John Left's Field

New 2012 Presidential Candidate Throws Hat in the Ring

2012-01-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

Now that Michelle "Clueless" Bachmann has woken up and smelled the coffee, she's left a gap in the Republican Presidential race. As a replacement for the buttheaded Bachmann, please allow Brother John to suggest a much smarter and cooler replacement. I hereby scooby-di-na-na-nominate, by his first and last names. . .

Roosevelt Franklin! The smoothest Sesame to ever stroll down the Street!

Spread Out, Numbskull!

2011-05-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

Spiritual medium Kenny Kingston, in an exclusive interview with Psychic Guano Magazine, claims to have recently contacted the ghost of Moe Howard, the mopheaded leader of the Three Stooges. The famous film comedian passed away at age 78 in 1975.

What news did Moe bring from the Great Beyond? Not much, apparently.

"It was a brief and unpleasant conversation," Kingston told PGM. "I asked if he was Moe Howard. The ghost replied, 'Who else would I be, ZaSu Pitts?' Then I asked Moe if he had any words of wisdom for millions of Stooges fans around the world. Moe said, 'Yeah---spread out!'

"I then felt a sudden, stabbing pain in my eyes," said Kingston, "and the psychic connection was broken."

Breaking Music News: Jim Morrison. . .

2010-08-24T08:59:00.000-07:00

. . .is still dead.

"Yeah," said the former Doors frontman in an exclusive interview with Psychic Guano Magazine. "I'm pretty far out of the loop, for sure."

When asked for his opinions on the current music scene, Morrison proved as reticent as ever. "Obviously, I'm not as tuned in to the new stuff as I once was. I spend most of my time jamming with old blues guys, like Son House and John Lee Hooker. I used to crash at Howlin' Wolf's place every night. Until, that is, he caught me and Brian Jones double-teaming Nico on the living room sofa. Kicked our asses to the street. Wolf said we ruined the naugahyde. That motherfucker blows a mean harp, but when it comes to the homestead, he's as domestic as Ward Cleaver."

In closing, Morrison was asked if he had any messages for the physical world. The singer/poet took a pull from his bottle of Dos Equis (during the 20-minute interview, he drained 12 bottles of the dark Mexican beer) and stroked his beard thoughtfully for a long minute before replying.

"Uh, sure. Seances, prayers and that shit are like phone calls from salesmen up here. We don't dig them. So cut it out. Oh, and stop dumping shit on my grave. I'm meeting Anne Sexton for drinks. Gotta go. Bye."

Nick Drake: "River Man"

2010-04-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

This is just one of the best songs ever. You can find it on Drake's first album, Five Leaves Left. Play it on a gray day, looking out your kitchen window while drinking a cup of tea. Great stuff. Why this man wasn't feted in 1969 as the British Dylan is beyond me. At least we have the music.

J.D. Salinger 1919-2010

2010-02-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though."
— J.D. Salinger (The Catcher in the Rye)

"The most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid."
— J.D. Salinger (Nine Stories)

“I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting."
— J.D. Salinger (Franny and Zooey)

"I don't really deeply feel that anyone needs an airtight reason for quoting from the works of the writers he loves, but it's always nice, I'll grant you, if he has one."
— J.D. Salinger (Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction)

Off to the library, Kindred Souls. I'll be there, too.

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.

The Biggest Rock Star Nobody Knows

2006-08-08T12:09:00.000-07:00

Often, customers and coworkers at the Spendorama Department Store make me feel like Charlton Heston in “Planet of the Apes”. When that happens, I save my sanity by spending my dinner break at a small bookstore in the mall.

It was there, among the stacks of sudoku books and manga anthologies, that I ran across the most intriguing biography I’ve read in a long time: Reggie Nadelson’s Comrade Rockstar: The Life and Mystery of Dean Reed, the All-American Boy who Brought Rock n’ Roll to the Soviet Union (Walker & Company, $14.95). I literally could not put this book down until I’d read the whole damned thing.

Dean Reed, Ms. Nadelson writes, started out typically enough. Born in 1938 to middle class parents, Reed was raised, “Leave It to Beaver”-style, in a small town near Denver, Colorado. In adolescence, the handsome lad discovered he could carry a tune—and how this talent, when coupled with a guitar, could draw females like syrup draws flies. After spending a few summers honing his performing skills in local venues, Reed packed up his six-string and headed for Hollywood. Young Dean meant to be the next Elvis, or at least the next Ricky Nelson.

Arriving in California in 1959, Reed lived out the fantasy of countless show biz hopefuls. In short order, he snagged a recording contract with Capitol Records and a screen test with Warner Brothers Studios. To sharpen his budding acting chops, the WB enrolled the boy in a class taught by master thespian Paton Price, where Reed’s fellow students included the Smothers Brothers, Jean Seberg and the Everly Brothers. The vaunted Warner/Capitol publicity machine began cranking out interviews with, articles about and 8” X 10” glossies of the star-in-waiting. Success seemed to be within Reed’s reach.

But fate can be fickle. By 1961, hard work, Capitol and the WB had brought Reed nothing but one minor pop hit, a bunch of flops and a guest appearance on a now-forgotten sitcom. Just when he was ready to quit, Reed learned that one of his records was perched at the top of the charts in Chile. Yes, in South America. For the hell of it, Reed hopped a plane to Santiago to see what the fuss was about.

The crowd which greeted Dean Reed in Chile, writes Nadelson, made the throng that met the Beatles in New York in 1964 look pitiful by comparison. Seizing the day, Capitol Records sent Reed out on a concert tour of Chile, Argentina and neighboring countries, where he played to packed houses. Recognizing which side of the bread his butter was on, Reed learned Spanish and moved to Buenos Aires. Dean Reed records sold faster than those of any other rocker, including Elvis. Popular movies and a TV show followed. In Latin America in the early 1960’s, this Colorado crooner was the king of rock n’ roll.

If the story had ended there, it would’ve been no big deal. As David Hasselhoff can tell you, many American entertainers find success far from home. But under the tutelage of liberal activist Paton Price, Reed had developed a “conscience”, as well as a desire to use his fame to help his fellow man. In South America, Nadelson explains, Reed witnessed widespread poverty and abuse of the poor by governments that were supposedly bankrolled by the United States. The experience radicalized the singer, transforming him into a left-winger and an outspoken critic of his native land. He incorporated political material into his act and often performed benefit concerts for like-minded organizations. Reed dubbed himself a “socialist”. Stateside, the favored term was “pinko”.

By the mid-1960’s, Reed had been driven out of South America for his leftist beliefs. For a time, he settled in Rome; he put his acting skills and American looks to good use by starring in a series of Italian “spaghetti” Western movies. He was also active in the anti-Vietnam War movement. By the end of the decade, Reed had moved to East Berlin and into the apex of his career.

In the 1970’s, Dean Reed was one of the Communist world’s premier stars. His albums of American rock, folk and country standards were gobbled up like auditory forbidden fruit. His films and TV shows, many of which he directed himself, were received with similar enthusiasm. Reed was the first American rock singer to tour the Soviet Union, and he did so annually. The highlight of a Reed concert, Nadelson writes, was the point at which he’d venture out into the audience, serenade a young beauty and treat her to a peck on the cheek. Tame stuff in the West, for sure. But to the stoic Russians, it was delightfully risque. Imagine how teenaged Natasha must’ve swooned: “He’s dreamy, talented and a loyal Marxist, too!”

Just when you think you know where this story is headed, Nadelson reveals another factoid that keeps you guessing. For example, Reed was a true-blue Red, a guy who rubbed elbows with the likes of Chile’s Salvador Allende, Nicaragua’s Daniel Ortega, Russia’s Leonid Brezhnev and Palestine’s Yasser Arafat—all professed enemies of America. Yet, the singer held on to his U.S. passport, filed a tax return with the I.R.S. each year and publicly described himself as “a good American”. Watching Nadelson sort through the many contradictions of Reed’s life makes for an enriching reading experience.

If you want to learn more, and there's lots more, read Comrade Rockstar. I’m not revealing too much by saying that Reed is not able to give his side of the story. In 1986, the 48-year old died in in East Berlin. The official cause of death was "a swimming accident". Those who knew Reed well, though, rejected this conclusion outright and maintained that foul play of a political nature was involved. Today, all of Dean Reed’s albums are out of print. And now, as then, he remains almost completely unknown in his home country.

Reggie Nadelson has told well the tale of a man who exemplified the pitfalls of vanity, idealism and misplaced loyalty.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0802715559/sr=1-1/qid=1155064406/ref=pd_bbs_1/102-8946813-7856917?ie=UTF8&s=books

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Dean+Reed

Yes

2006-07-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm a total narcissist. Yes, I'm a shameless self-promoter. Yes, I'm a complete glory-hog. If this blog had audio, here is where I'd cackle madly, like Daffy Duck on an ego-trip. "I'm rich! I'm a happy miser! WHA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"

Click on the following link to experience my boundless megalomania:

http://www.bloggeries.com/blog/2006/07/08/blog-review-johns-left-field/

Thanks to everyone at Bloggeries for the generous review.

Movie Stars, Please! Leave Those Guitars Alone!

2006-07-19T12:42:00.000-07:00

You know, it must be nice to be a rich n' famous actor. Like, say, Kevin Bacon. A star like him gets to do a lot of cool stuff.

Like what? Like, for example, be married to a stone-cold beauty like Kyra Sedgewick. Very cool. Like, be paid a gazillion dollars to play make-believe. Very cool. Like, have a nifty pop culture game named after you ("Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon"), which basically ensures that people will remember you for years to come. Like, make a handful of fair-to-middlin' films ("A Few Good Men", "Tremors", my personal favorite, "Quicksilver" and a musical involving feet which you might have heard of). Like, just work when you feel like working. All very cool things, for sure.

But in some ways, being a rich n' famous star must NOT be cool.

Like how? Like having a lot of down time between projects. Leaves a dude particularly vulnerable to dangerous pursuits like. . .what? I'll bet some of you Kindred Souls said "drugs". Maybe. Some of you might've said "alcohol", "sexual debauchery", "extreme sports" or "dumbass political/religious beliefs". All very uncool stuff, I agree. But none of them are what Brother John had in mind.

