Some Thoughts on Writing Memoir
In the famous Monty Python skit, the Ministry of Silly Walks elevates expressing and, in the process, embarrassing oneself in public to an art form encouraged by the British government, much as our NEA and NEH provide support and legitimacy for more traditional creativity.
No, That's Not What Men Do
A line overheard at the beach leads Thomas Fiffer to call for all men to speak out against aggression and violence.
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Note: I felt compelled to reprise this in light of the recent verbal assault against Representative Ocasio-Cortez and her remarkable response.
A Tribute to My Father
My father, Robert S. Fiffer, was a larger-than-life character, and though he lived only 48 years (of which I knew him for nine), he had an outsized influence on both the world and me. First of all, he was big. Not tall, but heavy set.
Something Familiar, Something Peculiar
As a kid in the 70s, I loved watching the CBS Saturday night comedy lineup, considered to be one of the greatest combos of all time. It began with All in the Family, followed by M*A*S*H, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, The Bob Newhart Show, and finally The Carol Burnett Show.
The Man Who Saved New York (and My Mother)
If you are a widow and you loved your husband (as my mother loved my father), the photo on your nightstand is most likely of him. Not so with my mother, Elaine.
Rib Joints, Raising Boys, and Reminiscences
On a recent trip to my chiropractor (if you need one, he's excellent), I complained that my neck was especially stiff. I could barely twist it either way without experiencing pain around my shoulder blades.
Fit To Be Untied
The summer after my father died my mother did something bold and adventurous—she took me on an African safari.
The Jig Is Not Up Yet
I sat down in my office to write this morning with nothing to write about.
Rearrangement Is for the Birds
Like many children, I held the adorable (then) and naive (now) belief that I could change the world—if only I could run the show.
Not So Simple Gifts
A long time ago, in a career far, far away, I worked at a now defunct book packaging company in Manhattan called Running Heads, its name an arcane reference to the text—generally book title and chapter title—that runs along the top of each page.
