A Poem for Sharon's Birthday

Sister love is a very special kind.

And describing it correctly brings so many things to mind.

Yes, there’s the laughter and the fun. That’s for sure.

But there’s also acceptance and solace of a sort that is so pristinely pure.

Of course, there’re the shared childhood memories we often recall,

Like your solid devotion to OJ, Rock, Tab and Elvis, the King,

And the honeymoon you took accompanied by Bonnie on the Funny Girl Fling.

No one cooks chicken or cleans a pot like you,

Or comes even close to making me angry as you sometimes do.

You are my idol, my friend, my advisor, it’s clear.

My heart is so full of love for you my sister Sharon so dear.

More Musings on My Robbie Williams Obsession

Strange, very strange. For weeks now, I’ve been stealing time at the office to surf the Internet for any information about Robbie Williams. If there’s a lull at work, and there is on most days, I’ll sign onto the new chatroom: http://www.lyricalbar.com at around 4 p.m. Why? What's come over me?

The odd part is that there is no doubt that what I know of him is just a projection of millions of fantasies, mine included. I suppose he exists somewhere to those who love him and to those whom he loves back, but I will certainly never be included among them. I know that.

Yet, why do I find myself investing in this unsuspecting young man my own personal interpretation of his perfection?

In my fantasy of him, he talks with great erudition about world and national politics; books, and movies; all the things I love. I imagine after hours of stimulating discussion on these and other topics, we make love, and such lovemaking it is, the details gleaned from countless published accounts offered by his unusually talkative sexual partners. He is described as thoughtful and considerate lover whose pleasure is derived from the pleasure he gives his partner.

In the chatroom, depending on who’s there, we discuss these findings in endless detail. At other times, we avoid these topics because many of the obsessives feel he would not appreciate our talking about his personal life. I honor these sensitivities, but I do not understand them. He is often photographed in the nude, and jokes about being gay, a signal to me that he welcomes such speculation. I think he must be an exhibitionist on some level. His casual sexual partners often post intimate details of their encounters to Internet bulletin boards or give interviews to tabloids. He rails against them in his lyrics, but he often divulges accounts of picking up girls, bedding them and subsequently abandoning them in his own interviews.

I feel guilty for my interest in a stranger’s sexual habits, but I am also gladdened by the thought of someone, somewhere having this kind of pleasure in this life, even if it has never been me. I also realize that this evidence contradicts my fantasy about this perfection. He’s obviously just a plain, ordinary human with the same contradictions and faults each of us has. I have no doubt that he is highly intelligent and certainly ambitious, but erudite? Probably not. Well-read? Doubt it. He dropped out of school. What would we talk about if we met? Him? Probably.

As for the sexual thing....who knows?

All I know is that I'm still obsessed and it seems to grow.

I think the reason for my obsession is really very simple: escape. In the freaky alternative world of Robbie mania, no one knows who I really am. I am just a nickname. A cyber -- literally. My real life is far from that chatroom. My sorrows, my sickness, my disappointments, my failures, my fears are far, far, far from Robbie World. I can pretend that I haven't got a care in the world.

During Christmas this year, there was a radio concert Robbie performed at Abbey Road that was simulcast on the Internet. All of us in the chatroom listened to it together. It was early evening in London and late afternoon here. The Londoners were listening on their radios at home; I was listening over the Internet. We chatted back and forth as each song was sung, thrilled by his silly banter between numbers. It was glorious. I was actually laughing from the sheer joy of sharing that experience with my cyber community.

No one in the chatroom knew or cared that I had just spent my Saturday in the nursing home with my sister; or that before I left her I had to help her on and off the toilet so she could catherize her remaining kidney. No one knew that I cry almost every morning, afraid of what more this disease will take from my sister. No one knew that everything in my apartment reminds me of my sister Sharon's life before multiple sclerosis and how angry I am at G-d for doing this to us.

No one in the chatroom knew or cared. What we cared about was Robbie. The fantasy Robbie who I imagined would care if he knew; or maybe he wouldn't. It doesn't really matter anymore. The obsession has a life of its own now.

Click link here to check this out!

My Tribute to Gregory Peck

In 1968, I was still a dewy-eyed youth, fresh out of the Bronx and working on Capitol Hill for the House subcommittee that handled renewal of the National Endowment for Arts & Humanities. It's chairman, my boss was Indiana Congressman John Brademas, who later became president of New York University.

One day, Len Randolph, an endowment staffer called to say that Nancy Hanks (the head of the endowment and distant relation of President Abraham Lincoln) wanted to have a reception and would I help put together a list of people from the Hill who were involved in the legislation. Naturally, I put my name on the guest list. My sister had to mail me one of her outfits so I'd have something suitable to wear.

The reception was held at the Georgetown home of Michael Straight, a Rockefeller and cousin to then-New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller. It was the same house in which John F. and Jacqueline Kennedy lived when JFK served in the Senate. Making polite conversations at various locations around the living room when I arrived were George Stevens, Junior and Senior, Edward Villella, Agnes DeMille, and countless others. I tried to act like I belonged there, but I didn't.

Mingling around the room, I introduced a "Mrs. Rosenberg" to Congressman Brademas. Instead of smiling, the woman turned to me in horror and said, "It's Mrs. Roosevelt, dear, Roosevelt, not Rosenberg." In one fell swoop, I had transformed FDR's daughter-in-law into a Hadassah lady. Then all of sudden, there was a palpable flutter in the room. Gregory Peck had arrived.

I was dumbstruck. I circled the room hoping to get a better view of him. Finally, I asked Len Randolph to introduce me. He took my arm and led me across the room to where Gregory Peck and the great director, George Stevens, Sr. were standing. "Greg, I want you to meet someone." The room spun around. My knees were water. I was going to lose consciousness. An extremely tall, and very distinguished Gregory Peck swiveled around at the sound of his name. He smiled as his eyes glanced downward to greet me.

I heard myself gushing words at him. "Mr. Peck, I've been debating all night whether to tell you this or not, but you were in the very first film I ever saw and I've been in love with you ever since."

"What film was it? I certainly hope you weren't as frightened by it, as I was by the first film I ever saw which was 'Phantom of the Opera."

"It was 'David and Bathsheba."

"Omigod, I wish you had seen a better film."

Could it be? Was Gregory Peck actually flirting? With me?

And there we stood talking about movies for the entire evening. We talked about "Spellbound," and the famous skiing scene with Ingrid Bergman because the movie had just been on television; and we talked about Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson making "Giant." He told me he had a son just about my age who was also working in Washington at the time. Through it all, out of the corner of my eye I spied his very beautiful but obviously long-suffering wife, Veronique patiently tolerating yet another female fawn over her very handsome husband.

He never left my side for the entire evening. He treated me like I was just like anybody else in that living room. Eventually the reception ended and it was time to go home. I saw he and his wife put on their coats and leave. As I waited in the entry hall for someone to bring me my coat so I could go too, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. It was Gregory Peck. He had already left, but returned to say goodbye to me. He shook my hand and said, "Don't forget 'David and Bathsheba!"

Though it is true I have always loved him, his kindness to me that night is still the most memorable, exciting, and thrilling moment of my entire life. Thank you Gregory Peck and rest in peace.