“Taking A Knee”

October 17, 2017

I’m sure you’ve been following the latest dust-up between our president, our moron-in-chief (MIC), and National Football League players who are protesting social and racial injustice by kneeling during the National Anthem. Somehow a guy who dodged the draft, boasts about not paying taxes and has shown himself to solely “live in the eternal present of his own immediate desires” has made himself the arbiter of what’s patriotic

But the NFL players are not the only ones taking a knee; so has my doctor–my surgeon. And not just any old knee . . .  he’s taken one that used to be mine. (That should read: MINE!!!) Fortunately, he swapped that one out with one he got from Home Depot that’s made with titanium, plastic and chrome.  You see, about two weeks ago I had a total knee arthroplasty which, as bad as that may sound, is actually a lot worse. I’d try not to bore you with the details, but what then would I have to write about.

This is my second joint replacement just this year.  About nine months ago, my surgeon, Dr. M., also replaced my hip. As a result of this latest go around, he and I are gradually warming to one another. But the truth is, I can think of several thousand better ways to go about improving our relationship. A cocktail after work is one that comes to mind immediately.  But at this point, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards. However, I’ve one more hip and one more knee available . . .  so I’m not ruling anything out.

I’ve begun my rehab with a physical therapist, Adrianne, who also worked with me after my hip replacement. She’s a really lovely person who seems dedicated to her job. As of now, she comes to my apartment daily. Instead of limiting my rehab to various exercises or stretching, with the mild weather, my therapy has also included our taking slow walks around the neighborhood. Which is fine with me. But as nice as Adrianne is, as we take these walks together, I find that we don’t have a whole lot to talk about. Mostly our conversations are banal chit-chat.  Or we say nothing at all.

Which has struck me as incredibly ironic. After all, just within the last several weeks I wrote about a nightmare I regularly have about working at the Park Slope Food Co-op and having the job of escorting shoppers who use the Co-op’s shopping carts. Walking through my neighborhood making banal chit-chat. Or saying nothing at all.

Yet another instance of life imitating art.




Hobson’s Choice

October 2, 2017

One of things I like most about writing this blog is I get to do some research and learn new things.  Or I re-learn stuff that I once knew but have forgotten.  And then, in about two weeks or so, I forget everything all over again; as a result, I’m always learning things. Very cool!  So when the situation I find myself in recently developed, I did some noodling around and was able to find the precise term that I was looking for, which is the title of this essay.

Some of you may not know what a Hobson’s Choice is.  Essentially, it is an option that’s given to someone where the alternative is so bad, it’s no choice at all. (The derivation is somewhat interesting but you can follow up that on your own.) The relevance here is that recently, a Hobson’s Choice has entered my life.

As you may remember, the new owners of the real estate office formerly and presently know as Garfield Realty, Luap and Zil, have been, ever so gradually, upending my status in my former office; moving me a little closer to the front door in incremental ways. It started with the downsizing of my desk. Not long after that, there was the indignity of placing it so that I faced a blank wall. I had mostly gotten used  to all that but now . . . now I’m being told that Garfield Realty is going to be re-branded (or so they say) and the office is being reconfigured to a place with fewer desks, none of which shall be mine. What’s being offered to me is the use of a shared conference room style desk. Now, that would be bad enough, but it’s going to be at the front of the office which means that whenever anyone comes in I would be the first person they would encounter.  In other words, I would be the OFFICIAL GREETER!!! (that’s me SCREAMING!!). Engaging in idle CHIT CHAT with whomever shows up!

If you know me at all (and why wouldn’t you want to?), you’d know that this kind of circumstance is probably the essence of every third nightmare that I have. Sometimes that nightmare includes an episode in which I’m working at the Park Slope Food Co-op where one of the jobs is to escort shoppers who are using the Co-op’s shopping carts to their home or car and then bring the cart back.  I see these twosomes all over my neighborhood, very often chatting away as if they go back to grade school together. In my dream, I’m the guy wearing the Co-op’s yellow vest walking with and making inane conversation with a total stranger. Saying the same stuff over and over with different shoppers. Sometimes there’s a variation of the dream where instead of repeating myself endlessly, I’m more or less mute as I walk the streets of my own neighborhood. Either way, I wake up in a cold sweat.

