As the value of our house shot up in the last ten years I thought about those people, you know who I mean, and I got worried. They are so desperate for our money, all of our money, it must kill them thinking of all this home equity laying around, not helping them in the least. Teams of hirelings, I was sure, were working day and night on the problem. How to steal middle-America's home equity.
And people call me negative. What could be more positive than worrying about my biggest investment?
Seen what's been going on with the value of the dollar? Guess what it means for your home equity?
Here in Thailand, three years ago you got a nice bowl of noodle soup for the equivalent of fifty cents. Now it is the equivalent of one dollar. And so on down the line.
So your money, wherever it is, is losing value and that my brothers and sisters is the same as losing dollars. This weakening of the dollar was one of the great plans of those geniuses at the Bush White House. Supposedly to "help raise exports." I read some Asian media, and those guys are worried that a big "dollar dump" is right around the corner. What images accompany the phrase, "bottom falling out."
You economists out there can fill in the blanks. This weak dollar is good for some aspects of business, and that's where the wealth transfer will take place. It's a tough job being negative, but somebody has to do it.
Good luck with that retirement plan.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Bridge on the River Kwai
Here's a nice, short, heartfelt obituary. This poor guy died making the bridge, there's about twelve-thousand in the graveyard with him. It's all beautifully maintained.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Mini, or "Brief," Bio
I like the site, "Memories of College Point," and I just gave them a "mini" bio. For the benefit of all the College Pointers among my fans I'll include it here too. Remember, lawyers are people who can write fifty pages about something and call it a "brief."
I was born in August, 1948 and lived in Rosedale, just outside of JFK Airport, for a year. We moved to 119th street and 12th avenue in the summer of 1949. Pre-school I hung out either on 119th street or 118th street.
I went to Saint Fidelis, I was a winter start, after Christmas 1953 I think. I was younger than most of the other children. I went to the CYO summer school a couple of years, and spent a lot of time at the PS 27 “summer school” playing Knock-Hockey and stick and stoop ball, some softball. I took the bus rides to a couple of ball games with that summer school too. At one I’m pretty sure we saw Yogi Berra hit four homeruns in a game, we were in the bleachers. I graduated in June, 1961 and went to Holy Cross.
In the St. Fidelis years I got around CP quite a bit, we had bikes and were free to roam around. I visited my school friends all around town. I played Little League, first with the Savio team and then with the Ravens, Charlie Calmus was the catcher/captain. I lived near enough to Chisolm’s Park to be there almost all the time, year after year of pick-up baseball games and shenanigans. We all climbed trees a lot. Summers I remember hanging around in the bushes watching the teenagers drink beer at Ripley’s Beach. I fished at the park, caught a lot of eels, gave them to Doc Winkler, he liked to eat eel, he taught me to fish. I was in the St. Fidelis Majestic Knights marching band when I was in St. Solangia’s class. I bowled in the league at the College Lanes for a couple of years. I went to all those Kid’s Special Saturday morning movies at the College Theatre.
We had a lot of freedom then. I went after bowling with a lot of other eleven and twelve year olds to the Museum of Natural History, a couple of trips like that. We went down to Manhattan for the St. Patrick’s day parade and then ran around loose, amazed by Times Square, as high-schoolers we loved to eat at Tad’s Steak House, which was I think $1.59 for a steak dinner at the time. We knew where the Ferrari dealer was and went over to sit in the cars. I saw ball games at Ebbitt’s Field and the Polo Grounds, the Giants and the Mets up there.
I went to dances at St. Paul’s, PS 27 and St. Fidelis (Sodality Dances). I worked three summers at Belock Instrument during high school.
1963 to 65 I hung around mostly at 7th avenue and 124th street. Ronnie Barrett and Jimmy ? had cars early. Me and Barrett went to that neighborhood because Teddy Bullock told us there were lots of cute girls there, I ended up marrying one. Bob Kretschmann is the best friend that I’ve ever had. Steve Candelliri I met the first week he was in town, we always got along. During this time I risked my life on a regular basis driving around with Freddie Maul, who was always a blast to hang around with. I knew the guys in the Dominants, the Imperials, the Renaissance, and the Shifters (they never worked, Frankie Priore, Billy Booth, I forget who else).