I was thinking of "the movie star's vanity rock band". Chills tumble down my spine just typing the term. It's a horrific practice that has claimed some of Hollywood's most talented thespians.

Kevin Bacon has a lameass rock band he plays in with his brother that's called, uniquely enough, the Bacon Brothers. From the ten seconds of Web research I did, I guess the band has played far and wide to audiences. . .who were probably very pissed off when they realized Kevin was not going to sing "Footloose".

No, I haven't listened to more than half a song by the Bacon Brothers. No, I'm not going to, 'cause I don't need to. I'm not, because over the course of my 35 years, I've already:

* Bought and listened to "The Return of Bruno (1987)" by Bruce Willis.

* Bought and listened to "Living the Book of My Life (1986)" by Philip Michael "Miami Vice" Thomas.

* Watched and, therefore, listened to most of the later episodes of "Happy Days" and "Joanie Loves Chachi", in which I endured the musical stylings of non-singers Anson "Potsie" Williams, Don "Malph" Most, Erin "Tone-Deaf" Moran and Scott "Tuneless" Baio (1970s-1980s).

* Watched and, therefore, listened to most of the desperate, later episodes of "The Brady Bunch", in which the kids don Vegas-style costumes, boogie on down to the local TV station and belt out some of the lily-whitest "rock" music this side of Donny & Marie. If you were, like me, unlucky enough to see the Saturday morning cartoon version of "T.B.B.", then you were exposed to even more of this audio torture (1970s).

It happens time after time. I guess there's just something about mass adoration, obscene wealth and double-digit orgies that leaves a gaping hole in a TV or movie star's soul. A need to express themselves in ways acting can't provide. A need. . .to rack up even more fame and fortune than these dorks have already dumbassed their ways in to. Shhheeesh! What a bunch of shameless glory-hogs.

I don't know much about Kevin Bacon, beyond what I listed above. He's an okay actor; I've enjoyed many of his films. On interviews I've seen, he seemed like a pretty down-to-earth guy. But then I saw the new Hanes underwear commercial Kevin made. At various points in the ad, Kev is seen carrying and strumming a cherry-red guitar. If I was Kevin's manager, at that point in filming, I would've pulled him aside, smacked him upside the head and taken the 6-string away from him. Just like a parent would do to a child fiddling with a toy Junior had no business playing with in the first place.

Why can't these people recognize the limits of their talent? Most normal people do. The plumber doesn't throw down his plunger one day and decide that he's a gourmet chef. The carpenter doesn't drop his hammer and declare himself a concert pianist. A pro basketball player doesn't quit hoops and take up baseball to. . .oh, wait. That's the other humble guy in Kevin's jockey shorts ad.

Stars, why don't you ever figure it out? No club owner's booking your band for its music. Audiences in the dozens aren't flocking to these clubs for tunes scribbled on the blank sides of script pages between scenes. They're doing it because the singer/guitarist/bassplayer/drummer/whatever is That Guy/Girl From (Insert Hit Movie Title Here). Why do those record companies gamble on an album? Same reason. In the end, all that's left is fodder for D-List dweebs on VH1 to giggle at on "I Love the 1970s/80s/90s. . ." No matter how much you long to be a rock star, having yourself photographed holding a guitar doesn't make you one. No more than standing in front of a jet fighter in a flight suit made Dubya any less of a draft-dodger.

Kevin, Bruce, Billy Bob Thornton, Juliette Lewis, Lindsey Lohan, Jack Black, Gary Sinese, Kevin Costner, Jamie Foxx, Potsie, Joanie, Greg, Marsha, Peter, Jan, Cindy, Chachi. . .PLEASE, folks. Have pity on our poor eardrums. Take up golf, painting, model airplane-building, knitting, stamp collecting, whatever, Trevor.

Just put the guitars down. Down, all the way down, and step out of the recording studio. There, doesn't that feel better? Now, be good celebrities and go get yourselves some liposuction or something. Anything. But stay away from the guitars.

My Blog Directory">

'tardz

2006-07-10T17:41:00.000-07:00

Did you ever have a “familiar surprise”? You know, something you’ve experienced in the past which shocks you today, because it hasn’t changed? At my new job, I’ve had two. I was surprised by how similar my job at the Spendorama Department Store is to the other retail positions I’ve worked. At Spendorama, I stock shelves, jockey a cash register, lead customers to the appropriate rack (a task optimistically mislabeled ‘selling’) and clean up after the stampede at day’s end. Since 1994, I’ve worked retail at, now, six different companies. The environment and merchandise have changed. The job never has.

The human element at Spendorama also surprised me. Much like the job itself, it hasn’t changed. Retail is a “people” business. In it, you meet every variety of Homo sapiens imaginable. By and large, the folks I’ve encountered in retail have been a circus parade of psychos, scam artists, phawkups and slackers. Spendorama has turned out to be just one more candy-colored car in the caravan. That said, I’m going to use this week’s exciting episode to skewer one recent group of parade participants.

Most of my coworkers at Spendorama are members of that under-educated, unmotivated group of talking monkeys known as Generation Y. In an earlier and less sensitive time, these kids would’ve been branded “retards” and put to work in a warehouse gluing little button-eyes on Beanie Babies. In our (cough, cough) enlightened age, they’re cut loose to serve the public in retail stores. And that presents me with a terminological problem. No, smartasses, you can’t cure it with cranberry juice. I’m talking words here. How can I best describe them? I don’t want to offend people who actually are mentally challenged by grouping them in with iPod-wearing mall-apes. At the same time, I don’t care to reveal myself as the sour old curmudgeon I truly am. Hmm, what to do, what to do?

Ah, I know! I’ll just use “retard” as a root-word—to delineate a general lack of intelligence. Then, to avoid political incorrectness, I’ll chop the “re-” off the front. Next, to indicate the plural case and to cop some street cred, I’ll replace the stodgy “-s” with a slammin’ MTV-style “-z”. Yeah, baby! Brother John is Way Kewl! And thus is born the accurate term—‘tardz.

What, you ask, does this word imply? It indicates not so much a lack of IQ points as a slothful reluctance to use those IQ points. It’s an attitude, not a medical condition. For instance, Maynard G. Krebs from the “Dobie Gillis” show was a ‘tard. Ashlee and Jessica Simpson are ‘tardz. Lest you mistakenly believe ‘tardz to be, like the aforementioned specimens, mythological beings, I submit for your perusal some real-life examples from my own experience:

1.)“Mateo” is a 20-something salesman who works around Spendorama’s shoe department. Notice I didn’t say “in” the shoe department. That’s because Mateo rarely sells any shoes. That’s not to say he doesn’t work hard. He does, but not at selling shoes. Mateo uses his payroll hours to sexually harass every woman in the store between ages 18 and 50. His eyes constantly scan the horizon for approaching females. Upon spotting one, Mateo does not call out to her. Rather, he emits a long whistle of varying tones—it starts out low and then rises abruptly in pitch. When the lady turns toward the sound, the following dialogue ensues.

Mateo: Hey, sweetness. (Mateo’s eyes are welded to her chest.)

Woman: Excuse me?

M (He pulls out a cell phone, flips it open to display the screen.): See this? My ride. Uh-huh!

W: What?

M: A Mazda MX-5 convertible 2-door. (The Mazda actually belongs to our store manager. Mateo drives a rusty ’97 Ford Aspire.) If you’re free, we can take a rrriiiidddeee later on, get it? Uh-huh!

W: I need a pair of sandals.

M: We got sandals. I’ll give you sandals. And you can kick ‘em off. . .when we drive out to the beach in my slammin’ ride, uh-huh! Waddya say, beauty?

W: No.

M: Like to dance? There’s this great little club downtown. I get off at six. Off work, that is. I’m a great dancer. When I’d get off, for real, would be up to you, uh-huh!

W: No.

M: Hungry? I know this restaur—

W: No.

M: My brother’s having a party Friday night at—

W: No.

(At this point, the senior citizen man Mateo had been helping when the woman approached hobbles up on one shoe, holding the other in his hand.)

Senior Citizen: I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think these orthopedic loafers are for me.

M (His eyes still welded to her chest, he waves off the old fart.): Later, Pops. Hey girl, you like bowling?

W: Is there a Payless near here? (She starts to leave.)

SC: It doesn’t feel right. In fact, I can’t feel my foot at all. I think you cut off my circulation when you jammed it on my foot. . .

M: (He chases after the woman.) Picnics? There’s a park two blocks away. Uh-huh!

According to reliable sources, Mateo has already been Maced, kicked in the balls, punched in the face and karate-chopped in his brief career at Spendorama. Female coworkers use terms like “prick”, “dick” and “asshole” in reference to him. His personnel file is thick with harassment complaints. Yet, he remains on staff as a full-timer. How? His uncle is an assistant manager at the store.

2.) “Camilla” is a college sophomore who’s working at the store over her summer vacation. With a flawless olive complexion, a cute figure, a bright smile and flowing brunette hair, most people would describe a girl like her as being in the prime of her life. Not Camilla. In the brief time I’ve known her, Camilla has consistently been in one of three states of being—sick, tired or allergic to. . .everything. And all three states prevent her from working.

Me: Morning, Camilla. How are you today?

Camilla: (She stands at the counter with her head buried in her arms.) Shitty. I’m going on break, ‘kay? I need an Advil/Benadryl/Red Bull/to rest a while. I have a cold/the flu/a sinus infection/couldn’t sleep last night/raging allergies. God, how I hate air conditioning/ragweed/pollen/dust/grass/trees/mold/my boyfriend/my life! Cover for me, ‘kay? And could you run these strays up to Women’s? I can’t go up there. It’s next to the perfume section. I’d be sneezing for hours. (She sniffles.) Thanks, ‘bye!

Me: But we just opened ten minutes ago.

The girl sneezes constantly. Loud, hard sneezes—“WACHOO!”—in bunches of 3 to 8. She doesn’t seem to be aware of an invention called the handkerchief, because she never has one. She apparently hasn’t heard of courtesy, either, since Camilla does not turn her head to sneeze. I’ve watched her “WACHOO!” all over the phone, the cash registers, the counters, the merchandise and in customers’ faces. Everything I have to touch on the job is usually coated with a light spray when Camilla’s around. I’ve taken to carrying anti-bacterial wipes with me at all times. If this keeps up, by summer’s end, I’ll be wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet like Howard Hughes.

