A writer.

Joseph Mitchell worked as a writer at "The New Yorker" from 1938 when he was hired, until 1996 when he died.

He published hundreds of pieces, many of which were collected in book form in "Up in the Old Hotel," "McSorley's Wonderful Saloon" and other volumes. Copies of these great books are widely available. You can probably pick them up for a dollar or two (plus shipping) on abebooks.com

Mitchell is also famous for his 32 years of writer's block.

He didn't publish anything from 1964 until his death, though he regularly showed up at his office at "The New Yorker."

Just yesterday, my copy of the magazine arrived in my mailbox and there it was, something previously unpublished by Mitchell.

This is like finding a never-before-seen Caravaggio or an unheard etude by Beethoven.

Here's what the magazine had to say about the piece.

"What follows here is the initial chapter of a planned memoir that Mitchell started in the late sixties and early seventies but, as with other writings after 1964, never completed."

You can buy the magazine for $6.95 and read the story.

Here's the bit of it I liked the most. A rumination on aging, I think.

"Because of all this sort of thing, and because of other and perhaps far more interesting things that I will mention later, I used to feel very much at home in New York City. I wasn't born here, I wasn't a native, but I might as well have been: I belonged here. Several years ago, however, I began to be oppressed by a feeling that New York City had gone past me and that I didn't belong here anymore. I sometimes went on from that to a feeling that I never had belonged here, and that could be especially painful. At first, these feelings were vague and sporadic, but they gradually became more definite and quite frequent. Ever since I came to New York City, I have been going back to North Carolina for a visit once or twice a year, and now I began going back more often and staying longer. At one point, after a visit of a month and a half, I had about made up my mind to stay down there for good, and then I began to be oppressed by a feeling that things had gone past me in North Carolina also, and that I didn't belong down there anymore, either. I began to feel painfully out of place wherever I was. When I was in New York City, I was often homesick for North Carolina; when I was in North Carolina, I was often homesick for New York City. Then, one Saturday afternoon,while I was walking around the ruins of Washington Market, something happened to me that led me, step by step, out of my depression. A change took place in me. And that is what I want to tell about."

Ratings agencies rating agencies.

Of the myriad reasons behind the world-wide economic collapse that began in late 2007 and continues to this day, the complicity of ratings agencies should not be overlooked.

These agencies, like Moody's and Standard & Poor's routinely inflated ratings at the behest of financial institutions. They did so in a quest to gain the business (and therefore, fees) from financial institutions. That is, if you rate my junk as AAA, I'll give you tens of millions in fees.

The above is not merely the ravings of a "red."  Just yesterday the Justice Department filed fraud charges against Standard & Poor's (the nation's largest rating agency) accusing them of inflating the ratings of mortgage investments, thereby setting them up for a crash when the financial crisis struck.

The Justice Department said that S&P "knowingly and with the intent to defraud,devised, participated in, and executed a scheme to defraud investors..."

Naturally America's other ratings agencies are not without guilt--and the D o J has suits against them. Joe Nocera, Pulitzer-Prize winning business writer for "The New York Times" said on National Public Radio this morning, that ratings agencies, competing for business, routinely cooked the books and promised higher ratings in order to gain revenue.

I listened to Nocera this morning and I thought that these corrupt entities are really not ethically distinct from the ratings agencies that seem to rule our business.

I call it "The Awards-Industrial Complex" that in essence rates agencies and ads based on criteria that matter very little in the real world. In today's world, we compete not for market-share, but for award-share.

In a business where business should be the measure of all things, we have succumbed to the spurious allure of cheap trophies.

We worry more about how we're rated than about the money we generate for our clients.

PETP.

As you'd know if you knew him, Uncle Slappy was waiting impatiently for me to return home from work. He and Aunt Sylvie are city people and they have no problem, while they're here, taking a stroll, going to a museum, or seeing a movie. I'm thankful that at 85 and 84 my Aunt and Uncle still have all their faculties in tact.

