this is a test
Monday, May 7, 2012
Monday, December 12, 2011
hello to Sabra
I have not visited my Good, the Bad and the Ugly site for a long time and now I see the note from Sabra. If you can read this please contact me at drossowa@gmail.com about the Choraleers.
Dave
Dave
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Best Dressed
NOT BEST DRESSED
Another in a series of semi-informational treatises on life in Switzerland.
OK. Did that scare anybody off?!
Last night, Friday, March 23, 2001, I went to a FUNdraiser-auction for American Citizens Abroad. The event was held in the five-star Richemond Hotel in Geneva on an almost balmy night.
I was dressed appropriately – slacks and a short-sleeved sports shirt that almost matched the pants. All of my former wives would have been impressed. Those of you who have work with me would have considered me well-dressed. For those who have never seen me in the work environment, well, I have never subscribed to CQ.
I didn’t know too many people at this event. My friend was volunteering for the auction, so I was left pretty much on my own to mingle, introduce myself and try to blend in. Blend is something I do not do well. I made small talk with folks as white-uniformed waiters worked the room with trays of nibblies. OK, hors-d’oeuvres.
At one point, I found myself facing an elderly woman. At my age, I have to use the word elderly with discretion. She had white hair done up with a black ribbon and was dressed to show off money. She looked at me and said, “Are you an American?” I said, “Yes,” happy that I did not have to utilize my French lessons (Oui, je suis Americain. Je m’appelle Dave Rosso. Je suis journaliste).
“Where are you from,” she demanded.
“Washington, D.C.,” says I.
“Is that how they dress in Washington? Around here you wear a tie.”
“Oh, well, I don’t wear ties.”
“Well, you do here, baby. Look around you. You will never be a success if you don’t know how to dress.”
“I think, the way I dress won’t make much difference at this stage of the game for me,” I said, turning and walking away.
Shortly after that incident, the auction began. To warm up the audience, the MC-auctioneer made a few comments and introduced members of ACA and other organizations, as well as the U.S. ambassador to the U.N., who made some remarks.
My friend was introduced and she took the proffered microphone and made brief remarks. Then, to my utter surprise, I was introduced as the veteran United Press International journalist who had taken over as editor of the ACA newsletter. I sat there, in the front row, directly in front of the MC, who was holding the microphone towards – for benefit of those who prefer the Brit spelling) me. I stood up, took the microphone and faced the audience and stumbled out a few words. And there I was. Standing there. In my slacks and short-sleeved sports shirt, sans tie. Never to be a success.
I was very happy when my friend introduced me to a fellow journalist who writes for the International Herald Tribune, who was dressed in jeans, open sports shirt and weather-beaten jacket, note pads, pens and papers sticking out of his pockets. My kind of man!
It’s too bad my French teacher wasn‘t in the audience when I made my impromptu speech. She would have thought, “God, he can’t speak English any better than he speaks French.”
The lessons are coming along. I have actually spoken whole sentences in French. I got a laugh out of my teacher Thursday. The entire class time is conducted in French. So, when I have a question, it has to be asked in French. OY! But I did manage to get out my question in good enough French for her to understand enough to appreciate the humor I had intended. I asked why is it that the word for “problem” is masculine while the word for “solution” is feminine. She said something to the effect of, “But of course.”
Until next time.
Dave
PS: OK. A contest. Who can come up with the best parting shot to my fashion critic?
Another in a series of semi-informational treatises on life in Switzerland.
OK. Did that scare anybody off?!
Last night, Friday, March 23, 2001, I went to a FUNdraiser-auction for American Citizens Abroad. The event was held in the five-star Richemond Hotel in Geneva on an almost balmy night.
I was dressed appropriately – slacks and a short-sleeved sports shirt that almost matched the pants. All of my former wives would have been impressed. Those of you who have work with me would have considered me well-dressed. For those who have never seen me in the work environment, well, I have never subscribed to CQ.