You’ll never guess what Camilla’s majoring in at school. Pre-med, with a Psychology minor. Maybe she can cure herself.

3.) “Arvin” (okay, I’m running low on fake names) is a freshman at a local technical school. In the two months I’ve worked with him, Arvin has always shown up for work on time. He never calls in sick. My every experience with Arvin has been exactly the same:

Me: (Starting my shift, either day or night.) Hey, Arvin. What’s up?

Arvin: (He walks past me.) Nothing much. I’m going on break. See you later.

And that’s it. I don’t know anything more about Arvin. Nobody else seems to, either. He always seems to be on break someplace off the sales floor. And yes, the management knows.

4.) “Coupon-Scam Woman” was a customer about 25 years old. She was dressed in a pink halter top and cut-off jeans. She wore black streaks through her long blonde hair. Last month, Spendorama had a sale and issued coupons offering 15% discounts on certain items. The coupons’ terms of usage, restrictions and expiration dates were clearly printed on every slip of paper. I swear to God, this is exactly what happened:

Coupon-Scam Woman: (She whips out an inch-thick stack of coupons, plops it on the counter next to her purchases and grins.) Aha! I’ve got coupons! (She says this like she’s brandishing a lethal weapon.)

Me: (I sort through the pile of clothes she’s buying.) I’m sorry, ma’am. All the red-tag items are clearance pieces. The red tag means a sizable discount has already been taken. Coupons can’t be applied to red-tag items.

CSW: Bullshit! I found these on the regular racks, not on the clearance table! (She pushes a wad of coupons at me.) You got to honor these or else that’s false advertising!

Me: (Pulling a pair of jeans from the pile.) These are Levi’s jeans. I’m sorry, but Levi’s products can’t be used with the coupons. (I point to the coupon itself.) It’s listed right on there—

CSW: (Loudly and angrily.) Phawk you! It doesn’t say that! Where?

Me: And this Nautica shirt is full price, like all Nautica items. Nautica is exempt to coupons. That, too, is listed on the coupons.

CSW: Does it say that you and everyone in this crappy store are a bunch of sneaky, back-stabbing weasels? Huh? Where’s that listed on the coupons? It should, ‘cause it’s true! Look, numb-nuts, I got places to be. (She rips a couple of shirts from the pile and shoves the rest off the counter on to the floor.) Just gimme these.

Me: (I ring up her selections.) Okay. Your total, with tax, comes to $60.78.

CSW: (Her eyes bug out of her skull as she points strenuously to the pile of paper slips.) Coupons, coupons! You only used three of ‘em! What the phawk!

Me: Right. I scanned three coupons along with the three shirts you’re buying.

CSW: But I got at least a dozen coupons here! Me and my boyfriend figured it out at home! With the coupons, these brand-new Calvin Klein shirts should ring up at (She counts on her fingers.). . .a dollar each! That’s it! A buck apiece. I refuse to pay a penny more!

Me: But ma’am, the sales flyer clearly states that you can use only one coupon per item. I’m sorry. That’s the store’s policy.

CSW: (She’s enraged by now.) Bullshit! Bullshit! BULLLLSHIIITT! I’ll have your job! I’ll have your balls on a plate! (She throws the coupons into the air and waves her arms over her head frantically.) I won’t let you cheat me and my boyfriend like this! Phawk this store! (She turns and starts walking toward the exit.) I’m going to the Better Business Bureau! Phawk you, your mom and both of your grandmas! Phawk you all!

And worst of all? Coupon-Scam Woman’s son, a boy who was maybe 3 years old, stood right next to her the entire time. He watched and heard everything—and looked damned scared trailing after her out the door.

‘Tardz. Each and every one of them—‘tardz to the bone. God help them, and us, all.

'Embedded' Blogger? B.S.!

2006-06-26T16:39:00.000-07:00

What a Corporate kissass/sellout/opportunist! And wouldn’t I love to be in his place.

One of the things that first attracted me to the blogosphere (aside from an uncontrollable urge to expound on all things me) was the “outlaw” notion of it all. Bloggers were the modern-day equivalent to 18th Century England’s Grub Street pamphleteers. I loved the immediacy of blogging, the living, breathing D.I.Y. spirit of it all. A lone wolf, armed with only his/her computer, could record life heartbeats after it happened and, with one click of the mouse, take it to a worldwide audience. If Thomas Paine were alive today, you can bet your pantaloons he’d be a blogger.

I also loved how said lone wolf, unattached to corporate concerns, was unencumbered by the Rules. “Oh, you can’t say that ‘McDonald’s is an evil empire pushing junk food like street drugs through the use of commercials that resemble cult brainwashing techniques,’” said the Rules to mainstream reporter. “The company which owns this newspaper is owned by a company that merged with the company that bought out the company that owns McDonald’s, you see.” The Rules were for the staid, frumpy old school media. Bloggers made up their rules as they went along. A blogger’s only allegiance was to the Truth—as he/she saw it—goddamnit! YEE-HAW!

Wellp, pardners. . .it seems as though this notion has gone the way of the pamphleteers. Yesterday, I read a Chicago Tribune article (http://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/music/chi-0606240239jun25,1,1219915.story?coll=chi-ent_music-hed) about one Junichi Semitsu, an erstwhile blogger who writes a, uh, blog entitled “Poplicks” (http://poplicks.com/). He seems like a nice guy and a pretty talented writer. So talented, in fact, that he attracted the attention of the Dixie Chicks, the all-female country-rock band who grabbed headlines a few years ago for their (okay, just their lead singer, Natalie Maines’) criticism of fellow Texan, George W. Bush. Apparently, the Dixie Chicks were so taken with the lil’ fella, they signed him up as the “official blogger” for their 2006 summer tour. (http://3dixiechicks.spaces.msn.com/blog/) In short, Junichi will go everywhere the Chicks go, receive total access to the three beautiful musicians and write about it. And be, like, paid to do so.

I must admit, I was a bit miffed. Miffed, first of all, because the Dixie Chicks obviously have not—in spite of my carrying a torch for their lovely brunette banjo picker, Emily Robison, lo these many years—been reading “John Left’s Field". Way to totally overlook me, girls. And here I thought Emily never answered my fan letters because my epistles of praise charmed her speechless! Dumbass me. Miffed, also, due to the concept of Semitsu the “embedded blogger”, as he’s described in the Tribune article. This scuttles the notion of the outlaw blogger as the voice of Truth in the cyber-wilderness. Okay, maybe that was a brick that just bounced off my head, but it seems like the blogosphere has been co-opted by Corporate America. What is more Corporate than the entertainment business, after all?

You might’ve heard that ever since Natalie spouted off about Dubya, the Dixie Chicks have watched their popularity take a nosedive, especially south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Despite their latest album, Taking the Long Way, hitting #1 on the music charts, many Chicks concerts scheduled for southern and southwestern locales have been cancelled due to sluggish ticket sales. Local radio stations, which were previously eager to hype Dixie Chicks shows, have largely deserted the band in the wake of the Dubya flap. You can read why in the Tribune article. Corporate's got to recover its investment in the Chicks, while maintaining the edgy, "anti-establishment" rep that makes the band's CD's fly off of store shelves. Their solution to the promotional drought? Semitsu and the wide, edgy audience of the blogosphere. They hope.

Semitsu, in the Tribune profile, insists that he has “free reign” over subject matter in his Dixie Chicks blog. Then he goes on to say that everything he posts is “cleared” by the Dixie Chicks' “camp” beforehand. Semitsu even admits a reluctance to write anything “negative” about the country-rock trio. "It would," he comments to the Tribune, "be awkward to be. . .constantly traveling with people when you're writing bad stuff about them." Now don’t get me wrong. I’m sure Semitsu is cool, but he’s also full of shit. He'll write just what his employers (the Chicks, two or three companies removed) tell him to write, or not. That sucking sound you hear is Semitsu’s journalistic integrity going down the chute, on its way to Geraldo Riveraland.

So this is what blogging has come to. Paid, Corporatized brown-nosing. How sad. In my opinion, there’s one of two ways you can go with this situation. If you’re the celebrity talent, make no bones about the fact that “your” blogger is a compensated sycophant—or “fan” in layman’s terms. The other fans, who want only the idealized version of the so-called truth, will appreciate being spoon-fed more of the sweet pabulum they crave. If you’re the blogger, tell the whole brutal truth, warts and all. Yes, I know this is conflicting advice, but that's the point. This is an unnatural breeding of two species that Mother Nature never intended. Example? Imagine, please, if an “embedded blogger” had trailed Elvis Presley on one of his 1970s Vegas-to-Atlantic City-and-back-again jaunts:

DAY 4: Las Vegas, Nevada

Following this evening’s concert, Elvis, the Memphis Mafia, a couple of co-eds from a local college and I repaired to Presley’s suite at the Vegas Hilton. After gobbling 5 or 6 peanut butter and banana sandwiches, Elvis passed the time watching the girls, who had stripped to their underwear, wrestle on the bedroom floor.

Suddenly, the fun was disrupted by the sound of a commotion in the hallway outside. I found out later that the noise was Presley’s bodyguard, Red West, beating the crap out of actor Bill Bixby. I learned that Bixby, who had fallen on hard times since the cancellation of “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father”, had recently been pestering Presley. The unemployed actor had been bugging his former “Speedway” costar about a script he’d commissioned, a sequel to the auto-racing film, which Bixby hoped Presley would star in. Evidently, it took the impression of West’s footprint on his ass to convince Bixby that “Speedway 2” wasn’t going to happen.

Soon after, I observed Elvis removing a handful of pills I recognized as Valium from a nightstand drawer. He swallowed them and within minutes, the King of Rock n’ Roll passed out on his bed, still clad in the white sequined jumpsuit he’d worn on stage. Longtime Presley aide Joe Esposito stood nearby shoveling cash into the departing co-eds’ hands. I asked him how long Elvis had been using sedatives, and why the singer seemed to require so many for sleep. Before Esposito could reply, someone grabbed me by the arm and locked it, karate-style, behind me.

