Twin Towers circa 1990s


Photo @GaryHershorn

Photo @GaryHershorn 9/10/14





Link to featured image at top of post, from NPR

Tank Man

Tank Man is 25.

It is one of the most iconic images of the 20th century. Yesterday marked 25 years since this unforgettable scene in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square. Here are two recollections of that time and place from Jeff Widener, the AP photographer who captured this extraordinary moment on film – and how he almost didn’t get the shot. The first is from the BBC:

And here is a link (click on the image) to Time magazine’s interview with Widener:

Time.Tank Man at 25


We call him “Tank Man” because we have never learned his name. Who was this man? What became of him? Is he even still alive – and what would he have to say about that day? About China today?

This photograph is a pure and perfect metaphor for the imbalance of power between us (Tank Man) and the State… and a poignant reminder that we are not powerless. Twenty-five years later, the world has changed in so many ways. In America, some of us fear that the State has become too powerful; others fear that government has become ineffectual against the rise of corporate power. Whatever these tanks represent to you, we should remember what Jeff Widener took away from his encounter with Tank Man’s defiance:

“All hope is not lost. You can make a stand.
You can be somebody. There is some dignity in that…
you fight for your rights.”


Related posts:

Pick Up The Battle. Take It Up. It’s Yours.

Act Up! Fight Back!

This Is Why We Fight The Hate

The End (so far)



The Hateful Column

-=- Throwback Thursday -=-

People who suffer from a fear of heights ought not to journey to the top of tall buildings. Say, the Eiffel Tower. How do I know this? Because… in the spring of 1983 I traveled to Paris with some friends – one of whom required my assistance on the trip back to terra firma from the top of the you-know-what. The image may be a bit blurred, but I still have a few divots in my shoulders from Lauren’s vice-like grip.



Tour Eiffel.

Blog Aside of the Day: Seems that whenever I go off in search of something useful, I bump into something interesting. Ferinstance, I just zipped over to Wikipedia to find how many steps to the top of Tour Eiffel, because I was going to wax dramatic over the 1,710-step crawl down the Tower.

But then my eye got caught on a passage about the opposition to the construction of this landmark – which came mostly from the community of artists in Paris. They formed a “Committee of 300” and published this petition in the newspaper:

“We, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched beauty of Paris, protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection … of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower … To bring our arguments home, imagine for a moment a giddy, ridiculous tower dominating Paris like a gigantic black smokestack, crushing under its barbaric bulk Notre Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Louvre, the Dome of les Invalides, the Arc de Triomphe, all of our humiliated monuments will disappear in this ghastly dream. And for twenty years … we shall see stretching like a blot of ink the hateful shadow of the hateful column of bolted sheet metal.”

Just shows you how wrong you can be, eh? Because what’s better than this ‘giddy, ridiculous tower’? Absolument rien.


The End (so far)

[094] And One Of Us Hasn’t Changed A Bit

Lili + Steve  #tbt

This was early ’80s… about 10 years into a 40-year friendship… and counting.


Everything about this photo makes me smile!
Thanks to Kim for picking up our old yearbook and causing this photo to fall out.

Day 094 #100happydays


The End (so far)

[080] Zooom!


Rolls Royce, baby

I discovered the Petersen Automotive Museum a couple of years ago when I went to a corporate party that was held there. (Note to corporate party planners: you can’t lose with this location for your next ultra-boring-company-gathering.) And I’ve been keeping it in my hip pocket for the day when friends came to town who would really spin their wheels over this.

That day was today. Jim + Mario are in town, refugees from the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad winter (you may have heard?) in New York. Now, Jim is a car aficionado, Mario not so much. And I’m in the same boat with Mario. We all loved the exhibits at the Petersen – which is a temple built to honor the evolution of the automobile, from the before the Model T to the land yachts of the 40s and 50s, to the DeLorean to the latest concept cars. Plus, fantasy cars such as the Batmobile, Speed Racer’s Mach 5 and novelties like the original Harley CHP bike.


