"A Buffalo Surprise"

Not long ago, Bill O’Reilly caused a stir when, as a guest on The View, he said,
”The Muslims attacked us on 9/11.” The audience booed. Two of the hosts walked out. A dramatic confrontation – on “live-on-tape” television. (It’s not live, but it looks like it.)

When I heard the report of this dust-up – I had somehow missed the broadcast itself – I immediately knee-jerked my reaction. My response had nothing to do with the blatant racism (religiocism?) of the remark. My response also had nothing to do with the intemperateness of a remark that could inflame already bubbling (rising towards boiling) hatreds. Nor do I quibble with the accuracy of the remark. Muslims did attack us on 9/11. So, technically at least – no dispute.

What I do in these cases – and this is entirely normal for me – is go directly into “Fantasy Mode.” I immediately imagine myself on that panel hearing O’Reilly say, “The Muslims attacked us on 9/11.” I see myself, sitting there, calm and unruffled, and when I deftly break up the shoutfest and speak, I am Pomerantzianly simple, honest and clear.

It is me at my most impressive. It’s my fantasy. If I am not going to be impressive in it, why bother?

“Mr. O’Reilly”, I begin, after talking my fellow panelists down from the brink of wreaking havoc on an aging, conservative commentator, “there are at least a dozen different ways you could have worded the statement you just made about who attacked us on 9/11. But you, deliberately I believe, chose the most inflammatory option. I understand why you did that. You did that, because that’s your business, “your business’ being the news commentary division of show business. In the news commentary division of show business, the most extreme expression of your point of view – that’s how you get your ratings. That’s how you make your money. And that’s how you stay on the air.”

I will spare you the entire transcript of my fantasy, including only the section where O’Reilly shoots back, “But what I said was true. The Muslims did attack us on 9/11.” To which I judiciously reply, “In choosing to express yourself in that manner, you have committed the classic Philosophy 101 error in logic. It is true that the terrorists were all Muslims. But it does not then follow that all Muslims are terrorists. Stating that the Muslims attacked us on 9/11”, you are therefore factually incorrect. Only nineteen of them did. Of course, you knew that. You also knew there is nothing provocative about saying, “19 Muslims attacked us on 9/11. So, instead, you delivered the version which is likely to make you most money.”

I am quite proud of that pretend performance.

I’m thinking, “Blog post. Definitely a blog post.”

Hayevah…

A few days later, I’m in a hotel room in Toronto, watching an American TV station emanating from Buffalo, the city from which Torontonians receive their American network “feeds”, which just means if you’re in Toronto, your American television programming comes from Buffalo. After all these years, I can still network affiliates’ remember the “Call Letters” – WBEN (CBS), WGR (NBC) and WKBW (ABC). It’s amazing the crap I hold on to.

It’s a news show. It’s near the end, after they’ve reported all the bad things that had happened to people in Buffalo that day, and maybe one “Local Kindergarteners visit a Retirement Home.”

It’s Filler Time. The filler on this occasion: A series of “Man (and Woman) In The Street” interviews.

And as luck would have it, the “Question of the Day” concerns the recent O’Reilly kerfuffle on The View.

“What do you think, Buffalonians?”

What did they think? They though this:

“It’s show business.”

“He’s being provocative to get ratings.”

“It’s what those people do for money.”

Stop the presses. The Man (and Woman) In The Street

Is ahead of me.

The people already know.

In Buffalo.

It’s a real eye-opener. Galileo running into the street:

“Hear me, Italian People! You know how we believe the sun revolves around the earth?”

“The earth revolves around the sun.”

“Well…yeah.”

It’s quite a letdown. Or comeuppance, depending on how you look at it.

The inspired funnyman Mel Brooks once said,

“We’re all talking. I’ve got the mouth.”

On that news show in Buffalo, they all had “the mouth.” And as it turned out,

They needed no help from me.

I’ve been wanting to write about having “the mouth” for some time, whether people with access to the loudspeaker – whether vocal or in print – truly represent the vast majority of the people who are all talking, or whether they deliver up the distorted perspective of an atypical minority – the minority with “the mouth.” It’s an interesting question, don’t you think?

