No September 2022 edition
montage by Ron Vazzano
I wrote this piece which appeared in the October 2012 MuseLetter and reprise it here with some editing, more visuals, and factual updating. For in the blink of an eye, fifty-year anniversaries of two events have turned into sixtieths.
Bond and Kennedy: 17 Days in October (a Reprise)
One was fictional. The other real.
Both were charismatic and charming. And decisive men of action. And had an eye for the ladies.
Both had ice water in their veins when the moment called for it.
Both were on the scene sixty years ago this month, trying to thwart the fiendish plans of the bad guy. One in “reel life”…the other in real life.
On October 5, 1962*, we were introduced to Secret Service agent 007, James Bond. He was portrayed by Sean Connery, an unknown actor at the time (at least to me), who possessed an almost preternatural masculinity. The film was Dr. No, based on the novel by Ian Fleming.
Starting with the opening credits— with its unique graphic treatment, accompanied by a tantalizing piece of Duane Eddy-like music that had you by the seventh note— right on through to the introductions of Connery with cigarette dangling from the lip, and Ursula Andress emerging from the sea in white bikini, knife at the hip, stirring the libido, this movie had a different feel to it. It was “edgy.” Though that was not a term we used in those days.
Sixty years later, I could not tell you the plot other than it had something to do with obliterating something that was critical to our national security. Which at the time, was beside the point as far as I was concerned. For me, the en-
joyment of the film was one of style over substance; Andress over adventure. So upon Googling to refresh my memory, here’s the gist of it:
“Bond discovers that Dr. No is also working with the Russians and has built an elaborate underground facility from which he can sabotage American missile tests at nearby Cape Canaveral.”
It is a cliché to say that life imitates art. Yet just 17 days later, the Russians and Cape Canaveral would be mentioned again. This time for real.
On October 22, 1962, John F. Kennedy sat behind his desk in the oval office to speak to the nation about a danger that had been exposed as a result of some photographs taken by U.S. secret agents. Though he tried to assure us that everything would be done to avert a war of cataclysmic proportions, all the same, we stood ready to confront it if it came to that. Welcome to The Cuban Missile Crisis.
Whereas Bond was a man of few words, Kennedy was a man of many carefully chosen ones on that night.
Connery Kennedy
October 5, 1962 October 22, 1962
“Bond. James Bond.”
“It shall be the policy of this nation to
regard any nuclear missile launched
from Cuba against any nation in the
Western Hemisphere as an attack by
the Soviet Union on the United States,
requiring a full retaliatory response
upon the Soviet Union.”
JFK briefed the nation in positively chilling detail. Soviet missiles— poised just ninety miles off the coast of Florida— were capable of striking Washington and any other cities in the southeastern part of the United States, and perhaps beyond. Cape Canaveral, the base for our project Mercury manned space program at the time, was specified as being one of the potential targeted areas.
These things only happened in the movies, no? Yet, this wasn’t James Bond vs. Dr. No. This was John Kennedy vs. Nikita Khrushchev. And as we stood in front of the TV, stood not sat, we wondered what was next? What was to become of us? We were all in uncharted waters here. This was not WWII or the Korean War, this was
close to home. Too close.
To date, this was to be as near as the world might be to a nuclear war. And while the crisis was resolved through our forceful insistence that those missiles be removed from Cuba, things would never really be the same again.
For the first time in modern times, we realized how easily all that we had taken for granted, could be turned on its head in an instant (something being echoed today, albeit for different reasons). JFK’s assassination a year later would illustrate that point in spades, adding a dramatic chapter to our history. A President murdered in modern times and caught on camera.
As for how the fictional story played out, Bond of course saved the day and eliminated Dr. No by pushing him into a chemical vat, boiling him to death. (“Shocking.”) And that was to be the birth of a franchise worth over seven billion dollars spanning 27 "Bond movies" across these past six decades. In which six actors (a seventh, David Nivin starred in a spoof of Bond in Casino Royale), have portrayed what has long become an iconic character.
