If

Jacob the Carpenter

Hadn’t left

Mogilev, Byelorussia

In 1901

Traveling from

New York to Kentucky

to

Chicago

and there met

Rose from Lithuania

We never would have met

If Beautiful Teenaged Celia

Alone and from Poland

hadn’t

Waitressed in

Beer Halls

All across Germany

to

Hamburg

To sail to America

Relentlessly Traveling

from

New York to Seattle

to

Whiting, Indiana

to

Meet and Marry

 Nathan from Minsk

And then move to the

East Side of Chicago

We never would have met

If my tough scarred Father

Israel

 from the

Rough and Tumble

 Jewish

West Side of Chicago

Hadn’t returned from

World War II

and become

Dazzled

by

Sensuous Anna

The Artist and Designer

We never would have met

If I hadn’t fled in

Terror

at Fourteen

from the

Crazed and Violent

Artist and Designer

to

Hyde Park, Chicago

We never would have met

A year later

If I hadn’t

Built and Opened

a

Wooden Newsstand

with

Rick Munden

to survive on

Hard

Chicago Streets

We never would have met

If you hadn’t left

Dalton, Illinois

for Hyde Park

To learn to play

Tennis

and maybe

Just maybe

Find a Guy

We never would have met

When the two

Steel and Speeding

Illinois Central Trains

Smashed and Telescoped

Inside of one another

October 30, 1972

Horribly Killing

Forty-Four Commuters

Except that

 You

were in the

Next Train

Behind them

We never would have met

If your

Tennis-Playing Pal

Krystal

Who was also

My Customer

Hadn’t introduce us

at a

Hyde Park Dance

in a

Unitarian Church

Well, maybe

We never would have met

You were so demure

Pink pants-suit

Quiet, shy

Smiling

Norwegian Girl

Me

Scrubbed and Trapped

Jewish Guy

Uncomfortably

and

Uncharacteristically

 in a

Suit and Tie

We talked for hours

And never even

Danced

You left with Krystal

But first

Inviting me:

“Join us for coffee?”

I said:

“Nope, sorry

Gotta get up early

to

Open my Newsstand”

To Shy

Too Dumb

Too even ask for

Your phone number

And we went our separate ways

Except,

You wouldn’t take

“No”

For an answer

Determined

Focused

Norwegian Girl

Deciding

 Evidently

that

the

One Guy

who

Wouldn’t hit on you

was

the

One Guy

for you

How could I know?

Three days later

After work

On the

Illinois Central Train Platform

Instead of you

Going Home

South to 53^rd Street

You turned

North to 51^st Street

To say

“Happy Birthday!”

to me

At my

Newsstand

Except

This time

Dressed to Kill

You found me

Moments later

Shirtless and Sweating

Dirty and Abrupt

Tying up

Heavy Bundles

of

Old Magazines

To return for credit

Not

 in any way

Expecting

You–

Stunning

Norwegian Girl

To reappear into

My

Empty Life

Not expecting your:

Long Shining Blond Hair

Your Short Skirt

Your Dynamite legs

Your Big Smile

and the

Promise

Awaiting me

Behind

Your Big Blue Eyes

You Approved

of the

Gritty

Sweating

Exasperated

Chicago Newspaper Guy

Now

Frozen and Speechless

before you

And Beautiful You

were thinking:

Exactly

how long

would it take

me

To realize

You

Were the Girl

For me?

On behalf of all of our

Children and Grandchildren

The answer was:

Not very long, at all

Even a rough

Newspaper Guy

was

Smart enough

to

Get the message

You were sending

I think

all of those

“Never-Would-Have-Mets”

were always

“Meant-to-Bes”

My Destiny

was

Waiting for me

Right there in your Smile

Nearly Forty years later

I love you intensely

Norwegian Girl

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

Long ago

Her thin back

to the

Wide

Murky

Fast-flowing

Mississippi River

Her

Long

White-blond hair

Tousled

Like

Autumn Hay

In the

Cold

River’s Wind

Random

Strands

Blowing across

Her

Pale

Complexion  

My four-year-old Daughter

Sarah

Trudged up the

Steep Riverbank

To where

I was

Intently

Exploring

a

Flea Market

Closely

Followed

by my

Guilty Wife

 Joyce

An  

Identical

 Conspiratorial

Mask

on both of

their

Faces

And a tiny

Dog

Cupped in

Sarah’s hands

We vowed

“No more Dogs!”

After the

Last One

Died

Now

Joyce was using

our

Living Doll

To entrap me

No place to hide

I meet them

Halfway  

And look at the

Fluffy mutt

Soft

Floppy-eared

Brown, Black and White

Pink wet tongue

Hanging down

Dripping

Her big eyes

Evolved to seduce

Another damn

Flea-bitten

Heartbreaker

I think to myself

“She’s a Pure Bred Beagle!”

Purrs Joyce

Like I care who its

Damn Parents

Are

“We found her in a box by the river!”

Squealed our

Two-legged puppy

Her

Sea-Green Eyes

Encircling  

My Heart

“Only Forty Dollars!”

