"Inflationary Hearing"

This is one of those “know it all” posts, which you can skip, if you don’t care for that kind of thing, at the risk, of course, of missing out on some startlingly transformative insight. It’s up to you.

One of my all-time favorite comedians is Victor Borge. Borge emigrated from Denmark and, as he said in his act,

“There was a time, after I’d been in America for a while, when I’d forgotten all my Danish, but I hadn’t learned any English.”

For me, that sets the standard for surreal and breathtakingly original comedy.

Borge continually interrupted his intention to play the piano with humorous observations and “set piece” comedy bits, among them, a comedy routine he called, “Inflationary Language.”

The premise of “Inflationary Language” was that, as a result of inflation, the price of everything had gone up. Borge believed that our language had not kept pace with this reality, and as a result, the words we used required commensurate inflating.

He demonstrated how this would work with a rather dry reading, during which he reformulated words by “inflating” their numerical components. “Forehead” now became “five-head.” “Wonderful” became “two-derful.” And “Anyone for tennis” was inflated to “Any two five eleven-is.” (He actually said, “Any two for eleven-is”, sacrificing accuracy for clarity.)

Time now for my illuminating analogy.

I think about how the two sides of the political spectrum’s antipathy towards each other makes them entirely unable to work together. On anything. Some of their refusal to cooperate is clearly strategic. If you don’t help the ruling side, they will fail, get voted out, and the non-cooperators, being the only available alternative, will inevitably take power.

Conversely, if you exploit the most extreme pronouncements of the opposition, they will remain marginalized, and, by virtue of your comparative reasonableness, you will have a better chance of remaining in charge.

It’s simply politics. Though it’s politics that places “partisan victory” over everything else, most significantly, the best interests of the country.

But there’s also another thing going on that invalidates cooperation as a viable option. Taking a cue from Victor Borge, I call it “Inflationary Hearing.”

It almost seems natural. People representing one side of an issue hear their ideological opponents say something and instantly, something happens in their brains that causes them to “inflate” the threatening quality of what they’ve just been told. Not merely, as in “Inflationary Language”, upping the ante by a single digit – “before” becoming “be-five” – but taking some relatively modßest proposal and ratcheting it to “Code Red!”

A “Gun Control” advocate proposes, “We want to pass a law limiting the number of bullets in gun magazines to ten.” To the proverbial “reasonable person”, this is hardly an outrageous suggestion. Yet, to an NRA member, it is.

Why? Not because they’re inflexible, I suggest. It’s because the NRA member doesn’t hear, “We want to pass a law limiting the number of bullets in gun magazines to ten.” Engaging in “Inflationary Hearing”, what the NRA member hears is,

“We want to take away all your guns.”

The “Gun Control” advocate may, deep in their hearts, want to take away all the guns. But they realize that, in this country, with its Second Amendment to the Constitution – as least as it’s been interpreted by the current Supreme Court – this is entirely unrealistic. Instead, they, sincerely and in most people’s views, reasonably, suggest an idea that will make things marginally safer. And they immediately – you should pardon the expression – get shot down.

The “Gun Control” advocates’ response to the outright rejection of this reasonable proposal?

“Those ‘Gun Guys’ are crazy!”

They’re not crazy. They are merely victims of “Inflationary Hearing.”

It works both ways. Abortion opponents propose that if a minor wants to get an abortion, parental notification should be required. Enter “Inflationary Hearing”, and what do “Pro Choice” advocates hear?

“We want to outlaw all abortions.”

Despite passionate opposition, the reality is that abortion rights are legal, their legality having been decided by the Supreme Court in Roe v. Wade (1973), and subsequently affirmed in Planned Parenthood v. Casey (1992). The question is, acknowledging the possibility of extreme situations where the parents are scary and/or dangerous, for which legal remedies could be devised, again, applying the ”reasonable person” standard, is “parental notification”, in itself, such an unreasonable proposition?

Absolutely. If you consider the “Inflated Hearing” version of the proposal.

Causing the anti-abortionists to complain,

“Those people are simply stubborn!” “And by the way, Godless!”

There is no question that people have good reason to be suspicious of “foot in the door” incrementalism, there being incontrovertible historical precedent for such concerns. An income tax was originally proposed specifically to defray the enormous expenses of the Civil War. Though the Civil War has been over for a hundred a forty-six years, we continue paying income taxes.

