Change.
You might have heard about it; it was in all the papers. The new president won on change. The guy he beat ran on it too. They called it a “change” election. One thing they neglected to tell you?
People hate change.
Why did they vote for the “change” candidate? They forgot.
Plus they didn’t want to vote for a Republican.
Plus the new guy’s really cool.
Nobody likes to change. If they did, therapists would be out of business, and Dr. M and I would be on planes, traveling to distant locales. Does that mean the people who claim they want to change actually like things the way they are? No, they hate things the way they are. The thing is, they want things to be different “magically.” They refuse to change their behavior, while hoping to get different – read: better – outcomes. This never happens. Therapy’s in demand. And I don’t get to see Victoria Falls.
Conventional wisdom: “Change is good. Inflexibility is bad.” (Years ago, a therapeutic professional proclaimed, “The only thing I’m inflexible about is my flexibility.” I believe my response at the time was, “Good for you.”)
(Before we proceed further, a tip of the hat to inflexibility’s responsible relative, discipline. I’m a fan of discipline. (We’re not talking leather and chains here.) Discipline allowed me to virtually never miss a deadline in the thirty-plus years I wrote professionally. Discipline sends me to practice the piano without anybody telling me to. Discipline has allowed me to publish five blog postings a week for the past ten months, delivering a greater reliability than energy, mood or inspiration would predict. So there’s that. And never forget it.
That may have come out a little pricklier than I intended it to, but I believe discipline gets a bad rap, coming off Nazily “goose-steppy”, when in reality, it’s an indispensable ingredient in getting things done. And I exhale.)
No question, change of any kind is not easy. A while back, when I damaged my left shoulder, I had to retrain myself – so it wouldn’t hurt – to pull on my left sleeve before I pulled on my right sleeve. If it weren’t for the stabbing pain reminder, that change would have taken forever. It’s been months, and I still sometimes forget.
I think a lot of people’s resistance to change stems from the concern of an alteration so transforming that “I won’t be me anymore.” Setting aside whether that’s a realistic worry, or a bad idea (as well as the question of how much of “me” is all that uniquely me), I’ve discovered that meaningful change doesn’t have to be anywhere near that big. You can change a sliver of your behavior and remain so essentially “you”, you will recognize yourself immediately when you look in the mirror.
Okay, here’s a confession, and I’m aware of its implications. I’ve been eating the same breakfast cereal for thirty years. Spoon-sized shredded wheat. It’s dry, it’s crunchy, it doesn’t get mushy in milk, and it doesn’t contain any sugar. Four essential requirements. All present in spoon-sized shredded wheat.
I’m only human. After twenty-five years, spoon-sized shredded wheat started losing its appeal. I was really getting sick of it. I mean, you know, you come down to breakfast, and there it is. Again. And again. And again.
I couldn’t find a substitute. I was doomed as doomed could be, as Ed Grimley would say, destined to eat the same boring breakfast cereal for the rest of my life. And then, with the help of a visit to this spa I go to in Mexico, I made a discovery that changed my entire breakfast-eating life.
What I discovered was, I didn’t have to change my cereal. I could stick with my spoon-sized shredded wheat, as a base, but supplement it with other things. Dry, crunchy, not mushy in milk, non-sugary things. Such as almonds and sunflower seeds.
And that’s what I started doing.
I felt transformed. Without in any way sacrificing my principles, I had discovered, or, more accurately, invented, a “change” cereal. And the change was virtually nothing.
To paraphrase a classic:
“Just a little change
Small to say the least
Mornings were transformed
And I felt reborn
Beauty and break…feast.”
Another example: (so the concept will sink in.)
My first car. An orange and black Mazda. I’m so excited, I drive it my brother’s law office to show it off. I park beneath his window. I “honk-honk” the horn. I take my foot off the brake, and roll into the car parked in front of me. My front grill is caved in. My headlights are cockeyed. My car had eleven miles on it.
Six years later…
My second car. A burgundy Peugeot diesel. (There was a gas shortage, lines were shorter at the diesel pump, and diesel gas was cheaper.) I drive my new car back to my condo, pull into the driveway, push the button, the electric garage door slides open. I start into the garage, a fellow condo owner walks by, I stop to brag, the electric garage door closes, crashing into my car. The car has two miles on it.
Taking stock: Two new cars, two first day accidents. Both times, I was showing off.
Four years later…
My third car. A bright red Saab. (The Peugeot had been totaled when I was rear-ended.)
Two thoughts immediately flash to mind: One, I had crashed my first two cars on the first day I had owned them. And two, both times it happened ‘cause I’d been showing off.
I addressed myself candidly. “Earl,” I inquired, “is it possible for you not to show off when you get a new car?” My response was equally candid. “I don’t think so.” I was honest, but It looked bad. My inability to change doomed my new Saab to an early trip to the body shop.
Then, I thought of something. A change that was substantially smaller than the change I had asked myself to consider.
What I realized was that, although I was unable to stop bragging when I got a new car, I didn’t have to be in the car when I did it.
I made an adjustment. I saw a friend. I parked. I got out of the car. And then, I bragged.
Just a little change. But it saved the Saab.
Or, in song form…
“Just a little change
Well within endurance
You can brag away
And not spend the next day
Calling your insurance.”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
"My Favorite Cowboy Poem"
Ah, yes, the Poetry Corner. Two hundred and second posting, it’s my first poem. I like poetry, but I rarely, bordering on never, understand it. For me, poetry is like mime. You know they’re trying to tell you something. What it is? Not a clue.
In High School, where I generally did well, I did least well in English literature. For homework, as assigned, I would read over the poem before we studied it in class and, as a result of my preparation, exploring the rhymes and stanzas, the rhythms and the reasons for writing the poem, I would come way with…
Nothing.
A brick wall. An impenetrable forest of “I don’t get it.” I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on. It took the teacher the next day to explain the poem’s hidden mysteries and subtle delights. They were there. The teacher found them. For me? A total blank.
As the years went by and I gained in knowledge, experience and, hopefully, wisdom, I’d notice some short poem in the New Yorker or The Atlantic, written by a name I recognized as a lion or lioness in the field, and I’d stop, respecting the reputation, and I’d carefully read it through. My reaction to the poem was invariably the same:
“What the hell are they talking about?”
Nothing has changed. I’m poetically challenged. Metaphors and allusions elude my comprehension. I need it straight. “Tell me what you want to tell me.”
Enter: Cowboy poetry.
You know I like cowboy stuff. The adventure. The excitement. The connection to a bygone time that will never return. Add to that, the directness and the simplicity. You’ll find it all in the best cowboy poetry.
This poem I totally understand. It says the thing, and it says it clearly. I offer it today for your enjoyment.
THE DISAPPEARING WEST
By John “Jay” Kulm
The West is disappearing, not so near
as once it was
But if you think the West is far away,
I was at a rodeo in Northern California
And the West was awful close to me that day.
I met an older fellow with a weathered
looking face,
His knees bowed out the way old
bowed knees will,
He told me that his father, way-back-when,
had shaken hands with
The man who we recall as Buffalo Bill.
I thought on this a moment, that I’m
Looking in the eyes
Of the son of him who looked into the
eyes of Bill Cody,
And Buffalo Bill Cody once looked
in the eyes of him
Who had a son who’s looking back at me.