So being up front, right there by the entrance door is, I think, the real estate equivalent of walking someone home with the shopping cart. The only meaningful difference is that I won’t be wearing the yellow vest. Otherwise, just the same.  It seems that the only alternative available to me may be to set up a very small work station in the bathroom.  A Hobson’s choice if there ever was one.


The Bris-kit™️

September 22, 2017

I know, I know . . .  you’re thinking: there he goes with another meat blog.  Well, that’s not the case. Not the case at all. Instead, this is a commentary on an article I read a few weeks ago that brought me up short.

It seems that there is a movement afoot by some Jews to overhaul one of the major rites of the Jewish tradition, the bris. Apparently, the circumcision of new-born male offspring is now up for grabs. According to the article, a number of Jewish parents are “aghast at what they see as unnecessary infliction of pain or even mutilation and are retreating from the ancient ritual.”

The article featured a woman who is a single parent living in, where else, Brooklyn.  The mother was steeped in a Jewish background but is a feminist and activist who believes in the “right to your own body”.  After struggling with her decision not to have a traditional bris (the kind that has cutting), she settled on a “gentle bris” ceremony. This rite called for the use of some alternative ritual objects. So, a mohel was replaced by a service that included a pomegranate, a gold kiddish (wine) cup and a large ceramic bowl filled with water to wash the baby’s feet.  No mention was made of bagels, lox or appetizers.                                                    

As an atheist, I may be exactly the wrong person to be critical of this new-fangled approach. But I’ve been a Jew for my entire life and find that I’m still drawn to many of the religion’s traditions, the bris being one of them. Sure, it’s a little barbaric but after all, this has been going on for some 4000 years, starting with God commanding an adult Abraham to circumcise himself. (I imagine Abraham could have negotiated with God to see if He would settle, instead, for some fruit, wine and a large bowl of water. Maybe he could have thrown in a few goats to sweeten the deal. Had that happened, Jewish history penises would be so much different and . .. well, maybe most important, we wouldn’t have this essay.)

This is not the first time I’ve come across this bris mutiny. I checked my blog records and found that I had written about a similar circumstance concerning a measure that was on the ballot in, where else, San Francisco, that would have banned circumcision for all men under eighteen. The proposed law called for making the practice a misdemeanor offense punishable by a fine of $1000 or up to a year in jail. (Imagine being in Alcatraz and your cellmate asks, “What are you in for?” “Foreskin issues” is the answer I’d give.) Needless to say, the measure failed.

After reading the article, I had a brilliant idea for a business that would take advantage of what I see as the next hula hoop for Jews. I thought I could combine the alternative bris items and market the pomegranate, the wine cup and the washing bowl as a collection . . . as a kit, so to speak. My first step has been to protect the intellectual property rights of the business.  So, at great expense, I’ve registered the name, “Bris-kits ‘R’ US®”.  I am also now the owner of the domains, Bris-kit.com, .org, .net, and just in case this winds up on college campuses, .edu. This may seem as if I’m being overly ambitious in preserving my naming rights but this is too good of an idea to have slip through my fingers.  (Oh . . . and by the way, if you’re thinking of cashing in on a parody of the Ella Fitzgerald song, forget it; I also own the copyright to A Bris-kit A Basket© .)

An addendum:  I’m not the only one who thinks this bris thing could be a whole cottage industry. Marvel Comics also.

Not To Be Confused With Fiveskin Man






The Kite Bummer

September 7, 2017

“Little Boy”– Kind Of An Unfortunate Name

Recently, my son, Essej and my daughter-in-law, Fets, came with my grandkids to spend a weekend with me in the country. Julian, Levi and Skye are 7, 5 and 3, respectively; at least for a while. The two year differences in their ages is great for me because it’s both easy to remember and also easy to transmit the information if someone asks, “How old are they”.  Remembering all of the birth dates is another matter altogether but has the benefit of requiring me to use some brain cells that I ordinarily keep in cold storage.

Knowing that the kids were coming, I decided to do something grandfatherly—I bought some kites on Amazon, one for each of them. Different colors. I had a Norman Rockwellesque fantasy of them lined up, each flying his/her own kite while occasionally looking in my direction and thanking me for such a treat.  Well . . . this was, at a minimum, magical thinking.