For those of us of a certain age who might have been there at the beginning, there will always be but one James Bond: Sean Connery. Who passed away in yet another October. The 31st, in 2020.
Though he starred in six films in the series (a seventh outside the franchise), Connery was once quoted as saying “I’m fed up to here with the whole Bond bit.” Apparently, its audience is not. The last release in 2021, No Time to Die starring Daniel Craig, was the highest-grossing of the 27. As for Kennedy, he's been swallowed up by history. Though the missiles never returned to Cuba.
* A bit of poetic license taken here, as the film was introduced on that date, only in the U.K. It premiered in a wide distribution in the U.S. on May 27, 1963. Which is around the time when I first saw it.
Quote of the Month
Humbling women seems
to me a chief pastime for poets.
As if there can be no story unless
we crawl and weep."
A Poem Born of Pixels
Pixels to play with by way of the PC on my desk, I found myself one day creating a skeleton skull. Where this came from, I have no idea. It just popped into my head. The sort of thing that keeps therapists in business. But pixel or pencil, a doodle is a doodle. An impromptu meandering absent any meaning, yet at times, intriguing. And to give it further gravitas I suppose, I inserted the phrase "Dead Space." Not knowing what that meant either. Each word in each eye in Old English font—incongruous with the macabre graphic— I thought it added a further element of mystery to it. I liked it. I printed it. I kept it.
One day I exhumed it from the dead files in my closet— and don't we all have a skeleton or two in our closets—which then inspired a jumping off point for a poem. In this spirit, and this being the month of Halloween, I offer...
Among the dancing bones, the grim reaper grimace
and a swirl of ghosts
as if on All Hallows Eve,
a gravedigger stands waiting.
Something lies unresolved,
a mound of dirt beside a hole in need of filling—
CLOSURE of a kind of which we oft hear tell.
Yet it has no dimension
this realm of mindlessness
for want of a definition.
As to when it began assumes a timeline
that isn’t there.
Much like the universe
though absent the bang and much confined;
a hole to be filled.
Which is where we came in.
Like mourners to a gravesite
with no words we can ever express,
hoping that paying our respects
is more than enough
and whatever it was
is put to rest.
A Unicorn on a Diamond of Dollars
Sometimes an achievement becomes so special, as to go beyond the realm in which it takes place. Be it in the arts, science, technology, what have you, and of course, in the “world of sports.” And the person of said achievement, or virtuosity as I think of it, becomes a household name. So that “even my mother has heard of you,” as Jay Leno used to say to describe who is a true celebrity.
I once suggested in a short poem I wrote long ago published in a literary baseball magazine, that there is also a connectivity to virtuosity across different fields. I imagined a crossing of Babe Ruth and Enrico Caruso in 1920. The year that Ruth first became a New York Yankee, as Caruso was passing from the scene (he would die a year later). It's set here to the right.
Seven years after arriving in New York, the Babe would hit 60 home runs in one season. (The “Sutan of Swat” as he was dubbed). A record that would stand for 34 years until Roger Maris, another Yankee, hit 61 in 1961.
Subsequently, that American League record, or the “clean” record, the “true” record, would stand for, you guessed it, 61 years. And now that number (reached on September 28th), is likely to be exceeded any day. A virtuosity is on display in real time. One which may not have been of interest to one who is not a baseball fan, yet to which, attention might be paid.
His name is Aaron Judge. The third in this "homeric" triad of Yankees. A man standing at 6 feet 7 inches and weighing in at 282 pounds, who hails from Linden, California. A bi-racial adoptee— on the second day of his life— he’s now a man of stature, both on and off the field. And he plays his talents and personality in the key of A-modest. A good old-fashioned American hero in the good old-fashioned American game of baseball.
