Sea Street

TOO LATE

Last night, my wife and I watched President Obama’s State of the Union Address.  When it was over, Karen turned to me and asked, “Do you think Romney has a chance against Obama?”  And before I could answer, she asked, “What did you think of the speech?”

I thought it was a great State of the Union Address for 2009; but now it’s all “too little, too late.”

Anyone who has read my blogs over the years knows that I warned about Obama.  “He’s an ego tripper,” I said; and I got a whiff of this in the first televised interview of him and Michelle—I saw a look of reservation in her eyes.  What Michelle knew, at that time,  and what we’ve all found out since, is that she married “a sweet talkin’ man.” 

I’ve explained in previous blogs that my childhood was similar to Obama’s and I know from my own experience that little boys like that learn early how to be smooth.  If Obama, to quote a previous blog, “had put on a hardhat and some overalls the day after he was inaugurated” and gone out and done the things he promised to do last night—deal with China, try to bring manufacturing back home, stimulate technical education and all the rest. 

If he had done that, he might have had a revived economy to work with and then later—much later—he could have passed Health Care Legislation.

But I believe Obama Care was pushed through because Obama wanted to prove something to Hillary Clinton.  And he didn’t even do that right; he let Reid and Pelosi construct a bill that was a total mess. 

If he had gotten his ducks in a row from the beginning, the Democrats would have maintained control of the House in the Mid-Term Elections.  But when you so seriously lack experience as did Barack Obama, you defer to the Axelrod’s, Reuben’s, Summers’ and Geithner’s of the world.  Big, Big Mistake!!!!! 

In the last three years, I wonder if Barack ever looked at his daughters and his wife and thought about what it would be like not to be able to put food on the table, what it would be like not to be able to pay the mortgage, what it would be like not to be able to send the girls to college, what it would be like not to be able to buy your wife a new dress or your kid a laptop. 

I know something about this, Daniel Rojay, the youngest of my five sons is living in L.A. and struggling mightily every day of his life in a bad economy.  Much to his credit, he attended the premiere of his third movie, Non Compos Mentis, on December 27 in Hollywood.  It has been very hard for this highly intelligent, talented, decent and good-hearted young man—my son. 

In addressing all this last night, it almost seemed as if Obama was awakened from his ennui.  Shame on him.

In our civilization, we are promised much, especially by religion.  I seriously doubt most religious promises.

In the same way that we Americans swallow those promises, we have to remember that those promises were made by God. 

But Obama is not God in spite of his Messianic Complex.  He promised us to “change America and change the world”.  When I ridiculed that promise, my eldest son, Eliott, got very angry with me and called me a bigot and I replied, “Eliott, before he can change America and change the world, he must first change Congress.”  Much of what he proposed last night depends on changing Congress. 

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As for, Mitt Romney’s chances of beating him in an election, that would certainly depend on Mitt finding some humanity in himself.  Do I think that Romney has a chance?  I’m not sure. 

Do I think that a short, fat politician with a Napoleonic complex has a chance?  Anything can happen in America. 

Do I believe that a narcissist from Pennsylvania has a chance?  Not really. 

Do I believe that a sincere, but doddering old man has a chance?  Snorrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER—current chapter The Kiss by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

?DEAR MITT?

            I am writing this letter to congratulate you on your win in Iowa. Of course, Santorum’s close second must have made you nervous, especially considering that he spent “dollars” while you spent “a fortune”.

The question that hangs in the air is……… “Why is your 25% of the vote only a fourth of the total Republican ballots?”

            Of course, it can be argued that Santorum won a Moral Victory while you bought a Statistical Win.  In spite of this, I consider Santorum to be a nasty man, especially when the subject turns to race.

There was recently a Time Magazine cover that had your picture displayed beside a graphic that read “Why don't they like me?”

            I never thought about this much, until I saw you on the Charlie Rose Show recently.  You were on for most of an hour and that gave me enough time to analyze, which has been difficult in a debate setting where you’re on for a minute at a time.

The first thing I noticed is that in spite of the fact that Charlie Rose is a great conversationalist, you didn't have a conversation with him, you didn't even talk to him, you talked at him and you did it so quickly that your words tumbled over one another.  There is only one word to describe your attitude at that time and that word is unctuous, you were very unctuous.

That condition does not communicate well; it does not show strength. Everything would have been better if you had slowed down and taken the time to seem to mean what you said. You need to learn to pause; the right pause, with the right look, is worth a thousand words (check out Jack Benny).  I also noticed that you made poor eye contact. Half of all communication is through the eyes; and by the way, I noticed that your eyes blinked quite often—this is an indication of evasiveness.

As a child I spent many days on benches under an oak tree beside the cabin of one of my grandparents’ sharecroppers.  John Todd was his name; he sold farmers that passed by, some time to sit and talk and buy beers that he kept down a deep cold well. These old men were excellent conversationalists.  They practiced talking to one another on a daily basis and they did it while they whittled, chewed tobacco and swapped pocket knives. These men are the ancestors of the Evangelical crowd you so much want in your corner.  I’m not suggesting that you take up chewing tobacco; I’m suggesting that you take up the art of conversation.  Remember, common folk do not communicate the same way as people do in a boardroom.

            Although I'm a Jew, I attended Temple Baptist Seminary at the behest of my step-father, a Baptist oilman from Texas.  I only stayed for one year; but in that year, I got excellent advice from a Rev. James H. Simms.  He said to me, “One of the problems with Christians is that they confuse winning with righting.  In other words, they invest in winning more than they do in being right.  This seems to be your problem.  I know you have a lifelong desire to do what's right but you can't do it by conquest and you can't lead people to believe that you want to do what’s right until you settle down and act real.  Remember, words in themselves have little meaning.  Sincerity cannot come from how you say words; sincerity comes from the intentions of your heart.