Smiled Joyce

And with their

Overwhelming force

I surrendered

Our weekend

As tourists

Exploring

Galena, Illinois

Suddenly stopped

 and

Our Car

Became

 a

Mobile Doghouse

Sarah’s Dog?

Joyce’s Dog?

No one told

The Dog

Of course

She’s

 Bob’s Dog

Following

Like a shadow

Everywhere

Dogs are universal

 in our

Attachment

to them

 Nationality/Religion/Gender/Politics

Makes no Difference

 They are

Love  

Wrapped up in Fur.

I told

 Little Sarah

No Chocolate for Betsy

It’s a Killer

For Dogs

One day

Betsy

Swiftly

Snatched

a Hershey bar

From Sarah’s

Tiny

Sticky hand

Suddenly

Betsy’s

Convulsing

Shaking

Choking

I held

Her

in

My Arms

Praying

Slow minutes

Passed

Mystified

Exhausted

Thirsty

She lived

We never discussed it

Many years later…

Betsy

Comes to Bed

Each Night

Slowly

Pawing her way

Panting

Up the

Small box

to the

Chair

Then up

to the

Bed

She

Circles

Collapses

Watches me

With

Those eyes

White Muzzle

Still beautiful

Clutch-able

Fur

Hanging loosely

Sometimes

She growls

In her

Sleep

Chasing

Uncatchable

Rabbits & Squirrels

But

Inevitably

She ends the night

Her

Old head

Resting on my

Shoulder

Her warm body

Leaning

Heavily

Against me

Betsy:

Unexpected

New Love

 in

My Life

Moving

Too

Swiftly  

Towards the End

of

Hers

Again

Sarah’s Dog?

Joyce’s Dog?

My Dog

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman 

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

Spring 1966

Sixteen

Need a job

Wandering hot streets

I spy

Baskin-Robins!

A sign:

Help Wanted

Mandarin Chocolate Sherbet

Mint Chocolate Chip

Dark Chocolate

Jesus!!!

Panting

I chance it

Walk in

And see her

An older woman

Twenty-two

Short

Big brown eyes

Built

Name tag: Miriam

Ok

They don’t have to pay me

She sits at this little desk

Nice legs

There’s a line

Bunch a mopes

I can do this

I inhale the Chocolate

Failure:

Not an option

My competition

Peels off

Crash and Burn

She’s tough

Yet soft red lips

Soft everything

My turn

She’s on the phone

Muttering angrily

About Pierre

Her

“God-damned

French-Canadian

Catholic

Husband”

Leaving her

Again

To clean up the

Damn Freezers

Alone

At night

Her

Beautiful face

Steaming  

Her

Stunning chest

Heaving

Hell

I’ll pay her

To

Work here

Wait a minute!

Her

God-damned

French-Canadian

Catholic

Husband?

Then I see it:

The shining

Gold

Jewish Star

Embracing

Her

Fine

Smooth

Kissable   

Neck

An idea looms

This is War

She likes my application

Asks me:

When can I start?

All the others said:

Right now!

I said:

Sorry, Ma’am

Not until

After

Passover

She looks at my

Dark eyes

Dark hair

Olive skin

She senses:

Revenge!

I get the job

God Bless the Catholics!

I get

 To clean out the

Big Freezers

All  

Alone

With

Miss Jewish

Double-Scoop

Ice Cream Queen

1966

After her store closes

Every Night

We get

Really cold

We get

All wet

Her tight uniform

Unbuttoned

Just enough

Her sweet sweat

Trickling

Down

Down

Down

I’m dying

And still

Still!

I even get

Paid

To do this!

At night

Exhausted

I fall into bed

Dreaming

As always

 of this:

Giant  

Sugar

Ice cream cone

Waves

Of

Creamy white

Liquid Marshmallow

Over-Flowing 

 the

Rounded edges

Dark Chocolate

Sprinkles

Raining from the Sky

And

Always

Curled up

Within it

Is

Miriam

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman 

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above. 

The DePaul film school sent a group of filmmakers to make a documentary of my store. They stayed five hours. Today,they posted a 14-minute segment on YouTube.

It seems they originally intended to tell a story about an endangered and exotic collectible store, but along the way they instead decided to focus on the eccentric old guy running the place…I guess. But it vividly shows
off the inventory and the front of the store, as well.

It is remarkably poignant, reminiscent of a silent movie in its style and left me in tears. I have no way to know how others may perceive it. Maybe if enough people see it and respond, I’ll succeed in my quiet spot on Oakton Street.

