John Left's Field

I'm now on Twitter

2009-03-04T11:13:00.000-08:00

For any of you who still care: Brother John is now on Twitter:
http://twitter.com/johnleftsfield2

Just toying with the idea of emerging from seclusion. Loves the idea of brief posts on the Twitter! Maybe I'll become the Eric Hoffer of Twitter. Or not.

Obi-John Commands You!

2008-10-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

Hello Kindred Souls, if there are any of you still out there. Retired blogger John Left here, emerging from contented seclusion for ONE TIME and one time ONLY to bring you a Very Important message.

To make it easy for ya, Brother John is going to break the message down into two easy-to-swallow parts:

1.) Election Day is next Tuesday. Don’t even think about not voting. You have to. And I’m not just saying that it’s crucial that you cast your ballot---it is, more than ever before. I’m also ORDERING you to do so. Yes, just like your dad. I’m using the Jedi mind-melding trick. I have been since you started reading this. You will vote next Tuesday. You will. You have no choice. Vote. Vote. Vote! And haul at least two friends to the polls, too. Obi-John commands you!

2.) Friends, these are dire times we’re living in. Back in the day, I used to say that human life is not a partisan issue. It’s still true---truer now, in fact, than ever before, which is why you simply must vote Tuesday. ‘member on Sesame Street when they used to play that game, “One of These Things is Not Like the Other”? Where they’d put two very similar objects side-by-side and you’d have to tell how one differed from the other? Wellp, evidently some of us still find that task to be a challenge, so I’m going to make it easy for you. When you go to mark your ballot next Tuesday (And you will. You will!), just vote for:

Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama
Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama Obama

This way, we’ll have a supergroovycool America and a niftyneatoswell Earth to live in/on, at least for another four years. Got it?

Good. So vote for Obama already! Peace, out.

Happy Trails

2008-03-03T12:39:00.000-08:00

“One, I'm only doing this until I get another job or get bored with it, whichever comes first. And two, I'm not going to turn this into a bitchandwhineapalooza.”

–John Left, 4-12-05 (post #1)

Please forgive Brother John for quoting himself. The quote was taken from my very first posting for Ye Olde Blog, back on April 12, 2005. Wow, was it that long ago? Not such a long time, in numerical terms. In life terms, it seems like. . .well, a lifetime.

But the above quote serves a purpose. There’s no sense repeating what I’ve already said, and said in a more concise way than I could if I attempted to do so today.

Kindred Souls, this is the hardest post I’ve ever written. Why the hardest? Because it will be the last one.

I had every intention of continuing “John Left’s Field” into the future. But circumstances both beyond and within my control prevent me from doing so. First, it’s the quality of the writing. In case you didn’t notice, it’s kind of leveled off in the past couple of months. I’ve burdened you with slipshod, throwaway-types of pieces. That’s because I haven’t been devoting the time to this blog that I wanted to and should have. Lately, I’ve found that I either haven’t had that time to spend or needed to spend the time on other, equally worthwhile pursuits: family, friends, career and all the details that come with them. Should I apologize for that? Okay, consider it done.

Second, the subject matter. I had a definite conclusion for this tale. It hasn’t happened yet. I’m still working on it. But in the meantime, I feel I’ve mined this vein for all the treasure it’s worth. If you keep boiling the same soup bones over and over, eventually, all you get is a watery broth. That, I refuse to serve you. While I did intend to cast my net a bit farther than my main topic, I’ll admit I strayed pretty far off the page. In doing so, I hope I provided you with some good reading. It gave this blog a crazy-quilt kind of quality, but for the most part, I think it was worthwhile.

Last, the tone. At the beginning, I said I wanted to avoid a “bitchandwhineapalooza”. I’ve gone on record stating that I hate being preached at. I tried hard to avoid doing so. I didn’t always succeed. A forum like this lends itself to doing so. There is a time when spouting off is appropriate. Lately, though, I’ve been spending a little too much time in the pulpit. In order to be the writer I want to be, I need to wean myself off of that habit.

On the plus side, I am amazed that this project lasted as long as it did. I have a three-ring binder filled with my posts; the binder holds roughly 300 pages. The binder is practically full. I can’t believe I wrote that much. I mean, I'm not known for following through on stuff. But you know that already. I’m even more amazed that you read that much–congratulate yourselves on a task well done! It must not have been easy at times.

This endeavor has, if nothing else, widened my horizons. Through “John Left’s Field”, I’ve learned that blogging is a thriving forum (art form?) which has swept the world. Through blogger.com, I’ve heard from readers as far-flung as India, England and everywhere between. 98% of my readers have been intelligent, sensitive and perceptive. Knowing that these people have, regularly, taken the time to read and respond to my posts leaves me thrilled and honored beyond words. Thank you, ALL of you, so very much for this privilege.

I won’t say I’m quitting blogging forever. I do have some plans for the writing I’ve done here. At this time, I can’t say more than that. And who knows? After some time off, I may change my mind. The blogging habit, I’ve been told, is a hard one to break.

My parting remarks? Keep blogging; the blogosphere needs intelligent, compassionate people like you. Read between the lines–in life, as well as in blogs. And the next time you’re in a long checkout line at Whatever Mart, be patient with the cashier. That person needs their job, and they’re probably being worked like a plow-horse for very little money. Or they’re a dumbass. This is one more reason to be patient. I mean, there’s no sense in watering a dead plant, right?

So, now it’s time for Cowboy John to ride off into the sunset. Like Roy Rogers once sang, Happy Trails to you, until we meet again.

(originally posted in October, 2007)

Henry Left 1928-2008

2008-03-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

“It is a wise father that knows his own child.”

---William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act 2 scene 2

“As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.”

---Leonardo da Vinci

Sleep tight, Dad.

Autumn Sabbatical

2007-09-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

As the two tons of "back to school" salescrap in our Sunday papers tells us, Kindred Souls, summer's finally over. I, for one, have had enough of 90-degree temperatures. I'm in the mood for some nice, cool autumn weather.

As fun as summer can be, I always liked autumn better. It's a much more interesting time, weather-wise. I love watching the leaves change colors and fall. I love the gray days, (channeling Rod McKuen) the golden sunsets, the smell of burning leaves. . .well, not recently. Anybody born after 1984 will have only the pungent odor of super-P.C. paper landscape waste bags to recall fondly, years hence, as they sit sipping their Metamucil, boring the grandkids with stories of days gone by. So this is one time Brother John considers himself lucky to be a middle-aged fart.

Another reason I like autumn more---it was always a more productive time for me, personally. Hot weather makes me sit on my ass. Autumn, with its falling leaves, serves to remind me that time is passing by, that another year is coming to an end. Which spurs me to get off my fat duff and do something constructive with that time.

And so, it's high time I got productive again. I have some things---personal and professional stuff---that I've let slide for far too long. Things that must be attended to. So, as much as it pains me to say so, I'm going to be taking a little autumn sabbatical from ye olde blogge. Oh, now stop sobbing! It won't be forever. What's that old saying? "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." Yeah, think of it that way.

I promise to return to this blog, rested and ready to delight you with new stories of this idiodyssey I call my life, no later than October 4, 2007. Until then, feel free to wander amongst my posts and leave what feedback you will. But keep it constructive, please.

Until then, enjoy the autumn. . .and one of my favorite autumn-themed songs, "Try to Remember" from the play, The Fantasticks. This version's sung by the late actor Jerry Orbach, who evidently was in the original Broadway production. Pretty good singing for a detective, if you ask me.

See you when the leaves start to fall. . .

http://youtube.com/watch?v=L7nOkVz79Xw

Support the EPIAA

2007-08-16T09:57:00.000-07:00

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that the fight against autism is a cause that's close to my heart. I have a young family member who, like 1,499,000 other Americans, struggles with this developmental disorder on a daily basis.

On behalf of this family member and the 1,499,000 other Americans like him, I'm going to ask you for some help. Currently, there's a bill in process in both branches of the United States Congress. It's called "the Expanding the Promise for Individuals with Autism Act" (EPIAA). Here's a summary definition which I've copied from the Autism Speaks website:

"On March 20, Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (D-NY) and Senator Wayne Allard (R-CO) announced the introduction of the 'Expanding the Promise for Individuals with Autism Act of 2007' (EPIAA) (S. 937). On April 17, a companion bill (H.R. 1881) was introduced in the House by Representatives Mike Doyle (D-PA), Chris Smith (R-NJ), Eliot Engel (D-NY) and Charles 'Chip' Pickering (R-MS). This landmark legislation would dramatically expand federal funding for life-long services for people with autism. . .You can help get it passed!"

"The EPIAA will authorize approximately $350 million in new federal money over and above all existing federal spending on autism for important initiatives related to treatments, interventions, and services for both children and adults with autism."

Please e-mail your congressperson(s) and senators and ask them to co-sponsor this bill in the House of Representatives and the Senate. Here's a link to the Autism Speaks website which will make that easy to do:

https://secure2.convio.net/naar/site/Advocacy?pagename=homepage&page=SplashPage&id=233&JServSessionIdr005=24ox0esuz1.app1a

Some helpful suggestions gleaned from personal experience:

* In your e-mail, be sure to specify that you'd like Representative/Senator So-and-So to sponsor the EPIAA, not simply vote on it. Voting on the bill means the person you're paying, you taxpayer you, to work for you in Washington just salutes when the bill is run up the proverbial flagpole. That, in and of itself, is terrific. But the bill has to get on the flagpole first. Like the class president or those color guard geeks in high school, sponsors are the ones who do that.

* When you write your representative/senator, be sure to mention that you expect a reply to your message. Many Congresspersons' websites have posted the question, "Do you require a reply to your message?" and offer a convenient "yes/no" button which you can click. My senator's---Barack Obama---website does. Hopefully, your senator---unlike Barack Obama---won't be too busy running for president and will actually reply to your message. Hint, hint, hint, B.O.!

If I've said it before, I've said it a hundred times: human life is not a partisan issue. With a minimum of effort and at no charge, you can help to make the lives of over one million autistic Americans and their families better. Please take the time to do so today.

estholes of the 21st Century

2007-07-13T11:14:00.000-07:00

So, uh, yeah. The job search. The original purpose behind this blog.

When, months ago, my job search stalled, I turned my attention to a ready source of income: my job at the Spendorama Department Store. In order to pay off the mound of bills that piled up during my recovery from my shoulder injury, I—just like I said I wouldn’t do—devoted myself to the retail business. Again.

It wasn’t all bad. I did manage to pay off most of my bills. I even managed to save a few pennies. And, as much as I hate to admit it, even a McJob as low on the vocational totem pole as this one restored a structure and purpose to my days that had been missing for a long time.

The flipside: working days, nights, weekends and holidays. Clueless managers. Shiftless coworkers. Psychotic customers. Retail burnout—again.

I needed to kick-start the quest for my future. So once more, I headed back to the local Career Center and signed up for a (free, for taxpayers) three-part workshop designed to help lost souls, like Brother John, figure out what to do with their lives. The workshop was titled “Finding Tomorrow’s You Today”. Yes, really.

On the day of the first class, my bullshit detector was screaming like an air-raid siren. I mean, the whole thing seemed so. . .1970s. I started having nightmares, in which I found myself in that movie, “Semi-Tough”, attending an est session with Burt Reynolds and Jill Clayburgh. I made an agreement with myself: if, upon entering the workshop, I saw one person who resembled Billy Clyde Puckett, I’d burn rubber like the Bandit leaving there.

Nobody, thankfully, at the workshop resembled Burt. In a spartan classroom, I found myself seated with four other students: two 50-something divorcees, who hadn’t worked since A Flock of Seagulls was a cutting-edge band; a former stripper/alcoholic, 30ish, who’d been fired two years ago for drunkenness and, in the meantime, had “found the Lord”; and a 50ish guy who reminded me of Michael Douglas’ character, “D-Fens”, in the movie “Falling Down”. He didn’t talk much and kept his stainless steel briefcase hugged to his chest.