After that I hung with band guys, the Others, Stuff, Backstreet Blues Band. I was in the Navy for a while, they gave me an early Honorable Discharge for having “no military bearing.” In 1969 I got married to Ann Suppe at St. Fidelis, with a reception at the VFW. We lived in Larry Kunst’s family’s place on 130th street and 20th avenue, then moved to Flushing, and in 1975 we went to Los Angeles. We’re still married, and we have a house there since 1978. Ann and I both eventually graduated from Queens College, she in 1974 and me in 1985.
I was born in August, 1948 and lived in Rosedale, just outside of JFK Airport, for a year. We moved to 119th street and 12th avenue in the summer of 1949. Pre-school I hung out either on 119th street or 118th street.
I went to Saint Fidelis, I was a winter start, after Christmas 1953 I think. I was younger than most of the other children. I went to the CYO summer school a couple of years, and spent a lot of time at the PS 27 “summer school” playing Knock-Hockey and stick and stoop ball, some softball. I took the bus rides to a couple of ball games with that summer school too. At one I’m pretty sure we saw Yogi Berra hit four homeruns in a game, we were in the bleachers. I graduated in June, 1961 and went to Holy Cross.
In the St. Fidelis years I got around CP quite a bit, we had bikes and were free to roam around. I visited my school friends all around town. I played Little League, first with the Savio team and then with the Ravens, Charlie Calmus was the catcher/captain. I lived near enough to Chisolm’s Park to be there almost all the time, year after year of pick-up baseball games and shenanigans. We all climbed trees a lot. Summers I remember hanging around in the bushes watching the teenagers drink beer at Ripley’s Beach. I fished at the park, caught a lot of eels, gave them to Doc Winkler, he liked to eat eel, he taught me to fish. I was in the St. Fidelis Majestic Knights marching band when I was in St. Solangia’s class. I bowled in the league at the College Lanes for a couple of years. I went to all those Kid’s Special Saturday morning movies at the College Theatre.
We had a lot of freedom then. I went after bowling with a lot of other eleven and twelve year olds to the Museum of Natural History, a couple of trips like that. We went down to Manhattan for the St. Patrick’s day parade and then ran around loose, amazed by Times Square, as high-schoolers we loved to eat at Tad’s Steak House, which was I think $1.59 for a steak dinner at the time. We knew where the Ferrari dealer was and went over to sit in the cars. I saw ball games at Ebbitt’s Field and the Polo Grounds, the Giants and the Mets up there.
I went to dances at St. Paul’s, PS 27 and St. Fidelis (Sodality Dances). I worked three summers at Belock Instrument during high school.
1963 to 65 I hung around mostly at 7th avenue and 124th street. Ronnie Barrett and Jimmy ? had cars early. Me and Barrett went to that neighborhood because Teddy Bullock told us there were lots of cute girls there, I ended up marrying one. Bob Kretschmann is the best friend that I’ve ever had. Steve Candelliri I met the first week he was in town, we always got along. During this time I risked my life on a regular basis driving around with Freddie Maul, who was always a blast to hang around with. I knew the guys in the Dominants, the Imperials, the Renaissance, and the Shifters (they never worked, Frankie Priore, Billy Booth, I forget who else).
After that I hung with band guys, the Others, Stuff, Backstreet Blues Band. I was in the Navy for a while, they gave me an early Honorable Discharge for having “no military bearing.” In 1969 I got married to Ann Suppe at St. Fidelis, with a reception at the VFW. We lived in Larry Kunst’s family’s place on 130th street and 20th avenue, then moved to Flushing, and in 1975 we went to Los Angeles. We’re still married, and we have a house there since 1978. Ann and I both eventually graduated from Queens College, she in 1974 and me in 1985.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
What Does Woman Want?
by Anonymous
I think that I shall never see
A man who’s good enough for me
A man who may forever wear
A golden tan and all his hair
A man with muscles firm and tight
A man whose teeth stay in at night
A man who has no liver spot
A man who does what all men ought
A man who works real hard each day
And every week brings me his pay
Good men like that don’t grow on trees
If you ain’t one, move along please.
I think that I shall never see
A man who’s good enough for me
A man who may forever wear
A golden tan and all his hair
A man with muscles firm and tight
A man whose teeth stay in at night
A man who has no liver spot
A man who does what all men ought
A man who works real hard each day
And every week brings me his pay
Good men like that don’t grow on trees
If you ain’t one, move along please.