Mario + Jim, touristos magnificos

The cartoon above was on a wall behind the first solar-powered vehicle. There is an early French steam-powered car. A gasoline-powered bicycle that looks like an instrument of torture. During the week it is not crowded, but the people who wander the three floors of exhibits become part of the show. Men and women, youngsters and oldsters – there’s something for everyone here. And lots of overheard comments like “Remember that!” and “Will you looka this!”

There are galleries devoted to Hot Wheels cars… to the evolution of the license plate… as you enter the museum there are a series of dioramas that are a little cheesy, but they set the stage for the pre-industrial development of the technologies needed for modern automobiles. Henry Ford didn’t just start churning out production-line cars. A century of invention preceded that.

I didn’t take many photos in the museum, because I sort of forgot to… wandering among dozens of vehicles and signage and vintage advertising is so much fun it keeps you in the moment. And that is the measure of a successful museum. So if you live in Southern California and you haven’t been to the Petersen, it is well worth the trip. Easy to find at the corner of Fairfax and Wilshire (across the street from LACMA), with its own parking garage. You can zip through the permanent collection and the exhibits in as little as an hour, or you could spend the whole day. And if you want to grab lunch before or after the museum, the Miracle Mile food trucks line Wilshire starting a block to the east of the Petersen. And there’s a certain symmetry to that. We perused the collection of cuisines on offer and settled on the Vietnamese sandwiches-on-baguette banh mi from a truck called Banh in the USA. Delish. And this being LA, we had lunch in the middle of shooting an episode of the reality tv show Food Truck Face Off… but our banh mi was much more interesting.

bahn in the usa

Banh in the USA food truck on Wilshire

Here are some of the pix I snapped. The Mach 5 race car…


… from one of my favorite childhood cartoons, Speed Racer.
Go! Speed! Go!


A gent and a lady from one of the dioramas as you enter the exhibits,
depicting life in the early days of the horseless carriage…

him her

One of the custom delivery trucks that used to fan out across Los Angeles
each morning with goodies from the Helms Bakeries…
(Looking inside this tin can truck makes you appreciate
every safety innovation of the last 100 years!)


An etiquette lesson for chauffeurs: No waving! No shouting! A silent nod will do…


Was there a kid (boy or girl) in the 60s and 70s who didn’t play with Hot Wheels cars?
This is one of the walls of the scale model cars in the exhibit,
which also has vintage tv commercials playing on monitors.
Takes you back…


Speaking of hot wheels, Mario found the perfect pickup truck
for running errands around his Westchester County estate…


…and I fell in love with this 2014 Jaguar Roadster. It’s so fast it’s a blur even while parked.


The Petersen museum and Wilshire Blvd food trucks were a great way to play with friends on

Day 080 #100happydays

[045] Continuum

= Throwback Thursday =

In 1922, science fiction writer Ray Cummings put it this way: “Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.” Makes sense. You drop an egg. A half-second ticks by. The egg smashes on the kitchen floor. Time separates the egg from its demise. And us from ours. But then… some wisecrackers came along and challenged our notion of time as nonsense. They plunked down this idea at the intersection of physics and philosophy: the past, the present and the future are all happening, together, all at once. The fabric of spacetime folds back onto itself and the point of contact – the now – is also the past and the future. It gets even more bizarre, but let’s leave it at everything-happens-at-once. And here’s a joke, because it never was/is/will be more relevant to any post I ever did/do/will do:

The past, the present and the future walked into a bar.

It was tense.

I cannot explain how the past, present and future can coexist. But… when I look at this photograph, I sort of get it. It’s not just that I remember exactly where this was taken or why we were there… it’s not that I remember the excitement of the moment… it’s not that I remember being there with Eileen… it’s not even that I remember thinking I can’t believe I’m wearing a t-shirt that says Homos For Hillary (it was a gift from my sister). It’s that this doesn’t feel like a memory at all. That 31-year-old me is peering out from this photo and connecting with himself, which is to say, with myself – the 51-year-old me. Him. Well, you know. The photo is just an artifact, but that moment is somehow contemporaneous with this moment.