A Chicago Newsstand Christmas Story:Miracle on 51st Street  

by Robert M. Katzman                                            

which has never been reviewed before, is about a true Chicago incident which occurred on Christmas Eve, 1977, which relates a story which defys belief, involving 18 Christians of all denominations–and one Jew.  It is only available from me at my store in Skokie, Il. and has been gradually selling for years. It is a story I will never read in public.  Here is Stephanie’s concise review: 

On the way back from your museum/store in Skokie, after purchasing a copy of your book:      

A Newstand Christmas Story/The Miracle on 51st Street,

I wanted a ‘setting’ to sit down and read it for the first time.  I chose the lovely, awakening-to-Spring, ‘Marjorie Weinberg’ rotunda garden (@NWU), wherein I imagine, even Shakespeare would have lazily reclined.  I wanted to set the mood.  I wasn’t disappointed– by venue, nor by story that unfurled before my eyes (and yes, they were glistening when I closed the cover).  So, this is my applaud:

by Stephanie Sweas

Although this story plays out in one Christmastide years ago, echoing from Bob Katzman’s mind and heart–he has the knack for time-travelling back into a treasure-trove of hard-won life experience and ingeniously tapping a rich vein of memory, conveying it into the here-and-now in a ‘tribute-tory’ way–where it flows on, timeless and true Bob has squeezed a lot of juice out of this one.

So, the story takes place ’at his place’– a street corner at 51st and Lake Park, in Hyde Park, in Chicago, one Christmas Eve, when he was then already, a 27-year-old veteran bossman of a long-running newstand.  Yet, struggling, as always…

And as hardened by the Chi-town din as any street-survivor could be, nevertheless what happens to Bob that Christmas Eve and Day, is enough to prove that any hard-edged city-dweller, hard-ass ‘tude, hard-scrabble life, can be rendered soft, surrendered, humbled, before the might of generous hearts.

Hearts in this case, encased in mere teenagers at the time– and one old man–not the makings of ‘a Dream Team’ by today’s standards.  One, supposedly the most egocentric age-group in human existence–and the other, the most curmudgeonly, respectively.  Why, teens uh’ll do in their own parents– what of a stranger?!  And a crotchety geeser– of what use is he anymore?  

”Stuck” with such employees (or not?), with the prospect of delivering a mountain of newspapers on a super-bustling holiday (not to mention the promise of super ass-busting labor), what should anyone expect but freakin’ disaster-on-the-job?  

Forget a silent night….

Yet, Bob, the Jewish boss of this rag-tag loose assembly,  receives quite a few stunning presents that Christmas Day in 1977. You too will be richly gifted in the reading of this tale….Keep kleenex handy.

And believe….

(If anyone wishes to comment, please do so only in the space provides below this article.)

About Robert M. Katzman and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Stories twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

Some people are born with a sense of reciprocity, innate and clear, like salmon swimming upstream to spawn.

Other people, well, you could stick a giant glowing neon arrow up their ass in an effort to point them in the right direction, and it would serve no purpose.

Dobie Maxwell is someone who’s been kicked around in anonymity for a good chunk of his life, and yet still maintained his sense of right and wrong and when to speak up when he recognizes an injustice.  As a person so much like him, I know how rare it is to find a guy to buck the snarling crowd and say: Stop!

I will tell you who he is to me, and what happened to compel me to write this profile about him. I am not certain, but something tells me that not enough has been written about Dobie, and if so, not like what I’m going to say.

Except I know so little.

Funny, under the present circumstances.

I don’t know Dobie’s actual name.

I don’t know if he’s married or has children.

I don’t know where he lives or even his phone number.

We never went to dinner or a movie.

I don’t know what his car looks like.

But,  I surely know Dobie.

He’s a standup comic waiting for a break.  Years ago, a total stranger, he called me to sell his Mad Magazine collection at a time when I didn’t want or need them in my back-issue magazine store collection, and I had little cash to give to him, in any event.  No one had asked me for any issue of Mad for a couple of years. But we talked for a bit, anyway. Dobie has that something that makes talking to him as easy as breathing. 

He was a different kind of cat, tho’.  He needed the cash, but seemed to get me and my own sorry situation. We connected that way.  Then, irrationally, since as I already told him I had no need of what he was selling, I made him an offer that was not a lot, but fair, and then I asked Dobie if I could pay him over five months. An outrageous thing to ask a stranger.

Why would he trust me?

The guy didn’t know me at all.

I hoped maybe, possibly, someone would want to buy the Mads and the sales might cover the debt.

He agreed.

Jesus Christ, Dobie!

We met, shook hands (a contract), I gave him the first check and it was cool.

Almost immediately, a quite serious podiatrist in scrubs came in who was looking to complete his Mad collection, but was on a budget. I guess he was seeking to complete his collection foot by foot.

The Doc bought a LOT of Mads over the next year, and he was happy. Dobie got his money on the dot each month and along the way, we became friends. Other people bought Mads down the line.  I made an actual profit.  There was a weirdness to it.  The Dobie-Bob-Doc connection didn’t exist prior to our handshake.

The Doc was happy, Dobie didn’t get screwed by a stranger and feel like a schmuck, and my store lived another day, for a while anyway. There are not enough Dobies in the world because I expect most of them get stung.

So Dobie has no more Mads to drag around with him, but he has me in his corner and I him. Friendship can be very light to carry with you, most of the time.

He came by my store every so often to say hello, or offered me free tickets to come see him.

One time, he called me in great frustration to tell me that his car window was smashed and some thug had stolen his laptop with twenty years of routines inside of it…with no back up disc anywhere.  He was in total misery and I did what you do when there is nothing a person can do to fix what’s broken: I listened.

