Song of the South is such a great movie on so many counts that it really does deserve to be seen and enjoyed by Americans once again. I’ve felt strongly about this ever since it was first taken out of distribution. I first addressed this publicly in a column that ran a couple of years ago. Generally I don’t like to rerun old columns, but seeing the picture again this past week has convinced me that pushing for its release is definitely worth another shot. Here then is my original column:

From the time I was a kid my favorite movies were the Disney films. Movies like Pinocchio, Dumbo, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Peter Pan, and Song of the South were among my favorites. As I sat there in the dark of the theater I imagined myself soaring through the skies high above London with Peter Pan, cuddling with my mother like Dumbo did with his, or sitting at the knee of Uncle Remus as I listened to his wonderful stories of Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox.

At some point I made up my mind that I wanted to work for the Walt Disney Studio. I wanted to be part of the team who made the movies that made me feel so good, that made me laugh, cry, and want to sing. I finally got my wish and was hired by the studio in 1970. I spent the next 27 years contributing to the Disney culture of great family entertainment, first as a cartoonist, then as a writer, and finally as a creative executive.

There were no politics or messages, just pure joy in the entertainment we created. We made stuff that (we hoped) people would find funny, heartwarming, and uplifting. Characters with personality and stories with heart — that was the Disney formula. Those characters and stories, many of which were created decades ago, still live and talk to the kids of today, just as they talked to me when I was a kid. Kids still dance with Snow White and fly with Peter Pan, but sadly today’s kids don’t have a clue who Uncle Remus was.

Song of the South has been kept out of the U.S. public arena for around 25 years, a decision made by the Disney Company because of complaints that the movie was racist. What a shame that one of Walt Disney’s greatest achievements has been locked away from public view. Back around 1986 civil rights groups demanded that the film be taken out of distribution and not shown anymore. The company complied and has kept it out of circulation ever since.

Granted, Song of the South was made in 1946, when attitudes concerning racial stereotypes were much different than they are now. But the same can be said of Gone with the Wind, and dozens and dozens of other pictures that depict blacks, Asians, and American Indians in ways that we would never do in movies now — and yet those movies are shown all the time while Song of the South has disappeared.

Let’s set the record straight about the picture. This movie is not racist. The black characters in Song of the South are all treated with respect. They are never treated badly, nor are they spoken to in any demeaning way. There are no slave characters in the film. The movie is set after the Civil War. The blacks at Miss Doshy’s plantation are working employees, not slaves.

The film is set during the Jim Crow era, and one can argue that the general quality of life (in terms of housing and education in particular) of black Americans shown was not much better than that of pre-Civil War slaves, but that’s a part of real history. That’s the way it was. To depict it otherwise is to deny the truth of what our country was back then. Furthermore, compared to a lot of black portrayals we see now on TV and movies, the black portrayals in Song of the South are absolutely dignified and stately.

The Uncle Remus character is not ignorant. He is a warm, lovable, sensitive man. As a matter of fact, he possesses more intelligence, compassion, and common sense than anyone else in the picture, including the white characters. When I watched this movie as a kid in the fifties I absolutely adored Uncle Remus. I wanted to spend time with him, listen to his stories, be his friend.

And speaking of Uncle Remus, it is a travesty that the actor who so brilliantly portrayed him has now been completely forgotten. Most Americans under the age of 35 have never been able to see the marvelous performance of James Baskett as the loveable storyteller Uncle Remus, the role of his lifetime. Baskett won an Honorary Oscar for his fine work in this film, the first black man to win an Academy Award. I can still see and hear him singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” with that animated bluebird on his shoulder. Wonderful stuff! By the way, that song won an Oscar, too.

And as long as this picture remains banned, people will never see the wonderful Disney technical artistry on display in Song of the South that perfectly blends live action with animation. The special effects were “state of the art” for their time, and still look spectacular even by contemporary CGI standards.

The cartoon sequences are among the most hilarious ever produced by the studio. Br’er Rabbit, Br’er Fox, and Br’er Bear — wonderful characters told in stories by Uncle Remus that delivered important life lessons and Aesop fable-like morals along with a truck load of belly laughs.

I wish I could convince the Disney powers-that-be to reconsider re-releasing this classic Disney movie. Walt Disney’s Song of the South deserves to be seen and enjoyed by all.

Harry Ritz.

