A Reasoned, Detailed and Nuanced Response to British Parliament's Investigation Of Rupert Murdoch...

...Which Concluded that Rupert Murdoch was Morally Unqualified to Run a Multinational Media Corporation:


Well, Duh.

Fanfare for an Uncommon Man

Norman Leonard Kreisman is my father. He is an ordinary man who has led an extraordinary life. To say I'm proud of him would be a vast understatement.

He was born eighty-six years ago in the Bronx, a premature baby who wasn't supposed to make it through the first night of his life. He survived only to contract polio when he was ten. Bedridden for a year, he overcame the disease to serve his country in World War Two and then with fellow members of the "Black Fleet" (A group of lifelong friends who all served in the war and went to school on the GI Bill) graduated from Union College in Schenectady, New York (A school he continues to love and serve to this day).

Attending a wedding with the other members of the Fleet, he spotted a shy, beautiful brunette and boldly announced to his friends to keep away from her, she was going to be his. He married my Mom two years later and their love affair continues sixty-three years later.

The first half Dad's life was quite normal, working in Manhattan and commuting on the 5:15 train home to Long Island every evening. However, his and the rest of the family's life changed one winter day in 1975 when my younger sister Diane called from college saying that she couldn't get out of bed. We didn't know it at the time but she was suffering from depression and schizophrenia.

For years, my parents fought through the antiquated and uncharted waters of the mental health system in New York. At the time, most doctors didn't even know what schizophrenia was, some believing that her condition was a result of possibly being dosed with drugs at school.

Hearing that sunlight and warmth are better for people in Diane's condition, my family moved from New York to Florida in the mid eighties. Upon settling in Sarasota, they realized that Florida was even more in need of mental health facilities than New York. That's when my Dad found his true calling and went to work.

He made numerous trips to Tallahassee to lobby lawmakers for funding of mental health facilities for the Sarasota-Bradenton area. As a result, Coastal Behavioral Healthcare got its first mental health services contract from the state. My Dad then went to work getting the funding for a building and staff to help anyone or any family in need. He got the funding and the Suncoast had its first CSU. Imagine the shock when he discovered that the powers-that-be decided to name the building the Kreisman Center Crisis Stabilization Unit.

At a time when persons were allowed to only serve one term, Dad served as Chairman of Coastal Board three successive terms and was named Chairman Emeritus upon his retirement.

(On a personal note my sister, through a delicate balance of medication and a large dose of support now leads a normal life thanks in large part to Mom and Dad's tireless work.)

Last summer, The Kreisman CSU was expanded and renamed the Kreisman Campus for Integrated Health Care in honor of my Mom and Dad's tireless work for mental health. The Mayor declared it Norman and Dorothy Kreisman Day, they received a proclamation and their deeds were read on the floor of Congress into the Congressional Record. Although my Dad is somewhat shy about all his accomplishments, I am not. Last summer when he was hospitalized, I mentioned to a group of doctors about the honor he was about to receive. They were somewhat blasé about it until I mentioned that the honor wasn't for philanthropy but hard work. Their attitudes quickly changed to glowing admiration at the realization that my Dad had earned the honor, not bought it.

He is remembered fondly by all. I am truly amazed how many of my high school friends I've been reacquainted with on Facebook constantly ask to send my regards to my parents. They all have great stories to tell me about hanging out at my house with the coolest folks in the neighborhood. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was truly blessed to have parents like them.

There are so many wonderful memories of my Dad that I had growing up, encouraging my writing, coaching my Little League team (And treating them to pizza at the house after the games) and sneaking into Yankee Stadium under his coat so I could sit on his lap sharing Sunday's with him at New York Giant football games. I got my sense of humor from him (Although my Mom disagrees) and Dad taught me the joys of listening to Bob and Ray and even Howard Stern. He's one of those rare people that everyone gravitates to, collecting friends and admirers wherever he goes.

