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Seasons Greetings

From our family to yours.

"...for the first time in my adult lifetime, I am really proud of my country."

-Michelle Obama

The Keynahurra Chronicles

It's lazy, and possibly against the spirit of blogging, to post other people's words on my own blog, but I liked this email from Dad, thought it was timely and interesting and worthy of putting in front of the eyes of more than just the tiny group of family and friends to whom he sends things. So here goes:

"Don't be so quick to give yourself a keynahurra." Thus spake not Zarathustra, but my mother in years gone by. It was a Yiddish phrase that had probably originated in the Middle Ages as a precaution against "tempting the devil" by celebrating anything prematurely. Let me give you an example or two of why "Don't be too quick to give yourself a keynahurra" isn't bad advice after all.

Example #1: Internet service went out in Kerhonkson about five days ago. When it was restored, I was unable to connect to the Internet. Yesterday, a technician arrived, installed a new modem, and everything was back to normal. I gave myself a keynahurra, breathed a sigh of relief and began tapping away on the computer that Jennifer and Lincoln gave me a year or so ago in an attempt to drag me out of my Eighteenth Century attitude toward technology. Today, when I sat down to work on my magnum opus, however, I was unable to connect to the Internet! What was going on? Was I being punished for my premature keynahurra? Had I, in fact, tempted the devil, in this case the digital devil of technology?

Idle conjecture as to the etiology of my computer's "illness" being a useless indulgence, I took an action, always a good idea when in danger of too much introspection about matters existential. I called the Senior Citizens Computer Assistance Service, a 24/7 support team in the persons of Jennifer and Adam Cohen, my older daughter and her husband. They calmly walked me through a variety of steps I didn't understand, but no matter. I just did what they told me and -voila - about 45 minutes later, I was back on line, and all was well, Adam's reputation as a genius being enhanced in the process. The problem was fixed. Now I felt comfortable giving myself a keynahurra.

Example #2: Why, as the Talmud might ask, am I telling you all this? Because I am about to invoke the keynahurra phenomenon wth respect to Election day, I'm moved to do so because of the chorus of keynahurras (or W.A.S.P. versions thereof) I've been hearing from folks whose reactions to the poll numbers and the general anticipation of a Democratic victory range from happy to euphoric. This is where the keynahurra effect comes into play.

Let me be clear. I fully expect Obama to win and for the nation to begin the long process of repairing the damage of the unspeakable Bush years. So I'm glad to see how the polls are trending. HOWEVER... on my desk, I have a framed picture my brother Robert gave me. It shows an exuberant Harry S. Truman holding up the Chicago Daily Tribune, with "Dewey Defeats Truman" in bold headlines. I remember 1948. The polls were so heavily weighted in the Republicans' favor that most organizations stopped polling in anticipation of the Dewey landslide. It was, for all intents and purposes, a done deal. On election night, Harry had a ham sandwich, went to bed early, and woke up to find out he'd won. Why do I tell you that, why do I share the memory of a 14-year-old boy who admired Harry Truman and does so to this day? Because...

polls and pundits notwithstanding, no one can divine the role racism will play on Tuesday. Again, polls and pundits notwithstanding, anyone who has moved in both the higher echelons and the dismal depths of American society as this oId dude has, knows how strong and persistent racism remains as a fact of our national life. That unhappy reality, taken with the dumbing-down of America, cannot help but give one pause. I have no doubt the recipients of these Keynahurra Chronicles are planning, indeed, eager, to vote so there's no point in preaching to the choir. I would urge you all to call or email anyone you know who isn't perhaps as enthusiastic as you are, or who's on a tight schedule and figures Obama's going to win anyway, so I'll skip it this year, and remind them of the cliche (which like so many cliches, is true) that men have died to protect our right to vote.

I have a friend, I'm happy to say, who has an incredibly busy schedule running a barn, teaching dressage, etc. who is finding the time to go door-to-door in her neighborhood to help get out the vote. I'm particularly proud of my son, Lincoln, who, having just returned from a mission overseas, and now busily picking up his responsiblities as a professor at Columbia, has found, or should I say, made, the time to go to Pennsylvania for four days to help get out the vote and keep the Republicans honest, to the extent that's possible, so that the travesty he witnessed in Ohio four years ago (the place, as history will no doubt show, where Bush stole his second election) isn't repeated.

Take nothing for granted. Hold your breath. And late on November 4, deo volente - "God willing" - we can all breathe a huge, collective sigh of relief. We can, then, indulge ourselves in a well-deserved keynahurra as the nation hopefully begins to awaken from the Bush nightmare. God bless America. Please.

Goodbye to something

About twelve years ago, long before the Brothers Freeman were united, I lived in the Bay Area, Oakland to be exact. It was here I met one of my dearest friends, Jed, and in concert we performed some of the greatest acts of debauchery I have ever known. Without going into too much detail I will tell you that our hero of heroes at the time was Paul Newman’s 1963 character Hud, the womanizing boozer who is at once forgiven any wrong, simply by possessing unparalleled beauty and charisma. In the basement where we used to congregate hung a poster of the above picture of Hud, standing as both shaman and icon to our attempts at emblemizing his character; “The Stal” is what we used to call him, short for “The Stallion”, and this became how we referred to other men of our ilk, e.g. “he’s a Stal”, meaning: he is shit head like ourselves who gets away with murder based on his looks and ability to charm.
So it is odd timing that Mr. Newman should die this week, as I just returned from visiting Jed in his home state of Maine. He is a political consultant in Portland now, and very much still a ‘Stal’. As we reminisced about all the women, alcohol, drugs and feats of brilliant stupidity that surrounded the time when we were closest, the words that kept recurring in my head were “we were so fucking lucky (and way under the breath, “blessed”) we didn’t get killed”.
Thus I am somewhat conflicted by Paul’s passing: on the one hand there is the end of an era, the end of a certain kind of man, the death of a particular kind icon, and I will miss him so. And on the other is a sense relief in knowing that the idol of a certain kind of lifestyle was kind enough not to kill us in his worship. Anyway, thanks Paul. and Hud. and Jed, it was so nice to see you again, my friend.


Pete, Nathan, and Jed - Maine 2008


more pics of Maine here

Dislocate Launch Party at Open Book

Please come celebrate the publication of volume 4 of Dislocate, the University of Minnesota's MFA literary journal. Tonight at Open Book. Reading followed by reception. Free.