Then I reached out to the man, I asked
him, “Could I shake the hand
of the son of the man who shook the hand
of Buffalo Bill one day?”
And as he shook hands with me I felt
The West was very near,
The West which once I thought
was far away.
So if you’re thinking that the West is
only something distant,
You can shake my hand and,
my friend, if you will
You can say you shook the hand of
the man who shook the hand
Of the son of the man who shook
the hand of Buffalo Bill.
Isn’t it great? If you like this poem, go out and buy something by the writer. If you do, I won’t feel quite so badly about reprinting his poem without permission. This exposure may actually be helping him. At least, that’s what I need to think.
In High School, where I generally did well, I did least well in English literature. For homework, as assigned, I would read over the poem before we studied it in class and, as a result of my preparation, exploring the rhymes and stanzas, the rhythms and the reasons for writing the poem, I would come way with…
Nothing.
A brick wall. An impenetrable forest of “I don’t get it.” I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on. It took the teacher the next day to explain the poem’s hidden mysteries and subtle delights. They were there. The teacher found them. For me? A total blank.
As the years went by and I gained in knowledge, experience and, hopefully, wisdom, I’d notice some short poem in the New Yorker or The Atlantic, written by a name I recognized as a lion or lioness in the field, and I’d stop, respecting the reputation, and I’d carefully read it through. My reaction to the poem was invariably the same:
“What the hell are they talking about?”
Nothing has changed. I’m poetically challenged. Metaphors and allusions elude my comprehension. I need it straight. “Tell me what you want to tell me.”
Enter: Cowboy poetry.
You know I like cowboy stuff. The adventure. The excitement. The connection to a bygone time that will never return. Add to that, the directness and the simplicity. You’ll find it all in the best cowboy poetry.
This poem I totally understand. It says the thing, and it says it clearly. I offer it today for your enjoyment.
THE DISAPPEARING WEST
By John “Jay” Kulm
The West is disappearing, not so near
as once it was
But if you think the West is far away,
I was at a rodeo in Northern California
And the West was awful close to me that day.
I met an older fellow with a weathered
looking face,
His knees bowed out the way old
bowed knees will,
He told me that his father, way-back-when,
had shaken hands with
The man who we recall as Buffalo Bill.
I thought on this a moment, that I’m
Looking in the eyes
Of the son of him who looked into the
eyes of Bill Cody,
And Buffalo Bill Cody once looked
in the eyes of him
Who had a son who’s looking back at me.
Then I reached out to the man, I asked
him, “Could I shake the hand
of the son of the man who shook the hand
of Buffalo Bill one day?”
And as he shook hands with me I felt
The West was very near,
The West which once I thought
was far away.
So if you’re thinking that the West is
only something distant,
You can shake my hand and,
my friend, if you will
You can say you shook the hand of
the man who shook the hand
Of the son of the man who shook
the hand of Buffalo Bill.
Isn’t it great? If you like this poem, go out and buy something by the writer. If you do, I won’t feel quite so badly about reprinting his poem without permission. This exposure may actually be helping him. At least, that’s what I need to think.
Friday, November 7, 2008
"Haircuts"
Yesterday, slavery; today haircuts. It’s a blog of surprises.
In Toronto, when I was growing up, every barber I ever went to was named Tony. (And every popcorn man was named Georgie.) This wasn’t some prejudice thing, like on the Pullman “sleeper” trains, where passengers were in the habit of calling all the porters George, even though that wasn’t their name.
The barbers told us their name was Tony. All of them.
When I was thirteen, the closest barbershop to my house was located in an outdoor shopping center called Lawrence Plaza. Eight barber chairs spanned the length of the facility, the chairs manned by eight different Tonys. The Tonys, however, were not equal. The Tony closest to the door was an older Tony. Gray hair. Gray mustache. This Tony appeared to be the head Tony. He acted like it, telling the other Tonys what to do.
“Sweep up-a da hair!” “Not so much-a-da powder!” “Hey! Watch-a dat guy’s ear!”
As you moved down the line of Tonys, you could detect an unmistakable pecking order. Proceeding towards the back, the Tonys got increasingly younger, which inevitably meant less experienced, till you got to the last, and youngest, Tony – Tony Number Eight – who, I imagine, was a Training Tony. He may not have been a barber at all. It’s possible he was there to give one of the other Tonys a ride home.
I was a kid. Never worthy of the attention of the First Tony. Or Tony Number 2, Number 3, Number 4, Number 5, Number 6 or Number 7. Like a condemned prisoner headed for “the Chair”, I’d proceed fatalistically down the line. It was always the same. No words from the increasingly less skillful Tonys. Simply a head gesture. The head gesture saying, “Keep going.”
And so I continued, down the line, from Tony to Tony. Till I finally reached Tony Number Eight. As I reluctantly climbed into the chair, I detected muffled chuckles from the more senior Tonys who had passed me along.
“Wait’ll you see what you get-a from him!”
They were usually right. Tony Number Eight was unquestionably the eighth best Tony in the place.
I was thirteen. It wasn’t going well. Socially, I was losing ground, and I wasn’t holding much ground to begin with. I needed to make a statement to my maturing schoolmates, an attention-grabbing gesture, to remind them I was there. (I write cryptically about this period, because it still brings me discomfort.)
At the time, there was this detective show on TV called Peter Gunn. Stupid name, now that I’m noticing, but a breakthrough in its genre. Clever. Sophisticated. A driving theme song by Henry Mancini. It was the first ’45 I ever bought.
The star of Peter Gunn was an actor named Craig Stevens. Stevens’ "Peter Gunn" represented an updated kind of hero, an icon of “cool” and unruffled confidence, from his wardrobe to his haircut.
I couldn’t pull off the “cool” or the unruffled confidence. And I could never afford the wardrobe, which would have looked silly on my anyway, I was thirteen. But there was one thing I could get, and I was determined to get it.
The haircut.
I march into the Lawrence Plaza barbershop, a picture of "Peter Gunn" cut from a recent TV Guide clutched tightly in my hand. Today, I would demand an experienced Tony. This was important to me. This was my head.
And that head would be accompanying me to school the following day.
The First Tony tries to give me the brush-off, but I stubbornly persist. With a dramatic sigh, he snatches the Peter Gunn picture from my hand, “honoring” it with an impatient glance. Then, something happens. He continues studying the picture. And then, he speaks, calling to the other Tonys:
“Hey, look! It’s-a Perry Como!”
Seven Tonys scurry to the front. They examine the picture, all agreeing that Perry Como had never looked so good.
“It’s not Perry Como,” I correct them. “It’s Craig Stevens. He plays Peter Gunn on a detective show.”
“No,” insists the First Tony, the other Tonys rapidly concurring, “It’s-a Perry Como.”
Okay, I need to explain a few things. First, Craig Stevens looks nothing like Perry Como, a famous Italian-American singer who had a long-running variety show on TV. The two, however, did have one thing in common. They had the same haircut. Which, apparently, was the only thing the eight Tonys were paying attention to.
Both Perry Como and Craig Stevens as "Peter Gunn" wore what I think they called crew cuts – short hair, combed straight across. This was hardly the prevailing fashion in men’s hairstyling at the time. Teenaged trendsetters’ hair was generally worn longish and greased up, and featuring a mountainous “flip” in the front. It went straight up and then flipped back.