I commiserated.

I offered him an ear from someone who actually cared.  It didn’t fix his problem, but perhaps for just a moment he felt a tiny bit less alone and maybe less disgusted with himself and his difficult life.  Dobie drives from gig to gig, all over the Midwest, sometimes barely covering the cost of his gas.

And that’s my small story about Dobie Maxwell, never written before.

So…

For about five years, I’ve been writing and posting my stories and poetry on my DifferentSlants.com website, gradually building up a list of about 140 e-mails addresses to notify people about when I posted a new story. With five books in print, and more than 5,000 sold, it was the only way I could advertise myself and hope to get hired to give readings, as I have been more than seventy times.  One of the people on my list was Dobie.

In February 2012, the most hits ever happened on my site, over 28,000, and I was very happy to becoming better known.

Then came my story about the killing of innocents in Syria.  I was angry and it was spontaneous.

I wrote an emotional and–rare for me–political story entitled:

Israel: Join The Syrian Rebellion, Now. While the World Watches and Does Nothing!

and sent it out to my 140 addresses, all of which were visible to the recipients, as had always been the case over the past five years as my list grew and grew.  I didn’t know any other way to do it, with my limited internet skills.

Well, several people seized on the subject matter, which to me was about compassion and not about politics, and then they went after each other, especially two hysterical writers, a Swede and an Israeli.  Except they not only wrote angry notes back and forth to each other, but also to everyone else on my list, endlessly.

People were furious, FURIOUS!…with me.

Some liked the message but not the transmission, proving for certain that a person can be damned by their good deeds.

Then came the steady machine gun-like rat-a-tat-tat of:

Drop me from your list!   Drop me from your list!!

Drop me from your list!   Drop me from your list!!

Drop me from your list!   Drop me from your list!!

Drop me from your list!   Drop me from your list!!

Drop me from your list!   Drop me from your list!!

Drop me from your list!   Drop me from your list!!

After five years and so many stories, no one wanted to hear from me any more.

I was so crushed and so defenseless.  Damned by my ignorance of internet etiquette.  So many doors slamming!

So, I wrote an apology, sending it out to my whole “list”, one last time:

To too many exasperated and antagonized people:

I regret that my last posting was sent incorrectly and which created so much unwanted traffic to so many people. 

I’m 61, don’t know enough about the rules and customs of the internet and didn’t know I should be using “Bcc” to keep everyone’s e-mail private. It has been a very bad experience for me.

My goal was to try to help, somehow, to find a way to stop the killing of innocent Syrians. I never write about politics.

Instead, my posting created a wave of messages between people with strong positions who argued en masse sending messages to everyone on my list, instead of one-on-one on the site itself in the comments section.

The list of irritated, exasperated people includes my aunt, son, friends and people I work with. I am embarrassed that I caused so much antagonism.

A classic case of being damned by an effort to do a good deed, because of what I didn’t know. Consequently, to avoid this whole situation ever repeating itself, there is no longer a “list” to be asked to be dropped from.

I write from the heart and want to be known as a writer worth reading, but this painful episode will never help me achieve that goal.

If anyone is still sending out messages to dozens of people related to what I wrote: Stop it, damn it!

No one need bother to write to me to ask me to stop. I have, with this last note of regret. If anyone cares to read my many stories and poetry at DifferentSlants.com, fine, great. Go look at it. Doesn’t cost a dime.

I feel terrible right now and wish I could turn back time. Again, sorry.

Bob

 Few replied. Some offered consolation, saying it’ll blow over soon and don’t lose sleep over it, etc.

But I was done.  No list, and if anyone wanted to read my stuff, it would be by chance and not because I notified them.  Welcome, Anonymity.  I know you so well.  But it seems like even you don’t know me.

 Then, a day later, this message came in an e-mail from one of my consolers, from Dobie Maxwell:

 I sincerely apologize in advance for invading anyone’s personal space. This is a one time email, and I promise I’ll stop after I get this off my chest.

I just wanted to say to all who have been so adamant about being removed from this list, please don’t blame or be angry with Bob Katzman. He is a very honest, giving and hard working fellow – not to mention one talented and diligent writer. I met Bob at his store years ago, and immediately liked him on many levels. He’s passionate about what he does, and is an unbelievably kind and giving soul. He wants the world to be a better place and actually makes an attempt to DO something about it. I totally respect anyone who has that kind of guts. Not many do.

 If he happened to make a mistake and include people’s email addresses, so what? It was an honest mistake, and NO harm was intended. He isn’t a stalker or trying to sell Amway to anyone, and if someone happened to get into a discussion about a topic he brought up, all the better. Can’t we just hit ‘delete’ if we’re not interested in participating? It will pass, and life goes on. Bob didn’t do anything malicious, nor did he or anyone else ask me to write this note. Life is very short and these are not the best of times for anyone. I can see how someone might get a bit bothered by getting an email or two that wasn’t asked for, but is it really that bad of a situation? I’d bet some of our soldiers in Afghanistan would LOVE it if all they had to worry about were a few stray emails. On the world scale, this is less than zero. It’s a bug fart, and a silent one at that. Let it pass, and it will.

