Hauled out two big boxes that have been moldering--maybe literally--in the garage for years, and before that in the basement on Lower Ferry. One contains newspapers and a few magazines headlining "historic" events, such as Nixon's resignation, a man on the moon, the assassinations of the Kennedys, and so on. Would love to sell them, but somebody told me those kinds of publications are the ones people save, so weren't uncommon. Think I'll ask Jim at Unshredded Nostagia.
The other box contains copies of American Jewish Life, for which I wrote for years when I lived in Ewing. (The publisher, Sam Jacobs, lived next door to us in Ewing.) Read some of my articles, and they're okay, I guess; similar to the profiles I now write for The Breeze.
Aline was working until 6:00 and, as we had arranged, I picked her up at the bank where she got off the bus and went directly to rehearsal. Went through the whole production, including the songs, and it's shaping up very nicely.
After dropping A. off, I didn't get home until 9:30 and, for the first time in several months, I had Chardonnay with my chips. I had been substituting iced tea--didn't want to get in the wine-every-night habit--but now that I've opened the bottle, I may continue, as I feel no ill effects.
WIDER: The outpouring of shock and dismay at Robin Williams' death could have been predicted, of course. He was famous and rich and accomplished; we all felt we kind of "knew" him. I think that gives the lie to the oft-repeated pretense that all lives are equally precious. Surely not. What about that four-year-old blasted to bits in Gaza? What about that semi-literate bum "accidentally" strangled by a police officer? What about the rabbi swept away in the Nazi Holocaust? What about the slave in 1820 Mississippi? Are they worth as much as Robin Williams? If so, where are the solemn words of grief for them?
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