidarity Movement, Jews Against the Occupation and International ANSWER. A great part of the membership of these organizations, if not the majority, consists of college students and other “twenty-somethings” and “thirty-somethings.”
And when these young people read about Israel on web sites or in newspapers, or see newscasts from Israel on TV, what do they see?
I’ll tell you what they DON’T see. They don’t see hordes of refugees trying to escape the British blockade because they have such a strong desire to live in a land of their own. They don’t see immigrants from almost every nation in Europe and Asia streaming into Haifa harbor and Israeli officials trying heroically to unite these diverse people into one nation. They don’t see muscular, suntanned kibbutzniks redeeming swamps and growing crops in places where nothing has grown for thousands of years.
They don’t see upbeat young people hitchhiking all over the country. They don’t see an army so egalitarian that the private sits down at lunch with the general. They don’t see plucky scientists thinking up plans to irrigate the desert and create homes for thousands of more people. And they don’t see novelists, poets and playwrights creating a new literature in a language that had been proclaimed dead for thousands of years.
No, those are the images of Israel that our parents, our grandparents knew. They were already dated when I came of age in the ‘70s, and they are totally remote to these young people now.
When these young people turn on the TV or the computer and see images of Israel, they see images of arrogant soldiers harassing civilians at checkpoints, bombing and strafing entire communities, demolishing houses, blockading cities into poverty, breaking up peaceful demonstrations, and firing tear gas and rubber bullets into crowds. They see Palestinian prisoners have been in prison for months without having been charged. And these are the ONLY images they see.
While it’s true that these young people lack a historical perspective, fewer and fewer young people in general have such a perspective. The numbers of history or political science majors is way, way down from what it was 20 or 30 years ago. Survey after survey, news article after news article, show that an alarming percentage of young Americans lack a basic knowledge of American history. And if this is how they react to American history, the chances are that they know even less about Middle Eastern history. No, all they have to go by are those images they see on TV or on the web.
If Israel negotiates honestly with the Palestinians as an equal rather than from a position of arrogance, puts through a meaningful settlement freeze and stands up to the right-wing settlers, if its soldiers are taught to be courteous when dealing with Palestinian civilians, if Israel stops violating international law when dealing with the Palestinians in the territories, if Israel minimizes the number of checkpoints and lifts the Gaza blockade, if Israel accepts the international consensus of a “two-state solution” using land for peace, then the “hate-Israel” chorus coming from college campuses will be diminished to one or two notes.
This, I guarantee you. There will always be some people who insist that Israel has no right to exist, but if Israel learns to respect human rights and the international consensus, those people will be as irrelevant as the Flat Earth Society.
In a recent, excellent article in Dissent, Mitchell Cohen distinguishes that “the Left that Learns” from the past and “the Left that doesn’t learn.” Specifically, he’s talking about Israel, and distinguishes between those who are critical of Israel but seek to be fair and those for whom anti-Zionist rhetoric strays uncomfortably close to anti-Semitism. Before we go any further, I will say that I, as a member of J Street and a longtime reader of Tikkun, consider myself a member of the former camp.
Cohen says those who “don’t learn” – from historical incidents such as the Russian “Doctors’ Plot,” where anti-Zionism was used as a stand-in for anti-Semitism – subscribe to certain beliefs, attitude and behaviors, such as:
1) Zionism is an alien implant into the Middle East, created by imperialism. The age-old Jewish religious attachment to the Land of Israel is either ignored or ridiculed.
2) The very existence of Israel is un-democratic and discriminatory.
3) Israel’s misdeeds should be criticized ad infinitum, but other injustices, such as Darfur, can be summed up in one perfunctory sentences.
4) Any problem between the Arabs and Israel can be blamed on Israel exclusively. Even the existence of Hamas can be blamed on Israel.
As good as the article is, however, there are several points I believe it overlooks. For example, let’s take a look at some of the most prominent groups that I would consider hardline anti-Israel: the International Solidarity Movement, Jews Against the Occupation and International ANSWER. A great part of the membership of these organizations, if not the majority, consists of college students and other “twenty-somethings” and “thirty-somethings.”
And when these young people read about Israel on web sites or in newspapers, or see newscasts from Israel on TV, what do they see?
I’ll tell you what they DON’T see. They don’t see hordes of refugees trying to escape the British blockade because they have such a strong desire to live in a land of their own. They don’t see immigrants from almost every nation in Europe and Asia streaming into Haifa harbor and Israeli officials trying heroically to unite these diverse people into one nation. They don’t see muscular, suntanned kibbutzniks redeeming swamps and growing crops in places where nothing has grown for thousands of years.
