When a writer notices something, there’s the hope that what they noticed will be interesting to more than just them. What they really hope is that their observation will be sufficiently fascinating, illuminating and insightful that the reader will say, “Good on ya, writer, for bringing that to my attention, because, not being a writer myself, I hadn’t noticed.”
For a writer of comedy, “funny” can be hopefully added to that list.
Not long ago, I noticed something funny while I was watching C-SPAN 2, a network not normally famous for its comedy. For those who don’t know them, the C-SPAN channels – we currently have three of them – are cable television channels whose primary programming is the unedited coverage of both houses of Congress. On weekends, C-SPAN changes its format, offering interviews and lectures featuring authors who’ve written non-fiction works on politics, culture and history. I watch the C-SPAN channels a lot.
The “funny thing” was broadcast during “Non-Fiction Weekend.” The participants were a female interviewer and a female guest who’d been employed in the public relations department of the Bush administration, specializing on issues of national defense. The guest was on to promote a book she had written, concerning the P.R. strategies devised to support the former president’s military policy in Iraq. The interviewer, an acknowledged opponent of the war, had been specially selected to take her on.
So far, nothing funny. But there were soupcons of at least dramatic, if not comedic possibilities. These soupcons were embedded in the personae of the adversaries. The interviewer, at least comparatively if not objectively, appeared, well, “bookish.” She was dark, not unattractive but no “knockout”, and perhaps not as attentive to her grooming and attire as, say, her mother might have preferred. This woman’s demeanor said, “I’m fully aware of grooming and attire. But I’m here on business.”
Indulging in stereotypes, one might call her “The Smart One.”
Her adversary was strikingly attractive, confident and blond, with a fair (and flawless) complexion. As befits a Bush administration representative, she was conservatively groomed, attired and bejeweled. Everything about her screamed “Money.” But tastefully. We should say everything about her purred “Money.”
Call her “The Prom Queen.”
Things got strange almost from the beginning. Early in the hour-long interview, I’m not good describing women’s hair, but a substantial section of the front of “The Smart One’s” straight brown hair abandoned its assigned position, winding up directly between the woman’s eyebrows, dividing her forehead almost perfectly in half.
Try and imagine this. The front of “The Smart One’s” hairdo was swept over to the side in front, and a substantial hunk or hank (as in the song “Honeycomb”) of “The Smart One’s” hair had escaped from her hairdo and fallen onto her forehead and into her eyes, behind her glasses. (I forgot, “The Smart One” wore glasses. Did I really need to tell you that?)
“The Smart One” maintained her composure, but you could sense she was distracted. Though she remained focused, nailing “The Prom Queen” on the non-existent Iraq-9/11 connection and the undiscovered Weapons of Mass Destruction, you could tell she was also thinking about her hair.
This is not my imagination. The “hair thing” was driving her crazy. It went like this. She asks a question, the hair’s between her eyes. The camera cuts to the guest for her answer, and when it comes back to the interviewer, look at that! – her hair’s neatly back in place!
“The Smart One’s” about to mount another assault on the former president’s Iraq policy, here comes the hair, sliding down her forehead, and coming to rest back between her eyes. This time, “The Smart One” doesn’t wait for the camera to cut away. She swipes at her hair without breaking her inquisitive stride. But the errant hank refuses to stay put. Before the camera can cut away, the runaway hair’s sitting there, splitting her forehead once again.
You can almost read “The Smart One’s” mind. She’s considering altering her strategy. “If I ask shorter questions, my hair won’t have time to fall down while I’m on camera.” It’s a sound plan. She can swipe it back in place while the camera’s on “The Prom Queen.”
Unfortunately, the cool and wily “Prom Queen” is ahead of her.
Realizing “The Smart One’s” predicament, “The Prom Queen” begins shortening her answers. The camera cuts back to “The Smart One”, capturing her in “mid-swipe.”
“This can’t be happening!” you can almost hear “The Smart One” lament. “I have people watching. My family. My friends. This is my big chance, an opportunity to show producers what I can do. I’m tearing this woman to shreds, exposing her as a transparent fraud defending a disastrous policy. But none of that matters.
“The only thing they’ll remember is the hair!”
CAMERA ON:
“THE SMART ONE”: (SWEEPING BACK THE ERRANT STRANDS) How did you deal with the credibility issue when it turned out there were no WMD?
CAMERA ON:
“THE PROM QUEEN”: Well, you have to remember at the time, the world believed Iraq had WMD, including President Clinton.
CAMERA ON:
"THE SMART ONE": (HAIR BACK BETWEEN HER EYES) He may have believed that but he didn’t take the country to war.
For the viewer, our Iraqi policy has become secondary. The show’s turned into: “Where’s the Hair?”
If this were an actual comedy, a hairdresser would be dispatched to crawl along the floor and slip the interviewer a helpful “Bobby pin.” But this isn’t a comedy. It’s C-SPAN 2. No help. No “Bobby pin.” Just an excruciating hour of humiliation and shame. Were “The Smart One” on the fence on the matter, this shattering experience could land her unquestioningly in the camp of “There is no God.”
In the end, what we’re left with is a P.R. flak emerging without a scratch, and a tormented, “deserved better” interviewer, whose rebellious hair has let her down.
If you’re a writer of a certain inclination, it’s something you notice.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
"Getting It Right"
A few years ago, I attended an Oscars party on the Big Island of Hawaii. In attendance were Senator-In-Waiting Al Franken and his family, the late actor Peter Boyle (the Dad on Raymond) and his family, Franken’s book agent and his family, my daughter Anna and myself. (Dr. M, studying for a licensing exam, had requested our absence while she prepared.)
The Oscars party took place in the Boyles’ condo, adjacent to our hotel. It was nice to be invited. There was great food, an Oscars pool (which I co-won), and the “Big Show” itself on TV.
Okay.
They come to the award for “Best Editing.” Before it’s presented, the producers inexplicably stage an elaborate production number, featuring The Lord of the Dance. There are smart people in the room. And one of them reasonably inquires:
“Why are they doing a dance number to introduce an Editing award?”
Without missing a beat, I reply,
“It’s a little known fact that when an editor does a particularly good edit, he gets up and he does a little dance.”