I didn’t know too many people at this event. My friend was volunteering for the auction, so I was left pretty much on my own to mingle, introduce myself and try to blend in. Blend is something I do not do well. I made small talk with folks as white-uniformed waiters worked the room with trays of nibblies. OK, hors-d’oeuvres.
At one point, I found myself facing an elderly woman. At my age, I have to use the word elderly with discretion. She had white hair done up with a black ribbon and was dressed to show off money. She looked at me and said, “Are you an American?” I said, “Yes,” happy that I did not have to utilize my French lessons (Oui, je suis Americain. Je m’appelle Dave Rosso. Je suis journaliste).
“Where are you from,” she demanded.
“Washington, D.C.,” says I.
“Is that how they dress in Washington? Around here you wear a tie.”
“Oh, well, I don’t wear ties.”
“Well, you do here, baby. Look around you. You will never be a success if you don’t know how to dress.”
“I think, the way I dress won’t make much difference at this stage of the game for me,” I said, turning and walking away.
Shortly after that incident, the auction began. To warm up the audience, the MC-auctioneer made a few comments and introduced members of ACA and other organizations, as well as the U.S. ambassador to the U.N., who made some remarks.
My friend was introduced and she took the proffered microphone and made brief remarks. Then, to my utter surprise, I was introduced as the veteran United Press International journalist who had taken over as editor of the ACA newsletter. I sat there, in the front row, directly in front of the MC, who was holding the microphone towards – for benefit of those who prefer the Brit spelling) me. I stood up, took the microphone and faced the audience and stumbled out a few words. And there I was. Standing there. In my slacks and short-sleeved sports shirt, sans tie. Never to be a success.
I was very happy when my friend introduced me to a fellow journalist who writes for the International Herald Tribune, who was dressed in jeans, open sports shirt and weather-beaten jacket, note pads, pens and papers sticking out of his pockets. My kind of man!
It’s too bad my French teacher wasn‘t in the audience when I made my impromptu speech. She would have thought, “God, he can’t speak English any better than he speaks French.”
The lessons are coming along. I have actually spoken whole sentences in French. I got a laugh out of my teacher Thursday. The entire class time is conducted in French. So, when I have a question, it has to be asked in French. OY! But I did manage to get out my question in good enough French for her to understand enough to appreciate the humor I had intended. I asked why is it that the word for “problem” is masculine while the word for “solution” is feminine. She said something to the effect of, “But of course.”
Until next time.
Dave
PS: OK. A contest. Who can come up with the best parting shot to my fashion critic?
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Picking on the Jew
This is from my memoir from my school days at Manlius Military Academy 1956-1959. It was an eye-opener (that started with an eye-shutter)
Picking on the Jew
Interesting about ostracism. When I was a kid at military school I learned by my second year to make friends who then became part of our group. This was a natural boys school trait. There were joiners and outsiders. At that age it came down to personalities and character. A pecking order was quickly established that went beyond cadet rank that was worn on our shoulders.
My father ran the school's publicity, but he pulled no punches for me and I never went to him for special favors. I never made any rank either -- because that's the kind of guy I was.
I got in my share of fights on the hill behind the water tower. Our small group that was formed by me and my best friend consisted of other hell-raisers. None of them ever made any rank either.
Of course, when you have groups, those groups have to have others that are outside the group and, therefore, open to taunts and tricks. And I had a favorite target. Until one day another cadet came up to me and told me to leave him alone and blasted me alongside the head with a right hook that I never saw coming and the warning that he didn't like people picking on Jews.
Besides being physically stunned, I was also mentally stunned. Until that moment, I did not know what a Jew was. I did not know that certain names were Jewish names. Nor did I know that Jews were picked on.
Another cadet named Wertheimer was someone I had a tremendous amount of respect for because as I was a hell-raiser to buck authority, he did it calmly, quietly, cerebrally, and I thought he was so cool. But I never thought he was a cool Jew. He was just a cool guy.
As the right hook shut my eye, it opened my eyes to something I had never been aware of in my pretty sheltered life.
My parents taught me and my siblings that we should not discriminate. But that lesson was directed toward blacks. We were never, ever to use the N word (so I never got to advertise Dick Gregory's book).