But that’ll have to wait for another time.

Or never.

If you already know the answer.

"I Have Trouble With 'The Shrug'"

It stings, or maybe more accurately, as when my six-year old camper Howard Rosen wrote home “Camp shtings”, it shthings when the ideas you believe in are repudiated by the voters.

When that happened last Tuesday, I didn’t feel too well. Though I’m sure it was worse for the president, who immediately sought comfort in another country. (“Where can I go where people have it worse than I do? I know. India.”)

In an effort to process the rejection, your thoughts inevitably go to “They didn’t understand what we were trying to do. Our ideas are right. We just didn’t explain them persuasively enough.” But then, I think, “That’s exactly what the other side says when they lose."

“It’s so obvious! When the rich pay less taxes, we all succeed! Why can’t they understand that?”

It also shtings quite severely when, along with the True Believers whose views happen to be the opposite of mine, the extreme fringe of lunatics and haters is swept to victory as well. That has to be encouraging to them.

“Being crazy and hateful wins elections. Write it down. We’ll use it again.”

My response to when good things happen to scary people is not anger. It’s confusion. And sadness. And a historically resonating, internal shiver. When the policies you believe in are voted down, so be it. The people have spoken. At least, the people who voted.

But when reasoned argument is defeated, at least in part, by fear-mongering, racist undercurrents and Hitler, Stalin and Satan analogies, it’s not just one side’s agenda that takes a drubbing. It’s civilized society. A fact that, to me, is considerably more serious.

I have no problem listening to the other side explain where they’re coming from. If, to some people, the increasing number of billionaires representing the greatest disparity between the super-rich and everyone else since the 1920’s demonstrates that people have the ability to get really rich in this country, I get why they’re against policies that would interfere with those efforts.

If you believe over-regulation stifles economic growth, I understand your opposition to regulation. If “starving the beast” keeps government from wasting our money, I get it – don’t give them so much. If military strength abroad keeps us safer at home, a muscular foreign policy is obviously the answer. If you believe that government handouts create dependency, cut back on “entitlements.”

I understand the principles, and the policies they engender. I don’t agree with them, but I understand. The place I get lost is where, after reasonably espousing their positions, conservatives seem, not oblivious – these are thoughtful people – not disinterested, it’s hurtier than that…conservatives seem indifferent, yeah, that’s the word – indifferent – and to my not entirely unbiased sensibilities at least, dismissively indifferent, to the disturbing consequences of those positions.

Time and again – and I’m talking about when I’ve seen them on television – conservatives’ responses to the problematic consequences of their core beliefs is reflected most tangibly in an identifiable physical gesture known as

The Shrug.

Examples? I’m sure there are more than both time or my limited knowledge can provide, but here are just a few. Conservative policies, based on fundamental conservative principles:

Privatize Social Security

People have a right to invest their own retirement money any way they want. Fine. Possible Consequence: They invest it in what are widely touted to be “can’t miss” stocks. Like Enron. They lose all their retirement money. What happens to those people then?

Shrug.

Privatize Education

The best businesses are productive, efficient and cost effective. Run schools like a business. Possible Consequence: Not all businesses succeed. When they don’t, “business” files for “Chapter Eleven” and moves on and sells windmills. What if the “school business” goes belly up? What happens to the students?
Shrug.

Companies, Large and Small, Must Be Permitted To Fail

Let’s say we followed that principle, and allowed all the banks and the investment houses and the car companies go under. Where would the economy be now?

Shrug.

Keep Government Out Of Health Care

But what if you get really sick and you don’t have health insurance? Or your insurance company drops you, or severely limits expenditures for your treatment? What happens to you then?

Shrug.

Guns

The Second Amendment guarantees, at least since the last Supreme Court ruling, an individual’s right to own a gun. That guarantee is in the Constitution. But back then, they had single-shot muskets that took forty-five seconds to load. Now, we have modern weapons that pump out bullets at a considerably faster pace. Is that really the same thing?