The Friday night gathering of friends and admirers of Sid Caesar is fast becoming a semi-regular event. (Semi-regular is one of those terms that are contradictory. How can something be semi-regular? Either it happens on a regular basis or it doesn’t. But let’s get back to the column.) Every few weeks or so Sid has friends over to his home for an evening of food and a few laughs. It’s a relaxing get-together of what has been called Sid’s “extended family” and a wonderful excuse to schmooze and swap stories. The group varies each time depending on people’s schedules and who’s in town, but it’s always a star-studded assembly.

At the most recent soiree the guests included Janna Ritz, daughter of Harry Ritz of the legendary Ritz Brothers. Janna and her husband Richard were in from New York and brought with them some rare TV clips of her dad’s appearances on shows from the ‘50s through the ‘70s. After dinner Sid and guests gathered around the set to watch one of the true comedy originals of the 20th century. What a treat!

Harry, Al, and Jimmy Ritz started out in vaudeville and nightclubs with an act that consisted of precision dancing, tongue-twisting spoofs of popular songs, facial mugging, and slapstick. Jan Murray called them “tumult” comedians. Think the opposite of Jack Benny. They ran around, pushed, clowned, made noises, rolled their eyes, and did all kinds of shtick. However they also sang and danced beautifully. Their dances in particular were so well-timed that it looked like the three of them were attached as one. They were so smooth that they almost make the Rockettes look like stumble-bums in comparison.

In 1934, the Ritz Brothers made their screen debut in the two-reel comedy Hotel Anchovy, which led to their being signed by 20th Century-Fox as a specialty act. Sing Baby Sing (1936) was the first feature film to costar the boys, and their first starring role followed a year later in Life Begins in College. Between 1934 and 1943, they turned out fifteen features and three shorts. Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, the Ritz Brothers continued appearing in supper clubs and the resort circuit and made their first appearances as TV guest stars.

All three were talented, but it was Harry that was the leader, innovator, and top banana. Among comedians, Harry Ritz is considered the greatest. “This man gave comedy a whole new dimension,” Sid Caesar has said. “Harry was the great innovator. His energy and his sensibility opened things up for all of us. He had to be the funniest man of his time.” Mel Brooks has often called Harry Ritz “the funniest man ever” and absolutely idolizes him.

In an old Dick Cavett show from the seventies the camera comes in close to Harry Ritz’s face and he demonstrates how he can count up to ten with his eyeballs. It’s unbelievable and hysterical. Harry had magic eyes. Then, at the finish of the show, the brothers get up and do their precision dance routine, which brings the house down. Even late in life they still moved like they were floating in air.

You can see the influence of Harry Ritz in dozens of other comedians; Danny Kaye and Jerry Lewis are two obvious examples. But Harry was never bothered by the fact that others “borrowed” the style, shtick, and bits of business from him. He didn’t complain when other comics, using his material, started playing better clubs and pulled in more money. He simply considered it flattery that they would use what he invented.

Towards the end of the evening, I spoke briefly to Janna and she told me of how one day she and her dad were walking along Beverly Boulevard when suddenly she noticed Fred Astaire walking across the street. “Look Daddy, it’s Fred Astaire.” Harry glanced over, waved to Astaire, then turned to his daughter and said, “Would you like to meet him?”

Janna couldn’t believe that her father actually knew Fred Astaire. They crossed the street and Harry introduced Janna to Fred Astaire; it was something that she would never forget. Later Fred told Janna that Harry Ritz was the best dancer he had ever seen. I asked Janna if she inherited any of her father’s dancing talent. “Not really,” she said, “but I can count up to ten with my eyes.” And then she did.

Did you hear about the federal judge that has ruled that homeless sex offenders may stay overnight at shelters near schools in Grand Rapids despite a Michigan state law prohibiting them from living within 1,000 feet of a school? No? Well, stay tuned, because here it is and it’s for real. Both of Grand Rapids’ shelters are within that student-safety zone but U.S. District Judge Gordon Quist doesn’t care about that, because we’ve got to keep our priorities straight — like protecting the health and well-being of homeless child molesters.

This idiot judge issued the ruling after determining that homeless people do not “reside” in emergency shelters if they only go there at night to sleep and have no guarantee of a place to stay on a given night. See, technically they don’t “live” there, they just go there to crash in the evenings … after a joyous afternoon of child molestation at the local school.