It happens.

Pinpointed legislation becomes a permanent arrangement. You do not have to be paranoid to be concerned.

Still…

“Hearing what has not been said” is not a healthy way to live. And it certainly doesn’t help get things done that, in one way or another, desperately need doing,

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a matter of trust. In believing that the things people say are precisely what they mean, rather than succumbing to the feverish exaggerations our brains reflexively turn them into.

People believe different things. That’s troublesome enough to deal with. But tackling difficult issues becomes totally unworkable, when “Inflationary Hearing” interprets sensible suggestions as “all or nothing” demands, making compromise, or simply listening, feel like traitorous surrender.

(If I’m “over-the-top” there, chalk it up to “Inflationary Writing.”)

"Powder"

When I went there, and most likely still, the University of Toronto was divided into several colleges, the one I attended being University College. That sounds redundant to me – university college. Though this is not totally unexpected in a city that has a street called Avenue Road.

Every year, University College staged their traditional revue, the “U.C. (University College) Follies.” My older brother was in it when he went there, and I wanted to be in it too. That seems to be the way that works. At least, in my family.

I don’t know what happened the first year, they may have skipped it for some reason, or I just didn’t notice. But during my second year, I decided to try out for the show. It was scary, but within my comfort zone, unlike trying out for the weightlifting team, which I took a pass on entirely. I had performed in shows at camp, and had always been well received. How different could this be? From a show standpoint, university was just camp without the lake.

I showed up for the audition. I knew nobody there. I learned that a pre-med student had written the songs. The sketches had been written by a Liberal Arts student. His name was Lorne Michaels. Well, actually it wasn’t. His name was Lorne Lipowitz. But trust me, it’s the same guy.

Unable to bring the written material to life, I ultimately failed the audition. I did, however, leave an indelible impression, tapping into my nervous energy to get big laughs from not getting any laughs at all. I was rejected for the show. But I was not forgotten.

The script was short, and Lorne was desperate for material. He called my brother, whom Lorne did not know beyond the fact that my brother had been a huge hit in an earlier edition of the “Follies”, and he asked him if he had any sketches that might be appropriate for the show.

As luck would have it, my brother had been collaborating with a man named Bernie Orenstein, who, at the time, managed the Seaway Hotel, but would later enjoy a successful writing and producing career in Hollywood. My brother told Lorne that he and Bernie had recently written a “blind date” sketch, and he would be happy to let Lorne use it. On one condition:

“You have to put my brother in the show.”

Remembering I was funny, just not with his material, Lorne readily agreed. And so, along with a self-written monologue, I performed the “blind date” sketch in “U.C. Follies – 1965.”

The response was…well, I did pretty good.

The “blind date” sketch involved a series of phone calls, chronicling a nerdy guy ‘s misguided efforts to procure himself a date. I no longer remember the details, but I recall one line, where the guy inadvertently calls up a nun, and before hanging up, he desperately inquires,

“Sister…do you have a sister?”

Another highlight of the routine involves the guy having received a prospective date’s phone number an indeterminately long time ago. Mustering the courage to call her, the guy takes out his wallet, extracts a small slip of paper from it, he unfolds the paper, stares at it moment, and then he blows on it, raising a huge cloud of what is presumably dust.

That’s the funny part, the dust indicating that the slip of paper has been in his wallet for quite some time.

To simulate dust, the prop people – who, for this assignment, were two girls – loaded the slip of paper with moundette of baby powder. I blew on it, the “dust” rose up from the paper – big laugh.

U.C. Follies ran for three nights. And every night before going on, I would double-check to make sure they’d remembered the powder. This is “Preparation 101”, a trapeze artist examining his ropes. This is important. You blow on a slip of paper with no powder on it – there is no “dust”, and no laugh. The powder has to be there.

On our third and last performance, the prop girls, told me that I did not check the baby powder. I, understandably, asked why. The girls assured me the powder was in place, there was no need for me to bother.

What followed was an extended interaction, wherein I insisted on seeing the baby powder for myself, and the prop girls insisted I didn’t need to. Why did I have to look, they complained. Didn’t I trust them? I assured the girls that I did, but I still needed to check. In the end, though not before things got pretty unpleasant, I prevailed.