Shrug.

And the number of guns you can own? Shouldn’t that make a difference?

The Constitution says nothing about that.

It wasn’t an issue back then. But it is now. Should we not do something about that?

Shrug.

Money As Free Speech

Limiting the amount of money you can spend on a campaign is equivalent to limiting Free Speech itself, which you’re Constitutionally prohibited from doing…because it’s Free Speech. But what if the corporations, who are now free to spend as much as they want, overpower the people with opposing views whose financial resources are considerably thinner? Won’t that mean that all points of view will not be able to be equally heard?

Shrug.

It is possible that conservatives are right about everything. A convincing argument could, not easily, but perhaps over time, persuade me to change my mind.

But you have to finish the story, conservatives. If you want my vote, you need to reassure me that, along with an unswerving commitment to your core beliefs, you are aware of the problematic consequences of those beliefs, and have reasonable solutions for dealing with them.

One thing I can tell you.

The shrug is a turn-off.

Of course, you may not need my vote. You did very well without it.

"A Possible Clue"

Your parents want you to perform for the company.

You are three years old.

You hesitate, but they insist.

“Mommy and Daddy want you to do your song.”

Resistance is futile. You take a deep breath, stand up in front of the company,

And away you go.

The itsy bitsy spider

Climbed up the water spout…

With perfect pitch and appropriate hand gestures.

Tentative at first, you rapidly gain confidence, and then hit your stride.

You are knocking it out of the park.

Your performance ends to enthusiastic applause.

The compliments are effusive.

“That was just wonderful!”

“Are you sure you’re not seven?”

“You are so good!”

That last one really hits home. It’s a loftier level of accolade.

You are more than talented.

You’re GOOD!

It’s a memorable moment. Everyone’s saying you’re terrific. And because you’re three…

You believe them.

Later when you’re eighteen, maybe younger,

You assemble your family, and you make an announcement:

“I am going into show business.”

Your dumbfounded parents reel with confusion.

“This is so unexpected!”

“How did it happen?”

“Where did she get this from?

For a possibly helpful clue,

Please return to Line One.

"Self-Interest On Overdrive"

With Major Dad – the TV series I had co-created and was running – a big hit, I was experiencing a moment of transitory importance. As a consequence of this temporary lofty standing, I was invited to participate in a panel, discussing the issue of the skyrocketing costs of making television shows.

Why did I agree to participate? I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the heavyweight status of the other participants.

Included on the panel was a network president, the president of a studio, the head of a major production company, a high-ranking “Business Affairs” executive…

And me.

Someone had uncorked a bottle of “Mr. Big Shot” and a whiff of its contents had swirled tantalizingly up my nose. That’s the only way I can explain how I found myself one morning, seated at the far end of a panel, in the company of some of the heaviest hitters in the business.

In their opening remarks, each of them, in turn, pinpointed the same reason for the out-of-control expenditures, which was this:

Agents were demanding – and, due to the competitive nature of the business, receiving – excessive financial compensation for their show running clients. Bring the talents’ demands into line, and the “soaring costs” problem would be significantly alleviated.

Finally, it was my turn to speak. I had not prepared any remarks. I’m not sure I even knew what the discussion topic would be. And that was just fine. I’m often better when I simply listen and respond. Which is precisely what I did. My response – though I’m sure not in these exact words – went something like this:

“I have listened to the other members of this panel express their views on the matter under discussion, and they all seem to agree. Which is impressive, because their unanimity brings an added credibility to their opinion.

The conclusion they have all come to is this: The soaring costs of production would be significantly lowered by cutting my salary.”

The laughter garnered by this remark reflected its air-clearing candor. The companies’ profits would go up if the amount they paid me went down. That, in their great wisdom, was what they were calling for.

Less for me. More for them.

There was no consideration of, “The talent makes the shows. Maybe they deserve what they get.” There was no suggestion, “Expenses are out of control. Let’s all take a cut.” There was no, “Despite rising costs, we are all making money. Why not leave things the way they are?” (And let the markets decide salaries. How come that’s suddenly no good?)

