"Kindred Spirits"

Sometimes, you neglect to tell someone you love them. 

And then it’s too late. 

This confession comes considerably later than it should have – about thirty-five years later – but I’ve looked in the mirror, and it would appear time is moving rather rapidly.  I’m figuring, it’s now, or most likely, never. 

Also, my memory of this occurrence recently popped into my mind and, age again being a factor, if I don’t respond to it immediately, I will most likely forget.  (And I’m being generous with “most likely.”)

My “better late than never” impulse arose after talking recently about being a warm-up man, and how, as an integral part of my “routine”, I would habitually sing the theme songs from every western I had ever watched, the highlight being a stirring version of The Lone Ranger, complete with my “one mouth” rendition of an orchestral accompaniment.

This whole concept – singing cowboy songs in the course of an audience’s watching the filming of a situation comedy – is even odder than it sounds, since, beyond its easily arguable inappropriateness, by the time I did this, there were no longer any westerns on television; in fact, many of the ones whose theme songs I performed had not ridden the airwaves for twenty years.

But I did it anyway, the first time, because I was new to the warm-up profession and I did not know what else to do, and subsequently, because the audience seemed to enjoy it.  Even young people.  Who had know idea what I was doing.  (Maybe that’s that “new comedy”, the kind that’s enjoyable because it’s bizarre.) 

Anyway, during a break in the filming long enough for an extended medley, I would take a deep breath, say, “I know you didn’t come here to hear me sing theme songs from old cowboy show.  So consider this a bonus.”

And then, I would begin.  No musical accompaniment.  Just me, and my invariably nerve-trembly voice.

I sang “Rawhide.”  I sang “Wyatt Earp.”  I sang “Maverick.” “Bat Masterson.” “Johnny Yuma…was a rebel…”   “Jim Bowie, Jim Bowieeee…”  “Sugarfoot.”  “Yancey Derringer.”  Not the whole song.  Just snippets. 

Nor did I restrict myself to famous westerns.  I threw in theme songs from shows that weren’t even on the network, but were instead in, what they called, “first run syndication.”  Shows like “Twenty- Six Men” (Who Road The Arizona Territory).  As as well as Saturday morning kids’ westerns, like “Buffalo Bill Junior”, who according to the theme song lyrics at least, was “the son of a son-of-a-gun.”

Finally, I sang this:

“Whistle me up a memory

Whistle me back to where I want to be

Whistle a tune that will carry me…”

And in sudden a burst of manic exuberance, I yelled,

“Where!”

Without missing a beat, a female voice in the darkness rang out,

“To Tombstone Terr-i-tory.”

At that moment, it was like time had stopped, and the world stood perfectly still.  I cannot describe the look on my face because I’m on the inside.  But I imagine it gave off an ethereal glow, akin to some Biblical person’s, encountering an angel.  (The nice kind, not the kind that tells you to sacrifice your firstborn.) 

I was smitten to my marrow.  You’ve heard about love at first sight?  This was love at first song.

I did not know how old she was.  I did not know what she looked like.  But if there’d been a rabbi in the audience, I’d have married her on the spot.

Why? 

Because she knew what I knew.  And was not afraid to sing it.

Did I race over and introduce myself?  Did I ask her out after the show?  Did I get her number, for future possibilities?

No.

I simply relished the moment.  And I left it at that.

I felt things, I thought things, I maybe even wanted things.  But I decided, “This is perfect the way it is.  Experience its exquisiteness, store it carefully away in your memory bank, and move on.  (A decision my girlfriend at the time would have certainly approved.)

But now, with my time running out, I have to say it, the consequences be damned.

I love you, “Tombstone Territory Girl.”

And I hope all your trails over the years

Have been happy ones.

"Good Evening And Welcome"

Recently, in his acclaimed blog bykenlevine.com (which I read every day), Ken mentioned something involving me that I was entirely unaware of – that I replaced him as the warm-up man on Cheers. 