The instructor for the workshop was a 40-something woman I can best describe as a cross between sex therapist Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Susan “Stop the Insanity!” Powter—huge voice and amped-up personality housed in a tiny body. Oh, and she really, really liked overhead-projector transparencies; she had a stack of them, on which she drew all over with special markers in a rainbow of colors.

The first two-hour session was a basic “getting to know you” exercise. Dr. Westpowter gave us tent-cards on which she asked us to write our names. Then, one-by-one, she went around the room and asked us to introduce ourselves, briefly discuss our backgrounds and our hopes for the future. My stomach tightened; the next thing she’d do, I feared, was take away our bathroom privileges until we freed ourselves of our “hang-up’s”.

The exercise was as banal as it sounds. The divorcees each talked for 15 minutes, mostly about how they hated their ex-husbands. One even burst into tears. The ex-stripper delivered an equally lengthy sermon about how, after guzzling an entire bottle of Canadian Mist, she received a visitation from the archangel Gabriel, which “changed [her] life”. This didn’t surprise me. After 1.75 liters of straight whisky, Madalyn Murray O'Hair would’ve seen angels too.

Next up was D-Fens. He mumbled that he “wasn’t ready to talk”. On his tent-card, he’d written “Starship Commander”. Whoo-boy.

Last came yours truly. In situations like these, I generally opt for entertainment over candor. Name: Chachi Arcola. Previous Occupation(s): apprentice mechanic in Cousin Arthur’s garage; part-time bus boy at hamburger restaurant; sometime singer with local rock band. Future plans: to marry my high school sweetheart—wah, wah, wah! And no, none of them got it.

I won’t go into the brutal details of the other two sessions. Things didn’t improve much from session one, anyway. I took a standardized “interest inventory” test which told me everything I already knew about my job prospects. I learned that, no matter how screwed up Brother John is, there are many who are far worse off than me. Most importantly, I learned exactly what else, besides her huge voice, Dr. Westpowter’s tiny body held. This insight was revealed early on in workshop session three:

“Do you get it, folks? That’s the key to the future. Do what you love and success will follow,” said Westpowter, folding her spindly arms and grinning a self-satisfied grin.

I raised my hand. “Ma’am?”

“Yes, Chachi?”

“I beg to differ. That isn’t so.”

“Pardon?”

“Ever since high school, nearly 20 years ago, I’ve followed my passions. I’ve worked dirty drudge jobs specifically so I could do what I love. I’ve done exactly as you said, yet here I sit, a ship without a rudder. Why is that?”

Dr. Westpowter’s eyes glazed over and the color drained from her cheeks. Her mouth flapped noiselessly for a few moments. Finally, she found her voice. “Blah-blah-blah What Color Is Your Parachute? Yadda-yadda Is It Too Late to Run Away and Join the Circus? Blah-blah Job-Hunting for Dummies blah-blah,” she intoned, mechanically. “Yada-yada Oprah Winfrey blah-blah Leo Buscaglia prattle-prattle. M. Scott Peck doodle-doodle-doo Carlos Castanada, Og Mandino, Henri J. M. Nouwen. 60 Seconds and You’re Hired! wing-ding-fiddle-faddle. . .”

The good doctor became a life-size PEZ dispenser—spouting sugary pellets ranging from Dale Carnegie to Dr. Phil—if she wasn’t one already. Not that anybody noticed; the other estholes were too busy writing down her every word.

During a bathroom break (one up on ol’ Burt), I quietly slipped out and headed home. I didn’t need to stay any longer. When it came to finding ‘Tomorrow’s Me’, I was on my own. I got it.

PARIS HILTON & 'THE SOPRANOS'

2007-06-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

. . .have nothing whatsoever to do with this blog. Nor will they ever. Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah!

Is It Just Me. . .

2007-06-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

. . .or is America going through its second childhood?

Look at the 2007 crop of summer blockbuster movies. It involves a man who can spin webs and crawl up walls, pirates, robots that can turn into cars (see above illustration), a wisecracking ogre, a smartassed kid with neon orange skin, an alien who 'surfs' through space, a boy wizard and a canine superhero, among others.

Card-carrying adults are shuffling off to the multiplex, plunking down hard-earned cash, spending valuable free time to view these entertainments. And many of them are NOT accompanied by gum-chewing, caffeine-guzzling, Heely-wearing little hellions. No, they're accompanied by other card-carrying adults. Really.

Now, I love nostalgia as much as the next middle-aged guy who doesn't get a lot of play from women. There's nothing like traipsing down Memory Lane every once in a while. Witness my previous posts on such childhood favorites as Prince Planet, Star Wars and Invisible Woman from The Fantastic Four. They all brought me much pleasure as a kid. Occasionally revisiting them helps me to relive those fun times. Doing so doesn't cost me a cent. But notice how I don't pitch a tent and live there.

Would I spend money on Prince Planet, Luke Skywalker or the Fantastic Four today? Maybe, if I had an age-appropriate child I needed to entertain for a summer afternoon. But since I don't. . .uh-uh. No way. Better things to do with his time and money has Brother John.

But evidently, many over-21's do not. You don't have to call Kenny Kingston's Psychic Hotline to know how Summer 2007 at the movies will pan out. These live-action cartoons are going to rake in mad presidents; more traditional adult fare, such as Adrienne Shelley's Waitress or Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Ultimatum, won't gross a fraction of what the upcoming Simpsons feature will.

Why is that? Surely, kids and teenagers aren't buying all those movie tickets. Do adults' IQ's drop steadily as the mercury climbs past 75 degrees? Do we so dislike the prospect of thinking and growing as adults? What are we hoping to get by spending today's time and money on relics from yesterday? Is it because we're afraid of today and who we've become? Well, is it?

Take another gander at the picture above. I hate to judge anyone. How you spend your personal time and money is your own damn business. But if I, thirtysomething that I am, found myself in a movie theater seat that I paid to sit in, staring up at Optimus Prime on the big screen, do you know what I'd do? I'd leave. I'd go home. At home, I'd pick up the Yellow Pages and the phone. And I'd make a call.

Booking myself an appointment with the nearest psychiatrist.

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things."

1 Corinthians 13:11

PPPPPPP-PA-ZOW!!

2007-05-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

I love YouTube. I love YouTube. I LOVE YOUTUBE! Almost as much as I love Ms. Dewey, Lisa Rinna and the Overstock.com woman. And that's saying a lot.

No, not because I have a soft spot for halfassed home movies or the antics of drunken college kids cut loose with camcorders. It's because YouTube has reconnected Brother John with a long-lost relic of his youth. Let's hang a sharp left, if you please, down Memory Lane. . .

It's the mid-1970s. After spending half a day sitting in a classroom corner for throwing crayons at Jo-Anne the Paste-Eating Girl, kindergarten student Johnny Left hurried home, with his Chicago Bears windbreaker (attached to his body only by the hood string tied around his neck) flapping behind him like the cape of a copyrighted comic book superhero who shall remain nameless.

Upon arriving home, the hyperactive young lad was corralled by his mother at the front door. After being thoroughly bitched out for abusing his windbreaker, young John was hauled into the living room and planted in a folding chair. The chair was stationed before a little folding table, the same folding table which doubled as "the kiddie table" at holiday dinners. Sitting on the table in front of John was his lunch: a steaming bowl of Campbell's chicken & stars soup, half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread, a glass of milk, and three or four prunes on a small dish. The prunes were to counteract the threat of constipation posed by the peanut butter (Old Country ways, you see).

"Now, sit there, be quiet and don't make a mess!" said Mom, as she moved toward the TV set located before John's table. "If you're a good boy and eat everything, I may know where we can find some Oreos for dessert."

Mom switched on the hulking Zenith at the console. A sharp buzz followed the click of the ON/OFF knob. The lights in the room dimmed momentarily. The audio came up first; slowly, the screen lit up and the video came into focus. A show, a wonderous show! My favorite program in the whole entire world! The very best cartoon ever: Prince Planet.

In a nutshell: Prince Planet was a boy superhero from the far-off, superadvanced, utopian planet of Radion. He comes to Earth to, as far as I remember, save Earthlings from their halfassed, warlike ways. His powers were derived from a magic pendant which enabled him to fly, shoot laser beams from said pendant and do all kinds of other plenty-wonderful, superheroly stuff that thrilled my 5-year old heart.

I was a hardcore Prince Planet fan. I used to drive my teacher insane, lingering on the playground at the end of recess, until I was the last kid left out there. I'd perch at the top of the slide, gripping 'my' imaginary Prince Planet pendant in my grubby little paws.

"Johnny! Oh, Johnny!" called Ms. Wollsham, my kindergarten teacher, who bore a resemblance to the actress who played Aunt Bea on "The Andy Griffith Show". "Recess is over now, Johnny. It's film-strip time. You like film-strips, don't you? Please climb down from there. You could get hurt. . ."

Ignoring Ms. Wollsham, I pushed a hidden button on my imaginary pendant and leapt into the air. In my mind, a burst of light erupted from the pendant. "PPPPPPP-PA-ZOW!" I shouted, just like my hero as he transformed himself from his secret identity, the timid Earth boy 'Bobby,' into the unstoppable galactic prince. When my feet hit the ground, I too was superpowered space royalty. Ms. Wollsham destroyed the fantasy by grabbing me by the collar and dragging me back into school. She had Aunt Bea's face, but a beeyotch's temper, you see.

Sometime around 1976 or so, Prince Planet disappeared from the airwaves. I moved on with my life. A couple of times over the years, I'd mention the show to friends of mine. Many of them were cartoon/comic book junkies, like me. None of them had heard of the fantastic hero from planet Radion. After a while, I got to thinking that it was something I'd dreamed up myself, a side effect of mixing prunes and childhood adrenalin. Then I put it out of my mind.

The other day, I was noodling around on YouTube. I was semi-impressed by the fact that, there, I could locate clips of the battle scene from Orson Welles' "Chimes At Midnight", rare footage of poet Anne Sexton reading her work and scenes from Winsor McKay's first-ever animated cartoons. YouTube's search engine beckoned me, all but challenged me, to play stump the Web. Somehow, out of the primordial ooze of my subconsciousness, Prince Planet emerged. I keyed in the name and suddenly, after thirty years, there he was in all of his black-and-white glory.

Today, I have no idea where any of my kindergarten classmates might be. I don't know what became of Ms. Wollsham after I left her class (much to her relief). Even the school itself has disappeared, the victim of demolition in favor of an addition onto the nearby junior high building. That big old Zenith was chucked out years ago, replaced by at least four or five other sets, the most recent being my father's treasured widescreen Sony. Nearly everyone and everything of that time that seemed so solid, so permanent, has vanished into the vapor of memory.

But not Prince Planet. He's still steadfast, undaunted and unchanged. Right down to the little gleam you can see in his eye as he's kicking the villian's ass. Godspeed, Prince Planet. And thank you, YouTube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rICZm3PnjSI&mode=related&search=

"Bludgeon" Journalism

2007-04-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, here’s Johnny-Come-Lately, lagging behind the rest of the world with his two cents on the latest Issue. But I hope you’ll forgive me when I say that it has taken me this long to write on the topic. I needed time to ingest and digest the tsunami of information said Issue produced. The Issue? I have only to write three words: Virginia Tech shootings.

Now, don’t run away just yet. I’m sure you think you’ve heard all you need to hear about that horrible tragedy. You might think that this Internet yahoo can’t say anything more about this national nightmare than the educated professionals haven’t already said. I agree with you on both points. But remember, I said that Virginia Tech was the Issue—not the topic I was considering. That’s something completely different, and I hope you’ll stick around for it.

The topic? Bludgeon journalism.