Idiot U.S. District Judge Quist rejected a request for an injunction to prevent enforcement of provisions of the Sex Offender Registration Act and student safety zones. Thanks to the ACLU, a lawsuit was brought by several homeless people with criminal-sexual conduct convictions. It stems from the fact that a 51-year -old child molester froze to death back in January 2009 after he was denied admission to a shelter because he was on the state’s Sex Offender Registry. He was placed on that registry because of a sexual assault conviction involving a pre-teen girl.

“The shelter-advocacy community really came together to say no one should freeze to death,” said Miriam Aukerman, an attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union. “To freeze to death on the street, that’s a horrible fate. No one deserves that.” Really? Well, what did that poor little girl ever do to deserve being molested by that monster?

Maybe child molesters do deserve to freeze to death because they don’t deserve to live, how about that? Actually, I could come up with a few other ways to handle child molesters, none of which involve shelters. Freezing is too good for them.

************************

And then we have the story that proves that no matter how long you’ve been married, it’s never safe to get caught cheating on your spouse, even when it was over 60 years ago. An Italian couple is soon to become the world’s oldest divorcees, after the 99-year-old husband found that his 96-year-old wife had an affair in the 1940s. The husband was going through an old chest of drawers when he made the discovery of his wife’s love letters a few days before Christmas.

The man became so upset that he immediately confronted his wife of 77 years and demanded a divorce. Guilt-stricken, she reportedly confessed everything but was unable to persuade her husband to reconsider his decision. She wrote the letters to her lover during a secret affair in the 1940s, according to court papers released in Rome this week.

So now the couple is heading for divorce after being married for close to eight decades. They have five children, a dozen grandchildren, and one great-grand child. No word on whether the old boyfriend is still around or not. I tend to doubt it.

From her point of view: How would you like to be married for almost 80 years only to discover that your husband isn’t exactly the forgive-and-forget type? She must be thinking, “Why the hell didn’t I just throw out the lousy letters, like 50 years ago?” They’re both practically 100-years-old; she almost got away with it!

From his point of view: How would you like to be married for almost 80 years only to discover that your wife is a cheating whore, harlot, slut? I don’t know, maybe after he confronted her with those letters she simply should have said, “I’m sorry dear. It will never happen again!” And chances are, it wouldn’t have.

Watching the New Year’s Eve telecasts I came up with an idea for next year’s New Year’s broadcast. What if after the ball comes down and people begin kissing in the New Year, instead of playing “New York, New York” or “America the Beautiful,” the orchestra or band actually plays “Auld Lang Syne”? That certainly would be different than what’s been done in the last few years. Don’t get me wrong, I love those other songs very much, it’s just that I don’t associate an anthem to a city or a country with New Year’s. Playing “Auld Lang Syne” would be infinitely more appropriate and definitely something new for today’s generation of New Year’s Eve revelers who don’t realize that it’s been a staple of New Year’s Eve for two or three hundred years.

OK, here’s another new thought. In today’s non-judgmental, anything-goes society, people make up their own minds as far as what they would like their sexual orientation to be, right? In other words it doesn’t matter whether you were born a male or a female, you can act and look anyway you “feel most comfortable” and you can assume any sexual identity you wish and society is expected to accept that. So here’s my question:

If it’s fine and dandy to take on any sexual orientation that you like, why isn’t it just as fine and dandy to take on any racial or ethnic orientation that you like? What if I wake up tomorrow and decide that I feel much more comfortable with a Samoan identity? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to take on any identity that I feel most at home with and why shouldn’t society at large have to accept my choice? After all, it’s my choice if I want to call myself a Samoan or a Latvian or a Mayan or whatever I am so inclined to be, no matter what my “birth race” was.

We can change our nationalities, we can change our religions, we can change our facial features, and we can change our gender and our sexual orientation. Why can’t we change our race? What right does society have to tell me I must live my life as a white guy? If you think this sounds ridiculous, it is. But remember, most of us thought same-sex marriage was ridiculous just ten or so years ago; now it is being legislated in state after state. Any abnormality can start to sound normal if it is constantly drummed into people for a long enough period of time.

Here’s something else to think about. Most of us eat at least three times a day; some of us even more … maybe a lot more. We know that what we put into our traps and swallow will affect how our bodies function. What we put into our bodies is extremely important for our health and wellbeing. So why do we trust the lowest paid, least educated workers on the planet to handle our food for us?