I hope, and am almost certain, that it was not a matter of “We’re ‘going another way’ with our warm-up man.”  When you’re on the staff of a series, as Ken was on Cheers, you are too valuable to be stashed away in the bleachers, talking to the audience.  You are vitally needed down on “the floor.”  Which I’m sure is why Ken relinquished his warm-up duties, and returned to his post.  (Reality Update:  At a recent lunch, Ken informed me that he stopped doing warm-up, because he and his partner had left Cheers to work on AfterM*A*S*H, thus opening an opportunity for me.  That's how things work sometimes.)     

A brief explanation of the role of the warm-up man (or woman, and you can infer that every time I say warm-up man) on the show.  On show night, the bleachers are inhabited by a couple of hundred “civilians”, brought in to watch the live filming, and, hopefully, laugh.  The warm-up man’s task is to keep those people engaged, entertained and from not leaving.

Cheers was not my first warm-up job.  That honor goes to Taxi, a couple of years earlier.  I did the Taxi warm-up four times, at the end of one season.  The regular guy was unavailable, so they needed someone to fill in for him, and run out the string. 

I know I made four appearances, because my deal was, if I did four warm-ups, my compensation would be in the form of a Selectric-II typewriter.  I remember telling the audience that I was earning one row of typewriter keys per warm-up, announcing each week exactly which keys I had just accumulated, including “comma” and “semi-colon.”

Taxi was an elite operation, owned and run by award-heavy MTM (Mary Tyler Moore alumni.  These guys were used to All-Stars at every position.  Now, in the warm-up department, it was me. 

I recall on that Friday evening before my first effort being brought in and asked what I’d be doing during my warm-up.  (Their exact words were, “Do you warm-up!”)  I told them I didn’t “have” a warm-up. 

“Then what are you going to do?” 

I told them I’d be talking to the audience. 

I recall swearing and self-recriminations at that point, my bosses far from satisfied with my plan of action.  What exactly would I be talking to the audience about?

“Whatever comes up,” I replied. 

Which is exactly what I did.

I remember, while working on a talk/variety show in Toronto, hearing the renowned playwright Abe Burrows (Guys And Dolls, How To Succeed In Business) discussing having done time as a warm-up man for radio shows earlier in his career.  The point he emphasized most strongly was that the warm-up man’s purpose – to get the audience “heated up” for the show – was way too important to risk failure. 

As a result, Burrows revealed, he always told the same “sure fire” jokes at every warm-up.  By doing so, he was guaranteeing delivering an upbeat,  “primed and ready” audience to the show.

My approach was exactly the opposite.  Every time was different. 

I would answer the audience’s questions, and the “funny” would come out of that.  Also, during extended lulls in the filming – hair and costume changes, for example – I would find myself singing theme songs from old cowboy shows.  (Every warm-up man has his own “specialty”.  One warm-up man balanced a jellybean on his nose.  Another, contorted his face, until, without makeup or prosthetics, he looked exactly like one of the simians in Planet of the Apes.  Me, I sang cowboy theme songs, from Sugarfoot to Yancey Derringer.)

On that first Taxi warm-up, I was so nervous that, when I went into my westerns medley, I actually turned my back to the audience, as I warbled into the microphone.  Thankfully, the audience found my behavior refreshingly endearing. 

FLASH FORWARD – it’s Cheers.  The second season.  I had a new baby daughter at the time, and she did a lot of crying.  Especially at bedtime.  I was losing my mind.

I asked my friends, and Cheers co-creators, the Charles brothers, to help get me out of the house.  The boys knew I was uninterested in working on staff (though I did write four Cheers scripts.)  They then proposed an idea that would allow me at least one wailing-free evening a week.

“Would you like to be the warm-up man?”

“Yes!” 

And that was that.

I did the warm-ups for the entire second season of Cheers.  Was I wonderful every week?  No.  I was, I won’t say “uneven”, but I would definitely say “uncertain.”  Sometimes, the studio audience was passive, giving me little to work with.  On those occasions, I would fall back on what had worked for me before. 

