So, Osama bin Laden, the man, is dead. Though he had long since become an emblem of terrorism rather than its fountainhead, for many, particularly those still grieving loved ones lost on 9/11, the daring Navy SEAL attack that left him gunned down in his Pakistani compound, and ultimately tossed into the sea, offers a measure of relief. Justice has been served, they say. There is hoopla, the thunderous cry of “USA, USA,” echoing across the land, and the expected statements from politicians telling us what a great moment this is for the United States. And yet, something else-a palpable sense that an opportunity is being wasted-colors this day as well.

If you’re a basketball fan of a certain age you have no difficulty conjuring up images of Earl “The Pearl” Monroe. His signature style, characterized by fluid jukes and shots that would be awkward coming out of the hand of almost any other player but were always under his command helped turn Monroe into a legendary guard, voted one of the 50 best players of all time in 1996.

A storm of vitriol may rain down, but I have to admit that neither side of the same-sex-marriage debate seems without merit to me. All people of good faith congregate, I think, around the conviction that love should be honored wherever it flowers.

When I was in my early twenties, struggling each month to make rent on a fifth-floor walk-up on the Upper East Side, I took a job as an usher at Carnegie Hall. What a great gig.

In late 1962 “Our Day Will Come,” a song written by Bob Hilliard and Mort Garson, was released on Kapp Records. Its authors preferred an established lounge singer but agreed to let the unknown Ruby & The Romantics, a group based out of Akron, Ohio, take a shot on the condition that if the track failed to gain traction Kapp would recut it with the great... Jack Jones! The original version of “Our Day Will Come” reached #1 on Billboard Hot 100 chart in March 1963 and the song never made its way into Jack’s throat.

THE TRIP OUT

I’m not one to dramatize the already dramatic, so taking that first post-9/11 airplane ride was no big thing. I arrived at Newark Airport an hour and a half before the scheduled 8 a.m. departure on November 12 and was surprised by how relaxed everyone in the terminal seemed.

Prince died today at the age of 57, apparently from the effects of a flu attack. Tchaikovsky passed away on November 6, 1893 at the age of 53, cause uncertain, possible suicide.

I recently snagged The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky, edited by his brother Modest, for the laughably low price of $0.99. Over 3,000 letters in one volume reveal a composer driven by curiosity, self-criticism, and relentless improvement. As I read, the contrast with contemporary pop icons becomes striking.

Someone once said that a generation is defined not by the most outstanding popular music it produces, but by the lesser examples that manage to capture the collective imagination. Wait—nobody ever said that; I just made it up. Still, as I scrolled through my iTunes playlist just now and tapped on the Dave Clark Five’s (semi) classic single “Glad All Over,” the thought popped into mind.

I stopped into the Staples on Route 22 in North Plainfield, NJ, a few days ago to pick up a printing order. As I walked toward the kiosk, a very tall man approached from another angle and edged into the station just ahead of me.

“They’re so slow,” he said. “I came earlier but left and decided to come back.” Recognizing him, I said, “I was here before you, but I’m not going to fight you to go first.”

“I don’t blame you,” he laughed, extending his hand. “What’s your name? I’m Gerry Cooney.”

Andy Williams shuffled off the mortal coil yesterday at the age of 84. To many he was a dusty specimen, a relic from an ancient era. Others, of an earlier generation themselves, perhaps, saw Williams as a second-tier crooner, a pale imitation of the true luminaries (Frank, Nat, Tony) who laid the smack down and defined the times in which they lived.

An exhaustive examination of the relationship between Russian actors and the Trump team during the 2016 campaign, this 950-plus-page document is essentially the Mueller Report on steroids. I read it over several weeks without taking notes, so I’m surely forgetting some salient points, but for better or worse, here’s my takeaway. It’s clear that both sides, both those defending President Trump and those criticizing him, have shaded the truth to fit their preferred narrative.

Marvin Hamlisch and Mick Jagger were contemporaries, though it’s hard to imagine anyone mentioning them in the same breath. Both reached Olympian heights by blending writing and performance into a unique personal mold. But their public images couldn’t have been more different. Jagger’s larger-than-life persona contrasts sharply with Hamlisch, the mild-mannered composer whose work quietly inspired audiences for decades. How will the world remember his musical legacy?

Mats Wilander, seven-time Grand Slam singles champion, former world No. 1, and one of the great craftsmen of modern tennis, brought his traveling clinic, Wilander on Wheels, to the Centercourt Club in Chatham, New Jersey last Saturday. I’m a club member, but I hadn’t signed up for the hitting session. Still, curiosity (and admiration) drew me there, and in the end I had the privilege of speaking with Wilander one-on-one.

As part of an ongoing effort to read some of the famous authors I brushed aside during my smart-ass school days, I recently picked up a collection of writings by the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard.

A Christian by passion rather than inheritance, he writes not to defend Christ but to make Him contemporaneous—an unsettling task, for it means Christ stands before us not as a distant figure enshrined in admiration, but as the living demand.

Generations are born predisposed to dismiss their predecessors. Maybe that’s why organized religions emphasize respect for one’s elders. They don’t want to be forgotten.

Take Lauryn Hill. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill caused a cultural quake once upon a time, but kids today… do they listen to her? Maybe. Maybe not. Time moves on, tastes shift, and the icons of one era become the trivia questions of the next.And if Lauryn Hill seems distant to today’s teens, imagine how far back someone like Leroy Anderson must feel.

I heard Al Sharpton on television about an hour ago moralizing on the birther movement and its acne-like stubbornness. No matter the facts, them’s that want to believe that Mr. Obama is a foreigner without allegiance to this great nation will think what they will. Don’t expect them to apologize when you point out how misguided they are.

Remember 1967?  Of course not, you’re only 32 years old; I’m talking to the guy standing next to you, the one who waited breathlessly each time the release of a new Beatles album was announced. Folks like him know that in June of that year the highly anticipated and mythologized Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club album descended from the sky.

If you had to pick one Albert King track for your playlist, which would it be? “Laundromat Blues” is certainly a contender, but Albert’s take on “Born Under a Bad Sign,” with its iconic line, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all,” has to make the short list. The title track from his 1967 Stax album, written by Booker T. Jones and William Bell, is probably the song Albert King is most remembered for, particularly since it was immortalized by Cream in their 1968 album Wheels of Fire.

Igor Stravinsky ended his life as a resident of Los Angeles—a city that, I’d always heard, barely acknowledged him. On earlier visits I’d thought about looking up his address, but never did. Last month, I finally went.

Easing along Sunset Boulevard, it’s easy to miss North Wetherly, a narrow street that twists sharply up a steep hill. Climb just a little way and there it is: a beautiful ranch house perched above the roar of LA. Wow, I thought. Stravinsky wrote “Agon” here.

It’s 1965, your group is gifted with a talent for mimicry and badly wants to achieve commercial success. You need to build a song around a sound that’s already captured the collective imagination of teens around the world. Let’s see... the Rolling Stones are big, James Brown is up on the good foot, the Temps, the Byrds, Sonny and Cher, they all have hits. So do The Animals, The Lovin’ Spoonful... jeez, Gary Lewis and The Playboys are a possibility! But above all others, the cherry on the cake, the sound most worth copping comes from Liverpool.  Let’s step back for a moment.

Looking back, the 60’s were weird, man. Nothing made sense...I mean, it all worked so perfectly...I mean, I guess. Well, you know what I’m saying.

Consider the pop charts, defined in retrospect by the great divide; before and after the English invasion. Other currents swelled throughout the 60‘s though. Vaudeville, for example.