They don’t see upbeat young people hitchhiking all over the country. They don’t see an army so egalitarian that the private sits down at lunch with the general. They don’t see plucky scientists thinking up plans to irrigate the desert and create homes for thousands of more people. And they don’t see novelists, poets and playwrights creating a new literature in a language that had been proclaimed dead for thousands of years.
No, those are the images of Israel that our parents, our grandparents knew. They were already dated when I came of age in the ‘70s, and they are totally remote to these young people now.
When these young people turn on the TV or the computer and see images of Israel, they see images of arrogant soldiers harassing civilians at checkpoints, bombing and strafing entire communities, demolishing houses, blockading cities into poverty, breaking up peaceful demonstrations, and firing tear gas and rubber bullets into crowds. They see Palestinian prisoners have been in prison for months without having been charged. And these are the ONLY images they see.
While it’s true that these young people lack a historical perspective, fewer and fewer young people in general have such a perspective. The numbers of history or political science majors is way, way down from what it was 20 or 30 years ago. Survey after survey, news article after news article, show that an alarming percentage of young Americans lack a basic knowledge of American history. And if this is how they react to American history, the chances are that they know even less about Middle Eastern history. No, all they have to go by are those images they see on TV or on the web.
If Israel negotiates honestly with the Palestinians as an equal rather than from a position of arrogance, puts through a meaningful settlement freeze and stands up to the right-wing settlers, if its soldiers are taught to be courteous when dealing with Palestinian civilians, if Israel stops violating international law when dealing with the Palestinians in the territories, if Israel minimizes the number of checkpoints and lifts the Gaza blockade, if Israel accepts the international consensus of a “two-state solution” using land for peace, then the “hate-Israel” chorus coming from college campuses will be diminished to one or two notes.
This, I guarantee you. There will always be some people who insist that Israel has no right to exist, but if Israel learns to respect human rights and the international consensus, those people will be as irrelevant as the Flat Earth Society.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Hostility to Public Employees: Based on Jealousy
By Raanan Geberer
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN — In times of austerity, officials — especially Republicans — seem to target public employees, especially state and municipal workers. They propose layoffs and hiring freezes without regard for what those workers and their families might think.
They express outrage over these workers’ “huge” raises, seemingly automatic promotions and “Cadillac” health plans. Their attitude is summed up by a remark I once heard a Republican candidate for lieutenant governor say at a press conference: “When we were in office, such and such number of jobs were created — and by jobs, I mean productive jobs, private-sector jobs.”
This attitude has filtered down to the people at large. Friends of public employees often ask them, in jest, whether they really work. City and state workers are thought to be immune to being fired, especially if they’ve been there for awhile.
When real abuses exist, such as a few years ago, when it was brought to people’s attention that subway conductors on “layup” for two or three hours between trains were still paid for those hours, critics jump all over them. They find in these incidents an excuse to criticize all public employees — and especially public employee unions — by default.
I’ve had two stints as a public employee, one as an assistant manager in the Section 8 housing program for several years and one as a census interviewer for about a month, and from my standpoint, public employees are very productive. Without the census, federal resources wouldn’t get to the right people. Without the Section 8 housing program, many people couldn’t afford their apartments. And by the way, there were several people at Section 8 who were fired due to poor performance, disproving an old canard. Furthermore, let’s look at some other public employees. Without bridge and tunnel employees, it wouldn’t be safe to cross over the George Washington Bridge or go through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Without police officers, no place would be safe. Without Health Department inspections, thousands of people would die from eating tainted food. And without police officers, no one would be safe, although most of those who slam civil servants make an exception for police officers, firefighters and sanitation people.
Much of the anger at public employees focuses on teachers, who supposedly aren’t getting the “results,” making A students out of D students, as if such a thing could be accomplished overnight. There are some people such as myself, who could read, write and do simple math by age 5 or 6 (I learned to read by asking my mother what was written on the sides of the freight cars that we saw going by at a nearby railroad yard). But for the great majority of people, their first exposure to the three Rs came in the classroom.
Perhaps what really ticks people off about civil servants is JEALOUSY! Deep down inside, most people would like to have the regularly scheduled raises, number of days off, health coverage, pensions, etc., that city and state workers have. At one time, most employees of big companies such as GM, GE and IBM had very similar benefits, but then the corporations began chipping away at them. Rather than attacking public employees, I think, politicians should try to create a climate where ALL workers — public and private — will have the security that public workers now enjoy.
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN — In times of austerity, officials — especially Republicans — seem to target public employees, especially state and municipal workers. They propose layoffs and hiring freezes without regard for what those workers and their families might think.
They express outrage over these workers’ “huge” raises, seemingly automatic promotions and “Cadillac” health plans. Their attitude is summed up by a remark I once heard a Republican candidate for lieutenant governor say at a press conference: “When we were in office, such and such number of jobs were created — and by jobs, I mean productive jobs, private-sector jobs.”