Of the 360 cadets at the school, none was black. And that was the case during the three years I was there. I left Mr. Lerner alone, not because he was Jewish, but because I didn't want to get whomped alongside the head again. And I continued to respect Mr. Wertheimer, because he got under the cadet leaders' skin, quietly with his brains and passed with honors. And he always had this confident smug grin on his face.
Picking on the Jew
Interesting about ostracism. When I was a kid at military school I learned by my second year to make friends who then became part of our group. This was a natural boys school trait. There were joiners and outsiders. At that age it came down to personalities and character. A pecking order was quickly established that went beyond cadet rank that was worn on our shoulders.
My father ran the school's publicity, but he pulled no punches for me and I never went to him for special favors. I never made any rank either -- because that's the kind of guy I was.
I got in my share of fights on the hill behind the water tower. Our small group that was formed by me and my best friend consisted of other hell-raisers. None of them ever made any rank either.
Of course, when you have groups, those groups have to have others that are outside the group and, therefore, open to taunts and tricks. And I had a favorite target. Until one day another cadet came up to me and told me to leave him alone and blasted me alongside the head with a right hook that I never saw coming and the warning that he didn't like people picking on Jews.
Besides being physically stunned, I was also mentally stunned. Until that moment, I did not know what a Jew was. I did not know that certain names were Jewish names. Nor did I know that Jews were picked on.
Another cadet named Wertheimer was someone I had a tremendous amount of respect for because as I was a hell-raiser to buck authority, he did it calmly, quietly, cerebrally, and I thought he was so cool. But I never thought he was a cool Jew. He was just a cool guy.
As the right hook shut my eye, it opened my eyes to something I had never been aware of in my pretty sheltered life.
My parents taught me and my siblings that we should not discriminate. But that lesson was directed toward blacks. We were never, ever to use the N word (so I never got to advertise Dick Gregory's book).
Of the 360 cadets at the school, none was black. And that was the case during the three years I was there. I left Mr. Lerner alone, not because he was Jewish, but because I didn't want to get whomped alongside the head again. And I continued to respect Mr. Wertheimer, because he got under the cadet leaders' skin, quietly with his brains and passed with honors. And he always had this confident smug grin on his face.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Good luck, John
Today was a sad, tough day. My crew of four and a half reporters had to come up with enough copy to fill four days of newspapers because of the three-day weekend. Oh, the four-and-a-half reporters. Yeah. Well, one of them left early. For good. My staff is now down to four
But that was the sad.
Because the staffer who left was so much more than just a staffer. Much more than just a reporter.
John Driscoll was a veteran of 11 years at the Times-Standard. But even that doesn’t explain my loss. John was our natural resources reporter. He knew Humboldt County and the issues that affected Humboldt County better than most of the people in the county. John easily could have worked at The New York Times or The Los Angeles Times. But John loves Humboldt County and wants to stay right here. He is staying. He is now working in the Eureka office of Rep. Mike Thompson.
But it goes even deeper than that. John could cover anything. And he did. He covered the cop beat. He filled in on the politics and elections, even while expressing his dislike of politics. He wrote a weekly column. He could write in an instance. And his copy was always clean. Almost always.
And it goes deeper than that. John could talk to anybody in the county and make them like him. He had personality. He could get the answers from the most unanswerable people. He had a phone list that covered the entire county.
But really, it goes farther than that. John was a leader. He was liked and respected by everybody in the newsroom – along both ends of the newsroom, the photographers, every reporter, the managing editors through the years, the city editors through the years, the night desk, the copy editors, the publishers.
And John left at 5 p.m. every day. Unless we really needed him. And then he came back. And he worked with us and among us and for us and beside us.
He had a great sense of humor, a great sense of news, a great way with words, a great sense of urgency, a great sense of camaraderie.
We will miss him, the newspaper will miss him, the readers will miss him. I will miss him.
Yeah, we all move on. And now John has moved on. But he left an awful lot behind.
But that was the sad.
Because the staffer who left was so much more than just a staffer. Much more than just a reporter.
