"Season's Greetings"

Freezing temperatures.

Threatening skies.

Snowflakes dappling the evergreens.

Scarves, parkas and boots.

Shoveling the driveway.

Seeing your breath.

Hoping your car starts.

Slippery roads.

Salting the sidewalks.

The embracing relief of going inside.

Christmas in California…

Has none of those things.

But the spirit of the season…

That’s everywhere.

‘Cause it resides in your heart.

From the Christmas in your heart

To the Christmas in mine…

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO EVERYONE!

And the happiest of holiday times.

"Your Presents Are Requested"

IIn the spirit of the season, I am reprising one of my favorite posts, depicting, arguably, the most famous example of anxiety in the entire history of gift-giving.

“Your Presents Are Requested”

Who invented holiday gift giving?

“A guy with a store.”

Too cynical?  Maybe.  Though perhaps not entirely off the mark.  Historically – if we can regard the Bible as history, and who’s to say it’s less accurate than anything else written back then – the gift-giving tradition originated on “Day One”, if by “Day One”, you mean “Day One” of A.D. rather than “Day One” of B.C.  I actually don’t know when “Day One” of B.C. was.  Billions of years ago?  It was way back, I know that.  Anyway, that’s got nothing to do with this story. 

Hovering over the event, from that very first occasion, there loomed the darkening presence of gift-giving anxiety, the gut-eating worry that your gift will resoundingly fall flat. 

Allow us now to peek in on that initial foray into heartfelt but emotionally turbulent generosity.

Ext.  Holy Land – Night 

(Note:  In the Jewish tradition, which was in force on this first day of Christianity, all holidays begin on the night before.  I don’t know why.  Maybe they couldn’t wait.)

THREE WISE MEN ARE CAMELING TOWARDS THEIR MIDDLE-EASTERN DESTINATION.

(Note:  Because I have no idea of their actual names, the Wise Men will herein be designated by the gifts they are delivering:  Gold, frankincense and myrrh.  Sorry for all the Notes.)

THE NIGHT IS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOUND OF THREE CAMELS, CLOMPING OVER SAND.

F:  (STANDING FOR FRANKINCENSE, SO I DON’T HAVE TO KEEP WRITING FRANKINCENSE EVERY TIME)  I’m a little worried about my present.

G:  (DITTO ON THE INITIAL )  How so?

F:  I’m concerned about its appropriateness.

G:  What are you’re giving them again?

F:  Frankincense.

G:  And remind me again what that is?

F:  It’s an aromatic gum resin.

G:  Uh-huh.  And you believed that was appropriate because…?

F:  Frankincense is known to have soothing properties.  I thought after the turbulence of childbirth, the participants might appreciate a calming influence. 

G:  I suppose.  But have you noticed how quiet it’s been? –  a starlit firmament, the absence of a breeze, not a peep out of anything?  If I were a Weather Man – or a songwriter – I’d say, “All is calm, all is bright.”

F:  You’re saying they won’t need a calming influence?

G:  It seems somewhat redundant.

F:  You’re right, they’re going to hate it!  I know exactly what’s going to happen.  They’ll be all nice about it and everything.  “Look, Joseph – frankincense!  What a beautiful present!”  And then, angling for reassurance, I’ll say, “Are you sure you like it?  I could take it back.”  And they’ll say, “Oh, no, it’s perfect!  We were just talking about how we were really low on frankincense and my husband said, ‘Maybe I should pick some up’, and I said, ‘Hold off a little.  We might get some as a present’, and here we are!  It’s like a miracle.  I mean, it’s no ‘Virgin Birth’ or anything, but it’s still amazingly timely.”  I despise that excruciating charade.  I wish I had brought something else!  

MYRRH:  You wish.

F:  Oh, yeah, I forgot.  With you around, I am guaranteed no worse than “Second Most Terrible Gift.”

M:  Well that’s not very supportive.

F:  Your gift makes no sense whatsoever.

G:  What was your gift again?

M:  Myrrh.

F:  Terrible!

M:  It’s not that bad.