This attitude has filtered down to the people at large. Friends of public employees often ask them, in jest, whether they really work. City and state workers are thought to be immune to being fired, especially if they’ve been there for awhile.
When real abuses exist, such as a few years ago, when it was brought to people’s attention that subway conductors on “layup” for two or three hours between trains were still paid for those hours, critics jump all over them. They find in these incidents an excuse to criticize all public employees — and especially public employee unions — by default.
I’ve had two stints as a public employee, one as an assistant manager in the Section 8 housing program for several years and one as a census interviewer for about a month, and from my standpoint, public employees are very productive. Without the census, federal resources wouldn’t get to the right people. Without the Section 8 housing program, many people couldn’t afford their apartments. And by the way, there were several people at Section 8 who were fired due to poor performance, disproving an old canard. Furthermore, let’s look at some other public employees. Without bridge and tunnel employees, it wouldn’t be safe to cross over the George Washington Bridge or go through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Without police officers, no place would be safe. Without Health Department inspections, thousands of people would die from eating tainted food. And without police officers, no one would be safe, although most of those who slam civil servants make an exception for police officers, firefighters and sanitation people.
Much of the anger at public employees focuses on teachers, who supposedly aren’t getting the “results,” making A students out of D students, as if such a thing could be accomplished overnight. There are some people such as myself, who could read, write and do simple math by age 5 or 6 (I learned to read by asking my mother what was written on the sides of the freight cars that we saw going by at a nearby railroad yard). But for the great majority of people, their first exposure to the three Rs came in the classroom.
Perhaps what really ticks people off about civil servants is JEALOUSY! Deep down inside, most people would like to have the regularly scheduled raises, number of days off, health coverage, pensions, etc., that city and state workers have. At one time, most employees of big companies such as GM, GE and IBM had very similar benefits, but then the corporations began chipping away at them. Rather than attacking public employees, I think, politicians should try to create a climate where ALL workers — public and private — will have the security that public workers now enjoy.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Night Pharmacies: Are We Going Back to the Bad Old Days?
By Raanan Geberer
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN – Last weekend, on the way back home from somewhere at night, I decided to drop a prescription off at my local chain drugstore (which shall go nameless). I had done so a hundred times—since they opened, the pharmacy department itself has been open all night.
This time, however, when I entered the store, I saw a locked gate at the pharmacy department. And when I asked the clerk behind the counter, he directed me to a sign saying, “As of August 6, the pharmacy will be open from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. on weekdays; on weekends it will be open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.”
This may not be a big deal for the average person, but it presents a problem for someone who takes five or six prescription medications regularly. Thank God my asthma hasn’t been serious for the last 12 years, but what if it was and getting the prescription quickly was the only alternative to going to the emergency room? Or what if I had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to fill a prescription right away?
I was in both of these situations in the early 1990s when I lived in the Kings Highway area and my asthma was still serious. In the case when I was let out of the emergency room and desperately needed to get a prescription filled to make sure I didn’t have another attack, I had to spend a lot of money on a cab to the nearest all-night pharmacy, in Kings Plaza.
At the time, I remember, there were one or two others well-known all-night drugstores. I remember the Neergard Pharmacy in Park Slope and a well-known one on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (where a physician friend of mine sent me, with a prescription, when I had an attack in Manhattan). There weren’t very many others.
I understand how large drug chains might want to cut back in this economy. I also know that they are leaving some outlets open with all-night pharmacy sections. But these may not be enough.
No one wants to go back to the days when every person with a serious illness had to memorize the names and locations of those few pharmacies where one can go to in the middle of the night in case of an emergency.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN – Last weekend, on the way back home from somewhere at night, I decided to drop a prescription off at my local chain drugstore (which shall go nameless). I had done so a hundred times—since they opened, the pharmacy department itself has been open all night.
This time, however, when I entered the store, I saw a locked gate at the pharmacy department. And when I asked the clerk behind the counter, he directed me to a sign saying, “As of August 6, the pharmacy will be open from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. on weekdays; on weekends it will be open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.”
This may not be a big deal for the average person, but it presents a problem for someone who takes five or six prescription medications regularly. Thank God my asthma hasn’t been serious for the last 12 years, but what if it was and getting the prescription quickly was the only alternative to going to the emergency room? Or what if I had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to fill a prescription right away?
I was in both of these situations in the early 1990s when I lived in the Kings Highway area and my asthma was still serious. In the case when I was let out of the emergency room and desperately needed to get a prescription filled to make sure I didn’t have another attack, I had to spend a lot of money on a cab to the nearest all-night pharmacy, in Kings Plaza.