When I unfolded the slip of paper, I discovered it contained about four times the appropriate amount of baby powder. It turned out, the prop girls had concocted a “surprise” for me. I would unfold the slip of paper onstage, blow on it, and I would immediately disappear inside a billowing obscuration of baby powder.

The prop girls were very upset. I had “ruined everything”, they complained. It was just a joke. And I was a really bad sport.

The prop girls had not intended to be malicious. I actually think they liked me, their practical joke, a secret show of genuine affection. I felt like an idiot. No wonder I couldn’t get a date. And not just in the sketch.

In retrospect, had I allowed the prank to proceed, I might have risen to occasion by spontaneously “playing the moment.” I might have exploited the “surprise”, with a frozen “take” directed straight to the audience, eventually raising my “pointer” fingers to my eyes, and employing them as windshield wipers for my powder-caked glasses.

Or I could have gone the “unruffled”, Oliver Hardy route, retaining my dignity as I slipped off my glasses, delicately removed the debris from the lenses, and then returned them to position, offering the image of a man sporting spotless glasses over a Kabuki-white face.

Things could have been done. But I went the other way.

Once, at camp, I overheard two girls who, with me, were a team, assigned to writing cheers for some special event, and I‘d snapped at them when they were kidding around.

“Why does he take this so seriously?” one girl angrily inquired.

“Because to him” the other girl explained, “it is.”

To me, it was always serious. If I’d felt differently about it, I’d most likely have had more fun. I might even have done a better job. But that wasn’t me. And it probably isn’t me today.

I still have to check the powder.

"Take Two"

When computers first began to appear, I was seriously taken by the “Undo” button. With this key function, you could, say, delete something, and by hitting the “Undo” button, the material would magically reappear, often with a look of smirking vindication saying,

“We knew you’d miss us.”

You couldn’t do that before. How many times had I lost some filed-away notes or some perfectly executed scene, and tried to duplicate the missing material, only to produce, at best, a broken teacup, glued back together, but nowhere close to the original. The “Undo” button offered freedom from such frustration. You got the original back, exactly as it was.

(And then, on occasion at least, you read it over, and you realized that it wasn’t, in fact, that great. Still, at least the “Undo” button’s returning it from oblivion gave you the opportunity to see that for yourself. And face some serious questions about your purported, but now proven not always reliable, impeccable judgment.)

I thought the “Undo” concept was wonderful. A legitimate second chance. If only you could do that with life.

How great it would be to be able to “Undo” some embarrassing behavior or slips of the tongue. Or get a “do-over” at a substandard performance, where you missed the “sweet spot” of the moment, grounding harmlessly to the pitcher.

First impressions that we’re told mean so much? You could have any number of them, continually “Undoing” till you get it just right. The pressure would be off. No more, “It’s now or never!” Maybe just knowing that would relieve the tension, the lowered heat letting you more easily “nail it” on the first try.

Or would it? (This is my mandatory “opposite argument” paragraph.) Maybe it’s the pressure born from the awareness that you only have one shot at it that triggers the adrenalin that maximizes your performance, with the additional benefit of an upgrade in confidence, resulting from the awareness that you came through in the clutch. With the “Undo” button, there is no “clutch.” Because there’s always another chance. (Thank you for your time. I will now return to the original argument, having paid my dues to intellectual scrupulosity.)

What it comes down to is percentages – how many times you wish you could have taken something back versus how many times you rose to the occasion. I don’t know about you, but, for me, it’s not even close. I fought a baboon in Africa, and that’s about it. The preponderance of my past experience leans heavily towards, “Man, if I only I could do that again.”

That’s why I thought – as I said when computers first came out – that the “Undo” button was such a powerful metaphor, something, as a result – metaphors being literary devices – I might employ specifically in my writing.

As it happened, I was at that time writing episodes for the first season of Steven Spielberg’s Amazing Stories (1985). Having delivered two episodes that had been highly praised, I received a phone call, inviting me to a gathering, where a flatteringly few number of writers would join Mr. Spielberg in a two-day “pitch session”, during which we would come up with all the story ideas for the following season.

I was very excited to be included. I mean, this was Steven Spielberg, and his almost equally “Midas Touch” stable of writers. It would be an honor to work with them. It was a thrill just to set foot in Spielberg’s compound on the Universal lot. It was designed to look like the Alamo. If the Alamo had Jaws money.