Some people called it a pompadour; others, a “waterfall.” Elvis had one. Ditto Ricky Nelson. The Everly Brothers had one each. Like others my age, I struggled tirelessly to emulate that look, but there’s a natural curliness to my hair, and no matter how hard I worked, and how much Vitalis I applied, my “flip” had an infuriating dent in it. Instead of going straight up, it collapsed in the middle.
I had two problems. I wanted to be rid of my defective dent. And I wanted to look cool in school. The "Peter Gunn" would take care of them both.
Only at the barbershop, it wasn’t a "Peter Gunn". It was a “Perry Como.”
A memorable moment was about to take place. For the first time ever, I was invited onto the barber chair of the First Tony.
The seven other Tonys abandoned the haircuts they’d been working on to concentrate on mine. Not mine specifically, but the way the First Tony cut mine. There was dead silence in the barbershop. It was an historic moment. Someday, a hundred Tonys would insist they were there.
The First Tony snipped. He stood back. He snipped some more. His only words, the instruction: “Don’t-a move.” You could sense his confidence, a master rising to the occasion. The First Tony was an artist. His medium was hair.
Sitting quietly in the chair, my mind filled with a frenzying panic. Was I making a huge mistake? Was I deliberately turning myself grotesque? Would my impulsive gesture catapult me from anonymity to laughingstock? These thoughts came far too late. Clumps of my hair were dropping to the floor.
And then he was done.
With a finishing flourish, the First Tony whirled the chair around, and with the help of a hand-held mirror, allowed me to examine his handiwork.
It was the perfect “Perry Como.”
The next day, I was a sensation at school. Kids – even girls – gathered to check out my new “do.” Some asked if they could touch it. I magnanimously said, “Sure.”
I’d been brave. I had taken a chance. And it had paid off beautifully. The attention didn’t last, of course. But there’s this great line in the final episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show:
“When an elephant flies, you don’t complain ‘cause it didn’t stay up that long.”
A few weeks later, I swaggered into the barbershop, my “Perry Como” in need of a trim.
I was ushered down to Tony Number Eight.
In Toronto, when I was growing up, every barber I ever went to was named Tony. (And every popcorn man was named Georgie.) This wasn’t some prejudice thing, like on the Pullman “sleeper” trains, where passengers were in the habit of calling all the porters George, even though that wasn’t their name.
The barbers told us their name was Tony. All of them.
When I was thirteen, the closest barbershop to my house was located in an outdoor shopping center called Lawrence Plaza. Eight barber chairs spanned the length of the facility, the chairs manned by eight different Tonys. The Tonys, however, were not equal. The Tony closest to the door was an older Tony. Gray hair. Gray mustache. This Tony appeared to be the head Tony. He acted like it, telling the other Tonys what to do.
“Sweep up-a da hair!” “Not so much-a-da powder!” “Hey! Watch-a dat guy’s ear!”
As you moved down the line of Tonys, you could detect an unmistakable pecking order. Proceeding towards the back, the Tonys got increasingly younger, which inevitably meant less experienced, till you got to the last, and youngest, Tony – Tony Number Eight – who, I imagine, was a Training Tony. He may not have been a barber at all. It’s possible he was there to give one of the other Tonys a ride home.
I was a kid. Never worthy of the attention of the First Tony. Or Tony Number 2, Number 3, Number 4, Number 5, Number 6 or Number 7. Like a condemned prisoner headed for “the Chair”, I’d proceed fatalistically down the line. It was always the same. No words from the increasingly less skillful Tonys. Simply a head gesture. The head gesture saying, “Keep going.”
And so I continued, down the line, from Tony to Tony. Till I finally reached Tony Number Eight. As I reluctantly climbed into the chair, I detected muffled chuckles from the more senior Tonys who had passed me along.
“Wait’ll you see what you get-a from him!”
They were usually right. Tony Number Eight was unquestionably the eighth best Tony in the place.
I was thirteen. It wasn’t going well. Socially, I was losing ground, and I wasn’t holding much ground to begin with. I needed to make a statement to my maturing schoolmates, an attention-grabbing gesture, to remind them I was there. (I write cryptically about this period, because it still brings me discomfort.)
At the time, there was this detective show on TV called Peter Gunn. Stupid name, now that I’m noticing, but a breakthrough in its genre. Clever. Sophisticated. A driving theme song by Henry Mancini. It was the first ’45 I ever bought.
The star of Peter Gunn was an actor named Craig Stevens. Stevens’ "Peter Gunn" represented an updated kind of hero, an icon of “cool” and unruffled confidence, from his wardrobe to his haircut.
I couldn’t pull off the “cool” or the unruffled confidence. And I could never afford the wardrobe, which would have looked silly on my anyway, I was thirteen. But there was one thing I could get, and I was determined to get it.
The haircut.
I march into the Lawrence Plaza barbershop, a picture of "Peter Gunn" cut from a recent TV Guide clutched tightly in my hand. Today, I would demand an experienced Tony. This was important to me. This was my head.
And that head would be accompanying me to school the following day.
The First Tony tries to give me the brush-off, but I stubbornly persist. With a dramatic sigh, he snatches the Peter Gunn picture from my hand, “honoring” it with an impatient glance. Then, something happens. He continues studying the picture. And then, he speaks, calling to the other Tonys:
“Hey, look! It’s-a Perry Como!”
Seven Tonys scurry to the front. They examine the picture, all agreeing that Perry Como had never looked so good.
“It’s not Perry Como,” I correct them. “It’s Craig Stevens. He plays Peter Gunn on a detective show.”
“No,” insists the First Tony, the other Tonys rapidly concurring, “It’s-a Perry Como.”
Okay, I need to explain a few things. First, Craig Stevens looks nothing like Perry Como, a famous Italian-American singer who had a long-running variety show on TV. The two, however, did have one thing in common. They had the same haircut. Which, apparently, was the only thing the eight Tonys were paying attention to.
Both Perry Como and Craig Stevens as "Peter Gunn" wore what I think they called crew cuts – short hair, combed straight across. This was hardly the prevailing fashion in men’s hairstyling at the time. Teenaged trendsetters’ hair was generally worn longish and greased up, and featuring a mountainous “flip” in the front. It went straight up and then flipped back.
Some people called it a pompadour; others, a “waterfall.” Elvis had one. Ditto Ricky Nelson. The Everly Brothers had one each. Like others my age, I struggled tirelessly to emulate that look, but there’s a natural curliness to my hair, and no matter how hard I worked, and how much Vitalis I applied, my “flip” had an infuriating dent in it. Instead of going straight up, it collapsed in the middle.
I had two problems. I wanted to be rid of my defective dent. And I wanted to look cool in school. The "Peter Gunn" would take care of them both.
Only at the barbershop, it wasn’t a "Peter Gunn". It was a “Perry Como.”
A memorable moment was about to take place. For the first time ever, I was invited onto the barber chair of the First Tony.
The seven other Tonys abandoned the haircuts they’d been working on to concentrate on mine. Not mine specifically, but the way the First Tony cut mine. There was dead silence in the barbershop. It was an historic moment. Someday, a hundred Tonys would insist they were there.
