By Bette Dewing

Yup, a New York Times review’s claim that no one’s sensibilities would be offended by Eat Pray Love actually got me out to the movies. Except for a few offending words, I left the theater with a glow which made East 86th Street’s maddening crowds seem almost friendly. Do you ever miss the going-to-the-movie experience where your sensibilities weren’t offended and earplugs and deep pockets weren’t needed?

That glow faded on seeing subway construction fences crowding either side of 86th Street on Second Avenue. I’d just read 14th Congressional District Republican Candidate Dino LaVerghetti’s August 26th op-ed lament “Small-Businesses, The Forgotten Victims of Second Avenue.”

He talks about how with too little government help, so many of the affected small businesses in the area have closed since 2007. LaVerhgetti warns, “As it moves southward, the construction acts like a virtual Grim Reaper, felling everything in its path.”

Infinitely more could and must be done to save small businesses that in a 20/20-visioned world would be landmarked.

Meanwhile, the Home Depot invasion has felled 60-plus-year-old Thalco’s Hardware Store on Second near 76th Street, where this three-generation family business was headed by Jerry Cotler, who also owns the building. Cotler can’t help being rueful,

“Too many who now say how much they’ll miss us shopped a lot at Home Depot,” he said.

You know what we have to do to save our walking distance “everyday need-providers.” Their owners must organize and protest! Big time! The good news is Jerry will move to Florida where his closest relatives live. But, it’s more bad news for neighborhood survival.

Families of origin are the forgotten people in the Eat Pray Love heroine’s desperate search for post-divorce meaning. But that’s always been entertainment’s sin of omission, though a “fair and balanced” representation could not be more just, or more needed.

Dr. Martin J. Zion surely tried when he was rabbi of Temple of Israel of the City of New York. This excerpt is from his Aug. 10, 1980, homily, aired in this paper:

“Our fixation with personal autonomy has been psychologically devastating. The old, in their search for independence, end up alone. The young, isolating themselves from the old, in their yearning for freedom, end up confused, bewildered and depressed by problems which could have been handled so much better if aided by the older generation’s experience.’’

Amen! Blame all manner of social engineers; especially entertainment’s powerful pushing of potentially disabling generational divides.

Rabbi Zion lost his son on September 11 and, as we near that date, my thoughts are especially with the mothers, fathers, grandparents and siblings of those innocents whose lives were so brutally, sinfully, wickedly taken, especially those mourners with too little emotional support. Doubly wounded are those with little contact with their lost loved one’s children when the surviving parent remarries or moves away, either geographically or emotionally.

Mayor Bloomberg, himself a father, surely got this right: “Children who lose their parents are called orphans, bereaved spouses are called widows or widowers, but there is no name for those who lose a son or daughter, because this loss is a loss beyond words.”

And let Grandparents Day (September 12) not be one day of remembering in a year of forgetting. And never forget how human survival so greatly relates to Rabbi Zion’s impassioned belief, including the Fordham U study urging families to stay closely connected with off-to-college freshman boys, who keep their homesickness and other woes too much to themselves. So do men, in general. Beware of alcohol solace.

Rosh Hashanah Blessings to all!

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By Susan Braudy

Thank goodness muggings are pretty much a thing of my past. Some things are getting better—a lot better—in our town. My first mugging took place at dusk on the University of Pennsylvania campus. A man pushed a wad of dollar bills into my coat pocket after showing me the top $100 bill, then invited me back to his hotel room. When I refused, he pushed me down and kicked me toward an open car door.

I felt for the wad of bills in my pocket, pulled off the top bill and shoved the remaining wad up at him. The fat wad was missing its $100 cover, and was all $1 bills. Bewildered, he slowly checked each bill. I picked up my schoolbooks and ran away. In a way I mugged him back.

The second time I was mugged was after a Neil Simon play on Broadway. I stood in the back of the theater (cheap admission charge). After the first act, I always found a single seat down front.