My mind immediately went to work. Not surprisingly, the first idea that popped up was The ‘Undo’ Button. A congenital bumbler discovers that his new “Word Processor” includes a button that not only “Undoes” the mistakes in his text, but also provides him with “second chance” opportunities with his boss, his domineering mother and, most significantly, a young lady for whom he desperately pines, though, sadly, their “one-on-one’s” have been less than memorable, unless by “memorable”, you mean disastrous. Now he can perfect his performances.

With this, and one other idea sketched out, I was ready for my meeting. In the meantime, however, I had contacted my agent, inquiring as to the appropriateness of participating in an arrangement, where produceable ideas are being generated, but in which nobody is being paid. I’m not talking “break the bank” amounts here. An acknowledging “Consulting Fee.” Something.

My agent agreed that the situation was unusual, but left the decision to me. Before deciding, I asked my agent to “float the idea” concerning the possibility of compensation.

The result of my agent’s contacting Spielberg’s company about my proposal was that my request for payment was rejected, and my invitation to the gathering was revoked. I was also not invited to write any of the second season’s episodes.

Leaving me thinking, then, and as I revisit the situation today, how differently things might have gone if there actually were an “Undo” button in life.

"Countdown To A Wedding - 'Second Position'"

It is possible to view my daughter’s upcoming wedding – now less than two weeks away – as a runaway train. But that would not be right. The wedding is not a runaway train. It’s a train coming straight at me.

I’m not talking about the logistics. That is a runaway train. I am talking about what the wedding actually means. And by that, I of course mean, to me.

There’s this situation in show business. You want this actor to be in your pilot, but they’re under contract to another pilot, or to a series that may or may not get picked up.

This actor is perfect for the role you are trying to cast. But the only way you even have a shot of getting them is if you sign them to a contract, in the hope that, if there’s a God in heaven, the other project will somehow fall through. This contract process is known as taking the actor in

“Second Position.”

This term came to mind because, we were at lunch with another couple recently, and the woman, a colleague of Dr. M’s, was describing what it means to a Dad when their daughter marries. She’s informing me, with what I detect as barely hidden glee, that, when their daughter gets married, suddenly, the Dad finds himself in

“Second Position”

I thought psychologists were supposed to be sensitive. Maybe that’s just when they’re on the clock.

This is not the first time I find myself in “Second Position.” For almost thirty-five years, I’ve been a Step-Dad to Dr. M’s daughter, Rachel. “Step-Dad”, especially when the Dad remains in the picture, is the “Poster Child” for “Second Position.”

Rachel is a joy, but “Second Position” is nobody’s “Position of Choice.” And in this case, it’s even more challenging. As the Step-Dad, you’re in “Second Position” from the get-go. Here, it is literally,

“Step aside.”

It’s not easy, giving up “First Position.” After a lifetime of memorable, her-and-me “bonding moments.”

Holding her when she was just born, and she’s crying her head off, and I didn’t know what to do.

“Potty Training.” Where I looked away for a second, and she toppled from the toilet, and landed on her head.

Taking a shortcut to the Santa Monica Pier and ending up having to walk across the freeway.

And many, many, many more.

I am no fan of change. That was never more obvious than when, on the morning we were dropping her off at college on the other side of the country, I stepped on an expensive pair of sunglasses, and I brushed my teeth with BENGAY.

Change is a coin toss, and I prefer not to gamble. I ate Spoon Sized Shredded Wheat for breakfast for thirty-five years. It was the perfect cereal. No sugar. Stayed crunchy in milk. Nutty flavor. I never varied. It was always Spoon Sized Shredded Wheat.

Then my acupuncturist, Dr. Tan, put me on a Gluten Free diet, and it was goodbye, Spoon Sized Shredded Wheat. Okay, it turned out that I really liked oatmeal, so the “changing cereal” thing worked out, but this is hardy the same.

Cereal doesn’t get a busy life and forget about you.

Cereal doesn’t move away for a job.

Cereal doesn’t have a kid. A kid. Perfect. Now I’m in “Third Position.”

It is going to get worse!

Hey, knock it off, will ya? You and Anna have a special relationship. If you mattered before, you’ll always matter. That’s just the way it is.