I hated repeating myself, and, not being a professional comedian, I was no good at it.  “Spontaneous timing” is difficult to duplicate.  But even at my worst, I made sure to remind the audience of where we were in the story (of the episode we were filming); my “writer” background made certain of that.  (I also benefitted from my legitimacy as a scriptwriter for the show, rather than being some freelance funnyman, signed on to tickle their funnybones.)

Throughout the years, I continued doing “warm-up” here and there, once warming up the audience for the pilot episode of (now Senator) Al Franken’s sitcom Lateline, though Al had hoped – and I’m being entirely serious – that Jerry Seinfeld would do it.  (That’s how you get to be Senator – you believe in the impossible, and sometimes, it works out.  Though, in the case of Lateline, he got the “possible”, which was not Seinfeld, but Pomerantz.   

My last warm-up was for a sitcom starring Norm Macdonald.  The show’s Executive Producer (who also created Newhart and Coach) was in the habit of doing two filmings per day, (editing the best parts of each together for the final product.)  That process required the warm-up man to do two warm-ups in one day, an onerous workload of six, or more, hours.  

It was then I discovered that a comedy component I was unaware of was energy.  By that time, I was in my mid-fifties.  It was “too much, too late”, and I permanently “hung ‘em up.”

Given the choice, I would rather have been a performer than a writer.  To me, it’s more exciting to wear the suit than to make it.  The thing is, I was temperamentally “cut out” to be a writer.  So that’s what I was.

But once in a while, I would come out front and do “the other thing.”

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was a blast.

"As Time Goes By"

I’m learning to play “As Time Goes By” on the piano, music and lyrics by Herman Hupfeld, a song originally written for the 1931 Broadway musical Everybody’s Welcome, but memorably revived in the classic film, Casablanca (1942). 

(The song’s reputation is unlikely to be enhanced when I play it, and sing croakily along.  Though you’re welcome to come over and hear it.  Once I get it down.  Which could take a while.  So keep busy in the meantime.)

When I was studying “As Time Goes By”, what impressed me the most – and I mean really knocked me out – was, what they then called, the verse.  Until maybe the 50’s, songs, especially songs included in stage shows, began with introductory verses, setting up their conceptual intention, as well as, my piano teacher informed me, serving as a transitional bridge between the show’s spoken dialogue and the full-out singing to come. 

Traditionally, the verses were less musically ambitious than what followed, accentuating the lyrics over the relatively unmodulated melody.  The music, in fact, is almost superfluous.  You could easily recite the lyrics, or “talk/sing” them, until the meat and potatoes of the number kicks in. 

Many of those old-time verses are eminently forgettable.  But, for me, lyrically, “As Time Goes By’s” verse, which I recently discovered, stands out as the most impressive part of the whole song. 

(I use “discovered” here in the way that Columbus discovered America.  I have always felt Columbus got a bad rap in that regard.  He did discover America, in the sense that I recently discovered the verse to “As Time Goes By” – we did not previously know it existed.  So leave “Columbus Day” alone, will you?  Okay, rant over.)

“As Time Goes By” is primarily a love song, a genre I can generally take or leave, depending on my mood.  But the introductory verse is, literally, something else entirely, exploring not the condition known as love, but, rather, an intellectual idea. 

In a nutshell, the verse says, “Scientifically, things are changing at a dizzying pace here in 1931.  The essentials of love, however, remain eternally the same.”

Imagine, opening a paean to the immutable elements of love with some startlingly sophisticated ruminations on discombobulating nature of scientific advancement in 1931, a time when some people were just getting electricity.  Though it could be that’s the point. 

Still, introducing a standard love song with...

This day and age we’re living in

Gives cause for apprehension

With speed and new invention

And things like Third Dimension

Yet we get a trifle weary

Of Mr. Einstein’s theory

So we must get down to earth at times

Relax relieve the tension.

No matter was the progress

Or what may yet be proved

The simple facts of life are such

They cannot be removed…

You must remember this…

Is it just me, or at those words, like, postgraduate lyric writing?  The achievement is even more impressive – and also somewhat perplexing – considering that none of Hupfeld’s other songs rise anywhere close to “As Time Goes By’s” lofty standard. 