Shouldn’t we have well-educated nutritionists, scientists, and medical professionals trained in proper cleanliness and food preparation handling our basic life fuel? Why is it the least educated among us who is in charge of growing, harvesting, cleaning (or not), and preparing what we consume into our bodies? This is nothing new by the way; it has always been this way. The people standing on the lowest rung of society’s ladder, the ones who undoubtedly know the least about nutrition and food safety are the ones who handle what it is we eat. Think about it. If you think about it too much you may never eat again. Or wind up just growing your own.

And finally, since this is a presidential election year, how about this new thought: Let’s get rid of that stupid old axiom that “It doesn’t matter who you vote for or how you vote, as long as you get out there and vote.” If there was ever a dumb idea, that one is it. Of course it matters who you vote for. Let’s start a brand new axiom. Let’s say if you don’t know from nothing, then please, please do us all a favor, do not vote. Voters need to educate themselves on the issues and the candidates; otherwise they have no business in the voting booth screwing things up for those of us who have done our homework. Got it? Have a nice year.

Undoubtedly the proliferation of popular culture through music, movies, computer communication, and mostly television is the reason why almost all young people today sound the same, with nary a hint of a southern twang, or an East Coast soft “r.” All young girls want to sound like the popular girls they watch on TV; all young boys want to sound like the cool dudes they hear in the movies.

How sad it is that we are losing the charms of local speak. On a recent cross-country driving trip it was so very obvious. Everyone across the country under the age of forty sounds like they all grew up in the same town: Popculturesville, USA.

While the “New Yawk” dialect is still burlesqued on TV and in movies, the fact is, it is not the prevailing accent of New Yorkers that it once was. While listening to George Burns in a rerun of The Burns and Allen Show from the early fifties, I became aware that he spoke of smoking “cigahs,” playing “cahds,” and going to “dinnah pahties.” This soft “r” way of speaking was the norm for most New Yorkers once upon a time; now it’s more or less just for movie and TV Mafia types.

The same is true of New England accents. “Ay-ah.” There used to be a Pepperidge Farm spokesman in TV commercials who spoke that way. Think of the popular series Murder, She Wrote and the way the townsfolk all sounded in Angela Lansbury’s fictional village of Cabot Cove, Maine. New Englanders really used to talk that way, believe it or not, not just actors who play them on TV. And Midwesterners had their own way of speaking, as did folks in the northern parts of Dakota and Minnesota. Think Fargo.

But the winner of the dialect contest hands down goes to the South. The South had so many different dialects that there was just about one accent for every state. Texas was very different from Louisiana or Virginia, or Alabama or Tennessee. Actors in movies and stage had a field day with southern accents; they still do, even though the dialects are fading away with each passing year. How ironic it is that the entertainment business likes to keep the cliché regional accents alive in plays, movies, and commercials when it is they themselves that contributed almost singlehandedly to the end of the regional accents in this country.

For anyone wishing to get an education in what American regional dialect once was, I suggest reading Mark Twain for starters. Then move right into Joel Chandler Harris, Bret Harte, George W. Cable, Charles Egbert Craddock (Miss Murfree), Mary E. Wilkins (now Mrs. Freeman), and William Faulkner. Want to know how the real wise guys on the streets of New York used to speak? Read the delightful short stories of Damon Runyon. The newspaper comics of the early and mid 20th century used dialect extensively, particularly Li’l Abner, Krazy Kat, Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff, and Pogo. But almost all of them used it to some degree.

The United States was a patchwork quilt of individuals with individual nuance in speech and cadence and varied as the landscape. As John Steinbeck once wrote: “Ever’body says words different,“ said Ivy. “Arkansas folks says ‘em different from Oklahomy folks says ‘em different. And we seen a lady from Massachusetts, an’ she said ‘em differentest of all.”

—The Grapes of Wrath

Everyone does a list of famous people who have passed away in the last 12 months, so I’d like to do something a little different – the following is my partial list of those who have NOT passed away in 2011. Donald Trump, Diane Sawyer, Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie, Britney Spears, Brad Pitt, Tiger Woods, Nicole Kidman, Ben Stiller, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Madonna, Barney Frank, Sean Penn, and Daniel Craig. There are several others, of course, but as I said, this was a partial list.

Now let’s get back to those famous people who HAVE passed away. We can list them in two distinct groups: the “we will miss you” group, and the “good riddance” group. First the “good riddance” group: Kim Jong ll, Osama bin Laden, and Muammar Khaddafi (there’s probably more, but those are the big three). “We will miss you” group includes Steve Jobs, Elizabeth Taylor, Peter Falk, Betty Garrett, Jane Russell, Jackie Cooper, James Arness, and Sidney Lumet.