At the time, I remember, there were one or two others well-known all-night drugstores. I remember the Neergard Pharmacy in Park Slope and a well-known one on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (where a physician friend of mine sent me, with a prescription, when I had an attack in Manhattan). There weren’t very many others.
I understand how large drug chains might want to cut back in this economy. I also know that they are leaving some outlets open with all-night pharmacy sections. But these may not be enough.
No one wants to go back to the days when every person with a serious illness had to memorize the names and locations of those few pharmacies where one can go to in the middle of the night in case of an emergency.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Cuteness
By Raanan Geberer
Published on polseguera.com
Many years ago, when I was working in public housing management in Boston, a new co-worker came to us. Her name was Marcia. She was very short, around 5 foot 1, had curly red hair, and spoke in a tiny, high voice that endeared me to her. She dressed in clothes that seemed exotic to me – silk scarves, white blouses with ruffles, charcoal wool skirts – and this added to her charm. Years later, I realized that this wasn’t that uncommon, it was just upper-class – her father was an executive at some big public relations firm, and she herself had gone to Sarah Lawrence. She played the cello, and this, too, drew me to her, since I once played the violin. And the fact that she frequently had bags under her eyes said to me, right or wrong, that she had been crying – and made me identify with her, since I had suffered too.
Soon, I fell in love with her. With every minute, I looked across the room at her. Something told me she was looking at me too. Although when I spoke to her, her voice lowered, she stuttered and she sometimes looked away, I attributed that to shyness – that she felt the same way I did, but was afraid to show it. In my mind, I called her my little darling, my little sweetheart, my little fairy-tale princess, my little angel. I even made up a name for her: “Miss Tiny Face.” It’s no secret–my little-girl fantasy was in overdrive! At the office Christmas party, I took her hand under the table and she withdrew it, mumbling something. So much in love was I, however, that I took that as a sign that she felt the same way I did but didn’t feel this was the right time or place to show it.
By this point, I had convinced myself that I was going to marry her, that our meeting here was part of God’s plan. The mere sight of her put me into a trance. I was going crazy, wondering what I could do to be with her. If I tried something, surely everyone would know. I had an idea. My parents were having a Passover seder in a few months. I would invite her there, then, on the way home, confess my feelings toward her, and we’d begin our relationship. I congratulated myself on such a clever plan. Within a year, we’d be married.
But it never happened. Soon afterward, she began flirting with another co-worker – oddly, a rather tall guy – and seeing him after work. With him, she was open, excited, laughing, extroverted. So she was shy only where I was concerned! What a shock! I went home and cried every day. Sometimes I’d come into the office over the weekend, when no one was around, go over to her desk, talk to her as if she were there, and cry some more. I fantasized that someday I’d sing old romantic songs like “It’s Only a Paper Moon” to her, and that in a flash, she’d finally understand and fall in love with me, too.
Then came a second shock. Within a month, she apparently stopped seeing this guy as well, since not only did she no longer talk to him but just stared at him with an icy glance when he addressed her. Sometimes, she’d direct nasty, insulting and sarcastic remarks to him, then laugh. I was shocked. This wasn’t the way a little darling, a little angel, was supposed to behave! Why couldn’t she be the way I wanted her to be – sweet, shy, vulnerable?
The day after she left the job, I called her.
“Marcia, this is Joe.”
“Oh. How are you?” I could tell she was nervous.
“Marcia, I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
I was extremely proud of my bravery, my boldness, but was met only with silence.
“Marcia, I said I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
“There is nothing to discuss! I thought I made that clear by our conversation at Steve’s birthday party.” That conversation only lasted for a few seconds, and besides I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t really remember it.
“Well, I’ll GIVE you something to discuss,” I said, my voice rising. “Would you like to marry me?”
“Joe, I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“But Marcia....”
“Goodbye! Don’t call again!” I didn’t know whether to cry or to curse her out. In time, I stopped thinking about her.
* * *
It was 25 years later. My wife Ronnie and I were still grieving over the loss of Celeste, the wonderful tabby cat whom we had taken care of for 16 years. At the vet, we saw a beautiful 9-month-old female cat up for adoption named Fuzzy, another tabby, but silver. Around her head, she had the typical tabby stripes, but she also had spots on her body like a leopard. When we stuck our fingers in the cage, she came to us and sniffed them. She also let us shake her paws through the cage. “She has such sweet, spiritual eyes,” enthused Ronnie. “And she’s so beautiful!” Soon, we filled out adoption papers for her.
We had to wait for the cat rescue organization who put her there to approve us, but in the meantime, we went to the vet every spare chance we had to say hello to Fuzzy. On one occasion, they let us take her out of the cage and into an exam room – under their supervision, of course – and we both petted her.