While I walked to the subway on 42nd Street later that evening, a man grabbed my shoulder bag. I swerved into the traffic, dragging him until he let go of my bag. Was I brave or foolhardy?

The third time I was mugged I was talking on a payphone to my boss, the president of Warner Brothers Studios. An impatient man, he’d just reprimanded me for wasting his time with a quick joke. I felt a gentle tugging on my shoulder bag. I whirled around and saw a child with the sweetest brown eyes, his little hand in my pocketbook. My boss was shouting at me for some transgression. I was far more afraid of him than of the brown-eyed child.

“Stop that!” I whispered and smacked the child’s hand. His eyes looked hurt. He ran.

The fourth time I was mugged I was walking with an editor from the New York Times on West 58th Street. He handled arts critics for the paper and was known far and wide for his patience. Two guys in their twenties approached us. I noticed one of them was carrying a creased brown paper bag. He veered purposefully into my friend and we heard the crunch of breaking glass.

The bag holder began to whine.

“Look what you did. You broke three expensive bottles of pills and my mother is really sick. Now she’s going to die. I don’t know what to do. You owe me at least 20 bucks.”

I had one of my scary and unexpected adrenaline surges.

“See here” I said, “I’m going to report you to the police. You’re trying to rob us of—” My friend interrupted me and asked the dastardly duo, soothingly, “Are you sure it’s only $20 worth of medicine? I hope your mother gets better soon. Tell you what, I’ll give you $30 and my apologies.” I was sputtering as he took out his wallet and gave the two guys a $20 and a $10 bill.

The guys looked really embarrassed and slunk off. I guess that’s one of the reasons why my friend is an upper manager and I work alone. My mugging experiences have taught me an important lesson. I am far more afraid of what I will do to a potential mugger than what he or she will do to me.

You don’t know your own adrenaline switch until it’s been turned on several times.
_
Susan Braudy is the author and journalist whose last book, Family Circle: The Boudins and the Aristocracy of the Left, was nominated for a Pulitzer by publisher Alfred Knopf.

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I have a complaint that I think you will agree is a legitimate grumble. Let me set the scene. I read most of your stories but never miss your “Crime Watch” section, which covers assaults, thefts, robberies, petty crimes, etc. One unique feature of the section is that you never print the name of the person who allegedly committed the offense in your headlines. That is, until your Aug. 12 issue with the bold-faced “Guiliani’s Daughter Arrested” instead of something like “Young Lady Arrested,” which would have been the headline any other time.

I can only deduce that you used Caroline Giuliani as a foil to take a low, cheap shot at her father who was hailed throughout the land in 2001 as “America’s Mayor.” Or did you forget?

Joe Morrone
Upper East Side

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By Alan S. Chartock

If you were Andrew Cuomo, who would you rather run against: Rick Lazio, the Republican middle-of-the-roader who is as American as apple pie and Howdy Doody, or his conservative, tea-partyish opponent, Carl Paladino? Cuomo is beating the stuffing out of both of them in the polls. You can be sure that this question is being discussed a lot in the Cuomo organization and between Papa and Junior Cuomo.

Lazio is the old, moderate, New York Republican. The former Long Island Congressman couldn’t be nicer. He’s earned his living, post-Congress, as a corporate senior official. His problem is that he hasn’t earned enough to finance his own campaign, which Republicans need to do these days. If I’m Andrew Cuomo, having raised millions of dollars from the usual suspects, I am very happy about the prospect of running against Lazio. Cuomo must believe that no matter what happens, Lazio won’t raise enough money and will never have the funds to mount a credible campaign. Nor will he have a personality transplant and become mean enough to really come after the Attorney General. And no matter what happens in the Republican primary—even if Lazio wins—Paladino will run on another line. Andrew has got to love that.