“Them’s not sedatints!” barked Red West, shoving me toward the door. “Them’s vitamins, ya hear? Vitamins! Elvis don’t take no drugs!” West kicked me through the doorway and into the hall. “And don’t write nothin’ ‘bout sedatints in that goddamned log o’ yours! Lessen’ you want both yer mudderfeckin’ laigs broke!” West slammed the door shut.

Later on, I discovered that I’d just missed a late-night visit by Ann-Margret. It seems Presley had invited the fire-haired actress/singer to his hotel room, where she’d promised to “suck his little sooties [feet].” In spite of Presley’s narcotized state, his former “Viva Las Vegas” costar, I was told, dutifully kept her promise.

But of course, that never happened. And it—true blogging—won't happen with Semitsu, either. True blogging requires truth. The entertainment business requires bullshit. If you ask me, blogging and show biz go together like chocolate and onion dip—a combination you shouldn’t even try.

Home Hell Home

2006-06-13T11:57:00.000-07:00

I won't go into vast detail about my new job. I will simply list a few recent experiences I've had and let you take it from there.

1.) A distraught woman brings me a polo shirt she wants to buy. She says she can't buy it because it's "defective" and wants another of the same color and style. I look over the green and white-striped shirt. It looks fine. The woman, annoyed, points out the "defect" to me: a tiny thread on the collar, less than half a centimeter long.

2.) Another woman, who's bought three large bags of clothing from me and used the pile of discount coupons I GAVE HER, gets pissed off at me when I ring up her last item. One T-shirt that's not covered by the coupons. She paid full price for one item. . .and received 20-75% price markdowns on at least seven others. Still, she leaves Spendorama unhappy.

3.) A kid (age 18-ish) expects me to ring up his purchase (a $50 pair of jeans) with a receipt for a gift card. He doesn't have the gift card with him just then. Can't I just use the receipt? No, I tell him. He calls me a "dick" and storms out.

4.) A woman loses it because I don't take time to fold the pile of clearance shirts she bought just so. I "disrespected" her purchases, she bitches.

5.) A man loses it because I take time to fold the two pairs of slacks he bought just so. He was in a hurry, he complains.

Oh Lordy. Home Hell Home!

Not-So-Fair Brady Update

2006-05-31T08:42:00.000-07:00

According to WGN-TV Chicago, Adrienne Curry (age 22, the first "America's Next Top Model") and Christopher Knight (age 47, Peter on "The Brady Bunch") were married in her hometown of Joliet, Illinois, sometime last weekend. I wrote about this match made in reality TV hell last autumn. Recently, the two lovebirds have returned to the boob tube with a second installment of their VH1 "My Fair Brady" show, which I'm sure will document the whole sordid event on film.

I saw a bit of it on Sunday. Curry still looks like a conniving golddigger. Knight still seems to be eyeing the nearest exit. Among other pre-wedding requests, Knight's asking for a pre-nup and a vasectomy (Do you know any guy who would ever volunteer for one of those? Me neither.)

I give the marriage one year, at best. Run, Pete, run!

Hello Dumbness, My Old Friend

2006-05-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

I know it isn't time for my next scheduled post yet. But this story is just TOO good to pass up.

One of my all-time favorite books is The Graduate by Charles Webb. Yeah, the 1967 Dustin Hoffman movie of the same name was based on it. The movie was good, but the book was better. The story of young Benjamin Braddock, his summer fling with the sultry Mrs. Robinson and his subsequent romance with Mrs. Robinson's beautiful daughter, Elaine, is told over the course of less than 200 pages, and 90% of those pages are pure dialogue. Some of the sharpest, funniest dialogue, in fact, that you'll find in any 20th Century American novel. So much so, that the movie's screenwriters pasted much of said dialogue into their screenplay verbatim.

I enjoyed The Graduate enough to seek out a couple of Webb's other books. Love, Roger was okay; it's kind of like 'The Return of Ben Braddock'. I have but have never read The Marriage of a Young Stockbroker. Mean to, though. I like Webb's fiction because his protagonists are guys who are polar opposites of myself: horny, obsessed with beautiful women and often frustrated in their pursuit of those women, who are clearly their intellectual superiors. What dweebs!

The fact that Charles Webb's name was habitually omitted from lists of the sharpest writers of his era always puzzled me. I mean, Hollywood cared enough to film both The Graduate and The Marriage of a Young Stockbroker (1970; film 1971). His most recent novel, New Cardiff (2002), was adapted into the film "Hope Springs" (2003), which starred Colin Firth and Minnie Driver. Why wasn't this author of such witty, literate dialogue raking in mad president$ writing screenplays? Why aren't grad students mining his books for thesis paper material? Why isn't Charlie Rose smooching up to him on PBS? I didn't understand it.

Then I came across an item online recently. Rather than water it all down here, you can read it for yourselves: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2-2138646.html Another, earlier interview with Webb and Fred fills in some more blanks:http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4158/is_20010408/ai_n14380166

I was feeling sorry for this guy. As broke as I am, I was ready to send him a couple bucks in care of his most recent publisher. But the more I found out about him, the less sorry I felt.

If you're a bookworm like me, you've probably heard many stories about writers who toiled away in obscurity, for next to no money, only to be 'rediscovered' and revered. . .long after they died. Science fiction author Philip K. Dick (Minority Report, among others) and mystery novelist Jim Thompson (The Grifters, among others) are just two examples of this post-mortem literary phenomenon. Better late than never, sure. But the praise and the cash that are rolling in now ain't doing them any good.

But this wasn't Charles Webb's fate. He's had the opportunity to see his books (well, The Graduate, at least) achieve popular success. If his later titles weren't bestsellers, they were at least respectfully reviewed. If he isn't a critical darling, he has managed something of an 'underground' reputation as a fine writer. At last, it's not that Webb didn't have opportunities. He just didn't take them.

All right, there is another side you could argue. Of course, Webb's life is his to use as he pleases. Maybe he simply likes the type of life he's made for himself. On this level, at least, he can be admired for marching to the beat of his own drum. And under no circumstances would I ever try to kick a guy when he's down. His wife's illness is one reason he's down and I tip my hat to Webb for sticking by her through it all. Unlike many people in our 'victimist' society, Webb is blaming no one for his circumstances, other than himself.

But then there's that other nagging point: it doesn't have to be this way. You wonder why, at some juncture in time, Webb didn't pause and say to himself: "Charlie, you're a college-educated man and a skilled writer of some reknown. There's probably a magazine which would pay you well to grace its masthead with your name. You don't HAVE to be living in a nudist colony and working as a grocery shelf-stocker, you know." But evidently, Webb doesn't talk to himself.

Maybe too much time has passed between now and the halcyon years of the 1960's. Back then, perhaps Webb would've been applauded for selling the copyright of The Graduate to charity, for giving away his house in Massachussetts. Perhaps he's right; we possibly have become too materialistic. However, in addition to pondering that idea, chew also on the words of former über-hippie Mia Farrow, interviewed in the June 2006 issue of Esquire: "After the Maharishi, I started hitchhiking across India. I withdrew everything from my bank and just gave it all away. And then I thought, Well, how useless is this, 'cause now I'm poor, too. So I went back to work." I couldn't put it any clearer than that.

Charles Webb is a gifted writer. But he's also a blue-ribbon putz. I hope, at the ripe old age of 66, he learns what another 1960's celebrity, Jim Morrison, had figured out by age 27: "money does beat soul everytime."

Goddamn

2006-05-12T17:46:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why this time was different from any of the others.

I wasn’t planning on it. It was a Sunday morning. I had just gone out to pick up a Sunday newspaper and a bottle of Nestle’s Double-Chocolate Quik. For me, chocolate makes the frustrating business of job-hunting go smoother. I got what I wanted from the supermarket and I was heading back home. My route took me past the local mall. The place had just opened and was nearly deserted. I figured, what the hell?

It wasn’t the best of circumstances. I hadn’t shaved for about three days. I was wearing a ratty pair of jeans and this crappy Bears sweatshirt I’ve had since I was 16. Yes, it still fits me. It’s made of some kind of wonder-fabric which has just sort of expanded as I have. I hadn’t bothered to even comb my hair, and my Dennis the Menace cowlick was flying at full-staff. But if I did it today, I told myself, I wouldn’t have to make another trip back there next week. So I went in and filled out an application at “Spendorama” Department Store.

Damned if they didn’t actually call back two days later. No big deal. I’ve gotten a couple of those recently—all for shitjobs the employers were desperate to fill.

The week before, for example. A caffeine-amped manager at a bargain basement appliance store dangled a commission-only sales job in front of my nose like it was a sirloin and I was a hungry wolf. For those not in the know, commission-only means the salesdweeb does not get an hourly salary, only a percentage of each sale he/she makes. No sale, no paycheck. You can tell when salespeople in a store are working on commission, because they grin like crackheads and ambush customers one foot past the door. I worked commission-only once, briefly, for a long-gone electronics chain. Never again. The turnover is high, the competition is cutthroat and it’s damn-near impossible to make a living wage, unless you plan on working 7 days a week. I let the guy blither on about extended warranties and the like for about 20 minutes before I said no. He went catatonic, all google-eyed and slack-jawed. Poor bastard; Red Bull overload.

Anyway, I went to my interview at Spendorama Department Store. This is an actual department store, similar to Macy’s or the soon-to-be-departed Marshall Field’s. At least it wasn’t another –Mart. Talked to Hiring Guy, a polite gentleman in a shirt and tie. He said he needed a salesman in the men’s clothing department. The job was evenings and weekends, part-time, with “an opportunity to go full-time as we approach our busier Fall season,” he said. It would pay an hourly wage, an actual-sorta-living wage, at least for part-time. It wasn’t the lowest sum I’d been quoted.

So then, Hiring Guy and I did the typical employer-applicant dance I’ve come to know so well. “Describe your favorite customer service experience.” “What’s your worst customer service experience?” “Are you a team player or a lone wolf?” I’ve answered these questions so many times, I could do so in my sleep. Garbage in, garbage out; he gave me the same polite nods and “uh-huh’s” I’ve heard just as often. Then Hiring Guy excused himself and left the office, promising to return directly. Well, I thought, anticipating the brush-off, at least I’d be home in time to catch “Judge Judy”.