We finally heard from the animal rescue organization, but it was not what we thought. “Your wife told me she wants a really cuddly, friendly cat,” said this woman, Kathy, “but we’re not sure that Fuzzy is right for you. She spend the first five months of her life in an outdoor cat colony and we’re not sure whether she ever lived in a home with humans before. She’s somewhat unpredictable–we’re thinking that she might need a home with other cats, or she might need to be fostered.”
Kathy sent us an e-mail with pictures of other cats, most of them older, and asked us to come to the organization’s main headquarters, where they kept most of their other cats. But the day before we were supposed to go, I visited the vet one more time. Fuzzy was still there, and when I put my finger in, she once again put her paw to it. Looking at her, I started crying. I didn’t want to give up my little baby, my sweet, fragile little thing, no matter what Kathy said! I called Ronnie and told her I wanted Fuzzy. Then I called Kathy and told her of my decision. Kathy seemed oddly non-committal. “OK,” she said, “so you’ll try Fuzzy.” Try? Why just try?
The next day, my wife went to the vet and picked up Fuzzy. Although I didn’t know it until later, as she was leaving with the cat, one of the vet’s assistants turned to her, smiling, and said, “She bites, but we like her anyway.” My wife was slightly taken aback, but she took Fuzzy home nonetheless. Later on, she told me she wished she had listened to him
For the first few days, Fuzzy hid a lot. She knew how to eat and how to use the littler box. As a matter of fact, she kept eating – and kept mewing for food. But often, when she saw us coming or even when she saw one of us make a sudden motion, she froze and hid behind the television.
After a week or so, she started coming out and even sat next to my wife on the sofa. Several times, she licked my wife’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Ronnie said. She also loved to chase the foam rubber balls we bought for her. But Fuzzy’s friendliness definitely had its limits. When we tried to pet her, more often than not, she’d bite after a few seconds. She’d turn her head, open her mouth wide, then lunge forward with her head.
At first, my wife made light of it. “It’s only been a week,” she said. “When we had Celeste only a week, she was still in the closet!”
After awhile, she improved–a little bit. Soon, she only bit about half or a third of the time we tried to pet her. Ronnie told me about one incident when Fuzzy jumped up, opened her mouth like she was going to bite her, but then, apparently changing her mind, started licking her instead.
And then, after we’d had her about two weeks, she stopped “developing.” Sometimes she gave the appearance of being friendly and my wife would start to pet her, only to have her suddenly bite. “She’s a rotten bastard!” my wife yelled once after Fuzzy suddenly lunged at her. About the same time, Fuzzy began screaming for food earlier and earlier in the morning – and whenever I went into the kitchen, she followed me and looked up, expecting to be fed. It didn’t make any difference whether she’d been fed only an hour or two ago.
She was a little more friendly with me than with Ronnie – probably because I was the one who fed her in the morning – and she let me pet her for longer periods than my wife. Sometimes, when I came out in the morning in response to her cries, she was so grateful to see me that she jumped up and grasped my hand with her paws. But even I had to keep a close eye on her, because she might decide to bite at any minute. Once, as I was singing a childlike song that I had just composed for her and shaking her paws gently, she suddenly moved her head forward and bit my hand. I burst into tears.
My wife called her an “ice princess” and said, “When I come home, I don’t look forward to seeing her. Of course I’ll take care of her, but he thought of seeing her doesn’t thrill me.” And after we had one or two more arguments about the cat, I began making calls and sending e-mails to the vet and to the adoption agency, asking about our options. The girl at the vet’s office said that we could make an appointment to discuss the cat’s behavior problems, but if it didn’t work out, we could always bring her back. ‘It’s not that unusual,” she said.
During the next two weeks, I began to read up on the web about cats with biting problems. I tried everything they recommended – walking away, hitting her gently on the nose, saying “NO!” in a loud voice – and nothing seemed to work. I even called my wife’s friend Judy, who had raised a cat that had been pretty wild and aggressive when she’d first gotten her as a kitten.
“She could change,” said Judy, “but with our cat, it took years – and there’s no guarantee.”
The next weekend, we went away for three days. We warned the neighbor whom we were paying to feed Fuzzy NOT to pet her. When we came back, twice that evening, she jumped on my wife’s leg and clawed it. “She probably wants to play,” my wife said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. So she took out the foam rubber balls and watched Fuzzy bat them around. By now, this was the only pleasure we derived from having Fuzzy.
Later, after Fuzzy had tired herself out, I went over to her and talked to her in a soft voice, half in tears. “PLEASE, be a good girl and a nice baby! We don’t want to have to return you! Be a nice little cat!” I started petting her gently, but after about the seventh pet, she turned her head and bit my finger. She didn’t get the message.