Speaking of being real, when you spout lyrics from patriotic songs on the stump, you seem totally unreal, you seem out of it, you seem corny as hell………… it doesn't work.

You’ve made some moves in the right direction in terms of how you dress; but if you're going to dress down to earth, you have to act down to earth.

This is important; when you work crowds, you move through them like you’re trying for a body count.  As a lifelong entertainer and one who has dealt with audiences for fifty years, I must tell you that you would be better off spending more time with fewer people and coming off as sincere and real because everyone you spend quality time with will tell fifty others.  It's called word-of-mouth. Word-of-mouth is the most important tool in your toolkit.

And while I'm thinking about it, having Senator McCain publicly endorse you did you about as much good as a bullet in the foot. Remember, McCain lost……… remember, he was a guy who didn’t knowhow many homes he owned.  This man does not connect with the common man and his lame joke about prison and the governor certainly did not work in New Hampshire. 

Now, it's a given that you probably have New Hampshire sewn up.  You have made an incredible investment of time and money and in the purchase of a second home.  But Iowa and New Hampshire are just two of the fifty states.  Waiting for you with the mouth of a lion is South Carolina. 

If you want to understand South Carolina, see the movie, Deliverance—based on a novel by my mother’s cousin, James Dickey.   Everything I've told you up to now will help you in South Carolina.  Have someone in your entourage look up the lyrics of southern hymns— much better to quote them than flag-waving songs in the South.   

Oh, by the way, try not to talk about your twenty-five years in business.  Most of the voters you’re looking for have been in business more than twenty-five years.  Besides, talking about business will bring up the matter of Bain Capital where you caused thousands of people to lose their jobs.

Well, I’ve said enough.  In conclusion, I must say that what you have is a conceptual problem—you have no concept of reality.  I know that you believe that your 25% understand you, and they might very well do so; but that's like preaching to the choir.

On a more intellectual note, Mitt, Heinrich Heine, the German-Jewish philosopher, said in so many words that western man has a problem with the present (with being there) because he is always thinking about the past and the future.  But being there is the most important trait that you lack.

The last thing you need to realize is that you and President Obama have one trait in common—you are both actors; but Obama is a much better actor than you and he knows how to be there!!!!

Regards,

David Rojay

P.S.  If you need help, call me.

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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER—current chapter The Panther by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

A NEW YEAR?S EVE TO REMEMBER

Camp Zama, Japan was like paradise after Korea.  The band barracks was in the former Japanese Officers’ Club.  It sat upon a hill with many steps leading down to a giant Torii.*  After Quonset huts in Korea, the parquet floors and chandeliers were jarring; and there were houseboys who took care of everything.  They did laundry, pressed uniforms, cleaned our rooms and even helped dress us.  All of this was designed to make us feel special; and we were special, most of the band members were drafted out of America’s best music schools—Julliard, Eastman, the University of Indiana. 

My journey to this place had started when I enlisted in the Army as a trumpet player.  A fistfight at Fort Riley during Basic Training left me with two busted lips and four missing front teeth.  Unable to play the trumpet, I was shipped out to Korea where I served in a Heavy Mortar Company and did some reconnaissance until the night my squad bumped into a Chinese Platoon-----bad news all around.  My last day in the hospital saw the arrival of Corporal Nick Mallick.  “You were in a high school band,” he said while looking at my records.

“But I don’t know if I can still play,” I said.

“You know how to hold the horn, don’t you?” said Nick, “the General wants to field a large band.”

And so I went from a fortified bunker to a Quonset hut with central heating, showers and a bathroom. Amazing at the time, but nothing like Zama.  The Zama Band played concerts mainly; although I very much enjoyed marches down Japanese streets, especially when our bagpipers played their whining reels in between marches.  The Japanese were mesmerized by the Scottish get-up and the looks on their faces were precious.

I had a mentor in the band, a Sgt. Lee Carpenter, who explained to me that his real name was Zimmerman.  “I am one hundred percent German,” he said with pride.

He introduced me to Nietzsche and Schopenhauer.  He taught me how to play the flute and explained chords on the piano that amazed me.  In short, I followed him around like a pup and he used to say with a twist of irony, “Rojay, you’re my Jew.”

At the end of that first year, when New Year’s Eve came, I was scheduled to pull CQ Duty at midnight.  There was one other Jew in the band—Mark Emanuel—from Loss Angeles and we naturally pulled Duty on Christian holidays—Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Easter.  We didn’t complain; after all, we had Rosh Hashanah—Yom Kippur (10 days), Hanukkah (8 days) and Passover (one week).  Every Jew in the Army became religious in order to enjoy these benefits. 

But back to New Year’s Eve…….  When Carpenter and I stole into the NCO Club, we saw a large sign that read “Mixed Drinks—ten cents apiece”.  In four hours, as midnight drew nigh, I had spent $2.70, made a fool out of myself several times and was rebuffed by every woman I approached. 

Perhaps because of adrenalin, or some other inner workings of my body, the twenty-seven vodka martinis that I drank caused me to become stone-cold sober with a hydrogen bomb going off in my brain.

Carpenter helped me back to the Company and I relieved the night CQ at five till twelve.  I don’t remember the New Year being rung in, I don’t remember the crack and boom of fireworks; I passed out cold. 

When I came to at daybreak, devils from the underworld were stabbing my stomach with sabers and daggers and knives.  I cried out in pain until the ambulance arrived.  A shot of Phenobarbital put me away again. 

When I came to in the hospital, I was told they had pumped my stomach.  I was told that I had alcohol poisoning; I was told that I would be eating rice pudding and Jell-O into the foreseeable future; I was told I was lucky to be alive. 

