29 June, 2026 4 4 Comments

My Friend The Pioneer: A Personal Tribute

June 29, 2026 By 4 Comments

Linda, her brother Howard, Scott and me at the U.S. Open celebrating our 50th birthdays.

My friend Linda Cohn announced her retirement from ESPN last week after 34 incredible years.

Because she’s been an important trailblazer for women in sports journalism, Linda’s announcement was big news.

But long before Linda Cohn became a household name — before the record 5,500 SportsCenter broadcasts, before the National Sports Media Hall of Fame, before she was the most prolific anchor in ESPN history — she was my friend Howie’s older sister. His cool, very cool, big sister. I’ve always admired her.
Linda was a terrific athlete, had a great sense of humor and impeccable taste in music and never made us feel like we were in the way.

Howie (now Dr. Howard Cohn) and I were born a week apart. So, we often celebrated our birthdays together with a visit–accompanied by our good friend Scott– to an amusement park near Amityville off the Long Island Expressway.

Amityville became better known for a horror movie bearing its name, but to us it was home to a place full of rides and arcade games. Linda or her dad would often drive us.

She also took us to concerts. One memorable show was the Doobie Brothers at Nassau Coliseum.

We scored great seats because Howie and Linda’s mom worked as a store nurse at Macy’s. Her office was next to what I think was called the “ticketron”, which meant we had an “in” to score tickets to the best shows of the day. Billy Joel at the Garden, Foreigner and Johnny Winter also at the Garden, Styx at the Coliseum. It was the 70s, and rock ruled the land.

 

My memories of Linda from those days are vivid. She knew more about sports than anyone, loved the Knicks, Rangers, Mets and Giants, played goalie on an ice hockey team and was an awesome tennis player.

Yes, Linda was cool. She also had a great laugh, put up with our jokes and never seemed to be annoyed when forced to hang out with us. And folks, we could be annoying.

One time, we went to see Beatlemania at the Winter Garden Theatre on Broadway. We went with Linda and my friend’s Scott’s big sister and probably somebody else. Being young and foolish, we wanted some distance from these older women, so we sat in another car on the Long Island Railroad on the way to Penn Station.

When we heard the conductor announce Penn Station, we got off the train, only it wasn’t Penn Station. It was the stop before. The big sisters watched in horror as the train pulled away with us standing on the podium. Eventually, we reunited in the actual Penn Station. I don’t remember their reaction, but I think they were forgiving. I’m also pretty sure we stayed together until we returned safely to Stony Brook.

There were more trips and experiences. We went to Central Park when John Lennon was killed in 1980 for the vigil. That was unforgettable.

We also visited SUNY Oswego, where Linda played on the hockey team and studied broadcast communications.

My memories are her always laughing with us.

That’s the thing about knowing someone before they become someone.

You carry a version of them that the world never gets to see. The Linda Cohn who became a pioneer for women in sports journalism is the same person I watched grow up — or rather, the person who watched us grow up, shepherding a bunch of younger kids around Long Island with the patience of someone who probably had bigger things on her mind already.

She started at WALK-AM/FM in Patchogue N.Y. in 1981, covering news and sports. By 1992 she was at ESPN, and the rest is television history. But numbers don’t really tell the story. What Linda did was simply show up, every night, and treat sports like it mattered — because to her, it genuinely did. As mentioned, she was a former college hockey goalie. She wasn’t performing enthusiasm. She had it.

For those of us who spent decades watching SportsCenter, Linda was the constant. Generations of kids fell asleep to her voice recapping the late scores. And quietly, without making a crusade of it, she was showing a generation of young women that the anchor desk belonged to them too.

She said it herself, in her retirement statement: “What I’m most proud of is that my career lasted long enough for me to see little girls grow up watching SportsCenter, enter this business and succeed in it.”

That’s the whole thing, right there.

At a Queen concert in Sunrise, Florida.

 

 

When Howie and I turned 50, Linda did something I’ll never forget. She treated us to a sports weekend in New York City, access to the ESPN box at the US Open, sideline passes for a Giants preseason game (we were a few feet from Tom Brady and he waved to her), up close at a Mets game. It was one of those weekends that reminds you how lucky you’ve been with the friends you’ve collected across a lifetime. She could have made arrangements for us and said have fun, but she came with us instead. We got to hang out and joke all weekend. It was a magical time.

The teenager who drove us to concerts became the woman who changed what sports television looked like. But she never seemed to forget where she came from, and she never stopped bringing people along with her.

In recent years, we attended a Queen concert in Sunrise (just like old times) and met for dinner at La Cigale in Delray Beach.

There are texts, mostly during football season, where all of us lament life as Giants fans.

We share photos of people we used to know, poke gentle fun at the world and follow each other on social media.

Recently, Linda did a great podcast with Rich Eisen as part of his series “That was SportsCenter.”  Don’t miss it, it’s awesome. Here’s a link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hGFBz5iv7k

Linda has met all the legends in just about every sport. Walking around NYC with her was a trip. She was stopped for photos etc., and my friend Scott photo bombed every single one.

And we laughed. How cool is that?

Linda, congratulations on a career that mattered. You earned every one of those record setting broadcasts and inspired a generation of women entering sports journalism. Wow.

And thanks for the rides too. Can’t wait to see what the next chapter holds.

22 June, 2026 6 6 Comments

Walk Like A Man

June 22, 2026 By 6 Comments

My father Sandy.

There’s a Springsteen song I keep circling back to this time of year.

Not one of the anthems — not “Born to Run,” not “Thunder Road.” A quieter one, off  the album Tunnel of Love, called “Walk Like a Man.”

It’s about a son standing at the threshold of his own grown-up life, thinking about the man who taught him how to stand. Bruce isn’t singing about a hero in the comic book sense. He’s singing about a father. About a boy who watched his dad move through the world and then spent the rest of his life trying to match the stride.

That’s the song I’d play for my father, who turned 88 last week.

My dad was a pharmacist. Had his own store — Maple Pharmacy in Smithtown, N.Y.

If you’re under a certain age, you may not understand the importance of an independent pharmacy, because we’ve mostly traded it away, although Maple Pharmacy still exists, the oldest pharmacy in that corner of Long Island.