 Those of you who are angry, all I can say is please don’t blame Bob. In fact, I will personally buy you any of his excellent books, and you can read for yourself how talented and thoughtful of a writer he is. I’m a performer myself, and I know how difficult it is to do anything well. Bob Katzman isn’t trying to hurt anyone. Let’s all just let this pass and work on healing our suffering world. I send positive vibes to all who read this.
 
 And I absolutely promise this will be the last time I send ANYTHING to any of you. Peace and healing to ALL – Jews, gentiles, whites, blacks, males, females and everyone in between. We’re all in this together. Nobody is higher or lower than anybody else. We’re all humans, let’s live well.

Sermon over.

Sincerely,

Dobie Maxwell

Stunned by all he said, I wrote to him, thanking him.

The irony is clear to me, and will soon be to Dobie.  I no longer will broadcast my writing, including this piece. Maybe to a couple people, but that’s it. I never want to be the butt of a massive wave of anger again.  So here is a public thank you and celebration of Dobie Maxwell, and I’m whispering that it’s posted.  Sorry Dobie.  As always, and a comic certainly knows this, that timing is everything.

The capitol of the country of Reciprocity is Character.  Dobie lives there.  I want to think I do, too.

See you around, Dobie.

And, thanks again.

Break a leg, ok?

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

 The World talks and a Syrian Dies.

Israel, it could be you.  It has been you, at another time and another place.

Have you forgotten the despair, the injustice, the indifference, and the outrageousness of others turning away?

Who are you, as a nation, as a people, to allow this to happen to anyone else?

Israel, and yes, Jews: Take a stand.

Help the Syrians. 

Stop the killing of innocents.

But who am I?

Why give a damn what I think?

I’m not a diplomat.

Not a politician.

Not influential or wealthy.

Just a guy.

But also, long ago, a street fighter and always a Jew.

A person who has been outnumbered, overwhelmed and beaten badly while others stood by.

A person who fought back against crazy odds and won.

But also, a person whose life was saved from a mob by a man with a gun.  A cop.

Not a friend, but someone who was one against thirty in 1982 in Hyde Park.

He didn’t deliberate the risk while I was mauled or killed.  He acted.

He took a chance, took my side and I’m still here, and grateful.

Somehow, today, I feel like a Syrian.

And God help me, I hate a stacked deck.

The World talks and a Syrian dies.

 Jews and Israel are uniquely obligated to speak up for the powerless, the disposable, the unessential, the defenseless.  They are us.  They will always be us.  How dare we pick and choose and let others be murdered?

If Israel bombs Syrian army barracks, their anti-aircraft guns, their planes and make it very, very clear they are coming after Assad Hussein—and the world knows without question that Israel can get to Assad—the army will turn against him and it will be over.  Israel could blanket Damascus, Homs with leaflets by air and other major population centers and say the war is not against them, but for them and to rise up against whoever opposes them.  It would be a short battle because Assad is a coward who kills children to remain in power.

Assad is a second-generation, second-rate dictator who when personally under real pressure will collapse like a cheap suit.

Israel attacking would create panic and along with weapons provided to the rebels and overwhelming force, create an opposition impossible for the present regime to defend against.  No Syrian general  will be a ‘hero’ and would die for Assad.

Why? 

His military is in it for the money and their collective protection.  Syria’s military’s actual religion is self-preservation and they’ll know when to turn against the losing side.  They already know.  They just need a little push, from Israel.

 Remember, that bone-chilling biblical phrase “writing on the wall” came exactly from this neighborhood a couple thousand years ago, and toppled another dictator.  You think anyone has forgotten that?   If anyone can still see the invisible Writing On The Wall, its the military and the politicians.   You don’t need special Jewish 3-D glasses to get what’s coming.

Israel is detested worldwide and will always be no matter whatever it does, but it won’t be in Syria.  Syria will have a friend in need and will never forget it.  Nor will the Arab-led nations surrounding it. Nor will Iran be able to ignore what happened next door to it. 

Israel will be condemned for unwarranted aggression and interfering in another country’s affairs.

Too damn bad.  Israel would be on the side of right and protecting the defenseless.  Condemn that, World.   In 1973, when I was 23 and there was a world-wide oil embargo by middle-eastern OPEC  members against any nation who traded with Israel, I remember too clearly long, long lines of cars waiting to buy a few gallons of gas at the gas station just south of my newsstand.   Those big American cars were filled with angry drivers and more than one had a stark bumper sticker on the backs of their cars saying,  “Burn Jews, Not Oil”.

I am what the world has made me and feel the way the world has trained me to feel.

Israel, so often so many there quote a document thousands of years old to justify what you say and do today.  How about creating a little NEW history you can be proud of and tell your children about in years to come?   In a more perfect world, maybe the Syrians will be telling their own kids about the same story.   But not if you sit safely across the border from Syria and watch those same children get slaughtered by the monster in Damascus.  Not a story you’ll be proudly telling in another thousand years, will it?

