"The Accur-sed Land of Discarded Verbiage (Formerly 'The "Lost" Land Of Discarded Verbiage' But I Replaced 'Lost' With 'Accur-sed')"

Do you know how compassionate I am?

I feel sorry for words.

“You’re a saint, Earlo Pomerantz.  A little Jewish frickin’ saint!”

I do!  I feel sorry for words.  Individual words, groupings of words… my heart recently went out to an entire paragraph!

I do not have that paragraph anymore; it had to go.  Consigned first to the wastepaper basket in my office, then emptied into the recycling bin outside, which, on Fridays, gets dumped into the back of a trash truck, and then… I don’t even want to think about it. 

And that’s just the paper the words are written on, the words’ corporeal body, as it were.  Where go the words’ essence, their soulular spirit, so to speak – I have absolutely no idea.  (Not dissimilar to my understanding of where my soulular spirit will ultimately reside.)

Writers have a phrase for necessary deletions.  We call it, “Killing our babies.”  Leave it to writers to turn taking out words into a life-and-death proposition.

The thing is, it feels like you’re killing your babies.  As I mentioned, a paragraph I had painstakingly constructed ignominiously bit the dust.  (Formerly:  “… failed the determining test of ‘utilitarianism’ and out it went.”)

An entire paragraph, cut from the team, this one at the last minute.  After it has called its family, announcing (previously “proclaiming” and before that “reporting”) jubilantly that it had definitely made the squad.  And now it was nowhere.  Alone. Abandoned.  And confused.

I once thought I needed that paragraph.  I was confessing in it that although I had previously defended reading Books on CD as being no different from reading actual books, I was now – courageously, I like to think – reversing my position.

In the paragraph immediately preceding “The Lost Paragraph” I explained how wearing headphones kept me from thinking, proclaiming the impossibility of listening and thinking at the same time.  Upon further consideration, however, I realized that, though that statement was technically correct, it did not mean that listening on CD prevented me from entirely thinking altogether.  (Do I really need “entirely”?  I can almost feel the word quivering in its boots.) 

I then proceeded – in “The Lost Paragraph” – to tie up what, to me, was a significant loose end, a clarification, if you will, disavowing my previous (formerly “earlier”) claim that there was no difference between reading a book and listening to one on CD.

Because there is a difference. 

And it’s this.

(Note:  I removed an entire paragraph that used to be right here.  It’s sitting in limbo now, wondering what it did wrong.)

When you’re reading a book and a thought comes to you, you simply stop reading the book, you engage the thought, and when you are finished with that thought, you go back to reading the book.

On the other hand, when you’re listening to a book on CD and a thought comes to you, you similarly engage that thought.  The salient difference is that, unlike with the book, where after you finish thinking, you pick up the narrative where you left off, with a Book on CD, the narrative has inexorably moved on.  

Meaning you inevitably missed something while you were thinking.

I went on to cleverly analogize listening to a book on CD with walking on a treadmill (which I was doing at the same time.)  In both examples, you may stop, but the apparatus keeps moving.  I even included the fact that fitness professionals had informed me that since there was a physiological difference between walking on a constantly moving treadmill versus walking on a sidewalk that just stays there while you walk on it, I should integrate both types of walking into my weekly exercise routine.           

None of that, in truth, had anything to do with the issue at hand, which was that as a result of those pesky thinking interruptions while I was listening to the book on CD, I had gleaned little new information about the Battle of Waterloo.

So I cut it the entire paragraph.

Extraneosity, however, is only one reason words and paragraphs do not make it to the “Finish Line.”  (Formerly:   “… do not stay in all the way to the end.”  Which is an example of another reason right there.  I found a more satisfying way of expressing myself.) 

Other reasons I decide to cut stuff?  I have overwritten.  Too many clarifying descriptives, particularly unnecessarily – bye-bye, “unnecessarily”… particularly adverbs.  Or I have made the same point more than once and I am repeating myself.  (Do I really need “… and I am repeating myself”?) 

Sometimes, during a rewrite, a more accurate word or more evocative turn of phrase occurs to me.  Sometimes, I find a word that’s more contextually rhythmic.  (“Contextually rhythmic” being more contextually rhythmic than the deleted “suitably rhythmic”, which is now without a home.) 