I unpacked the first kite and took it out to my yard to begin the festivities.  But, although it seemed breezy enough, the damned thing wouldn’t go up.  Essej and I took turns running around trying to get it airborne.  No luck.  This went on for much of the weekend.  Apparently, the kite was fly-resistant. And then it hit me — the kites were each shaped and decorated to look like an octopus.  Or maybe a squid. Well, whatever it was, neither of those animals fly. In fact, they do the exact opposite. It’s as if I had taken the kids fishing and all the rod reels had been painted with pictures of birds. Totally wrong. I bet I could get those to fly.

For as long as I can remember I’ve had a fascination with watching kites fly. When I’m in Prospect Park and I see someone flying a kite, I’ll always spend some time watching.  There’s just something so innocent and pure about the sight of an object floating in the sky, powered by nothing other than nature. When I was a kid, my older brother, Evets and I would occasionally go to Marine Park to fly a kite that we would buy at the local candy store. The kite, a Hi-Flier, was made of paper and came with wooden cross pieces that my brother would assemble. We’d bring some torn rags and tie them together to make the tail for the kite.

Evets was in charge and, as usual, I was his assistant.  Which meant that I’d only occasionally get a chance to do the flying.  My favorite part was when we’d attach a leaf or a piece of paper and watch it miraculously work its way up the string to the kite that was hundreds of feet in the air. I don’t know how long we’d stay in the park but at some point, it would be time to go home. Imagine — two freckle-faced boys tramping home with their kite. Probably to do some chores or maybe prepare for our paper routes the next morning.  So much like . . . like . . . well, like a Norman Rockwell painting.

Truthfully, that’s a fantasy; neither my brother or I have or had freckles. No paper routes either. But as the narrator in The Sun Also Rises asks at the end of the book, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”



Double Fault

August 15, 2017

Once you reach a certain age, you begin to wonder how you’ll be looked back upon.  If I haven’t reached that age, I’m certainly getting closer.  So whenever there’s a funeral, memorial service or other recognition of a life passed, I pay attention.

I came across the sign shown above this past weekend in Gardiner, the small town where my house upstate is located.  It was posted outside a building that houses the town’s volunteer fire department. My son, Essej, and my daughter-in-law, Fets who were staying with me had also noticed the sign. They both thought that it may have simply been an acknowledgment of Mr. Becker’s retirement. While I may not be wiser than they are, I’m older and more experienced. To me, it seemed pretty obvious that the notice was a public obituary. For Al and his family’s sake, I hope I’m wrong. .. but I don’t think so.

Unlike Mr. Becker, I don’t belong to any volunteer service organizations. In fact, the only organization I do belong to is my tennis club—The Knickerbocker Field Club.  Apart from a great place to play tennis, I see the club as playing a very important part in any public recognition of my having existed. (This is euphemistic to a fault; and for good reason–my kids read this and I don’t want them to be alarmed. Or to prematurely start the fight over the estate, for that matter.)

At the “Knick”, I have some very good friends, some almost-very good friends, some just friends and a host of acquaintances. And hardly any enemies. So I think I can count on a reasonable representation from the club at a way-in-the-future appropriate time.

But what’s missing  at the “Knick” is a way to make public, important events and happenings. True, we have an e-newsletter.  But it’s only published weekly and often goes into spam folders. What’s needed, I think, is a large sign board a la the Gardiner volunteer fire department which would alert members of significant announcements.

I know that one way or another, at some point I will no longer be playing at the club. When that happens, I’d like some recognition of my connection and time there. I think a large sign announcing my departure would be the perfect way to highlight that event. And, I have a few suggestions of how I’d like the display to read.

“Long time member, Neil Stein, has hit his final winner at the “Knick”.

“……….  has served his final ace…..”

“……..  has given his final bad call….”


“Long time member, Neil Stein, has double faulted for the final time.”

I really, really like that last one a lot.  And as long as I’m fantasizing, why not see if there’s someone who wants to do a documentary about my time at the club. Maybe Martin Scorsese, for example.  Call it, The Last Faults. Or even more poetically, The Last Faltz.



The Italian Job

August 3, 2017

Over the last six months or so, I’ve become an expert on national politics. This is, in no small measure, the result of a very unhealthy obsession with the disturbing activities of you-know-who.  So if I didn’t know how “a bill becomes a law” before, I certainly do now.

Interestingly (to me), as much as I know about the political landscape in Washington, I know next to nothing about New York State politics.  Sure I know that Andrew Cuomo is the governor . . .but truthfully, I don’t think I know who the Lieutenant Governor is.  My guess is that it probably doesn’t matter.  As for Mr. Cuomo, the only things I really know about him is that he screams a lot when he’s just talking; he’s not nearly as smart as his father nor as good-looking as his brother, and he hates Bill de Blasio.  Oh yes, and he has a girlfriend whose name is somehow related to a frozen cake brand.  I think I have that right.