The World talks and a Syrian dies.

For God’s sake, people, and I mean Israel and Jews. Take a stand.

Protect the Syrians.

Not for political gain.

Not as a strategic move.

Not as a calculation that will never change world opinion whatever you do.

Do it because no one did it for you, when you didn’t have guns. 

Didn’t have rockets.

Didn’t have tanks and all your incredible power.

Do it because the Syrians are you and you don’t have to take it anymore.

If I was young, I would volunteer and fight for them myself.

But I am not, so I write because that is what I CAN still do.

What will you do, Israel?

What will you do, everyone else?

Readers, if you agree with me, please send this impassioned plea all over hell, will you?

The World talks and a Syrian dies.

The World talks and a Syrian dies.

The World talks and a Syrian dies…

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

(Written on a rush hour train, on the way to seeing my brain surgeon for the first time, eight years after my two operations.  He was fine.)

Friendship
Requires
Paying attention

And:
Concern
Involvement
Exhilaration
Risk
Disappointment

Friendship
 is an
Intertwining
of
Mutual
Passion & Pleasures:

Sports
Movies
Coffee

Standing on the corner,
Watching…

Friends can be Married…
Or not
Lovers can be Friends…
Or not

Friendship
is the
“Other”
Possibility

Sharing
Sensuality
Without
Sexuality

Friendship
is
Heightened
Reality

Unspoken
Communication

Feeling
Simpatico
to a
Common Reality

Remembrance
of
Tragedy
Without
Needing
the
Reminding

A love of:
Food
Wine
Travel
Laughter

Friendship
Is:
Politics
But
not
Politicians
Who
Pretend
They have
a
Million
“Friends”
Until
They
Lose an Election

Friendship
Doesn’t
Demand
Fidelity:
 
Me—and no one else BUT me!”

Tyranny & Control
aren’t
Friendship

Friendship
is
Selective

Whom you
Instinctively
 Call
When
Your
World
Disintegrates

When the Police come
When you’re fired
When your car crashes
When your Lover leaves
When your Lover dies

Friendship
Is
Inconvenient

Friendship
is
Shared
Suffering

Can’t be bought
Can’t be sold
Has no intrinsic value
Can’t be measured

Friendship
Offers
Spiritual
Relaxation
a
Lowering
of
Guards
an
Invitation
to
Emotional
Intimacy
 
Possibly…
 
Confessions
of
Follies past
 
To
Some
Receiving
such
Trust
is
a
Bond of Honor

To
Others
a
Dagger
of
Possibilities
 
The
Only
Restraint
Between the Two
is
One
Sees
Opportunity
 
The Other
Sees
No
Opportunity
at
All
 
The Difference
is
an
Ocean
of
Character
 
Whatever
Compels
Us
to
Accept
the
Risk?
 
Perhaps
the
Innate
Compulsion
Simply
to
be
Known
 
Known
Before
We
Die

 
The Wealthy
Never
Know
Who
is
Truly
Their friend

The
unexpected
cost
of
“No Worries”

The Poor
Huddle
Together
So much in common
So little to share

The
Intersection 
Comes
When it comes

When
One
Chooses
to
Aid
the
Other
In ways
Uncountable

Even then…
No one really knows
For sure
The score
Between the Classes

Money poisons everything
Unmeasurable

Friends share success
Friends don’t trade up
Friends cheer each other’s prosperity
Friends don’t forget
Friends don’t disappear

Friends find Time
&
Friends find Time
&
Friends find Time

If the
Universe
Chooses
To make me
Rich

My Friends
My real Friends
Will
Know:

Fixing
their
Broken Things-
Fetching
their
Forgotten Dreams-
Landing
Them
 In their
Faraway Places-

Why should I care?
If you have to ask
You will never understand

Can you give me change for a smile?

Me?

I
Can’t
Wait!

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman 

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

313,000,000 people in the United States.

159,000,000 are women.

50.9% ?

A minority?

Go figure.

Like there was an ovary lottery, the women won it and then the women lost everything else.

Mystifies me.  Maybe thousands of years ago, men had the armies and slaughtered each other, and then one day realized that women could make more people and the men became terrified.  No stopping them, the men must have realized, so…better watch them closely.  Keep them under control. 

Eons later, the women still are.

Paid less than men, run a few national companies, have a small number of seats in the United States Congress, 93 out of 535 seats, or 17.4%.

Now that…is a minority.

Senators: (17 out of 100) – 12 Democrats and 5 Republicans

Representatives: (76 out of 435) — 48 Democrats and 28 Republicans  

So, 60 of the 93 women are Democrats, or almost 65% of the 17.4%, or 11% of the entire Congress. 

Numbers can be a lot of fun, especially to someone who failed algebra in June, 1965, not that I remember that poisonous moment or anything like that.  Or the teacher’s name: Miss Eason.  Or that I had to take it again.

My mother, Anne, would have been 91 today, the day before Valentine’s Day, which always annoyed her.