Public Service Announcement Re: Marriage
I like this guy, a priest, summarizing in a talk for HS students "Who Not To Marry." From a Maureen Dowd column.
I asked him to summarize his talk:
“Never marry a man who has no friends,” he starts. “This usually means that he will be incapable of the intimacy that marriage demands. I am always amazed at the number of men I have counseled who have no friends. Since, as the Hebrew Scriptures say, ‘Iron shapes iron and friend shapes friend,’ what are his friends like? What do your friends and family members think of him? Sometimes, your friends can’t render an impartial judgment because they are envious that you are beating them in the race to the altar. Envy beclouds judgment.
“Does he use money responsibly? Is he stingy? Most marriages that founder do so because of money — she’s thrifty, he’s on his 10th credit card.
“Steer clear of someone whose life you can run, who never makes demands counter to yours. It’s good to have a doormat in the home, but not if it’s your husband.
“Is he overly attached to his mother and her mythical apron strings? When he wants to make a decision, say, about where you should go on your honeymoon, he doesn’t consult you, he consults his mother. (I’ve known cases where the mother accompanies the couple on their honeymoon!)
“Does he have a sense of humor? That covers a multitude of sins. My mother was once asked how she managed to live harmoniously with three men — my father, brother and me. Her answer, delivered with awesome arrogance, was: ‘You simply operate on the assumption that no man matures after the age of 11.’ My father fell about laughing.
“A therapist friend insists that ‘more marriages are killed by silence than by violence.’ The strong, silent type can be charming but ultimately destructive. That world-class misogynist, Paul of Tarsus, got it right when he said, ‘In all your dealings with one another, speak the truth to one another in love that you may grow up.’
“Don’t marry a problem character thinking you will change him. He’s a heavy drinker, or some other kind of addict, but if he marries a good woman, he’ll settle down. People are the same after marriage as before, only more so.
“Take a good, unsentimental look at his family — you’ll learn a lot about him and his attitude towards women. Kay made a monstrous mistake marrying Michael Corleone! Is there a history of divorce in the family? An atmosphere of racism, sexism or prejudice in his home? Are his goals and deepest beliefs worthy and similar to yours? I remember counseling a pious Catholic woman that it might not be prudent to marry a pious Muslim, whose attitude about women was very different. Love trumped prudence; the annulment process was instigated by her six months later.
“Imagine a religious fundamentalist married to an agnostic. One would have to pray that the fundamentalist doesn’t open the Bible and hit the page in which Abraham is willing to obey God and slit his son’s throat.
“Finally: Does he possess those character traits that add up to a good human being — the willingness to forgive, praise, be courteous? Or is he inclined to be a fibber, to fits of rage, to be a control freak, to be envious of you, to be secretive?
“After I regale a group with this talk, the despairing cry goes up: ‘But you’ve eliminated everyone!’ Life is unfair.”
I asked him to summarize his talk:
“Never marry a man who has no friends,” he starts. “This usually means that he will be incapable of the intimacy that marriage demands. I am always amazed at the number of men I have counseled who have no friends. Since, as the Hebrew Scriptures say, ‘Iron shapes iron and friend shapes friend,’ what are his friends like? What do your friends and family members think of him? Sometimes, your friends can’t render an impartial judgment because they are envious that you are beating them in the race to the altar. Envy beclouds judgment.
“Does he use money responsibly? Is he stingy? Most marriages that founder do so because of money — she’s thrifty, he’s on his 10th credit card.
“Steer clear of someone whose life you can run, who never makes demands counter to yours. It’s good to have a doormat in the home, but not if it’s your husband.
“Is he overly attached to his mother and her mythical apron strings? When he wants to make a decision, say, about where you should go on your honeymoon, he doesn’t consult you, he consults his mother. (I’ve known cases where the mother accompanies the couple on their honeymoon!)
“Does he have a sense of humor? That covers a multitude of sins. My mother was once asked how she managed to live harmoniously with three men — my father, brother and me. Her answer, delivered with awesome arrogance, was: ‘You simply operate on the assumption that no man matures after the age of 11.’ My father fell about laughing.
“A therapist friend insists that ‘more marriages are killed by silence than by violence.’ The strong, silent type can be charming but ultimately destructive. That world-class misogynist, Paul of Tarsus, got it right when he said, ‘In all your dealings with one another, speak the truth to one another in love that you may grow up.’