The First Tony snipped. He stood back. He snipped some more. His only words, the instruction: “Don’t-a move.” You could sense his confidence, a master rising to the occasion. The First Tony was an artist. His medium was hair.
Sitting quietly in the chair, my mind filled with a frenzying panic. Was I making a huge mistake? Was I deliberately turning myself grotesque? Would my impulsive gesture catapult me from anonymity to laughingstock? These thoughts came far too late. Clumps of my hair were dropping to the floor.
And then he was done.
With a finishing flourish, the First Tony whirled the chair around, and with the help of a hand-held mirror, allowed me to examine his handiwork.
It was the perfect “Perry Como.”
The next day, I was a sensation at school. Kids – even girls – gathered to check out my new “do.” Some asked if they could touch it. I magnanimously said, “Sure.”
I’d been brave. I had taken a chance. And it had paid off beautifully. The attention didn’t last, of course. But there’s this great line in the final episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show:
“When an elephant flies, you don’t complain ‘cause it didn’t stay up that long.”
A few weeks later, I swaggered into the barbershop, my “Perry Como” in need of a trim.
I was ushered down to Tony Number Eight.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
"Celebrating The Election Of The First Black President"
"Simcha" is a Hebrew word meaning celebration. ("Simcha’s" adjectival cousin "sa-may-ach" means happy.) Electing the first black president of the United States is clearly a happy moment in our history. In the Jewish tradition, however, at the beginning of every celebration, a moment is always taken to recall those who, through natural causes or otherwise, were unable make it to that day.
It therefore behooves us, or maybe just me, to take a moment to remember the other side of our history (and how easily we fell into it.)
----------------------------------
Slavery was a really bad idea.
(An acknowledgement: Canada didn’t have slavery. The explanation for this can be found, I believe, not in Canada’s moral superiority but in two illuminating words: no cotton.)
Traditionally, when you’re rich, or just lazy, and there’s a job to be done that’s tedious, backbreaking or too yucky, you’d pay someone else to do it – clean out the chimneys, empty the chamber pots, slaughter the chickens. Or pick cotton in the blistering heat.
It seems, however, when it comes to cotton-picking, someone came up with an even better solution. Not being up on my plantation history, I can’t say how this really bad decision was originally made. I can only fall back on is my imagination:
AN EARLY PLANTATION OWNER sits behind his desk, writing in his ledger with a feather. Another PLANTATION OWNER comes in, and sits down facing the first PLANTATION OWNER.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down!”
“I am sitting down.”
“I know. That’s just my way of saying ‘I have exciting news!’”
“Well, it’s very confusing. Saying ‘Sit down!’ to someone already in a seated position.”
“What should I have said?”
“I don’t know. ‘Hold onto your hat!’”
“You’re not wearing a hat.”
“Agreed. But ‘Sit down!’, as we’ve just determined, can mean two things, while ‘Hold onto your hat!’ can mean only one.
“Not true. What if a sudden wind were to kick up, and I said…?”
“I meant indoors.”
“…oh. Well, in that case, you’re correct.”
“Now, what is it you wanted to tell me?”
“Of course. (WITH AN EXCITED GIGGLE) “Hold onto your hat!”
“It’s that good.”
“It’s inspired. (LEANING IN, IN A CONSPIRATORIAL MANNER) “You know the enterprise we are engaged in…”
“The cotton business.”
“Just so. Well, I have discovered an ingenious method of increasing our profits.”
“You have?”
“Greatly increasing. I mean, by plenty.”
“That’s wonderful! What’s the plan?”
“I knew you’d be excited.”
“Tell! Tell!”
“You know those terrible workmen we’re paying to pick our cotton?”
“You mean those unsavory white fellows who do a substandard job and never sing?”
“The very same. Well, I propose that we send those substandard pickers packing, and replace them with – are you ready? – slaves.
“Slaves?”
“Is that not the most ingenious…”
“Be ye daft?”
“Hello. Why have you suddenly turned into a pirate?”
“I have not suddenly turned into a pirate. I am merely expressing my perplexity in a colorful manner.”
“But there’s nothing daft about it. Slave labor has many advantages, the greatest, of course, being: We don’t have to pay them.”
“Because they’re slaves.”
“Who, by custom, habit and definition are not entitled to compensation.”
“Hm. You may have something here.”
“‘May’, nothing! Do you realize what this means? (POINTING TO LEDGER) Under this column marked ‘Labor Expenses’, we can henceforth inscribe: ‘Zero.’”
“Sweet Juniper! Free pickers!”
“Precisely the concept.”
“We’d be subtracting a major expense!”
“And we’ll always need pickers. I may be new to this undertaking, but if there’s one thing I know it’s that cotton doesn’t just jump off the thing it grows on and hop into the thing one puts it into.”
“A problem cleverly solved. And yet…”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if it’s wrong.”
“If what’s wrong?”
“You know, the whole slavery business.”
“What’s wrong about it?’
“It’s slavery.”
“Oh, now. Slavery is hardly new.”
“That’s true. We’d be simply perpetuating a long, albeit dishonorable, tradition.”
“It's in the Bible."
"Truly said."
"So you agree then?”
“Slavery it is! But let it never be said that we didn’t stop and think.”
Okay, that’s done. Now on with the celebration.
-----------------------
A reminder on my two hundredth posting: If you're interested in being written back, you can reach me at talktoearl@gmail.com
It therefore behooves us, or maybe just me, to take a moment to remember the other side of our history (and how easily we fell into it.)
----------------------------------
Slavery was a really bad idea.
(An acknowledgement: Canada didn’t have slavery. The explanation for this can be found, I believe, not in Canada’s moral superiority but in two illuminating words: no cotton.)
Traditionally, when you’re rich, or just lazy, and there’s a job to be done that’s tedious, backbreaking or too yucky, you’d pay someone else to do it – clean out the chimneys, empty the chamber pots, slaughter the chickens. Or pick cotton in the blistering heat.
It seems, however, when it comes to cotton-picking, someone came up with an even better solution. Not being up on my plantation history, I can’t say how this really bad decision was originally made. I can only fall back on is my imagination:
AN EARLY PLANTATION OWNER sits behind his desk, writing in his ledger with a feather. Another PLANTATION OWNER comes in, and sits down facing the first PLANTATION OWNER.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down!”
“I am sitting down.”
“I know. That’s just my way of saying ‘I have exciting news!’”
“Well, it’s very confusing. Saying ‘Sit down!’ to someone already in a seated position.”
“What should I have said?”
“I don’t know. ‘Hold onto your hat!’”
“You’re not wearing a hat.”
“Agreed. But ‘Sit down!’, as we’ve just determined, can mean two things, while ‘Hold onto your hat!’ can mean only one.
“Not true. What if a sudden wind were to kick up, and I said…?”
“I meant indoors.”
“…oh. Well, in that case, you’re correct.”
“Now, what is it you wanted to tell me?”
“Of course. (WITH AN EXCITED GIGGLE) “Hold onto your hat!”
“It’s that good.”
“It’s inspired. (LEANING IN, IN A CONSPIRATORIAL MANNER) “You know the enterprise we are engaged in…”
“The cotton business.”
“Just so. Well, I have discovered an ingenious method of increasing our profits.”
“You have?”
“Greatly increasing. I mean, by plenty.”