Nevertheless, Uncle Slappy could barely wait for me to come home from work. Not only did he want to watch Jeopardy! with me, he was fully and eagerly anticipating watching the Knicks, who were slated to play the Pistons of Detroit at the Garden at 7:30.

With my wife out of town, and not particularly feeling like cooking, I asked Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie if they wouldn't mind a light dinner of the sandwiches that were left over from yesterday evening's Super Bowl party.

They both agreed that sandwiches would be fine and I began putting a nice platter together for each of them.

Aunt Sylvie, who at 84, is still slim and still watching her figure asked for nothing but turkey. Uncle Slappy was less diet-conscious and requested "pastrami. Straight up."

We turned on the Knicks and commenced eating our sandwiches in front of the flat screen.

"We saw the George Bellows exhibit at the Met today," Aunt Sylvie said.

Slappy quickly cut her off.

"I joined an organization today," he offered. "An important organization."

I did nothing more than nod in his direction. And he continued.

"PETP," he said, pronouncing it "pet pa."

"And what is pet pa," I inquired. I am used to playing the straight man to Uncle Slappy.

"It's an important organization, doing noble work. It's People for the Ethical Treatment of Pastrami. Now this pastrami," he eyed his Carnegie Deli-sized phonebook of a sandwich, "this pastrami has been treated ethically."

"Mm hmm," I concured.

"Too many people take Pastrami for granted. They serve it cold, not warm. They eat it on white, not rye. It's wrong, I tell you. Wrong."

Fortunately at this point the Knicks came on and Slappy lost himself in the game.

Ben Shahn in New York.

Over 80 years ago the great artist Ben Shahn painted "The Passion of Sacco and Vanzetti," a depiction of the slain men who were electrocuted allegedly for killing two men during the robbery of a shoe factory in Braintree, MA.

Anyway I saw this photograph today from Ed Koch's funeral that reminded me of Shahn's best work.

Some thoughts on the game.

Well, another Super Bowl has come and gone--another drunken orgy of bombast and violence and, now, for the first time in American history, evidence of America's decline into third-world-ness. We are in debt and bankrupt in so many ways, we can't even keep the lights on.

At least no one was shot on the field, during the game, though my guess is that as a country we've kept up our daily average of 33 gun deaths.

I turned off the game before it got interesting. I looked at the clock around 9:30--I had already endured three hours of noise and I said to my wife "I've had enough." I went into our bedroom to see if I could still read after 180 minutes of inundating dumbness.

We had people over, Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie as I had mentioned in an earlier post, a cousin in from San Francisco and my brother-in-law, his girl friend and my 15-year-old niece. We ate deli sandwiches and cake and drank about half a beer each and talked over the announcers who were talking over the game.

I didn't have much luck shhhsing people quiet when the commercials came on, but that, too, was ok. I had seen most of them online before the game.

Nothing stood out for me. I enjoyed some of the spots, but no new car is on my shopping list and my refrigerator is devoid of Bud and Beck's.

In all it was a not-unpleasant diversion.

That said, I'm glad it's over.

A sign of the times.

There's a meme running around now called "What a $4 million Super Bowl Ad Could Buy in Digital." You can see it here: meme

The meme, to my mind, makes a lousy argument.

I'd way rather have a spot on the game than, for instance, an eight-day You Tube homepage ad. The fact is, I can't remember ever even seeing a You Tube homepage ad.

It seems to me that people are still bickering over channel efficacy as if it's an either/or proposition. Either you do traditional or you do digital. No one wants to say that it's proper, intelligent and effective to have a mix.

This reminds me, of course, of the perennial battles between different branches of our armed forces.  The air force always asserted it could win a war on its own. The army, navy and marines have made similar claims.

The real answer is that it takes a variety of forces to carry the day.

But it's so much easier to assert that "____________ is dead."

In any event, here's a sign I saw in my neighborhood. Not bad for a medium that doesn't matter.

Uncle Slappy comes up for the game.

Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie surprised me this morning. Slappy called at 7AM. That's not unusual. He is an early riser and always has been.

"Schmendrick," he began "Sylvie and I thought we'd pop up, see the Super Bowl with you two and stay a few days."

My wife will be out of town most of next week and I'm not one for surprises but Uncle Slappy continued.

"We're on our way to the airport now. We're on a 9:30 flight."

"We can't wait to see you," I told the old man. "You know you're always welcome."

Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie arrived from LaGuardia just minutes ago and Slappy took the reins of what will be our very Jewish Super Bowl party. My brother-in-law is coming over with his girlfriend and my niece, and my wife's cousin Gary is in from San Francisco. The six of us will be watching the game and the commercials together.

"There will be eight of us," Slappy said, "order sandwiches for 12."

My wife, on the phone with Ben's, the deli famous for its Shiva platters, raised a single delicate eyebrow and then said into the phone, "Yes, we need sandwiches for 12."

Slappy continued running things.

"We need cole slaw, potato salad and an order of sour pickles," he instructed. "Not half sours like at Norman Weinstein's Shiva. Feh on half sours."

My wife repeated the Sage's order into the phone.

"And a schtickel of cake and some rugelach," the Old Man said.

"Why don't you just order a coronary?" Aunt Sylvie jabbed.

"If I wanted your opinion I would have given it to you," Slappy riposted.

It could very well be a long weekend.

A good tagline.

I'm always amazed that small companies like Applegate Organic and Natural Meats almost invariably have better taglines than the Fortune 500 companies who pay us millions.

Seat of the pants almost always beats seats in a boardroom.

Ed Koch and my daughter.

Ed Koch, the three-term mayor of New York City through the 70s and the 80s, died this morning at the age of 88.

New York was a crazier place back then when he was mayor. Crime and corruption and real estate moguls were all out of control. And Koch--despite his enormous presence and charisma--could do little to rein things in.

Still, most people, myself included, regard him as a successful mayor.

He had taken over from a bland technocrat named Abe Beame. Under Beame, the city's future seemed as moribund as Beame's demeanor.

Koch was different.

He was energetic.

Passionate.

Fun.

Sometimes shrill, but always boosting the city and its prospects.

He infused life into a city that was nearly bankrupt. He began the long, slow process of turning New York around.

You can read any number of obituaries about Ed Koch, but none of them will include this story.

Back in 1988 as my daughter Sarah approached her first birthday, my wife and I planned a party for her. She was both our families first kid and a wonderful kid at that, and cause for great celebration.

I sent Mayor Koch an invitation to Sarah's party.

A week later a package arrived in the mail. In it there was a hand-written note from the Mayor expressing his regrets that he couldn't make it. Also in the package was a leather folio embossed in gold with the seal of the City of New York on the cover. Inside the left hand panel was beautiful grosgrain. The right hand panel held a proclamation from the Mayor.

He declared July 31st (my daughter's birthday) now and forever "Sarah Tannenbaum Day" in New York City.

Rounds and rounds.

Years and years ago, my partner and I were assigned to create some commercials for Celestial Seasonings Teas.

We dug in.

We worked hard.

We came up with some good campaigns.

Then we got on a plane to Boulder, Colorado to present to the client.

The meeting did not go well.

We got back on the plane having sold nothing and got back to work.

The same process repeated itself.

And again we flew out to Boulder.

And again we didn't sell anything.

The project was taken from us when we returned to the agency and assigned to another team.

My partner and I were disconsolate.

We had worked together for three years and had never before struck out.

I said to him, "If we come up with eight campaigns and 'don't get it,' it's not us. There's something else going on."

Sure enough the alternate team quickly sold a campaign to the Celestial Seasonings.

It featured the client's famous girlfriend in the ads.

We had neglected to use her.

Right now I am finishing a package of six commercials.

Five are finished already and shipped.

The sixth we have shown 51 versions of and we still can't get internal approval.

It's not us.

It's something else.