As far as the rest of my knowledge of State politics I’m aware that there is a State Senate and a State Assembly.  But now that Sheldon Silver is gone, I don’t think I could name even two of those politicians.  Of course, I could easily find out who most of those Senators and Assembly(wo)men are—just by doing a Google search of white-collar indictments in New York State.

Here’s some more information to use at your next cocktail party:  the State legislature is only in session six months a year (January-June). During that time there are about 17 days that our representatives are actually physically present.  This sounds like it would have been the perfect job for me before my  reti…retire…retirement.  (Now, there’s not even one day that I have to be present!)  Although, as I think about it, being in Albany during January and February is no great shakes.  Who knows . . . maybe there could have been a part-time, part-time job for me.  But that’s all water under the bridge.

Speaking of bridges, this brings me to what this blog is about. According to an article in The Times a few weeks ago, as this year’s State legislative session was wrapping up, there was some unfinished business regarding a proposal to name the new Tappan-Zee Bridge after the Governor’s father, Mario.  This effort failed.  But an item that really interested me was proposed legislation to add a second “z” to the Verrazano Bridge. The bridge which connects Brooklyn and Staten Island, is named for the Italian explorer, Giovanni da Verrazzano, but it has only a single “z” and it seems that the single “z” has long been taken as a slight by Italian-Americans.

Which I already knew.  I have a fair number of Italian friends and I have to tell you, whenever I see them, after a few pleasantries about the weather and the family, it’s not uncommon for them to launch into a tirade about feeling dissed about the missing “z”. Which I totally get. Because, although I try to not let it bother me, I feel exactly the same way whenever I think about how they screwed around with the spelling of the Bronx- Whitestein bridge.


The Designated Driver

July 17, 2017

A few weeks ago I read an article in The Times about the sale of a parking space in Hong Kong for $664,000.  Now, that’s pretty astounding but even here in sleepy Park Slope parking spaces are selling for near $300K.  The reasons for this extravagant price include the closing of parking garages because of their greater value as condominium sites and the confiscation of countless street parking spaces by the Citi Bike program which operates like the anti-Kris Kringle and overnight, stealthily removes parking spots replacing them with bike depots. But the greatest cause of the skyrocketing prices for parking is the influx of money into the neighborhood formerly known as Park Slope. After all, if you’re paying $5 million for your house, what’s another couple hundred thou for a little home for your car.  What we have here is the purest form of the economics of supply and demand.

Now, you may think that you’re detecting a trace of my signature holier-than-thou attitude in this reporting.  Or maybe, even a little envy (the only one of the Seven Deadly Sins for which I don’t have a monthly subscription). But for once, you’d be wrong; ’cause you see, I own a parking space; right here six floors below my apartment. But before you start to figure that I’ll pay for dinner, you should understand that my flushness is not what it seems.  But more on that later because what this essay is really about is the burden it is to always have a place waiting to park my car.

You see, I have a group of friends and almost-friends that I play tennis with.  Sometimes singles, sometimes doubles. But since I alone among us don’t have to worry about finding a place to park afterwards, I do the driving to the courts. That is, I do the picking up and the dropping off. Which means that when I’m playing doubles, my route includes three pickups and three drop offs. The logistics of this is very challenging and forces me to use some brain cells that have been hanging around doing nothing. Walking on cobblestones and crossword puzzles are now redundancies. For this, I’m grateful.  (If I haven’t said it you directly, “Thanks fellas”.)

Before I continue with the benefits of being a chauffeur, let me return to why there’s no way you should be asking me to pick up the tab when we go out.  Even though I have a truly beautiful parking space, it’s not worth much.  You see, because of a quirk in my co-op’s by-laws, if I wanted to sell my parking space, I could only sell it to someone who lives in my building.  Meaning that American capitalism stops at my garage door. About one half of the people in my building already own a spot and about 80% of the remaining occupants don’t have a car.  This means that there are only two or three people who would have any interest in buying my parking spot. Because of this tiny universe of potential buyers, if I wanted to sell my space, I probably could get $9.00, maybe $9.75 for it; if there was a bidding war, possibly $12.00 – $13.00.  (Under the rubric of “Just because it’s good for me doesn’t mean it’s bad for you”, I recently brought up the idea to the co-op of opening up the sale of parking spaces to the world at large—the Board’s reaction was just short of coming after me with torches and pitchforks.) So for now, you’ll have to pay for your own drink.