Nearly forgotten today – with the exception of his association with “As Time Goes By” – Hupfeld was known in his day for penning novelty tunes, such as his first hit, “When Yuba Plays The Rhumba On The Tuba” and his later, “Goopy Geer (He Plays Piano and He Plays by Ear)”. 

I don’t get it.  The same guy came up with “Yet we get a trifle weary of Mister Einstein’s Theory”?  How did he do that?

I guess sometimes you just do what’s needed.  Like I did, I suppose, when, during the same television season, I consulted on HBO’s The Larry Sanders Show and Fox’s justifiably short-lived Goode Behavior, starring the recently departed Sherman Hemsley.

A single “hit” on your resume may not be not numerically impressive.  But as demonstrated by the enduring presence of “As Time Goes By”, it can easily seal your immortality. 

So, Hail Hupfeld!  There may be many groundouts to the shortstop on your record.

But one ball is still soaring.

(And “Hat’s off!” for that verse!)

"Performing A Mitzvah"

A friend of mine asked me if I would do something, and I needed to decide whether I would.  This was the genesis of the “Yes Or No” post that I wrote a while back.  (August the 10^th, if you’re scoring at home.) 

My friend had asked me to join a group of professional writers (about a dozen of us) who would address and later work with a gathering of (100 to 150) rabbis, concerning the preparation of their upcoming High Holiday service sermons.  (Jewish New Year’s begins the night of September the 16^th.)  (Jewish holidays always begin at night.)  (Sometimes, you learn more in the brackets.)

I said I would do it.  My reason:  To get out of the house.  My friend called it a mitzvah (a good or praiseworthy deed.)  Fine, it’s a mitzvah.  

A mitzvah where I’m out of the house.

The organizers of the event sent me an e-mail, indicating where and when the “Rabbi’s Workshop” would take place.  The participating writers were also instructed to prepare a ten to fifteen minute introductory presentation, before consulting on the sermons (outlines or completed drafts) the rabbis were instructed to bring in.

I write my presentation/slash/speech.  It is easily ten minutes long.  It seems pretty good.  I then pull up the e-mail to double-check the address of the synagogue the event is being held in, and the directions for getting there.  (Full Disclosure:  Driving to a new place makes me more nervous than delivering a speech.)

On the second reading of the e-mail, I discover that my initial reading had missed an important word in the instructions:  The word was “collectively.”

I now realize that the presentation is intended to be “collectively” ten to fifteen minutes long – ten to fifteen minutes for everyone.  My misreading of the instructions had led me to write something that would take up all the time of the presentation, which would mean, either nobody else gets to speak but me, or I have to break my presentation into sections, and the other writers would each read a part of it.

Or – the real “or” this time – I would have to drastically shorten my presentation.  Like by about eighty per cent. 

This turned out to be surprisingly easy to do (suggesting, however, that eighty per cent of my longer version had been filler.) 

The topic on which we were directed to speak was:

“If I Were Giving A Sermon This High Holidays…” 

Here’s what I finally came up with:

I never liked going to synagogue on the High Holidays when I was a kid.  But my mother insisted, even though she was not that religious herself.  I asked her once, “Mom, you’re not that religious.  Why do you go to synagogue on the High Holidays.  My mother looked at me and said,

“That’s where the Jews are.”

If I were giving a sermon this High Holidays, I would personalize my presentation.  Like I just did with that story about my mother.

As far as content is concerned, I’d be tempted to deviate from tradition and start with the question I imagine a part of every rabbi is dying to ask when they’re standing in front of a packed High Holidays congregation, the question being, “Where are you the rest of the year?”  I could ask that question.  Because I’m not coming back.

A more useful suggestion, perhaps, may be turning that question around, and considering not “Where are you the rest of the year?” but “Why are you here today?”

That’s what I’d focus on in my sermon.  What are they doing there?  What are they hungry to hear?  What can I, as the sermon giver, tell them that will help them live their lives?  And always from a personal perspective.  Maybe even explaining what the sermon giver is doing there.