I lay in my hospital bed for a week in a state of suspension.  I had been threatened with Court Martial for “Dereliction of Duty”. 

My ordeal came to an end when two females entered my room and closed the door behind them.  One was a quite pretty doctor and the other was a very pretty nurse.  “We have come for a sperm sample,” they said in unison and then they put on rubber gloves.

Lenin said that “paper will withstand anything you write on it” but I will not write what they did to me; and to this day, I wonder what a sperm sample had to do with twenty-seven vodka martinis. 

*A sign of the Shinto Religion-----two vertical columns joined at the top by two horizontal beams.

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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER—current chapter The Panther by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

Dan Rojay starring in Non Compos Mentis

Co-star of the Dan and Dad Show which ran for eleven years on Channel 17

Hyannis native, Dan Rojay, will spend Tuesday evening, December 27, on the red carpet of the DOWNTOWN INDEPENDENT THEATER in Hollywood. 

Dan will be there for the premiere of Non Compos Mentis, a film in which he has a starring role.  This is Dan’s second film of the year and his third film since he left four years ago for film studies in L.A.  Dan is the son of David and Karen Rojay. 

He was the co-star of the Dan and Dad Show which ran for eleven years on Channel 17 local television. 

He attended Barnstable High School and Cape Cod Community College where he appeared in many theatrical productions.

A talented singer and songwriter, Dan was the featured scat singer with Barnstable High’s Vocal Jazz Ensemble when they took first place in the Northeastern finals in New Jersey (1999).

Later he sang with the Cape Cod Opera Company in productions of Cavalleria Rusticana, Pagliacci, Die Fledermaus, A Night at the Operetta, A Cavalcade of Opera and Amahl and The Night Visitors.  Much of this was sung in Italian. 

During the years that he co-starred in the Dan and Dad Show, he performed in nine different night clubs on Cape Cod.  In addition, he co-produced and performed in the first three Telethons for the Noah Shelter. 

He also co-produced and performed in three Telethons for the Jewish Federation of Cape Cod—the first such telethons in America.  In addition, he starred and contributed music to The Rabbi’s Violin—an operetta presented at the Cotuit Center for the Arts. 

He is currently a member of the band, The Dignitary Loss, in Los Angeles.  Dan can be seen New Year’s Eve from 10:30 till midnight in a repeat of a New Year’s Eve Program on Channel 17.  See and listen to the group here.

BLUE CHRISTMAS

Excerpt from Chapter 10 of the Long Bridge Runner

 Copyright 1995
By David Rojay

THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER
Book One/THE MIDWEST

On Christmas Eve Jake, Dorothy and Daniel ate fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, homemade biscuits with real butter and coleslaw. As a special treat, Jake ceremoniously withdrew from a small round canister a dark brown, cellophane wrapped fruitcake. This dessert was sliced thinly and passed around. Dorothy moaned with delight after the first taste but asked, "What is that smell?"

"Rum," Jake said before thinking.

Dorothy spit the contents of her mouth into her hand and ordered Daniel to do the same.

"On the night of Christ's birth you bring your filthy booze into our house!" she roared.

Daniel eyed the remains of the delicacy upon his plate for a second or so until Dorothy threw it in the garbage. She was about to commandeer the entire cake when Jake slammed the lid down upon the canister and said, "Now, hold on, damn it. This is fruitcake. It's supposed to have a little rum in it, but for your sake, Miss Fanatic, I'll take it to the car."

And thereupon he left with Daniel in tow. They rode in silence awhile until Jake reached into his pocket, withdrew his pocket knife and said, "Here, son, open 'er up and slice off a couple pieces of that fruit cake, big thick pieces."

Daniel felt some guilt for this but he ate the cake with gusto and laughed when his father said, "Now, don't get drunk on me."

Finally Jake parked the car across the street from Nail's Funeral Parlor whose great Victorian silhouette was outlined in pale blue lights against a star-filled sky.

"It looks like a castle, doesn't it, dad," Daniel said pointing to the turrets that sat at either end of the gabled roof.

"Yes, it does," said Jake in a far-off voice, "It looks like the castle we're going to have some day, son." And then he added with barely a whisper, "Some day."

After they returned home, Jake left "to get cigarettes".
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In the morning Daniel awoke when his mother's commanding voice said, "Get up and get dressed. We're going to Uncle Hubert's for Christmas dinner."

There was not a word about Christmas presents although a package in the living room contained a new pair of trousers and a bag of marbles.

"The marbles go with this," said Dorothy as she handed Daniel a Chinese Checkers board. "I'm sorry, but this is all I could afford."

"Lots of children don't get anything," said Daniel, "and besides, I got a slide projector on my own by cutting out a coupon in the back of a Green Hornet comic book.  I sent in a dollar.”  And when he produced the homemade contraption; Dorothy melted in tears. 

After several games of checkers, Jake who Daniel thought was still in bed asleep, came through the front door.

"Where have you been all night?" Dorothy screamed.

Jake held his finger to his mouth and said, "Shhhh, this is Christmas day. Look what I got you."

With a flourish he walked into the bedroom and there unwrapped a blue dress, a slip and a pair of hose which he laid side by side on the bed. "Marvin opened the store for me so I could bring you this."

"Marvin Goldblatt?" Dorothy asked, "Marvin Goldblatt opened his store for you this morning? And now he knows that you didn't get me anything until the last minute, after you'd spent the night out tom cat'n around."

What followed was such a cacophony of shouts, yells, screams and curses that Daniel ran into his room and hid behind the closed door.
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How strange it seemed to Daniel that two hours later he was sitting at the long table in his Aunt Millie and Uncle Hubert's house where everyone present was smiling and polite. Jake and Dorothy sat side by side across from him, Dorothy in her new blue dress and Jake in his suit and freshly ironed white shirt.