The room explodes in a thunderclap of laughter. And it just keeps going. An extended eruption of spontaneous hilarity. I am genuinely taken aback. Having never uttered the line before, I had no idea it was going to be funny.
It turns out it was.
I’ve thought that moment many times. Not about why it was funny. I’ll never know why it was funny. A happy confluence of I don’t know what. What I thought about was the line itself. Where had it come from? And why precisely those words, in precisely that order?
Where did the line come from? I have no idea. I just opened my mouth and out it came. I’m completely in the dark as to where the stuff that comes out of me comes from. To me, it’s magic. And I’m eternally humbled to be the medium of its expression. (Except when it comes out not funny, which it occasionally does. My brother once mused about that situation. Confused by a joke he had blurted that fell flat, he complained: “It felt just like the good ones.”)
Why precisely those words, in precisely that order? (Why does that matter? Because delivering the line precisely that way contributed significantly to its success.) At the risk of repeating myself, that’s magic too. Which I’ll return to in a moment. But first, I'll digress.
Someone once said, “Writing is ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration.” Another guy explained about writing, “You sit down at the typewriter and you open up a vein.” They were both making the same point. Writing is really hard.
As a writer, you try to reproduce what your mind’s telling you, struggling to retain the original naturalness and spontaneity. Unfortunately, there’s this time lag due to the process of stenography that inevitably slows things down, at which point, you’re likely to start thinking, and when you start thinking, there goes the naturalness and spontaneity. Self-censorship aside, this problem does not occur when you’re talking.
Confession: On my best writing day, I could never write as intuitively as I talk.
(Another time, I’ll talk about how the computer brings a writer closer to “talk” than any medium of putting things down in history. Way closer than chiseling words into a tablet.)
Which brings us back to my “dancing editor” line. Mentioning it represents my oblique response to a commenter’s question about “funny numbers.”
The commenter writes that after years of marriage, his wife, a First Grade teacher, still “talks to me like I’m five.” The commenter proceeds to examine why “five” is the right and funniest number.
I’ll tell you why “five” is the right and funniest number.
Because it is.
Unlike the comedic “rule of threes”, which you ignore under penalty of “no ha-ha”, no number is inherently funny or unfunny. It depends entirely on the context. In his context, the commenter concludes that “She talks to me like I’m six” is not funny. He’s right.
However, in Neil Simon’s hit comedy, Barefoot in the Park, the lead male character, a starting-out attorney, reports that he just won a case where his client was awarded ten cents. As a result, his firm has now assigned him all cases valued at “six cents or less.”
The number six? Funny as heck.
The “funny number” rule does not exist. Getting it right involves surrendering to the magic. When you do, as with the “dancing editor” line, the right thing just naturally pops out.
And when it’s right, it’s funny.
That goes for talking and that goes for writing.
The Oscars party took place in the Boyles’ condo, adjacent to our hotel. It was nice to be invited. There was great food, an Oscars pool (which I co-won), and the “Big Show” itself on TV.
Okay.
They come to the award for “Best Editing.” Before it’s presented, the producers inexplicably stage an elaborate production number, featuring The Lord of the Dance. There are smart people in the room. And one of them reasonably inquires:
“Why are they doing a dance number to introduce an Editing award?”
Without missing a beat, I reply,
“It’s a little known fact that when an editor does a particularly good edit, he gets up and he does a little dance.”
The room explodes in a thunderclap of laughter. And it just keeps going. An extended eruption of spontaneous hilarity. I am genuinely taken aback. Having never uttered the line before, I had no idea it was going to be funny.
It turns out it was.
I’ve thought that moment many times. Not about why it was funny. I’ll never know why it was funny. A happy confluence of I don’t know what. What I thought about was the line itself. Where had it come from? And why precisely those words, in precisely that order?
Where did the line come from? I have no idea. I just opened my mouth and out it came. I’m completely in the dark as to where the stuff that comes out of me comes from. To me, it’s magic. And I’m eternally humbled to be the medium of its expression. (Except when it comes out not funny, which it occasionally does. My brother once mused about that situation. Confused by a joke he had blurted that fell flat, he complained: “It felt just like the good ones.”)
Why precisely those words, in precisely that order? (Why does that matter? Because delivering the line precisely that way contributed significantly to its success.) At the risk of repeating myself, that’s magic too. Which I’ll return to in a moment. But first, I'll digress.
Someone once said, “Writing is ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration.” Another guy explained about writing, “You sit down at the typewriter and you open up a vein.” They were both making the same point. Writing is really hard.
As a writer, you try to reproduce what your mind’s telling you, struggling to retain the original naturalness and spontaneity. Unfortunately, there’s this time lag due to the process of stenography that inevitably slows things down, at which point, you’re likely to start thinking, and when you start thinking, there goes the naturalness and spontaneity. Self-censorship aside, this problem does not occur when you’re talking.
Confession: On my best writing day, I could never write as intuitively as I talk.
(Another time, I’ll talk about how the computer brings a writer closer to “talk” than any medium of putting things down in history. Way closer than chiseling words into a tablet.)
Which brings us back to my “dancing editor” line. Mentioning it represents my oblique response to a commenter’s question about “funny numbers.”
The commenter writes that after years of marriage, his wife, a First Grade teacher, still “talks to me like I’m five.” The commenter proceeds to examine why “five” is the right and funniest number.
I’ll tell you why “five” is the right and funniest number.
Because it is.
Unlike the comedic “rule of threes”, which you ignore under penalty of “no ha-ha”, no number is inherently funny or unfunny. It depends entirely on the context. In his context, the commenter concludes that “She talks to me like I’m six” is not funny. He’s right.
However, in Neil Simon’s hit comedy, Barefoot in the Park, the lead male character, a starting-out attorney, reports that he just won a case where his client was awarded ten cents. As a result, his firm has now assigned him all cases valued at “six cents or less.”
The number six? Funny as heck.
The “funny number” rule does not exist. Getting it right involves surrendering to the magic. When you do, as with the “dancing editor” line, the right thing just naturally pops out.
And when it’s right, it’s funny.
That goes for talking and that goes for writing.