During my dad’s career, the independent pharmacist wasn’t a clerk behind a counter. He was a fixture. He knew your name, your mother’s name, which kid had the ear infections and which one couldn’t take penicillin. He was the guy you called when the baby spiked a fever at ten o’clock at night and you weren’t sure whether to panic. Half medicine, half ministry. People walked in scared and walked out feeling better because people like my dad came around the counter and gave them comfort.

“The baby is going to be just fine.”

“Put this on and the itch will go away.”

“Don’t worry, but you need to have that looked at.”

When I was born, my dad, still newly wed and 26 years old, owned a store in Whitestone, Queens. He and my mom lived across the street. I was told that customers would knock on their door late at night seeking medicine.

It was a lot for a young man. A lot for a new dad and a new husband. But my mother used to tell me that my father was kind to everyone.

That’s my father.

What I remember growing up was the steadiness. He went in every day and did his job well. He worked long hours under fluorescent lights, trapped behind a counter filling prescriptions the old-fashioned way, with a mortar and pestle. The mortar is the heavy bowl and the pestle is the blunt club shaped tool that he used to grind and mix the concoction. It was pretty cool. This is before medicines arrived pre-packaged.

While the store was busy—people coming in for greeting cards, magazines, toiletries and assorted stuff– my dad was usually alone behind the counter. He told us that he longed to be out front where you could kibitz with the customers rather than in back filling prescriptions and typing out labels (the hunt and peck method). This was before computers and mail order pharmacies, before chains ruled the landscape and back when doctors would call in prescriptions.

I don’t know how he kept it all straight. But he did.

He didn’t do it for applause — there wasn’t any. There’s no parade for the man who fills the prescription correctly, who locks up every night, who comes home and is fully present for his wife and his kids.

Although I will say that when my dad came home, my mother made sure his newspaper was near his chair and that my sister and I weren’t doing anything loud or wild. We had a dog named Tina, a Beagle dachshund, who behaved like a person. She would keep his chair warm until he arrived. When he walked in, she greeted him and followed him back into the den to stand guard.

Tina got hit by a car one day. Happened right in front of me. I was playing football on the lawn when a kid opened the fence and Tina took off chasing a cat. A lawn truck coming down the street swerved to avoid the cat and hit our dog. I can still see the scene in my mind.

We put Tina in a cardboard box and my mother called my dad at the pharmacy. He came home and I went with him to the vet, all the while praying she would be ok. She looked peaceful, as if she was sleeping. I will never forget when the vet said she was gone. That night was the first time I ever saw my father cry. I will never forget that either. I was 9 years old.

My dad is a strong person. I’ve seen him overcome obstacles that would have crushed another person. Along the way, I watched, I’m not sure he knew that, probably not. But I watched and I absorbed daily lessons.

How he treated my mom. How he was supportive of my sister. How he visited neighbors suffering from cancer. How he honored and taught us to love and adore our grandparents who came here fleeing tyrants, sacrificing everything so we could have a better life.

I watched him tackle handyman projects, build a business, join a pool club so we could run around and play during endless summers. I watched him come home every night directly after work, never stopping for a drink with the guys like many other fathers did.

He took us on modest but super fun vacations, made sure I could take tennis lessons during the winter months because I had shown some promise and didn’t say a word when I lost interest in high school and moved on to other things namely girls, friends and old Mustangs.

I saw him get up every day, work hard, treat everyone well and repeat for a lifetime.

We don’t hand out medals for that. Maybe we should. Because that quiet, unglamorous reliability is the actual load-bearing wall of a family and a community. Everything else — the institutions, the civic life, the trust we keep complaining we’ve lost — it all rests on people like my dad, doing the right thing when no one’s keeping score.

That’s the kind of hero I want to write about this Father’s Day.

Not the loud kind. The everyday kind. The men who built a good life one ordinary, faithful day at a time, and never thought to call it heroism because to them it was just what you did. It was what his father did after coming to this country in 1920 with no money, no knowledge of English and no one to help him. His son, my dad, went to an Ivy League school and built a successful business and a happy family. That’s the American Dream. Work hard, do the right thing and you shall be rewarded. We ought to ask ourselves if that’s still the case. And if not, why not? What can we do to restore that beautiful promise?

As mentioned I studied my father when I was a kid.

I watch how he carried himself. How he handled life. What he did with his savings. How he derived pleasure from family, a fish tank and a set of tennis (now golf and bocce).

And I’m still studying him now, in my sixties, except now I understand the assignment. The Springsteen song gets at it exactly: you watch your father walk, and you measure your own steps against his, and the great hope of your life is that if your dad is a good man, you turn out to walk a little like he does.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad isn’t perfect (but he was darn close). No good father in any honest story is. But he was constant, and I’ve come to believe constancy is the rarest thing we’ve got. Anyone can be good on the big days. He was good every day.

So, here’s to my father and to all the quiet men like him — the ones who showed up, did the right thing, loved their people, and asked for nothing back. The everyday heroes. The ones who taught us how to walk like man.

I can still picture the store, my dad behind the counter, people lined up for a word of advice. I can still see us as at the pool club, me small, trailing him toward the tennis courts, taking two steps for every one of his, trying to keep up. I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep up.

15 June, 2026 0 Comments

Culture Is Essential Civic Infrastructure

June 15, 2026 By Leave a Comment

Marjorie Waldo hosts an excellent podcast exploring all aspects of arts and culture.

I love podcasts.
They keep me company every morning when I get ready for the day. They accompany me on long road trips and I count on them for information and ideas.
But appearing on a podcast is a whole other ballgame.

You just never know how it’s going to shake out. I’ve done a few over the years—a Springsteen related pod called “That One Lyric”, Kate Volman’s terrific podcast on creativity and a few related to city government, leadership and philanthropy.
I’ve always enjoyed the experience but it can be daunting.

Recently, I appeared on the Arts Garage’s excellent podcast called “Culture Under Fire.” I never miss an episode because they are all so good. The host, Arts Garage CEO Marjorie Waldo, is terrific. She’s  smart, engaging and passionate about all things culture. She has a wonderful voice and is a great interviewer—which is a skill I appreciate and admire. I think of her as the local Terry Gross or Sam Fragoso. If you know, you know. If you don’t check out Fresh Air and Talk Easy.
Back to Marjorie.