The coming year could prove to be interesting. We might get a new president, a new Senate, and a new lease on life for our sagging economy and unemployed. Or we might not. One thing is for sure, the elections of 2012 will determine the direction of our nation for many decades to come. Will we get back to the basic tenets of our founding fathers or will we go even further left than we have, bringing us closer to a socialist European way of life? This will be determined in November. Be careful what you vote for.

2012 will mark the one hundredth anniversary of: the sinking of the Titanic, the state of New Mexico, the abdication of the last Chinese emperor, the invention of the Dixie cup, Fenway Park, the Beverly Hills Hotel, the publication of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes, and the first Keystone Kops movie. The first streetcars took to the streets of San Francisco one hundred years ago too.

In my family there is cause for celebration since 2012 is a leap year and it means that my nephew, Adam, will actually have a real birthday for the first time in seven years. According to Wikipedia, there are a variety of popular beliefs about the year 2012. These beliefs range from the spiritually transformative to the apocalyptic, and center upon various interpretations of the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar.

According to the Bible Code the world will end due to a collision with a meteor or comet. On the other hand, December 21 is slated to be the end of the great cycle of the Maya calendar’s Long Count, and therefore the alleged end of our world (the end of the cycle is dated December 23 by some calculations). Also interpreted as a change in human consciousness: the end of the world as we know it but the start of a new one.

On a happier note, 2012 will be when the first quad-core smartphones will become available, whatever the heck they are. And that’s not all, ready? Sequoia, a proposed super computer built by IBM for the National Nuclear Security Administration will be completed, reaching a peak performance of 20 Petaflops. That’s right, I said Petaflops! Wanna make something out of it?

So depending what you believe, maybe the November elections won’t mean very much after all. Listen, if the world comes to an end due to a meteor, comet, or whatever, then you might as well vote for Ron Paul … or the Mario Brothers, or even the Marx Brothers, which would be in keeping with Obama’s direction for the country. Happy New Year? Well, let’s hope so. We can always keep our fingers crossed.

Each driver was texting or sending a tweet;

Some drivers drove fast while some drivers drove slow

Ignoring the rules of the road as they go;

Their children were strapped in the car seats in back

Hands busy with video games, mouths filled with some snack;

And though in the car Christmas music was playing

I’m sorry to say the whole mood thing was failing,

‘Cause Sirius radio was blasting some crap

That purported to be Yuletide tunes done in rap.

Still down to the shopping mall these drivers did go

With a car full of kids and a street full of snow;

The parking lot line snaked around and around

And cars sat there waiting without making a sound

It never occurred to these shoppers at the time

That all shopping could be done at home and online

The world has changed greatly since Clement Clark Moore

Wrote his St. Nicholas poem that we all adore,

For starters he wrote it on paper you see,

Then printed in book form for you and for me;

Not posted on Facebook not Myspace nor Tweet,

Not typed in a blog, not tattooed onto feet;

Just printed on paper, just paper and ink,

Moore gave us the best Christmas poem, I think;

It spoke of a moon and of new-fallen snow,

Of Santa and reindeer and objects below;

Now it’s all different, it’s not the same place

It’s iPods and iPads, and studs in your face;

It’s smartphones and Bluetooth and Xbox and Wii

It’s Kindle and eBook and HD-TV;

It’s Bieber not Perry, not Nat and not Bing

It’s Gaga not a girl who can actually sing

Times have altered what was once gentle and sweet,

Now we have occupiers taking the street;

Rules and regulations protect us from sin,

Don’t sit on Santa’s lap you don’t know where he’s been;

Eggnog can kill you, so can sugarplum pie,

Keep eating those cookies and you surely will die;

Forget warm glows from the fireplace this year

It’s bad for the environment, didn’t you hear?

To wish “Merry Christmas” once gave off good cheer

Now it’s considered offensive to hear;

The greeting is now “Happy winter to you

And all of the best for a solstice that’s true;”

No more singing of carols in grade school today;

No more present exchange, no more holiday play;

Political correctness has dulled up the season,

It turned a nice thing into junk for no reason;

Dressing up for the holidays was once truly swell

Now most people look like something from hell;

Attitude, ugliness, and low-class vulgarity,

Has taken the place of sweet sentimentality;

I know times do change, nothing is ever the same,

Innocence and warmth is gone and that’s really a shame

Still regardless of all that I’ve listed above,

I nevertheless want to wish you much love

With a holiday brimming with brightness and cheer

And good health to you all for the coming New Year.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!