None of that came up. Their solution, to a man, was loud and clear:

Cut Earl’s salary.

This story comes to mind in the aftermath of Tuesday’s election, where the winners (and their supporters) seem to apply the same rationale to their fellow citizens as my fellow panelists applied to me.

The solution to out-of-control deficits is to slash the benefits received by people other than ourselves. Skyrocketing budgetary expenses? Their answer:

“Reduce expenditures. For them.”

The “them” in this case, referring to the people clinging to the lowest rung of economic ladder. Runaway spending? Reduce expenditures on the people who need it the most. That’ll fix things.

Give the needy less money. Then everything will be fine.

(Note: I am not equating the situation of well-paid television writers with the neediest members of society. The proposed solution, however, seems eerily similar.)

I understand the concept of self-interest. I have written with sincere ambivalence about teaching Kindergarten children to share, when our nation’s values point squarely in the other direction, expressed, not unfairly, I believe, by the words,

“I got mine. Get your own!”

In certain cases, this is precisely the requisite approach. Jewish tradition tells us that, if you and another person are in the desert, and there’s only enough water to keep one of you alive, you are morally obligated to drink the water yourself.

There is, however, a difference between that instruction and the situation we find ourselves in today, the difference being - we’re not in a desert. Despite serious difficulties, there is plenty enough water for those with more water than they’ll ever be able to drink in a thousand lifetimes to set a little aside for the seriously thirsty.

A large segment of the electorate believes otherwise. Or so it would appear, considering how they voted.

For them, the principle of justified “self-interest” seems to have been expanded from

“When it’s life and death, it’s me over you” to

“For me, always. For you, never.”

Consider this question. Imagine there‘s a life-threatening illness, and you were asked to vote on government funding for a stepped-up research campaign to help find a cure.

Your opposition to “excessive government spending” notwithstanding, how much more likely would you be to vote for that funding if you or your loved ones were in danger than if you believed the “Killer Disease” imperiled other people but not you?

Earl’s susceptible; you’re not. Will we still get your vote?

Be a human for a second. If there’s an acknowledged crisis, and your answer to it is a crippling sacrifice by others but none by you, do I simply chalk that up to a natural exercise of personal self-interest?

Or do I shake my head, and quietly shed a tear?

I announce with sadness the recent passing of “Mike The Blogger.” I knew Mike from camp. He was a “tripper”, meaning he took campers out on canoe trips. But unlike the other “trippers”, who were traditionally rough and raw, though equally capable, Mike was sweet and kind and gentle and – and this is especially important to someone who could carry neither a canoe nor a pack, nor even the paddles – Mike was extremely patient.

I liked Mike when I knew him. And I’ll miss seeing him comments.

Happy Trails.

"A Very Confusing Early Lesson"

A prototypical Kindergarten tableau:

We’re in a classroom. The desks are pushed together to form some kind of communal table, with, say, four kids to a table. Everyone has a sheet of drawing paper. There’s a big pile of crayons. You use the crayons, and you make a picture.

A kid at one table reaches over, scoops up all the crayons, and slides them towards himself, like a winning poker player raking in a pot.

Every single crayon. He’s hoarding them all. And he starts to work on his picture. A little red, a little yellow, raw umber, some burnt sienna. Having cornered all the crayons, his options are unlimited. Within the magical Crayola universe of crayon colors.

The three other kids at the table immediately react with responses ranging from “No fair!” to crying, to getting up and telling the teacher.

“(PLACE THE-KID-IN-KINDERGARTEN-WHO EVERYONE-HATED BECAUSE-HE-WAS-A-BIG-BULLY’S NAME HERE)’s hogging all the crayons!”

Arriving at the table, and surveying the situation, wherein the entire allotment of the table’s crayons are sitting in front of one child, leaving no crayons for anybody else, the teacher says,

“Now, (THE ABOVE HATEFUL KID’S NAME), you know the rule.”

All together now…

“You have to share.”