When you are one of Marjorie’s guests, you are in good hands. You forget you are on a podcast, you get swept up in the conversation.
I’ve known Marjorie for a lot of years now. Prior to her decade at the Arts Garage, she ran a charter school in Delray Beach that served as training ground for young people interested in automotive repair.
The school was the brainchild of Johnny Pun and Fred Glass who used to work for our Police Department.
Johnny and Fred attended a city commission goal setting session back in the day. They came with an idea to start a charter school that would teach kids automotive repair skills.
We thought it was brilliant and the Commission invested in the idea. I’m pretty sure it was the first time in Florida that a Police Department opened a charter school. We took pride in being innovative in those days.

Marjorie served as principal at the school and I admired her combination of administrative skills and passion for the mission. So when she was selected to run the Arts Garage I was
thrilled. For the past decade, she has done a remarkable job.
Let’s linger on that for a moment.

She stepped into to a turnaround situation at a politically fraught moment and knocked it out of the park. That’s not easy to do.
She’s provided stability, vision, fiscal discipline and leadership. She’s also a true believer in the power of the arts to transform communities.

I believe culture is essential civic infrastructure. The arts drives economic development, brings us together and offers quality of life benefits that sometimes can’t be measured but also can’t be denied.
Marjorie and her great team have made Arts Garage an important, integral and inclusive asset for not only Delray but also the region. A vast array of artists and patrons are grateful.
I’ve come to understand that communities thrive when special people show up and dig in. That’s what Marjorie has done; with heart, soul and a willingness to take some artistic risks.
We are better for all of it.

Working in the arts has never been an easy task.
Money has always been tight. It’s about to get even tighter. Donors have a vast array of worthy causes to chose from so the competition for grants and gifts is fierce.
Into this terrain, Marjorie and her small team happily venture.

In a time of screens, AI, division, algorithms and estrangement, culture is more important than ever.
It’s one of the very few things we can experience , in real time, together.
That’s worth a whole lot.
A few days ago, we traveled to Sarasota to see the world premiere of Lauren Gunderson’s new play “Lady Disdain.”
Lauren has been America’s most produced playwright for five of the past seven years. In short, she’s a rock star.
I got to know her through my recent adventures in theatre. When she invited me to the premiere, I jumped at the chance.
We sat next to Lauren and the amazing director Sean Daniels to see their vision come to life. It was remarkable to see their joy as they experienced à large crowd hang on every word and every action on stage. Nobody was on their phones. We were in the moment together. It was wonderful.
The best art challenges us to think, feel and hopefully talk to each other.
The Arts Garage provides this service several times a week. It is invaluable.
Check out the Culture Under Fire podcast available on all your favorite platforms. You won’t regret it. Here are some links.

To Listen on Spotify or Apple:

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/0jziadv0kM4rIQhsUDGxJo

Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/episode-20-stagecraft-statecraft-the-politics/id1834281851?i=1000771836508

To Watch on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8giQFEHgfk

8 June, 2026 3 3 Comments

Carrying The Dream Forward

June 8, 2026 By 3 Comments

Award Winner Emmanuel “Dupree” Jackson.

When people remember Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., they often think about the dream.

 

But Dr. King was more than a dreamer. He was an organizer, a strategist, and a builder. He believed that lasting change happens when people are empowered to lead, serve, and lift up their communities.

 

That legacy lives on in Delray Beach through the work of my friend  Emanuel “Dupree” Jackson Jr. Recently, Dupree was honored by the National Education Association with the

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Award. The award is given to leaders who emulate Dr. King’s leadership and philosophy.

The recognition is a very big deal. A national award! I can’t imagine a more deserving honoree.

I’ve been watching Dupree for years now. He’s a special person and a special leader.

As founder of the Emanuel Jackson Sr. (EJS) Project, Dupree has dedicated his life to creating opportunities for young people. Named in honor of his late father, who instilled in him the values of education, service, and community, the organization has become one of the most impactful youth development programs in Palm Beach County and a national model.

 

The Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation is proud to support EJS because we believe in investing in people who are making a lasting difference in the communities they call home. Few people embody that mission more completely than Dupree.

 

For more than a decade, EJS has helped over 5,000 young people build brighter futures through academic support, mental health counseling, leadership development, workforce training, and paid internship opportunities. But the organization’s impact extends far beyond the services it provides.

 

EJS creates spaces where young people can have honest conversations about issues affecting their lives. Participants learn about history, current events, civic engagement, and the responsibilities that come with citizenship. They are encouraged not only to understand their communities, but to help shape them.

 

Through participation in City Commission meetings, engagement with the Delray Beach Police Department, and direct interaction with civic and business leaders, young people gain firsthand experience in leadership and public service. They learn that their voices matter and that they have the power to make a difference.

 

One of EJS’s signature initiatives, Purpose Pays, offers youth ages 14 to 18 compensated work experiences, and professional development opportunities. Participants earn income while learning teamwork, communication, initiative, project management, and workplace responsibility. The program reinforces a simple but powerful idea: opportunity creates confidence, and confidence creates leaders.

 

Anyone who knows Dupree knows his commitment goes well beyond programs and statistics. He organizes neighborhood beautification projects, sponsors after-school tutoring, and leads educational trips that expose young people to history and African American culture. For many participants, these experiences represent their first opportunity to travel beyond their immediate surroundings and see a larger world of possibilities.

 

More importantly, Dupree shows up.

 

He shows up for young people who need encouragement. He shows up for families looking for support. He shows up for a community that believes deeply in the potential of its next generation.

 

His personal motto—”Bout Dat Action”—is more than a slogan. It is a philosophy of service. It reflects a belief that meaningful change requires commitment, consistency, and a willingness to do the work every day.

 

That is why his recent recognition with the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Award feels so fitting.

 

Like Dr. King, Dupree understands that dreams matter. But he also understands that dreams become reality only when people are willing to roll up their sleeves and get to work.

 

For years, he has been doing exactly that—helping young people find their voices, discover their purpose, and realize their potential.

Delray Beach is better because of it.

Check out the EJS Project. It will give you hope for the future. https://ejsproject.org/

 

 

A Teachable Moment

I had an odd experience recently, that I thought I would share because the story contains some lessons that I think may be helpful.