I believe the term defines itself. It’s the reason you and I don’t want to hear any more about the Virginia Tech shootings. Or the late Boris Yeltsin. Or the blockheaded Don Imus. Or the Duke University lacrosse team debacle, Alberto Gonzales, Karl Rove, poisoned pet food, ‘the Wal-Mart effect’, global warming, Prozac-popping dogs, anybody currently running for president of the United States, Barry Bonds, Britney Spears, Rosie O’Doughnuts, the guy with the weird hair who just got booted off American Idol, poor ol’ Anna Nicole Smith, et al.

It’s not that these topics don’t deserve media coverage. They all do, in varying degrees. They deal with important issues we all should spend time—more than we usually do—considering, if only to determine where we stand on them. How to prevent gun violence. How to help the mentally ill. Racism. Sexism. The environment. Government. The corporatization of our society. Food safety. The use and misuse of ‘wonder drugs’ like steroids and Prozac. These are all hot-button issues on which every adult everywhere should have informed opinions. These days, unfortunately, the only subjects that seem to get all-inclusive examination concern Britney, Rosie and the like.

Why is that? The ‘soft topics’ are simply more palpable than the heavier stuff. It’s just ‘funner’, dude, to discuss whether the next season of Paris and Nicole’s show will be titled The Simple Life: Incarceration or not. Gossip-wise, pondering what we’ll do after the last drop of Amoco Ultimate on Earth, anywhere, is sucked up and burned away—probably by a Cadillac Escalade shuttling Ms. Hilton to yet another red-carpet premiere— pales in comparison. Spend your lunch hour talking about how the authorities in and around Virginia Tech somehow managed to overlook a veritable parade of red warning flags around the shooter? Nah, doesn’t go well with a burger and fries. But how ‘bout that Bonds? I hear he’s gonna break Hank Aaron’s record ‘cause he’s mainlining Wheaties!

Maybe, though, we’d be more willing to give these heavier subjects the consideration they require if our noble news-dispensary, the media, presented them to us in a more even-handed way. The current method? Bludgeon journalism. For you techies, think of it as “the message board approach”. The Virginia Tech tragedy is a perfect example of this. Out of the blue, someone posts a new topic in the most sensationalistic terms possible. This inspires a feeding-frenzy of views and replies. The replies add further, often contradictory and plain erroneous data to the mix. More views, more replies, more claims and counter-claims. After a while, the facts and opinions start looking so much alike, you can’t tell one from the other. Finally, your head’s spinning, so you just log out.

Problem is, it isn’t a message board. With the news media, you haven’t that luxury. Well, you do, if you want to pitch your computer, cell phone, Blackberry, radio, TV, and all newspapers and magazines out the window. Then, all you have to do is shut said window, plug your ears with cotton and avoid all human contact for at least a week. I’m sure that’s what the families and friends of the Virginia Tech victims felt like doing in the immediate aftermath of the shootings. I can only imagine how chilling it must have been for them to have to see the killer’s face and listen to his voice, over and over again, on every channel. The media wouldn’t allow them to not do so. Their only recourse was complete isolation. Some were faced with a swarm of reporters outside their doors, so even that was impossible.

For 72 hours after the last shot was fired, it only got worse. Sound-bites were recycled until they were almost threadbare. There seemed to be a rush to categorize this incident, a stampede to make the definitive call. “Experts” weighed in again and again, using a slew of words to say pretty much the same thing, over and over: This was terrible. It should never have happened. We can’t let it happen again. Truer words were never spoken. More familiar words, too. The same ones they said after the Columbine shootings in 1999. The same ones they said after the Hubbard Woods School shootings in Winnetka, Illinois, in which a madwoman shot six children, killing one, in 1988. Each incident inspired the same media outpouring, the same sentiments and then. . .nothing. Until, horribly, the next time.

Turn on your favorite news source today. I’ll bet you’ll have to do a little searching to find a story on Virginia Tech. In another week or two, you’ll have to hunt even harder. All the tales have been told, apparently. No more sound-bites or headlines to be found there. The media’s already moved on, you see. That’s because the media’s a cart pulled by horses called “the audience”, right? And the media believes that its audience has moved on. Tears cried, flowers sent, church attended. Next case.

Not quite. In reality, those roles are reversed. We’re all seated in a wagon that’s pulled by a team of Clydesdales called ABC, NBC, CBS, and CNN, among others. Take another recent “big story” as an example. How long after Anna Nicole Smith exhaled her last breath were you able to easily locate detailed analysis of every aspect of her sad life? Weeks. Coverage in minute detail, including her childhood, her personal and business relationships, her sex life, the top five possible causes of her death. Heartfelt remembrances. Considerations of her ‘impact’ on American culture. 1001 things that nobody wanted or needed to know about this actress/model, and not just from the tabloids. Why? Because it was a ‘juicy’ story. Good for ratings, for hits, for sales. For views, for replies.

A story like Virginia Tech doesn’t have such a shelf life. The public can only stand being smacked over the head with that type of horror for so long before it starts tuning out. And make no mistake; it’s this bludgeoning approach which causes the tune-out. Bludgeon journalism is good for the short term, but bad for the long. The recovery process, the impact on all the communities affected, the steps Virginia Tech and local authorities will take to prevent such an incident from happening again—the detailed info we need for intelligent consideration—don’t make for good sound-bites. So, next case.

The families of the shooting victims deserved a chance to bury their dead before being confronted by the electronic ghost of their loved ones’ murderer. America, in general, deserved some deliberate contemplation of this tragedy. We needed it, for too long. The type of copious study that fosters understanding, allows one to get to the heart of an issue. The kind of study which yields answers which will, finally, allow us to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Anywhere. Ever.

But they, and we, didn’t get it. We got graphic details, the ravings of a psychopath and well-worn platitudes, because those boost ratings, baby. There’s no place for measured scrutiny in our news media. Bludgeon journalism rules the day. Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em often. And then hit the road.

So It Goes

2007-04-18T12:19:00.000-07:00

Kurt Vonnegut Jr., an American novelist, playwright and short story writer, died last Wednesday at age 84. He was best known as the author of Slaughterhouse Five, though he wrote several other books that were just as fine. Some bullshit critic, whom I won’t cite here because he’s/she’s a bullshit critic, called Vonnegut “our century’s Mark Twain.” He/she was right. Even bullshit critics hit the target now and then.

I’m not going to write a big tribute post to convince you of Vonnegut’s literary greatness. You’re going to have to take my word for it and head off to the library or bookstore. I’m doing this, you see, because I want you to read Vonnegut’s words and see for yourselves. If you’ve never read Kurt Vonnegut before, you are in for one hell of a treat. If you haven’t read him in a while, treat yourself by becoming reacquainted with his work.

Oh, English majors and book discussion groupies? Scratch what I said about “heading off to the library or bookstore” and just hit the bookstore—cash in hand. We reader-types have a moral obligation to keep books like Vonnegut’s in print.

To show you that I’m not a complete prick, I’ll provide this Top 5 Kurt Vonnegut Books Checklist to get you started:

⁬ Slaughterhouse Five

⁬ Welcome to the Monkey House

⁬ Cat’s Cradle

⁬ Mother Night

⁬ Timequake

Our world was a little better off for having Kurt Vonnegut in it. It sucks a bit more, now, without him. So it goes.

"Deathproof": Stale Jiffy Pop

2007-04-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT: Those of you who know me know that I am a movie fan. But I’m not a fan of 95% of contemporary American movies. Most of those are extended infomercials—loaded with product placements for soft drinks, ‘designer’ clothes, cars, etc.—or remakes of shitty-to-begin-with TV shows looking to capitalize on preexisting audiences. It takes a lot to get Brother John’s ample posterior into a theater seat. Quentin Tarantino is one of the few American filmmakers who can do that.

Tarantino makes films the way they used to be made—as art, or at least entertainment, not as made-by-committee products to be sold. His films are almost writerly in their style; he’s created a world filled with three-dimensional characters, firecracker language and an order that is utterly unique. Starting with “Pulp Fiction”, I’ve seen every Tarantino film in a theater on its initial release. Saw “Kill Bill Volume One” seven times, I did. Loved them all, I did. I anticipated loving his latest, “Deathproof”, as well.

This time out of the chute, Tarantino has paired his newest opus with another flick crafted by fellow maverick director Robert Rodriguez (“Sin City”, “Once Upon a Time in Mexico”), thus creating a double-feature collectively titled “Grindhouse”. Rodriguez and Tarantino share a love for American B-movies of the 1960s and 1970s. This genre, now as extinct as the dinosaur, flourished during the Nixon-Carter era in urban second-run cinemas called ‘grindhouses.’ It was a category which catered primarily to high school and college-aged males. Cannibal zombies from other planets, homicidal maniacs, graphic violence, car chases and almost-nude nymphs emoting badly were de rigueur. So were damaged, incomplete film prints. This wasn’t intellectual entertainment and it didn’t pretend to be. Occasionally, the grindhouse filmmakers and actors did rise above their cheap-shit circumstances to create works of intelligence and originality (Melvin Van Peeple’s “Sweet Sweetback’s Baaadaaasssss Song”). But mostly, grindhouse movies were just dimwitted fun. Or crap, depending on your point of view.

The advent of home video and cable TV did away with grindhouses in the early 1980s. People could enjoy drive-in-style horsepoop in the privacy of their own homes. So, evidently feeling misty for the late and unlamented phenomenon, Rodriguez and Tarantino have taken it upon themselves to recreate that experience for 21st Century film audiences. “Grindhouse” offers 1970s-style trailers for nonexistent films before and in-between both features, scratchy, skippy film stock and frequent “Missing Reel” headers, just like the good ol’ days. The only things missing are rats running up the aisles and drunks snoring in the front rows.

I’m not going to go into the Rodriguez picture, “Planet Terror”. It’s not bad; it certainly captures the look and feel of a 1970s B-grade flick. The amount of blood n’ guts in it, though, makes “Sin City” look like a Disney picture. Beautiful Rose McGowan plays the hell out of her part as a machine gun-legged stripper. Comely Marley Shelton excels, too, as Dr. Dakota Black, who’s really handy with a hypodermic needle. “Planet Terror” also features a surprise cameo by a major action movie star. Beyond that, it didn’t impress me.

The Tarantino selection, “Deathproof”, is the superior of the two films. In a nutshell: four sexy young women, including Sydney Poitier (yes, his daughter) and Jordan Ladd (her mom was on “Charlie’s Angels”) are stalked by scar-faced super-wacko “Stuntman Mike”, played by a scenery-chewing-and-clearly-enjoying-it Kurt Russell. Stuntman Mike is a former TV/movie stuntman (natch) who drives around in a navy blue 1969 Chevy Nova SS outfitted with the safety features of a film stunt-car, which renders it, he claims, “death-proof”. But the twentysomething girls aren’t impressed with old fart Mike (a scrupulous teetotaler) or his barroom tales of stunts performed for stars they don’t know on shows they’ve never seen (Robert Urich on “Vegas”). They give Mike the brush-off. Driving home, the girls crash head-on into a blue ’69 Chevy Nova SS driven by. . .guess who? Only Stuntman Mike survives. And since Mike’s cold sober and the girls weren’t, the local sheriff lets the deranged stuntman walk.

Months later, Mike’s back to his old tricks. Now he’s trailing a different quartet of hotties: movie makeup artist Rosario Dawson, stuntwomen Marcy Harriell and Zoë Bell and actress Mary Elizabeth Winstead, who are working on a nearby film set. Long story made short: the girls visit a goober who’s selling a white 1970 Dodge Challenger. They talk Jethro into letting Zoë, Rosario and Marcy test-drive it. In a stunt soon to be imitated by morons across America, Zoë (a real-life stuntwoman) stretches out on the car’s hood, holding onto only two belts tied to either side view mirror, while Marcy races the Challenger up and down conveniently vacant dirt roads. Rosario rides shotgun and provides “Whew-Hoo, go girl!!” commentary.