To one side of them sat Dorothy's cousin, Henrietta, who resembled her German-born mother; and on the other side sat Daniel's Uncle John (formerly of the Star Station) and his wife, Audrey. On Daniel's side sat Aunt Millie and Henrietta's sister, Alicia, along with her brother, Dwight, the War Hero.

At the head of this table sat Hubert Dickens, solemn and stern as his brother Garfield had been. Indeed, they were so much alike that Dorothy, looking up from her plate, felt as if she were seeing her own father.

The resolute nature of these people somewhat frightened Daniel although he told himself that everyone was as happy as their smiles. Still, he had been warned about table manners by his mother and so he ate with the greatest care.

At a certain point Millie gave Henrietta a signal and Henrietta rose to collect dinner plates from the table. This abrupt ending of the meal both startled and relieved Daniel who had been trying to work up enough courage to tackle the blood pudding.

"Thou didst prepare a wondrous feast, Madame," said Hubert to his wife.

Millie bowed slightly and blushed from this compliment as she was applauded by all those present.

Hubert removed the large gray napkin from his stiff upright collar and with a ruddy smile said, "Henrietta, would you play the piano for us?"

Whereupon Henrietta led the way into the parlor. This quiet woman was remarkable in the response she aroused in others. To her father, she was the gifted proprietress of "Dickens' Insurance and Accounting"; to her mother, she was the very essence of virtue; to John, she was a spinster with her hair in a bun; to her brother, she was the embodiment of truth; and to Jake, she was a tall, juicy morsel hiding behind glasses and a two-piece suit.

Daniel had no opinion until she appointed him page-turner. Then all assembled worked their way through a collection of Christmas carols led by the hearty baritone of Hubert Wilbert Dickens.

This oasis of decorum and order receded as Jake drove home on snowy roads. One word, one phrase at a time, a crescendo of shouts and accusations filled the car. Later that day, Jake Autrey left his home and family but not before he gave his son a red and white Christmas package. Inside Daniel found his second cap pistol.
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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

A CAPE COD THANKSGIVING

 Cape Cod, November 24, 2011

It all started here—Thanksgiving, that is. It wasn't like it looked in grade school books. The Puritans were a pretty up-tight group.  Nowadays, the Indians involved consider Thanksgiving to be the beginning of their Holocaust. Of course the national holiday never came into being until President Lincoln declared it during the Civil War.  But we’re in the present now so the question is, “What do we have to be thankful for?” 

Let me answer that from two perspectives—first the past and then the present.

My ancestors were not at the first Thanksgiving.  They arrived on these shores in the late 1600’s, being among the first Jews in North America. I guess you could say that the Peretz family was thankful for that.    There is a Peretz house in Chatham that has a historical marker that says, “Eleven Generations of Peretz's have lived here”.

These are not the Peretzes that I'm descended from. My family stayed in Newport until the mid-1700’s when they moved to New York.

In 1842, they migrated to Vincennes, Indiana which, at that time, was one of the largest communities in the Midwest. They were not alone in this.  Adam Gimbel, from Bavaria, came out to Vincennes also and founded the first Gimbel’s Department Store on Main Street. Let me fast forward to 1860 when the Peretz family had renamed itself “Hudson”.

 My Great-Aunt, Molly, was born that year and I knew her personally because, as a child, I spent many summers on her farm.  In my book, The Long Bridge Runner—which is serialized on capecodtoday.com—I describe my great-aunt’s house as looking like a great ship on an endless Prairie Sea.

 My aunt lived until 1957 and died in front of her television watching The Days of Our Lives. What happened in this span of time we can all be thankful for—there was the telegraph, the railroads—which incidentally my grandmother used to travel to Pikes Peak on her honeymoon.  Soon after came electricity and the telephone.

 But the house that I knew still lingered in the past as it is described in the current chapter of The Long Bridge Runner.  It possessed an outhouse; indoor plumbing was called a chamberpot.  The kitchen stove which filled the commodious kitchen was a wood burning stove which required a kind of genius to get anything cooked or baked. The icebox held a large block of ice. 

All of this changed when my stepfather added a bathroom and modern appliances to the place—things that are taken for granted today………. but if you ever got out in the middle of winter with a coal bucket to get coal from the coal pile and brought it in and put it in the potbellied stove after emptying the ashes, you would realize how much there was to be thankful for.

 And there were more things to be thankful for:

The fact that the Civil War was the last war to be fought on American soil,

The fact that the bloody trench warfare in World War I will never be repeated again,

The fact that World War II came to an end after America pulled itself together in three years and eight months to bring about a victorious conclusion. How ironic that today this Administration can't get anything done in the same amount of time.

 We must be thankful for Albert Einstein whose equation E=MC2 brought about a weapon so monstrous that it has, in effect, put an end to major wars. 

 And we must surely be thankful that since 1860, American communications have blossomed with the telegraph, railroads, the telephone, automobiles, airplanes, interstate highways and finally the Internet and all the gadgets brought forth by Steve Jobs.

 Not all of the changes are reasons for thankfulness.  Our society has become grosser and in many ways it has become dumbed down, if not to say ridiculous i.e. museums that display works of the democratized artistic process as in paintings that are done by heavily mascaraed eyelashes, basketballs and fecal droppings.  I call it the world of “Talk Art*” designed to separate fools out of their money.  Much of this is done in the name of freedom. A good friend of mine and I had a conversation in my home recently, he lamented America's rating in the world of education etc. etc. I said to him, “Our score is brought down by elements in our society that are negative and destructive.”  In spite of that we should remember that we are the greatest nation that has ever existed and we should always be thankful for this.  Of course, America has its flaws but they are not reasons for despair they are reasons for commitment.