I subscribe to a real estate blog that I usually find interesting. It includes a video summary that covers what’s happening in South Florida.

Recently, when it showed up in my inbox it had a provocative headline referencing an “old” Delray mayor embarking on a real estate project.

I thought, “Which of my predecessors is taking on a project in such a challenging environment—high interest rates, inflation, labor issues, and more?”

Then, I read the story, and I realized they were referring to me. Only they were using the name of a work colleague, who never served as mayor of Delray Beach.

Many things about the story were inaccurate, starting with the names.

As a former journalist, this kind of stuff nags at me. I don’t get mad, just annoyed.

Now the blogger is not a reporter, he’s a real estate broker. But still, come on folks. Two minutes of checking via Google would have cleared up a few very basic things.

I shrugged it off ( even the reference to being “old” rather than being referred to as a former mayor) but then I clicked on the video which implied that the misnamed old mayor used his political influence to get the project approved. There were a few snarky remarks, a bunch of innuendo and the impression that this is how it works—elected officials serve so they can monetize their office.

Well, I’d like to say that’s never true, but I can’t. However, it’s not true for every elected official. And it’s not true for me.

I don’t use my former position to get favors from city government. There are five elected officials in Delray, I know four of them, have never met one, have never talked to another, and the remaining three I don’t talk to unless they call me, which is rarely if ever. I am friends with Commissioner Judy Mollica. Our friendship predates any thought of her running for office.

In addition, I barely know anyone who works at City Hall these days. The folks I worked with are long gone.

It’s nothing personal. I’m at a different place in life. I wish them all well. Go forth and build a better Delray. It’s someone else’s turn now and has been since 2007 when I was termed out.

Don’t ask me about parking. Don’t ask me about beach renourishment. Don’t ask me about the Coco Market.  I am no longer current. And when it comes to development, I have one piece of advice: follow the rules.

I sent an email to the blogger/real estate guy clarifying the facts. A few hours later I got a response from his “content manager” assuring me the blog was corrected and it was. The content person also said that associated materials were also corrected. But the video is still floating around, which isn’t cool.

I bring this up because I think it’s what they call a teachable moment.

We miss local journalism, done well by people trained in how to obtain and verify facts. I am not saying that the press is perfect, they’re not. They make mistakes, there are biases (reporters are human) but there used to be curation and fact checking. I miss that.

I listen to a podcast called Top of Mind Florida which is co-hosted by former Channel 5 anchor Michael Williams and long time Palm Beach Post political writer Brian Crowley. It’s on all the usual platforms and I highly recommend you check it out. What makes it stand out  is the perspective these two veteran journalists bring to the subjects they cover. They know Palm Beach County, they know Florida, they know about life and it shows in the questions they ask and the context they bring to the podcast.

Journalism is the only profession named in our Constitution and it’s at risk. Democracy really does die in the darkness.

Now, I am not saying that a real estate blog that made a mistake is a threat to Democracy. But I am saying that facts matter.

On a recent visit to Chicago, my colleagues and I sat down with the president of the legendary MacArthur Foundation in his incredible office in the famed Marquette building.

John Palphrey is an impressive person. A great grandson of Teddy Roosevelt. A man who has taught at Harvard, written books, ran an elite educational institution and now is making a big mark in philanthropy around the world.

I asked Mr. Palphrey where his foundation’s investments made the most impact. His answer surprised me.

“Local journalism” he said without hesitation. He saw an immediate impact via investment in supporting local news.

It was an interesting answer. And one that surprised me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what he said that day. I heard a similar sentiment during a recent visit with the head of the Arthur Vining Davis Foundation.

On another note, there’s a business lesson in how you handle mistakes, which do happen. You own them and you correct them, personally. I wrote to the real estate blogger. I got a kind response from the content manager. That’s a missed opportunity.

When I screw up, which I do from time to time, I try to take responsibility, learn from my mistakes and personally apologize. I don’t outsource that part of my life.

Often, in life and business, it’s not the mistake that matters, it’s how you handle it.

 

1 June, 2026 10 10 Comments

To All The Dogs I’ve Loved Before

June 1, 2026 By 10 Comments

Gracie

Dogs.

Can’t live without them.

At least I can’t.

I’ve had a dog in my life since I was 4 years old—that’s more than a half century of mutts, mixes, rescues and retrievers. There’s been a cat or two along the way, two birds, hamsters, gerbils, a snake and my son’s bearded dragon. Hopkins was an acquired taste, but a good chap, nonetheless.

But the one constant has been a dog. Thank goodness for those four-legged love bugs.

I happen to believe that dogs are enjoying a “moment” these days.

Social media has made dogs stars. In fact, one can make an argument that the biggest beneficiary of social media is the dog, with cats also benefiting from the exposure on YouTube, Instagram, Tik Tok and Facebook. Cats seem to rule Blue Sky, the new platform developed after X went full toxic waste dump.

But dogs, those furry, funny, fantastic creatures–well they are a cut above in my opinion.

We have two at present.

Gracie, a five year old golden retriever and Emmitt, a five year old chihuahua/lion mix whose temperament would have made him a great heavyweight boxer. Unfortunately, he’s an MMA fighter trapped in a tiny body.

Still, when he and his 65-pound sister go at it, we worry about Gracie getting hurt. In true golden form, Gracie puts up with a lot and never complains. Many a time I have come into the living room and found Emmitt hanging by his teeth off of Gracie’s lip or ear. She of course seems amused by it all. I’m convinced that if humanity got a dose of Golden Retriever DNA we’d never have a war, or even a bad day.

If you look up “good” in the dictionary it wouldn’t surprise me if it had a picture of our beautiful golden girl.

Still, Emmitt has his charms. First, he’s adorable with soulful brown eyes that look at us with gratitude. He’s fiercely loyal and loves us a whole lot.

Diane rescued him three years ago after his owners were murdered in a horrendous 4th of July tragedy in Texas. A Maine based rescue drove across the country to get him and a few other abandoned dogs and we were fortunate to be chosen as his new family. They rescue us too, you know.

Diane and our son Sasha met the rescue caravan on the Maine/New Hampshire line and after a few days rest and relaxation in Portland they made the long drive back to Delray to meet Gracie.

It was love at first sight for all of us.

Emmitt

Randy was rescued by Animal Rescue Force.