Long story made shorter: Stuntman Mike rams the girls’ car from behind several times, as Zoë clings to the hood for dear life. He runs the Challenger off the road; Marcy surprises Mike by pulling a pistol and pumping a bullet into his arm. The women proceed to chase Mike, ramming his car several times and running him off the road. The women tear Mike from the wrecked Nova and take turns beating the snot out of him. Mike’s knocked to the ground; Rosario kills him by jumping on his throat. The end.

Yes, that’s it—really. No profound allegories, no big symbolic undertones, nothing. I realize the bar for this film was set comparatively low, grindhouse genre and all, but come on! And there's nothing new, for that matter. What QT has served up here is basically a mish-mash of his previous efforts. There are long conversations, a la “Pulp Fiction”, set in bars and coffee shops. There are pop culture references aplenty— two young guys in a bar refer to Stuntman Mike as “B.J.” from “B.J. and the Bear”, for example. Nearly-forgotten rock bands? Check. Just before biting the dust, the first set of actresses are seen grooving to a radio pop hit by 1960s British Invasion rockers Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. A supporting part played by a faded 1970s TV star? Yup—Michael Parks of “Then Came Bronson”, recreating the role he played in “Kill Bill” (the aforementioned sheriff).

Somehow, though, it just. . .goes nowhere. Part of the problem is that there are too many logistical holes and unanswered questions. Just why Stuntman Mike does what he does is one of them. He’s just “nutz" with a capital ‘N’, I guess. While plotting was never a strong point in grindhouse movies, it was there. I mean, we all know why Shaft wanted to kick the Man’s ass, right? And Tarantino telegraphs too many of his moves in advance. Example: Rosario Dawson, in the coffee shop scene, refers to Zoë Bell as “Zoë the Cat” for the stuntwoman’s uncanny ability to emerge from dangerous spills unharmed. Then, in case the audience didn’t catch it, Rosario says it two or three times more. And of course, when Stuntman Mike knocks Zoë off the Challenger’s hood into some brush, she comes out with nary a scratch.

“Deathproof” plays like Tarantino wrote the script five minutes before shooting it. It’s tired, lazy filmmaking, plain and simple. Zoë Bell, for example, is billed as playing “herself.” I don’t know how much acting experience she has, but Zoë is charming in this film and has definite screen presence. Why couldn’t Tarantino write her an honest-to-God character to play? And for all the hoo-ha about recreating the grindhouse heyday, “Deathproof” seems stranded halfway between 1976 and 2007. Scratched film, vintage cars and Carter-era cultural references abound, but throughout the movie, characters are seen blabbing on cell phones and text-messaging each other. It’s as confusing and annoying as hell.

I didn’t hate “Deathproof”. Really. It is what it is—a popcorn movie, fast, loose and full of hulls. But when you’re used to gourmet entrees from a master chef, it’s a little jarring to be served up junk food like this. Why a talented filmmaker like Tarantino would waste his time on a knockoff molded in the style of schlockmeisters like Roger Corman and Russ Meyer is a mystery to me. It’s as if Bob Dylan abandoned songwriting to pen TV commercial jingles. They’d be some fine jingles, but—they’d be jingles, for Christ's sake.

Okay, Quentin, I’ll let you slide by for now. But next time, I’ll expect something more substantial from you than stale Jiffy Pop.

One, Two Strikes and I'm Out

2007-03-06T13:30:00.000-08:00

I made an important, life-changing decision today. And I made it for two reasons:

1.) This excerpt from the March 6th Chicago Tribune article, "Busy Day for Bears: Trade, Demands" by John Mullin: "'The Bears' quest for a return to the NFL title game might have become a bit harder Monday as they traded No. 1 running back Thomas Jones to the New York Jets amid the furor created by Pro Bowl linebacker Lance Briggs declaring that he wants out of Chicago.'" (See the complete article at http://chicagosports.chicagotribune.com/sports/football/bears/cs-0703060059mar06,1,3987304.story?coll=cs-football-print)

2.) This excerpt from the March 4th Chicago Tribune article, "Sox Sock it to Pinella", by Paul Sullivan: "'Listen, I'm glad it was only spring training," [Chicago Cubs manager Lou] Piniella said. "That's the one good saving grace out of this thing. Our pitchers aren't pitching very well and our hitters aren't hitting very well. Outside of that, we're OK.'" [Piniella's comments followed a pre-season shellacking the Cubs suffered at the hands of their crosstown rivals, the Chicago White Sox.] (See the complete article at http://chicagosports.chicagotribune.com/sports/baseball/whitesox/cs-0703050055mar05,1,3090553.story?coll=cs-baseball-print)

I was never a general sports fanatic. Whatever was going on in America's Big 4 pro sports (baseball, football, basketball, ice hockey) in athletic powerhouse towns like New York, Boston, Detroit or Los Angeles never interested me. Sure, I could admire the talents of Eric Dickerson, Isaiah Thomas, Wayne Gretsky and Bill Laimbeer. Well, maybe not Laimbeer. But watching those guys play was never more than an intellectual exercise for me. There was no emotion involved. Sporting fandom, in its purest form, has to have some feeling involved. And for Brother John, that meant "hometown" teams. Chicago teams.

Okay, so I'm not technically "from" Chicago. But I'm close enough to the City of Big Shoulders to call it home, at least sports-wise. And lo, these many years, I've hoped, dreamed, believed, suffered and wept with Chicago sports fans as I've watched the Cubs, White Sox, Bears, Bulls, and Blackhawks crash at the end of the runway, like one of Wile E. Coyote's rocket-powered Acme contraptions, over and over again. And over and over again, at the end of each season, I joined millions of Chicago sports fans in chanting that phrase so oft-repeated, it's drifted beyond cliche into the realm of High Camp: "Wait 'til next year!"

Well, not this year. Or any other one beyond that. I'm through with Chicago sports teams, once and for all. Yes, really. I mean it!

It's not because I demand every Chicago team be in the playoffs or in first place all season, every season. It's not because I require every Chicago player to be a Grade-A star. It's because of the truly, utterly boneheaded moves these teams' respective big-wigs make, year after year, which allow Chicago's "tradition" of sports mediocrity to continue unabated. Most of the time, such decisions hinge upon one thing and one thing only: money. And call me Captain Obvious, but what one thing have Chicago sports team owners done, consistently, since Tinker, Evers and Chance were making double plays in the infield at Wrigley? Try to squeeze a dollar out of two bits.

We've seen it with the Bears this past season. Head Coach Lovie Smith leads the team to the Super Bowl. Lovie Smith, as it turned out, was the absolute lowest-paid head coach in the whole NFL. When was the last time the Bears made it to the Super Bowl? When Ronald Reagan was president, Russia was an evil empire and Michael Jackson was topping the charts. Say, just for talking purposes, you are the honcho who cuts the checks for the Chicago Bears organization. You'd want the Bears to return to the Super Bowl, right? You might not want to wait for six presidential terms to pass before they do, right? You might even want the Bears to win next time, right? And you might even be afflicted with an acute case of conscious, in which you may believe that a quality coach like Smith should actually be paid what he's worth, right? So, when the time came, like it did in February, to renegotiate Lovie Smith's contract, you'd gladly up his salary, right? Right?

Wrong! At one point, according to an article posted on USA Today's web site (See the complete article at http://www.usatoday.com/sports/football/nfl/bears/2007-03-01-lovie-smith_N.htm), Smith's agent announced that his client and the Bears had come to an impasse and claimed that 2007 would be Smith's last season coaching in Chicago. Somehow, the NFL's 2005 Coach of the Year and Bears team president Ted Phillips were able to hammer out a last-minute agreement which will pay Smith about $4.7 million annually until 2011. The fact that Smith had to do everything just short of grabbing Bears owner Virginia Halas McCaskey by the ankles and shaking the money out of her pockets is obscene.

Then, there's the Cubs. This is a team whose very name has come to imply mediocrity and incompetence. The short, shameful list: the '69 Meltdown, the '84 Unraveling, the '89 Breakdown, the '98 Burnout and last but not least, the '03 Phawkup. If you want to blame billy goat curses, black cats on the field and Steve Bartman, be my guest. But as far as I'm concerned, the only ones you can point a finger at are those calling the shots behind the scenes at 1060 West Addison Street. College of Coaches, anyone?

If freshman Cubs manager Lou Piniella's above-quoted remarks are any indication, this will be yet another banner year for baseball on Chicago's North Side. The Cubs' pitchers can't pitch and their hitters can't hit, but beyond those minor details, says Lou, the team's in good shape. That's like saying your Dodge Durango just blew a piston and has three flat tires, but overall, it's a pretty reliable ride. I predict that by July 4, 2007, the Cubs will be in last place in the National League Central, where they will stay for the remainder of the season. Cubs fans might as well start drinking now. The nondrinking Cubs fans? They can just hit themselves over the head repeatedly with a rubber mallet, as usual.

For the first time in my life, though, I won't be joining them. Like Johnny Cash and speed, I've sworn off Chicago sports for life. British rugby's my new fave. A hardcore Warrington Wolves fan, I am. I can't wait for that sold-out home stand against the St. Helens Saints this Friday. Go, Wolves!

An Open, Constructive & Most PC Letter to Foreign Dude

2007-02-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

He’s a visitor who frequents the Spendorama Department Store. A visitor who, at least once a month, always manages to find me there and bring his pile of clearance shi—I mean, valued purchases that just happen to be red-tagged merchandise—to a cash register I happen to be working. I can’t, of course, mention him by name. So I will simply describe him and hope my message gets through to the appropriate party.

Sometimes he’s from Europe—mostly the former Communist bloc. Sometimes he’s from Central or South America. Once, he was from South Africa. Usually, he’s from Asia. He’s in the 35-55 bracket, age-wise. Occasionally, he’s blue collar; but for the most part, I’d say he’s a white collar worker. For convenience’s sake, I’ll give this man a nickname. I’ll call him—in only the most respectful and politically correct of ways—“Foreign Dude”.

Dear Foreign Dude:

Hey there. You might remember me. I’m a salesman at the schlock-house department store you raid, regularly, for clearance stuff to (I presume) ship home to your place of origin. I mean, what else would you be doing with all those shirts, sweaters and socks? That’s a very admirable endeavor, to be sure. We do so appreciate your patronage, sir. Without you, we’d still be stuck with all those “It Is What It Is!” T-shirts. I’m sure those earned you the admiration of all your relatives and friends, who can’t get over your newfound American wit. A short stay in the U.S. of A. has transformed you into a regular Captain Chuckles. Way to go!

Being a perceptive and intelligent person, I’m sure you’ve noticed a million and one differences between life in America and life in the Old Country. I’m sure some of our standards and practices don’t quite make sense to you or measure up to those in the Old Country. Depending on where you’re from, you may be new at this “freedom of speech” thing. Maybe even a little drunk with power. All very valid feelings. But, that said, please allow me to make my point.

NONE OF THIS IS MY FAULT. I AM NOT UNCLE SAM.

I don’t know why Americans are "so fat”. I’m not the reason Americans are so “under-educated”. Don’t, please, highlight this fact by calculating totals in your head before the cash register does, or dropping a quote from Confucius or Plato. I don’t know why Americans are “so lazy”. In case you haven’t noticed, I happen to be at work, which would infer that I, an American, am NOT lazy. I don’t know why American children “have no respect”. You might have noticed that I’m not one of them. I don’t know why American women walk around “half-naked”. If you’re so damn interested, ask one of them. And as for your observations of “my” various American “minority groups”? Refer to my previous suggestion.

Foreign Dude, if you require information, visit your local public library. Don't hassle me with 101 questions about American practices. I’m sorry that you’re mystified by sales tax. The fact that you’re confused by U.S. traffic laws, safety regulations, public standards of decency, cleanliness and the price of potatoes in Idaho is someone else’s problem. The salesman, Foreign Dude, is not a fountain of American knowledge for you to quaff. I just point you to the racks and scan the bar codes.