My friend Eileen sent me that snapshot in a “happy Throwback Thursday” email today. It’s one of our favorite pictures of us together, and for so many reasons. First of all, we’re so young this is practically a sonogram. It was 1993. Eileen lived in Boston, I was in San Francisco. We met in Washington DC with entourages of old and new friends in tow. And we were there for two reasons.


And these two:

Our pals Mario and Jim tied the knot (for the first time) waaaaaaaay back in 1993. Before it was legal. Or fashionable. Or even a thing. They married again in Connecticut in 2009. And their federal government finally got around to recognizing their legal marriage less than a year ago, when the Supreme Court tossed DOMA on the trash heap of bigoted legal history. So… the photo Eileen shared with me today triggers a cascade of memories and emotions and connections. That weekend in Washington was one of those times in my life where the personal and the public got tossed in a blender and puréed.

Americans gather in stadiums for sports. We gather on the Fourth of July for parades and fireworks. We gather at beaches and parks over Labor Day weekend. But I think it’s fair to say that most Americans have never marched in the streets – for any reason. And even fewer have traveled to the nation’s capital to join hundreds of thousands of their fellow citizens to say, We’re here. We matter. And this is what we want. It is powerful stuff, putting yourself out there, using your body, your voice, your self… to try to change the world. Standing up, being counted. It is part of our birthright as Americans, explicitly protected by the 1st Amendment to the Constitution in the Bill of Rights:

Congress shall make no law
respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting
the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press;
or the right of the people peaceably to assemble,
and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances

Ukraine ProtestThese are not abstract notions. Look at the horror unfolding this week in the streets of Kiev. Ukrainians have turned out en masse to protest the games being played with their lives by Russia and the EU. And the government has viciously attacked its own people, firing on them, killing dozens or hundreds, escalating the violence. It is a war zone, and the Ukraine is on fire. The US certainly has its problems – but Americans can march on their capital to demand change, criticize our leaders and their decisions… without worrying about being murdered by the police or the military. This is precisely why it is so important to fight for your rights when they are being denied.

So, there we were in 1993, coming from every corner of the country to demand equal justice under the law. Equal rights, not special rights. There was another component of this March on Washington: AIDS. Only a decade into the epidemic at that point. The dead already numbered in the tens of thousands. The gay community and its AIDSQuiltImg5allies had rallied magnificently to take care of our own. But the FDA was plodding along in the face of an ongoing disaster, taking entirely too long to approve new drugs and treatment regimens. ACT-UP was taking the fight to the government, and this March on Washington delivered a powerful dose of urgency to the Clinton Administration – then only three months old. Part of our presence in Washington that weekend was a massive display of the Quilt – the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt – on the Mall. I have never experienced more raw emotional power than the times I’ve stood in the midst of the Quilt. It is overwhelming, in every way: the crushing weight of the loss, the fierce love in every stitch. Tens of thousands of 3′ x 6′ panels; the dimensions of a grave. Handmade with heartbreaking intimacy, awash in tears. Each panel commemorates a person, a man, a woman, a child, a life… lost to AIDS, lost to a decade of murderous disregard and unforgivable inaction by our own government. The Quilt acted as a lens, gathering all of our grief and anger and loss and sorrow and focusing it like a laser beam of resolve: to be relentless in our demands to take care of the sick and to stop this disease from wiping out an entire generation, or more. To be recognized as human beings, to say We’re here. We matter. This is what we need.

