Always Have a Speech Handy. Or, Drop the Gun, Motherf*cker!
Pastrami a go-go and other wry tales of the city #40
First, I’d like to thank the Academy. And congratulations to my fellow honorees at the New York Times, Bloomberg News, The City, and Newsday.
The Academy is really the Silurians Press Club, which has only been around since 1924. Everyone wears a name tag. This club of veteran journalists, many of them retired, meets monthly for newsworthy luncheons and an annual awards dinner.
Two of my stories won Merit awards this June. I may have been the only freelancer. Freelancers are often overlooked. Mostly no budget, no office lunches, no colleagues sitting across from you in air conditioned offices, no health benefits, no IT department except for the neighbor’s kid. One of this year’s awardees said he hadn’t looked for a job in 28 years. Many of us look for one every day or hold other jobs to pay the bills. My awards are dedicated to those journalists and those in other fields who freelance by circumstance or by choice.
My story on 94 year old sportswriter Jerry Izenberg who continues to write his column for the Newark Star Ledger, now NJ.com, received one of the awards.
“Fabulous,” Izenberg said, “considering the poor subject you had to work with.”
His story begins:
Aileen Izenberg makes decisions her husband doesn't want to, including where they will be buried when the time comes. The Izenbergs have been married for 46 years. She chose a quiet spot under a tree.
What does Jerry Izenberg want inscribed on his flat marble grave marker? "Well, the usual: a loving husband, a loving father," he said. "And at the bottom, I have one sentence: 'A newspaperman.' That's what I was. That's what I still am, in my heart. And that's what I want to be remembered as."
The other mourns the loss of a friend, documentary filmmaker Martha Sandlin, to dementia. It ends
The last time I visited, we watched a soap opera with the sound off. I tied her robe and adjusted her eyeglasses.
"I'm directing a documentary." I tried. Maybe she'd come back. "Any advice?"
Her brain tugged at synapses.
"You're doing great. Keep going!"
We drank seltzer from paper cups. Marty toasted.
"Thank you, Sylvia!"
As I write, I look at tables, countertops and window sills covered with FiestaWare in my Manhattan apartment. Pete's niece asked if I'd like them. I don't have family dishes. Now I do. Chipped cups and plates remind me of how Marty embraced us with our imperfections. As for my film, I'll keep going. And then I'm off to Oklahoma.
One should always have a speech in their pocket. You never know.
Next Avenue, the online publication that I contribute to is owned by PBS. The way things are going for public funding I may have to sell the burgundy leatherette award holders on the subway or on eBay to keep Next Avenue afloat.
Everyone should have been relieved that there was no speech coming from me. Only Medallion winners grab the mic. Merit winners stand up to applause. I gave my best Miss America wave and applauded the crowd.
I’ve only given three public speeches in my life. The first time, when I received the AJ Liebling Award from the Boxing Writers Association of America, I was calm, cool, and confident. That it, until I realized that the voice that projected to a few hundred dozing attendees was really mine. I startled myself. And moving to the end of my impassioned speech, I discovered that the last page of my speech was missing. Heavyweight champion Joe Frazier who sat to my right on the dais may have used the backside of it to sign an autograph. I wasn’t going to argue. Hilarity ensued while I asked the room if anyone had seen the last page of my speech. A call came in the next day from a woman who worked for Showtime.
“This was the best time I’ve ever had at this event,” she said.
Then there was this talk at Barnes & Noble about my book, 23rd Precinct: The Job about two years in the life of a NYC police precinct. The book is dark and ironic. Commanding the microphone in the middle of the store on the Upper East Side and in my best Clint Eastwood imitation, I cooly shouted “Drop the gun, motherfucker!”
People began running, cashiers looked nervous, and my dentist’s 14 year old son gave me a thumbs up. So if you ever need a line that will stop a crowd, feel free to borrow mine.
I confess to using artificial intelligence to find some words about myself. ChatGBT produced a glowing report. I was so impressed. Who is this person? It describes my writing as hilarious. This was a stretch but maybe it picked up on something that I missed. Then it read: There may be some confusion here between my writing and that of Joyce Wadler - who is genuinely funny - and another writer named Arlene. Well, at least AI was honest.
So, in closing. . .
I’d like to recognize and pay tribute to another woman. Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham. She would not have taken any shit. From anyone.
When you speak or write of someone, it’s like they’re back with us again. There’s Pete Bowles, longtime reporter for Newsday. I met him through his wife, Martha Sandlin. I didn’t know Pete from his hog calling days. He was from Oklahoma. Do you know what a hog call sounds like?
So I watched a few videos at high volume on YouTube at two in the morning. People from around the country participate in competitions. Soo-wee! Who knew? I thought I had my headphones plugged in. A neighbor gave me a strange look as we waited for the elevator.
Pete was quick, incisive, and fearless who took everything in and believed above all, to get to the heart and the truth of a story.
From Pete, I learned what it was to be humble. His two Pulitzers rested in a dusty box in the basement of their Brooklyn home.
So between Pete and me, we have two Pulitzers and one John F. Kennedy medal for community service from P.S. 306. My skeleton marionette wearing a red wool wig and dancing to Hair at school assemblies must have had an impact.
I must thank the Girl Scouts. More so than Columbia Journalism School, my reporting skills were formed by selling cookies and reading Harriet the Spy. I always get the Girls Scouts hand signal mixed up with the Star Trek greeting.
I was eight years old, quite small with red hair, wearing my Brownie uniform and knocking on doors - I was too short to reach the bell - to sell cookies. We lived on the first floor. My mother didn’t want me riding the elevator by myself. I did, anyway.
My best sales pitch was: “I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. Would you like to buy any?”
Neighbors gave excuses.
“I'm on a diet.” “
“I have allergies.”
I would look up at them.
“Well, you don’t have to EAT them.”
And I would stand there until they went and got their wallet.
“You’re not going to go away, are you?” People asked.
“They’re only a dollar!”
Another sale.
And I kept knocking on doors. The same skills translated into journalism, particularly when covering sports.
I’m not athletic. I can trip over a quarter. But the characters are so rich. And that is how I started out.
I was still short with red hair, and I would go up to a baseball player and plant myself in front of him, looking up.
Several were well known for well, not wanting to be bothered.
They would look down at me: “You know I don’t talk to the press.”
And I would reply, “Oh, I know. But you didn’t say you weren’t going to talk to me.”
Finally, in closing, really, in closing, I would like to remind everyone that you are never past your prime. And always march to your own hog call.
Loved this. Seems I always do. :-)
Lovely.