When we had first gotten Fuzzy, we decided that she would sleep in the living room, at least for awhile– we wanted to get to know her a bit before she could sleep with us, like Celeste did. But that night, when we were lying in bed, my wife suddenly screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She’s in here! She just jumped on my belly with her claws out! Look–I’m bleeding!” I searched the room for her, found her hiding under the bed, then carried into the living room. That night, we both decided that we’d bring her back to the vet first thing in the morning.
As I was dropping her off in the vet’s office, a thin, short-haired young woman saw me and introduced herself to me. It was Kathy from the rescue organization.
“Thanks for your e-mail from a few days ago,” she said. “Now we know more about Fuzzy’s behavior patterns. Instead of placing her for adoption, we’ll try to get someone to foster her. When you said you wanted Fuzzy, I thought, `Well, I really don’t know......’ She probably never was in a home before!”
Leaving the vet’s, I though about Marcia for the first time in a long time. There were some similarities between Marcia and Fuzzy, I reflected. In both cases, I made decisions based on outward appearances – Marcia’s adorable little-girl looks, Fuzzy’s beautiful silver fur. I should have paid attention to the little signs that could have told me what they were like inside.
On a deeper level, I remembered how, so many years ago, the neighbor who gave us our old cat, Celeste, told us, “If you give her love, she’ll give you love in return.” With both Marcia and Fuzzy, on the other hand, I tried to give love, but received something quite different.
Published on polseguera.com
Many years ago, when I was working in public housing management in Boston, a new co-worker came to us. Her name was Marcia. She was very short, around 5 foot 1, had curly red hair, and spoke in a tiny, high voice that endeared me to her. She dressed in clothes that seemed exotic to me – silk scarves, white blouses with ruffles, charcoal wool skirts – and this added to her charm. Years later, I realized that this wasn’t that uncommon, it was just upper-class – her father was an executive at some big public relations firm, and she herself had gone to Sarah Lawrence. She played the cello, and this, too, drew me to her, since I once played the violin. And the fact that she frequently had bags under her eyes said to me, right or wrong, that she had been crying – and made me identify with her, since I had suffered too.
Soon, I fell in love with her. With every minute, I looked across the room at her. Something told me she was looking at me too. Although when I spoke to her, her voice lowered, she stuttered and she sometimes looked away, I attributed that to shyness – that she felt the same way I did, but was afraid to show it. In my mind, I called her my little darling, my little sweetheart, my little fairy-tale princess, my little angel. I even made up a name for her: “Miss Tiny Face.” It’s no secret–my little-girl fantasy was in overdrive! At the office Christmas party, I took her hand under the table and she withdrew it, mumbling something. So much in love was I, however, that I took that as a sign that she felt the same way I did but didn’t feel this was the right time or place to show it.
By this point, I had convinced myself that I was going to marry her, that our meeting here was part of God’s plan. The mere sight of her put me into a trance. I was going crazy, wondering what I could do to be with her. If I tried something, surely everyone would know. I had an idea. My parents were having a Passover seder in a few months. I would invite her there, then, on the way home, confess my feelings toward her, and we’d begin our relationship. I congratulated myself on such a clever plan. Within a year, we’d be married.
But it never happened. Soon afterward, she began flirting with another co-worker – oddly, a rather tall guy – and seeing him after work. With him, she was open, excited, laughing, extroverted. So she was shy only where I was concerned! What a shock! I went home and cried every day. Sometimes I’d come into the office over the weekend, when no one was around, go over to her desk, talk to her as if she were there, and cry some more. I fantasized that someday I’d sing old romantic songs like “It’s Only a Paper Moon” to her, and that in a flash, she’d finally understand and fall in love with me, too.
Then came a second shock. Within a month, she apparently stopped seeing this guy as well, since not only did she no longer talk to him but just stared at him with an icy glance when he addressed her. Sometimes, she’d direct nasty, insulting and sarcastic remarks to him, then laugh. I was shocked. This wasn’t the way a little darling, a little angel, was supposed to behave! Why couldn’t she be the way I wanted her to be – sweet, shy, vulnerable?
The day after she left the job, I called her.
“Marcia, this is Joe.”
“Oh. How are you?” I could tell she was nervous.
“Marcia, I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
I was extremely proud of my bravery, my boldness, but was met only with silence.
“Marcia, I said I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
“There is nothing to discuss! I thought I made that clear by our conversation at Steve’s birthday party.” That conversation only lasted for a few seconds, and besides I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t really remember it.
“Well, I’ll GIVE you something to discuss,” I said, my voice rising. “Would you like to marry me?”
“Joe, I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“But Marcia....”
“Goodbye! Don’t call again!” I didn’t know whether to cry or to curse her out. In time, I stopped thinking about her.