But that’s my style.  You may have a different approach.  There are lots of ways to connect.

I was once at a High Holiday service, where a young female rabbi confided to her congregation the “Words of Wisdom” related to her by one of her teachers upon graduating from the rabbinical seminary.  The “Words of Wisdom” were these:

“Don’t wear brown.” 

I’ve remembered that for fifteen years.  Not just because it made me laugh.  It was personal.  It was human.  It was authentic. 

As I got older, I started going to High Holiday services at a synagogue near my house.  I am still not that solid about what I’m doing there, but I’ve found reason enough to attend. 

Why do I go to synagogue on the High Holidays? 

Because that’s where the Jews are.

If you have any difficulties with this speech, most importantly, if you spot anything that may impede my chances of having my name inscribed in the all-important “Book of Life”…

It’s too late.

As you read this, I am delivering it to the rabbis.

"Summer Times - 'The Clearing Meeting'"

I write about camp in the summer, because what else am I going to write about in summer, shoveling the sidewalk?  I write about it so often, because my camp experience – which, being me, I resisted intensely while it was happening – played a fundamental role in shaping what I ended up doing and cemented my basic belief system and humanistic values. 

It also taught me how to swim in my back. 

And it wasn’t just me for whom going to camp was life-shapingly significant.  Many marriages had their roots there.  My brother and sister-in-law met at Camp Ogama in their early teens and have now been together for a hundred and thirty-five years. 

Or so.

Camp put me in shows, and I ended up doing shows.  That was my track.  But there were other careers forged from the camp experience as well.

For example, future courtroom litigants perfected their arguing techniques at a daily camp ritual known as “The Clearing Meeting.”

A little background.

The camp day was divided into three “Activity Periods”, one in the morning and two in the afternoon.  Certain “Activity Periods” were pre-scheduled – Swim Instruction, Canoe Instruction, Riding, Water Skiing.  The remaining periods could be requested for any activity the camp provided. 

This was a not an uncomplicated arrangement.  “Facility use” had to be carefully coordinated.  Two hundred and twenty-five campers could not all play tennis at the same time.  There were only two tennis courts, and six racquets.   That’s a lot of waiting around for your turn.

“Finally!”

“The period’s over.”

“Well, that was pleasant.”

Here’s how it worked.  Every night, at bedtime, each cabin would decide on the preferred activities they wanted to schedule for the following day, beyond the periods that were scheduled for them.  (By the way, for me, Swim Instruction always seemed to be scheduled First Period in the morning, when, especially in August, there were icecaps on the lake.)

Selecting the periods was a democratic process, by which I mean the most powerful people always got their way.  The counselor would ask for suggestions, and the loudest and pushiest in the cabin would bellow out their requests – tennis, basketball, archery was a particular favorite (allowing scores to be settled in the proximity of pointy objects.)  A less popular proposal, like, “Arts and Crafts” was met with cascades of derision and  (in the boys’ cabins) unsubtle intimations of testosterone deficiency.

“Second Choices” were solicited, so that if you didn’t get your first choice, you would not find yourself shunted to the periphery, playing tetherball.

The counselor noted the suggestions, and, at breakfast, they would pass on their handwritten requests to the Unit Heads.  Then, while the campers were back in their cabins doing “Clean-up”, the Unit Heads would hash out the activity allocations at the “Clearing Meeting.”

When the “Clearing Meeting” ended, the Unit Heads would proceed from cabin to cabin, announcing which activities each cabin had gotten, a triumphant tour if the Unit Head had scored the cabins’ “First Choices”, a “boo parade” if it was “lanyard making”, or “Experiments in Clay.” 

Despite a commitment to fairness and the espousals of sharing for which the camp’s message-filled pageants were famous, the “Clearing Meetings” were ferocious.  Ego issues aside, nobody wanted to be continually aced out for the plum activities, and forced to trudge from cabin to cabin, delivering massive missives of camper disappointment. 

“First Period – horseshoes.”

“Aw, Man!!!!?”