Friday, March 6, 2009
"Maybe My Favorite Funny 'Movie Moment' Of All Time"
Yesterday, I talked about the mathematical component embodying the comedic structure of a joke. That was fun, wasn’t it? There is, however, another way of getting a laugh, which, though carefully set up, depends hardly at all on mathematical calculation but almost exclusively on emotion. Such situations invariably elicit reverberating peals of laughter, evoked, not by formula, but by the audience’s awareness of what a character is feeling.
I happen to be partial to physical comedy – Buster Keaton and Jacques Tati – and comedy wrapped in music – Naked Gun’s Leslie Nielsen singing “The Star Spangled Banner”, making up the words as he goes along. But my favorite laugh of all, the laugh that reaches the deepest inside my innards and resides there the longest, is the laugh generated by what I call (and maybe other people also call)…
“The Moment.”
My favorite example of my favorite movie “moment”? A “moment” that arrives late in the highly praised 1982 comedy, Tootsie. Tootsie is not a movie I’d watch again and again – the jokes are now familiar, and the surprises surprised me in 1982 – but when it’s on TV, I make sure that I catch the “moment.” It’s not a long sequence – maybe ten seconds long – but it never fails to tickle me with delight.
There are three problems with what I’m about to do. That’s a lot. One, I’m going to try and reproduce with words a “moment” that was executed in the movie without words. I may not be artful enough to pull that off. Two, the power of the “moment” relies on a gradual build-up, which evolved through a considerable portion of the movie. I don’t have that going for me either. Third, no matter how accurately I describe it, you may not think it’s funny.
You know what? I’m not going to do it.
No, wait, that’s cowardly. I at least have to try. Okay, I will.
The best way to enjoy the “moment” is to watch the entire movie. Not just the “moment” itself; it’s the context that makes the “moment” work. Barring that, however, I offer the following:
Tootsie is a farce, so the story gets crazy. Basically, you have Dustin Hoffman playing Michael Dorsey, a “difficult” unemployed actor who, out of desperation, disguises himself as “Dorothy Michaels” and auditions for a female role in an ongoing soap opera, and gets the part, ultimately blossoming into a popular sensation.
At one point, “Dorothy” is introduced to Michael’s co-worker’s widowed father, Les (Charles Durning), who is immediately smitten. After spending time together, Les proposes, giving “Dorothy” an engagement ring.
In the climactic scene, Michael reveals his true gender identity during a “live” broadcast of the soap opera. Consequences ensue, one of which is the necessity of Michael having to return the engagement ring to Les.
We’re in a local bar-type hangout, somewhere not big city. Michael enters, maybe orders a drink, I don’t remember, it doesn’t matter.
Les nurses a drink further down the bar. Apparently, they had arranged to meet, so Michael could return the ring. Les inadvertently glances down the bar, and spots a guy he at first doesn’t recognize. We then see the dawning realization. Les is now aware that the guy he’s staring at is the male, and actual, incarnation of the woman he loved.
Which brings us to the “moment.”
Les unleashes a glare of lip-curling hatred towards the oblivious Michael.
We’re talking thermonuclear disgust, fueled by humiliation, shame and hurt. His face turns red, his eyes betray murderous intentions, and it appears as if his head might actually explode. As Les continues to hold that look, deepening in its intensity…
…your humble blogger is “chaka-ing” (read “ch” the Jewish way) with uncontrollable laughter.
A brilliant “moment” (courtesy of the writer), exquisitely executed (by the actor).
Timeless because its human, and hilarious because it’s real.
I happen to be partial to physical comedy – Buster Keaton and Jacques Tati – and comedy wrapped in music – Naked Gun’s Leslie Nielsen singing “The Star Spangled Banner”, making up the words as he goes along. But my favorite laugh of all, the laugh that reaches the deepest inside my innards and resides there the longest, is the laugh generated by what I call (and maybe other people also call)…
“The Moment.”
My favorite example of my favorite movie “moment”? A “moment” that arrives late in the highly praised 1982 comedy, Tootsie. Tootsie is not a movie I’d watch again and again – the jokes are now familiar, and the surprises surprised me in 1982 – but when it’s on TV, I make sure that I catch the “moment.” It’s not a long sequence – maybe ten seconds long – but it never fails to tickle me with delight.
There are three problems with what I’m about to do. That’s a lot. One, I’m going to try and reproduce with words a “moment” that was executed in the movie without words. I may not be artful enough to pull that off. Two, the power of the “moment” relies on a gradual build-up, which evolved through a considerable portion of the movie. I don’t have that going for me either. Third, no matter how accurately I describe it, you may not think it’s funny.
You know what? I’m not going to do it.
No, wait, that’s cowardly. I at least have to try. Okay, I will.
The best way to enjoy the “moment” is to watch the entire movie. Not just the “moment” itself; it’s the context that makes the “moment” work. Barring that, however, I offer the following:
Tootsie is a farce, so the story gets crazy. Basically, you have Dustin Hoffman playing Michael Dorsey, a “difficult” unemployed actor who, out of desperation, disguises himself as “Dorothy Michaels” and auditions for a female role in an ongoing soap opera, and gets the part, ultimately blossoming into a popular sensation.
At one point, “Dorothy” is introduced to Michael’s co-worker’s widowed father, Les (Charles Durning), who is immediately smitten. After spending time together, Les proposes, giving “Dorothy” an engagement ring.
In the climactic scene, Michael reveals his true gender identity during a “live” broadcast of the soap opera. Consequences ensue, one of which is the necessity of Michael having to return the engagement ring to Les.
We’re in a local bar-type hangout, somewhere not big city. Michael enters, maybe orders a drink, I don’t remember, it doesn’t matter.
Les nurses a drink further down the bar. Apparently, they had arranged to meet, so Michael could return the ring. Les inadvertently glances down the bar, and spots a guy he at first doesn’t recognize. We then see the dawning realization. Les is now aware that the guy he’s staring at is the male, and actual, incarnation of the woman he loved.
Which brings us to the “moment.”
Les unleashes a glare of lip-curling hatred towards the oblivious Michael.
We’re talking thermonuclear disgust, fueled by humiliation, shame and hurt. His face turns red, his eyes betray murderous intentions, and it appears as if his head might actually explode. As Les continues to hold that look, deepening in its intensity…
…your humble blogger is “chaka-ing” (read “ch” the Jewish way) with uncontrollable laughter.