Sometimes, I find a funnier way of saying something that I originally expressed more directly.  (I wish I had a funnier version of that last sentence, but I don’t.  So I went to the reliable fallback alternative – candor.)

For these and other reasons, words, phrases, and paragraphs, once deemed integral, are excluded from the “Final Product.”  Forever lost, like a doomed astronaut untethered from the Mother Ship, jettisoned helplessly into oblivion.  For that discarded verbiage, it was “Close, but no cigar”, the “Deleted” now the “Fifth Beatle” of blogatorial revelation.  (I have further analogies – involving the “Flying Dutchman” – but I know I will take them out later, so why not short-circuit the heartbreak?  Formerly:  “… alleviate the disappointment.”)

In TV writing, there was always the “Joke File” – viable jokes, cut from the “Shooting Script” – for time, or because they no longer fit the rewrite – accumulated in a file, in hopes of inserting them into some future script down the line.

We never did.  The jokes never came back.  Nor does the stuff I take out.

On the other hand…

I did just resuscitate that paragraph comparing reading books to listening to books on CD.  So it does happen.  Such “success stories” spread quickly, sending messages of hope to the “Deleted Community.” 

“You may be out now.  But there is always a chance.” 

Hope is punishing that way.

Because more often that not…

There isn’t.

(I had “… considerably more often than not.”  But I deleted “considerably.”  If you happen to run into it, give it my best.)

"What's In A Name - A Continuing Investigation"

This previously explored arena returned to mind while I was listening to the book Waterloo on CD and was truly astonished by the mention of the name:  Henry Shrapnel.

Did you know the artillery device that blows up propelling pointy fragments of metal into enemy soldiers was named after an actual, living person?  (Well not now, but once.)  I didn’t.  When I discovered that on the CD, I was genuinely surprised.

Although not that surprised.  I have long insisted that countless devices, descriptives and recognizable behaviors derive from surnames of the people who originally popularized them, though, over time, we have totally forgotten those connections.  Back-Patting Acknowledgment:  I was at the absolute forefront of bringing this curious phenomenon to light.  It’s a verifiable certitude.  “At the forefront” – heck!  I am so “ahead of the curve” here I do not even have followers!

It’s like nobody believes me.  Sometimes I don’t even believe myself.  Though no reputed peddler of foolishness, my allegations seem precariously untenable.  Then I hear “Henry Shrapnel” (1761-1842) in an authoritative history book on CD, and I go: 

Say “nay” all you want, naysayers.  I am definitely on to something!

The following words have no Latin or Germanic origins, or any other philological genesis.  They appear to come out of nowhere.  Encouraging the question:

Could these words – as with Henry Shrapnel – have their roots in legitimate surnames?

Consider the following.  And please reserve your opprobrium; you may easily be mistaken, and consequently publicly embarrassed.  I mean, be honest.  Before I told you, did you have any idea shrapnel was named after an actual person?  I just thought it was stuff they dug out of your body after the battle, or stayed in there because they could not get it out without killing you and after that you could not go through “Security” at airports without triggering alarms.

Anyway, here we go.  Words in regular usage derived from actual people’s surnames:

Clamp your hands tightly over your ears around Belinda Caterwaul.

Whenever he sang, his voice broke.  His now-famous moniker:

Randy Yodel.

Warning:  Avoid engaging in debate with Natalie Nitpicker.

A traditional head covering:  Due to incipient hair loss, delicate skin or “decorative fashion statement”?  Nobody knows. 

Except Katherine Bonnet.

People were inevitably drenched going outside in a downpour.  Not anymore.  Thanks to Hermione Bumbershoot.

All hail to Jeremy Happenstance, who went home from the hospital with the wrong family, meeting his actual family at a soccer game, which he attended after ordering football tickets from a website and receiving soccer tickets by mistake.

Another “Big Noise” on the battlefield – Wolfgang Howitzer.  (This one may be inadvertently correct.  Maybe not the “Wolfgang.”)

This guy… what’s his name?  Invented devices for remembering things?  Let’s see, now… tonic… ironic… oh yeah!

Kenny Mnemonic.

In the form of a question:

“‘Boats and Baseball’ for eight hundred, Alex.”

“He carved out half a tree trunk and floated it on water.”

“Who was Robinson Canoe?”