That’s how it is with dogs and very few other things in life. We have a mystical connection to our pets.

People have commitment issues, romances ebb and flow, we gain and lose friends, but once a dog sets its eyes on you it’s game over. The love is instant, deep and eternal.

Only ‘eternal’ is just a few years. Yes, dogs don’t live long enough and when you lose one it stings. Last week, three of my friends lost their dogs. My heart aches for them. It’s a real and enduring loss.

I still think of all the great ones I’ve lost along the way—Tina who was struck by a car right in front of me, Rusty and Snowball who lived long lives and saw me through from grade school to college and beyond, Magnum a magnificent golden who loved my children and endured “dress up” and endless games of fetch and Casey who was said to be shy but who warmed up as soon as she left her foster home. She jumped in the car with our family and never looked back.

Casey’s description on the Everglades Golden Retriever Rescue website played ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” when you clicked on it.  We did and we had a marvelous run which included lots of visits for pup cups at Kilwin’s downtown.

During Casey’s reign, Diane adopted Randy, another feisty chihuahua from the Animal Rescue Force, a wonderful nonprofit that used to set up shop in the CRA parking lot during Delray Affair.

I remember meeting Randy for the first time. He bit me. But within days it was all good. That cool chi was with us for almost two decades.

When it came time to let him go. The wonderful Dr. Jim Grubb came to the house. I couldn’t bear to watch. I’m not proud of that, but I just couldn’t. We said our goodbyes and I walked outside speaking to the heavens and asking that they take care of my brave little guy. Dr. Grubb always sends a card that talks about the Rainbow Bridge. I figure it’s true, because if anyone would know, Jim would. We will see our friends again—waiting for us on the other side of the bridge.

We added another rescue named Sophie who was found running the streets of Miami. We loved Sophie a lot. She was killed one day while on a walk in our neighborhood by an unleashed dog. For months, I couldn’t go down that street. I think about little Sophie often.

After that devastating incident, Randy helped us welcome Teddy, another golden rescue (thank you Golden Retrievals) and Teddy…well he became a Facebook legend. Cancer took my soul dog too young, but I still see his handsome face when I reach for my phone. He’s my screensaver. A life saver too. That dog was something special.

They all are.

After Covid, which was almost lights out for me, I asked Diane if she would consider another golden.  I just feel happiest when there’s a golden in my life.

She agreed. And soon puppy Gracie joined us. She makes us happy—every day. I’ve never seen a sweeter dog. She loves everyone.

I’m moved to write this after a hectic month of travel without our dogs. I miss them horribly when I’m gone. But when we came home, we’re greeted like The Beatles at Shea Stadium.

Yes, dogs are a major responsibility. They require love and attention. They shed and they feel very entitled to your meals. Goldens are like Velcro, there’s no privacy with a golden around. Everything brought into the house is sniffed, scrutinized and checked to see if it’s edible.

Mail gets shredded. Stuffed animals get eaten and everyone who comes to visit is fair game for lots of affection or in Emmitt’s case barking.

It’s all a joy.

And oh, so short.

Now if only I can figure out how to get this duo to like the long car ride from Florida to Maine.

Here’s a poem that says what I just tried too much better than I can.

By Billy Collins

 

As young as I look,

I am growing older faster than he,

seven to one

is the ratio they tend to say.

 

Whatever the number,

I will pass him one day

and take the lead

the way I do on our walks in the woods.

 

And if this ever manages

to cross his mind,

it would be the sweetest

shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.

25 May, 2026 4 4 Comments

The Creative Life

May 25, 2026 By 4 Comments

Where it started for me and I’m sure others.

Memorial Day 2026…I found this story of a Civil War soldier that I thought was beautiful and sad. If you get a chance, look up Major Ballou’s letter. It’s remarkable.

Major Sullivan Ballou is remembered not only for his service in the Civil War, but for one of the most moving letters ever written by an American soldier. Just before the First Battle of Bull Run in 1861, Ballou wrote to his wife Sarah about his love for her and his willingness to sacrifice everything for the Union. He was killed in battle a week later at the age of 32.

On Memorial Day, Ballou’s words remind us that behind every flag and every ceremony is a human story — of love, duty, sacrifice, and the families forever changed by war. His letter endures because it speaks not only to patriotism, but to the cost of service borne by ordinary people asked to do extraordinary things.

 

You find out via email.
“Thank you for sending your play. We received a record 647 submissions for our festival and regrettably we can’t produce your work this year.”
They go on to say how brave you were for sending your work, how appreciative they are for your submission blah blah blah.
Yes, the theatre world is polite.
Yes, the competition really is that fierce.
But it does take a little out of you when you get that dreaded rejection.

It reminds me of junior high school when you would bravely cross the gym floor after spending two hours working up the courage to ask Regina from sixth period Earth Science if she would like to slow dance only to have her tell you no. Talk about crushing.

I once got so nervous asking a young woman for a date that I forgot her answer.
I walked away from her locker so fast I  couldn’t remember a word she said.
It must have been yes, because a few days later she told me she had to cancel because her uncle was taking her fishing.
I never worked up the courage to ask her again.

My supportive friends, ever sensitive to my feelings, made t shirts memorializing the incident. I can’t complain though, I eagerly awaited any misstep to make fun of them. Yes, being a teenage boy in 1980 should have come with a suit of armor.

Playwriting feels a little like what I just described.
You walk across the imaginary room (by hitting send on your heartfelt work) and wait eagerly for acceptance or denial.
Denial stings—momentarily. You mean my play didn’t jump out among the hundreds of entries from across the globe to earn its place in your festival? Who are these judges anyway? Don’t they know talent when they see it?

Oh wait, maybe I don’t have what it takes, who am I kidding. I have no training and no business putting pen to paper. Who would want to see my plays anyway?
Sigh.

But you persist, because you know you must. Writing is fun so you keep typing.

And then lightning strikes. You get an acceptance —also via email from some theater you’ve never heard of in a town you’ve never visited and suddenly you are on top of the world.
Look out Neil Simon, here I come!

Just like that your confidence is restored and you Google the town and the theatre and you begin to imagine what it will be like to hear your words come to life in a distant locale.
A reason to persist, a reason to keep creating.