She was born in 1921, the year after women first were awarded the vote by Congress in 1920.  Given that she was born in Chicago under the steel umbrella of the Democratic Machine, it is likely my mother voted that year and every year after that in local elections—the straight Democratic ticket, of course—decades before she was legally permitted to do so in 1942.  In Chicago politics, this would be considered a fine point of contention.

That her dead Eastern European relatives probably ALSO voted in all those elections may have been a bigger deal, if anyone felt it was something important to bring up.  Never heard it discussed after I showed up in 1950.

As the grandson of two women, Celia & Rose, the son of Anne, the brother of Bonnie, the husband of Joy, the father of Lisa, Rachel, Sarah, the father-in-law of Nicole, the grandfather of Emjay and Natalia, and the nephew of Adele, Estelle, Mollie and Sylvia, the following is my Valentine’s Day bouquet to all fifteen of them:

Half the Congress should be women, and most of the Supreme Court.  It shouldn’t be that Barak Obama was elected president despite lingering American racial prejudice, was so historically significant.

But that if his wife Michelle were elected, now that would really be something.

If she were running for President, this is what I (even though merely a man) think she believes:

That all people are valuable to their country, that their country cares whether they live or die, not based on whether or not they can afford top quality health care.  That access to medicine and surgery, when needed, is a right and not a privilege for the well being of all citizens.

That this country intends for all its children to be both literate and informed, having equal access to education, a contemporary means to communicate and that their access to information is not limited by those who can afford to buy newspaper companies or TV and radio stations.

Basic computers are no longer a luxury for only those who can afford them.  If the child’s parents cannot afford a tool considered as essential today as a pencil, should that unjust status trap the child as well as the parents?   Will America be stronger without their uneducated child?  Exactly, whose children do matter? 

Our real ”national wealth”  is in their minds.

That an individual’s ability to vote will not be impeded by a surrounding area’s dominant population, one’s complexion, religion, gender or choice of relationships.  America should proudly protect an individual’s right to be–if necessary–a single dissenting voice.

That though my own minority may be just twenty out of a thousand—and we are less than twenty out of a thousand—we are no less part of this country than those who are many millions.  There are groups that are smaller still than my own, and I, too, have an obligation to seek their right to be heard, and protected.

That no one group’s religion may dominate another’s.  That a smaller group’s right to distinct philosophical beliefs will be protected by the majorities, because it is right to do that and because most philosophies were once obscure and persecuted, like Judeo-Christian beliefs, for example, were once upon a time. 

More recently, imagine a Mormon even dreaming about running for national office?  There are less than six million of them in the United States, or at  2%, about the same number as the Jews.  Do I support Romney?  Not in the least, but I’m proud I live in a country where 98% of the people see nothing special about his choosing to run for President.  Think about it.

It’s not really about the 1%.  Its about the tolerance of the 99%.  In that context, this ardent liberal Jew strongly supports that periodically conservative Republican Mormon’s right to be heard.

That a woman being (at least) equal to a man in all ways, valued by our country and our government, have complete control over her body, what happens to it, her protection from disease, especially diseases unique to women, and whether to have, or not have, a child.  This is not religion.  It is a human right.

Not done yet with health care.

I have this evidently strange notion that one of the major social accomplishments of evolving human civilization is the acceptance of the willing collective care of some of the members of society upon whom physical misfortune has fallen.  Random illness not brought on by self-destructive reasons, for purposes of what follows.

So that though some person may, for example, be a self-taught carpenter among other skills, as well as determined, inner-driven, ambitious and cautious about matters physical, yet despite those presumed to be admirable qualities still manages to develop cancer, a collapsed lung and then brain surgery.  If that person is unable to pay for medical or surgical care, should society allow such a person to simply die?

Should he be left out on a prairie somewhere, alone, to be eaten by wolves, as was practiced by some older more primitive tribes in centuries past?  Will this create a stronger more cohesive contemporary society?   Will this encourage mutual trust among all levels of people that “we’re all in this…together”?

I know such a person.  I know such a person very well.  Who decides the worth of this person?  Who needs him more, the country or the wolves? 

If any (or many) of my readers say to themselves, possibly with a smirk:

“The Wolves!” 

To me that means we are all wolves and no longer deserving of an embracing country.  Then we are all out there on that prairie, again.  When that happens, if that happens,  a curious person would be hard-pressed to find anyone wearing a smirk. 

Finally, that while all crimes as defined by law may be despised, and that all whom are accused ought to be provided a competent and informed defense regardless of their ability to pay for such protection, some crimes—against children, women and societal minorities—be considered at least as repugnant to my country as treason and murder.  

What crimes a country deems as socially acceptable defines that country to the world.

A national government that chooses as a priority to protect those among us least able to protect themselves also tells each town, each city, each state and all countries in the world that in The United States of America, an individual still matters.  

And that, to me, more than all the exploding weapons in our arsenal, makes my country a very dangerous country for some malignant outside force to attack.  Why?

Because there would be millions and millions of us, “all in…whatever-the-hell-may-come…together ”.

Last night, my wonderful wife of 34 years this week (February 19, 1978) was upset that I was both doing something she didn’t want me to do, and was not doing something she did want me to do, at the same time and that I be smart enough to figure both of them out.   