A brilliant “moment” (courtesy of the writer), exquisitely executed (by the actor).
Timeless because its human, and hilarious because it’s real.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
"The Mathematical-Emotional Matrix of Comedy"
Woof! What a title! It could be my most impressive title yet!
Much, and by “much” I mean virtually all, comedy construction is mathematical in nature. Totally “by the numbers.” A structural formula, if you will. Mathematical formula alone, however, is not comedy. It’s logarithms. And other “numbers” things I’ll never understand. The element that masks the mathematical formula, turning it into comedy, is emotion.
You with me?
Allow me to explain.
No, no more talking. I nearly choked on those last couple of sentences. Instead, I’ll give you an example. Observe how the emotion draws you in, though it’s the precise, mathematical infrastructure that inevitably gets you the laugh.
I devised a “Cold Opening” for a Cheers episode I wrote. A “Cold Opening” is a comic vignette, generally independent of the episode’s story, appearing at the beginning of the show – before the “Opening Titles.” That’s what makes it a “Cold Opening”; it starts the show “cold.” No introduction. Just…Boom. You go.
My Cheers “Cold Opening” went as follows:
Carla, the acerbic barmaid, is on the phone. Carla’s babysitter has called her, explaining that she can’t get Carla’s baby to go to sleep. You can hear the child wailing heartbreakingly over the phone.
Carla comes up with a strategy. She instructs the babysitter to bring the “receiver” to the baby’s ear. When it’s reported that’s been done, Carla begins singing, softly and soothingly, into the telephone:
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH
TOORAH LOORAH LIE
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH
HUSH NOW DON’T YOU CRY…
The Cheers bar crowd is moved by Carla’s serenading her baby over the phone. One by one, they begin to join in.
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH
TOORAH LOORAH LIE
The chorus continues to grow…
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH…
Till by the end, the entire bar is crooning...
THAT’S AN IRISH LUL-LABY.
Carla holds her ear to the phone. She smiles, then reports to the awaiting crowd...
“She’s asleep.”
Hearing the good news, the crowd erupts in a celebrational cheer! Horrified, Carla goes back to the phone. Her face says it all. The cheer has woken the baby, who is wailing its lungs out once again.
You see the mathematical construction?
You see the emotional camouflage?
Comedy.
There’s nothin’ to it.
(I add one other element: The “Reality Factor.” When I wrote that “Cold Opening”, Anna was a baby, and it was impossible to get her to sleep.)
--------------------------------------
A Reminder: If you have questions about comedy writing, or any other aspect of the work I was engaged in, do not be discouraged by the fact that I am often sidetracked from writing about such matters and write about living in England instead. I am happy to share my wisdom and experience concerning any and all issues related to the wonderful business of show. Warning: Do not allow questions to fester inside you unasked. Such behavior could prove dangerous to your long-term health.
Ask me. I know stuff; viz, “The Mathematical-Emotional Matrix of Comedy.” Where else would you see something like that? Well, lots of places. But it’s unlikely they used the same title.
Much, and by “much” I mean virtually all, comedy construction is mathematical in nature. Totally “by the numbers.” A structural formula, if you will. Mathematical formula alone, however, is not comedy. It’s logarithms. And other “numbers” things I’ll never understand. The element that masks the mathematical formula, turning it into comedy, is emotion.
You with me?
Allow me to explain.
No, no more talking. I nearly choked on those last couple of sentences. Instead, I’ll give you an example. Observe how the emotion draws you in, though it’s the precise, mathematical infrastructure that inevitably gets you the laugh.
I devised a “Cold Opening” for a Cheers episode I wrote. A “Cold Opening” is a comic vignette, generally independent of the episode’s story, appearing at the beginning of the show – before the “Opening Titles.” That’s what makes it a “Cold Opening”; it starts the show “cold.” No introduction. Just…Boom. You go.
My Cheers “Cold Opening” went as follows:
Carla, the acerbic barmaid, is on the phone. Carla’s babysitter has called her, explaining that she can’t get Carla’s baby to go to sleep. You can hear the child wailing heartbreakingly over the phone.
Carla comes up with a strategy. She instructs the babysitter to bring the “receiver” to the baby’s ear. When it’s reported that’s been done, Carla begins singing, softly and soothingly, into the telephone:
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH
TOORAH LOORAH LIE
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH
HUSH NOW DON’T YOU CRY…
The Cheers bar crowd is moved by Carla’s serenading her baby over the phone. One by one, they begin to join in.
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH
TOORAH LOORAH LIE
The chorus continues to grow…
TOORAH LOORAH LOORAH…
Till by the end, the entire bar is crooning...
THAT’S AN IRISH LUL-LABY.
Carla holds her ear to the phone. She smiles, then reports to the awaiting crowd...
“She’s asleep.”
Hearing the good news, the crowd erupts in a celebrational cheer! Horrified, Carla goes back to the phone. Her face says it all. The cheer has woken the baby, who is wailing its lungs out once again.
You see the mathematical construction?
You see the emotional camouflage?
Comedy.
There’s nothin’ to it.
(I add one other element: The “Reality Factor.” When I wrote that “Cold Opening”, Anna was a baby, and it was impossible to get her to sleep.)
--------------------------------------
A Reminder: If you have questions about comedy writing, or any other aspect of the work I was engaged in, do not be discouraged by the fact that I am often sidetracked from writing about such matters and write about living in England instead. I am happy to share my wisdom and experience concerning any and all issues related to the wonderful business of show. Warning: Do not allow questions to fester inside you unasked. Such behavior could prove dangerous to your long-term health.
Ask me. I know stuff; viz, “The Mathematical-Emotional Matrix of Comedy.” Where else would you see something like that? Well, lots of places. But it’s unlikely they used the same title.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
"Uncle Grumpy Pleads His Case"
Come on, Nephew. One more post.
Cable news. Again?
They’re driving me nuts! What’s one post? You just did four posts on teaching in England during the Dark Ages. You can’t spare one post for something important?
If cable news is driving you crazy, don’t watch it.
“Pay not attention to that mole on your nose.” That’s no answer. You ignore something important, you wind up with half a nose.