“That’s wonderful! What’s the plan?”
“I knew you’d be excited.”
“Tell! Tell!”
“You know those terrible workmen we’re paying to pick our cotton?”
“You mean those unsavory white fellows who do a substandard job and never sing?”
“The very same. Well, I propose that we send those substandard pickers packing, and replace them with – are you ready? – slaves.
“Slaves?”
“Is that not the most ingenious…”
“Be ye daft?”
“Hello. Why have you suddenly turned into a pirate?”
“I have not suddenly turned into a pirate. I am merely expressing my perplexity in a colorful manner.”
“But there’s nothing daft about it. Slave labor has many advantages, the greatest, of course, being: We don’t have to pay them.”
“Because they’re slaves.”
“Who, by custom, habit and definition are not entitled to compensation.”
“Hm. You may have something here.”
“‘May’, nothing! Do you realize what this means? (POINTING TO LEDGER) Under this column marked ‘Labor Expenses’, we can henceforth inscribe: ‘Zero.’”
“Sweet Juniper! Free pickers!”
“Precisely the concept.”
“We’d be subtracting a major expense!”
“And we’ll always need pickers. I may be new to this undertaking, but if there’s one thing I know it’s that cotton doesn’t just jump off the thing it grows on and hop into the thing one puts it into.”
“A problem cleverly solved. And yet…”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if it’s wrong.”
“If what’s wrong?”
“You know, the whole slavery business.”
“What’s wrong about it?’
“It’s slavery.”
“Oh, now. Slavery is hardly new.”
“That’s true. We’d be simply perpetuating a long, albeit dishonorable, tradition.”
“It's in the Bible."
"Truly said."
"So you agree then?”
“Slavery it is! But let it never be said that we didn’t stop and think.”
Okay, that’s done. Now on with the celebration.
-----------------------
A reminder on my two hundredth posting: If you're interested in being written back, you can reach me at talktoearl@gmail.com
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
"Unique Talent"
When you worked in Canadian show business – I don’t know if it’s the same today, but I suspect it is – you were required to do multiple jobs to make any semblance of what would be considered a living. I once worked three jobs to make $120 a week. I know those were 1970’s dollars, but, you know, you’d like to make more.
Once I was hired to write and perform a series of radio commercials for a Toronto deli called Shopsy’s, which at the time was expanding their product line into supermarkets. I remember one commercial very vividly. I played the voice of “Salisbury steak.” My first line was,
“Hi. I’m Salisbury steak. I come with mushrooms, but they don’t talk.”
Whatever you think of that, the Shopsy’s commercials earned me an offer of a full-time job as a copywriter. I turned the agency down, explaining that I’d rather stay in show business, which was odd, because I wasn’t in show business at the time.
Another avenue of income was acting in television commercials. I got a job on my first audition. It wasn’t a speaking part. It was more a drumming part. I was hired to play a skinny guy with glasses (which I happened to be at the time) who didn’t wear a shirt and pounded out the rhythm in a galley ship while a boatful of galley slaves (also without shirts but with considerably more muscles) rowed. From this, they sold a candy bar. I don’t remember which one.
After my initial success, I continued going to auditions, but I never got hired. I was brought in whenever the commercial called for “a Woody Allen type.” The problem is that in Canada, “a Woody Allen type” isn’t Jewish.
With my hope for employment rapidly fading, I was called in to audition for a Chevrolet commercial, the first of a series of commercials for an expensive, national campaign. If I got the job, it would pay thousands, which, if you know your math, is more than $120 a week.
I was introduced to the director. I recognized his name. He had been the primary director for the long-running TV series My Three Sons. His name was Peter. Peter took to me right away, partly, I think, because I knew who he was.
My audition went so well that a few days later, I was brought back for a second look, which went well too. Other candidates were being eliminated. I remained in the running. I was moving closer and closer to getting the job.
Or so I thought.
Here’s the deal. Chevrolet wanted a “name” to star in their commercial, an actor the audience knew, or at least recognized. By definition, at least to Americans, there are no Canadian “names.” Ipso facto, Chevrolet wanted an American.
Who they wanted specifically was Arnold Stang, a “skinny guy with glasses” American. Arnold Stang was hardly a big “name”, but he was at least semi-famous, maybe a notch and a half below “semi.”
Arnold Stang’s claims to fame were two in number. Years before, on the hugely popular Texaco Star Theater, starring Milton Berle, whenever Berle called “Make-up!”, a deadpan Stang would march onstage and whack Berle in the face with an enormous powerful puff. Stang’s other claim to fame was a series of commercials for Chunky chocolate bars, where he over-pronounced the tagline: “Chunky, what a chunk-a chawklit.”
From such moments are careers made.
Chevrolet wanted Arnold Stang to get the job. The problem was that Arnold Stang was American, and this was a Canadian commercial. You see, there was this rule (maybe there still is). The rule stated that you couldn’t hire an American for a Canadian commercial unless it was demonstrated that no Canadian was capable of doing the job.
If no Canadian was found suitable for the commercial, you could then hire the American, bringing him in as a “Unique Talent.”
The tiny glitch for Chevrolet was this:
Earl Pomerantz was suitable for the commercial. (More than suitable. I was really good.)
The production came to a standstill. They didn’t know what to do. There was a Canadian “talent” – Early P. – capable of doing the job, which meant they couldn’t bring in a “Unique Talent” – Mr. Stang – from the United States. And they wanted Mr. Stang.
They brought me in for a third audition, hoping, perhaps, I’d forget what I did at the first two auditions and stink the place up. I didn’t. I could see the conflict contorting the director’s face. His eyes seemed to be pleading,
“Why couldn’t you be worse?”
Finally, they convinced themselves I was, and they gave the job to Arnold Stang.
Years later…
I’m applying for a “Green Card”, granting me permanent residency is the United States and the ability to work here legally. My immigration lawyer advises me that, though there are various criteria for obtaining a “Green Card”, including – lookee there – “Unique Talent”, the safest strategy is to set up a business in the United States, with a business license and a business bank account – everything that would indicate I’m a business – in my case, a television production business.
I do what the lawyer tells me. I am now a business.
Flash Forward: I’m sitting in front of an American Immigration Officer, and he’s studying my application. Everything seems to be in order, he announces, but he has one question. The question is this:
“Why didn’t you apply for your ‘Green Card’ under ‘Unique Talent’?”
(By that time, I had won an Emmy Award and had been nominated for another. “Unique Talent” would by no means have been an unreasonable claim.)
I could have given a “High Road” explanation. I could have said to the Immigration Officer, “You know, I once lost a job I really wanted because of this ‘Unique Talent’ arrangement, and I was not willing to deprive an American writer of an opportunity to work the way I was deprived when I was working in Canada.”
I didn’t say that, because that wasn’t the reason I had applied as a “business” rather than applying under “Unique Talent.” Instead, I told him the truth. My decision was of a practical nature. There was the chance the Immigration Officer might test my “uniqueness”, leading to the risky possibility:
“What if you didn’t think I was funny?”
Once I was hired to write and perform a series of radio commercials for a Toronto deli called Shopsy’s, which at the time was expanding their product line into supermarkets. I remember one commercial very vividly. I played the voice of “Salisbury steak.” My first line was,
“Hi. I’m Salisbury steak. I come with mushrooms, but they don’t talk.”