* * *
It was 25 years later. My wife Ronnie and I were still grieving over the loss of Celeste, the wonderful tabby cat whom we had taken care of for 16 years. At the vet, we saw a beautiful 9-month-old female cat up for adoption named Fuzzy, another tabby, but silver. Around her head, she had the typical tabby stripes, but she also had spots on her body like a leopard. When we stuck our fingers in the cage, she came to us and sniffed them. She also let us shake her paws through the cage. “She has such sweet, spiritual eyes,” enthused Ronnie. “And she’s so beautiful!” Soon, we filled out adoption papers for her.
We had to wait for the cat rescue organization who put her there to approve us, but in the meantime, we went to the vet every spare chance we had to say hello to Fuzzy. On one occasion, they let us take her out of the cage and into an exam room – under their supervision, of course – and we both petted her.
We finally heard from the animal rescue organization, but it was not what we thought. “Your wife told me she wants a really cuddly, friendly cat,” said this woman, Kathy, “but we’re not sure that Fuzzy is right for you. She spend the first five months of her life in an outdoor cat colony and we’re not sure whether she ever lived in a home with humans before. She’s somewhat unpredictable–we’re thinking that she might need a home with other cats, or she might need to be fostered.”
Kathy sent us an e-mail with pictures of other cats, most of them older, and asked us to come to the organization’s main headquarters, where they kept most of their other cats. But the day before we were supposed to go, I visited the vet one more time. Fuzzy was still there, and when I put my finger in, she once again put her paw to it. Looking at her, I started crying. I didn’t want to give up my little baby, my sweet, fragile little thing, no matter what Kathy said! I called Ronnie and told her I wanted Fuzzy. Then I called Kathy and told her of my decision. Kathy seemed oddly non-committal. “OK,” she said, “so you’ll try Fuzzy.” Try? Why just try?
The next day, my wife went to the vet and picked up Fuzzy. Although I didn’t know it until later, as she was leaving with the cat, one of the vet’s assistants turned to her, smiling, and said, “She bites, but we like her anyway.” My wife was slightly taken aback, but she took Fuzzy home nonetheless. Later on, she told me she wished she had listened to him
For the first few days, Fuzzy hid a lot. She knew how to eat and how to use the littler box. As a matter of fact, she kept eating – and kept mewing for food. But often, when she saw us coming or even when she saw one of us make a sudden motion, she froze and hid behind the television.
After a week or so, she started coming out and even sat next to my wife on the sofa. Several times, she licked my wife’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Ronnie said. She also loved to chase the foam rubber balls we bought for her. But Fuzzy’s friendliness definitely had its limits. When we tried to pet her, more often than not, she’d bite after a few seconds. She’d turn her head, open her mouth wide, then lunge forward with her head.
At first, my wife made light of it. “It’s only been a week,” she said. “When we had Celeste only a week, she was still in the closet!”
After awhile, she improved–a little bit. Soon, she only bit about half or a third of the time we tried to pet her. Ronnie told me about one incident when Fuzzy jumped up, opened her mouth like she was going to bite her, but then, apparently changing her mind, started licking her instead.
And then, after we’d had her about two weeks, she stopped “developing.” Sometimes she gave the appearance of being friendly and my wife would start to pet her, only to have her suddenly bite. “She’s a rotten bastard!” my wife yelled once after Fuzzy suddenly lunged at her. About the same time, Fuzzy began screaming for food earlier and earlier in the morning – and whenever I went into the kitchen, she followed me and looked up, expecting to be fed. It didn’t make any difference whether she’d been fed only an hour or two ago.
She was a little more friendly with me than with Ronnie – probably because I was the one who fed her in the morning – and she let me pet her for longer periods than my wife. Sometimes, when I came out in the morning in response to her cries, she was so grateful to see me that she jumped up and grasped my hand with her paws. But even I had to keep a close eye on her, because she might decide to bite at any minute. Once, as I was singing a childlike song that I had just composed for her and shaking her paws gently, she suddenly moved her head forward and bit my hand. I burst into tears.
My wife called her an “ice princess” and said, “When I come home, I don’t look forward to seeing her. Of course I’ll take care of her, but he thought of seeing her doesn’t thrill me.” And after we had one or two more arguments about the cat, I began making calls and sending e-mails to the vet and to the adoption agency, asking about our options. The girl at the vet’s office said that we could make an appointment to discuss the cat’s behavior problems, but if it didn’t work out, we could always bring her back. ‘It’s not that unusual,” she said.
During the next two weeks, I began to read up on the web about cats with biting problems. I tried everything they recommended – walking away, hitting her gently on the nose, saying “NO!” in a loud voice – and nothing seemed to work. I even called my wife’s friend Judy, who had raised a cat that had been pretty wild and aggressive when she’d first gotten her as a kitten.