Of course, if Paladino wins the primary, Lazio will toe the conservative line and history tells us that you can’t win squat in New York as a Republican unless you have both the Republican and Conservative lines. Andrew must like that a lot.

Cuomo has to assume that Lazio is a sure loser. Paladino is a wild card. He’s meaner than a junkyard dog and he’s spoiling for a fight. While he says that he is not a billionaire, he has enough millions to buy whatever he needs to win. He did what he had to do to collect enough signatures to get on the Republican primary ballot. You have to assume he hired the best and the brightest to get that onerous job done. He told me that he has already spent a measly two of the 10 million dollars he has committed to the campaign.

My thinking is that Paladino, with his incendiary right-wing rhetoric, is banking on the fact that this will be another year like 1994, the year of the so-called “Gingrich Revolution.” The American people will be so frightened by the lagging recession, immigration hysteria, gay marriage hysteria and all the other hysterias, they will slam on the political brakes and yell at the top of their lungs, “Enough!” That, after all, is how Gingrich took over the last time and it’s why Papa Mario lost. That’s how people like Jesse “The Body” Ventura got elected as a long, long shot in Minnesota. In order to get elected governor, Paladino is pushing every button, from the great Mosque debate to his conviction that too many poor people are getting too much from the middle class.

So if you’re Cuomo, you’re probably more afraid of the Paladino candidacy than of the prospect that Lazio will be your opponent. What do you do? Of course you say, “I’m staying out of this,” but in some way, you have to find those mechanisms to help Lazio. It could be simple stuff, like getting your friends on editorial boards to endorse Lazio. For example, look for Cuomo backer and Republican Rupert Murdoch to support the more milquetoast Lazio. That will be a sure sign of what Andrew wants. Or Andrew could start to treat Lazio as if he were the more fearsome potential opponent.

Naturally, Andrew would not want to get caught meddling in the other party’s selection process, so if he did anything, he would have to be circumspect. Surrogates must be enlisted to do the dirty work. Everything will be put under a microscope so each option has to be carefully thought through. Paladino is flogging the Ground Zero Mosque issue just as hard as he can, so even if Andrew does the right thing and announces his support for building it, he’ll do so in the most muted terms.

Hey, politics is a tough game and the Cuomos cut their eyeteeth on this kind of 3-dimensional chess.

To answer the original question, Cuomo has got to be more for a Lazio candidacy than a Paladino attempt. Indeed, Paladino may self-destruct and become a laughingstock, but it is also possible that the politics of frustration might give him a chance. Remember how scared people get in dire economic times? Read your history and see just how worried FDR was about some of the nuts that were
running against him.

_

Alan S. Chartock is president and CEO of WAMC/Northeast Public Radio and an executive publisher at The Legislative Gazette.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

One reason I’ve loved living in Manhattan for the past 27 years is that I don’t need a car. Whenever I do, I rent.

I’ve always believed that I had the whole “car thing” down, so I’d shake my head in disbelief as my car-owning friends engaged in the insanity of alternate-side- of-the-street parking, monthly garage fees the price of studio apartments and having conversations with a guy whose name is embroidered on his shirt along the lines of, “It’s making a noise like, CACHUNGA. Think you can fix it?”

I swore I’d never become one of them, until this summer’s family circumstances dictated a set of wheels. I struck a deal with Hertz for 42 days that would test whether I could cope with a car.

On July 1, I picked up a white, 2010 two-door midsize Chevrolet Cobalt complete with GPS and EZ-Pass. With the cost of the auto, plus tolls, as well as the price of gas looming over us, I decided that even though I could park at Hertz’s garage for a “mere” $14 a day, I wasn’t going to add parking to our new list of expenses. Surely, it couldn’t be that hard to find a space on the street?

Within 10 minutes and only half a block from my house, I struck urban gold. Convinced now that I had car karma, I was positive there’d always be a stretch of curb with my name on it. And there was, even if it took hours to find.