Advertisers would kill for the name brand of a Betty Crocker, Walt Disney, Coca-Cola, or Kleenex. A solid brand name is worth its weight in consumer purchasing dollars. People have a set expectation of quality and reliability when they see a recognizable brand. People also tend to buy what they know and trust. Keeping that trust with the consumer is an important part of protecting the brand image for the company; for as hard it is to create a positive, quality image, it takes no time at all to destroy it.

As cartoonist, storyman, and later as creative VP for Disney Consumer Products and publications, I took the image of the Disney characters and Disney name very seriously. I knew that these are precious commodities that should never be fooled with. People love the Disney characters and have a special bond with them; that bond cannot be compromised. Mickey Mouse is the most important character of all; he is the icon for the company.

When it comes to Christmas, there is no commercial icon that even comes close to the powerful image of Santa Claus. Santa is Christmas to most Americans as well as to many million others around the world. You couldn’t ask for a better image to represent the Christmas holiday season than Santa Claus. Santa is, of course, in the public domain and can be used (or misused) by any company or individual at their pleasure. No one company has the exclusivity to jolly old St. Nick. One company does come close, however … the Coca-Cola Company.

In 1931, The Coca-Cola Company commissioned Michigan-born illustrator Haddon Sundblom to develop advertising images using Santa Claus. For inspiration, Sundblom turned to Clement Clark Moore’s 1822 poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (commonly called “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”). Moore’s description of St. Nick led to an image of Santa that was warm, friendly, pleasantly plump, and human. For the next 33 years, Sundblom painted portraits of Santa that helped to create the modern image of Santa — an interpretation that today lives on in the minds of people of all ages, all over the world.

For generations people associated that lovable image of Santa Claus with Coca-Cola. They looked forward to seeing the advertising posters and commercials using that warm image carefully built up by Coca-Cola over many decades. It became a tradition, and people want tradition at Christmastime. In short, the Coca-Cola Company came about as close a company could come to “owning” the image of Santa Claus in the marketplace. Then they blew it. They threw him under the sleigh, so to speak. For no apparent reason, the decision was made to come up with new Christmas imaging in the last few years. Some genius in 1993 said, “Let’s do polar bears!”

This year they even changed the color of their cans from red to white! Customers rebelled and the Coca-Cola Company had to do some public relations backpedaling, but fast! Besides throwing Santa over the side, the other problem was these white cans were too similar to the silver Diet Coke cans, and it got too many consumers confused and angry. Many of them tweeted or emailed their complaints to the company. The result: The white cans are history, and the red cans are back in. The white can/polar bear thing proved to be a marketing failure.

The white cans were all part of an ad campaign with the WWF with the lofty ambition of raising awareness and funds to help create a safe haven for the polar bear, making an Arctic refuge. Good intentions maybe, but really dumb marketing. You just don’t throw away a classic feel-good image combination like Santa Claus and Coke for the sake of political correct environmental issues. How stupid can you be?

My advice to Coke would be this: Keep the traditional Santa Claus ads and packaging throughout the holidays and do the polar bear refuge thing in January, as another, separate campaign push. It’s Christmastime, dammit! People want Santa on their Coke cans and bottles!

Soon after we arrived at the party that Friday evening, my wife Jane was given the honor of lighting the Shabbos candles and saying the prayer. After that, Theodore Bikel sang the prayer in Hebrew, and that was followed by Rabbi Jerry Cutler presiding over the Challah cutting and the blessings. I still can’t believe that my wife made Shabbos for Sid Caesar, Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks, and about fifteen or twenty other guests! And she did it like she’s done it for this group all her life. She never missed a line, never hesitated a moment. She was perfect. But if you think about it, why wouldn’t she be? She’s been doing it for the two of us almost every Friday night for over thirty years. That’s a lot of rehearsal time.

The party was organized and arranged by Sid’s daughter, Karen, and her husband Tim with assistance from long time friends, Lou and Fran Zigman. The food was delicious, the people friendly and warm, the house comfortable, and the stories wonderful. All in all it was a great night, but the best part of the evening happened toward the end of the party.