I think I’m pretty good-natured about doing the driving.  Apparently so much so, that (half) kiddingly, even when my tennis buddies are playing without me, they ask if I’ll drive them to the courts. There’s something very sweet about that, no? But in case you start to think I’ve had a lobotomy, I do have one resentment.  And not a small one (big surprise!). Because of the non-Uber service I provide,  I’m always the first to leave and the last to arrive home. My friends have gotten to sleep in before I come by to pick them up and when we return, they’ve showered, gone grocery shopping and started a stew, all before I’ve even made it to my front door. I try not to think about it but when I do finally get around to cooking dinner—-oh wait, that’s someone else’s life I’ve just entered. Forget it.

There’s one thing about this situation that is completely baffling to me. When I go out with friends, and I’ve done (more than) my share of drinking and it’s time to call it a night, I’m still the “designated driver”.  I can’t put my finger on it but I know that’s something that just doesn’t make any sense.


The Seventh Inning Kvetch

June 28, 2017

This past Fathers Day, my son, Essej, took me along with his two boys–my grandsons— to a Mets game at Citifield.  This was Julian’s and Levi’s (minors do not qualify for the witless protection program) first time at a professional ballgame and surprisingly, they seemed to be underwhelmed.  But at least they each got some cotton candy–that’s right, not peanuts or crackerjacks but freakin’ cotton candy! At a baseball game! Come on!  Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio!?

But that’s not what this is about. Prior to the start of the game, as is traditional, the crowd was asked to stand while someone sang the Star Spangled Banner. That was expected.  But later on, in the middle of the seventh inning, the seventh inning stretch, the public address announcer asked everyone to stand again and remove their caps while we listened to a rendition of God Bless America.  (This, I understand, has been the custom of many ball clubs since 9/11.)   I ordinarily don’t wear a hat but on that day I was; and for a moment I considered not taking it off.  You see, although, of course the 9/11 tragedy has meaning for me, I’ve never been a big fan of wholesale patriotism. I think it can be dangerous and is often used as a bludgeon. And sometimes it’s monumentally hypocritical. (You probably think I’m referring to draft-dodging Donald Trump’s mawkish embrace of “my Vets”. I’m not.)  A case in point: God Bless America was written by Irving Berlin, a Jew, in 1918.  There were many country clubs, hotels, and other institutions that were off-limits to that Jew for nearly the next 30 years. That’s almost ironic, no?  But the truth is that, it’s much more likely that I was reluctant to remove my hat because I’m neurotically oppositional. Sometimes the simplest explanations are the most correct.

This paean to patriotism was followed by the customary, Take Me Out To The Ballgame.  Now that’s a song I can really get behind and I and the rest of crowd really got into belting it out.  Americana at its best.

My experience at the game got me thinking about a story a friend of mine recently told me.  He had just bought a condominium in Florida and went to his first condo association meeting .  Apparently, this association starts all of its meetings by asking everyone to stand and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance. Not to the condo . . . but to “the United States of America.”  I was gobsmacked when I heard that. There’s something going on in the country that eludes me. I don’t think I’ve had to recite the Pledge since the sixth grade and I’ve replaced it with other things that I struggle to remember. But what’s really disturbing about this story is that this took place on the east (Jewish/liberal) coast of Florida. I can only imagine what it’s like on the other coast, say in Naples.  I bet they’re not only “pledging” but, almost certainly, they have a dress code too. Now, that’s where I’d really have to draw the line!



Does A Bear Sit In The ‘Hood?

June 15, 2017

One of the reasons I enjoy going to my house in the country is the peacefulness I feel when I’m there.  Actually, it’s practically the only reason I go there.  Truth is, there’s not much to do so I usually spend a lot of time doing the Sunday crossword, listening to music and reading. Unfortunately, the people who already live there, my neighbors, have a different outlook. They have chores to do. So even though I have a fair amount of land and none of my neighbors is particularly nearby, my weekend reverie is occasionally interrupted by one of them mowing his lawn. Usually, Sunday mornings when I’m just settling in to seriously do nothing.