Look, nobody takes cable news seriously…
They don’t? Then why do those shows’ hosts make millions of dollars? Does that make sense to you? “Nobody takes your seriously. Here’s six million bucks”?
The hosts are paid well because they draw an audience.
Doing what?
Commenting on the news.
How?
In an entertaining manner.
So it is news or entertainment?
It’s both.
It can’t be both.
But it is.
I know! That’s the problem! These people take the news – which doesn’t belong to them, it’s news – and they manipulate it for profit. And they’re shameless about doing it. That’s what got my dander up. Chris Matthews. Smart guy. Thinks fast. Knows his movies. They’re talking about the economy. Oh, that’s another thing. These guys do a show every day. They have to. That’s the deal. And every day, on “Matthews”, “Olbermann”, “Rachel”, they discuss the faltering economy. It’s like a guy taking his pulse every twelve seconds. Talking about the economy makes investors nervous. Which makes the economy falter even more! But the do it anyway, because…
That’s their job.
It's still hurting the economy. It’s the same thing with the president. “How’s the president doing?” How’s he doing now?” “How’s he doing now?” “How’s he doing now?” Back off a little. Let the man breathe!
The president and the economy are the "Big Stories." You can’t stop them from talking about them. And there’s no way they’re going to ignore the "Big Stories." It’s bad business.
Free speech and free enterprise. Our two most cherished values. But they’re being exploited. And it’s killing us.
Don’t. Watch.
You’re right. I shouldn’t. Lemme tell you how shameless they are. I’m watching “Hardball”. Some journalist reports that in a column, he called Treasury Secretary Geithner, “…the ‘Doogie Howser’ of the Treasury.” Suddenly, he’s embarrassed, so he says, “That may be a bit unfair…” Matthews interrupts, saying, “That’s what we like here.” Then he’s feeling a little exposed, so he adds, “Stay unfair. But close to the truth.” You hear what he’s telling him? “Stay unfair, but paint the ‘unfairness’ in a veneer of credibility.” That's how blatant it's become. They’re announcing their “Game Plan” on the air!
You ever listen to conservative commentary?
It’s all the same. Distortion for profit. It just hurts more when my guys do it.
What do you want them to do?
A much better job. Do shows that help me understand what’s going on. Not the gamesmanship, the actual problem. If that doesn’t excite them, say good-bye, and go off the air.
They’re not going to do that.
Then they will suffer the consequences.
Which are?
A blistering diatribe from me. Listen, kid. These guys are doing real damage. Someone has to hold them accountable. What do you say? Will you let me lambaste them on your blog?
Sorry, Unkie. It’s time to move on.
Cable news. Again?
They’re driving me nuts! What’s one post? You just did four posts on teaching in England during the Dark Ages. You can’t spare one post for something important?
If cable news is driving you crazy, don’t watch it.
“Pay not attention to that mole on your nose.” That’s no answer. You ignore something important, you wind up with half a nose.
Look, nobody takes cable news seriously…
They don’t? Then why do those shows’ hosts make millions of dollars? Does that make sense to you? “Nobody takes your seriously. Here’s six million bucks”?
The hosts are paid well because they draw an audience.
Doing what?
Commenting on the news.
How?
In an entertaining manner.
So it is news or entertainment?
It’s both.
It can’t be both.
But it is.
I know! That’s the problem! These people take the news – which doesn’t belong to them, it’s news – and they manipulate it for profit. And they’re shameless about doing it. That’s what got my dander up. Chris Matthews. Smart guy. Thinks fast. Knows his movies. They’re talking about the economy. Oh, that’s another thing. These guys do a show every day. They have to. That’s the deal. And every day, on “Matthews”, “Olbermann”, “Rachel”, they discuss the faltering economy. It’s like a guy taking his pulse every twelve seconds. Talking about the economy makes investors nervous. Which makes the economy falter even more! But the do it anyway, because…
That’s their job.
It's still hurting the economy. It’s the same thing with the president. “How’s the president doing?” How’s he doing now?” “How’s he doing now?” “How’s he doing now?” Back off a little. Let the man breathe!
The president and the economy are the "Big Stories." You can’t stop them from talking about them. And there’s no way they’re going to ignore the "Big Stories." It’s bad business.
Free speech and free enterprise. Our two most cherished values. But they’re being exploited. And it’s killing us.
Don’t. Watch.
You’re right. I shouldn’t. Lemme tell you how shameless they are. I’m watching “Hardball”. Some journalist reports that in a column, he called Treasury Secretary Geithner, “…the ‘Doogie Howser’ of the Treasury.” Suddenly, he’s embarrassed, so he says, “That may be a bit unfair…” Matthews interrupts, saying, “That’s what we like here.” Then he’s feeling a little exposed, so he adds, “Stay unfair. But close to the truth.” You hear what he’s telling him? “Stay unfair, but paint the ‘unfairness’ in a veneer of credibility.” That's how blatant it's become. They’re announcing their “Game Plan” on the air!
You ever listen to conservative commentary?
It’s all the same. Distortion for profit. It just hurts more when my guys do it.
What do you want them to do?
A much better job. Do shows that help me understand what’s going on. Not the gamesmanship, the actual problem. If that doesn’t excite them, say good-bye, and go off the air.
They’re not going to do that.
Then they will suffer the consequences.
Which are?
A blistering diatribe from me. Listen, kid. These guys are doing real damage. Someone has to hold them accountable. What do you say? Will you let me lambaste them on your blog?
Sorry, Unkie. It’s time to move on.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
"To Sir, With Love - Part D"
The time has come
For closing books and long last looks must e-e-end…
The school year finished on the 27th of July. There was no air conditioning and I dressed in a woolen suit. Do the math.
I had been at Saint John’s – a substitute teacher, who, through the benevolence of a kindly headmaster had been given his own class – for four months. Though I had no idea how to teach, and my students showed little enthusiasm for learning – the day’s high point for both of us was the free lunch, whose much anticipated “Meal of the Week” was “Suet Pudding” (cooking hint: its primary ingredient is pig fat) – both teacher and students made it through to the end of the year.
My plan was to use the “August Break” to visit my family in Canada, then return to England, and continue teaching. This plan was abruptly thwarted when, on my second day back teaching, the government, in a stunning maneuver against the combative Teacher’s Union, fired all the substitute teachers in England. (I was categorized as a “substitute.) My expectation of yearlong employment had been shortened to two days.