 Finally I am personally thankful that I live on Cape Cod.  After fifty-four years as a professional musician, I have played in thirty-one states plus seven countries and the Caribbean. And let me say that Cape Cod ain't bad at all. 

One of the greatest benefits of living here is experienced when my children—Rachel—51, Elliott—47, Emory--44 and Daniel--27 come out to visit from California along with my grandchildren—Christopher—25, Azuri—21, Uriel—18, Jacob—11 and Jaden--6.  When they come for Thanksgiving, I invariably get out the van and go to Plymouth—it's worth it just to see the light in their eyes and hear them say, “It all started here.”

*All forms of Art that can’t speak for themselves but must be explained.

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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Once I built a railroad, I made it run
Made it race against time
Once I built a railroad, now it's done
Brother, can you spare a dime?

Shades of the thirties!!!

In the 1960's, I studied voice at the Beverly Hills Academy. More specifically, I studied Opera under the guidance of Leon (Lee) Wintner, formerly of the Met. Lee was a self-professing Communist who told me of many strikes, marches and demonstrations he was a part of during the Depression. These took place largely in New York and they scared the BeeJesus out of FDR who promptly came up with all kinds of programs to defuse the situation. The Government even sponsored play-writing classes under the FTP* that produced such notables as Ben Hecht, Arthur Miller, Orson Welles, John Houseman, and Elia Kazan among others.

The Occupy Wall Street Demonstrations remind me of stories Lee told. Just the other day I read in the New York Times that people on the street-Traders, Brokers, Hedge Fund Managers and the Wall Street crowd-generally had one opinion, "The Occupiers are unsophisticated."

Well, haven't you heard..........the crowd that stormed the Bastille was unsophisticated. The Bolsheviks that stormed the Winter Palace were unsophisticated, and the Germans that followed Hitler were not sophisticated either, nor were the Chinese that made the Long March; and let's not forget the Bonus Marchers that built Hooverville on the Washington Mall. It seems the sophisticated Wall Streeters have not read their history.

Paul Krugman was recently on the Charlie Rose Show trying to explain all this. "Part of the problem is globalization," he said, "and its goal of flattening out the World Economy." This means that according to theory the American worker will make less and less until he intersects with the Mexican Worker who makes more and more. That's a great humanist theory. It will have the working classes of the world all making the same $3.00 or $4.00 an hour. Of course, goods will be cheaper to buy, so we'll all hold hands and sing Kumbaya.

BULL SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

America is a richer country than Mexico; it is richer in farmland, in forest, in minerals, in water, in coal, oil and gas and in hard-working, every-day Americans-the most productive workers in the world. There is no reason for Americans to acquiesce.

I remember when all this started-back in the late 70's. My first wife-since deceased-was a dress designer for a clothing company in Los Angeles. The founder of the company was a grand old man who had pulled himself up from poverty to riches; but when his son took over the company, he promptly built a factory in Korea. When I asked him what would happen to his L.A. employees, he looked up from his desk and said, "Fuck those people."

Unfortunately, this has become the attitude of a whole class in America today and Krugman talked about this-he talked about outsourcing, he talked about Steve Jobs and how he sold the iPhone toy for a premium in America while he made it for a pittance overseas. This class would love it if they could build factories overseas and fill them with robots-no humans needed.

Who are the members of this class.....and where do they live? They live in enclaves around the world-gated communities with guards at the entrance, high-rises with doormen in the lobby or on grand estates set back off of the road. Of course, that description is simplistic; but the point I am trying to make is that this crowd has little discourse with those out in the world around them. A sort of insularity develops in these cases-they don't know ordinary people or if they came from ordinary circumstances, they're trying to forget them. New York, London, Paris, Tel Aviv, Tokyo, Los Angeles are their home bases.

I will try to explain their mentality in this way. My son, Eliott, who teaches in the San Francisco area, has crossed the country many times by plane; but he has never driven a car through America. Consequently, when we talk about America, our perspectives are quite different. I say to him, "Eliott, you have never been to America."

That applies to the denizens of the international trading enclaves. They do not know-really know, for example, what my wife discovered in a recent trip to the south. That there are millions of men with guns that they know how to use and they are really, really pissed off.

This is true of other parts of the country also. This is true in the Great Lake Cities-cities that are just shells of their former selves. This is true in the heart of the Midwest. And this separation of classes is more pronounced than ever in the United States. In 1973, a CEO of a company made twenty-seven times as much as a worker on the shop floor; today's CEO's on the average, make three hundred times as much as do workers.

This can't last. I say that, not out of economic reasoning; I say it because I know the American people very well and their sense of fairness is gravely undermined. What Mr. Krugman and others of his ilk don't realize when they're talking about cost of production i.e. outsourcing, when they rush to protect the job-creators i.e. this group is a myth most CEO's are not creating jobs, they are laying people off in the name of efficiency. What Mr. Krugman and his crowd do not calculate is the inevitable cost of social unrest and disruption-not to mention the possibility down the road of revolution or civil war. I have read Mr. Krugman for many years in the New York Times and he is undoubtedly a smart man but in my opinion, he is, as the British say "too clever by half." He should take a stroll down to Wall Street and spend some time with the protesters and come to realize that in one way or another, these protests will not stop; they will not stop because the cause of the protest will not cease to exist. For example..........

Two Ph.D.'s are talking-the one without a job says to the one with a job, "I'll have a burger and fries."