Imagine sitting in a room with Sid Caesar, Mel Brooks, and Carl Reiner and listening to them reminisce, tell jokes, and relate stories. It was all so good, really good. Then something truly magical happened. At one point someone brought up Little Me, the 1962 Broadway show that Sid starred in. It was written by Neil Simon with music by Cy Coleman, lyrics by Carolyn Leigh, and choreographed by Bob Fosse. Sid was asked if he remembered one of the hit songs from that show. Without missing a beat he started singing:

Pardon me, miss, but I’ve never done this

With a real live girl.

Straight off the farm with an actual arm

Full of real live girl.

Pardon me if your affectionate squeeze

Fogs up my glasses and buckles my knees,

I’m simply drowned in the sight and the sound

And the scent and the feel

Of a real live girl.

He had every word, every line down pat, just as if he had performed it only last week. Mel Brooks shook his head in disbelief. “His phrasing is perfect, he’s on key, and his tempo is spot on.” When he finished we gave Sid a round of applause. Carl Reiner also sang a tune after that, and then all eyes turned to Mel who went into “High Anxiety,” the song from his picture of the same name and (the way that Mel performs it) a kind of homage to Frank Sinatra. Great stuff.

Not many people have an opportunity to sit in on three comedy giants of show business doing shtick, singing songs, and enjoying each others’ company. It was a real thrill for me, and I will always remember that one special night when I went to a day-after Thanksgiving dinner party at Sid Caesar’s home, ate Chinese food, watched my wife making Shabbos for the guests, was entertained by three of my idols, and felt totally at home. What a Thanksgiving! What a party!

From as near as I can tell, the style disappeared with Kennedy in 1961 (another thing we can thank the ‘60s for). Before then, Eisenhower wore both double-breasted and single-breasted. Truman preferred the double-breasted more often. But no president since then has worn one. That’s fifty years’ worth of double-breastedless presidents. This has nothing to do with fashion styles; all through the 1980s and 1990s, when the double-breasted suit made a huge comeback, the presidents of those years still never wore them.

Come to think about it, I’m not sure any of our modern day senators or congressmen wears the double-breasted suits anymore, either. What is it with today’s wussy politicians? What is it about that particular style that scares them off? It can’t be that the look is considered too far out or cutting edge, because it really is a staple that has been around forever. The double-breasted suit gives a man a professional, formal appearance — a touch of class.

And yet all or most of our national elected representatives all look like they buy the same dark single-breasted boring suit. It’s like they all shop at the Men’s Dull Clothing Outlet. This may just say something about our politicians today. No imagination, no sense of individualism, no courage to be different from the rest of the pack.

The double-breasted suit has a long and illustrious history as a style of men’s clothing. The on-line encyclopedia, Wikipedia describes the original double-breasted jacket as having six buttons, with three to close. This originated from the naval reefer jacket. Some versions have four buttons in which only the bottom one fastens. The four-button double-breasted jacket that buttons at the lower button is often called the “Kent,” after the man who made it popular — the Duke of Kent.

Double-breasted suit jackets were especially popular from the mid-1930s until the late 1950s, and again from the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s. It was the 1987 film Wall Street that brought the look back as the ultimate executive “power suit.” Overcoats such as the pea coat and trench coat are traditionally double-breasted and also originated from military fashion. The double-breasted suit always has peaked lapels, as opposed to the notched lapels of the single-breasted suits.

According to a fashion website the double-breasted suit had its widest acceptance in the 1930s, most commonly seen in a six-button model worn by men ranging from Noel Coward and Adolphe Menjou to Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. In 1942, after the US entered World War II, the War Production Board General Regulation L-85 mandated that wool be rationed to save cloth for the boys fighting overseas, so the patriotic men wore single-breasted suits.

Then came the 1950s and early 1960s and along with it came the skinny-lapelled single-breasted suits and skinny ties. The entire suit had a tight, skimpy look, just as the styles are now, with short trousers and no cuffs. It makes men look like nerds, and it is a style that doesn’t work at all for heavier guys and broad-chested men.

What this country needs now is a president who is a broad-chested man, in the truest sense. A president who can revive our sagging economy, get people back to work, stop inflation, win our wars abroad, and reopen factories and manufacturing plants here at home. We need a president who can keep our borders secure and our citizens safe.

We need a president who can bring America back as the beacon of creativity and the envy of all other nations, as we once were. We need a president who does not apologize for America, but honors her. We need a president who is optimistic about America’s future and who understands traditional American values of hard work and ingenuity.

In short, we need a president who isn’t afraid to wear a double-breasted suit.