I sat alone in the office, which was cluttered with old sale signs, sundry displays and stacks of credit card applications. It was dim; the single florescent panel above barely lit the room. The only sound was the steady hum of air from a ceiling vent. Quite comfortable, though. I sat back, closed my eyes and eased into a sex fantasy about my latest dream girl, Karen Cliché. She’s the female star of “Young Blades”, a Three Musketeers rip-off TV show that’s only worth watching for her. Such lips, such eyes! Such skill in handling the sword! Calling Doctor Freud. . .

“Okay, John,” said the returning Hiring Guy, startling me out of an R-rated revelry. He sat back down behind his desk, scribbled something on a form. Then he did something which scared the hell out of me. He stuck out his hand and said: “The job is yours. Welcome to Spendorama. Can you start next week?”

Goddamn. Someone is going to actually PAY me to work. How did that happen?

Tune In Fluff Radio Review

2006-05-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

If you're looking for a podcast that features great modern music and comedy, look no further than "Fluff Radio Review". Hosted by Colleen AF Venable (PHOTO, right) and Annie Saunders (PHOTO, left), two brilliantly witty (and just plain brilliant) women out of Brooklyn, NY, this program will bring you so up to speed on bands/performers you should know about, even your 13-year old nephew won't think you're a dork anymore!

As for the comedy? The songs, skits and patter performed by Annie and Colleen are funnier than anyone on "Saturday Night Live" in at least 10 years. Tune in and discover the pleasures to be found in Xmas in New York, tri-flavored popcorn and 'kazooing,' among other delights. When these ladies are rich and famous someday, you can say you knew of them way back when.

And if you do drop by "Fluff Radio Review," tell 'em John Left sent you. Not that this would mean anything to anyone. It would just be a nice gesture if you did.

(Yes, the persons in the picture above are Annie and Colleen. The false mustaches are a recurring comic theme they'll explain.) http://www.fluffinbrooklyn.com/fluffcastradio.html

Right Person, Wrong Time

2006-04-22T13:17:00.000-07:00

One thing about this whole experience: it forces you to get to know yourself. The job search had kicked my ass that week. No call-backs. No leads. Just applying, applying, and applying. By Thursday, I had to get away. My favorite retreat? The local multiplex. The movie: “Lucky Number Slevin”.

This is NOT going to be one of my famous film reviews. I’ll only say that someone in Hollywood finally paid attention in Storytelling 101 class. Sharp dialogue, quirky characters and a plot full of enough twists to keep you guessing makes for a fine moviegoing experience. Not to mention a great group of actors. Kudos to all involved.

I liked “Lucky Number Slevin” so much, in fact, that I saw it a second time—for free. I cleared out as the film ended and the teenaged cleanup crew arrived. I hung out in the men’s room for about ten minutes or so, doing everything one can do in a men’s room. Then, I just sat on one of the plush benches the theater provided in the hall outside of Theater # 452, where “Slevin” was showing. Ten minutes after that, I went back into the now-vacant show space. Taking a seat in a middle row, I pulled out the copy of Asimov’s Foundation that I’m currently engrossed in and began to read. The next show started in a half-hour. Yes, I know it’s less than honest; so is charging $10 per ticket.

“What are you reading?” said a female voice behind me.

“Um, Asimov,” I said, picking my startled eyeballs up off the floor. “Foundation. Where did you come from?” I turned to notice that she was an attractive, slim Asian girl, roughly 22 years old. She wore a gray ‘hoodie’ and a form-fitting pair of black slacks.

“I just crouched down in the top aisle after the show ended,” she said. “The ushers never come up that far while they’re cleaning. I get free movies all the time that way.”

Long story made short: her name was “Katie.” She was 24 years old and playing hooky from her classes at a local college that day. She asked me my story; I used the ‘freelance copyeditor working from home’ speech. She bought it. By then, a couple of senior citizens shuffled into the theater and “Slevin” started again. As the show began, Katie moved down and sat next to me. A couple of times, she playfully nudged me in the arm as she laughed at Josh Hartnett’s and Lucy Liu’s wisecracks. When Bruce Willis graphically dispatched an opponent of his with a gun, Katie grabbed my wrist and said “Oooh!” It was pretty obvious that she was lonely.

After the second showing of “Slevin,” I gathered up my jacket and book and started to leave.

“Hey? Where’re you going?” Katie asked, touching my shoulder.

“Home,” I said. “I think two viewings is enough, don’t you?”

“What’s your rush? Wanna go for coffee next-door?”

There was a Starbuck’s next to the multiplex.

“Well, I don’t know,” I stalled, trying to remember if Mommy had lent Johnny enough allowance for a hot chocolate.

“Come on,” she smiled, “my treat.”

Damn, I thought, this girl MUST be lonely. No woman ever offered to pay for anything for me, not even girlfriends I’d dated for years. And Katie did have a nice smile—straight white teeth and the salmon-colored, bee-stung lips I’ve admired on many Asian beauties. How could I refuse?

We repaired to the local mega-chain caffeine distributor. Katie ordered a chai tea latte; I, feeling adventurous, went with a true man’s drink—a small vanilla ‘steamer.’ We took a booth by the window.

My whole adult life, it’s been the same story. Women, for some reason, love to talk to me. Notice I didn’t say “talk with me”. They just love the way I listen. Usually, I don’t mind. Women are infinitely better conversationalists than men. They instinctively know how to weave the most mundane events into ripping good stories. This time, as much as I tried, I’m sad to say that I simply wasn’t into it.

Let me emphasize that it was not Katie’s fault, it was mine. Katie was an intelligent, charming woman. The problems were with her story and the moment at which she happened to catch me.

I should’ve recognized Katie as a comrade-in-arms. She described herself as “confused” about her “life-plan”. She was six weeks away from graduating with a Business Administration degree she wanted like a hole in her head. Mom and Dad, very ambitious types, had “pushed” her into it. Katie was a movie freak and would’ve preferred majoring in cinematography. It’s true that the girl recognized that the makers of “Slevin” had borrowed more than a few pages from Quentin Tarantino’s book. She even quoted the same Biblical passage Samuel L. Jackson had famously recited in “Pulp Fiction”—as loudly as Mr. Jackson had too, to the chagrin of everyone sitting around us. I must admit that I was falling for her. She asked me what my favorite part of “Slevin” was.

“I only saw the film for one reason,” I said. “Lucy Liu. My all-time favorite actress.”

Katie smiled that delicious smile of hers. “Horn dog. Still, I see your point.” She ran her fingers through her long, straight black hair. “I’m often told that I look like her, even though I’m Filipino and she’s Chinese. Hey, let me ask you something. . .what’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

Katie looked at me intensely, as if trying to read something from my face. “Having it all together. You seem so cool and collected. You know what you are and where you’re going.”

“Well, uh, I,” I stammered, and you know exactly why.

She rested her chin on the ball of her hand, still staring at me. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five. Why?”

“I can’t wait to be your age. All I have now are questions, things I’m unsure of and I hate it. By the time I’m your age, I’ll know what you know. There’ll be no more questions. By that time, I’ll have it all figured out. I’ll be as cool and collected as you are.”

At that moment, I could’ve gone one of two ways. I could’ve taken the honest route and told her the Way It Is. How you never, no matter what your age, never really figure it out. That life is like one of those old movie serials, in which you’re always left waiting to find out what happens next. I could’ve told her how I was, at that moment, a thousand country miles from being cool and collected. That “having it figured out” is an illusion you leave behind on your college campus, along with thoughts like never selling out and pursuing your passion, “no matter what.” Or I could’ve been Mr. Supportive, and told her, like Elvis once sang in a crappy movie of the same name, “to follow that dream wherever that dream may lead. . .” But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to go either way with Katie. So I took a third option.

I glanced at my watch. “Hey! Look at the time! I promised a friend I’d. . .help him. . .drain the crankcase on his ’71 Dodge Charger. I’ve gotta book or he’ll be pissed.” I finished my vanilla steamer and stood up. “Thanks for the steamer.”

“Are you sure?” Katie asked, anxiously. She stood up, too. “Couldn’t you hang for, like, another half-hour or so? Why cut off a good conversation?” Her chestnut eyes were wide and yearning. She really wanted me to stay. I really wanted to, too.

“Naw,” I lied. “This guy’s an old buddy and I promised him. Can’t break a promise to a pal, right?”

Katie dug into her purse and pulled out a pen. She scribbled on a napkin and handed it to me. I looked at the napkin; it was a phone number.

“That’s my cell,” she said, drawing close to me. “Call me anytime between four and nine. You’re a really cool guy and a good talker.” She rested a hand on my shoulder and kissed me, gently, on the cheek. Katie’s lips were very soft and warm. “Let’s keep in touch, huh?”

I patted Katie on the shoulder. “Oh, thanks. I will. You know it.” Without pausing, I stuck the napkin in my pocket, turned and walked out of the coffee house.

I still have the napkin. I haven’t called the number—I don’t know if I will. But I can’t bring myself to throw the napkin away, either.

Los Azul del Taller (The Workshop Blues)

2006-04-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

Damn, this is getting stale. The job search thing, that is.

For the last week, I've spent the majority of each day at the local Career Center, taking "workshops" (i.e., one-day classes) on the fine art of locating employment. They’re free, thank God. I've done workshops on writing resumes and cover letters, networking, negotiating salaries and even a "mock" videotaped job interview. What did Johnny learn?

☻ When speaking, I shouldn’t use so many hand gestures. I look like I’m flagging in 747’s on a runway at O’Hare Field.

☻ When speaking, I shouldn’t say “um” when I pause to think of an answer. I don’t just say “um”. I say, “UUUUUUUUMMMMMMMM. . .” which makes me sound not like the careful, thoughtful job applicant I mean to be, but rather, a Hoover upright vacuum cleaner with a clogged suction hose.

☻ Like Sting once sang, I’m not alone in being alone. Those workshops were chockfull o’ folks in need of jobs. The smallest (the mock interview) had eight people in it; the largest (resume writing) boasted a class of twenty-five students. Most of them were in their middle to late forties. Most were white-collar or skilled workers. Examples: a former college recruiter who had been job-hunting for 20 months, a machine parts salesman with 10+ years experience and a master printer, who specialized in silkscreen printing. Do me a favor. If you hear anyone say the economy is recovering, yell “BULLSHIT!” just before you kick them in the ass. I’m kidding, of course. Don’t kick them in the ass. (Unless you truly feel like doing so.)