Whatever you think of that, the Shopsy’s commercials earned me an offer of a full-time job as a copywriter. I turned the agency down, explaining that I’d rather stay in show business, which was odd, because I wasn’t in show business at the time.
Another avenue of income was acting in television commercials. I got a job on my first audition. It wasn’t a speaking part. It was more a drumming part. I was hired to play a skinny guy with glasses (which I happened to be at the time) who didn’t wear a shirt and pounded out the rhythm in a galley ship while a boatful of galley slaves (also without shirts but with considerably more muscles) rowed. From this, they sold a candy bar. I don’t remember which one.
After my initial success, I continued going to auditions, but I never got hired. I was brought in whenever the commercial called for “a Woody Allen type.” The problem is that in Canada, “a Woody Allen type” isn’t Jewish.
With my hope for employment rapidly fading, I was called in to audition for a Chevrolet commercial, the first of a series of commercials for an expensive, national campaign. If I got the job, it would pay thousands, which, if you know your math, is more than $120 a week.
I was introduced to the director. I recognized his name. He had been the primary director for the long-running TV series My Three Sons. His name was Peter. Peter took to me right away, partly, I think, because I knew who he was.
My audition went so well that a few days later, I was brought back for a second look, which went well too. Other candidates were being eliminated. I remained in the running. I was moving closer and closer to getting the job.
Or so I thought.
Here’s the deal. Chevrolet wanted a “name” to star in their commercial, an actor the audience knew, or at least recognized. By definition, at least to Americans, there are no Canadian “names.” Ipso facto, Chevrolet wanted an American.
Who they wanted specifically was Arnold Stang, a “skinny guy with glasses” American. Arnold Stang was hardly a big “name”, but he was at least semi-famous, maybe a notch and a half below “semi.”
Arnold Stang’s claims to fame were two in number. Years before, on the hugely popular Texaco Star Theater, starring Milton Berle, whenever Berle called “Make-up!”, a deadpan Stang would march onstage and whack Berle in the face with an enormous powerful puff. Stang’s other claim to fame was a series of commercials for Chunky chocolate bars, where he over-pronounced the tagline: “Chunky, what a chunk-a chawklit.”
From such moments are careers made.
Chevrolet wanted Arnold Stang to get the job. The problem was that Arnold Stang was American, and this was a Canadian commercial. You see, there was this rule (maybe there still is). The rule stated that you couldn’t hire an American for a Canadian commercial unless it was demonstrated that no Canadian was capable of doing the job.
If no Canadian was found suitable for the commercial, you could then hire the American, bringing him in as a “Unique Talent.”
The tiny glitch for Chevrolet was this:
Earl Pomerantz was suitable for the commercial. (More than suitable. I was really good.)
The production came to a standstill. They didn’t know what to do. There was a Canadian “talent” – Early P. – capable of doing the job, which meant they couldn’t bring in a “Unique Talent” – Mr. Stang – from the United States. And they wanted Mr. Stang.
They brought me in for a third audition, hoping, perhaps, I’d forget what I did at the first two auditions and stink the place up. I didn’t. I could see the conflict contorting the director’s face. His eyes seemed to be pleading,
“Why couldn’t you be worse?”
Finally, they convinced themselves I was, and they gave the job to Arnold Stang.
Years later…
I’m applying for a “Green Card”, granting me permanent residency is the United States and the ability to work here legally. My immigration lawyer advises me that, though there are various criteria for obtaining a “Green Card”, including – lookee there – “Unique Talent”, the safest strategy is to set up a business in the United States, with a business license and a business bank account – everything that would indicate I’m a business – in my case, a television production business.
I do what the lawyer tells me. I am now a business.
Flash Forward: I’m sitting in front of an American Immigration Officer, and he’s studying my application. Everything seems to be in order, he announces, but he has one question. The question is this:
“Why didn’t you apply for your ‘Green Card’ under ‘Unique Talent’?”
(By that time, I had won an Emmy Award and had been nominated for another. “Unique Talent” would by no means have been an unreasonable claim.)
I could have given a “High Road” explanation. I could have said to the Immigration Officer, “You know, I once lost a job I really wanted because of this ‘Unique Talent’ arrangement, and I was not willing to deprive an American writer of an opportunity to work the way I was deprived when I was working in Canada.”
I didn’t say that, because that wasn’t the reason I had applied as a “business” rather than applying under “Unique Talent.” Instead, I told him the truth. My decision was of a practical nature. There was the chance the Immigration Officer might test my “uniqueness”, leading to the risky possibility:
“What if you didn’t think I was funny?”
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
"The Myth Of Unanimity"
You’re in the park and you’re touched by a spontaneous impulse to pick one of the pretty flowers. You reach down to pick one when someone (invariably a loved one) says,
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” you reply. “It’s only one flower.”
To which the “someone” inevitably replies,
“What if everybody wanted to do that?”
There’s an answer to that question, an answer that’s unquestionably true, but you don’t pull it out, because you’re in enough trouble for merely thinking about picking a flower. The answer to the question, “What if everybody wanted to do that?” is this:
“They don’t.”
My extended inhabitance on this planet has led me to a conclusion that comes very close to being a rule:
Everybody never wants to do anything.
It is my view that, in virtually any situation you can think of, some people want to do something, and some people don’t. Everybody never wants to do anything.
A non-“flower in the park” example:
Today’s Voting Day. Voting Day sends me back to Tenth Grade at my high school, Bathurst Heights Collegiate and Vocational School. (I’ll tell you about the school another time. They tried to intermix academic students with vocational school students in a single facility. It didn’t work. The “academics” were picked on for four years.)
Before our first class, our Home Room teacher, Mr. Payton (“Pay attention or you’ll get a detention”) announces the opening of nominations for Class President, who will serve on the school’s student council. Some wiseass nominates me. I immediately decline. The wiseass’s sidekick nominates me again. I decline again.
I know what’s going on. It’s a practical joke to get me elected, so I’ll have to attend meetings in the mornings before classes begin, and have to walk to school in the dark. Not to mention being stuck having to do things, like plan for a prom I had no intention of attending.
I can’t put a positive spin on this. I have a miniscule impulse in the direction of service. The closest I come to even leaning in that direction is the service I provide in this blog with the recurring message: ”You’re not alone. I’m messed up too.”
I have to believe that’s at least partially what I’m doing here. Otherwise, it’s simply an exercise in ego with borders.
There is no election I can ever imagine running for. Which leads to the same question as the “flower picking” question, but with negative trajectory.
“What if nobody wanted to run for election?”
The answer is the same. Only backwards.
Nobody never wants to do anything.
Could you put that in English, please?
Somebody always wants to run.
I don’t understand why. I don’t want to run. But that’s me (and my friend, Paul, among, I imagine, others.) Another group of people clearly feel otherwise. Everyone running today, and everyone they defeated in the primaries desperately – or passionately – your choice – wanted to run for office. My explanation for this is the same reason I have finally concluded as to why people go into show business. The reason is:
There are lots of reasons.
Some people run for office because they want to serve their country. Hats off to them. (Not sarcastic. I mean it.)