Although now in his second "retirement" people who have family members with mental issues still seek him out. A month ago we went to a neighbor's St. Patrick's Day party. Feeling weak, he sat most of the night on a couch watching the festivities. However, toward the end of the party a couple that he'd never met approached him. They were having trouble coping with their son's condition and didn't know what to do next. Although weakened, Dad sat with them for about a half hour calmly explaining who to call, what to do and comforting them. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as the couple sat in rapt attention. As always, Dad told them to call him if they had any more problems or just needed someone to talk to. That's just who he is. He's happiest when he's helping others.

Unfortunately, my Dad isn't doing too well right now. We started hospice care last week. However, I am amazed at the number of people coming to the house whose lives he has affected. He's truly a giant among men. I'm blessed to have him as my father. He was and always will be my best friend. Humble as ever, when he's feeling down I remind him that he is that rare person whose life truly made a difference for the good. He shrugs it off, but deep down he knows.

I'm so lucky that Norman Leonard Kreisman is my father. I treasure our remaining conversations about politics, the Lakers, why there's nothing on TV for him to watch except the Military Channel and of course, mental health care. He's one of kind. I love you, Dad.

Olbermann versus Current

The news of Keith Olbermann's exit from Current is just a few hours old, yet I am not shocked by what may or may not have happened. One thing seems sure at this point: It was a mutual agreement by both parties.

Television is a nasty, complicated, tension-filled, egocentric business. What you see on the screen comes from endless hours of careful planning, politicking and gallons of caffeine. Doing a nightly show is like being stuck on a treadmill going 10 miles an hour with no off switch. In the best of times, things run smoothly with an occasional bump here and there. Other times it can seem like falling down a bottomless well. You need all the support from your network and studio to get you through the slog.

Keith Olbermann is a gifted journalist and broadcaster, with a deep respect for those who blazed a trail in broadcast news before him. He is also what's known as "high maintenance" venting his excess steam at others, most notably management at the network. This is not a good mix, which I know firsthand.

I was a successful writer/executive producer of network sitcoms for about 20 years. I had a partner who had total disdain for network executives and would fight with them at the drop of a hat. Our partnership worked so well because he was the front man, the more personable of the two who could deal with actors, and I was the more political and business oriented, working behind the scenes with the network, agents and the studio.

The more successful we got, the more volatile my partner became. He picked fights with anyone in authority. After a long day (and night) at the studio I would come home and my real work would begin, answering the calls left on my machine from the bigwigs who my partner had pissed off that day. I'd apologize, soothe their egos, tell them that he didn't mean what he said and promise that I'd rein him in.

Soon it became clear that studios and networks didn't want the headache of having him around. Finally the bottom fell out when we were fired from a show that we ourselves had created. Even though we were still very high in the Hollywood creative world's eyes, the constant tension and volatility my partner brought to the table just wasn't worth it anymore.

Keith Olbermann reminds me of my old partner. Talented and profitable but at an enormous psychological price. There just comes a time when both sides tire of the battle. Apparently Olbermann expected too much from Current, which basically is a startup in the news cycle biz. Technical glitches happen during the shake out period, which may last for a year or so. I'm sure Olbermann knew what he was getting into, but still when it happens on air, it's not the most secure feeling. However, taking as many absent days as Olbermann did defiantly has a detrimental effect on the staff and viewers. Recently I was starting to tune out Countdown and watch MSNBC during that hour because of Keith's spotty attendance record. Also bailing on the network during its primary coverage sent way too may wrong signals to everyone.

Was management right for clamping down so hard on KO? Yes and No. Was Olbermann right for trying to embarra** management in public? No, but he couldn't help it. Like my former partner that's who he is. A divorce was inevitable.

Will this signal the end of Current? No. To be honest, I actually enjoyed Cenk Uygur, Jennifer Granholm and the other Young Turk's coverage of the primaries. Plus now the network is broadcasting in the mornings with live feeds from Bill Press and Stephanie Miller's AM radio shows. I think Elliot Spitzer is a fine replacement for Olbermann. Forget his appearances on the overly produced show he had on CNN. Instead, watch his numerous pieces in Bill Maher. Spitzer is excellent. I have no doubt Current will find its mojo.