“Don’t marry a problem character thinking you will change him. He’s a heavy drinker, or some other kind of addict, but if he marries a good woman, he’ll settle down. People are the same after marriage as before, only more so.
“Take a good, unsentimental look at his family — you’ll learn a lot about him and his attitude towards women. Kay made a monstrous mistake marrying Michael Corleone! Is there a history of divorce in the family? An atmosphere of racism, sexism or prejudice in his home? Are his goals and deepest beliefs worthy and similar to yours? I remember counseling a pious Catholic woman that it might not be prudent to marry a pious Muslim, whose attitude about women was very different. Love trumped prudence; the annulment process was instigated by her six months later.
“Imagine a religious fundamentalist married to an agnostic. One would have to pray that the fundamentalist doesn’t open the Bible and hit the page in which Abraham is willing to obey God and slit his son’s throat.
“Finally: Does he possess those character traits that add up to a good human being — the willingness to forgive, praise, be courteous? Or is he inclined to be a fibber, to fits of rage, to be a control freak, to be envious of you, to be secretive?
“After I regale a group with this talk, the despairing cry goes up: ‘But you’ve eliminated everyone!’ Life is unfair.”
This Blogging Thing
I'm trying to figure out this whole blogging thing. I Googled "David Ehrenstein" and out of sixty-one thousand hits SET was number one-twenty-four. Not bad, but that's page umpteen so nobody's going to find it.
Googled "David Augustus Ehrenstein" and SET was first, not to mention that from number two on the hits had nothing to do with David Ehrenstein. So I am the only person in the world that knows his middle name. And nobody will look for it, so being first fades to insignificance.
I need to go to the woodshed and learn how to get this thing read.
Googled "David Augustus Ehrenstein" and SET was first, not to mention that from number two on the hits had nothing to do with David Ehrenstein. So I am the only person in the world that knows his middle name. And nobody will look for it, so being first fades to insignificance.
I need to go to the woodshed and learn how to get this thing read.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
David E’s Fablog Makes Me Cry
My I get personal for a moment? Of course I can, it's my site. It's an interesting story, and you can check the named site, when I grow up I hope that I can include links, but I can't yet.
David E’s Fablog Makes Me Cry
David Augustus Ehrenstein seems to have established himself in one of the nether circles of the pundit-underworld as a social critic of matters of homosexual and/or racial politics. I know David very well, well enough to have seen his [redacted] on several occasions, outside of the gym (without ever having used it myself for an improper or unnatural purpose, not that there would have been anything wrong with that). He was, in fact, an usher at my wedding, not only because he was one of my best friends but also because he was one of the only two of my friends who owned a suit and a tie. It was quite a fuss, a big surprise to me, I can be a bit dense about such things, but it was a big fuss, based upon the fact that David is Black, and homosexual.
My mother, may god have mercy on her soul, and not send her back for any reason whatsoever, she cried easy, so it was no great accomplishment to make her cry. Her discovery, on the day of my wedding, that David was to be an usher, made her cry, and my assurances that I had never wanted a church wedding in the first place, and was doing it as a courtesy to her, and if David went, I went, that only made her cry more. I was used to it by then, and the fact that the epoch of her ascendancy was coming to an end made me magnanimous. My family, bless or damn them accordingly, had to put up with being seated by either David or a White, long-haired friend of mine. Neither thing was considered ideal. It was the Sixties, and the Generation Gap was in full effect.
It was all a mystery to me at the time because David was culturally not Black in the least. Oh, he has a lip-seam, and kinky hair, and more than a good tan, and dark brown eyes, but culturally he was almost identical to me. He had grown up in Queens, White working class neighborhood, he had gone to Catholic grammar school with all White kids, he was interested in most of the arts, usually at the Avante Guard edge. That much we shared in every detail. And frankly I have always thought that homosexuals were more gracious and agreeable companions that almost all straight people.
His father, dead by the time I met David, was Jewish, and his mother was mostly Irish but with more than a little touch of the tar brush, may her soul rest in peace, and if god wants to send her back, tell her to visit me, and give her please sufficient physicality to cook mortal food, I loved the woman. David almost always wore at least a sports jacket and tie, with a double-duty top coat, and seemed to carry an umbrella more than most people. He was the consummate gentleman. He seemed to enjoy my company, and he was so well versed and interested in so many things that he was a delight to hang out with. It was David that took me to my first French New Wave films, my first Bergman films, my first Fellini films. It was David who suggested that I would like Anthony Burgess’s new book, “A Clockwork Orange.” He was quite a treasure. I loved him.