F:  Oh, really?  First of all, myrrh is also a gum resin.  I mean, three gifts, and two of them are gum resins?  These guys are going to have to be really good actors.  “You can never have enough gum resin.”   This is a train wreck!

G:  A what?

F:  It’s bad.

M:  It may be okay.  There is actually a substantial difference between my gum resin and your gum resin.  Yours in an aromatic gum resin.  And mine is a bitter gum resin.

F:  (TO G)  You know what bitter gum resins are used for?

G:  No, what?

F:  Embalming.  He’s bringing them a burial spice.  (TO M)  I hope you kept the receipt. 

M:  In a little pouch inside the myrrh pouch.  But the store’s in Samarkand.

F:  Remember now, you promised.  I give my gift first.  I go after you and it’s like, “Oooh, more gum resin.”  No way.  I want to be the first gum resin they get.

M:  I don’t know, after my bitter gum resin, aromatic gum resin might be a step up.

F:  I’m going first!

M:  Okay!  Okay! 

G:  You know, you Wise Men – and your behavior puts the title into question – are both making too much of all this.  Remember:  “It’s the thought that counts.”

F:  Spoken like a man who’s giving them gold.

G:  It is simply what came to mind.

F:  Yeah, right, you big showoff.

G:   You could have brought gold.

M:  “Gold, gold and myrrh.”  They would certainly remember me then.

F:  Why do you always have to be better than everyone else?

G:  That is not how I thought about it.

M:  “Let’s see.  What gift should I bring them?  I know.  Something that makes everyone else’s gift look terrible and cheap!”

G:  It’s not a lot of gold.

F:  (To M)  Did you see the pouch it’s in?

M:  The pouch alone is better than my present.

G:  If you’re so unhappy with your gift, you should have brought them something else.

M:  Like what?

G:  I don’t know.  Booties.

M:  “Gold, frankincense and socks.”  That’s much better.

F:  Why didn’t you get booties?

G:  Because I brought gold!  Dear Lord!... who was just born.  Do I have to apologize for being the only one who’s bringing a decent gift? 

F/M: (TOGETHER)  YES!!

F:  You know, in truth, we have no idea who we’re bringing this stuff to.  They could be loaded.  They could open the pouch and it’s like, (BLASÉ)  “Oh, gold.  Throw it on the pile.” 

G:  Unlikely.

M:  But possible.  Yours could be the least appreciated gift of all. 

F:  He put zero thought into it.  ‘Gold.  Done!’”

G:  I think we should stop talking for a while.

F:  You’re the boss, Mr. Moneybags.

THEY CAMEL ALONG IN SILENCE.  FINALLY…

M:  Are you sure we’re going the right way?

G:  I am following the star. 

M:  Maybe we should stop and get directions.

G:  It’s not necessary.

F:  Oooh, Mr. “Gold Giver.”  Too good to ask directions.

G:  Directions to where?  Are you kidding me?  We have no idea where we’re going! 

 

M:  Okay!  Take it easy!  You’re turning all red.

F:  (TO G)  Would you like a little frankincense to calm you down? 

M:  I’d like slip him some myrrh.

F:  Oh.  For “embalming.”  I get it.

G:  (DRYLY)  Hilarious. 

M:  You know, all this bickering.  It’s because of the presents. 

F:  You’re right.  If only we could honor special occasions in a less competitive manner.   

G:  A celebratory song, perhaps.

F:  Could that be because you’re an exceptional singer?

G:  Well…

F:  He won an “Encampment Citation.”  The guy’s always looking for an edge.

M:  We’ll stick with the presents.  And just hope that they’re big resin gum fans.

F:  That’s gum resin.

M:  Sorry.

THE THREE-CAMEL CARAVAN PROCEEDS ON TOWARDS BETHLEHEM, AND INTO NEW TESTAMENTAL HISTORY.  BUT THE TREPIDATION PERSISTS.

G:  (TO HIMSELF)  Everyone likes gold.

F:  Not if they’re loaded.

CURTAIN.

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

Merry Christmas to all, and if you're traveling for the holidays, to all a good flight.  (That goes for Santa Claus as well.)