One can easily envision the defense attorneys of tomorrow recapitulating eerily similar exchanges with their clients:

“I got you ‘Murder Two’.”

“Aw, Man!!!!?

“What!  It’s not ‘Arts and Crafts’!”

Nobody wanted to go through that.  So they practiced the cutthroat tactics that would serve them ably in future courtroom contentions during the “Clearing Meetings.” 

SENIOR UNIT HEAD:  We’ll take basketball, and you can have croquet.

JUNIOR UNIT HEAD:  They’re six years old.  They can’t even spell “croquet.”

SENIOR UNIT HEAD:  They don’t have to spell it.  They just have to play it.

Nobody gave an inch.  This was not Marquis of Queensbury.  People came out crying.

I myself was never a Unit Head.  However, when it was the Unit Head’s day off, it was traditional or one of that unit’s counselors to fill in as acting Unit Head, which, of course, included “Clearing Meeting” responsibilities.  When my turn came around, I dutifully answered to call.

You know the way mischievous students treat substitute teachers?

It was exactly like that.

But even more so, because “It was Pomerantz.”

From my earliest summer when my cabin-mates tried to hang me to when I was older and I was lifted into an oil drum-sized trash barrel after which the barrel was hoisted onto a tree stump so if I tried to climb out it would fall over, it seemed like I was always designated for “special treatment.”  The “Clearing Meeting” proved no exception. 

I got nothing.  No “First Choices”, no “Second Choices.”  I had to battle for “miniature golf.”  Mostly, I was ignominiously ignored.  Relegated, from an activities standpoint, to being left to settle for the “scraps.”

This was not good.  I imagined myself shuttling from cabin to cabin announcing the activities, and being pelted for my dismal efforts with a fusillade of still sodden (and sandy) bathing suits.

And then came the laughter.  They were just pulling my leg.  Wasn’t that hilarious?  (Not to me.)  They would now begin again.  A level playing field.  Nobody hogging the most coveted activities.  Everyone has a chance.

I again got nothing.

Making my rounds after the “Clearing Meeting”, I would call the counselor outside, announce the decision,

And run.

This was possibly my first hint that I was not cut out to be a lawyer.

"'Yes' And 'No'"

Recently, somebody I really like asked if I would volunteer to do something.  Originally, assenting to the request was not possible as I was scheduled to be out of town at the time the activity was scheduled to take place.  It was the perfect excuse. 

I did not have to say, “I don’t want to do that”, or the more polite version, “Thank you for asking, but I’d prefer not to do that.”  I did not have to pretend that I wanted to do something when I didn’t.  I just stuck with the facts.  I said, “I’ll be somewhere else”, and I left it at that.

As they said in Terms of Endearment, “I was ‘this close’ to a clean getaway.”

Why “this close”?  Because, as it turns out, my plans were altered and I was now unequivocally available.  Realistically, this did not insure my participation, as I could easily have adhered to the original understanding.  It is unlikely that the requester would ever have found out I would not be out of town.  Unfortunately, however, I found myself unable to leave her with this misimpression, this “retrospective falsehood” as it were,

Because she was a person I really like. 

I suppose I could have informed her that I was now available but I still didn’t want to do it.  But that’s not something I’d feel comfortable saying to somebody I really like.  Or anyone, for that matter. 

“Remember when you asked me if I’d do something and I told you I’d be out of town?  Well, it turns out I will not be out of town but I’m still not going to do it.  By the way, do you want to have lunch sometime?”

It is possible to be too honest, and the foregoing may be a prime example of that.

Regardless of whether she was aware of it, I knew I was now available.  And that a person I really like wanted me to do something.  I had no choice in the matter.

I e-mailed the person I really like, and I told her I would do it.

Did I regret saying “Yes.”  No.  I felt free of secrets from a person I really like, allowing me to engage with future interactions with her without guilty eyes, which are easy to misinterpret, especially if you’re in the dark about the actual source of the guilt.  Complications might readily ensue.  And now they won’t.