Now, if I were that kid – and I never was, I was more likely the kid who yelled, “No fair!”, and then got put in the corner for making a commotion in class – but if I were the kid who was hoarding all the crayons, my answer to my teacher’s telling me, “You have to share”, would definitely have been…

“Why?”

Or, if I were wiser than my four or five years, and was fully cognizant of international history,

“What is this, Soviet Russia? I mean, come on! They don’t even share there anymore!”

It’s true. They don’t. The “sharing thing” didn’t work out. So they switched to something more along the lines of what we do:

Putting our efforts into accumulating as many crayons as we can possibly get our hands on.

That’s our culture. That’s what we do. And we glorify the winners. What’s the annual Fortune 500 list if it isn’t a public announcement of which five hundred Americans have currently possess the greatest number of crayons? “Net worth” is simply a “Crayon Count” in dollars. Or, more likely, assets, since the really rich have less actual money than, say, properties that they borrowed money to acquire.

The winner in the economic system we live under is the person who possesses the greatest number of crayons. And yet, we drum into our children the requirement that will weaken their chances of coming out on, or anywhere near, the top, that requirement being:

“You have to share.”

Imagine Spartan youths being required to lie around snacking on hummus and pita, and watching the sun revolve around the earth. They get into battle – where Spartans youths inevitably wind up – and it’s like, “We’re not prepared for this!”

Are we not similarly mistraining our children? And – see my opening example – criticizing the only student who’s doing it right?

I can understand teaching, “We do not hit people” in Kindergarten, because in later life, you’re also not allowed to hit people. The difference here is that in later life,

Nobody shares.

They only share in Kindergarten.

And the question – repeated for a second time – is the “hoarder’s” question:

Why?

I am not being sarcastic here. I am entirely befuddled by this perplexing contradiction.

"Hometown Hobservations"

A Bumpy Beginning…

We flew to Toronto Business Class, using our Air Miles. The lunch entrée choices were shrimp, or chicken garnished with ham. I immediately came up with a new company slogan:

“American Airlines – We Don’t Care What Jews Eat”

On The Way To The Hotel…

I directed Dr. M to a street that I knew would showcase the Canadian incarnation of current season. It was a magnificent display, an autumnal wonderland – Halloween trees, dressed in pumpkin-colored leaves. Also lemon yellow, flaming orange, and Bordeaux red. Plus a myriad of others I lack color adjectives to describe.

The street, a semi-major thoroughfare, featured two lanes in each direction. The right lane was blocked by (legally) parked cars. The lane beside it was designated for left turns. We spent the duration of the drive barely moving at all.

Which gave us more time to check out the leaves.

Memorable Excursion…

We drove to Niagara Falls. I had visited there years before with my brother, sister-in-law and their (at the time) infant son. I remember lunching at a revolving restaurant. I recall someone throwing up. I do not believe it was the infant.

Or his parents.

Niagara Falls is a rightfully-earned “Wonder of the World.” Especially the Canadian version: Braided waters of gray-green and white, cascading downward with a bone-chilling intensity. Not far away are the American Falls, powerful but smaller, and comparatively less impressive. You can almost sense the confusion. American waters with knitted brows, going,

“Aren’t we supposed to be better at everything?”

Not at falls.

The Purpose Of Our Visit…

The straight and slim Bar Mitzvah boy, who on our last visit had seemed truculently resistant to the obligatory Rite of Passage, faced his liturgical challenge with confidence and a capability, born from countless hours of practice. Being both baseball fans, I was certain he would immediately get my analogy describing his performance:

“A can of corn.”

He didn’t. I explained that, in baseball, a “can of corn” is a routine fly ball lofted to an outfielder whose preparation for that moment made its execution look entirely effortless. I told him that’s exactly how he’d come off, reading his Torah portion.

And then he smiled.

The Weather Show…

The sky kept changing. At first, it was a no-nonsense layered gray, signaling, “There’s a storm a’brewin’.” (And, in fact, it snowed really hard on Halloween.) But at sunset, you’d look out from your hotel room window and see a darkening sky with pinky-red streaks, or a Technicolor purple sky, a light blue sky with puffy white clouds, or a return of the ominous, layered gray.