“You’re becoming obsessed,” said my husband, Neil, six days into “ownership,” as I grabbed the keys at 10:30 p.m. just as our doorman was going off duty, hence freeing up his coveted spot in front of our building.

By day 10, parking fever had spread to Neil, who suggested he take our son to his Randall’s Island doubleheader via taxi, as not to give up the car’s amazing placement across the street from our house. A position I procured by stalking a woman leaving the corner Chase bank.

Although I appreciated Neil’s gesture, I had to laugh at the absurdity: One reason we got the car was to travel to the games, and here we were considering alternatives to relinquishing our auto’s valuable “real estate.”

“Lorraine doesn’t like driving, she likes parking,” was Neil’s response when someone asked me how week three was going. True. Parking gave me a sense of accomplishment. I was engaging in urban warfare and winning—most of the time.

“My sister’s going to park here,” said a college-age girl, who blocked what could’ve been my space, at one point during the experiment.

When Project Car began, Neil made me promise not to throw down with anyone over parking. So, I waved her off. Enjoy the spot. I’d find another.

By my fourth and fifth weeks, parking had become second nature.

As my sixth and final week came to an end, someone asked if forgoing the garage had been worth it. The $588 I saved didn’t seem as big a gain as my realization that there’s always an opportunity around the corner, even if you have to go around the block a few times before it appears.

On August 11, I pulled out of my spot to return the Cobalt, and as usual, there was another car sidling up to take my space. I was tempted to finally ask, “Would you jump in my grave that quick?” but already knew the answer: “Yes,” if it were big enough in which to park a car.

_
Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Susan Braudy

Let me tell you why the accelerating—and alarming—trend that has women baring their breasts in public places other than locker rooms may turn out to be bad for us. Up until very recently, most women wore transparent fabric that beguiled, teased and almost showed a woman’s breasts.

I see this as smarter than going topless.

First, for the lascivious, the most current examples of naked breasts: Paris Hilton was recently photographed basking au naturel aboard a yacht. There was also an incident at the august Four Seasons restaurant, whose owner may be getting desperate for customers. He provided a topless caterer for a birthday party.

And of course you remember The Sopranos, where naked immobile silicone-enhanced breasts of pole-dancing girls were background noise for James Gandolfini.

In the 1970s, Rudi Gernreich made fashion history on the runway by outfitting his models in his new line of topless bathing suits. These didn’t become popular except maybe on the French Riviera, where I’m told only the most unsophisticated people stare.

What we have staring us in the face is a complex and historic power issue.

Exposing cleavage versus revealing the entire breast is a cultural issue. As a wise old (male) civil liberties lawyer once told me, “When woman start showing their entire breasts they will give up an enormous amount of power over men.” I wonder if women have slowly stopped caring.

Furthermore, I wonder if women are raising the ante from using their bodies as weapons to attract and daze men to flaunting their bodies as if to say we don’t care what men think.

After all, traditionally, female modesty was mostly in the service of male jealousy. A married woman was thought of as the property of her husband, who would kill other men if they dared to ogle his wife’s secondary—or primary—sexual characteristics.

Anthropologists say that men dress to show status, single women dress to lure men. The line is blurring, particularly in Manhattan offices and at decadent museum galas. I wear jewelry, for example, for its beauty but also because I think my pieces show costliness and, to be frank, status.

Historians such as James Laver say we wear clothes for two conflicting reasons—modesty and self-aggrandizement. Modesty is defined as the attempt to tamp down sexual allure. Self-aggrandizement includes status and sexual allure.

Was Eve less attractive to Adam when she was naked? Apparently once he and she ate from the tree of knowledge they realized they were naked and made clothing out of fig leaves. Indeed, it is said that at nudist colonies men soon lose any fascination for breasts of nude women.