On that scorching last school day in July, I was blissfully unaware of that upcoming turn of events. I was a happy fellow. The long school year was over, and I had a job to come back to after the “break.” It wasn’t a job I wanted, but hey, you can’t have everything.
There was this annual special event scheduled for the last day. After lunch, classes were suspended, and we all – students and teachers – were directed into the schoolyard to play cricket. Oh, well. At least classes were suspended.
I didn’t know how to play cricket. I had watched “Test Matches” on TV. They lasted three to five days. I couldn’t play that long. I was leaving the country in two.
It turned out this was a “schoolyard” version of cricket. The game was shorter – it lasted an hour – and the “wicket” was drawn in chalk on the side of the yard-boundarying brick wall. I won’t go into the cricket rules, because one, you’d be bored, and two, I have no idea what the rules are.
They put me in the “field”, leaving me with two instructions: If the ball (in the “schoolyard” version, it was a tennis ball) came to me on a bounce – pick it up and throw it in. If it came to me “on a fly” – catch it.
Apparently, news of my athletic limitations had not yet reached England. I was tall (compared to the students), so they imagined me to have cricket skills commensurate with my height.
The majority of the students gathered around the “cricket pitch.” The remainder had climbed the “wicket” wall, where they arrayed themselves in an extended line, their legs dangling over the edge.
I was nervous. An athletically ungifted man with thick glasses, thrown into a game he did not understand. That’s pressure. The pressure was augmented by my students’ expectations. What made me think they had any?
The kids were cheering for me.
My students were assembled, side-by-side, on the top of the wall. You could sense their animation and excitement. They were yelling for me the moment I took the field.
Their cheer involved a specific rhythmic cadence, familiar to English sports fans, but alien to me. I’ll try and reproduce it. First they chanted my name:
“MR. POMERANTZ….”
Then they clapped. There were five claps in the sequence. The first clap was long. Then, there was a space, followed by four quick claps in a row. So it went like this:
“MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!”
It was exhilarating. (My cheeks are inflaming just thinking about it.) For the first time in my life, I actually had a “Rooting Section.” Besides being unexpected, it was a little surprising. I was far from confident that my students liked me.
The cheering was also intimidating. What if I…you know. And, knowing me, I probably would.
For a while, the game went smoothly. Meaning the ball came nowhere near me. Then came a corkscrewing “grounder”, which narrowly escaped my fingertips. It was deemed a “tough chance”, so there was no booing. I imagine great athletes never think about such matters. For those of us at the “inept” end of the “coordination” spectrum, booing and, hopefully, its absence, is all we think about.
And then it happened. A scorching “line drive”, rocketing viciously in my direction. My instincts immediately kicked in. I timed my jump, leaped high in the air, snaring the ball in my outstretched left hand. I returned back to earth, the ball resting comfortably in my hand.
The crowd went wild. It was pandemonium. Spearheaded by my own students.
“MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ….”
…echoing through the playground at Saint John’s Church of England Infants and Junior School. In my fantasy, they’re talking about “The Catch” to this very day.
Speaking of fantasy, I’d like to end these “school stories” with a speech which, like many speeches, I never delivered, only partly because I didn’t think of it until later. I wanted to tell those kids something. Something I needed them to know. In the unlikely chance that they’re reading this, well…better late than never.
This is the speech I wish I had made:
It’s that day, the last day of the year, just before lunch. This would be the last time we’d be together as a class. As usual, the students are full of beans, and I’m struggling to get their attention.
“Settle down! I want to tell you something. I promise it won’t take long.”
The kids sense an urgency in my voice. They settle in their seats and they give me their attention.
“Okay. We made it through the year. I don’t know how, but we did. I don’t know what you learned. But I know what I learned. I learned that you guys are special. Every one of you, even the ones who gave me a hard time, and you know who you are.
“You guys deserve stuff. You deserve a classroom that’s bigger than a storage closet. You deserve at least the minimum amount of equipment. You deserve a family that pushes you to do your best. You deserve a better teacher than me.
“Most of all, you deserve respect. No matter where you end up, you must never allow anyone to treat you worse than you have a right to be treated. You’re people. You have a right to be treated with respect.
“You guys are great. And I’ll miss you. And before I cry…that’s it.”
That’s what I wanted to tell them.
I’m sorry I missed the moment.
For closing books and long last looks must e-e-end…
The school year finished on the 27th of July. There was no air conditioning and I dressed in a woolen suit. Do the math.
I had been at Saint John’s – a substitute teacher, who, through the benevolence of a kindly headmaster had been given his own class – for four months. Though I had no idea how to teach, and my students showed little enthusiasm for learning – the day’s high point for both of us was the free lunch, whose much anticipated “Meal of the Week” was “Suet Pudding” (cooking hint: its primary ingredient is pig fat) – both teacher and students made it through to the end of the year.
My plan was to use the “August Break” to visit my family in Canada, then return to England, and continue teaching. This plan was abruptly thwarted when, on my second day back teaching, the government, in a stunning maneuver against the combative Teacher’s Union, fired all the substitute teachers in England. (I was categorized as a “substitute.) My expectation of yearlong employment had been shortened to two days.
On that scorching last school day in July, I was blissfully unaware of that upcoming turn of events. I was a happy fellow. The long school year was over, and I had a job to come back to after the “break.” It wasn’t a job I wanted, but hey, you can’t have everything.
There was this annual special event scheduled for the last day. After lunch, classes were suspended, and we all – students and teachers – were directed into the schoolyard to play cricket. Oh, well. At least classes were suspended.
I didn’t know how to play cricket. I had watched “Test Matches” on TV. They lasted three to five days. I couldn’t play that long. I was leaving the country in two.
It turned out this was a “schoolyard” version of cricket. The game was shorter – it lasted an hour – and the “wicket” was drawn in chalk on the side of the yard-boundarying brick wall. I won’t go into the cricket rules, because one, you’d be bored, and two, I have no idea what the rules are.
They put me in the “field”, leaving me with two instructions: If the ball (in the “schoolyard” version, it was a tennis ball) came to me on a bounce – pick it up and throw it in. If it came to me “on a fly” – catch it.