Still, it would take another four years of constant pressure before the new class of anti-retroviral drugs was made available to combat HIV infection and the progression of AIDS. That was a huge victory, both medical and moral. But those were also the years when Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT) and the so-called Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) were passed by Congress – and signed, shamefully, in the middle of the night by Bill Clinton. Those were dark days for me, for mine, for this country. Little did we know it would only get worse with the cataclysm of the coming Bush years.

But the arc of history does bend toward justice… slowly… slowly. It’s messy. It’s a knife fight. It’s two steps forward, one step back. Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug. But you keep going. Because it’s your life you’re fighting for, and for the lives of those around you. And also for the country you believe in, even when it seems to have abandoned you. As Gandhi is said to have said:

First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you – and then you win.

The general perception these days is that the fight for equal rights for gay and lesbian and bisexual and transgender Americans is just cruising along at presto-chango speed! But I’ve lived now through enough of that arc of history to know that the successes of the last few years could never have happened without the blood, sweat and tears of all the generations past, to the beginnings of the last century. We stand on the shoulders of giants: Larry Kramer, Cleve Jones, Harvey Milk, Margarethe Cammermeyer, Barney Frank, Annise Parker, Harry burstdownthoseclosetdoors.milkHay, Frank Kameny, Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin, Troy Perry, Bayard Rustin, Tammy Baldwin, Dan Savage, Urvashi Vaid, Edie Windsor and Thea Spyer, Ellen DeGeneres, Billie Jean King, Armistead Maupin, Eugene Robinson… hundreds of trailblazers… thousands of unsung heroes… millions of people living their lives in quiet dignity, waiting for the day when that dignity could speak with a louder voice. Many never saw that day. And that is why we never gave up, will never give up. If you’re a kid who feels different today, a wide path has been cleared for you – but you still might need to hear that “It Gets Better”. Because it does. Because we all came together, so many times, in so many places, across so many years, to make it better. We gay folk, the LGBT you hear so much about, have been ignored. We’ve been laughed at. We’ve been fought at every turn. And now, we’re winning.

It’s about time. And I wonder if this continuum of past, present and future means that an older me is on the future end of this party line. Are we like those hideous Russian nesting dolls? Wherever we are in our lives now, we contain all of our younger selves; we are, likewise, contained within all of our older selves. We just haven’t met them yet. It’s like temporal schizophrenia. Only better. Because there’s something comforting in the notion of the past and the future having a party.

Day 045 #100happydays

Say Something Nice

= Throwback Thursday =

The two kids in this photograph are now all growed up but prefer to remain anonymous.

One of them lives in London and is old, gray, balding and fat.

The other, in Los Angeles, has kept a little more of his hair.

They are both STRIVING MIGHTILY to eat healthy, exercise and grab victory from the jaws of defeat!

Your words of encouragement will be savored like a magical calorie-free cheesecake.

That is all.

Throwback Thursday 01.23.14

Setting the Wayback Machine to the winter of 1983/84…

My friend Kimberly recently unearthed a lost batch of photos of our adventures in New York circa 1984. We both worked at Wells Rich Greene Advertising (but that’s another post). Here’s a shot of me (and my hair) dangling not-so-perilously out my bedroom window (there was a small terrace) 18 stories above Sheridan Square in the Village. The view from that apartment was spectacular – especially at night – with the Twin Towers filling up half of the sky. Those were great days in Gotham. Before the world changed.

Another pic from that same day, clad in down, down in Soho.

Steve+Kim.Soho1983For someone who went on to become quite an accomplished photographer, It’s funny that Kimberly doesn’t seem to know where the camera is. We look like a promo shot for an ABC After School Special about Dana, a promising young skier whose Olympic dreams are dashed by a nasty spill on the slopes that robs her of her eyesight. She is lost. Until Bart, a devilishly handsome social worker, saves her from stepping in front of a speeding taxi. She studies his face with her hands, and gets very excited as she thinks she has found that escaped orangutan from the Bronx Zoo! The jolt cures (what turns out to be) her hysterical blindness, and she goes on to take the silver medal four years later at the Winter Games in Calgary.