I’m just back from a trip to Maine, where my play “The Get” got a wonderful, staged reading at a beautiful synagogue as part of a Jewish play festival.
The acting was sublime. The director was fabulous. The other plays— four chosen from an international crop—were all terrific.

One other playwright, Michael Petshaft, a veteran writer and college professor from Connecticut was there. We were treated like VIPs, introduced to applause, approached afterwards by audience members who asked questions and wanted to talk about what they had just seen.

It’s very cool.

Magical. Inspiring.

It made me want to go home and write and write and write. And that’s what I did.

When my plays are selected I always like to connect with the director and actors. I like to thank them for their generosity, for putting in hours of time preparing and for having the courage to stand in front of a large crowd and perform.
I also like to get to know who they are.

In this case, our director Ann Tracy was a veteran of theater and a retired radio personality in Milwaukee, Denver and San Diego. She was lovely to work with.
The actors Hal Cohen and Claudia Hughes were also veterans and very talented. Claudia was a dancer, oil painter and well known local actress. Hal is a physician with an impressive background as an actor and playwright himself.

The event was a fundraiser for a local synagogue. I’m thrilled that they chose theater to gather their community to celebrate their mission which includes a heavy dose of community.
Live performance is one of the few things we have left that allows us to get together and share an experience in real time with our neighbors.

Many of us are stuck behind screens, doom scrolling, losing time on our apps—alone.
Theater, music, dance, comedy in a club or theatre or in this case a sanctuary allows us to mix and mingle.
A good play inspires us to think and talk to each other. Perhaps the story moves us in some way.  I think it’s essential civic infrastructure and maybe more important than ever. We can’t let the algorithm win. We have to stay human.

In about a month, on June 27-28, people in our community have a chance to attend the 7th annual Playwrights Festival at the historic Delray Beach Playhouse. The festival features local playwrights, local actors and local directors working together to tell short 10- minute stories. If you come, I promise you will be swept away.

The level of talent here is amazing.

This is the third year I’ve participated.
My full- length play “The Cafe on Main” —the very first play I ever wrote —started at this festival as a short.
The Arts Garage helped me develop it into a full-length, which was also a great experience.
Thanks to festival directors Marianne Regan and Dan Bellante, I’ve gained a whole new hobby since turning 60.
I’ve made friends with the actors, directors and fellow playwrights.
I’m taken by their talent, warmth and dedication.

This year I wrote a play called “The Romeo’s” (retired old men eating out).
It’s a sweet little story written for older actors and their affection for their favorite server.
I hope you can make it. The other plays sound great. For tickets visit https://na01.safelinks.protection.outlook.com/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.delrayplayhouse.org%2F&data=05%7C02%7C%7C3a736bba24c64f8117e508deb9b1520e%7C84df9e7fe9f640afb435aaaaaaaaaaaa%7C1%7C0%7C639152368390894652%7CUnknown%7CTWFpbGZsb3d8eyJFbXB0eU1hcGkiOnRydWUsIlYiOiIwLjAuMDAwMCIsIlAiOiJXaW4zMiIsIkFOIjoiTWFpbCIsIldUIjoyfQ%3D%3D%7C0%7C%7C%7C&sdata=eBApUKEcAPP11s4lVE6pO1KxiYLioIJqqb5W29YdbhI%3D&reserved=0.
Please support local theatre. It’s important. I guarantee you’ll make new friends and enjoy the experience.

 

17 May, 2026 2 2 Comments

Dreaming Of What’s Possible

May 17, 2026 By 2 Comments

Visiting the HQ of Chicago Beyond was inspiring.

If you want to restore your faith in humanity spend a few days with people working in philanthropy.

I’m just back from a whirlwind visit to Chicago where we visited with leaders  from the legendary MacArthur Foundation and organizations called Lever for Change and Chicago Beyond.
Thanks to the Bank of America philanthropic services team doors across the nation have been opened to the philanthropy I have the privilege to co-lead, The Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation.
As we gear up to expand our giving, we take what is called “What’s Possible” tours to grow our knowledge, expand our network of experts we can tap into and to observe how other foundations operate.
These tours have been invaluable.
They are also inspiring and quite frankly taxing because keeping up with the thought leaders in this field forces us to stretch intellectually.
What’s wonderful about philanthropy is that no two foundations are alike.
In others words, if you’ve seen one foundation, you’ve seen one foundation.
That’s enables the new kids on the block (us) to drop in and glean ideas about how to be effective, as well as learning what to avoid. After all, throwing money at a problem is not the best way to move the needle.
What I love about this space is the generosity of the practitioners.
These are busy people. But they always make time to share their work, offer advice and hand over  their playbooks. Generosity is about more than giving. It’s about sharing knowledge and helping your peers. I look forward to the day that we can help others serve effectively.
The importance of philanthropy is heightened these days thanks to tough economic conditions and government funding cuts to nonprofits and social services.
More is needed and more is expected from the philanthropic sector to fill the gaps left by  cutbacks.
My belief, and it’s shared by my foundation peers, is that philanthropy can do a lot, but it cannot replace government investment in programs and research.
The key word in that sentence is investment. Lifting people and communities up pays dividends. Letting them sink creates costs. Asking everyone to pull themselves up by their bootstraps is a great saying but we all need help and some need more than others.
What we’ve learned on these trips is that philanthropy is risk capital. That makes the sector super important. In business, life and community building those who take risks move the needle. We can learn from their failures and successes. This is where innovation can happen.
At all three stops in Chicago, we heard about lessons learned, risks taken, new approaches that could be shared and further developed.
Chicago Beyond was founded by Liz Dozier, a true American hero who turned around a troubled high school and then founded a philanthropy that invests in local leaders who are in the trenches making a difference across America.
The lessons learned from those “proximate leaders” are shared nationally. Chicago Beyond is helping education, improving prison conditions and investing heavily in birth centers to help women bring babies into the world safely.
Lever for Change is helping foundations make big bets all over the world. We learned so much from their approach to vetting, managing and monitoring investments.
As for the MacArthur folks, they were truly inspiring.
We spent time with their Chicago Commitment team who concentrate on Chicagoland, a fascinating place with a wide variety of assets and challenges.
We capped the day with a meeting with MacArthur’s renowned President John Palfrey, a remarkable leader who is making big bets on programs to preserve Democracy, save local news and lift communities.
For me, the MacArthur meeting was especially personal. It was the MacArthur Foundation that funded our Downtown Master Plan in 2001, an effort I co-chaired while serving on the City Commission.
That plan added fuel to the fire lit by previous leaders, strengthening our core  by promoting downtown housing, race relations, downtown parks, the addition of parking infrastructure and so much more. That plan and that process was a highlight of that era and continues to pay dividends today. All thanks to MacArthur’s bet on Delray.
A generation later, I had a chance to personally thank its president for their investment. Now it’s time to pay it forward. And we plan to.
10 May, 2026 2 2 Comments

Lists Are Fun. But..