He is a unicorn, in the modern idiom. Used to describe that rare performer of exceptional talent, who excels even beyond the benchmark of stardom. Often said to come along, once in a lifetime. That is how good a season Judge has had.
Belying his size which seems more in keeping with that of a football or basketball player, he performs with grace in every aspect of the game. Said to be a "five-tool player," he hits for a high average, can field, can throw, can run with speed, and of course there is that raw power.
Beloved by fans, a separate section in right field at Yankee Stadium was constructed and designated as The Judge’s Chambers five years ago. Where a select faithful sit. Sometimes even in judicial robes, and with props. A place where Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor, a Bronx native and serious Yankee fan, has been seen.
montage by Ron Vazzano
No other Yankee in the history of the franchise has ever been so honored. In fact, I'm unaware of anything comparable in any sport. But now, all this can come crashing down to earth for Yankee fans next year. If when Judge's contract runs out, he signs on with another team. As he becomes a free agent at season's end, any of the 30 major league teams are free to bid for his services. Thus, in a discussion of unicorns and virtuosity, with all the attendant warm and fuzzies, such serendipity must ultimately be intruded upon by dollars and cents. Or "no sense," as most folks would have it. (Any veering off here into the injustice of those grossly underpaid in more critical occupations and endeavers for the common good, is best served for another day).
A unicorn can suddenly seem more like a bull when it comes to negotiations. Led by the nose by a matador agent. As with all athletes, the boilerplate claim is, “it’s not about the money.” But more about being compensated at a level that is in concert with their comparative talents within the game. And here, performance on the diamond turns into big bucks. In this case, Judge turned down the Yankees’ offer back in March of $213.5 million over seven years. Deciding instead, in effect, to bet on himself having a good year—and boy did he ever—and land a better deal.
For some perspective across the ages on unicorn compensation, The Babe, when asked if he thought he deserved to be making more money than President Hoover, famously replied: “'Why not? I had a better year than he did."
$80,000 was Ruth’s highest salary. Which equates to $1.4 million today.
To go farther afield, pocket change to what fellow hotel resident Enrico Caruso was purported to have made. At his peak, $500,000 annually. About $17.4 million in today’s money. Still, not even in the ballpark of what present day superstars can command. But seemingly nothing is in the ballpark these days, financially and economically speaking. So what is Judge's worth in today's market? Bear with a few baseball performance specifics, before an attempt to answer that question.
As a result of his aforementioned exceptional skills, he is a shoo-in to be named the Most Valuable Player. A rather self explanatory award. He also could also possibly win the Triple Crown. For the uninitiated, this is awarded to someone having hit the most home runs, most runs batted in, and highest batting average in the league. A rare feat to say the least, the last Yankee to do it was Mickey Mantle in 1956. And Judge will have accomplished this while hitting over 60 home runs and broken a long held record. Collectively, something never done in the history of baseball. It has been argued that Aaron Judge might have had the best season of any player. Ever! Speculation has it, that some team out there will offer Judge $320 million over eight years. $40 mil per.
Who knows where all this is heading. Not only with Judge, but others not far down the road. You've heard of a fellow unicorn, Shohei Ohtani of the Los Angeles Angels? If not, you will. His contract expires in 2023.
“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?” How far will you go, Aaron Judge?
Word of the Month
omphalos om·pha·los | \ ˈäm(p)-fə-ˌläs , -ləs \
noun
-
the naval; umbilicus
-
the central point; the hub
-
Greek Antiquity: a stone in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, thought to be the center of the earth
Used in a sentence
St. Paul's church became the omphalos for first responders following the 9/11 attack.
finito
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre November 2018
Parts of the site under reconstruction
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre November 2018
Parts of the site under reconstruction
Quote of the Month
Humbling women seems
to me a chief pastime for poets.
As if there can be no story unless
we crawl and weep."
Capt. Nemo played by James Mason
in deep-doo doo in the deep blue sea.
Ron Vazzano
Ron Vazzano
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