Some people are inveterate problem solvers. Thank goodness for them. We need problem solvers. Which is good, because problem solvers need problems to solve. And what bigger problems are there to solve than the problems facing our country today (or any day)? So, “Vote for me. I’ll solve your problems.” You know what? Sometimes they actually do.
Some people are drawn to the action in politics, the slash and parry of furious debate. (I hate that. I can’t understand why everybody doesn’t agree with me.) For those with a taste for combat, politics, at least to some degree, is essentially a competition, a sport, maybe even a blood sport. The combatants are never more alive than when they’re whacking away at each other, knee deep in the fray. At some point, the stakes become secondary. The battle becomes primal. You’re simply driven to win.
Some people go into politics because they like wielding power. “Look what I can do? Ooh, and look what I can make other people do. And on top of everything, people keep giving me stuff.” Finally, as Henry Kissinger, not the most attractive of men, candidly opined: “Power is an aphrodisiac.”
So there’s that.
It may be instructive in assessing a candidate’s motives to take note of the way they run their campaigns. Yes, there’s the undeniable reality: You can’t govern if you don’t win. We got that. The question becomes, with that understanding, “What is it that you will you do and what is it that you won’t do in order to win?”
It is my opinion that every time a candidate opens their mouth to make a pronouncement, they’re delivering two messages. The first message involves the content of that pronouncement, for example, “My opponent is Un-American.” The second message involves A) the candidate’s willingness to express that pronouncement and B) their willingness to express that pronouncement in the particular manner in which they express it.
Many of the issues are pretty clear-cut. “My opponent believes in getting out of Iraq as soon as possible. I believe in staying in Iraq as long as is necessary.” “My opponent would cut taxes for the middle class but raise them for the wealthy. I want to cut everybody’s taxes.” The choices are simple. Two positions. Take your pick.
It appears, however, that a lot candidates don’t trust that their positions are persuasive enough to carry the day. They seem unwilling to allow the clearly articulated contrasting views to simply stand there and duke it out. Instead, we get “campaigning.”
Involving…
Distortion. Exaggeration. Sarcasm. Innuendo. Name-calling. Deliberate lying.
“Attack” politics. Demonizing the opponent. Disrespect bordering on contempt.
On the other hand, is the candidate who eschews such odiferous strategies really being more truthful? Or are they merely subscribing to an alternate, but equally calculating, set of tactics?
Which seems to lead here:
“All politicians are self-serving crooks.”
I don’t, however, believe that. Not because my experience tells me otherwise. I have no experience with politicians. (I knew Al Franken, but before he decided to run.) I don’t believe all politicians are self-serving crooks because of my rule. Reformulated in the following sentence:
No everybodies are ever anything.
Now that I’ve confused you sufficiently…
Enjoy your vote.
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” you reply. “It’s only one flower.”
To which the “someone” inevitably replies,
“What if everybody wanted to do that?”
There’s an answer to that question, an answer that’s unquestionably true, but you don’t pull it out, because you’re in enough trouble for merely thinking about picking a flower. The answer to the question, “What if everybody wanted to do that?” is this:
“They don’t.”
My extended inhabitance on this planet has led me to a conclusion that comes very close to being a rule:
Everybody never wants to do anything.
It is my view that, in virtually any situation you can think of, some people want to do something, and some people don’t. Everybody never wants to do anything.
A non-“flower in the park” example:
Today’s Voting Day. Voting Day sends me back to Tenth Grade at my high school, Bathurst Heights Collegiate and Vocational School. (I’ll tell you about the school another time. They tried to intermix academic students with vocational school students in a single facility. It didn’t work. The “academics” were picked on for four years.)
Before our first class, our Home Room teacher, Mr. Payton (“Pay attention or you’ll get a detention”) announces the opening of nominations for Class President, who will serve on the school’s student council. Some wiseass nominates me. I immediately decline. The wiseass’s sidekick nominates me again. I decline again.
I know what’s going on. It’s a practical joke to get me elected, so I’ll have to attend meetings in the mornings before classes begin, and have to walk to school in the dark. Not to mention being stuck having to do things, like plan for a prom I had no intention of attending.
I can’t put a positive spin on this. I have a miniscule impulse in the direction of service. The closest I come to even leaning in that direction is the service I provide in this blog with the recurring message: ”You’re not alone. I’m messed up too.”
I have to believe that’s at least partially what I’m doing here. Otherwise, it’s simply an exercise in ego with borders.
There is no election I can ever imagine running for. Which leads to the same question as the “flower picking” question, but with negative trajectory.
“What if nobody wanted to run for election?”
The answer is the same. Only backwards.
Nobody never wants to do anything.
Could you put that in English, please?
Somebody always wants to run.
I don’t understand why. I don’t want to run. But that’s me (and my friend, Paul, among, I imagine, others.) Another group of people clearly feel otherwise. Everyone running today, and everyone they defeated in the primaries desperately – or passionately – your choice – wanted to run for office. My explanation for this is the same reason I have finally concluded as to why people go into show business. The reason is:
There are lots of reasons.
Some people run for office because they want to serve their country. Hats off to them. (Not sarcastic. I mean it.)
Some people are inveterate problem solvers. Thank goodness for them. We need problem solvers. Which is good, because problem solvers need problems to solve. And what bigger problems are there to solve than the problems facing our country today (or any day)? So, “Vote for me. I’ll solve your problems.” You know what? Sometimes they actually do.
Some people are drawn to the action in politics, the slash and parry of furious debate. (I hate that. I can’t understand why everybody doesn’t agree with me.) For those with a taste for combat, politics, at least to some degree, is essentially a competition, a sport, maybe even a blood sport. The combatants are never more alive than when they’re whacking away at each other, knee deep in the fray. At some point, the stakes become secondary. The battle becomes primal. You’re simply driven to win.
Some people go into politics because they like wielding power. “Look what I can do? Ooh, and look what I can make other people do. And on top of everything, people keep giving me stuff.” Finally, as Henry Kissinger, not the most attractive of men, candidly opined: “Power is an aphrodisiac.”
So there’s that.
It may be instructive in assessing a candidate’s motives to take note of the way they run their campaigns. Yes, there’s the undeniable reality: You can’t govern if you don’t win. We got that. The question becomes, with that understanding, “What is it that you will you do and what is it that you won’t do in order to win?”
It is my opinion that every time a candidate opens their mouth to make a pronouncement, they’re delivering two messages. The first message involves the content of that pronouncement, for example, “My opponent is Un-American.” The second message involves A) the candidate’s willingness to express that pronouncement and B) their willingness to express that pronouncement in the particular manner in which they express it.
Many of the issues are pretty clear-cut. “My opponent believes in getting out of Iraq as soon as possible. I believe in staying in Iraq as long as is necessary.” “My opponent would cut taxes for the middle class but raise them for the wealthy. I want to cut everybody’s taxes.” The choices are simple. Two positions. Take your pick.
It appears, however, that a lot candidates don’t trust that their positions are persuasive enough to carry the day. They seem unwilling to allow the clearly articulated contrasting views to simply stand there and duke it out. Instead, we get “campaigning.”
Involving…
Distortion. Exaggeration. Sarcasm. Innuendo. Name-calling. Deliberate lying.
“Attack” politics. Demonizing the opponent. Disrespect bordering on contempt.