The Rojay verdict on all of this is-the moneyed classes better pay attention and act accordingly; otherwise, they will be the grass and the American people will be the lawnmower. Oh, by the way, don't threaten to call out the troops or don't you know that due to our wars and overseas empire, in real terms-there are no troops. To the protesters, I would repeat what Gandhi said:

First they ignore you,
then they ridicule you,
then they fight you,
and then you win.

This blog is dedicated to Abbey, who attended a rally in Los Angeles, got bitten by a strange insect and spent two days in the hospital.

*Federal Theatre Project
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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

In Praise of My Wife

Tomorrow my wife, Karen, is going to West Virginia to visit her family-a very interesting family whose several members live atop a mountain that they call "The Hill". She'll be gone ten days during which time dozens of relatives will gather, build a bonfire on Easter Egg Knoll and roast hotdogs and marshmallows in her honor. The knoll sits atop a cliff that drops down into a mountain-framed valley. It's a gorgeous sight and one of the reasons that the Preston Family has lived there for generations. They're a proud family descended from Brigadier General William Preston.  They are also intermarried with the Jackson family. Karen's father's name is Richard Stonewall Preston in order to leave no doubt about what Jackson I'm speaking of.

Karen will return to Cape Cod with smiles and stories and lots of videotape. I am repeating the following blog in my wife's honor:

How sweet is first love. It comes on like the weather-wondrous and unstoppable-and dresses its prey in sunshine or rain. "Snow" is a more apt description-Snow, with its chilly indifference. Still, the hope of sunshine is powerful and profound-stirring dreams, dreams of the future. Dreams out of the first grade reader where the father is tall and dark and the mother-wife-is blond and petit, living as they do on a tree-lined street of cozy homes with pets named Spot and Fido. A rainbow crowns this world; and there some day, Daniel thought, he would live happily ever after-just him and the little blond girl. (Excerpt from THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER).

This is how I thought it would be but three marriages later-one to a Japanese dress designer, one to a Jewish Med Student and one to a professional singer, Jackie Rojay, that many people on Cape Cod knew-taught me that I didn't know anything much about marriage. The failed marriages were mostly my fault; for starters, I was selfish and narcissistic but I couldn't see that the way selfish and narcissistic people never can.

At age 43 I hit a brick wall. My wife, Jacqueline, the singer, ran off with a plumber and I lost my business-ROJAYS Night Club, the forerunner of Star Bucks. I was very disillusioned. As an entertainer I had played Los Angeles, Vegas, Atlantic City, New York and London. Cape Cod figured into this because Jackie and I had a young son and he needed a place to go to school and live a normal life. But now he was in Florida with his mother. My other three children were in California with their mothers. I needed refuge. My parents had moved to West Virginia from the Midwest where my stepfather and his partner, Reeves Louenthal, had purchased Mountaineer Gas, the state gas utility. It was there that I did a lot of thinking through the spring and summer of that year.

During this period of time I walked for miles every day thinking about my life and what I had done with it. I realized that for better or worse I had always been a star (one of the minor grade perhaps) but I had been the first trumpet player in the Army Band, a well-known jazz musician in Hollywood and for the last dozen years or so a successful nightclub entertainer. I had always put myself first and cast other people in my life in supporting rolls-it was all about me. That doesn't mean that I didn't care about my children or to some extend look after the women in my life but I seldom considered what other people needed because I was obsessed with what I needed-an audience, a room full of people where I could prove my worth night after night. This was my sanctuary, my safe, familiar retreat from the world around me. I was good at it and I was in control. All those years of practice and hard work and struggle paid off but now as I walked the streets I realized it had led to the fix I was in. Perhaps I needed someone to care about, to love and protect-someone I could draw strength from.

I must say that when the time came, I wasn't prepared. I wasn't prepared for the first time I saw Karen, saw her prancing down the sidewalk in Fairmont, West Virginia. I was playing at Caesar's Super Club with Jacqueline but Karen's dazzling looks, her southern girl prissiness, her way of walking with her wrist out in front of her like an aquatic creature so impressed me that I drove around the block to get another look. Of course, she was gone and I never saw her again for ten years.

I was divorced then, working with a pickup band. Rebels and Redcoats was the place to be seen and I was there when she walked in one night with a friend. She walked the same way, the ambling shambling gait described in the song "One" from A Chorus Line. I couldn't get up the nerve to approach her so I gave the maitre d' twenty bucks to copy her phone number off of the check she made payment with. One phone call the next day led to our first date.

Karen suggested Permons, the only three-star Michelin rated restaurant in West Virginia.

The menu had no prices on it. This worried me and when the salads arrived they were full of assorted nuts. This worried me even more. I had spent my adult life in restaurants and nightclubs and knew that nutty salads meant something. It turned out that the girl who took the salad order was not a waitress or the waiter. No, indeed, the waiter arrived with the attitude of a descendent of the Hapsburgs-full white apron to the floor, a black formal vest and, as an indicator of the way things were, his sleeves were not folded up but rather held together with cufflinks that had Permons embossed on them.

"Permons," is what I had said to my stepfather when he asked me where I was going.

"Geeze, that's the most expensive restaurant in West Virginia," he remarked, "Here, take another hundred dollars."

That meant I had a total of two hundred and twenty dollars in my wallet and wondered ‘Would it be enough?'

The restaurant earned its Michelin rating. The filets were succulent, almost beyond the taste of meat and Karen ate hers with an intensity that made the hair on the back of my head stand up. She cut into it, sliced into it, chewed on it, forked it and finally put it between her juicy lips. She applied her napkin, a peach colored napkin, with a choreography of daintiness. She was darn near prissy, I thought and that was perhaps what had attracted me to her in the first place. Her beautiful cool prissiness.