May 10, 2026 By 2 Comments

Paul Simon is on the list. He’s earned it.

Note: Due to travel, I’m going to post on Sunday for the next two weeks. Wishing all a Happy Mother’s Day!

Lists are trouble.

Whenever I see publications release “best of” lists I know they are inviting debate and a fair share of vitriol.
But maybe that’s the point.
So that’s the lens I took when I read the list of 30 best living American songwriters in the New York Times.
It’s an eclectic collection: from Bad Bunny and Jay-Z to Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton.
Like most lists of this ilk, there’s plenty to agree with and plenty to roll your eyes at.
Again, I think that’s the point.
 But what’s been wild to witness is the anger the list has unleashed.
On the list of pressing issues facing us today; rising gas prices, stubborn inflation, a generation forced to live in their parents’ basements and war a list of the best American songwriters would seem to be pretty low on the tally of things to get excited about.
Tell that to Rick Beato, a YouTube music influencer who released a critical video to decry the list. Or to Chris Willman who wrote a sizzling piece about the list in “Variety”:

“Where in the Actual Hell Is Randy Newman? And Other Questions Raised by the New York Times’ Greatest Living American Songwriters List.”

Willman was positively flabbergasted. 
Take a breath, fellas.
It’s only a list. Perhaps released to spark conversation. Mission accomplished.
The comments on the list from the masses were also equally fierce.
Where’s Joni Mitchell? (Not eligible, she’s from Canada).
Where’s Brian Wilson? (Unfortunately, he passed and the list consists of living songwriters).
Why Springsteen? (Some commenters didn’t like his politics, but regardless he did write “Thunder Road,” “Born to Run” and hundreds of other great songs).
What about Kid Rock? (Really?)
The list included Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan and Carole King.
It didn’t include Don Henley, Stevie Nicks or John Fogerty. (Shameful).  Also missing: Billy Joel, Jason Isbell and the Avett Brothers. (Also shameful).
Still, the list had names I’ve never heard of and I’m a pretty big music fan.
But rather than offend me, I decided to dig into to those I didn’t know. Some were good. Some were head scratchers.
Oh well, it’s just a list.
There is so much more to fret about.
Like why isn’t Don Mattingly and Thurman Munson in the baseball hall of fame? Or why does my friend insist that Dave Concepcion should be included?
Some things are pure mysteries.
That’s where we find the fun.
Here’s the list in no particular order.
Nile Rodgers
Stevie Wonder
Lucinda Williams
Jay Z
Paul Simon
Taylor Swift
Brian & Eddie Holland
Missy Elliott
Dolly Parton
Willie Nelson
Lionel Richie
Young Thug
Diane Warren
Josh Osborne
Brandy Clark
Fiona Apple
Shane MacAnally
Babyface
Stephin Merritt
Romeo Santos
Carole King
Outkast
Mariah Carey
Kendrick Lamar
Valerie Simpson
Bob Dylan
Lana Delrey
The Dream
Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis
Bad Bunny
Bruce Springsteen
Smokey Robinson
4 May, 2026 0 Comments

Purpose Built

May 4, 2026 By Leave a Comment

Many things have changed since the year 2000 in Delray Beach.

We’ve grown up, I suppose.

The town is big business these days. High real estate prices. Big-time commercial rents. Famous people spotted hanging out in our once sleepy downtown.

I’m not one of those who laments change. I understand that it’s inevitable and in many cases preferable. Stasis is not only impossible, it’s boring.
But I am nostalgic. Genuinely so. And I’ve learned that my favorite part of every endeavor is the climb.

I’ve been astonished at the success of Celsius, the energy drink my company’s founder discovered years ago and poured his heart into building. But as much as I’ve enjoyed seeing the company soar, I still recall the early lean years with fondness.
There were unsung heroes along the way — people who worked hard to build the brand. They were special. They were essential. Many didn’t make it to the mountaintop with the company, but their efforts were early bricks. They mattered.

I’ve also enjoyed watching Delray evolve over the nearly 40 years I’ve lived and worked here.
Those were my thoughts last week when I attended the Purpose Built Communities annual conference in Jacksonville. Purpose Built is a nonprofit network that brings proven tools to its members to help revitalize neighborhoods. The Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation is invested in Rise Coleman Park, a Purpose Built network member in West Palm Beach. We’ve also visited and been inspired by Lift Orlando, which has done a remarkable job lifting up a community holistically.

Sitting with network members from across America, I was reminded of my early days in Delray — a time of visioning, organizing, investing and dreaming. This is what I fell in love with. The civic pride. The aspiration. The neighborhood leaders who stepped forward and became something larger than themselves.

It was a time of high civic engagement. Charrettes — community visioning meetings — drew large, spirited crowds. Town hall meetings filled the Crest Theatre. Church gatherings to craft neighborhood plans attracted people of all ages. There were different ideas and opinions, but there was unity as well. Everyone was committing to lifting this city up. And they did.

When I ran for office in 2000, there were two animating issues — neighborhoods and the downtown. Neighborhood leaders were concerned about crime and appearance; they were asking for more information and hungering to be involved. It made for an exciting and lively time.
Same for the downtown. People wanted restaurants and retail. They wanted vibrancy, but they also wanted human-scale development and beautification that made the downtown pedestrian-friendly and safe.
These thoughts flooded my mind as I attended sessions and chatted with community members from across the country who came to Purpose Built Communities to learn, connect and better their neighborhoods. It’s intoxicating being with these kinds of people. They are change agents. Civic heroes.

