Happy 60th to the original Zwiff

My dad turned 60 years old the other day.  Happy Birthday dad!  He’s been through alot and is quite a character as anyone who’s met him can attest to.  He’s not without his quirks -he repeats himself frequently, has poor posture (which he’s working on as long as I bug him about it -heck I have poor posture too), and one of his weaknesses is email forwarding.  The guy just loves a good forward.  I must get that from him because in an ode to my dad I’ve decided to post a forward he sent me last week that makes for a pretty interesting history lesson.  Jews should like this one, but non-jews won’t care (I’m prepared for the you’re right, I don’t care comment)

Who was Harry Bingham and why did he get a stamp?

Just an interesting piece of evidence of the curious behavior of the Roosevelt administration toward the Jews during WWII —–

A few months ago, Secretary of State Colin Powell gave a posthumous award for “constructive dissent” to Hiram (or Harry) Bingham, IV. For over fifty years, the State Department resisted any attempt to honor Bingham. For them he was an insubordinate member of the US diplomatic service, a dangerous maverick who was eventually demoted. Now, after his death, he has been officially recognized as a hero.

Bingham came from an illustrious family. His father (on whom the fictional characterIndianaJones was based) was the archeologist who unearthed the IncaCity of Machu Picchu,Peru, in 1911. Harry entered the US diplomatic service and, in 1939, was posted to Marseilles, France, as American Vice-Consul.

The USA was then neutral and, not wishing to annoy Marshal Petain’s puppet Vichy regime, President Roosevelt’s government ordered its representatives in Marseilles not to grant visas to any Jews. Bingham found this policy immoral and, risking his career, did all in his power to undermine it.

Harry Bingham in his days as a Pimp...before joining the State Department

In defiance of his bosses inWashington, he granted over 2,500USA visas to Jewish and other refugees, including the artists Marc Chagall and Max Ernst and the family of the writer Thomas Mann. He also sheltered Jews in hisMarseilleshome, and obtained forged identity papers to help Jews in their dangerous journeys acrossEurope. He worked with the French underground to smuggle Jews out ofFranceinto Franco’sSpainor across theMediterraneanand even contributed to their expenses out of his own pocket. In 1941,Washingtonlost patience with him. He was sent toArgentina, where later he continued to annoy his superiors by reporting on the movements of Nazi war criminals.

Eventually, he was forced out of the American diplomatic service completely. Bingham died almost penniless in 1988. Little was known of his extraordinary activities until his son found some letters in his belongings after his death. He has now been honored by many groups and organizations including the United Nations and the State of Israel.

Now I don’t know about you, but I practice ‘constructive dissent’ all the time at my job!  In fact, I always thought I’d be a pretty good diplomat. 

Happy Birthday to the original Zwiff.

July 4 1/2

 

My fourth of July was good.  I was upstate with my grandmother who suffers from dementia.  At one point I was napping in the bed with her when she called to me that we had to get off at Brooklyn Avenue (we were 150 miles away from Brooklyn and not on a bus).  I drank beers with my Uncle and father and watched the Yankee game.  We did housework and I even trimmed hedges (email me if you want pictures).  It was a grand All-American July 4th and really felt good.  In the evening I drove into the city to Greenpoint, Brooklyn to watch the fireworks from Boots Factor’s rooftop.  Boots (or Brian as I’ll refer to him now) owns a sweet pad he just bought last year.  Crown molding, granite countertops, washer and dryer, and even a wine fridge (oh yeah, ladies!)  There’s a flatscreen tv and plenty of toys and instruments (Brian plays drums and other assorted noisemakers for the band Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers).  He’s decorated the place very well, adorning the walls with tour posters,  album art, and other items that let his presence be known even when he’s not there. The place is really great. 

 

So I leave my grandparents house a little later than planned to get down to Brooklyn for the fireworks.  Starr and Jeff and Kim and Kelly and others will be there despite the bad weather and I borrowed my moms Soccer-Mobile just for this purpose (nothing says Adam Barry quite like a White Nissan SUV with Donovan and I Am Sam in the cd player –I’m the most castrated driver on the road, but still I have to go 80 to get to this thing on time). 

 

By the time I’m in NJ, I’m doing okay, so I stop for cheap gas ($3.88 ) and make a poor impulse move into Taco Bell since I’m starving and the Chulent wasn’t ready when I left the country.  I order two soft tacos for $2.32 expecting to be in and out in a minute –this is fast food after all.  I’m disgusted with myself for doing this, but I’m also starving and I can’t help but think that the last time I had taco bell turned into a pretty good night.  I’m now waiting in the line after ordering and it’s not moving and there’s two cars in front of me and how long does a taco take?  All the while, I’m getting more nauseous looking at where I am, and then I look at the clock: 8:50pm.  JEEEZ!  I’m supposed to be in Brooklyn by 9:20 and I haven’t gone through the tunnel yet!  What’s the matter with me!?! I get off the line (fuck Taco Bell), and take off for the tunnel, recalibrate my internal map and decide to take the Lincoln Tunnel to 34th Street, cross town (since there shouldn’t be traffic since it’s midtown on a weekend at night), and get the Midtown Tunnel to Queens and make a quick right over the Pulaski Bridge into Greenpoint.  But I quickly hit traffic on 34th Street.  It’s wet and sweltering out and my windows are open.  At the light at 34th and 7th a white guy on a scooter with his kid looks at me and says hello.  Strange, but it’s something that I would likely do to so we chit-chat for a moment (does he know that just moments earlier in my head I was telling the cabbies in front of me to HIT THAT GUY ON THE SCOOTER!)  He’s heading with his kid to the fireworks as well (DAMN, I WISH I HAD A SCOOTER!), and then he points out sap on my windshield and suggests that I get it off soon as sap on the windshield is not good.  Traffic abound, I pull an audible to 32nd street but hit a huge upset at 2nd Avenue.  The FUCKING STREET IS CLOSED!  FUCK!  Okay, down 2nd Ave (Kips bay, can’t even turn down 30th), okay, fuck it, down to the Williamsburgh bridge.  And fuck lights now too.  They’re just getting in the way.  Now I hate every cab and I’m running red lights through the East Village as I weave through traffic honking my horn and flashing my lights, crossing yellow lines and telling myself the whole time what a great driver I am.  Added to the fact is I don’t even know where I’m going once I get over the bridge (my mom’s stupid Magellan thing’s adapter is nowhere to be found (not that I could figure it out anyway)).  South of Houston is clear and I fly over the bridge (take in the moment –it is a nice view), and make a left knowing a general idea of where I’m going from looking at google maps a lot at work.  I run pretty much any red light I can, pass any car that’s not moving fast like me, and get to Greenpoint.  Leonard Street.  Call Jeff to come down and meet me (which he does (good roommate)), and run to the apartment, up the stair and to the roof just as the first fireworks go off and where Starr is waiting for me. 

 

Happy 6 months, babe.  Don’t think twice, it’s alright.