My concern emanates from the “Yes” decision itself.  Saying “Yes” is a Door Opener to the Unknown.  Saying “No” is a comforting “Case closed.”

Saying “No” has its liabilities.  You appear negative, unfriendly, resistant to opportunity, thus generating a reputation, leading to a receding number of invitations to do anything. 

You may also be saying “No” to something you might ultimately enjoy, triggering twinges of regret for your decision.  And there’s the “collateral regret” of letting a person you really like down, even though you to some degree resent them for putting you in that position, though you’d resent them substantially more if you hated them. 

Such is the price of saying “No.”

The price of saying “Yes”?  Well, it depends on who you are. 

The “down-side” of “Yes” will make little sense to someone who’s in the habit of saying “Yes”, even to the unlikeliest of proposals:

NASA TO NEIL ARMSTRONG 1969:  Would you like to go to the moon?

NEIL ARMSTRONG:  Yes.

In contrast to:

NASA TO EARL POMERANTZ, AT ANY TIME YOU CARE TO MENTION:  Would you like to go to the moon?

EARL POMERANTZ:  What are you talking about?

Though in my case, it does not have to be that extreme:

A POTENTIAL EMPLOYER:  Would you like to try something you have never done before?

EARL:  No, thanks.  (Generally expressed as, “I would rather keep doing what I’m doing.”) 

There’s this concept I learned about once called homeostasis.  Homeostasis refers to a sense of stability resulting from maintaining conditions as you are habitually used to them being.  That’s your “comfort zone.”  That’s your “business as usual.”  A deviation from that homeostatic “normalness” makes some of us humans feel unbalanced and discombobulated. 

That’s why we say “No” to things.  We value our homeostasis.

Other people are less troubled by this disequilibrium.  And they end up walking on the moon.

Such extra-homeostatic accomplishments explain why people who say “Yes” are more highly regarded than people who say “No”, which I have no problem with, because they are willing to take the risk.  I will only add one observation.  It may not even be true.  But it does help me feel better, so indulge me.

Individuals are a “package deal.”  Using the proverbial sweater/painting analogy, you cannot pull out one thread without altering the entire picture.  It’s all or nothing.  And I’m suggesting that this is not such a terrible thing. 

In the intricate arrangement that makes us who we are, the characteristics all work together.  Yes, the “No” person misses out on things, and is consequently narrow in experience.  But a “Yes” person may sometimes say “Yes” to things they’d be better off saying “No” to. 

“Do you want to rob a bank with me?”

“Yes!”

Also, “Yes” people may be so minutely focused on their laudable accomplishments that they are too buy to notice fascinating things that the “No” person, with ample time on their hands, observes as a matter of course.  And then writes about them.

I am not arguing that saying “No” is better than saying “Yes”, or that it’s equally as good.

I’m just saying there are unacknowledged pluses.

Do you agree?

Yes or no?

"That Elusive Concept Called Talent"

A wonderful man named Stan Daniels, who co-produced The Mary Tyler Moore Show, called me after reading the first script I had written for the show – which was a kind of audition for me – and pronounced, with mock-English enthusiasm,

“Young man.  You have got it!”

This was gratifying and reassuring to hear.  I thought I might “have it.”  But I needed credible confirmation.  Stan Daniels bestowed that on me with his mock-English pronouncement.

What was the “it” that Stan pronounced I had?  Generically, it’s talent.  As in,

“The kid has talent.”

Which is nice thing to be told.

Then again, what exactly does that mean?

(Did I think about that at the time?  I doubt it.  I was thinking, “Whoa!  A really good writer said I had talent!  I can sign a longer lease on my apartment!”  But I’ve thought a lot about it since, and have concluded that the concept “talent” is not easily corralled.  This is the heart of my blog post today.  Why am I putting it in brackets?)   

(Note:  I am not including “a talent for self-promotion”, wherein “talent” equates with “I’ll do whatever it takes.”  That is not talent, in my view.  It’s desperation.)