I will, however, offer you a bit of advice regarding freedom of speech. Just because you have this privilege doesn’t mean you should always use it. I’m not interested in your opinions regarding my hair, my clothes, the proportions of my body, etc. I’m not required to provide you with details regarding my weekly work schedule, my paycheck, my educational background or my religious and political preferences. I don’t want yours, either. No, I won’t introduce you to the “hat leetle muma” I happen to be working with. She’s unavailable anyway; she has a test tomorrow.

Lastly, Foreign Dude, I am not the president of Spendorama Department Stores, Incorporated. I don’t decide what merchandise goes on the shelves, what the prices are, how wide the aisles are, when the store opens, when it closes, what the return policy or shipping rates are. I don’t know why we close early on Super Bowl Sunday, but not on Easter Sunday. And wave your American Express card in front of me as much as you like. I see dozens of them a day. It don’t impress me, Mr. Rockefeller.

I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m criticizing you. You do impress me in many ways—your rudeness, most of all. For someone so new to these shores, you’ve become as selfish and arrogant as native-born Yanks. Congrats on that and good luck with your continued Americanization.

See you in the clearance aisle,

John Left

Go Chicago Bears Go!

2007-01-31T13:49:00.000-08:00

ALL THE WAY! NEXT YEAR IS HERE! Score one for Walter Payton #34!

"What is defeat? Nothing but education; nothing but the first step to something better."

---Wendell Phillips

R.I.P. Tower Records

2007-01-17T17:11:00.000-08:00

It was only a store. A franchise, at that. Those come and go like weeds these days. Why should this one be any different? Why did it hurt to lose this one?

If you live within 200 miles of Chicago, you’ve probably heard about the demise of that city’s beloved retail icon, Marshall Field’s. Even if you’re not a Midwesterner, you might've heard the tale. How the East Coast retail giant, Macy’s, bought out Field’s like Captain Jack Sparrow might've boarded the Good Ship Lollipop. How Macy’s cruised into town like the evil Once-ler in Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax, ignored the wishes of the locals and tried to impose a New York State of Mind upon Chicagoans. How this has caused many Chicagoans to vehemently protest—protests that have ranged from refusing to shop at Macy’s to actually picketing Macy’s stores. How Macy’s was left, like the Once-ler, fondling its sluggish Chicago Christmas sales like that last, lonely Truffula seed.

You have? Good for you. But this post is about a different store: the late, great Tower Records. I know what those Field’s fans are going through, though. It feels like I’ve lost a close friend.

There was only one Tower Records store in my vicinity and it was almost an hour’s drive away. I didn’t, like Bruce Willis, drop $15,000 there in one visit. I didn’t, like indoor beach enthusiast Brian Wilson, hang out in my bathrobe there (BOTH TRUE: http://www.suburbanchicagonews.com/beaconnews/lifestyles/132292,2_5_AU12_TOWER_S1.article). But I did manage to get to Tower about once a month and I never left the store empty-handed.

I can hear you now, especially you Gen-Y’ers. “Big sigh, Methuselah!” you’re saying. “You’ll just have to ask your 7-year old nephew to order stuff for you on Amazon.com. Prices are lower and they’ll ship those Monkees CD’s right to your door. Or God forbid, you’ll have to actually exercise your frontal lobe and learn to shop online yourself!”

Yeah, I suppose so. I realize Amazon.com is cheaper and more efficient. I know that you can find a gazillion and one more CD’s, DVD’s, videos and books there than the biggest Tower Records store could ever stock. It is far easier, and often preferable, to have your audio/video goodies delivered discreetly to your home. I learned this about five years ago when, upon exiting my local Tower, I ran into an old friend of my mother’s, “Mrs. Pharisaic" the Sunday school teacher. Mrs. P. was there to buy her granddaughter a copy of “Veggie Tales: Heroes of the Bible”. I had just purchased a copy of “Spiderbabe”, starring the noted thespian Misty Mundae (http://www.towerrecords.com/product.aspx?pfid=2892282&title=Spiderbabe). A word to the wise: always, always ask for a bag. Mrs. P.'s mouth flapped like a storm door in a hurricane and Mom didn’t speak to me for a week.

But it won’t be the same. Online, you can’t actually pick up the merchandise, look it over, feel it, experience it before the sale is rung up. With internet purchases, you’ve got to base your choice on a tiny excerpt from the work, on the seller's sales pitch, or on a “review” written by somebody like “Musikfreak99” of Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, who writes like he failed the same junior high English class that Harry “Ain’t It Cool News” Knowles did. Online, it’s always something of a gamble. And, with 101 ads for related and additional products blinking at you from the computer screen, the focus is always on the sale. You’re never allowed to forget that you’re there to spend, Spend, $PEND!!!

What’s more, you can’t cross-reference online. Well, you can, if search engines turn you on (All right, but this is not about me and Ms. Dewey, okay?). At Tower, I could pick up a biography about Bob Dylan, browse through a few chapters and see a reference to the folk singer Odetta. I could research Odetta’s career in any one of the recognized music reference books and magazines Tower Records stocked and read up on her definitive albums. Then, I could amble over to the “Folk/New Age” section and find those albums sitting on the shelf. While there, I might spy several other names I recognized from the Dylan biography: Dave Van Ronk, Richie Havens, Ramblin’ Jack Elliot, Joni Mitchell. And I could repeat the process, which I believe is called “learning”, and it was actually fun. Then I could buy those albums—or not. Not once did any Tower employee ever approach me and pressure me to buy something. When I did take a selection to the checkout stand, the Tower clerk never tried to strong-arm me into other purchases or extras of any kind. The clerk simply rang up my stuff and thanked me for stopping in. In this day and age, it was like traveling to another retail planet.

True, Tower’s prices tended to run to the higher end of the scale. But in exchange for discounts, you got selection. Where else could you find albums by Black Flag, Shakira, Grandmaster Flash and Bond sitting mere feet from each other? Where else might you find a DVD copy of Orson Welles’ best (in my opinion) movie, “F for Fake”, an aisle away from a DVD of Ursula Andress’ finest film performance, “The Sensuous Nurse”? Who stocked comedy albums by Pigmeat Markham and Moms Mabley, as well as spoken word albums by Henry Rollins and Gregory Corso? Who else had Jack Kerouac books, Marvel Comics action figures (Hard-to-find ones, like Captain America and the Silver Surfer!), picture postcards of Dylan Thomas, posters of Bettie Page, copies of both the British and Italian editions of Maxim and locally-produced fanzines of various ilks? Not Best Buy and Barnes and Noble combined, that’s for damned sure. At least, not without making you wait for weeks for “special orders”.

For those of you living in major cities, where independent as well as chain stores of this kind are plentiful, it may seem like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. But for those of us lost in these vast hinterlands called the Suburbs, a store like Tower was nothing less than a cultural outpost. Occasionally, honest-to-God celebrities would actually travel here and do personal appearances in the store. It helped us yokels remember that we were part of the, like, actual world.

It was at my local Tower, in fact, that I had my one and only encounter with a gen-u-ine famous person. Couple years back, the Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan dropped in to autograph copies of his poetry book, Blinking with Fists. After standing in line for a few chilly November hours, I was admitted into the store. There, a quartet of bodyguards resembling Bluto from “Popeye” allowed me to come within six feet of the talented Mr. Corgan, who was seated at a folding table with a bunch of black Sharpie markers. As he signed my book, we had the following exchange:

BILLY CORGAN: (scribbling his name) Hi.

JOHN LEFT: (flushed and shivering) Hi.

BILLY CORGAN: Lousy weather, huh?

JOHN LEFT: Typical November!

BILLY CORGAN: (hands signed book to bodyguard, who passes it to another bodyguard who passes it to Left) Yeah.

JOHN LEFT: (looking at autographed page while moving toward exit) Thanks! Can’t wait for your next album!

BILLY CORGAN: (already signing the next fan’s book) Thank you, sir!

It ain’t much, that’s true. But it also ain’t going to happen at your local Wal-Mart (“Your First Stop for Music!”) any time soon.

Damn, damn, damn, double-damn! This sucks like an Oreck XL. Where am I going to go to get my “fix” of the stuff that, for me, is the spice of life? The stuff that makes me feel like a tuned in, cultured person with a functioning brain? Not from “big box” stores with fluorescent lights, staffed by gum-popping Clearasil cases who think Britney Spears invented rock n’ roll. You can put that on a plate and serve it up hot.

Well, I guess I’ll just have to stop standing outside the now-vacant store, whimpering, with my face pressed against its glass doors. I considered protesting, but picketing an empty building seemed anticlimatic. Besides, you need more than one person to form a picket line.

Let’s see, my nephew is off school on Saturdays and pee-wee hockey doesn’t start up until next month. If I offer to do—I mean, “help” him with—his book report on The Phantom Tollbooth, he might be willing to create an Amazon account for me. Maybe.

Have a Mrs. Peel Kind of Year!

2007-01-03T14:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, it all depends on how you look at it. For optimists, it’s a New Year’s opportunity for remember-whening and summing up. For the pessimist, it’s scraping the bottom of the cultural trash can and acknowledging the 500-pound gorilla in the room. Either way, I swear that there’s a Point in here somewhere. Do you recall these folks?

1.) Byron Cherry and Christopher Mayer (circa 1982) of “The Dukes of Hazzard”: Byron and Chris took over for original stars John Schneider (“Bo Duke”) and Tom Wopat (“Luke Duke”) during the popular TV show’s 5th season. Why the substitution? Bo and Luke, struck with an acute case of Gary Burghoff-itis, decided that they were Major Television Stars with Bright Futures and held out for more money. The show’s producers told Bo and Luke to shove a pair o’ possums up their hoo-hahs sideways. Plucked from obscurity overnight, these two unknowns soldiered on as Bo’s and Luke’s cousins, “Coy” (Byron) and “Vance” (Christopher), through 1982-83. This resulted in one of the most stunning surprises in television history: ratings for “The Dukes of Hazzard” tanked quicker than the General Lee on sugared Premium. Schneider and Wopat, having ironed out their differences with the newly-cooperative producers, returned to the show in 1983. Coy and Vance left Hazzard County soon after and never returned—not even for the “Reunion” episode in 1997. See what happens when you sneak into Daisy’s room uninvited?

2.) Linda Thorson (circa 1968) of “The Avengers”: In 1967, pop culture icon Diana Rigg (“Emma Peel”), deciding that she’d had it up to “there” starring in an international TV hit, quit “The Avengers”. Canadian beauty Linda Thorson signed on the next year to play John Steed’s new Girl Friday, rookie agent “Tara King”. While Tara King was beautiful, intelligent and capable, after the sultry, leather-clad, kung-fu-fighting, take-no-prisoners Mrs. Peel, she just seemed rather. . .blasè. “The Avengers” was cancelled in 1969.

3.) Helen Slater (circa 1984) as “Supergirl”: Back in the mid-1980’s, this blonde stunner seemed ready to conquer Hollywood. She headlined the feature films “Supergirl” and “The Legend of Billy Jean”, and costarred in “Ruthless People” and “The Secret of My Success”. True, Ms. Slater was beautiful—my, how she filled out that red and blue costume! Trouble was, she couldn’t act. When attempting drama, she was stiff and unintentionally funny. In comic roles, she came off as shrill and boring. These days, according to the split-second glance I took at Wikipedia, Slater’s work (when she does work) consists mostly of “indie” films (i.e., ones nobody sees) and guest-starring bits on TV. If she still has that Supergirl outfit, I wonder if she ever wears it? Late at night, maybe, while posing at home in the bathroom mirror. . .well, uh, ahem. I won’t go there.

The point to all this? As years went, 2006 was the equivalent to these TV also-ran’s. Bland, dull and quickly forgotten. At least in Brother John’s neck of the woods. Nothing bad happened (thank God), but nothing really good happened, either.