John Driscoll was a veteran of 11 years at the Times-Standard. But even that doesn’t explain my loss. John was our natural resources reporter. He knew Humboldt County and the issues that affected Humboldt County better than most of the people in the county. John easily could have worked at The New York Times or The Los Angeles Times. But John loves Humboldt County and wants to stay right here. He is staying. He is now working in the Eureka office of Rep. Mike Thompson.
But it goes even deeper than that. John could cover anything. And he did. He covered the cop beat. He filled in on the politics and elections, even while expressing his dislike of politics. He wrote a weekly column. He could write in an instance. And his copy was always clean. Almost always.
And it goes deeper than that. John could talk to anybody in the county and make them like him. He had personality. He could get the answers from the most unanswerable people. He had a phone list that covered the entire county.
But really, it goes farther than that. John was a leader. He was liked and respected by everybody in the newsroom – along both ends of the newsroom, the photographers, every reporter, the managing editors through the years, the city editors through the years, the night desk, the copy editors, the publishers.
And John left at 5 p.m. every day. Unless we really needed him. And then he came back. And he worked with us and among us and for us and beside us.
He had a great sense of humor, a great sense of news, a great way with words, a great sense of urgency, a great sense of camaraderie.
We will miss him, the newspaper will miss him, the readers will miss him. I will miss him.
Yeah, we all move on. And now John has moved on. But he left an awful lot behind.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Trench Coat Connection
The Trench Coat Connection
It was my first year in Manlius Military Academy. The school was just outside Syracuse, New York. I was 13 years old and this was another new experience.
Our first year, fall was short and we quickly found ourselves in New York’s cold, wet period when it was cold, but not cold enough for snow and the uniform of the day always included the long grey trench coats to ward off the cold and rain.
The coats buttoned up the front and were cinched at the waist with a belt. We discovered another feature — the epaulettes on each shoulder that everybody else had taken for granted because it had no use except for officers who used them to hold their lieutenant or captain bars. Until we noticed that the epaulettes had buttons.
One dark and stormy day we were in a classroom during a period that had been set aside for study. We were expected to sit at our desks and read or work on homework. We were able to move around the room quietly to check out some of the resource books along walls on the sides and back of the room.
While getting a book in the back of the room, I passed the area where the trench coats were hanging on hooks. The area resembled a long walk-in closet. Once in that area, you could not see the classroom -- and the classroom, and more importantly, the teacher, could not see you. I stood in the back and flipped through a book, my forehead deeply furrowed as though I was seriously seeking answers to the universe. And I stole glances into the closet, checking out the coats hanging side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, epaulette-to-epaulette. Epaulettes that could be unbuttoned and rebuttoned. There were 15 of them.
Nobody was paying any attention to me. The teacher, sitting at his desk in the front of the room, facing the class, had his head lowered into a book. He was monitoring the class with his ears and not his eyes. I was hoping it was a very good book as I slipped behind the wall that separated the class from the closet.
I reached the first coat and unbuttoned the left epaulette, slipped it under the right epaulette of the coat next to it and rebuttoned it, attaching the second coat to the first. Cool. That didn’t take long. I moved to the second coat and undid the left epaulette, slipped it under the right epaulette of the third coat and rebuttoned it. Down the row I worked, listening intently for any sound coming from the classroom.
I reached my coat and went on to the next one and then doubled back. Dead give-away if my coat wasn’t also sabotaged, so I connected my coat to the coats on either side of it. In very little time all the coats were attached at the epaulettes. My work was done. I walked back to the beginning of the closet and glanced around the doorway into the classroom. Nobody looking in my direction; the teacher still engrossed in his book. I held my book up to my face, took out my notebook, scribbled some notes, replaced the book back on the shelf and took my seat, studying my notes and waiting for the bell to ring signaling the end of the period. Gary shot me a quizzical look, but I only smiled and went back to pretending to read my notes.