Case Number One – “Talent” As Natural Ability

When “talent” involves a measurable activity, it can be easily understood.  An aspiring opera singer has a four-octave range, their ability gauged by their singing up (and back down) the four octaves that tangibly exist on a piano. A prediction can be made that, for them, becoming an opera singer is not entirely out of the question.  Another singer has a range of five notes – mentioning no names, but they are responsible for this post – there is a likelihood that opera singing is not necessarily for them. 

One person has, at least, a potential talent for opera singing; the other person does not.  Done.  And ditto for other measurable abilities. 

Next case:  “Talent” Manifested Through Persistence

A person has a burning desire to become a juggler, but at the start, of the nine balls they are trying to keep in the air, they are continually dropping seven of them.  At this point, you would not assert that this person has a “talent” for juggling.  Unless you define “talent” in terms of how many balls you can drop on the ground, in which context, only people dropping eight or all nine balls on the ground would be better at it.  Although I’m not sure the most accurate description of them would be jugglers. 

In this case, however, an intense passion overcomes early ineptitude, and after countless hours of practice, the fumbler juggler is transformed into a virtuoso.

“Suddenly”, they have talent. 

These examples suggest that “talent” is not necessarily something you are born with.  The natural opera singer was, the determined juggler was not.

Then, there are people who have talent, but their misfortune is having it in the wrong era. 

“I have a gift for the catapult,” brags Harold Wirdlinger, born in 1978.  “Anything within a mile, I ‘eyeball’ it, I place the rock in the “tosser”, I make adjustments in the trajectory, and, ninety-seven times out of a hundred, the rock hits the castle, or you know, whatever I’m pretending is a castle, dead center.  I have no idea how I do it.  I’m just a “catapult savant.”

“A gift for the catapult” would have made Wirdlinger a star in the Middle Ages.  Ballads would have been written in his honor.

With his catapult

He gets results

When they hear “Harold’s here”

Castles cower in fear

He’s a Master rock slinger

That Harold Wirdlinger…

You get the idea.  Harold Wirdlinger would have been “big in the business.”  Unfortunately, he was born a number of centuries too late.  He does unleash his talent at the odd Renaissance Fair.  But otherwise, he works for Avis, booking rental cars at the airport.  

Conversely, as it is possible to be “behind your time”, leaving your “talent” entirely unrewarded, you can instead be ahead of your time, and find yourself equally out of luck.

Consider my own line of endeavor.  A “talent” for comedy.  Seth MacFarlane, the comedy mind behind Ted and Family Guy, writes a spec script showcasing his natural comedy abilities…in the 1950’s.   MacFarlane’s submission is universally reviled as “Adolescent Puerility.” 

Not that “Adolescent Puerility” is unacceptable; it’s just that MacFarlane’s is distinctly the wrong kind.  In the fifties, “Adolescent Puerility” is Jerry Lewis walking on his ankles, and shouting, “Laydeeeee!!!”  Not a stuffed animal with a vibrator.

During the fifties, Jerry Lewis is considered a major talent.  Seth MacFarlane, who is currently working under a hundred million dollar contract, would, in that era, have been advised to button his potty mouth and to “Run, Don’t Walk!” to the nearest career counselor.

Okay, so what have we learned today?  Some people have natural ability that evolves into “talent.”  Some people lack natural ability, but, through persistence, it develops into “talent.”  And some people have “talent”, but only if you factor in the time in history they display it – if it’s the “right time” it’s talent; it it’s the wrong time, it’s not. 

(This applies equally to “place.”  Jamaica may have a bobsled team, but Namibia does not, putting you plumb out of luck if you’re Namibian and have an (ironic) God-given talent for the bobsled.)   

Talent is time-sensitive and precariously impermanent.  When I was told, “Young man, you have got it!”, I had it.  And then, sometime in the early 2000’s, according to show biz Conventional Wisdom, I apparently lost it. 

And I cannot honestly tell you where it went.   

Saying someone has “talent” can be a steppingstone to success (or an erroneous career decision); saying they don’t can be a “door slam” to their dreams.  I therefore advise extreme caution when providing such an evaluation. 

In the end, you may be talking less about “talent” than about momentary marketability.