Apparently, news of my athletic limitations had not yet reached England. I was tall (compared to the students), so they imagined me to have cricket skills commensurate with my height.
The majority of the students gathered around the “cricket pitch.” The remainder had climbed the “wicket” wall, where they arrayed themselves in an extended line, their legs dangling over the edge.
I was nervous. An athletically ungifted man with thick glasses, thrown into a game he did not understand. That’s pressure. The pressure was augmented by my students’ expectations. What made me think they had any?
The kids were cheering for me.
My students were assembled, side-by-side, on the top of the wall. You could sense their animation and excitement. They were yelling for me the moment I took the field.
Their cheer involved a specific rhythmic cadence, familiar to English sports fans, but alien to me. I’ll try and reproduce it. First they chanted my name:
“MR. POMERANTZ….”
Then they clapped. There were five claps in the sequence. The first clap was long. Then, there was a space, followed by four quick claps in a row. So it went like this:
“MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!”
It was exhilarating. (My cheeks are inflaming just thinking about it.) For the first time in my life, I actually had a “Rooting Section.” Besides being unexpected, it was a little surprising. I was far from confident that my students liked me.
The cheering was also intimidating. What if I…you know. And, knowing me, I probably would.
For a while, the game went smoothly. Meaning the ball came nowhere near me. Then came a corkscrewing “grounder”, which narrowly escaped my fingertips. It was deemed a “tough chance”, so there was no booing. I imagine great athletes never think about such matters. For those of us at the “inept” end of the “coordination” spectrum, booing and, hopefully, its absence, is all we think about.
And then it happened. A scorching “line drive”, rocketing viciously in my direction. My instincts immediately kicked in. I timed my jump, leaped high in the air, snaring the ball in my outstretched left hand. I returned back to earth, the ball resting comfortably in my hand.
The crowd went wild. It was pandemonium. Spearheaded by my own students.
“MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ
CLAP…CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
MR. POMERANTZ….”
…echoing through the playground at Saint John’s Church of England Infants and Junior School. In my fantasy, they’re talking about “The Catch” to this very day.
Speaking of fantasy, I’d like to end these “school stories” with a speech which, like many speeches, I never delivered, only partly because I didn’t think of it until later. I wanted to tell those kids something. Something I needed them to know. In the unlikely chance that they’re reading this, well…better late than never.
This is the speech I wish I had made:
It’s that day, the last day of the year, just before lunch. This would be the last time we’d be together as a class. As usual, the students are full of beans, and I’m struggling to get their attention.
“Settle down! I want to tell you something. I promise it won’t take long.”
The kids sense an urgency in my voice. They settle in their seats and they give me their attention.
“Okay. We made it through the year. I don’t know how, but we did. I don’t know what you learned. But I know what I learned. I learned that you guys are special. Every one of you, even the ones who gave me a hard time, and you know who you are.
“You guys deserve stuff. You deserve a classroom that’s bigger than a storage closet. You deserve at least the minimum amount of equipment. You deserve a family that pushes you to do your best. You deserve a better teacher than me.
“Most of all, you deserve respect. No matter where you end up, you must never allow anyone to treat you worse than you have a right to be treated. You’re people. You have a right to be treated with respect.
“You guys are great. And I’ll miss you. And before I cry…that’s it.”
That’s what I wanted to tell them.
I’m sorry I missed the moment.
Monday, March 2, 2009
"To Sir, With Love - Part C"
I’m not sure teachers were supposed to sing in class. I’d sing all the time. “Fifties” songs, but I’d change the lyrics:
(TO THE TUNE OF “PEGGY SUE”)
HAZEL BROWN, HAZEL BROWN
SHE’S THE PRETTIEST GIRL IN TOWN
OH, HAZEL…
ETC.
I loved Hazel Brown. Not in a “register with the police” kind of a way. Hazel just tickled the heck out of me. A brightly attired, round-faced girl, whose diligently tended hair showcased an impressive presentation ribbons and parts. Hazel endured my singing with…what’s the word…forbearance. There was the tolerance of an eleven year-old child. Less “I’d wish he’d stop” than “My teacher is crazy.”
Hazel did this thing that totally knocked me out. I had given the class four “sums” (addition problems) to work on. The procedure was, that when a student finished their work, they would bring it up for to me check. Some students were faster, some slower, some were skillful, some did well one day and poorly the next, some didn’t have a clue... It ran the gamut.
Everyone had finished their “sums.” Except for Hazel. I walked over to her desk to see what was going on. I checked her work. In the time the other students had taken to finish four sums, Hazel Brown had answered two. But she had gotten them both correct.
I said,
“Nice goin’, Hazel. You got both problems right. Now do the other two.”
To which Hazel replied,
“Why?”
Well…this was one of many occasions when one of my students would announce,
“Sir’s loffing.”
I was. And I couldn’t’ stop. Hazel Brown had nailed me to the wall. (“Payback” for the singing?) Ignoring how long she took to complete them, if Hazel understood the underlying concept, which she proved by answering the two questions she had worked on correctly, what purpose did it serve to complete the other two?
“Why are you loffing, Sir?”
I couldn’t explain it to them. I just was.
For one reason or another, there was a lot of “loffing” in my class. Short on “professional” wardrobe, I had bought myself a suit. I had visited some Discount Tailors’ and purchased an inexpensive, gray, wool suit, with narrow, black stripes, and some serious shoulder pads. (It must have thrown off some unmistakable Euro-vibe, because when I wore it back in Canada, my brother, with a keen eye for the embarrassing, took to calling me Geppetto.)
I’m perched on the front edge of my desk, regaling my students with some quasi-educational story of some sort. At the high point in the narrative, for effect, as I slide forward to get off the desk, I detect this exaggerated ripping sound. We’re talking about an “effect” generally reserved for Three Stooges movies, an extended….
“RRRRRRRRRRRRIP!!!
It seems there’d been a nail sticking up from my desk, and sliding off of it, I had rrrrrrrrrripped the trousers of my new suit. There was no question as to what had taken place, though to that point, my students remained oblivious.
“Why are you loffing, Sir?”
I knew it would be impossible to conceal my misfortune for the remainder of the day. Having no other choice, I turned around and revealed…severely torn trousers, and a lot of skin. And possibly underwear.