Sure. Just what I need right now. Reason!

This is a joyous occasion…

I know that. Please stop talking.

There’ll be no answers in this post. This is a work in progress. But I better work fast.

There’s a train on the horizon.

And it’s barreling my way.

"Uncle Irving"

Writing recently about my cousin Mosey ("A Nine Year-Old's Idea Of A Good Deed") brought to mind a considerably closer relative, my Dad’s youngest brother, my delightful, funny and pleasure-loving Uncle Irving. My memory of his remarkable passion for life reminds me of his recalling some particularly delicious Italian ice cream he’d once tasted, and watching his face explode with Epicurean rapture.

When my Dad died, it was my Uncle Irving who stepped into the surrogate male- parental breach. It was he who responded to my birthday present desires, even when, as a pre-teen, and a fan of a then current TV western, I requested a Bowie knife. Uncle Irving got me one. Though, I suppose for safety sake, it was a considerably smaller replica of the one Jim Bowie wielded so heroically on his show.

(Remember the “Jim Bowie” theme song, that began,

He roamed the wilderness, unafraid

From Natchez to Rio Grande

With all the might of his gleaming blade

He fought for the rights of man.

Jim Bowie, Jim Boweeeee…

If you’re under a hundred, this will probably mean nothing to you.)

My Uncle Irving was a playful pincher, and slightly naughty joke teller.

“You know what comes out of an elephant’s penis when he gets excited?”

“What?”

“The wrinkles.”

My Uncle Irving was also, apparently, prescient. For my Bar Mitzvah, he (and my marvelous Auntie Bea) presented me with a pale green Olivetti portable typewriter. When I left for Hollywood, that typewriter went with me, where I used it to tap out my first freelance script assignments. I did not replace it until, after a number of unpaid audience warm-up performances, I was awarded an IBM Selectric Two (with Correct-Tape). Though, to this day, I retain my Bar Mitzvah-present typewriter.

After my paternal grandmother (Uncle Irving’s mother) curtailed her mega-Seders, Uncle Irving presided over more intimate Passover gatherings, rewarding the male members of the family’s robust singing and participation with Tuero cigars, wrapped in paper-thin balsa wood, and sheathed in silver metal cylinders.

I never experienced Uncle Irving less than boisterously congenial. Except when, for reasons now forgotten, I visited him at his workplace, our family-owned dry goods store, which he took over after my father’s passing, and discovered a tense and surly man that I barely recognized. This eye-opening experience gave me a vision of what the burden of responsibility can do to you that I unfortunately assimilated all too well.

But primarily, Uncle Irving conjures joyous memories, my favorite being rare but exhilarating excursions to Toronto Maple Leaf hockey games on Saturday nights, a designation known far and white as “Hockey Night in Canada.”

What was it like? Fenway Park. Wrigley Field. Maple Leaf Gardens. Same idea. Same feeling. Chills. And not because it was winter.

One particularly outing leaps memorably to mind. My Uncle Irving took me to a game, accompanied by a friend and contemporary of his, named Victor. The night was shimmering perfection. Three guys at a hockey game. And one of them was me.

I was, maybe, ten.

The game’s going on. I am almost too excited to breathe. Finally, it’s time for food. I hear my eager little boy’s voice chirp, “I’ll get it!”

Uncle Irving and his friend Victor share a look. “Do you think he can handle it?” Finally, they relent. (It's most likely they were playing with me, but when you're a kid, or at least me as a kid, you don't know the difference.)

Uncle Irving entrusts me with a five-dollar bill, and they rattle of their orders. It is my job to commit them to memory. Who wants mustard, who wants relish, what kind of soft drinks they prefer, how many “peanuts”?

“Can your remember all that?”

“Sure.”

And off I go. My goal is to purchase and bring back the food, while missing as little of the game as possible.

I am very excited.

I’m in line at the Concession Stand, impatiently awaiting my turn. Finally, I’m at the counter, repeating my order exactly as I’d rehearsed it. Fifty or sixty times.

The refreshments are brought, I pay, and off I race, back to the seats, my mission impeccably accomplished.

Except for one thing.

I had forgotten the change.

More than two of the five dollars I had been given.

I immediately panic. What should I do? If I return to the Concession Stand and say, “I forgot the change”, would they believe me, or say, “Get outta here, kid!”