"I Showed My Four Year-Old Grandson The Sunset"

I do not know what people remember from when they were four.  I myself recall virtually nothing, other than two stories about my Dad, who passed away when I was six. 

One of them involved a commuter train trip we took together to nearby Hamilton, Ontario.  The other memory involved my mother’s sending me outside in the winter to get some fresh air and my father turning the TV around so I could watch my favorite programs through the window.

Other than that, it’s a blank.

Which leads me to wonder what my now four year-old grandson (Step-grandson but who’s counting?) will remember about me?

(It sometimes saddens me that, especially if your grandchildren come late, their enduring perception of you is this creaky old man with diminishing energy.  I used to be this vital and exuberant crank!)

I have this strategy for having grandson Milo remember me that I am not at all certain will be effective:

“Memory-Inducing Repetition.”

I repeat things over and over, hopefully deepening the engram grooves in Milo’s “Memory Bank”, thus enhancing these experiences’ chances of not ephemerally slipping away.

There are drummed-into-his-head catchphrases like:

“I love this boy, and I don’t care who knows it!”

Set-ups for cherished “inside” jokes, like me asking him,

“Have you ever had popcorn?”

(It is apparently unsafe for little children to eat popcorn.  The first time I heard Milo had not tried any, I slapped my forehead dramatically and said, “I can’t believe it!  You’ve never had popcorn?”  Having turned four, Milo is now permitted to eat popcorn.  But we repeated the “Popcorn Routine” for interminably.  And it always tickled him to death.  Especially the “head slap.”) 

Milo’s presence leads me to compose improvised ditties, especially when there are important lessons to be learned. 

Hence, the catchy – and endlessly repeated –

“Don’t poop in the pool

It’s not really cool.

There’s only one rule:

Don’t poop in the pool.”

And the hygienically related (cribbed from a restaurant bathroom notice, sung in a lilting South American tempo):

“Laven sus manos (Spanish for “Wash your hands.”)

Laven sus manos

Laven sus manos today.

Laven sus manos

Laven sus manos

Don’t pee and just walk away.”

(Complete lyrics available on request.)

I want him to remember these things.  No.  I want him to remember me.  And the things that I liked to do.

And so, late Tuesday afternoon, when Milo and Dr. M were heading for the garage to drive him home after his weekly after-school visit – Dr. M’s car is equipped with a “Baby Seat”, which children today are confined to until their Bar Mitzvah – I was inspired to call Milo back so I could show him the sunset.

I have always liked sunsets.  That’s not exactly correct.  There was a girl I liked who liked sunsets, and so:

“I liked the girl.”

“The girl liked sunsets.”

“I liked sunsets.”

Something of that syllogistical nature.

At some point – the girl now long gone – I began to enjoy sunsets without the ulterior motive, appreciating their splendor wherever I was.  I watched sunsets in Hawaii.  I observed fiery sunsets in Kenya.  I saw the sun drop behind minarets in Istanbul.

Always a humbling and reverberating experience.

From a TV writing standpoint, I wrote one of my most heartfelt episodes for The Mary Tyler Moore Show entitled “Ted’s Change of Heart”, which concluded with the entire “Mary” cast of regulars standing transfixed at a window, appreciating the Minneapolis sunset.  That script garnered me both an Emmy nomination and The Humanitas Prize.

So when I asked Milo to stand beside me,

I was sharing an experience I sincerely cared about.

There we were, grandpa (although I am called “Pappy”) and grandson, witnessing the everyday wonder of the descending sun.  Which you can catch in vivid clarity when you are living by the ocean. 

It is truly magnificent:

A fiery disc slipping slowly behind a boundaryless horizon.

On the Friday evening that flew off to California, departing Toronto forever, a dinner guest, my Great-Uncle Benny, lifted a wine glass in my honor and proclaimed,

“Here’s hoping you miss us.”

I have never forgotten that.

But I was not four when he said it.

While Milo remember we watched the sunset together?

Biologically unlikely.

But we will continue to do so.

To boost the chances that he might.

"What Really Does It"

The signature song in the Broadway musical Carnival is “Love Makes the World Go ‘Round.”

A song in the movie version of “Cabaret” asserts that “Money Makes The World Go ‘Round.” 