On the other hand, is the candidate who eschews such odiferous strategies really being more truthful? Or are they merely subscribing to an alternate, but equally calculating, set of tactics?
Which seems to lead here:
“All politicians are self-serving crooks.”
I don’t, however, believe that. Not because my experience tells me otherwise. I have no experience with politicians. (I knew Al Franken, but before he decided to run.) I don’t believe all politicians are self-serving crooks because of my rule. Reformulated in the following sentence:
No everybodies are ever anything.
Now that I’ve confused you sufficiently…
Enjoy your vote.
Monday, November 3, 2008
"Random Musings On Election Eve"
A blog provides an outlet for disseminating your opinions and thoughts. Without it, your disseminations are restricted to family and friends. And when they get tired of you, your final option is disseminating in your head, the recipients of your wisdom, an audience of neurons.
Okay, let’s get these out. Maybe you’ll have some opinions of your own to pass along and we can give our defenseless neurons a break.
In no particular order:
---------------
When I think of a “steady hand at the tiller”, I don’t imagine a fighter pilot. I saw Top Gun. Fighter pilots are insane.
---------------
“If Obama loses, Hillary is a prime candidate for 2012.”
You’ve got a car in your showroom window that’s not selling because there’s a “car of the future” on the market that’s kicking its ass. Is it really reasonable to believe that a car that’s considered old fashioned today will be considered less old fashioned in four years?
---------------
“If McCain loses, Sarah Palin will be given serious consideration for 2012.”
This opinion confuses show business with substance. From an entertainment perspective, Sarah Palin displays many winning attributes. But her positions – no abortions even in the case of rape and incest (consistent, but yow!), small town Americans are the real Americans – stand not only outside the national mainstream, they represent the extreme end of the Republican party, an end which has worn out its welcome even with Republicans.
---------------
“Obama Outspends McCain Four to One”
What happens when the candidate who has the most money to spend is an idiot? Is a “money war” the most sensible method we can think of for electing a president?
---------------
McCain in 2000. McCain in 2008. Wha' hoppin'? And why did he allow it to?
---------------
“If the Democrats have a monopoly on the presidency and the Congress, they will be evaluated on their record in 2010.”
That would be valid if, when the Republicans left office, they took their mistakes away with them. Since that’s not how it works, the only way a Democratic administration can honestly be evaluated is on the basis of how competently they clean up of the astonishing mess the Republicans left behind.
---------------
“McCain Maligns the Canadian Health Care System” (a particular pet peeve)
Isn’t the Canadian health care system very similar to the military health care system that took care of McCain when he was released from the Vietnamese prison?
---------------
“Barack Obama will raise taxes on people making over $250,000 a year.”
“Barack Obama will raise taxes on people making over $42,000 a year.”
Are numbers now a matter of opinion? Is there no way of definitively determining which number it is?
---------------
Why does a populist have to be a plumber? Why can’t a populist have a university degree?
----------------
What if it was discovered that voting with the president 90% of the time made McCain the senator who voted with the president the least?
----------------
“Why are only Republicans criticized for dirty tactics? Both sides employ these strategies.”
Equally? If one person drives five miles over the speed limit and another person drives forty miles over the speed limit, unequal punishment – or in the case of politics, unequal criticism – is entirely appropriate. Anything else would be hideously unfair.
-----------------
“If black people can vote for Obama because he’s black, then a white person can vote against Obama because he’s black. It’s the same thing.”
This is a smokescreen for racism. No matter how black people voted – for Obama or against Obama – Barack Obama would still be black. And that would still be the only reason those white people are refusing to vote for him.
---------------
“Vote! It matters.”
As a result of the all-or-nothing Electoral College system, if you live in a state leaning heavily in one candidate’s direction, your vote, either for or against that candidate, means nothing.
Also, as one pundit put it, “I don’t know who I’m voting for – the candidate or the copywriter.” Because of the tightly orchestrated campaigns – where empty catchphrases fill the air and spontaneous incidents are verboten, there’s a reasonable chance we have no idea who we’re voting for.
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I voted. But you can do what you want. It’s all a roll of the dice. The good thing is, in four years (or two, for the House), we can roll the dice again.
Okay, let’s get these out. Maybe you’ll have some opinions of your own to pass along and we can give our defenseless neurons a break.
In no particular order:
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When I think of a “steady hand at the tiller”, I don’t imagine a fighter pilot. I saw Top Gun. Fighter pilots are insane.
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“If Obama loses, Hillary is a prime candidate for 2012.”
You’ve got a car in your showroom window that’s not selling because there’s a “car of the future” on the market that’s kicking its ass. Is it really reasonable to believe that a car that’s considered old fashioned today will be considered less old fashioned in four years?
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“If McCain loses, Sarah Palin will be given serious consideration for 2012.”
This opinion confuses show business with substance. From an entertainment perspective, Sarah Palin displays many winning attributes. But her positions – no abortions even in the case of rape and incest (consistent, but yow!), small town Americans are the real Americans – stand not only outside the national mainstream, they represent the extreme end of the Republican party, an end which has worn out its welcome even with Republicans.
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“Obama Outspends McCain Four to One”
What happens when the candidate who has the most money to spend is an idiot? Is a “money war” the most sensible method we can think of for electing a president?
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McCain in 2000. McCain in 2008. Wha' hoppin'? And why did he allow it to?
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“If the Democrats have a monopoly on the presidency and the Congress, they will be evaluated on their record in 2010.”
That would be valid if, when the Republicans left office, they took their mistakes away with them. Since that’s not how it works, the only way a Democratic administration can honestly be evaluated is on the basis of how competently they clean up of the astonishing mess the Republicans left behind.
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“McCain Maligns the Canadian Health Care System” (a particular pet peeve)
Isn’t the Canadian health care system very similar to the military health care system that took care of McCain when he was released from the Vietnamese prison?
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“Barack Obama will raise taxes on people making over $250,000 a year.”
“Barack Obama will raise taxes on people making over $42,000 a year.”
Are numbers now a matter of opinion? Is there no way of definitively determining which number it is?
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Why does a populist have to be a plumber? Why can’t a populist have a university degree?
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What if it was discovered that voting with the president 90% of the time made McCain the senator who voted with the president the least?
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“Why are only Republicans criticized for dirty tactics? Both sides employ these strategies.”
Equally? If one person drives five miles over the speed limit and another person drives forty miles over the speed limit, unequal punishment – or in the case of politics, unequal criticism – is entirely appropriate. Anything else would be hideously unfair.
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“If black people can vote for Obama because he’s black, then a white person can vote against Obama because he’s black. It’s the same thing.”
This is a smokescreen for racism. No matter how black people voted – for Obama or against Obama – Barack Obama would still be black. And that would still be the only reason those white people are refusing to vote for him.
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“Vote! It matters.”
As a result of the all-or-nothing Electoral College system, if you live in a state leaning heavily in one candidate’s direction, your vote, either for or against that candidate, means nothing.
Also, as one pundit put it, “I don’t know who I’m voting for – the candidate or the copywriter.” Because of the tightly orchestrated campaigns – where empty catchphrases fill the air and spontaneous incidents are verboten, there’s a reasonable chance we have no idea who we’re voting for.
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I voted. But you can do what you want. It’s all a roll of the dice. The good thing is, in four years (or two, for the House), we can roll the dice again.
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