Now we were all loffing.
I imagine all teachers – and I include myself in that group only marginally – will identify with this observation about the work. There were days that dragged so excruciatingly, it felt as if the clock were going backwards. You came home and immediately went to bed. Other days were so sublimely pleasurable, you couldn’t believe they were actually paying you to show up.
My students were hardly easy (and it didn’t help that I had no idea how to teach.) The classroom that was really a storage closet required hyperactive students to be virtually penned in for hours. Many had to literally climb over desks to get out. They didn’t mind, though. These kids liked to climb. One of my regular tasks was to exhort them to come down from the window sills, where they’d ascended to call to out to “mates” they’d caught sight of through the window (when they should have been listening to me.)
There was crosstalk. Obliviousness to decorum. Angry exchanges. The occasional scuffle. Once, my patience overcome by frustration, I clipped a repeat offender with a ruler. That still feels bad. If the boy happens to be reading this, I apologize.
The real source of my frustration was less student unruliness than this. I had no idea what I wanted to be, but I knew it bore no resemblance to my current circumstances. I felt like a kid who had departed so far of the beaten path, they were afraid Santa would never be able to find them.
Delete “Santa.” Insert “my destiny.”
Once, as I sat in the Teachers’ Room during recess, fortifying myself with a bracing “cuppa” (that’s tea), when my expression looked so funereal, it elicited comment.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Rowbotham, a teaching “lifer” reassured me, thinking I was agonizing over some disastrous possibility, “it probably won’t happen.”
I looked up from my cracked teacup and replied,
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
As I’ve confessed elsewhere, I’m the kind of person who never appreciates things till (often long) after they’re over. My teaching experience was a memorable one. Memorable enough to have written three posts about it.
And a concluding post tomorrow.
(TO THE TUNE OF “PEGGY SUE”)
HAZEL BROWN, HAZEL BROWN
SHE’S THE PRETTIEST GIRL IN TOWN
OH, HAZEL…
ETC.
I loved Hazel Brown. Not in a “register with the police” kind of a way. Hazel just tickled the heck out of me. A brightly attired, round-faced girl, whose diligently tended hair showcased an impressive presentation ribbons and parts. Hazel endured my singing with…what’s the word…forbearance. There was the tolerance of an eleven year-old child. Less “I’d wish he’d stop” than “My teacher is crazy.”
Hazel did this thing that totally knocked me out. I had given the class four “sums” (addition problems) to work on. The procedure was, that when a student finished their work, they would bring it up for to me check. Some students were faster, some slower, some were skillful, some did well one day and poorly the next, some didn’t have a clue... It ran the gamut.
Everyone had finished their “sums.” Except for Hazel. I walked over to her desk to see what was going on. I checked her work. In the time the other students had taken to finish four sums, Hazel Brown had answered two. But she had gotten them both correct.
I said,
“Nice goin’, Hazel. You got both problems right. Now do the other two.”
To which Hazel replied,
“Why?”
Well…this was one of many occasions when one of my students would announce,
“Sir’s loffing.”
I was. And I couldn’t’ stop. Hazel Brown had nailed me to the wall. (“Payback” for the singing?) Ignoring how long she took to complete them, if Hazel understood the underlying concept, which she proved by answering the two questions she had worked on correctly, what purpose did it serve to complete the other two?
“Why are you loffing, Sir?”
I couldn’t explain it to them. I just was.
For one reason or another, there was a lot of “loffing” in my class. Short on “professional” wardrobe, I had bought myself a suit. I had visited some Discount Tailors’ and purchased an inexpensive, gray, wool suit, with narrow, black stripes, and some serious shoulder pads. (It must have thrown off some unmistakable Euro-vibe, because when I wore it back in Canada, my brother, with a keen eye for the embarrassing, took to calling me Geppetto.)
I’m perched on the front edge of my desk, regaling my students with some quasi-educational story of some sort. At the high point in the narrative, for effect, as I slide forward to get off the desk, I detect this exaggerated ripping sound. We’re talking about an “effect” generally reserved for Three Stooges movies, an extended….
“RRRRRRRRRRRRIP!!!
It seems there’d been a nail sticking up from my desk, and sliding off of it, I had rrrrrrrrrripped the trousers of my new suit. There was no question as to what had taken place, though to that point, my students remained oblivious.
“Why are you loffing, Sir?”
I knew it would be impossible to conceal my misfortune for the remainder of the day. Having no other choice, I turned around and revealed…severely torn trousers, and a lot of skin. And possibly underwear.
Now we were all loffing.
I imagine all teachers – and I include myself in that group only marginally – will identify with this observation about the work. There were days that dragged so excruciatingly, it felt as if the clock were going backwards. You came home and immediately went to bed. Other days were so sublimely pleasurable, you couldn’t believe they were actually paying you to show up.
My students were hardly easy (and it didn’t help that I had no idea how to teach.) The classroom that was really a storage closet required hyperactive students to be virtually penned in for hours. Many had to literally climb over desks to get out. They didn’t mind, though. These kids liked to climb. One of my regular tasks was to exhort them to come down from the window sills, where they’d ascended to call to out to “mates” they’d caught sight of through the window (when they should have been listening to me.)
There was crosstalk. Obliviousness to decorum. Angry exchanges. The occasional scuffle. Once, my patience overcome by frustration, I clipped a repeat offender with a ruler. That still feels bad. If the boy happens to be reading this, I apologize.
The real source of my frustration was less student unruliness than this. I had no idea what I wanted to be, but I knew it bore no resemblance to my current circumstances. I felt like a kid who had departed so far of the beaten path, they were afraid Santa would never be able to find them.
Delete “Santa.” Insert “my destiny.”
Once, as I sat in the Teachers’ Room during recess, fortifying myself with a bracing “cuppa” (that’s tea), when my expression looked so funereal, it elicited comment.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Rowbotham, a teaching “lifer” reassured me, thinking I was agonizing over some disastrous possibility, “it probably won’t happen.”
I looked up from my cracked teacup and replied,
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
As I’ve confessed elsewhere, I’m the kind of person who never appreciates things till (often long) after they’re over. My teaching experience was a memorable one. Memorable enough to have written three posts about it.
And a concluding post tomorrow.
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