After she had finished her filet and excused herself to go to the ladies room I noticed that every man in the restaurant stopped eating and watched what her body did to the silk lavender dress that she wore. Walking back toward the table, I knew that this was the most beautiful woman I had ever had anything to do with. I would only have her for an hour or two or maybe three. She would never date me again, I couldn't afford her, I couldn't even afford the thought of her and there was more to her than beauty; she possessed a playful teasing quality that she had shown in a tour of her office before we rode the fifteen floors up to Permons.

Her office was impressive, very impressive. She was no secretary; indeed, she described herself as the Tri-State Director of Tri-State Enterprises. "We have various holdings from West Virginia to Kansas" she said almost as an afterthought and then she teasingly sat on the front of her desk and crossed her gorgeous legs.

"My real background is in law. I read law at Morgantown. In fact, I started working for a lawyer when I was a freshman in High School."

And then, before I could think of anything to reposit she said, "Let's go eat," and jumped out onto the floor her pristine breasts bobbing in unison.

Yes, it would be over soon, I thought, ‘Why is she here with me-just because I called her on the phone and told her how I got her number and said ‘yes' when she asked if I had ever played in Fairmont.

I made up my mind before the dinner was over, before I laid out two hundred dollars to pay the bill, that this woman would never see me again and even if she said she would I couldn't afford it.

I thought to myself, before I go I'll do a little intellectual quiz and I began to talk about literature in a way that I thought would be impressive. Finally I asked, "Have you read Robert Browning?"

"Do you mean Elizabeth Barrett Browning's husband?" she asked thereby putting an end to my thoughts of intellectual superiority.

She wanted to walk around the block after we rode the elevator to the lobby and I walked with her without touching her. Finally she put her right hand inside my left elbow and stayed that way until I let her back in the car.

Heading back to her house she said, "Have you ever seen the river at night?" The Ohio was a block away and we parked above the marina and watched the reflection of Huntington upon the water. A coal barge passed by in front of a red and white tug. "It's romantic isn't it?" she said.

I laughed out loud, "A coal barge?" Then I started the motor and once again began the trip to her house.

When I got there I said, "Go in, please, and check everything, check your closets and your locks and all that and then come to the door and wave to me."

Karen felt as if she was being discarded and she was. It wasn't that she wasn't beautiful enough, smart enough, classy enough, sexy enough. On the contrary, she was much too much of all the above and when I saw her waving from her front door I pulled away with an uncharacteristic squall of my tires. But before I got to the freeway I remembered the record album and the roses that I had brought as gifts. She can have the roses, I thought but I only have about a dozen of those albums left and I drove back and knocked on her door and she had the album in her hand.

"May I use your bathroom before I go?" I said in a cold mater-of-fact way.

Afterward, as I started to leave she stood by the door and locked it and said, "It's getting too foggy. I don't want you driving in all this fog. You can sleep on my couch and I'll make you breakfast in the morning; and I didn't argue but I wasn't playing games, I went right to sleep thinking about my son in Florida.

In the morning I heard music which I recognized as a record I had made ten years earlier, "Woke up this morning about noon or one, opened up the curtains and I let in the sun, I looked around for you but you're not there......" And as the record played Karen came back into the living room and knelt on her carpet and said, "I've played that record every morning for the last ten years. I've always wondered what you would be like. I had fantasies about you." She giggled nervously as she continued, "I truly did."

Her face was flushed in a very delicate way. "She stood and held out her hand and led me into the dining room where she had set the table with juices, croissants and, what I came to know as, her legendary omelettes.

This was twenty-eight years ago and Karen and I just celebrated our twenty-seventh wedding anniversary. In these twenty-seven years, she has taught me how to care for, protect and love someone who has always cared for, protected and loved me. While having dinner at Albertos on our anniversary she raised her wine glass and said, "Here's to the next twenty-seven years."

Realistically I think that's unlikely; but I'm going to take care of myself and try to live with Karen as long as I can.
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Karen Rojay is the winner of the 2006 Prime Time Cape Cod Writing Contest; she appears regularly on the DAVE ROJAY SHOW.

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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

Watching Nineva Burn--A Tale of the High Holidays

In September, the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur takes place. It is called the Day of Atonement in English. It is a time of asking for and granting forgiveness. On the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the Biblical text is the story of Jonah (as in Jonah and the Whale).

Why the Book of Jonah? The Lord tells Jonah to go to the City of Nineveh and warn its people that if they do not stop their evil ways the Lord will destroy the City by fire. But Jonah does not do what the Lord commands him; instead he goes to the Port of Yenbo and hires himself out as a merchant seaman. As soon as the vessel puts out to sea, a great storm comes up and the crew is frightened and prays unto the Lord for protection; but Jonah does not join them, he is down in the hold sound asleep on a hammock. The crew realizes that they are being punished for Jonah's sin and they toss him overboard.

At this point we have a man in the sea who is guilty of disobedience to God and a lack of responsibility to his fellow men. Along comes a great shark, probably a basking shark, and it swallows Jonah. I know, I know, the popular version refers to a whale but in the Hebrew version Jonah is swallowed by dag gadol (a big fish).

Inside dag gadol, Jonah prays one of the Bible's most beautiful prayers of repentance and he is promptly coughed up on shore. Having learned his lesson he goes to Nineveh and warns the Ninevites and to his amazement they promptly change their ways. The King of Nineveh even removes his royal garments and covers himself with sackcloth and ashes whereupon Jonah decamps to the edge of town and rests under a shady vine that the Lord provideth; but he is not happy and he says to the Lord, "I want to die." When asked "Why?" he replies, " I have been hoping to watch Nineveh burn." Or words to that effect.