Here is perhaps the most well-known historic example of women gaining power by baring parts of their breasts. In mid-19th-century France, women hypnotized men by wearing high empire-waisted gowns that revealed most of their breasts. They teased further by rouging their mostly hidden nipples.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against the human body. Some of my best friends have them, although I admit I’m not dying to picture them or even think about them very much.

I guess I prefer to see girls baring their toes, sexually taboo in old China (or their collarbones, a taboo in early Virginia) than their breasts, which are becoming more and more ornamental than functional in our culture.

_
Susan Braudy is the author and journalist whose last book, Family Circle: The Boudins and the Aristocracy of the Left, was nominated for a Pulitzer by publisher Alfred Knopf.

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By Bette Dewing

“We need as much to be reminded as informed,” Dr. Samuel Johnson so rightly opined.

An August 5 Our Town letter about the death of Michael Ward, who was killed in a hit-and-run on the East Side, needs repeated informing of the desperate—but slighted—need to prevent what we need to call traffic tragedies, not accidents.

I arrived too late to hear what the East 79th Street Neighborhood Association said in their August 12 meeting about the traffic tragedy that was so much on my mind.

It was the “Letter to the Editor” distributed on that day which gave me information I couldn’t get from either the 19th Precinct or Councilwoman Jessica Lappin’s office after I learned that the man I’d read about in the Daily News and New York Post had not survived. Those accounts were respectively titled, “Man, 85, struck on E. 84th St.” and “Old man mowed down.” Both told how the Gold Nissan Maxima car responsible for killing Mr. Ward was a hit-and-run crime. Witness Rogelio Martin said, “Cars really speed down First Avenue.” They speed wherever they can!

But I needed the name to send heartfelt regrets to any existing family, and say that their profound loss renews my active outrage against traffic crimes. Also, such victims should never remain nameless.

So, again, how very grateful I was that Our Town’s report of this crime prompted the following letter’s information:

Titled, “Tragic Loss,” it reads:

“The death of Michael Ward, victim of a hit-and-run driver, marks yet another tragedy that could have been prevented if our city government was sincerely committed to making New York an age-friendly City.

“This active 85-year-old man was mowed down by an impatient driver who probably did not wait for the light to fully turn green before barreling through the intersection. When Mr. Ward crossed the avenue, like many others whose gait is slowed by age or disability, he could not reach the curb before the light changed.

“For nearly 40 years, Visiting Neighbors has provided escorts to help seniors safely and confidently reach their doctors offices, go shopping or take care of other necessary tasks. The city’s latest response to this growing need in our ‘age-friendly city’ was to eliminate funding for our program.

“Every year at Visiting Neighbors’ annual Talent Fair, Michael Ward, the victim of this preventable tragedy, regaled audiences with his accordion playing and Irish ballads, demonstrating to enthusiastic audiences that ‘talent is ageless.’

“We will miss him.

“Dr. Cynthia Maurer, executive director of Visiting Neighbors, Inc.”

And more than the usual “lengthen walk time” response, we need real public outrage—a zero tolerance stance—against all crimes of traffic. We need a new law bearing Michael Ward’s name, a law that makes the punishment fit the traffic crime that fatally or severely injures elder pedestrians. Traffic and other crimes against elders need the same coverage as those against young people. The speed limit must be lowered!

Question “rapid bus transit” too!

And speak out; speak out—publicly—as Dr. Maurer so thankfully did.

Save and share this column where attention is most steadfastly paid. We will not forget you, Michael Ward; indeed, let there be a ballad as well as a law to make sure that we remember to keep working for all the above, and whatever will enable safe, and yes, low-stress street passage—not only in New York City.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Oops, I did it again—I stood in line for Shakespeare in the Park, this time to see a fabulous performance of The Winter’s Tale.

I’ve attended this free outdoor event since 1980, using the same M.O. every time: get there at dawn to camp out. And every year I end up about 200 people back by the big rock. Hence, I always end up in virtually the same seats, which are in the section that could be deemed “the nose bleeds.” There were years I felt like they saw me coming and whipped out the same old seats just to mess with me. This year, due to an alternate side of the street parking matter that I had to deal with, I broke tradition and arrived “late” at 9 a.m.