I believe that, primarily, it is neither love nor money that makes the world go ‘round.  What I am convinced makes the world go around is…

Nonsense. 

Without an unshakable adherence to nonsense, the world as we know it would grind to an impracticable halt.

What follows is a trivial example from my personal experience, which I offer as a model of the way a resolution is achieved in a previously stalemated negotiation.  Repeating myself – for both emphasis and redundancy – my belief is that…

The significant processes of life – and I mean all of them – cannot possibly proceed without the indispensible lubricant of nonsense.

Check this out, and tell me if you agree.

I am working on a TV show in Canada called Everything Goes.  The objective of the project is to produce a successful, syndicated talk-variety show out of Toronto, mirroring the success of The Mike Douglas Show, which was situated in Cleveland.

I was hired as a participant in the show’s writing staff, specializing in guest introductions that ended inevitably with “Will you welcome please…”  Until we got bored.  Then we would switch it around to “Will you please welcome…”  We were nothing if not cliché driven.

Since it was known that I had performed self-written material on the radio, I was asked if I was interested in adapting that material for television and perform it regularly on Everything Goes.  And I told them I was.

All that remained was the negotiation.

How much would they pay me to appear on Everything Goes?

Being the astute negotiator I am normally not, before sitting down with the producer, I approached a current regular performer on the show, comedian Don Cullen, and I asked him, in a polite and respectful manner, how much per appearance they were paying him.

“Two-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” he replied.

I had now determined my “price.”  If comedian Don Cullen was getting two-hundred-and-fifty dollars per appearance, then I wanted two-hundred-and-fifty dollars per appearance as well.

And with that, I went in to the negotiation.

The producer’s name was Norman, a faux-jovial hardliner who had been recruited to run Everything Goes.  After the requisite, ice-breaking small talk, Norman casually inquired,

“So how much do you want?”

“I want two hundred and fifty dollars a show”, I announced.

“I am sorry,” replied Norman, “but we only pay “scale.’”

Paying “scale” means paying “Union Minimum”, which in this case I knew was a hundred and sixty-seven dollars.  Unfazed, I reiterated my demand.

“I would really like two-hundred-and-fifty dollars.”

To which producer Norman replied,

“I cannot break precedent.  The show only pays ‘scale.’”

Which I knew from talking to comedian Don Cullen was not true.

I do not know how many times we went around and around, with 0me saying, “I want two-hundred-and-fifty dollars”, the producer replying “We only pay “scale.’”  But it was a lot.

The situation was getting silly, and increasingly tense.  I felt helpless and overmatched.  Not only because “helpless and overmatched” is my “Default Position” on everything – which it is – but also, the “Balance of Power” having been “set in stone” during the Shakespearean era –

“I want eleven pounds for writing Hamlet­.”

“We only pay ‘scale’."

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“When you look at your paycheck, you will."  

There was no doubt in my mind that I was definitely going to lose.

Gripped by desperation and impending defeat, what fluttered to mind was a proposal that made absolutely no sense whatsoever.  I said – and I am admitting this is entirely illogical – I said to him,

“Norman.  Find a “scale” that is two-hundred-and-fifty dollars, and pay it to me.”

To which the producer replied,

“You got it.”

And I received my two-hundred-and-fifty dollars.

AKA – but only in this specific negotiation –

“Scale.”

In retrospect, it seemed I just had to call what I wanted to be paid “scale” and I’d get it.  This arrangement was demonstrably “win-win.”  I got the salary I was asking for, and the producer held the line on refusing to pay “above scale.”

Total nonsense.

But it successfully concluded the negotiation.

Okay.  So.  What’s more important – that we live in a world that makes sense?  Or that conflicts are resolved based on agreements grounded in Silly Putty?

You tell me.  I am scratching my head.

As I did also when I walked happily out of the producer’s office.

“Irrelevant piffle!” you exclaim?

An current paralleling example – the “reverse” version of the foregoing.

The Supreme Court is adjudicating an “Affirmative Action” situation, whose application has been found to be constitutionally acceptable. 

Unless you call it a “quota.”

And then it isn’t.