As for Olbermann, I don't know where he goes next. It's a shame because he was the preeminent newscaster on the air for the last five years. His talent is too huge to keep hidden away. Media is changing and perhaps he will find another platform. I'll definitely follow him as a viewer or reader. Although it hurts now, I think both will end up on their feet as long as this doesn't become a death cage match in court.

Just remember, they might call it news, but at the end of the day it's really just show biz.

Lifestyles of the Super-Rich & Famous

With all the news recently about the widening gap between the haves and the have not's, I thought I thought I'd share with you one person's foray into the land of the super-rich.

I once worked for the all-powerful, all-extravagant producer Aaron Spelling. For those of you who don't remember him, Spelling was the producer of such prime time shows as "Charlie's Angels", "Dallas" "Beverly Hills 90210" "Dynasty" and "Fantasy Island" to name just a few. Just a few! Whew! If I had produced just one, I would have retired for life at age thirty on my own private island.

Of course those shows made Spelling one of the wealthiest persons in Hollywood, and that's quite an achievement. He was also noted for his extravagance, as I witnessed first-hand when upon our first meeting in his office, he allowed me to play with his brand new toy, a customized pinball machine complete with solid gold flippers and balls. (When you hit a high score, one of his actresses like Farrah Fawcett, would appear on the video screen and coo how wonderful you are. True.)

He was also famous for his legendary mansion in the Holmby Hills section of Los Angeles. He bought the lot where the home of Bing Crosby once stood and built a 123-room mansion, which is still considered to be the largest single family dwelling in Los Angeles, and the low rent districts of Dubai. The construction of the home was covered extensively in the media, especially when Spelling's wife requested a local department store remove it's neon identification sign from its building because the Spellings could see it from their bedroom. Hell, they could have seen every neon sign south to the Mexican boarder from that monstrosity.

As luck would have it, I ended up producing a network sitcom for Aaron. As one of the perks of being high up in his employ, I was invited to a meeting with the man himself at his legendary home.

My writing partner and I arrived after going through numerous security checkpoints. There were dozens of security officers hidden on the grounds, but the ones most visible were on guard on the roof of the home, with automatic rifles at the ready. We entered and Aaron gave us the royal tour. He had his personal bowling alley, a room made up to look like an old time diner that he said served guests ice cream and soda when they were invited to watch "Monday Night Football." (Where was the chicken farm that produced the hot wings?) There was a separate room for his wife's enormous doll collection and another just used to wrap gifts. There was also the living room, which doubled as a screening room. At the flick of a switch, the curtains were drawn and an enormous movie screen emerged from the floor, not stopping until it reached the ceiling. We're talking Imax-sized, folks. Needless to say, I was impressed and also taking mental notes to tell everyone who was waiting with bated breath to hear my report of the infamous mansion on the hill.

We held our meeting in a library, which contained a floor-to-ceiling collection of every script of every show that he produced. Then it was time to go. Aaron walked us to the vestibule. As we were about to leave, I noticed a small table next to the front door. It was the type of table that most people have when you enter the home, a place to drop the keys or the mail or keep the leash for the dog. However what caught my eye was a small canvas with an oil painting of a rose that was propped up, unframed amid the pocket junk the family had deposited on the table. The canvas was about six by eight inches. I looked at the signature on the canvas. It read "Monet."

"What's with the painting?" I asked. Spelling shrugged and told us it was nothing really. Just a little something that he got for his wife for her anniversary a few years ago. Seems he always got her roses and this time he decided to get her a painting of a rose instead. "But it's a Monet," I said. Spelling put on his glasses and peered down at the little picture. "You're right. I forgot about that" he chuckled. Now that's a very nice story but let's remember that this Monet happened to be sitting on the table where the couple's Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons are thrown. That's when the absurdity of it all hit me. The doll room, the IMAX-sized movie screen and the rest seemed Hollywood-Mogul normal to me, but a painting by a master just lying around was too much. Museums would kill for that little painting, yet it was considered just a sentimental knick-knack by the Spellings.

I was very depressed as I left the home under the watchful eye of the sharpshooters on the roof. The gunmen were on the roof because; I found out later, he was constantly in fear of one of his children being kidnapped. The security guys watched us very carefully, making sure we hadn't smuggled out a stray gold bar or two under our jackets. What a way to live.