Ordinarily, I’m lying on a chaise on a screen-in porch in the back of my house when the mowing begins and my heart rate spikes to its city norm. Even though I know it’s completely unreasonable–after all, these people work during the week and the lawn needs to be mowed—-I find it almost unforgivable that my needs are not being considered. (For those of you who know me, I realize it’s entirely unnecessary to include that last phrase.) So I usually tough it out knowing that there’s only so much lawn that can be mowed and peace and quiet will be mine again.

Two weekends ago, when the mowing began, instead of stewing in my self-righteousness, I made an effort to be a bit more proactive. I decided to plant myself with the crossword puzzle on the front porch on the other side of the house away from the cacophony of noise. That porch is not nearly as gracious as the rear one, so this was a real test of my maturity. And for a little while, things went okay; not great but acceptable.

Ursa Major?

And then out of the corner of my eye I saw something moving.  I turned and saw a bear—a large one— walking (or whatever bears do) very near to the porch.  I don’t do that well with mice, so you can only imagine how freaked out I was when I saw Smokey wandering around. I then snuck back into the house and snapped a photo from my kitchen window as documentary evidence.

In some respects one might view this a an interesting addition to the naturalness and uncitiness of my Eden. It’s not. Since the bear sighting I’m in a heightened stage of vigilance which is really interfering with my doing nothing. My porch time (both front and back) has been considerably reduced. My hammock, set idyllicly under a black walnut tree, goes unused. (Lying in it, with the possibility of nodding off, I view as nothing less than a suicide attempt.)

So it looks like I’ll have to get off my ass and start doing stuff.  I hear that tennis can be a pretty fun game. I may have to give it a try.

Speechless in Secaucus

June 7, 2017

The Prince And The (emotional) Pauper

As much as I would like to, I can’t seem to find anything to write about that doesn’t touch on politics.  In the good old days, I would be writing about all sorts of things that I may have read that I found curious. Maybe no one is writing about other stuff anymore and the blog has just become a reflection of the times.  As someone very famous has said . . . or rather, tweeted—sad!

What has captured my attention lately is the Princeling in the White House (PIWH), New Jersey native, Jared Kushner. I don’t like him. Which you might say is unfair, since there’s nothing to judge him on; no one has ever heard him speak.  I mean no one.  But I feel perfectly fine about having a bad opinion of him based on nothing.  Well . . . maybe not exactly nothing.

After all, he does have a lot to answer for.  Apart from meeting with the Russians and lying about it, there’s that business of encouraging the Dick in the White House (DIWH) to fire Jim Comey.  And being part of the Administration; and squiring that profiteer Ivanka everywhere; and being a slum lord; and . . . and . . . and maybe the worst thing, that SHIT-EATING GRIN.

His silence had reminded me of another notable figure who remained mute for his entire time on the public stage—Sarah Palin’s husband, Todd. I’ve been writing this blog for so long that Mr. Palin has found his way into it more than once. (Newt’s Mutes and an all-time favorite, Thrilla from Wasila). But Todd was relatively benign and more on the periphery of venality.  Jared is a whole other kettle of (non-shell) fish. (Bear in mind, he’s an orthodox Jew).

However, he does have a few saving graces; after all, he’s going to be the one to negotiate peace in the Middle East.  In fact, the DIWH has said that if “anyone can do it, it’s Jared”.  That’s all well and good but that’s like my father (who thought I was a better athlete than I am) saying that I could win Wimbledon.  I can just hear Sam saying, “if anyone can do it, Neil can.”  I wouldn’t bet all my shekels on either one.

But maybe the PIWH’s greatest single attribute is that he doesn’t have one of those beards that it seems everyone and his brother (not mine, though) are sporting.  I don’t know if they’re called Van Dykes or Van Goghs or Van Wycke Expressways but jeez, they’re everywhere. I just don’t get it.  My guess is that in twenty years the owners of these things will look back on them as I do when I see photos of myself wearing bell bottom pants and wonder, “What the hell was I thinking!?”

From everything I’ve read and from conversations I’ve had about the PIWH’s muteness, several schools of thought have emerged: some people think that his reluctance to speak is because, like those silent movie stars who couldn’t make the transition to “talkies”, he has some weird high-pitched voice. I don’t buy that. I think it’s much more likely that, when we do hear him speak, we’ll discern just the slightest trace of a Russian accent. Wouldn’t that be something, Nyet?