Oh I try, Joyce, I really do. 

Happy Anniversary to you. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, too, to my Aunts Adele and Estelle, daughters (and in-law) Lisa, Rachel, Sarah and Nicole and my granddaughters Natalia and Emjay.

And to all the rest of you: my other aunts, my grandmas, my mother and my sister, Bonnie (where are you, Bonnie?), Rest in Peace.

Love, Bob  

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman 

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

In the summer of ’58, my father told me to mow the lawn, front and back, at my house on 8616 S. Bennett, where  all the fruit trees were. We lived on the South Side of Chicago in a Jewish/Irish neighborhood.

My grandfather, Nathan, who came from Minsk, Belorussia in 1914, planted them.  He loved trees and kept a small Lemon tree as a “pet” in his house.

I would visit him when I was a child and I was amazed by the heavy, fragrant, grapefruit-sized lemons that his pet tree produced. When he grew too old to keep living in his large house and had to leave the, by then, really large tree that managed to fill most of his basement, he cried bitterly.  His three middle-aged children, including my mother, were shocked by this.  I later overheard them whispering to each other that they thought “he loved that damn Lemon tree” more than he loved them.

Jealous of a tree.

A hard thing for me to understand.  Adults were strange.

I had already learned that I was severely allergic to newly cut grass, a situation so unbelievable at a time when Dwight Eisenhower was president of the United States and allergies were still not well understood,  that my telling my father a story like that was too ridiculous for him to take seriously.

I was also allergic to all the fresh fruit growing in the back yard, but that was never a subject leading to conflict. But my gradually discovering, one by one: all the fruits, vegetables, pollens, animals, kinds of fabric and molds– exactly what I was unable to eat, or be near, was a nightmare.  It took years for me to learn them all.  And then, shockingly, that allergies can mutate. That something I could eat with no problem would one day become toxic to me. 

People who are blessed without allergies won’t understand any of this.  How could they?

Knowing what I knew about newly cut grass, however, gave me good reason to resist my father’s insistent instructions, and resist I did, leading to a loud and threatening argument. He lost his temper and I took off down the block to 85th St. and then west toward Caldwell School, my red-brick public grammar school.

I could run like a son-of-a-bitch. My father couldn’t catch me.  I was certain of that.  In the summer of 1958 he was forty-five years old, an age which was considered pretty old back then.

We both kept running.

After three blocks, I began to worry that he might suffer a heart attack because of how far we had run and I was very concerned about him, even at eight years old.  I had a real conflict going on within me.

Deciding in his favor, but bracing for what would inevitably come next, I gradually slowed down. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings that I thought he was too old to chase me.  I pretended to be winded and let him catch up, finally stopping about a block from school, and I waited for him.

In a minute, he caught me–or thought he had–and I got walloped right there on the street. Not a good moment.

Gripping my upper arm in his strong hand, he dragged me back home where I accepted that I had no alternative to mowing our extensive lawn. I saw that there was no way out.  Either he would suffer, or I would. He stood on the sidewalk, watching me pushing the lawnmower. He didn’t want to have me take off again.

But then, after about ten minutes, I began coughing, then wheezing and my face turned red and my eyes and throat filled with tears and saliva, my nose running uncontrollably and I stopped mowing, unable to see clearly anymore and stood there in the middle of the yard, my face a mass of uncontrollably flowing fluids. 

My father witnessed all of this.  Though he was uncomprehending about what was happening before his eyes, coming from unsophisticated working-class immigrants from the tough West Side of Chicago, he had no concept of allergies–except for one.

Cats.

Cats, and only cats, did to him what just about everything growing outside did to me. He instantly understood I couldn’t possibly be faking. He also became filled with remorse that he forced me to do something that was so vividly harming me. He also realized I hadn’t lied to him. An important characteristic in the world he came from. 

He walked over to me and embraced me, very upset that he had “picked on somebody not his own size” contrary to what he had always told me was the proper way to conduct myself.  We didn’t speak—I wasn’t able to speak—and he helped me climb the cement steps into our kitchen.  I was a mess and felt disgusting.

I immediately washed my face with ivory soap and steaming hot water, which I’d earlier learned would make most of my allergic symptoms stop. He sat at the kitchen table and watched me.  He had no idea what he should do.  After a while, I dried my face and my father got a clear view of my swollen, red, bloodshot eyes, and he could hear the hoarse wheezing as I was breathing. I went into our bathroom and stared into the mirror. I looked terrible.

The incident changed our relationship for the rest of our lives. Forty-two years. He learned the hard way that I wouldn’t lie to him. He could trust me, no matter what.

We sat there  in the kitchen a while longer, not talking, and then he stood up, quietly said he was sorry, and went out the door to finish cutting the grass by himself.  

I recovered.  We never again discussed the incident.  

Our pattern.

And I never told him how he was able to “catch” me, that defining summer of ’58.

In my view, even at eight years old, I felt he had already suffered enough and I didn’t want to add to it.

Oh, and he never, ever spanked me again.

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My Story Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.