I guess there are a lot of super-rich who have household clutter like Monets piling up in the hall closet. My closets are cluttered with old copies of National Lampoon Magazine. I hope Aaron Spelling got as much joy from his Monet as I do with my old Lampoons. But I doubt it.

"Give Him The Finger!"

Despite all the hatred directed toward Washington these days, I'm not ashamed to admit that I love the city. I spent two years there attending American University and adored every minute of it, except for the "going to class" part. I was there during the Nixon administration and although I didn't know it at the time, I was living history each morning when I picked up the Washington Post, which was delivered to the dorm. In the local section were daily stories about some kind of break-in at the Watergate Apartments written by two guys named Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein.

Although you get used to all the monuments the way New Yorkers get blasé about the Empire State Building, my heart always skipped a beat whenever I passed by the White House. This was before they closed Pennsylvania Avenue to traffic and I would go out of my way to drive past it at night to see it all lit up. A madman was living inside but I still was thrilled at the sight of it.

Of course in those days, security was much more lax. One of my favorite activities was to stand at the front gate of the White House and look inside the limousines at the VIP's while they waited for security to let them onto the grounds. One of my fondest memories was the first weekend I spent at American doing just that.

I went down with my roommate to check out who was coming and going. Most of the limos didn't have tinted windows so it was easy to check out who was inside. After about five or six cars passed with a few senators and faces that were soon to become infamous in the Watergate scandal, a huge stretch limo pulled up to the security gate WITH tinted windows. Must be a really big cheese inside that sucker. Knowing no fear at the time, I cupped my eyes against the window to peer inside. It was General William Westmorland, the current Army Chief Of Staff who every college student at the time knew was the villain running the Vietnam War.

My roommate didn't have the guts to press his face against the window and asked who was inside. I told him it was Westmorland. "Give him the finger! Give him the finger!" he cried, as I stood frozen against the limo. At first Westmorland wouldn't look my way. He was shuffling some papers trying to ignore me. However it was impossible not to know I was less than a foot away from him, staring wide-eyed at the infamous general.

"Give him the finger!" my roommate continued. I didn't know what to do. Finally feeling the intensity of my stare, Westmorland turned and looked directly at me. He stared at me for a few seconds and then gave me a salute. Awestruck by the power of the man and totally caught off guard, all I could think to do was to meekly return the salute. Westmorland nodded curtly to me and then he and his limo entered the White House grounds.

My roommate hit me in the back, hard. "You saluted him? Are you crazy? You should have given him the finger!" he yelled. I turned and shoved him in the chest. "Hey Bigshot, why didn't you give him the finger?!" He mumbled something to the effect that I was closer to Westmorland than he was. What bull. I shoved him again and pressed on. "What was I supposed to do? The guy was six inches away from me. If I'd have given him the finger he probably would have had my as* on the next troop transfer flight to Saigon!" "You're such a pus*y" he retorted wittily a la Oscar Wilde.

Do I regret that I didn't give the finger to the man responsible for the death of thousands of American soldiers? Not really. If I had been in a crowd about twenty feet away I might have done it. But I was face to face with him. At that moment it was just the two of us. I was frozen. And he really threw me a curve when he saluted. Of course when we got back to the dorm, my roommate told everyone what a wimp I was. I got a new and much better roommate a week later.

Over the course of the next two years at AU I went to Nixon's second inaugural parade, sat in on a congressional hearing as homework for a political science class, used the Library of Congress, got drunk while waiting all night in the freezing rain with thousands of others to file past Lyndon Johnson's flag draped casket in the Capitol rotunda, got yelled at by an FBI agent for standing on the running board of J. Edgar Hoover's hearse, used my WAMU radio pass to enter Andrews Air Force Base and take a look inside Air Force One, got a senator from Georgia to call me whenever he had an extra Redskins ticket he wanted to sell and had the wherewithal not to drive dorm legend "The Ambassador" into town one night and set off bottle rockets aimed at the White House which resulted in him and the poor schmuck he did get to drive him arrested for endangering the President Of The United States.

I'll save that story for another time.