Isn't that so much like human nature? Even when the evildoers repent we still want to see them punished, we want to see them punished for our own satisfaction. There is no justice in this. Many young men in our own community are serving long sentences in prison for selling small quantities of marijuana. This is not about rehabilitation or education, this is not about helping the community, this is about revenge and the pleasure we take from it.
I, myself, am guilty of wanting to watch Nineveh burn. With me, it's the Germans. How can hatred be more complete than that which I have felt for the Germans, for the war and the suffering they caused and for what they did to my people; in this, I am like Jonah.

Modern Germans, as a people, have repented and changed their ways-only a few remain from the Nazi era. And I know from my own conversations with Germans that the burden of guilt they carry is a heavy burden; but still I want to see Nineveh (Germany) burn. And yet during the last Yom Kippur I realized that, unlike Jonah, I had to let my hatred go. My hatred wasn't killing Germans, my hatred was killing me.

The reason for this change of heart is largely due to a handful of German movies I have seen in the last few years. They are: Nowhere in Africa, Schultze Gets the Blues, Gloomy Sunday and last and most importantly Other People's Lives-a brilliant movie of great depth. These films are free of the self-consciousness of post-war films; they are full of gutenKameradschaft. They remind me in so many ways of the great German films made prior to Hitler and the exodus of German filmmakers to Hollywood-Billy Wilder, Erich Von Stroheim, Otto Preminger, Fritz Lang, Thomas Mann and many others.

You know there was once a place in Germany called Weimar where Goethe and Schiller wrote great works of humanitarian literature; Beethoven was around in those days writing symphonies that embraced us all. There's a great lesson in this, it is easy to forget the good and dwell on the bad. It is possible for a great nation with great gifts to mankind to be ruined by an arrogant, deceitful, lying malevolent government. But as for me and the Germans, I believe it is time for forgiveness and reconciliation. And now that Netanyahu and Abbas have promised to meet every two weeks, I pray that reconciliation and forgiveness will lead to peace because none of us need to WATCH NINEVEH BURN.
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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".

EL MALE RAHAMIM--A PRAYER FOR 911

El Male Rahamim* is a Jewish prayer for the dead. It is not to be confused with Kadish-another prayer for the departed. It has a melody, the saddest, most mournful, deeply painful melody in the world and I have sung it many times as a Cantor.

In my early years, Lloyd Frankel, a nightclub owner said to his wife on his death bed, "Get Rojay to sing El Male Rahamim for me." It was late Sunday night when she called me and I sang the prayer the following afternoon. I knew Lloyd as a friend and I could hardly keep my composure as I sang. El Male Rahamim must be sung a certain way by an experienced Cantor, a Cantor with a tear in his voice.

But my most moving recitation, and the one that caused me to swear to never sing El Male Rahamim again, was ten years ago when I was asked to officiate at a Memorial Service for a victim of 911. He was a young man who worked high up in one of the towers and as I sang, I could feel the intensity of the grief in the room, the intensity was over whelming. This young man had been cheated out of the rest of his life, just as his family was cheated by a small group of men filled with hatred.

The Memorial Service was an Orthodox Service and so the Hebrew form was Ashkenazi*-which I struggled with. I normally sang Sephardic Hebrew which is the Hebrew of Israel and Israelis. I especially struggled with the 23rd Psalm. It was difficult for me as it seemed to require a great deal of davening. Davening is the art of embellishment-the art of Ad libing; and as I struggled to finish it, I prayed that those present were not aware of my difficulty since this would surely detract from the homage being rendered.

On the way home I reflected on the horror of this young man's end. Did he, like so many others, make a cell phone call to say, "I love you," with a sure knowledge of impending death, that moment when hysteria is supplanted by an icy cold rationalization that says, "You don't have much time."

I did not go directly home but instead drove to Veterans' Beach and parked by the sea. I remembered my own version of 911. I got up early that morning because I was going to drive to Charleston, West Virginia. My stepfather was dying in a hospital and he had asked for me. "Is Jack coming?" he said. Jack is a form of my middle name. Just as I was about to go out the door, my brother, James, called me from Washington, D.C. "Do you have the TV on?" he said with great urgency.

"No, I don't," I replied.

"Turn on CNN," he shouted and hung up.

When the TV came on, I saw Aaron Brown reporting from a balcony in Manhattan and I sat and watched in amazement as events unfolded.

Of course, paranoia set in-there were bridges and tunnels on the way to Charleston.

At the very moment I was questioning the drive, my stepfather-a WWII Veteran of the Philippines-raised himself up out of his hospital bed, removed his IV's and his ventilator and hobbled down the hallway toward the nurses' station calling out in a whisper, "They're coming; we're being invaded."

This incredible exertion brought on his death. Needless to say, I didn't get there in time.

Ten years later, Osama bin Laden is dead, the wars that came out of 911 have ruined our country; and yet, we must maintain our perspective. This was not the Holocaust where millions died; and the sad, sad truth that Americans don't want to confront is that "It was all completely unnecessary." It could have been prevented by the kind of diligence the Israelis practice. The refrain heard from people at the top-from President Bush to Condoleezza Rice was, "We never imagined anything like this could happen."

Sadly enough, great leaders do imagine such events and make preparations for them.

There is a coda to this story-a very American coda. On Sunday morning when the fountains at the 911 Memorial begin to pump water; it is a fact that the man who designed this Memorial, Michael Arad, is a man of Muslim-Arabic descent. There is a healing power in this.

*Ashkenazi pronunciation of Hebrew "God full of compassion."
**The pronunciation of Ashkenazi Hebrew is influenced by Germanic languages i.e. Yiddish.
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Be sure to watch David Rojay on The Dave Rojay Show each Saturday night at 9:30 on Channel 17. Read A RED STATE HERO and THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER by David Rojay on capecodtoday.com and finally check out David Rojay on YOUTUBE. For more information, Google "David Rojay".