I’m not in the habit of making New Year’s resolutions. But since structure is key, what the hell? Here’s hoping that my, yours and everyone’s 2007 is a Mrs. Peel kind of year. Or at least, not another “Tara King” kind of year, anyhow.

The Night I Fa-La-La-Lost It

2006-12-14T17:29:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I overdid it. Just a little bit. Or maybe not.

Christmas time isn’t my favorite season, to put it mildly. Since I wrote about it at length roughly a year ago, I won’t go into it here. Let’s just say that Brother John is a proud Grinch, for many good reasons. Christmas music is at the top of the list.

On an average day, if you enter the Spendorama Department Store I toil in, your ears will be assaulted by the greatest hits of the 70’s and 80’s. Yes, on the hit parade of retail P.A. systems, Fleetwood Mac and Taylor Dane are still in heavy rotation. That is, until early November, when they switch to an all-Christmas music format. Now, I’m a pretty discriminating rock fan. Taylor Dane’s music is the audio equivalent to Wonder Bread. But take it from me: after eight consecutive hours of “rumpa-pum-pumming”, Taylor Dane sounds like the voice of an angel.

Why oh why do they do this? Do they think there’s a customer somewhere who wouldn’t know it’s Christmas unless he or she heard “Joy to the World” rendered by everyone from Frank Sinatra to the Jackson Five? Do they think that playing every iota of life out of passably tolerable holiday songs, like Bruce Springsteen’s version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town”, will somehow prompt customers to buy yet another sweater or pair of socks? Don’t they realize how maddening such an a-wassailing blitz can be? For me, Christmas music is like the thick, gooey icing found on most Christmas cookies. A little bit tastes delicious. Too much can induce vomiting.

Listening to so much holiday music, so often, is like being beaten upside the head with the brightly-garnished branch of a Christmas tree. Your mind starts to travel to some bleak and bizarre places. After hearing “White Christmas” for the 999th time, you start wishing that Bob Hope would’ve done the “paddy cake” routine from “Road to Morocco” on Der Bingle, knocking his ass out so he couldn’t have waxed the damned song. After listening to “Silver Bells” just as often, you wish the two little Asian kids Bob encounters while crooning the tune in “The Lemon Drop Kid” (“O Ling! O Ling! O Ling!”) would’ve kicked him in the nuts in mid-ling. This is what audio torture does to you.

Home provided no solace. Just up the street from us live two neighbors I’ll call “Brad” and “Trish”. Two more prototypical yuppies have never walked this Earth. When not busy selling insurance and real estate, respectively, Brad and Trish unwind by being “community boosters”. Grandma Left would’ve called them “pot-stirrers”. When it turns Decemberish, Brad and Trish gather up their three whining, preteen brats and go up and down the block resurrecting a “tradition” that, like the stockade and tarring and feathering, was best forgotten: Christmas caroling.

You got it. Brad, Trish and the kids—inevitably decked out in Santa hats and mittens—stand outside your front door and wail, like a poor man’s Partridge Family, the season’s greatest hits. You’re supposed to rush to the door, listen appreciably and then reward these tone-deaf troubadours with “cash, cookies or cups of hot cocoa.” Why, you might ask, have I placed quotation marks around that last phrase? Because, Kindred Souls, I am only quoting from the photocopied note Trish sends ‘round each year, in advance of their “visit”. Other neighbors are invited to join the caroling party; of course, since this is 21st Century America, nobody ever does.

No big deal, you might say, just act like you’re not home. Good idea, but no soap. If you don’t respond to “Jingle Bells”, Brad, Trish and the kids will follow it up with “Silent Night”. If that doesn’t do it, they’ll encore with “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, “Frosty the Snowman” and so on, until you cough up a buck or a gingersnap. Last year, they subjected poor old Mrs. Fischer across the street to all “Twelve Days of Christmas” before she was able to drive them off with half a bag of Oreos.

The last night, it was our turn. At around 7p.m, Mom and Dad were downstairs, wrapping presents and arguing over how to load batteries into the remote-controlled racecar they bought for my 8-year old nephew. Having just completed an 8-hour shift in retail hell, I was sitting listlessly at the kitchen table, in my usual shell-shocked state. From the front porch came wafting the strangled sounds of “Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly”. After an entire day of such crap, something in me just snapped. Like a jungle cat, I sprang into action.

Without thinking, I went to the refrigerator and opened it. Instinctively, my hands reached toward the back and pulled out the half-eaten pecan and untouched pumpkin pies leftover from Thanksgiving. Leftover, because these pies were baked by my sister. My sister is a wonderful woman, but baking is not one of her many talents. Mechanically, I carried the pies to the front door. I stood and listened for the climactic “la”. At last, the final notes faded into the chilly night air.

Honestly, I only meant to offer them some pie. Glutinous, musky pumpkin and rocklike caramelized pecan, but holiday treats nevertheless. At the last minute, as I opened the door, I thought I’d simply toss the pies out to them. I mean, why make hard-working Christmas carolers walk all the way up to the door to get their rewards? Wasn’t one of the kids in peewee football? Sure. He’d get it. Just like a forward pass. Yeah.

As God as my witness, it wasn’t intentional. Who knew pumpkins and pecans could fly so well? Or splat so beautifully? This is what audio torture can drive you to.

I may get coal in my stocking for the rest of my life, but at least I know that, from now on, there’s one Christmas song that will always make me smile.

My Beloved Ms. Dewey

2006-11-27T17:53:00.000-08:00

I cannot believe it. I am in love with a search engine.

Kindred Souls, you know me. I am an All-American horn dog. I have devoted many posts to my romantic pursuits, both real and imaginary. You name the female, I’ve lusted after her: comic book heroine, movie/TV star, model, porn star, coworker, boss, classmate, teacher, friend, neighbor, commercial pitchwoman. . .my randiness knows no bounds.

Lately, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time online. Specifically, doing “research” on a search engine. Not a big deal, unless you have no real purpose for using said search engine. That’s right, I just log on to this search engine, randomly type in topics, hit the magic button and wait for the results, just for fun. And no, most of the time, I do not click on any of the search results.

I know. You’re shaking your head right now and “tsk-tsking” in pity. “It’s finally happened,” you’re saying. “Left has lost all his marbles.” If you have sons, you’re calling them to the computer screen. “See this?” you say, admonishing them in that Parental Warning tone. “This is what you get for beating the bishop!”

What can I say? I’m in love. If I could, I’d jump up and down on Oprah Winfrey’s sofa whilst declaring it to the world, scuttling my fast-fading movie career in the pro—oh, wait.

Since that’s already been done, I can only invite you to become acquainted with my beloved. Her name is Ms. Dewey and she lives at http://www.msdewey.com. Unlike Google or Yahoo, who just coldly spit out information with nary a comment, my beloved speaks directly to me. Ms. Dewey awaits my every keystroke with an anticipation bordering on erotic. If I don’t hurry up and key in a topic, she’ll knock on the screen impatiently and say, “HELLOOOOO?!? Type something here!” Sometimes, she playfully shoots rubberbands at me. The lil' minx! She has a musical voice, a sexy outfit, an unending stock of one-liners and a range of facial expressions that keep me thinking of things that Sister Mary Chastity, back in C.C.D. class, said would damn me to eternal fire. But if Heaven is full of Jabba the Hut-lookalikes like Sister, I’d rather roast in Hell, snuggling with Ms. Dewey.

Yes, I agree. It’s a pathetic, cyber version of “Stump the Band”. But I don’t care. I’m in love. Now, if you’ll excuse me. . .

Ms Dewey! Oh, Ms. Dewwwwwey! I’ve got one! George Lazenby! The Banana Splits! The Trojan War! Spelunking! Marshall Brodien’s Magic Set! Ju-Jitsu! Yvonne Craig! The Daleks! Pop rocks! Shrinky-Dinks! Virginia Woolf! “B.J. and the Bear”! Clog dancing! Maureen McCormick! The Unified Field Theory. . .

Job Fair Fandango

2006-10-30T17:27:00.000-08:00

With the specter of a Christmas at the Spendorama Department Store looming on my horizon, I have spent many a recent day off jumpstarting my errant job search. Trolling the want ads and job search websites has been as productive as it’s ever been—i.e., not at all. I did, however, spy a listing which gave me a sliver of hope to cling to. “JOB FAIR!” it screamed in block letters. “OVER 70 POTENTIAL EMPLOYERS! BRING YOUR RESUME AND FIND YOUR FUTURE!”

The idea of a job fair appeals to me. There’s a refreshing cut-the-crapness to it all. It bypasses the tedious resume/cover letter tango and fast-forwards straight to that heavyweight championship of bullshitting, the job interview. Or more accurately, the pre-interview. Nobody actually gets hired at a job fair. Companies use job fairs to identify and separate the Charlie Sheen in “Wall Street” candidates from the Charlie Sheen in Real Life candidates. Those whose backgrounds most resemble that of the “Bud Fox” character get penciled in for a sit-down with the HR person. Those bearing a likeness to Sheen the Machine himself walk away with the company extension of the weird-smelling fat chick in the secretarial pool, hardy har-har.

And so, once more into the breech. A few days later, your intrepid correspondent showed up in his best bib and tucker at the designated locale of the job fair, a local junior college. Many years before, the English Department of this same school had been the scene of a few academic triumphs of mine. A couple of my instructors there had predicted Big Things for young Johnny in the near future. I hadn’t been back to the campus since then. But many of those teachers had had tenure, which meant they hung on there like barnacles to the side of a battleship. For those reasons, I studiously avoided the Liberal Arts building and proceeded directly to the job fair in the Student Union.

The job fair itself, I found, was no big deal. The easy chairs, couches and tables that usually constituted a Study Area on the Union’s main floor (I remembered, circa 1990) had been removed. They had been replaced by a series of folding tables and chairs, arranged along the walls in a giant “U” shape. At each table sat 1-2 representatives of each company, along with some company brochures and promo materials. Each table displayed a big white card on which a number had been scrawled in black marker. Each number corresponded to a company’s listing on a photocopied map every fair attendant was handed at the fair entrance by a pair of bluejeaned, T-shirted twentyish girls who were bored with a capital ‘B’ by all us old farts.

For the sake of time and space, I’ll ask you now to imagine this scenario as a segment from one of those lighthearted, upbeat comedies of the late 1980s/early 1990s, the kind that would’ve starred a young Rob Lowe or Michael J. Fox. Envision me winding my way through the crowd, map in hand, stopping at various tables to kiss ass and drop off my resume. Imagine, also, an appropriate song playing in the background—“Higher Ground” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Fabulous Thunderbirds’ “Tuff Enuff” or John Parr’s “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)” would fit the bill. Yes, Kindred Souls, it’s the infamous “musical montage” scene, with one new wrinkle—me ducking into the men’s room, at the end, to pound my head on the sink in frustration.

Why, you might ask, was I frustrated? I’ll hit the highlights:

• It would be a nice touch, doncha think, if the company representatives could actually describe the job openings for which their employers were seeking applicants? I asked one woman what duties the “customer service representative” position entailed. Her face contorted into a mystified mask. “Um, well, helping customers, I guess. That’s Deidre’s department and she’s running late today.”

• Company representatives should view a job fair as the networking opportunity it is for them, as well as the job seeker. That means they shouldn’t immediately set fire to the bridges behind them. I attempted to give a copy of my copyediting resume to a guy representing a major suburban newspaper. He refused. “Editorial hasn’t had an opening in at least six months,” he said, pushing the page back at me. “Probably won’t for a year.” That doesn’t mean that they won’t. People quit, retire or go on personal leave every day, dude. Way to crush any and all semblance of hope I might have. With an attitude like that, no wonder that stack of subscription blanks sitting on your table seemed to be so thick.

• In every job search book or class that I’ve read/taken, the importance of collecting business cards whilst networking has been stressed in them all. Why: collect cards, follow them up with handwritten “thank-you” cards and make an impression on potential employer’s memory. But you can only collect business cards if the company reps have business cards on hand to distribute. The ratio of business cards to names/numbers scribbled on Post-It’s I collected there: 1-3. Job seekers are expected to be prepared; company reps should be, too.