Finally, the buzzer sounded, the teacher snapped shut his book, called us to attention and dismissed us. We all went back to the closet to retrieve our trench coats and bedlam broke loose. Gary complained with the rest, but perhaps I complained too much and too loudly as we all tried to pry our coats apart from the coats attached at the shoulders to coats on either side of them.
The teacher, dressed in a military olive-drab uniform, tried to restore order while at the same time trying to act in authority and get to the bottom of what had happened. He threatened to keep us all in detention until the culprit came forth. Gary looked at me and turned to the teacher and said, “We were all in the room. It was probably somebody from outside who came.” Good move, Gary. Finally, in frustration, the teacher barked that we had 3 minutes to get to our next class and we better get moving and left us to our own devices to straighten out the coat problem. In our haste to leave, most of us left the classroom and dashed to our next classes with our epaulettes flapping in the wind.
It was my first year in Manlius Military Academy. The school was just outside Syracuse, New York. I was 13 years old and this was another new experience.
Our first year, fall was short and we quickly found ourselves in New York’s cold, wet period when it was cold, but not cold enough for snow and the uniform of the day always included the long grey trench coats to ward off the cold and rain.
The coats buttoned up the front and were cinched at the waist with a belt. We discovered another feature — the epaulettes on each shoulder that everybody else had taken for granted because it had no use except for officers who used them to hold their lieutenant or captain bars. Until we noticed that the epaulettes had buttons.
One dark and stormy day we were in a classroom during a period that had been set aside for study. We were expected to sit at our desks and read or work on homework. We were able to move around the room quietly to check out some of the resource books along walls on the sides and back of the room.
While getting a book in the back of the room, I passed the area where the trench coats were hanging on hooks. The area resembled a long walk-in closet. Once in that area, you could not see the classroom -- and the classroom, and more importantly, the teacher, could not see you. I stood in the back and flipped through a book, my forehead deeply furrowed as though I was seriously seeking answers to the universe. And I stole glances into the closet, checking out the coats hanging side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, epaulette-to-epaulette. Epaulettes that could be unbuttoned and rebuttoned. There were 15 of them.
Nobody was paying any attention to me. The teacher, sitting at his desk in the front of the room, facing the class, had his head lowered into a book. He was monitoring the class with his ears and not his eyes. I was hoping it was a very good book as I slipped behind the wall that separated the class from the closet.
I reached the first coat and unbuttoned the left epaulette, slipped it under the right epaulette of the coat next to it and rebuttoned it, attaching the second coat to the first. Cool. That didn’t take long. I moved to the second coat and undid the left epaulette, slipped it under the right epaulette of the third coat and rebuttoned it. Down the row I worked, listening intently for any sound coming from the classroom.
I reached my coat and went on to the next one and then doubled back. Dead give-away if my coat wasn’t also sabotaged, so I connected my coat to the coats on either side of it. In very little time all the coats were attached at the epaulettes. My work was done. I walked back to the beginning of the closet and glanced around the doorway into the classroom. Nobody looking in my direction; the teacher still engrossed in his book. I held my book up to my face, took out my notebook, scribbled some notes, replaced the book back on the shelf and took my seat, studying my notes and waiting for the bell to ring signaling the end of the period. Gary shot me a quizzical look, but I only smiled and went back to pretending to read my notes.
Finally, the buzzer sounded, the teacher snapped shut his book, called us to attention and dismissed us. We all went back to the closet to retrieve our trench coats and bedlam broke loose. Gary complained with the rest, but perhaps I complained too much and too loudly as we all tried to pry our coats apart from the coats attached at the shoulders to coats on either side of them.
The teacher, dressed in a military olive-drab uniform, tried to restore order while at the same time trying to act in authority and get to the bottom of what had happened. He threatened to keep us all in detention until the culprit came forth. Gary looked at me and turned to the teacher and said, “We were all in the room. It was probably somebody from outside who came.” Good move, Gary. Finally, in frustration, the teacher barked that we had 3 minutes to get to our next class and we better get moving and left us to our own devices to straighten out the coat problem. In our haste to leave, most of us left the classroom and dashed to our next classes with our epaulettes flapping in the wind.
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