"Correct!"

“‘Boats And Baseball’ for a thousand.”

“No more propelling Canoe’s canoe with cupped fingertips.” 

“Who was Mickey Paddle?”  (A questionable assertion, both historically and comedically.)

“No belts or suspenders for me, thank you,” proclaims the ultimate loser in the pants-tightening sweepstakes, Horatio Cummerbund.  (Permanent belt loops put him essentially into receivership, his device vestigially visible only at weddings, honorarial dinners, and certain awards ceremonies.)

Like Indians protesting the Washington Redskins, a species of furry animals is struggling to reclaim its reputation, sullied by the sleazy shenanigans of Anthony Weasel. 

(An earlier outing covered the Irish origins of “Shenanigan.”  Investigations remain ongoing at this juncture concerning Gregory Sleazy.)

He kept us from stepping in expectorant.  Raise an appreciative tankard to Vernon Spittoon.

Notorious picky eater, Thomas Finicky.

And last but not least, there is Jeremiah Bamboozle.  Though that may not actually be his name.   (Get it?)

I conclude my third or possibly fourth visitation to this arena acknowledging that my collective accumulation does not purport to be all-inclusive.

Got any familiar “name-words” of your own?

Send them along and I shall happily append them to the list.

If they are not transparently made up.

"A Sublime Moment In Movies"

Every once in a while, I take pleasure in bringing something I find exquisitely beautiful to your attention, an example of which I am delivering today.  (It came to mind when I decided recently to learn to play “Ballad of the Alamo” on the piano.)

Wait.  First.

Although I enjoyed a career of reasonable repute and satisfaction, my predominant personal attribute, in my judgment, is as an appreciator.  Unfortunately, being an appreciator does not pay anything.  So I had to procure an actual job, which I eventually did.  I believe, however, that that was my natural “calling” – I am a great appreciator.  (I was going to say “an astute appreciator” but I enjoy associating myself with the word “great”, even if it’s a completely passive activity.  I am also a great sleeper, by the way.) 

Settling for being amateur appreciator, I kept my sensors attuned to the remarkable stuff, and when I found it, I would store it away, recalling its exquisiteness for retroactive satisfaction, and today, for your, hopefully, current satisfaction as well.

Okay, here it is.

In 1982, Clint Eastwood released a movie he produced, directed and starred in called Honkytonk Man, concerning an itinerant country music entertainer during the Depression era dying of consumption or tuberculosis or whatever it is that requires you to cough blood into a handkerchief.  (Chopin suffered a similar affliction, at least in the biopic.)

I saw Honkytonk Man, and I liked it. Most particularly, its climactic resolution.

For decades, Marty Robbins was a successful country music singer/songwriter, delivering memorable hits like “El Paso” – “Out in the west Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl…” and “A White Sport Coat (And A Pink Carnation)” – “…ooh-ah, I’m all dressed up for the dance…”, among dozens of others.

I was a big fan of Marty Robbins.  And I was saddened to learn that in his later, although-considerably-younger-than-I-am-now years, he had become extremely ill.

In Honkytonk Man’s climactic scene, Clint Eastwood’s character Red Stovall sits before a microphone in a Nashville recording studio.  With everybody involved aware of what’s going on, fronting a talented backup band, Stovall attempts to complete the recording before his imminent demise.

As it turns out, Red Stovall can’t make it, excusing himself mid-performance and retreating helplessly to the sidelines.

Desperate, the producer in the booth signals frantically to the guitarist in the backup band to move up to the microphone and finish the recording, the film ‘s title song, “Honkytonk Man”.  The guitarist, himself rather gaunt and unhealthy looking, dutifully complies. 

The moment he starts singing, I turn to Dr. M in the darkened theater and I whisper,

“That’s Marty Robbins.”

For those "in the know", it was a shattering experience.

Think about it.

A fictional country music singer, unable complete his performance because he’s dying, surrenders the microphone to a real-life country music singer who actually is dying.  Robbins, in fact, died in 1982, the same year Honkytonk Man came out, making this his final performance.

What a spectacular sendoff, a magnanimous tribute – thanks to a kind and generous Clint Eastwood – to a beloved entertainer.

I found this on YouTube.  Check it out and tell me what you think.