Could I handle a dispute with a grown-up? I knew, to my shame, I could not.

But there was also shame waiting for me back at the seats.

“I forgot the change.”

Shaking heads and heaving sighs of regret.

“What a baby.”

“We should never have let him do it.”

I did not relish that moment of reckoning. For a moment, I considered disappearing. Just “Poof!”

“And he was never seen again.”

It was magical thinking. Though the unreality did not exclude it from consideration.

I had no choice. I would return to Uncle Irving, and take my medicine.

I am at back at the seats. Uncle Irving relieves me of the refreshments, doling the appropriate portions to his friend. I see smiles and hear compliments.

“A perfect job,” I am told. They are about to learn otherwise. On the verge of confession, I hear my Uncle’s voice continue:

“And for doing so well, Nephew, you may keep...

The change.”

I remember nothing about that game. Who the Leafs played that night. Who won. I recall only one thing.

I had miraculously dodged a bullet.

And for that I was truly content.

I was in California when my Uncle Irving died, at the hideously young age of forty-seven. I did not get to say goodbye, or thank you.

In some small but, hopefully, meaningful way, I have tried to make up for that today.

-----------------------------------------------

An extra special shout-out today to my brother on his "big number" birthday.

My brother taught me many important lessons, perhaps the most important being, when you're crossing the street, you should always look the driver of the car headed in your direction straight in the eye, rather than ignoring them and counting on their doing the right thing. I have followed that advice, and, as yet, have not been run over.

Thank you for keeping me alive. And for numerous other favors as well.

Happy birthday.

"You Can't Go Back"

At a recent screening of City Slickers where he appeared, comedian Billy Crystal talked about the possibility of returning to the Oscars, which he had hosted eight times between 1990 and 2004. Crystal admitted that the enthusiastic reception he’d received for his cameo performance at the most recent Oscars had made him “itchy.”

The story reminded me of a moment I remember from camp. After a few years’ absence, a former swimming instructor named Paul returned to camp for an overnight visit. Paul had been extremely well liked.

In the morning, after breakfast, the traditional “Sing-song” was held, where we sang a bunch of songs before “Clean-up”, the scheduled time when campers went back to their cabins and cleaned them up. Everyone wanted “Sing-song” to last as long as possible, less because they liked “Sing-song” than because they hated “Clean-up.”

Now, a number of people – both campers and staff – had certain specific songs that were identified with them, and when those songs were included in that morning’s “Sing-song” repertoire, the person associated with that song would be enlisted to come up in front of the camp, and lead it.

Having your own song to lead was a special honor. Not everybody had one. I had a song. My brother had a song. Paul, the visiting swim instructor, also had a song. Paul’s song was “The Big Rock Candy Mountain.”

Oh, the buzzin’ of the bees in the cigarette trees, near the soda water fountain

At the lemonade springs where the bluebird sings

On the Big Rock Candy Mountain.

It’s a nice song. And when he was at camp, Paul used to lead it during “Sing-song”. The thing is, Paul hadn’t been at our camp for some time, and after he left, “The Big Rock Candy Mountain” kind of fell out of the playlist.

Now, since he was visiting – and since, I guess, one of the old-timers remembered – Paul was called upon to once again lead us in his song, and he graciously agreed. I remember watching him, as he got up from his seat, and excitedly headed to the front.

Paul had a girlfriend named Linda, whom he subsequently married. Linda was still working at camp, and she knew what was what. To this day, I can hear her anguished voice, as, calling after her boyfriend, she semi-cried,

“They don’t know it!”

She was right. We didn’t.

It was an uncomfortable moment in “Sing-song.”

Though he may feel “itchy”, Billy Crystal should not return to host the Oscars.

He had his “song” – call it his comedic sensibility – that people really liked.

But they don’t know it anymore.

"Branded"

No, this is not about the 1965 western series starring Chuck Connors whose theme song began,

All but one man died

There at Bitter Creek

And they say he ran away

Branded!

Marked with a coward’s shame

What do you do when you’re branded?

Will you fight for your name?

Though it could be. I remember that show very well. (By the way, when I went to the website offering the Branded theme song video – to double-check the lyrics; I was letter perfect, by the way. Not bad for forty-six years – I learned that over three hundred and fifty thousand people had accessed that website before me.