☻ In the resume writing workshop, I met a 30ish woman I’ll call “Dulcinea.” She was laid off from a clerical job six months ago. A recent college grad currently working part-time as a telemarketer, Dulcinea is trying to get a job in the medical transcription field. She and I struck up a pleasant conversation, in which she mentioned the other workshops she’d signed up for that week. By “coincidence”—i.e., frantic last-minute rescheduling once I’d found out which workshops—I had signed up for the same exact ones! How kooky!

Did I mention that Dulcinea is single? And has a spicy Brazilian accent? And bears a striking resemblance to actress Salma Hayek? ¡Muy atractivo! ¡Despiertan a Juan muy!

Sometimes, you have to make your own good news. I have two other workshops with Dulcinea next week.

Dumbass Me!

2006-04-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

Holy crap! Not a month after I set my new posting schedule, I went and phawked it up! I said I'd update ye olde bloge on the second and fourth Saturdays of each month. I wasn't supposed to post last Saturday. I was supposed to post this Saturday! Dumbass me!

Anybody who could screw up his own posting schedule must be on a mental par with the likes of, say, Bowzer from "Sha-Na-Na". Sorry loyal readers (both of you), I didn't mean to confuse you. From now on, before I cut loose with another rant, I promise to check a calendar first.

If I stick to my schedule, my next new posting will be up two weeks from this Saturday, on April 22, 2006. That's Earth Day, in case anyone still observes Earth Day.

As Bowzer might say, "Be there or be square."

Greens and Grays and the Hazards of Being 'Overqualified'

2006-04-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

“Well, yes,” she said apologetically, looking over my resume, “you've got a solid background and lots of experience, Mr. Left. But unfortunately, you’re really overqualified for this position.”

I don’t know exactly how many job interviews I’ve been on in the last year. I’d have to check my interview log, which I’ve titled The Book of Broken Promises and Battered Dreams. But I’ve heard that word—“overqualified”—more times than Billy Joel’s been asked to take a breathalyzer test. The very sound of the word makes me cringe.

Whenever I go on a job interview, whether it’s in an office or a retail environment, I always ask to take a tour of the workplace. This gives me a chance to get a sense of the company’s work environment and the types of people the company hires. Based on the kinds of employees I’ve seen on my recent workplace tours, I don’t understand how being “overqualified” could ever be viewed as a liability.

Consistently, I’ve seen workplaces filled with two types of workers. The first I call the Green Type. Green, as in “greener than tomatoes in June”. Workers of this type all seem to be between the ages of 19 and 23. They typically have a wad of fluorescent-colored gum stuck in their cheeks and a large Starbuck’s cup in their hands. The females are typically drenched in perfumes which are dispensed in aerosol cans. Males typically reek of body odor and sport 3-day growths of beard because, like, grooming is a hassle, dude. They have the reading and writing skills of 7th Graders, because their hyper-PC teachers feared “pressuring” them with too much homework (i.e., more than 15 minutes a night). Green Typers frequently stop work to talk with friends on cell phones, text message said friends on Blackberries or listen to “groovycool” tunes on iPods. Green Typers also tend to shout in conversation, because their hearing has been damaged by over-usage of the aforementioned audio gadgets. Do not attempt to argue with or offer advice to a Green Typer. They will not listen. They consider everyone outside their group to be either a bitter old sellout or senile. Better to blunder through a job than to do it properly.

I call the second group the Gray Type. These people are usually between the ages of 55 and 70. They typically smell of Ben Gay, mothballs or Vick’s Vaporub. Gray Typers often tend to engage in acts of blatant slacking off which, in their minds, are justified by either the number of years they’ve spent with the employer or some long-ago service they performed for the employer (“Sleeping at my desk? You’re damned right I’m sleeping at my desk! See that storeroom? I organized it alphabetically. . .in 1979. Now pipe down so I can recover!”). They are usually oblivious to and openly contemptuous of any and all innovations or changes in the way the job is done (“To hell with your new-fangled fax machine! I’ll slip Umberto here $5.00; he’ll deliver this invoice to Kenosha in no time!”) Do not discuss education, especially college education, since most Gray Typers don’t have it (“You and your fancy degree! All I ever needed was the book-learnin’ I got at good ol’ William H. Taft High, goddamn it!”). Gray Typers often interrupt work to tranquilize everyone around them with stories about the Good Old Days. And everything reminds them about the Good Old Days. Do not attempt to argue with or offer advice to a Gray Typer. They will not listen. They consider all non-Gray Typers to be stupid cubs or punks trying to steal their jobs. Jobs they quit doing, for the most part, many years ago.

I don’t get it. “Overqualified”. Overqualified compared to what? The Greens and the Grays? Wasn’t the mantra we all heard in school “Learn more to earn more”? Why do these employers seem to want to fill their stores and offices with rookies who can’t tell up from down or relics who’ve long forgotten the difference?

Did you ever get the feeling that nobody knows just what the hell they’re doing? Lately, I feel like I’m the star of my own personal sit-com and everyone can hear the laugh track except me.

Ah well. I’m going to go home, watch some porn and get hammered. Monday is a new week and a new week brings new opportunities.

Self-Portrait of the Bullshit Artist as a Middle-Aged Man

2006-03-24T10:19:00.000-08:00

I wanted to call this post "Interview with Myself", but apparently, I'm only the one-millionth person to think of the title. The title I went with is a more accurate description of yours truly, don't you think? You don't have to laugh that hard.

Earlier this week, I came across a listing for a blog called "Netlogged" (http://www.netlogged.com). It's a blog about blogs, blogging and bloggers. It's done by a guy named Sandeep who, as far as I can tell, is based in India. Either way, he's a cool guy who does a very professional job. Sandeep is the George Plimpton of the blogosphere; on his site, he invites bloggers to be interviewed about blogging. The how's, when's and why's behind their blogs. A fine idea. Someone should record the backstory of the blogging phenomenon, right?

Always on the lookout for an opportunity to talk about my favorite subject (myself), I eagerly took him up on his offer. Sandeep provided the questions. My answers are on display at the above-posted link (just click on "John Left"). Let me know what you think.

I don't mean to toot my own horn (Hey! No "contortionist" jokes!), but I think I did a pretty decent job of interviewing myself. Having done my first interview, I'm starting to feel like a regular pop star. The next thing you know, I'll be compelled to jump on sofas and deliver endless lectures on my halfassed political views.

Oh, wait. I'm already doing that. The lecturing, that is.

New Posting Schedule from the Kaiser of Crackpot Commentary

2006-03-18T11:20:00.000-08:00

I'll admit it. Brother John has been sadly neglectful in regards to following a regular posting schedule. Mea Culpa.

I've been trying to post whenever possible. But I realize that I've got to give my faithful readers (both of you) some clue as to when they can check for the latest rantings from the Kaiser of Crackpot Commentary. (That's me, in case you didn't know.) Without readers, I am just a loony blabbling into the wind. I truly appreciate everyone who takes time to read my words. I resolve to show it by posting, from this day forward, on a regular basis.

Therefore, the new posting schedule, as of today, for "John Left's Field" shall be:

no later than the second and fourth Saturdays of each month.

I promise, nothing short of rain, sleet, snow, intoxication or a date with Natalie Portman will keep me from my posting schedule. Well, maybe not a date with Natalie Portman, but otherwise. . .

"He who is slowest in making a promise is most faithful in its performance."

---Jean Jacques Rousseau

On "V for Vendetta"

2006-03-17T17:28:00.000-08:00

98.9% of American films made today are like pieces of bubble gum. They are identical, insubstantial, disposable and they promote decay (in the case of films, that's mental decay). Everyone knows this, but for some reason, shit like Steve Martin's lame "Pink Panther" remake continues to rake in million$ in ticket sales.

This leads one to make two conclusions: 1.) intelligent Americans stay home from the theater; 2.) mainstream U.S. audiences have become so easy to please, they'd pay $10.00 a ticket to watch a test pattern, as long as it featured voiceovers by Lindsey Lohan and Tim Allen, and soundtrack “music” by Eminem and Ashley Simpson. The bar for film entertainment has been set so low, it's now lying on the ground.

But fear not, small minority that can walk and chew gum at the same time. If you crave food for thought along with the sugary desserts that are fight scenes and special effects, you're in luck. "V for Vendetta" will satisfy your hunger.

And God only knows why. "V for Vendetta" has more strikes against it than the entire Chicago Cubs lineup in late September. After all, it's based on a "graphic novel" (i.e., a comic book) and those infallibly stink on ice ("Daredevil", "Electra", etc.). The author of the “Vendetta” graphic novel, Alan Moore, disowned this picture and removed his name from its credits. That’s tantamount to a parent disowning his child. Worst of all, “Vendetta’s” producers and the coauthors of its screenplay are the frigging Wachowski Brothers. If you’ve seen parts 2 or 3 of “The Matrix” trilogy, I’ve said enough. If you haven’t, then it’s analogy time. When you can literally see a movie trilogy losing its momentum, like a car that has run out of gas, that’s bad news. “V for Vendetta” should suck. No, it shouldn't just suck. It should suck like a Ben Affleck career retrospective.

But it doesn’t. “Vendetta” features three-dimensional, thinking characters—imagine that! It also contains cultural references and songs which actually serve to define character and atmosphere. Kudos to first-time director James McTeigue, who apparently paid attention in Filmmaking 101 class. Set in a totalitarian England of the future, his production uses political allegory to make a statement about our time, without resorting to the sledgehammer tactics typical of “message” movies. Three guys named Clooney, Haggis and Spielberg should put it at the top of their “To See” lists. Best of all, the film stars Natalie Portman. Portman, unlike most of the actresses of her generation, can truly act. She ain’t hard to look at, neither. You know a woman is beautiful when she can rock the shaved head look. So somehow, against all odds, “V for Vendetta” succeeds at being intelligent, substantial entertainment. And it’s a mainstream American film—damn!

A word to the wise. Your enjoyment of this film will be appreciably heightened if you know a thing or two about a dude named Guy Fawkes and why, each November 5th, Brits use him as an excuse to party like it’s 1605. You can do that by going to http://www.guy-fawkes.com/index.html for an overview. Then make your friends jealous with the backstory you just “happen” to recall from your sophomore world history class. Only you and I will know that you took advanced P.E. instead.