• When choosing a person to represent their company, bosses should pick experience over youthful enthusiasm. When scoping out a potential employer, I’d rather talk to a battle-tested veteran than a raw recruit (see first bullet-point above). At most of the job fairs I’ve been to, the average age of the fair attendant was 35. At this fair, tables manned by monosyllabic Gen Y’ers slouched over Blackberries were left pretty much alone. Captains of industry, it looks bad when you farm the task of recruiting out to the newest, lowest-paid drones on your payroll. Give a damn, huh?

• I know this is an election year. I realize that, frequently, the majority party foots the bill for these sorts of activities. But the last thing on the job seeker’s mind is the partisan issues du jour. On the way in to the fair, I met three caffeine-amped fat cats up for reelection who shook my hand too hard and loaded me down with handbills, free pens, coupons for fast food restaurants and campaign slogans. On the way out, I met a couple more. For being such pains in the ass, I will make a point of NOT voting for any of them.

All in all, I spent about an hour there and handed out a half-dozen resumes. That was almost a week ago and I have yet to hear back on any of them. I did, however, meet a young woman representing the fine people at Best Buy. I rarely shop at Best Buy. Hell would freeze over twice before I’d work there. But the young lady bore a resemblance to Helena Bonham Carter in non-creepy mode and she was a lively conversationalist. I guess it was the suit I was wearing, as I was able to weasel a cell phone number out of her. It wasn’t, I later found out, her cell phone number. But she thought enough of me to make an effort and that’s what counts.

So the job fair wasn’t a total loss. Almost, but not totally.

Syrup and Sprinkles

2006-10-12T12:30:00.000-07:00

Once, this was common. It happened every day and you didn’t even think about it. You walked into a store—any store—and selected some merchandise. You proceeded to the checkout counter. There, you and the cashier had an exchange much like this one:

CASHIER: (Rings up your merchandise.) Hello. Did you find everything you needed today?

YOU: Yes, thank you.

CASHIER: (Bags your merchandise.) Wonderful! With tax, your total is $XX.XX.

YOU: (Reaching for your money.) Here you go.

CASHIER: (Takes your money, makes change, hands it back to you. Hands you your bag of merchandise.) Your change is $XX.XX. Thank you for shopping with us. Have a good day!

YOU: Thanks, you too. (You leave the store.)

Even on the busiest day, it took no more than a couple of minutes. You got your stuff, the store got your money and everybody was happy. Plain n’ simple as that.

Think: when is the last time you had an exchange like the above when you bought something at a store—any store? Doesn’t matter if it’s books, groceries, fast food or that funky lotion your spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend buys at the Adult Toy Shoppe. It’s NEVER plain n’ simple as that anymore. Not even close.

Take, for example, my recent experience at the Dippy-Whip Ice Cream Parlor. It was around 11:30 on a Saturday morning. Passing by and nursing a sugar jones, I stopped in. The place had just opened; I believe I was their first customer that day.

I walked in and was immediately struck by the sweet smell of fresh sugar cones. Everything—the walls, the floor tile, the counter, the tables—seemed to be white and/or silver and sparkling clean. Three employees, all clad in Dippy-Whip’s trademark red aprons and caps, stood behind the counter in front. All guys and all of maybe twenty years old. One guy’s cap had the word ‘Manager’ printed on it in white script letters. As I neared the counter, I stumbled on to the following conversation:

MANAGER: (Sorted through a big milk crate filled with bananas.) Hey, there’s only two dozen in here! Which one of you phawkers was supposed to count bananas last night?

EMPLOYEES: (They looked at each other and shrugged.) Dunno.

MANAGER: You lazy cock-knockers! Can’t you even count? What if we have a run on ‘nana splits? Well, you can bet your ass I’m not the one running to Dominick’s if we run out! Is the shake machine up and ready?

EMPLOYEES: (They looked at each other and shrugged.) Dunno.

MANAGER: (He smacked his forehead.) What the phawk?!? You guys have been here for an hour! You were supposed to open—‘open,’ a verb, meaning ‘action,’ as in ‘do something besides stand around and scratch your balls ‘til I get here!’ I ought to fire both of you bitches! You worthless mother—

Then the manager noticed me standing there, smiling politely.

MANAGER: OOOOOOhhh, hel-LO, sir! Lovely day, isn’t it? How may we serve you today, sir?

Turning 180° on a dime, he’d transformed from Gomer Pyle’s raging, ball-busting Sergeant Carter to the grinning, buttsmooching Eddie Haskell. In other words, a typical retail manager.

I scanned the menu. Lots of good stuff, as usual. Someday, I’m going to work up the nerve to try an “Old-Fashioned Sundae”, whatever the hell that may be. But I’m a creature of habit, so I went with my old stand-by.

ME: I’ll have a Hot Fudge Sundae to go, please.

Now, I had exact change. All Eddie Haskell had to do was ring me up while his two minions scooped and dollopped and sprayed and sprinkled all the appropriate stuff in all the appropriate quantities in a paper cup. And to their credit, once they’d heard my order, the two minions set to work doing just that. Surprising industry for Gen Y’ers, I must say. But Eddie Haskell wasn’t ringing me up. Young Edward had other priorities in mind.

MANAGER: Excuse me, sir, but do you have a Dippy-Whip Card?

ME: No.

MANAGER: (He smiled so widely, the edges of his mouth touched his ears.) I respectfully urge you to allow me to sell you one today. With a Dippy-Whip Card, you get a 5% discount on each and every purchase. And with every purchase you put on your Dippy-Whip Card, you earn 3 Dippy-Whip Credit Points that—

ME: No thanks. Just the sundae, please.

MANAGER: Would you like a free sample of our new Halloween pumpkin-flavored ice cream, sir?

ME: No thanks. Pumpkin makes me puke.

MANAGER: Sorry to hear that, sir. Then how ‘bout an advanced free sample of our special Christmas cinnamon and nutmeg milkshake? Starting in November, it’ll be available in quart and half-gallon bottles. It’s the perfect treat for those holiday get-togethers with loved ones!

ME: No.

MANAGER: Need any milk? Butter? Eggs?

ME: No.

MANAGER: (He pointed to his red cap.) Like our caps? Now, for a limited time only, the world famous Dippy-Whip caps are being made available to our valued customers for the low price of $19.95 each! $17.95 for Dippy-Whip Card holders. . .

ME: The sundae. Only. Please.

My ice cream finally arrived, nestled in a crisp, white paper bag. Only then did young Edward surrender and ring me up. We did the cash-change-receipt square dance. I thanked him and headed, quickly, for the door.

MANAGER: (He called after me.) Sir, do you have a long way to drive? That sundae might melt. For only $22.50, you can buy a special Dippy-Whip insulated vinyl bag. It handily keeps cold stuff cold and warm stuff warm! Sir? Sir. . .

I was already in the parking lot and halfway to my car. I had no time for Eddie Haskell’s bullshit.

Weekend days were prime times for hooking suckers on new Spendorama credit cards. We’re “required” to open at least one for every 20 hours we work. I hadn’t opened any in over a week and my name had been posted on the “Nonproductive” list in the employees’ lounge. Already, two Spendorama employees I hired on with had been fired for “Nonparticipation” in the New Credit Account Program.

I had to get home, eat my sundae and get ready for work. I had syrup and sprinkles of my own to shovel.

A Balanced View

2006-09-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

Henry Rollins is many things: rock singer, spoken word artist, writer, actor, host of "The Henry Rollins Show" on IFC. He's known for his cutting wit and brutal honesty. If you're not familiar with his work, I encourage you to seek it out at http://21361.com/.

Rollins has a blog of his own called "Dispatches". While checking it out recently, I came across a post titled "Letters From A Soldier". This is a series of messages from an American GI currently serving in Iraq. In the letters, the soldier (name withheld for obvious reasons) provides a no-punches-pulled look into his daily world. I'll say in advance that there is some profanity and some very graphic description used in the post, so sensitive parties, use your best judgment.

Rollins himself is an outspoken liberal and a vocal critic of the war. At the same time, he has, via the USO, made several visits to Iraq and Afghanistan to entertain the troops there. So I would say that no one could accuse the man of working a partisan agenda. He's just trying to get the word out.

You know I hate being preached at and I try to avoid preaching as much as possible. As far as the war goes, I respect both sides, for and against, and believe that they both have many valid points. I do have a problem, though, with the mainstream American media which covers the war. If anyone seems to be working an agenda, it's them. They're either blatant, dyed-in-the-wool conservatives (Fox News, for example) or shameless, hardcore liberals (GQ Magazine, for example). Objective reporting seems to have gone the way of the dinosaur. Since most of the information we get seems to be filtered, I've often wondered what vital data is being screened out.

That's why I've included a link to "Letters From a Soldier" below. It's a balanced view of the hottest issue of our time, straight from one who's living it. Whether you're a hawk or a dove, I think you'll agree that this is news that deserves a wide audience.

http://21361.com/site_2004/dispatchs_archive/LettersFromASoldier.html

Patoot Day: Join the Fun!

2006-09-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, the picture above is exactly what you think it is. And yes, the special day mentioned in this post’s title specifically refers back to the picture. To understand why, keep reading.

Since hiring on at the Spendorama Department Store, my work days have been filled with a virtual conga-line of shrews, shmucks and schlemiels of various ilks. And I’m NOT referring to the customers. This time.

I’m referring to the merry band of chuckleheads known as my “coworkers”. While some of my fellow retailers are hardworking, friendly and cooperative, most are anything but. I’m talking about the Customer Service Desk people, who bitch every time I go to them for cash register change. I’m referring to the maintenance man, who maintains that trash can-emptying is not part of his job, but flirting with the girls in Cosmetics is. I’m talking about the day shift workers, who leave piles of returned clothes for us night shifters to reshelf, then complain when they have to replace one roll of receipt tape in one cash register. Day after day, week after week.

What to do, what to do? If I were a normal adult, I would simply discuss these matters with my department manager, or perhaps, with the store’s Human Resources office. But as both of you who read this blog regularly know, Brother John is anything but normal.

Situations such as these start the wheels of my devious little mind a-turnin’. Totally unrelated concepts, like microscopic animals mating in junior high science class films, collide and spawn new breeds of horrific wonder [INSERT WICKED VINCENT PRICE LAUGH HERE ]!

CONCEPT #1: The National Examiner, a distinguished tabloid sold at supermarkets across America, has long featured an advice column called “Dear Tony”. The author of the column is a bald, starry-eyed and doughy-looking guy named Tony Leggett. Tony is a psychic by trade. Which, more so than a psychologist, clergyperson or former celebrity spouse, makes him the go-to guy to pen an advice column.

About once a year, ol’ Tony offers his readers the Magic Blue Dot, a supposed talisman of health, happiness and prosperity. Leggett directs his readers to clip out a blob of blue ink—infused with Tony’s ‘psychic energy’—printed above his column and keep it until a specified day and time. When this date arrives, readers are to fondle the Blue Dot while thinking of a “problem” area in their lives—money, job, romance, whatever. Simultaneously, Tony unleashes a wave of psychic good vibes which reportedly travels to Blue Dot holders everywhere.

In other words, the Blue Dots are satellite radios and Tony Leggett is a psychic Howard Stern. The following issue of the National Examiner is usually chockfull of Blue Dot success stories—“Agnes Krump of Keokuk, Iowa used the Blue Dot to cure her lumbago!” Or “Cleetus and Emmy Slopjarr of Jackson, Mississippi tried for years to have children and now, thanks to the Blue Dot, they’re pregnant with quadruplets!”