While much has changed in the generation since 2000, one truism remains: it’s people who drive change. Their passion. Their love of community. Their ambitions and dreams. The technology has changed, the scale of money needed has changed, the dynamics of our economy are very different — but sit in a room full of people who are fired up about their neighborhoods, and none of that feels like the point. The human factor is the point. It always has been.
If you can inspire and support people to get off their couches and make change, your city will thrive. It’s just that simple and just that complex.
When we move together, we move differently. I borrowed that line from Jotaka Eady, one of the speakers at the conference. She lit up the room. Her message: we are enough. Indeed. We are more than enough.
People are joyful when they work in community together toward a common goal. We need more of that in our world today. A whole lot more. We can live in silos. We cannot thrive in them.

 

27 April, 2026 10 10 Comments

The Cliffs We All Meet

April 27, 2026 By 10 Comments

I just finished the new Jim Collins book, “What to Make of a Life”, and it’s been quietly following me around the house for days.

I sit down to write, and I hear a sentence again. I take a walk and think, yes, that’s exactly what it felt like.

Collins spent ten years studying 34 remarkable lives — astronauts, musicians, suffragists, scientists, people whose stories you’d think you already knew — and built the whole book around three words: cliffs, fog, fire.

A cliff is the moment the ground you’ve been standing on is suddenly gone. The diagnosis. The phone call. The election you lost. The child who moved out. The job that ended. The career that peaked and then, imperceptibly at first, began to descend. Cliffs are not always tragic. Sometimes the cliff is a triumph so complete that you wake up the next morning and don’t know what the next morning is for. Ask any Olympian what happens the week after the closing ceremony. Ask any founder who finally sold the company.

The fog is what comes next.

And the fire — the fire is the thing Collins spent a decade trying to understand. Why do some people, after the cliff and through the fog, find their way to a second burning? And why do others, just as talented, just as loved, never quite get the flame going again?

I don’t have a neat answer. I’m not sure Collins does either, though he works hard at it and earns every page. What I have, instead, after finishing the book, is a feeling. And the feeling is this: the cliffs are not the interruption of your life. The cliffs are your life.

 

We are raised, most of us, to believe in a certain arc. You go to school, you work hard, you build a career, you raise a family, you retire, you rest. A single clean line, rising gently, like the approach to a summit you’ve been told is up there somewhere in the clouds. The brochure version.

But nobody lives the brochure.

What we live instead is a series of plateaus and drop-offs. You climb for a while. The view is good. You get comfortable. And then one Tuesday the floor gives way,and you find yourself in a country with no map, trying to remember how to breathe. Some of those drop-offs you choose. Most of them choose you. A few of them — and these are the ones we don’t talk about enough — were disguised as promotions, as weddings, as the thing you wanted most in the world and then got.

Getting what you wanted is a cliff too. Maybe the most disorienting one of all.

 

I keep thinking about the fog. Collins calls it a “befuddling fog,” and the adjective matters. It isn’t a clean sadness. It isn’t a grief you can name and honor and set on a shelf. It’s something stranger and more embarrassing — the inability to locate yourself. You know the feeling. You stand in the kitchen at three in the afternoon and realize you’ve been standing there for a while. You open your laptop and close it again. You read the same paragraph four times. You’re not depressed, exactly. You’re not grieving, exactly. You’re lost, and the worst part is there’s no one to ask for directions because the landmarks you used to navigate by aren’t there anymore.

I think we owe each other more honesty about the fog. We tell each other about the cliffs — the divorces, the deaths, the firings — because those have language. The fog doesn’t. The fog is the six months after, or the six years after, when you’re supposed to be fine, when the casseroles have stopped arriving, when everyone else has moved on to the next chapter of their own book, and you’re still standing in your kitchen at three in the afternoon wondering who you are now.

If you’re there — if you’ve ever been there — I want you to hear this: the fog is not a failure of character. The fog is the weather. It comes in off the ocean whether you like it or not, and it burns off when it burns off, and the only real mistake is believing you’re the only one who has ever been lost in it.

 

Here’s the part of Collins’s book that caught in my throat. He found, in studying those 34 lives, that the people who burned brightest late weren’t the ones who avoided the cliffs. Nobody avoided the cliffs. The cliffs are the price of admission. What those people did, again and again, was ask themselves a different question than the rest of us tend to ask.

Not what do I have to do now?

Not what would make me look successful again?

But: what do I want to be responsible for?

Read that one more time. It’s the whole book in a sentence. The people who found their second fire were the ones who treated the cliff not as the end of the story but as the moment the story got honest. Who looked at the rubble and asked, genuinely, given all of this, given who I am and what I now know, what do I want to carry forward?

Most of us, when we fall, spend the fog trying to climb back to the cliff we fell from. We want our old life back. We want to be the mayor again (for the record, I never did), the CEO again, the young parent again (guilty), the person we were before the diagnosis. That’s human. That’s the first instinct and it deserves compassion.

But the people who found their fire didn’t climb back. They walked. They took what they had learned on the high – ground and brought it down into the valley and started building something new out of it. Not a replacement. A continuation. The same fire, in a different hearth.

 

I’m past sixty now, and one of Collins’s most beautiful data points is this: across all the biographies of Benjamin Franklin, fifty-three percent of the pages are still ahead of him at age sixty. More than half. In an era when most people didn’t see sixty at all.

I think about that every morning now.

I think about the cliffs I’ve already been over, and the ones I can see coming, and the ones I can’t. I think about the friends I’ve lost and the ones I’m still lucky enough to annoy on bi-weekly Zoom calls. I think about the plays I haven’t written yet and the ones I have, and whether any of it matters. I think about what I want to be responsible for in the time I have left, and the answer is not the answer I would have given at thirty-five.

Maybe that’s the grace of the cliffs. They force the question younger selves are too busy to ask.

If you are standing at an edge right now — if you’ve just fallen, or you feel one coming, or you’re deep in the fog and can’t see your own hand in front of your face — please know two things.

The first is that you are not alone, and you are not broken. The cliffs are not a deviation from a life well lived. They are how life gets lived.

The second is that the fire is still possible. Not the same fire. A new one. Lit from the same flint, in a different wind.

Walk toward it when you’re ready. The fog will burn off. It always does.

And if it hasn’t yet — trust that it will. Find someone to sit with you until it does. But have faith that it will.

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