We were best of friends for thirty years, and I love him still, although the thirty years have elapsed and we no longer see each other. I still dream about him, I love him, and I am still saddened to be alienated from his affections.
We first met in New York City, a couple of teenagers. After knowing each other for about ten years I moved with my family to Los Angeles, and by having such an intimate contact as me in that city David felt himself empowered to move to LA. California was David’s real education in Blackness, I don’t think that he had considered it too much while he lived in NYC.
David didn’t know any of the Black handshakes; he spoke like an Ivy League academic; he dressed like a mid-level civil servant. New York was filled with Blacks like David, but LA was still very provincial. Every day he was approached several times by Black folk who had a clear expectation of what they could expect based upon his apparent Blackness, and their disappointment and confusion at actually finding David there was hard for them and hard for David too. Not to mention the police.
The theory of Police management of crime in LA at the time was to save money by maintaining a small police force, and to make it effective by making it especially violence prone and minority-unfriendly. So David would routinely be stopped on the street, or pulled off a bus, that’s a party, nice audience right there. Sit on the curb, and don’t show any temper, you don’t want to have an accident. David didn’t drive, he didn’t take drugs, he had never stolen anything in his life, he had broken fewer laws than anybody that I knew, man, woman, boy or girl. But he attracted police attention in LA, because he had a lip-seam, kinky hair, and more than a good tan. Personally, as a chauvinistic New Yorker, I believe that the cops in NYC were more sensitive to David’s clothing and the quality of his interactions, New York cops know who’s dangerous and who’s not, it’s not a color thing, if you’re not threatening to them they are relieved and happy to see you, in New York it wasn’t even so much a police thing, it was a working-man thing. In LA, though, he was just another nigger trouble-maker.
Year after year of this wore on my friend, that’s what I think. It taught him for the first time in his life how to be angry, it forced him to carry a growing load of resentment. He was so disrespected, on such a regular basis, that it gradually changed him. Oh, there’s more to it. The never-ending waves of friends dead of AIDS; his own near death experience with a troublesome blood vessel. To see too much, and understand it better than most people, is a curse.
My friend David Augustus Ehrenstein should have commanded more respect on first meeting than anyone I have ever known. He is a genius, he is erudite, he is well dressed with impeccable personal habits, he is polite to a fault, and very charming, he is tall and handsome, and he is articulate to the point of remarkable lucidity. It is one of the bitterest disappointments of my life, in this vale of tears that life as we know it, that mere daily life was allowed to turn David into a cyclopean edifice of deep cynicism and barely controlled rage. Given the remarkable Christmas present that was DAE, the world threw it aside based upon the wrapping paper.
I don’t give one, smooth shit for the world’s loss, but I am deeply saddened by the ruination of David’s pleasant equilibrium. And even more so by the unpleasant fact that somehow I have no place in David’s new life, the life of an angry pundit. I long for almost nothing in this life, but my most ardent wish is that once before I die my friend David will again hold me in his arms and kiss my cheek and tell me that he loves me.
David E’s Fablog Makes Me Cry
David Augustus Ehrenstein seems to have established himself in one of the nether circles of the pundit-underworld as a social critic of matters of homosexual and/or racial politics. I know David very well, well enough to have seen his [redacted] on several occasions, outside of the gym (without ever having used it myself for an improper or unnatural purpose, not that there would have been anything wrong with that). He was, in fact, an usher at my wedding, not only because he was one of my best friends but also because he was one of the only two of my friends who owned a suit and a tie. It was quite a fuss, a big surprise to me, I can be a bit dense about such things, but it was a big fuss, based upon the fact that David is Black, and homosexual.
My mother, may god have mercy on her soul, and not send her back for any reason whatsoever, she cried easy, so it was no great accomplishment to make her cry. Her discovery, on the day of my wedding, that David was to be an usher, made her cry, and my assurances that I had never wanted a church wedding in the first place, and was doing it as a courtesy to her, and if David went, I went, that only made her cry more. I was used to it by then, and the fact that the epoch of her ascendancy was coming to an end made me magnanimous. My family, bless or damn them accordingly, had to put up with being seated by either David or a White, long-haired friend of mine. Neither thing was considered ideal. It was the Sixties, and the Generation Gap was in full effect.