My position was parallel to the north of the Great Lawn, just before the line turns off the path and veers uphill towards the west side. Farther back than usual, but for the first time ever I got to sit on a park bench. (I’ve always had bench envy of those who did not have to bring or rent a beach chair similar to the one I usually squirm in.)

As I sat for four hours, instead of my usual six or seven, I found that life at the back of the line is pretty much the same as it is closer up, except with a smidge more anxiety regarding whether I’d make the cut for tickets. That lack of smug assurance that seats would be scored actually added to the cachet and excitement of waiting.

Not only that, but the tickets I did get were two of the best my husband and I have ever had: middle section right on the aisle. My over-diligence in years past, that without fail reaped tickets but nothing more in way of perks for my early morning arrival, has made me question if being hyper conscientious—which goes way beyond the ticket line—is really worth the effort?

I’m always the first mom to hand in the permission slip and money for the class trip, even though the child of the last mom to pony up still gets to go on the outing. I pay my bills when I get them, even though ConEd doesn’t turn the lights off if you’re only a little overdue; also American Express gives you 10 days grace after the “pay by this date” stamp. Oh, and my last doctor’s visit ended with a need for a blood test. I arranged it for the same day it was requested, figuring the sooner I did it the sooner the MD would get the results. They reached him within a couple of days, except it really didn’t matter since he had left for vacation.

Of course, I’ve passed the need to get things done now on to my children. During the school year I start asking if homework is done before they’ve finished their after-school snack and, most recently, by insisting that they crack open their summer reading books before summer had even begun.

Clearly, there is a fine line between being a good Do-Bee and manic candidate of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Doer)—and I’ve crossed it.

Perhaps procuring Shakespeare in the Park tickets even though I showed up at least three hours after the “first responders” is the universe’s wake-up call for me to calm down. Not easy to do in NYC. Good thing I’m heading off to Montauk.

_
Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Ben Krull

I turned the knob and nothing happened. Don’t panic, I told myself, as sun poured through the blinds.

It was a 90-degree Sunday earlier this summer and the window air-conditioner in my studio apartment was dead. First came denial: the four-year-old machine just needed to ease into the June heat. All it needed was some rest.

Then came anger: I cleaned my filter every six weeks, just like the operator’s manual instructed. It was too young to die—I’ll sue!

Finally came acceptance: It was a lemon and nothing could be done to change that. I would get a new one and move on.

I headed to PC Richard’s on East 86th Street, where my salesperson matched me with an 8,000 BTU air-conditioner. But the earliest it could be delivered was Friday, five days away.

Checking the long-range forecast I broke into a cold sweat, on top of the hot sweat already dripping from my pores. I bought two desk fans and braced myself.

To get some ideas on how to cope with the heat, I researched ancient cooling techniques. I learned that people once avoided the heat by living in underground caves. My experience with subway platforms dissuaded me from pursuing that cooling option.

Our modern predecessors would sleep on fire escapes on hot evenings. Although my building has a fire escape, I never seriously considered that option.

Apparently the summer streets in old New York weren’t populated by drunken twentysomethings partying into the night, or by cars honking their way through traffic. Besides, the sight of someone curled up on a fire escape at 3 a. m. would likely draw 911 calls from my neighbors.

That left the desk fan as the only defense against my apartment’s tropical conditions. With the fans pointed at my bed, I was able to sleep comfortably through the night. The problem was when I was up and moving around.

My morning coffee made me schvitz like I was in a sauna, while walking out of range of my fans put me in danger of heat stroke.

Even a cold shower couldn’t help. By the time I toweled myself off, I produced enough perspiration to undo the ameliorative effects of soap and deodorant.

The afternoon my new air-conditioner was delivered I was in my apartment, happily clearing space in a closet to store my soon-to-be unneeded fans.