Over three hundred and fifty thousand “hits! For a marginally successful – it ran for two seasons – cowboy show! And I still can’t get publishers to believe that a book about westerns can be popular. Grumble, grumble, grumble.)

All right. I am moving my vitriol in a different direction. I looked up “branded” in the dictionary, but I didn’t like any of the definitions, meaning, they didn’t fit what I’m talking about. They’re more about burning somebody’s skin with some identifying signifier. My concern does not involve skin mutilation. The branding is more of a subliminal nature.

A personal example:

About five years ago, I was hired by my friend, John Markus, to serve as the warm-up man for a barbecue contest, which was being shot in front of a live audience. My assignment was to fill in the gaps, keeping the folks in the bleachers entertained while the meat was cooking. It was no easy task.

“The pork shoulder will be finished in four-and-a half hours. So we have a little time to talk.”

A participant on one of the barbecue teams – they cooked in teams, though I could not tell you why; most of the activity seemed to involve standing around the cooker, waiting for the timer to go off. Anyway, a contestant who interested me – I had received printed “bios” on all the participants – was an amateur barbecuer, whose real job was being a tenured professor at Dartmouth, whose area of expertise was something called, “Public Policy.” I had no idea of the distinction?

“What’s ‘Private Policy’?”

“We are not permitted to say.”

I wanted to talk to the guy, learn something about “Public Policy”, and maybe share some of my political ideas, especially my long-time favorite:

“Every time a candidate disparages the other side, or exaggerates their own side’s virtues, they come off sounding like a typical politician, driving away not only the people who disagree with them, but also those vitally important independent voters, sensitive to the telltale signals of “business as usual.”

Hardly a wackadoodle concept, is it? I have wondered why no one in politics seemed to take that into consideration, and I was hoping, as a “Public Policy” expert, the Dartmouth professor might informatively weigh in on the matter. I imagined a stimulating and illuminating conversation with the man.

So, during a lull in the action – I believe they had temporarily run out of charcoal – I went over and introduced myself. The professor was neither cordial nor gruff. His mind was, understandably, on his barbecuing, but unlike other contestants – like “Bad Byron” Chism, who hawks “Bad Byron’s Butt Rub” on the Internet – he made minimal effort to be friendly.

After some preliminary “buttering up” – “I hear Dartmouth is a pretty good school.” “You must have to be pretty smart to teach there.” – I segued into my primary thesis about campaigning strategies that seem, to me, to drive potential voters away, rather than attracting them with a reasoned and respectful treatment of the issues.

Pretending to be busy, the professor totally blew my off, treating my words as if they were an annoying buzzing in his ears that he wished would, hopefully sooner than later, fly away and torture somebody else.

What was the reason for such treatment? Easy. The man was a distinguished professor at an Ivy League university, and I was a warm-up man at a barbecue contest. The professor had thus branded me:

“Not Worthy of his Valuable Time”,

Turning my considered opinions into an irritating hum.

Getting the neon-bright “Get away from me, Boy” signals, I cut short the conversation, and walked away. If I’d had a tail, it would definitely have been between my legs.

Twenty minutes later,

The professor bounds up to me. All smiles and excitement.

“I know who you are. I Googled your name. You’ve got quite a reputation.”

Everything had suddenly changed. I was no longer an easily dismissible Person of the Periphery. The professor’s research had led to my “re-branding.” I was now,

“Somebody Worth Talking To.”

Do you see what I’m gettin’ at here? Objectively, I was the same person. A person whose ideas merit consideration, or they don’t. But “Professor Barbecue” wasn’t working on that level. He was responding, on both occasions, to the branding, which, in my case, was

First,

“ A ‘nobody’.”

Then twenty minutes later,

“A ‘somebody’.”

Nothing had changed. Except for the brand.

You can’t do that. At least, not to me.

I tried to be polite. But "affable" and "generous with my time" were no longer on the menu.

Which is, perhaps, understandable, but ultimately just as stupid. I never got to talk to the guy. My opinions were never tested. I might easily have learned something. If only I’d have been able to see past his brand, at least the one I nailed him with:

“Intellectually Snobby Asshole!”

It’s been five years, and the incident still pisses me off.

I wonder what that brands me now.