I hope you enjoy “V for Vendetta” as much as I did. If you don’t, go bitch at Warner Brothers, not at me. Until next time, friends, the multiplex is closed.

Job Search Redux

2006-03-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

I promised myself it wouldn’t be like the last time. It’s a new year; I’d take a new attitude and a new approach. After all, the newspaper columnists and newscasters were harmonizing like happy Munchkins over the melted body of the Wicked Witch of the Recession: “Ding-dong, the economy is on the upswing, the economy is on the upswinnnnggg. . .”

This time, however, there would be one difference. I told myself I would not be returning to retail. I’d played the name tag and counter game for 12 years. I’m in my mid-30’s, which is too old to be wrestling swing sets into customers’ cars in the rain. Plus, with my shoulder injury, my doctor told me that it was in my best interests to pursue a job that did not require heavy lifting. Okay-fine with me. Let the teenyboppers stock the shelves of America’s money pits. Slap the dog and spit on the fire, Johnny-boy’s moving on to Bigger and Better Things! Ki-ki-ki-yiiii!*

What then, would I do? Well, everybody (including some of you kind readers) tells me I’m a pretty decent writer. With my B.A. and my college newspaper experience, I decided to give the publishing game a try. I made up some resumes geared toward that job field. My counselor at the Career Center inspected and stamped them with his approval. I checked the want ads—not a damn opening in sight. “Not to worry!” I said to myself. “Most jobs are not located through want ads. Companies, said Career Center counselor, take out ads only when they’re desperate to fill positions. This time, I’ll take the initiative. This time, (with all due respect) the mountain will go to Muhammad!” Out went the nifty new resumes. Days passed. Back came nifty “not hiring now” post cards or. . .nothing.

At times like this, Common Sense says it’s important to have a Plan B. Did I? Did Pinocchio have wooden balls? During those 12 years I spent in the retail trenches, I gathered more than just a large collection of obscenities. I also accrued a dozen years of customer service know-how. I can communicate with customers. I can facilitate customer experiences and administer to customers’ wants and needs. With my skills, I can emblematize a company well in the public eye, portray their corporate culture in a way which will entice customers and stimulate business. At least, that’s what my Career Center counselor said. And yes, like everyone else there, he does speak in italics. So I set my sights on the hospitality industry—you know, hotels, resorts and shit.

A glance at the Sunday classifieds told me I was in luck. The Toffeenose Resort & Convention Center, located mere minutes from the Left family home, was in need of a “Front Desk/Guest Services Person”. The job and the location were perfect and if nothing else, I would finally have a chance to take a look at this gated haven. The resort resembles the gloomy Xanadu estate from “Citizen Kane”, if Xanadu were plopped down onto an 18-hole golf course, with tennis courts out back. Nobody I knew in town could afford the place. Its clientele is strictly out-of-towners. On Monday, I called the advertised number. A woman brandishing a sharp German accent told me to be at the Front Desk in the Main Lobby, “widt work herstiry und references handy”, at 10:00a.m. on Tuesday. No problem.

When the clock stuck ten the next morning, there I stood—showered, shaved, combed and clad in the brown suit great-Uncle Ian left me in his will. It was okay—I’d hung the suit on Mom’s clothesline for a few hours the day before, to kill the still-lingering scent of Glenfiddich. The lobby was twice as big as the entire main floor of my parents’ house. Plush maroon carpeting complimented the snow-white paint on the walls. Soothing Muzak played on a P.A. system. To the right of the Front Desk was a glass wall, overlooking some kind of atrium one floor below. In the atrium, white wrought-iron tables and matching chairs were arranged around the atrium’s centerpiece, a fountain. A limestone cherub stood in this fountain playing the flute, while water dribbled out of the pedestal he was perched on and collected in a tiny pool beneath him. Shiny happy people sat at these tables, enjoying coffee and the lively art of conversation, as the relaxing sound of dribbling water washed their cares away. I sighed, swept up in a momentary reverie.

“Excuse me!” said a stern, familiar voice. “Vat ist yoor budiness here?”

It was the woman I’d spoken to earlier. She resembled Miss Kraus, the German housekeeper on “Benson”, whose perpetually severe expression and grim attitude suggested that she hadn’t moved her bowels since the Third Reich fell. Beside Kraus stood a doe-eyed slip of a girl, about twenty-five years old. Her blonde hair was tied back into a bun and streaked with Lucille Ball red. Her wide greenish-brown eyes blinked infrequently. She grinned goofily and giggled constantly. At what, I wasn’t sure.

“I’m John Left,” I said. “I called yesterday. I’m here to apply for the Front Desk/Guest Services job.”

Silently, Kraus reached under the desk, pulled out a clipboard and pushed it into my hands. On the clipboard was a generic 3-page job application. To be honest, I was disappointed. As far as stationery was concerned, I had expected something bearing the magnificent green and yellow shield-shaped crest of the Toffeenose Resort, custom-printed on textured, creamy 24-pound bond. This form looked like a Xerox copy of something you could buy at OfficeMax.

“Go sit over dere,” barked Kraus, pointing fiercely to a nearby sofa. “Fill oudt dese forms, den return dem to me.”

Giggles, still giggling, offered me a pen. It was a common everyday blue Bic, for crying out loud! Apparently, she thought I'd just ridden down from Milwaukee on a beer truck. But I'd fix her little red wagon. With one fluid movement, I reached into my shirt pocket and withdrew the sleek, imitation-silver Montblanc that had been rotting away in my dresser drawer since the day I graduated from college.

“No thank you,” I said with confidence, clicking the retractable pen's button with my thumb. “I brought my own.” This, I thought, showed them. A Montblanc man didn't fart around. Giggles looked impressed. Kraus looked like she had a boil in need of lancing.

I took a seat on the sofa and went through my paces. It didn’t take long. After filling out so many of the damned things, I had memorized the required information. Giggles mucked around behind the desk, smiling and laughing like a glue-sniffer. Kraus stood next to her, arms crossed, frowning at me like Berliners must’ve frowned at the invading Red Army in 1945.

When I was finished, I returned the clipboard to Kraus. She glanced at the application.

“Stay here,” she said. “De boss vants to speak wit you.”

Kraus took my application and disappeared into a rear office. My spirits rose; this was a good sign. Usually, they just take the paperwork, say they’ll call you and kick you out. If you get to talk to the boss, that means you’re on the inside track. Soon, I thought, I’d be having coffee breaks with Giggles next to that dribbling cherub in the atrium!

Kraus emerged from the rear office, trailed by the boss. The boss, holding my application, came around the desk and shook my hand, weakly.

“Hi there, John,” he said. “I’m Sunji, the dayshift manager.” Sunji was a chubby kid with spiked hair and two hoop earrings in each ear. His beardless, line-free face told me he was younger than Giggles, no more than twenty-two. Sunji flipped through my application. “So you’re looking for full-time work?”

“Yes,” I managed to say while biting my tongue. This was an example of what I call a GODQ (Glaringly Obvious Dumbass Question) . For reasons unknown, 90% of job interviewers insist on asking these types of questions. No, I wanted my afternoons free for canasta. I checked the "full time" box on the application just for shits and grins.

“Have you ever worked in a hotel resort before?”

My Career Center counselor and I had discussed this type of scenario and I was prepared. I had to indicate how the skills I'd developed in a separate field could suit his purposes, and do it quickly. It's called an "elevator speech" and I'd rehearsed mine thoroughly. With confidence, I launched into my spiel. “No, but I do have extensive customer service experience—”

“I can see that,” Sunji interrupted, his eyes stuck to the page. “So this would be your first experience working in a resort?”

“Yes, I wanted a new challenge. I think Toffeenose’s standards and my skills would be a good match for—”

“We’ll be accepting applications until Friday. My supervisor will make the final choice this Saturday. Either way, we’ll call you by the middle of next week.” Sunji grabbed my hand and shook it again, weakly. “Thanks for dropping in, John.”

The following Wednesday, the phone did not ring. At 3:00p.m., I called the resort. Giggles answered the phone.

“Um,teeheeheee,” she said, “they’re still, heehee, looking at all the applications. Teeheeheehee! You’ll know by Friday, -kay? Heehee!”

That was two weeks ago. I haven’t heard from them yet.

*An official “John Left’s Field” No Prize will go to the first reader who can identify what this is.

A Team of Tin Medalists

2006-02-24T17:14:00.000-08:00

I’m not a fan of winter—biased, as I am, against the prospect of freezing one’s ass off. I’m not a fan of falling on one’s ass. I’ve fallen on my own so often, over the years, I seem to have lost my taste for it. It’s no surprise, then, that I’m not a Winter Olympics fan. After all, what is the common denominator of Winter Olympic sports? The danger of falling on one’s ass while in the process of freezing it off. ‘Nuff said.

Still, I remain a connoisseur of cultural crap. I felt obligated, at least in a casual way, to keep up on the American team’s progress at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino. While I don’t care for winter sports, I am an American. Thinking back, I recalled Dorothy Hamill, Bonnie Blair, Eric Heiden and the 1980 U.S. Men’s Hockey team. Their achievements generated such goodwill for this country, both at home and abroad. In these troubled times, we could use a dose of that goodwill. I sincerely hoped this latest batch of Olympians would represent America well.

Dumbass me.

Hannah Teter, Shani Davis, Rosey Fletcher, Julia Mancuso and Apollo Anton Ohno. That’s it. The rest, as far as I am concerned, is a complete washout. And it’s not about medals. It’s not about winning, or even athletic ability. It’s simpler than that. It’s about one fundamental trait: attitude.

Attitude alone distinguished these Americans from their fellow competitors. While the 2006 U.S. team came up short in the skill department, it had ample supplies of insolence and braggadocio. If pettiness and infighting were Olympic sports, many more gold medals would be dangling from American necks. Yes, this band of Uncle Sam’s finest will go down in sports history. For all the wrong reasons.

I’m half-inclined to petition the International Olympic Committee to change its rules. Its three-medal award system—gold, silver and bronze—is no longer adequate. For this group of trash-talking crybabies, one additional medal is required. The tin medal.