“She could change,” said Judy, “but with our cat, it took years – and there’s no guarantee.”
The next weekend, we went away for three days. We warned the neighbor whom we were paying to feed Fuzzy NOT to pet her. When we came back, twice that evening, she jumped on my wife’s leg and clawed it. “She probably wants to play,” my wife said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. So she took out the foam rubber balls and watched Fuzzy bat them around. By now, this was the only pleasure we derived from having Fuzzy.
Later, after Fuzzy had tired herself out, I went over to her and talked to her in a soft voice, half in tears. “PLEASE, be a good girl and a nice baby! We don’t want to have to return you! Be a nice little cat!” I started petting her gently, but after about the seventh pet, she turned her head and bit my finger. She didn’t get the message.
When we had first gotten Fuzzy, we decided that she would sleep in the living room, at least for awhile– we wanted to get to know her a bit before she could sleep with us, like Celeste did. But that night, when we were lying in bed, my wife suddenly screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She’s in here! She just jumped on my belly with her claws out! Look–I’m bleeding!” I searched the room for her, found her hiding under the bed, then carried into the living room. That night, we both decided that we’d bring her back to the vet first thing in the morning.
As I was dropping her off in the vet’s office, a thin, short-haired young woman saw me and introduced herself to me. It was Kathy from the rescue organization.
“Thanks for your e-mail from a few days ago,” she said. “Now we know more about Fuzzy’s behavior patterns. Instead of placing her for adoption, we’ll try to get someone to foster her. When you said you wanted Fuzzy, I thought, `Well, I really don’t know......’ She probably never was in a home before!”
Leaving the vet’s, I though about Marcia for the first time in a long time. There were some similarities between Marcia and Fuzzy, I reflected. In both cases, I made decisions based on outward appearances – Marcia’s adorable little-girl looks, Fuzzy’s beautiful silver fur. I should have paid attention to the little signs that could have told me what they were like inside.
On a deeper level, I remembered how, so many years ago, the neighbor who gave us our old cat, Celeste, told us, “If you give her love, she’ll give you love in return.” With both Marcia and Fuzzy, on the other hand, I tried to give love, but received something quite different.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Low Bank Interest Rates Demand Action
By Raanan Geberer
Published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, July 13, 2010
BROOKLYN – I’m the type of person who rarely looks at interest rates. I figure it doesn’t make any difference whether something is a point up or down from what it was before. I know that when I opened a new short-term CD account about two ago it was around 3 percent, down from 4 percent just beforehand. I was a tiny bit unhappy about this, but not that much.
Therefore, it was a shock to me when my wife called it to my attention that the current rate interest on this CD account was only about 0.35 percent or so.
Now, the only reason someone opens a CD account is to get a higher interest rate than a regular savings account. So a 0.35 percent interest rate on a CD, even a seven-month CD, is rather disconcerting. Thinking it might be just a peculiarity of this particular bank, I went to another bank where I have an account and asked for a copy of their rates. They were very similar.
I know that interest rates are more or less set by the Federal Reserve Bank, and that interest rates are lowered for some reason having to do with the economy. However, I don’t really care – I can understand lower rates, but this is a little too much. And I’m really shocked that there isn’t more of an outcry about this.
I would encourage anyone who’s upset about these low bank interest rates to deluge the state Banking Superintendent, the Federal Reserve Bank, their elected representatives and anyone else with phone calls and e-mails. Maybe then, someone will re-think these abysmally low rates.
Published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, July 13, 2010
BROOKLYN – I’m the type of person who rarely looks at interest rates. I figure it doesn’t make any difference whether something is a point up or down from what it was before. I know that when I opened a new short-term CD account about two ago it was around 3 percent, down from 4 percent just beforehand. I was a tiny bit unhappy about this, but not that much.
Therefore, it was a shock to me when my wife called it to my attention that the current rate interest on this CD account was only about 0.35 percent or so.
Now, the only reason someone opens a CD account is to get a higher interest rate than a regular savings account. So a 0.35 percent interest rate on a CD, even a seven-month CD, is rather disconcerting. Thinking it might be just a peculiarity of this particular bank, I went to another bank where I have an account and asked for a copy of their rates. They were very similar.
I know that interest rates are more or less set by the Federal Reserve Bank, and that interest rates are lowered for some reason having to do with the economy. However, I don’t really care – I can understand lower rates, but this is a little too much. And I’m really shocked that there isn’t more of an outcry about this.
I would encourage anyone who’s upset about these low bank interest rates to deluge the state Banking Superintendent, the Federal Reserve Bank, their elected representatives and anyone else with phone calls and e-mails. Maybe then, someone will re-think these abysmally low rates.
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