“This unit will never cool your apartment,” the AC installer said. “You need 12,000 BTUs and this is only 8,000.”

I had given the salesperson the wrong measurements for my apartment. I ordered a new machine but it would be two weeks before I could arrange to be present for the delivery.

The heat wave continued, making me feel like I was in a reality television show: Which contestant can hold out the longest? Text “105 In The Shade” to vote!

Clearly God was testing me. I made it through the next two weeks by repeating the mantra “this too shall pass.”

On what was supposed to be the last day of my ordeal the delivery crew was four hours late. Would this endurance test ever end?

This time the installation of my new air-conditioner went as planned. But the old machine developed separation anxiety.

While removing the lemon from my studio, the workmen broke my building’s elevator with the unit inside. They left with the elevator and AC still stuck between floors.

Despite the crew’s tardy entrance and sloppy exit, I was so grateful to have a cool apartment that I gave them a really fat tip.

_
Ben Krull is a lawyer and essayist who lives on the Upper East Side.

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By Bette Dewing

Weddings—ah, but what’s needed is a great revival of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s wedding message to Diana and Charles; it applies to our culture’s hyper-individualism too:

“Any marriage which is turned in upon itself, in which the bride and groom gaze obsessively at one another, goes sour after a time. A marriage which really works is one which works for others: marriage has both a private and a public face and a public importance. If we solved all our economic problems and failed to build loving families, it would profit us nothing, because the family is the place where the future is created good and full of love—or deformed.”

Put that last line to music and play it again and again! Family and friendship love songs and themes are what the world needs most. Lust and violence and the “can’t live without you” kind have got to go. Tipper Gore, take note! There’s pounds of prevention for every kind of human dilemma and woe.

Failing to build loving families—well, reportedly a family estrangement kept the groom’s only uncle from being invited. But who knew until now? The “not knowing,” in general, prevents intervention, mediation, yes, even in major social policy-makers’ lives. And for the rest of us, secrets, silence, about whatever’s wrong in the family, and the work, school, civic, faith or other significant place, erodes the overall health of life—and societies.

In the extreme, secrets and silence can lead to a distraught mother taking the life of her four children before killing herself. A New York Times’ full page story did not much stress this financially-strapped 30-year-old Staten Island mother’s “going it alone” situation, or ask enough about nearby family or faith group connections. There was no mention of the children’s father in Jamaica. So much is untold—untold suffering.

Surely the First Family and The Clintons read this story. But we hear nothing about Chelsea’s grandmother, or even the First Granddaughters’ primary caregiver. The latter grandmother may now be vacationing in her Chicago hometown and attending the south side church of Father Michael Pflager, whose 1995 sermon made national news. He called the 700-plus heat-related Chicago deaths “a man-made disaster caused by a society that has become disconnected, where people don’t look after each other… and many living alone, usually the old, are made to feel a burden to society so they don’t ask for help.” New York University sociologist, Dr. Eric Klinenberg’s book, Heat Wave: A Social Autopsy of Disaster in Chicago, says it’s “every city.” And not only cities.

Middle and upscale income co-ops and condos are not immune to disconnects. And why, in this extreme summer, are the Times and other mediums’ daily “heat and photo stories” so disconnected to New Yorkers living in stifling, often isolated conditions, and for whom even a short walk can endanger?

It’s not only the old; a Daily News piece reports the heat-related death of a 22-year-old man and a 46-year-old woman on a 93-degree Sunday when the Fire Department received more than 36,000 heat-related emergency calls. A 70-year-old man “with health problems” died on another day.

But who knows how many suffer, sicken and die, because it’s just not a hot topic?

And the hot topic obsession, in general, is a big part of a major unchallenged social disconnect. That belongs in the wedding talk too—and heard big time in the pulpits, which profess the “love one another” creed. And bring back The Waltons!

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