I like a sky that provides options. Every day in Los Angeles, we are greeted with the same cloudless, pastel blue, bringing to mind a monochromatic “Paint By Numbers” picture, its upper area designated:

Sky.

As for the frigid temperature and gusting wind? Well, the first day, it was a giggly novelty. The second day – silly ,but that’s what it is. By the third day, however, suited up in layered clothing, a heavy coat, a scarf, a hat and gloves – you totally remember why you moved.

Canadian Crossword…

Dr. M enjoys doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. I discovered one in the morning’s National Post, handed it over, and she immediately went to work.

After ten minutes of exasperated effort, she put down her pen and gave up. “Is it too hard?” I asked. “It’s weird,” she replied, reading me a random clue as an example of her difficulty.

“Who is ‘The eighth premier of Nova Scotia’?”

I had no idea. And it’s unlikely they know in Nova Scotia either.

A Moving Memorial…

Our visit also included a trip to the cemetery, where a reworked headstone was unveiled, now featuring both my parents’ names and significant data. There were wiped-away tears, warming reminiscences and a Prayer for the Departed, the event, a sobering yang to the celebratory bar mitzvah yin. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not exactly an expert in that department.

The “unveiling” was once again presided over by the extremely youthful rabbi, who had also conducted my mother’s funeral. When we were originally introduced, I had greeted the kid rabbi with the considerably less than respectful, “First day?”

Today, the rabbi was searching to infuse the proceedings with some memorable “Sign From On High.” Moments earlier, he had spotted a fox skittering across the cemetery grounds. Hoping to use the sighting as a reassuring “Heavenly Wink”, the neophyte rabbi inquired, “Did you mother like animals?” Hesitating barely an eye blink, my brother replied,

“Well, she liked us.”

A Canadian News Story…

A fed-up storekeeper, the contents of whose convenience store was continually being pilfered, had detained a notorious, serial shoplifter, by tying him up and incarcerating him in a van until the police arrived. When the cops showed up, hours later,

They arrested the storekeeper.

For kidnapping.

“You can’t just tie people up,” an officer explained, as they hauled the storekeeper away on a charge of “assault and forcible confinement.” They did not, however, delineate what the complainant was supposed to have done with the shoplifter during the period between their detainment and the arrival of The Law. Previous experience had demonstrated that if you don’t somehow confine the shoplifters, rather than waiting around to be arrested, they simply get up and walk out of the store. Only to return later, and shoplift again!

Before announcing his verdict, the presiding judge warned the gallery against either cheering or booing the verdict. He added, however, that once he closes the door behind him, it’s amazing “how quickly I can lose my hearing.”

The storekeeper was acquitted. There was an explosion of applause. But only after the judge had exited the courtroom.

A five-star home cooked dinner, an invitation to lunch where, upon our arrival, we were met with a tabletop strewn with red and golden maple leaves, courtesy of our hosts, an always bittersweet farewell to family who, very sadly, live too far away,

And back on the plane.

I looked out the window. It was, by far, the most beautiful day of our visit – sunny, not at all cold, and virtually windless.

And we, of course, were going home.

"Two Boxes"

There are gaps in my personal biography, some of which could be filled by the contents of two cardboard boxes I impulsively let slip away.

When I first moved to California, a friend was kind enough to let me store those two boxes, plus a Chinese rug that had belonged to my grandmother, in the basement of her condominium. My future was up in the air at the time, and there was no place to leave them. I asked if she’d be willing to hold on to them for me, and she graciously said yes.

Years later – ten, maybe fifteen – Dr. M and I, now a couple, are visiting Toronto, to see my family. Now, Dr. M, well, let’s say our artistic tastes in certain areas do not exactly match. I’m not talking about movies and stuff, where we generally agree. I am referring primarily to decorating choices.

I have written about how I came home from work one night, and I found all the art that had adorned the walls of my bachelor condo now adorning the walls of our garage, more specifically one wall – the one beside where I park my car. One piece of sculpture had made the cut. Everything else was “house adjacent.”