An Open Letter To President Obama"

Dear Mr. President,

The departure of Justice Scalia has left an immediate vacancy on the Supreme Court.  I am hereby humbly – my hands are shaking as I write this – applying for that job. 

I am not talking “Lifetime Appointment” – that is understandably out of the question.  I would not actually want that.  Who wants to physically deteriorate in public?  

I am thinking about a temporary appointment – until the next president is elected.  I believe I can capably handle things in the interim, which includes months of “Vacation Adjournment” so we are talking about a few weeks.  A handful of cases.  Hopefully easy ones.

I believe that what I am proposing here for is doable.  Correct me if I’m wrong – I am aware you used to teach this stuff – but I have this recollection from the “Constitutional Law” class I took recently at UCLA Extension that to serve on the Supreme Court, you do not necessarily have to be an attorney. 

In that case, a guy who wrote for Taxi and The Larry Sanders Show is not unilaterally disqualified.  Okay, I only “consulted” on Larry Sanders, but still.

I understand that what I am suggesting is radical, but I am convinced it’s not crazy.  Why not, for the first time in history, appoint a “regular person” to the Supreme Court?  Instead of… – Man, I’d hate to be wrong about this; it would knock a big hole in my credibility – having, as we have now, justices, all of whom were appellate judges.  Or at least judges.  I may be “off” with the “appellate.”  Forgive me.  I’m ignorant, and I’m scared.

Think about that.  One hundred percent Supreme Court Justices with the same background.  And not a single person from show business.  Can that really be acceptable?

Here’s something you probably already know.

Other countries – you can Google which ones because I do not know them offhand – offer appointed triumvirates, mixing “lay” people and practicing attorneys, injecting a variety of experiences into the adjudicating procedure. 

So there’s precedent.  Unless by “precedent” you mean American precedent, in which case there isn’t.  As you see, I can talk like an attorney if I have to.  Although I am not certain that’s a “plus”.    

Two Questions You May Want To Ask Me:

Question One: 

“Are you qualified to serve on the Supreme Court?” 

Technically, I am not.  I did attend law school for six weeks, which I imagine, as a qualification, is hardly sufficient.  And it was a Canadian law school at that. 

The thing is, applying the commonly accepted standard of “qualified” would preclude a vast number of us from gaining ascendancy to the Highest Court in the Land, leaving only attorneys for effective consideration.    

I do not know this for certain, but barring a person from serving on the Supreme Court because they are not an attorney when it is not a Constitutional requirement that they be an attorney – that sounds like “workplace discrimination” to me.  Should that be happening at the Supreme Court?  I mean, “Holy Frankfurter!”

Question Two: 

“Can you be impartial?”

Okay, this is going to be controversial.  But in my view, no judges are impartial.  You want evidence?  Every important Supreme Court decision that’s gone 5-to-4 along ideological fault-lines.

I have never understood this.  There’s a “Confirmation Hearing” for Supreme Court Justice.  The candidate’s record as a lower court judge reflects that, when ideological considerations are involved, they rule consistently in what can be objectively determined to be a liberal or conservative direction.  A senator on the Judiciary Committee then asks,

“Can you be impartial?”

It seems to me the only honest answer they can give to the question of impartiality is:

“Well I haven’t been so far.”

What do I offer as candidate for temporary Supreme Court Justice?  Honesty.  Punctuality.  And, holding my biases in check, an unequivocally open mind.  Rest assured, I will not “nickel-and-dime” you on compensation.  I’ll take whatever you’re offering.  A “pro-rated” arrangement comes to mind.  You can “round up” or “round down”.  I am not losing this job over pennies.

Mr. President, we have an opportunity to be bold.  Try something memorable. Something for the history books beyond “He was the first African-American president” and “He liked to sing.” 

You want to go the “traditional” route?  Fine.  See where that gets you.  Tipoff:  “Guantanamo – open or closed?”

Will it be easy?  Of course not.  But to those who say that my confirmation to the Supreme Court is an unfathomable “Hail Mary”, I say:  Mr. President,

Drop back…

And let it fly.

Sincerely,

Earl Pomerantz.

(Applicant for the opening at the Supreme Court.)

(Note to Readers:  If any of you knows President Obama or somebody who does, I’d appreciate it if you would pass this along.  Thank you.)