September 11-17, 2003

pretzel logic

Perspective

by Howard Altman

It is cleanup day at my daughter's preschool. I am sitting on the floor, alphabetizing kiddie books by author name, which I have been doing for the last several hours, when my cell phone rings.

I juggle the pile of books -- I am up to McCloskey, Robert, author of such classics as Make Way For Ducklings -- and reach into my pocket.

Though it is Saturday morning, Dan Fee -- Mayor John Street's able press flack -- wants to talk.

I'm actually glad for the distraction. Alphabetizing books by authors' names is no easy task. In fact, I am pretty sure that's what Hinckley was doing before he went after Reagan.

Fee calls to tell me the Sam Katz people have been clawing him over a press release he issued the day before scratching Katz.

At issue is one line in a story I wrote about golfing with Sam Katz, in which his son, Philip, said he made a "Katz 2003" sign the day after his dad lost to Street in 1999.

Just one problem.

In the editing process, we took out all the Philip Katz references and replaced them with merely Philip. Except for this quote's attribution, which lost the Philip but kept the Katz.

The Street campaign pounced, saying the quote raised "serious new questions about the payout [Katz] received from Greater Philadelphia First."

In essence, the Street press release, issued at about 10 a.m. on Fri., Sept. 5, accused Katz of misrepresenting his intentions.

Except it wasn't Katz talking, it was his son.

As soon as I read the Street press release, I contacted both sides and explained what happened. Still, Katz spokesperson Maureen Garrity issued her own press release, saying, "Street spokesman demonstrates consistent lack of credibility."

Which brings me to Dan Fee on my cell phone, complaining about Garrity's "personal attack."

Oy.

OK, so maybe alphabetizing's not so bad after all.

After listening to Fee, I tell him that he has perfect timing.

"This conversation is exactly the kind I would expect at a preschool," I say.

Suzy took my ball.

Khalil touched me.

Billy stuck his tongue out at me.

Now, I like and respect both Fee and Garrity. They are as good as I have come across in more than 20 years of working on or covering campaigns.

But this is getting silly.

Fee didn't have to jump on the quote. Garrity didn't have to question Fee's credibility.

More importantly, nobody really cares, boys and girls.

This race should be about the candidates, not the campaigns.

Sunday night, I am in the 300 level at the Vet, with my son and a couple of his pals to watch the Mets' last visit to the Cement Bialy on Broad.

Todd Pratt, one of my favorite ballplayers ever, smacks a long drive into the Mets' bullpen.

My son groans. His friends scream for joy.

I wince.

But not because of the homer.

I am wearing headphones, listening to the president justify his request for $87 billion to further fund the war in Iraq and I am feeling Mets pitcher Al Leiter's pain.

I have about as much control over Bush's speech as Leiter has, at this point, over Pratt's moon shot.

"The surest way to avoid attacks on our own people is to engage the enemy where he lives and plans," says the president. "We are fighting that enemy in Iraq and Afghanistan today so that we do not meet him again on our own streets, in our own cities."

What the president fails to mention is that a good number of people killing our troops in Iraq arrived in that country after the invasion thanks to a chaos of our making. And he still fails to realize that our occupation of Japan took almost seven years without anyone shooting at us.

This is what I think about as Pratt rounds third, my son groans and his friends scream with joy.

We are no safer today than we were on Sept. 11, 2001.

It is Tuesday morning.

For the first time in months, I am going to drive in.

But there's no car.

I walk up the street, I walk down the street.

Nothing.

It is gone.

I am a statistic.

I call the police and the insurance company. The 911 dispatcher is courteous and helpful. The woman from the insurance company is profusely sympathetic.

"It must be awful," she says.

A pain in the ass maybe, but not really awful.

I was up late the night before, watching PBS' documentary on the making of the Twin Towers. It would have been a fairly fascinating story if the planes never hit the buildings, but they did.

Now that was awful.

People burning, people falling. Rescuers crushed in the collapse.

Awful.

As Officer Crenshaw (who would later find my poor minivan -- sans radio -- dispelling any notion that Philly cops don't give a damn) walks back to her cruiser, I shrug.

Oh well. So I am minus one car.

The problems of one small editor don't add up to a hill of beans in this crazy world.