Okay, so we’re in Toronto, and I decide to take a chance. I say, “I don’t know if you’ll like it or not – you’ll probably think it’s horrible – but I have a rug that belonged to my grandmother. A friend of mine has been keeping it for me. Maybe you’d like to take a look at it.”

I remember the sigh. And then she agreed.

After calling ahead, we arrive at my (now married) friend’s condominium. We go inside, where I discover my grandmother’s rug covering the floor of my friend’s living room.

An unexpected turn in the story – Dr. M adores the rug; her eyes literally light up when she sees it. I claim no expertise concerning Chinese rugs. Dr. M has innate good taste. Plus, she’s made a study of such things. Apparently, it was a really good rug.

I thank my friend for keeping it for so long. Then I inform her – a little embarrassed, because they had apparently made it their own – that I would now like to have my grandmother’s rug…

Back.

Meaning, it would be rolled up off their living room floor, a moving truck would arrive, and it would be transported to our home in California.

My friend’s face said, “I’m really not happy about this.” But it was my rug after all, so what could she do?

What she could do was cop an attitude. An attitude that was sharp and confrontational, and came out in precisely this form:

“Do you want the two boxes too?”

At this point, I did not say what a normal person would say, which is,

“Sure, I’ll take them off your hands."

Instead I replied,

“Oh, no.”

Not wanting to make the situation more burdensome than it already was.

I don’t know what I was thinking. The discomfort of making the rug request had frozen up my brain. It’s like, I heard her saying, “We don’t like it, but we will reluctantly part with the rug. Are now saying you want to deprive us of the two cardboard boxes as well?”

That doesn’t make any sense. They were using the rug; the boxes were gathering dust in her basement. By rights, she should have wanted us to take them. But the way she said it, it sounded like my demanding the boxes, in addition to the rug, represented the absolute ultimate height of ingratitude.

So I took the rug. And I left them the boxes. Which they probably immediately threw away.

What was in them? I’m not exactly sure. In general, it was memorabilia accumulated from my life before I moved here. Some of it was pretty cool stuff. I’m a collector/slash/ hoarder. I remember a scrapbook filled with mounted TV Guide covers, going back to the fifties.

There was a stack of Playbills – the official program of Broadway theaters. Most of them were mine. But some, my mother had presented to me after her theater-centered trips to New York. Programs from the classic musicals – My Fair Lady. West Side Story. The Music Man.

And then there was this, which particularly eats at me, though I can’t exactly tell you why. It just seems to represent an irretrievable chapter of the archaeological mystery that is Earl.

When I lived in London in the sixties, the last place I called home was a rundown kind of a youth hostel. I don’t recall much about it, except it was five stories high, the kitchen was in the basement, and I was the only one with his own room.

Also, there was a community bathtub – that doesn’t mean we were all in it at the same time, just that we all used the same tub – which was so disgusting, it contributed significantly to my decision to return to Toronto.

There was this guy who lived there, he was a white guy, but he came from Rhodesia, an African country whose name may have changed in the interim. One day, completely out of the blue – I would hardly call this fellow my friend, or even a good acquaintance – the guy walked over to me, and he gave me this present.

“I made this for you,” he said. And he handed it to me.

On a thick sheet of cocoa-brown watercolor paper – thicker than regular paper, but you could still roll it up – the man had painted a tableau of a gathering of ceremonial native dancers, dressed up in traditional costumes, festooned head-to-foot with multi-colored feathers. I can provide no further details. It was a long time ago, and I have little gift for describing art. It was just bright, and colorful, and, though it was two dimensional, he had somehow managed to make it iridescent with a shimmering, primal energy.

It was a lovely painting. And I was moved by the gesture. When I returned to
Canada, I made sure to –carefully – pack it along. I kept that picture – and treasured it – for the six years between leaving England and moving to L.A.

I miss that painting.

I miss all that stuff.

But the boxes are gone.

And I can only write about their loss.