CONCEPT #2: At the 1993 Academy Awards ceremony, sometime actor and full-time megalomaniac Richard Gere sauntered up to the podium to present a golden statuette to someone for some movie something that nobody gives a damn about now. But before doling out Hollywood’s booby prize, the then-Mr. Cindy Crawford made a special request of the worldwide television audience. Gere, a practicing Buddhist, asked the audience to send Chinese ruler Deng Xiaoping a mass psychic message of “love and truth and sanity” in hopes of persuading Xiaoping to end China’s persecution of the Buddhist people of Tibet. And then, Gere handed out the Oscar for Best Makeup Effects to “Batman Returns”. Probably.

So, Kindred Souls, are you as fed up with asshole “coworkers” as I am? Do you believe that there’s the slightest grain of truth in anything a supermarket tabloid says? Do you believe I’m as nutty as Richard Gere? If you said yes to at least two of these questions, then here’s the deal. . .

I’ve designated this coming Saturday as Patoot Day. As in “horse’s patoot”. Why not “horse’s ass”? Just because it’s more fun to say “patoot” than “ass”. So there.

If you wanna take part in the festivity, simply print out this posting. Yes, all of it. Otherwise, you’ll forget the details and phawk up the whole shebang. Just do it, okay?

All right, once you’ve made a hard copy of the “patoot” picture above, clip it out—follow the lines, please, kids—with scissors. Then stash the patoot picture in a safe place. Like your wallet, your purse or your Power Rangers lunchbox. Hold on to it until Saturday.

On Saturday, September 16th, 2006, at 12:00p.m., please do the following:

● Remove the patoot picture from your safe place.

● Hold the patoot picture, face-up, in the palm of one hand. Then clasp your hands together firmly. You know, like Uncle Festus used to do when he’d make that farting sound with his hands.

● Close your eyes and think of the biggest horse’s patoot in your life at the current time. Then, holding that image in your mind, say “Patoot!” five times. But only five times. That picture has been supercharged with patented “John Left’s Patoot™” energy. Saying it more than five times could result in your becoming one. A patoot, that is.

At that exact time, I’ll be doing the same. Together, maybe we can send a giant, rolling wave of love and truth and sanity to all the horse’s patoots in the world, possibly transforming them into actual human beings in the process.

Each Patoot Day participant is welcome to return here, in forthcoming days, to record the effects the festivity had on the patoot in his or her life.

Maybe it’s a pile of crap. But it’s worth a try, right? If you can’t believe a batshit movie star or a supermarket tabloid psychic, who can you believe?

Beware of the Gold Name Tag!

2006-08-31T15:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve worked retail for a long time—too long, in fact, and not by choice. In my career, I’ve fallen prey to many retail hazards: the night shift (once there, you’re stuck); the associate’s discount (it keeps you in debt, thus keeping you on the job); holiday pay (you forsake time with loved ones for a chump change bonus). One pitfall I’ve thankfully avoided is the promotion to retail management.

I hear you. You’re saying, “How can a promotion ever be bad? Like Elvis Costello once sang, ‘There’s no danger. It’s a pro-fes-sion-al ca-reer. . .’ Left must’ve popped a few leftover Vicodins and washed them down with a bottle of Wild Irish Rose—AGAIN.” Well, no. Not this time, anyway.

To the uninitiated, it seems harmless enough. You work hard and do well. Your boss takes note of this. Then, one sunny day, you get summoned to the Majordomo’s office. Upon arrival, you find him coiled behind his desk like a boa constrictor ready to pounce on a fat rat.

“Come in, Stooge!” he hisses, licking his fangs. “Have a seat. We’ve been watching you, Stooge, for quite a while. And we like what we’ve seen.”

You never find out who “we” are. You know he can’t be referring to any of his assistants. Those flunkies, to a man, are so clueless, they forget to zip their flies before coming out of the toilet.

“Yes, Stooge,” Majordomo continues, “we’ve decided that you’re a real go-getter with a future at this company. Blah-blah-blah, yadda-yadda-yadda, yakkety-yak. For those reasons, I’m offering you a chance to join our management team.”

Usually, the offer is a tiny pay raise, some extra health insurance and a fancy-sounding but ultimately meaningless title, such as “Third Chief Auxiliary Manager In Charge of His Ding-Dong”. Sometimes, they’ll even give you a shiny gold name tag, hoping that the glittering doodad will distract you from the fact that the post’s previous occupant was dragged out of the store, laughing hysterically, in a straitjacket.

A couple of times, over the years, I’ve been offered the gold name tag. Placing a high premium on my sanity, however, I’ve never accepted it. I could provide you with a long list of broken souls who have. In the interests of time, though, I’ll just cite the most recent example. I’ll call her “Allegra”.

Allegra is a twentysomething assistant manager at the Spendorama Department Store. For three years, she was a salesperson in the Infants’ and Children’s clothing departments. Allegra, I’ve been told, was a congenial and cooperative worker who was respected by customers and coworkers alike. She was especially adept at opening new Spendorama credit accounts (“There’s no annual fee and no interest for the first 6 months!”). Allegra bears some resemblance, in both appearance and demeanor, to Sandra Bullock in “While You Were Sleeping”. Raised in Toronto by parents who were limey immigrants, Allegra’s speech is marked by a British clip and Anglicisms, such as “Right-o!”

Two months ago, Allegra was offered the gold name tag. She accepted. And everything changed.

Much like Jeff Goldblum’s horrific transformation in “The Fly”, Allegra soon began to exhibit the often grotesque features of the typical retail manager. Before, Allegra’s personality ranged from mildly pleasant to sanely indifferent. Now, regardless of the time of day, Allegra has just two modes: manic happiness or psychotic distress:

“GOOD MORNING/EVENING, JOHN!” she’ll say, breezing past my work station. “ISN’T THIS SIMPLY A WONDERFUL DAY?!?”

“Well,” I’ll say, “it’s Day One of the Summer Clearance Sale. Two out of the three teenyboppers scheduled to close with me have called off and I’ve got a line of coupon-bearing customers at my cash register that’s a mile long. What do you think, Allegra?”

“CAPITAL, JOHN, KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK! BUSY HANDS ARE HAPPY HANDS!” Since her promotion, Allegra’s listening skills have deteriorated to that of a two-year old’s, and for some reason, she also can’t seem to stop yelling.

“OH SWEET SUFFERING CHRIST ON THE CROSS, JOHN!” Allegra screamed at me over the phone one recent night. “WHATEVER HAPPENED IN THE BLOODY SOCK DEPARTMENT?!? IT’S TOTAL BEDLAM OVER HERE!”

“Allegra,” I said, “I’ve been here for ten minutes. I haven’t even worked my way down to the sock section yet. Is there a problem?”

“A PROBLEM! RIGHT-O, THERE’S A PROBLEM! SOMEONE HAS HUNG BLACK SOCKS ON THE WHITE SOCK RACK AND BLUE SOCKS ON THE BROWN SOCK RACK, AND SO ON! YOU KNOW SPENDORAMA’S SHELVING POLICY: LIKE COLORS WITH LIKE COLORS! YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT POLICIES, JOHN: RULES ARE NOTHING BUT WORDS ON PAPER UNLESS WE MAKE THEM REALITIES!”

“And. . .?” I asked.

“AND SO YOU NEED TO COME DOWN TO SOCKS DIRECTLY AND ADDRESS THIS ISSUE! BLUE SOCKS ON THE BROWN SOCK RACK IS MOST UNACCEPTABLE, AFTER ALL!”

Since her promotion, Allegra has ceased to speak English as we know it. Her speech now consists of a curious mixture of buzzwords and catchphrases from various Spendorama handbooks, known as “retailese”. An example:

“JOHN!” said Allegra, approaching me at the beginning of a recent shift. “I SEE THAT YOU’RE ZONING [straightening merchandise on shelves] MEN’S UNDERGARMENTS, JOHN! WHAT IS YOUR ACTION-PLAN FOR TONIGHT? AND HAVE YOU TOUCHED BASE WITH YOUR ASSOCIATES, JOHN? HAVE YOU DIALOGUED WITH THEM REGARDING YOUR ACTION-PLAN? WHICH SITUATIONS ARE THEY CURRENTLY ADDRESSING?”

For those who don’t speak retail, I’ll translate. Allegra wanted to know how I meant to go about my work that evening. She also wanted to know where the other two salesdweebs I was scheduled with were and what they were doing (besides dodging customers). Before, she might’ve asked me, “John, what are you up to tonight? And what are Larry and Curley working on?” Not that Allegra knows who Larry and Curley are, but you get my drift.

There’s also the continuous and grating habit of stating the obvious. Before, Allegra might’ve walked past me without comment. Now, every time she sees me, we have a dialogue like the one we had last night:

“JOHN! YOU’RE STRAIGHTENING TIES, I SEE!” Allegra said.

This was a deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes because, by happenstance, I was straightening the ties we display on a round table in the Men’s Formalwear department.

“Yes, Allegra,” I answered.

“TIP-TOP! AND WHEN YOU’RE DONE, YOU’RE GOING TO TIDY UP THE DRESS SHIRT SECTION?”

Another sharp observation, especially since the dress shirts are located directly next to the ties on the sales floor.

“Yes, Allegra,” I replied.

“AND WHEN YOU COMPLETE YOUR DUTIES—”

“—I should call you so you can check my work and send me along to assist in another department,” I said, heading her off at the pass by quoting the exact same thing she always says every time we have this discussion.

“RIGHT-O! CARRY ON, THEN!”

It’s not that I think Allegra is a bad person. Unlike many managers I’ve had, she does not slack off. If anything, she tries too hard to succeed. I think it’s this drive to be a success, coupled with the unending series of above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty demands made on a Spendorama assistant manager, that has pushed Allegra over the edge into a zone which I call “retail psychosis”. What demands? Read it and weep:

1.) Before, Allegra worked 32-40 hours weekly. Now, she typically logs in 50 hours or more. Previously, she worked the day shift, with an occasional weekend. Holidays were left to seasonal or part-time dweebs, like me. Now, the girl works days, nights, weekends and holidays. I’ve seen her work the noon to closing shift (9p.m. or later), then open the store up the next day at nine o’ clock in the morning. Before, she was paid by the hour; overtime meant extra cash in her pocket. Now, she’s on a straight salary; if she pulls 40 hours or 60 hours, it doesn’t matter. The paycheck is the same.

2.) Before, Allegra’s responsibilities were limited to Infants’ and Children’s clothing. Now, she pitches in wherever she’s needed, whenever and for however long she’s needed. Evidently, Spendorama doesn’t provide its new assistant managers with any more training than it gives its new salespeople. Last week, I saw the classic “What the Hell Am I Doing?” look emblazoned on her face as she attempted to man the Housewares counter, with an irate old lady bombarding her with questions about the new George Foreman electric grill.

3.) Before, Allegra worked in just one store—ours. The week before last, she was sent to a store in the next county, nearly twenty miles away, to cover for another assistant manager whose wife had a baby. Allegra found out about it the morning she was due at the other store—with about two hours' notice.

4.) As a salesperson, Allegra was not required to perform janitorial services. These duties are usually assigned to the maintenance men. . .when they’re around. On a recent evening, a customer’s mentally challenged son had an accident all over the floor of the men’s restroom. The other manager on duty, a guy, was tied up with a customer at the Service Desk. Allegra headed into the guys’ john with rubber gloves, a mop and a bucket. When she emerged, her face was the same color as the Wicked Witch’s in “The Wizard of Oz”. But the john was clean.

And last, but not least, are the opinions of her coworkers. Words like “bitch”, “asskisser” and “suckup” have become familiar descriptors of Allegra in the mouths of people who formerly called themselves her friends. At least two ex-buddies of hers speak with Allegra only when the job requires them to do so.

As for me? Allegra has revived the sense of urgency with which I scan the want ads. Christmas is coming soon. The thought of working a holiday rush with her makes my blood run cold.

So ends my cautionary tale, friends. Beware of the gold name tag. It just ain’t worth it.