It was all a mystery to me at the time because David was culturally not Black in the least. Oh, he has a lip-seam, and kinky hair, and more than a good tan, and dark brown eyes, but culturally he was almost identical to me. He had grown up in Queens, White working class neighborhood, he had gone to Catholic grammar school with all White kids, he was interested in most of the arts, usually at the Avante Guard edge. That much we shared in every detail. And frankly I have always thought that homosexuals were more gracious and agreeable companions that almost all straight people.
His father, dead by the time I met David, was Jewish, and his mother was mostly Irish but with more than a little touch of the tar brush, may her soul rest in peace, and if god wants to send her back, tell her to visit me, and give her please sufficient physicality to cook mortal food, I loved the woman. David almost always wore at least a sports jacket and tie, with a double-duty top coat, and seemed to carry an umbrella more than most people. He was the consummate gentleman. He seemed to enjoy my company, and he was so well versed and interested in so many things that he was a delight to hang out with. It was David that took me to my first French New Wave films, my first Bergman films, my first Fellini films. It was David who suggested that I would like Anthony Burgess’s new book, “A Clockwork Orange.” He was quite a treasure. I loved him.
We were best of friends for thirty years, and I love him still, although the thirty years have elapsed and we no longer see each other. I still dream about him, I love him, and I am still saddened to be alienated from his affections.
We first met in New York City, a couple of teenagers. After knowing each other for about ten years I moved with my family to Los Angeles, and by having such an intimate contact as me in that city David felt himself empowered to move to LA. California was David’s real education in Blackness, I don’t think that he had considered it too much while he lived in NYC.
David didn’t know any of the Black handshakes; he spoke like an Ivy League academic; he dressed like a mid-level civil servant. New York was filled with Blacks like David, but LA was still very provincial. Every day he was approached several times by Black folk who had a clear expectation of what they could expect based upon his apparent Blackness, and their disappointment and confusion at actually finding David there was hard for them and hard for David too. Not to mention the police.
The theory of Police management of crime in LA at the time was to save money by maintaining a small police force, and to make it effective by making it especially violence prone and minority-unfriendly. So David would routinely be stopped on the street, or pulled off a bus, that’s a party, nice audience right there. Sit on the curb, and don’t show any temper, you don’t want to have an accident. David didn’t drive, he didn’t take drugs, he had never stolen anything in his life, he had broken fewer laws than anybody that I knew, man, woman, boy or girl. But he attracted police attention in LA, because he had a lip-seam, kinky hair, and more than a good tan. Personally, as a chauvinistic New Yorker, I believe that the cops in NYC were more sensitive to David’s clothing and the quality of his interactions, New York cops know who’s dangerous and who’s not, it’s not a color thing, if you’re not threatening to them they are relieved and happy to see you, in New York it wasn’t even so much a police thing, it was a working-man thing. In LA, though, he was just another nigger trouble-maker.
Year after year of this wore on my friend, that’s what I think. It taught him for the first time in his life how to be angry, it forced him to carry a growing load of resentment. He was so disrespected, on such a regular basis, that it gradually changed him. Oh, there’s more to it. The never-ending waves of friends dead of AIDS; his own near death experience with a troublesome blood vessel. To see too much, and understand it better than most people, is a curse.
My friend David Augustus Ehrenstein should have commanded more respect on first meeting than anyone I have ever known. He is a genius, he is erudite, he is well dressed with impeccable personal habits, he is polite to a fault, and very charming, he is tall and handsome, and he is articulate to the point of remarkable lucidity. It is one of the bitterest disappointments of my life, in this vale of tears that life as we know it, that mere daily life was allowed to turn David into a cyclopean edifice of deep cynicism and barely controlled rage. Given the remarkable Christmas present that was DAE, the world threw it aside based upon the wrapping paper.
I don’t give one, smooth shit for the world’s loss, but I am deeply saddened by the ruination of David’s pleasant equilibrium. And even more so by the unpleasant fact that somehow I have no place in David’s new life, the life of an angry pundit. I long for almost nothing in this life, but my most ardent wish is that once before I die my friend David will again hold me in his arms and kiss my cheek and tell me that he loves me.
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