The tin medal would not be an indication of physical prowess. Rather, it would certify an Olympian’s complete and utter lack of modesty, common sense and sportsmanship. It would signify the Olympian’s willingness to snipe, backstab and bicker with teammates and competitors. The tin medal would betoken the Olympian’s failure to deliver on public promises resulting from his or her blatant and shameless egotism. Any and all recipients of the tin medal, in order to participate in forthcoming games, would be required to make sincere, public apologies to their fellow citizens on national TV. Should they refuse, tin medal winners would be permanently banned from future Olympic competition.

Who, among America’s 2006 athletes, should receive the tin medal? Bode Miller? While this slaloming shmuck fits the criteria (Hell, he is the criteria!), we must remove his name from contention. In true Olympic tradition, we have to keep the playing field even for the other whining, bragging dunces. Still, his outstanding contribution should be recognized. On the tin medal itself, next to the Olympic logo, there could be an engraved picture of Miller, giving the Finger with both hands. He might as well be on an Olympic medal, because it’s damn sure he’ll never win one. And the tin medal could be given an appropriate nickname: "the Bode". All righty then!

Since Bode’s out, who’s left? Here’s the ballot:

• Chad “Shani Won’t Play with Me!” Hedrick: This Texan speedskater publicly blamed Shani Davis’ refusal to participate in a men’s team “pursuit” event for the Americans’ failure to win the gold. Never mind that Shani hadn’t trained for men’s pursuit. Hedrick also promised to tie Eric Heiden’s record of five gold medals. This boasting made the one gold, one silver and one bronze medal he did snag look piddling by comparison.

• Lindsey “Look Ma, No Hands!” Jacobellis: Lindsey’s a 21-year old snowboarder from Vermont. She’s also a titanic spaz. Within spitting distance of a first-place finish, she tried to pull a showboating move to impress the folks back home. Lindsey stumbled and fell, thus surrendering a 140-foot lead and the gold medal, but forever ensuring herself a spot on the Christmas card list of Switzerland’s Tanja Frieden, who sped past her to victory. Lindsey settled for the silver (Gyp! Gyp!) and a lifetime of explaining herself at every social event she’ll ever attend.

• Johnny “Maybe, Maybe Not” Weir: Here’s a Pennsylvania figure skater who grabbed a lot of headlines for raiding Michael Jackson’s wardrobe and hinting at, but never admitting to, an alternative lifestyle. He did, though, readily confess to loving Christina Aguilera—which, in Pat Robertson’s Bible, is also a sin. You'd think all that hype would amount to something. At last, headlines were all Weir grabbed. He finished fifth in his event.

• Sasha “Practice Shmactice” Cohen: They called her the “Silver Belle” because she habitually came in second place. But “experts” touted Sasha to be the next Peggy Fleming. Entering the Torino games, the 22-year old California figure skater declared that she was “ready for some gold”. Evidently, not ready enough to show up for her last practice session before competing. Sasha took the day off, and then showed up at her event cold and rusty. Two spinning butt-falls later, this belle was silver again. Thus was proved the old adage: “Practice makes. . .you less likely to fall on your ass and look stupid in front of the whole world.”

•Michelle “In Again/Out Again” Kwan: If only she’d been a Dirty Harry fan! In “Magnum Force,” Clint Eastwood utters a piece of evergreen advice: “A man has to know his limitations.” So do California skating queens. After winning silver and bronze in ’98 and ’02, Kwan went on to rake in the Benjamins on the pro circuit. As the ’06 Olympics approached, it was assumed that nagging hip and groin injuries would force Kwan, now an old-for-skating 26, to forgo Torino. But stubborn pride and a hunger for gold wouldn’t let her. Kwan petitioned the Olympic big-wigs for a spot on the team. Deferring to celebrity, they booted contender Emily Hughes out to make room for her. But Father Time would not be denied. The day after the Torino games opened, Kwan’s injured groin told her what everyone already knew—she was too damn old and had to go home. Emily Hughes was recalled at the last minute, which gave her no time to prepare properly and totally screwed her chances to win a medal (she didn’t). Michelle Kwan limped back to California, comforted by her memories. And of course, a boatload of cash.

There are probably more I’m not aware of. Feel free to chime in with your favorites.

These U.S. athletes had a valuable opportunity. They had the chance to represent their country on an international stage. They didn’t have to win a medal in every event to do so. All they had to do was exhibit good sportsmanship. Well, they didn’t. They squandered that opportunity in favor of all the greedy, petty and egotistical Cuba Gooding/”Jerry Maguire”-type horseshit that has turned so many people off of professional sports. None of the Americans was shouting “Show me the money!” But they might as well have. It was that obvious.

It’s been said that Americans are hated across the world. I always laughed at that assertion. I thought it was just an unfounded bias that was held by small-minded people who never met any Americans. For two weeks in February, to audiences around the globe, our Winter Olympic team was America. And our Winter Olympic team confirmed this bias beyond denial. I’m not laughing anymore.

Other Blogs I Enjoy

2006-02-22T13:11:00.000-08:00

Here is a much-belated list of other blogs I regularly read and enjoy:

Happyville Library
http://libraryosis.blogspot.com

Le Chameau Insatiable
http://lechameauinsatiable.blogspot.com

Married with Children
http://marriedworkkids.blogspot.com

i don't care
http://danielrocks15.blogspot.com

Peace in Your World
http://peaceinyourworld.blogspot.com

Dissertation Recovery
http://rebekahravenscroft-scott.blogspot.com

Kiwi Nomad's Wanderings
http://kiwinomad06.blogspot.com

I Am Fuel, You Are Friends
http://fuelfriends.blogspot.com

Please check out these blogs. These are talented, original voices who have great stories to share.

A Request From the Connoisseur of Pop Culture Crap

2006-02-17T15:18:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a connoisseur of pop culture crap. That said, let me ask you to do one thing: vote for Lisa Rinna on ABC's "Dancing With the Stars". You see, I've fallen in love with her.

Yes, wrestler Stacy Keibler was my first choice. It's easy to love a tall, shapely blonde who can shimmy like nobody's business. But Ms. Rinna, a 42-year old soap opera actress I didn't know from Eve before seeing this show, has won my heart. She just seems to try so hard. You can see it on her face when the fey-n'-catty dance judges hold up their score cards, "Gong Show"-style. Lisa's need to succeed is so intense, she even pulled out a photo of her young daughters, a few episodes back, and dedicated her performance to them. This lady WANTS that cheesy glitter ball trophy. Badly.

Besides, Stacy Keibler is 25 and, thanks to "D.W.T.S.", has already landed on the cover of Stuff magazine. The same magazine Adam Sandler has probably sent to the casting director of his next movie. Stacy's salary will soon be light years beyond "Dancing With the Stars'" budget. As wonderful as she is, she doesn't really need to win.

So this middle-aged guy is throwing his support behind a middle-aged gal with a work ethic. I encourage you to do the same.

I always had a soft spot for the underdog. Especially underdogs with toned figures and the sexiest lips this side of Angelina Jolie. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go empty my drool bucket.

Gen Y's Fear of Thinking & Reading

2006-02-10T17:02:00.000-08:00

AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! The meaning behind this anguished roar will become obvious as you read on.

I usually address these posts to any and all intelligent people who donate their valuable time to reading my humble little blog. But in particular, I’d like to slant this dispatch to the age 16-25 crowd, the group currently populating our nation’s high schools and universities. Dudes and dudettes, as Neil Young once sang, this note’s for you.

As you can tell from some of my earlier posts, I am a reader. Yes, I’m one of those types who actually likes deciphering words printed on numbered pieces of paper. Much of my time in school was spent doing this archaic activity. No, I don’t make my living doing it. I do it for fun, to exercise my mind and my imagination. To some of you, this means I’m either A.) a senile old fart or B.) mentally ill. Possibly. But humor the old man, won’t you?

I don’t dislike Generation Y. You guys got stuck with a lot of things us Gen-X’ers didn’t have to deal with. A war, a crappy economy, reality TV and Baby Boomer parents, among them. You’ve done an admirable job dealing with this stuff, really. In general, you’re a bright bunch of kids. But there’s one thing about you guys that just puzzles the shit out of me. Why, oh why, do you hate/fear thinking so much?

I first thought of this question after reading a January 31st editorial in the Chicago Tribune, “Just Look It Up”. Long story made short: many schools and colleges allow, and even encourage, students to use laptops, PDA’s, graphing calculators and other technological doo-dads on tests. It’s part of a growing trend toward “legalized cheating” in school. The article took the middle of the road: “[t]echnology,” it stated, “can be a tool or a crutch.” The Tribune asked readers if they viewed this practice as dishonest and invited them to write in with their opinions. Many, as expected, called it cheating. But just as many declared that it was a perfectly acceptable practice. “Who cares where they get their answers?” asked reader Cindy Peyton. “More reading and research. . .more knowledge. I don’t consider it cheating.” A Chicago elementary teacher assigned the question as an essay topic to her 5th Grade class. “It will help students get better grades,” wrote one kid, “and make test-taking more enjoyable.” Out of the mouths of babes.

A day or two later, I ran across a phenomenon online that I wasn’t aware of. It’s called “Rocketbooks: Classic Literature Visualized.” In short, Rocketbooks are DVD’s that summarize works of classic literature that are commonly assigned in high school and college classes. Several key scenes from each book are dramatized, Hollywood-style, with actors. Other segments include critics and scholars talking about key themes and characters in the books. Evidently, Rocketbooks are very popular. The company’s website, www.rocketbooks.net, is full of glowing testimonials. “Rocketbooks are here to save all students from the trials of classic literature,” gushes Kimberly Oakley, a student at Western Washington University. “This really helps me. . .appreciate literature more than I would from reading the book,” claims Bobby Sterling, a 16-year old at a California high school. Read Bobby’s comment again, slowly. What is he really saying?

Maybe it’s me. I thought the point of education was to become educated. To learn how to think, reason and interpret. You do that by using—by challenging—your brain. Reading works of classic literature is one way to do that. Obviously, I’m wrong. The point of education is to find the right answer, as easily as possible, and pass the test. And of course, test-taking should be as entertaining as a trip to Disneyland, or else it isn’t worth it. I graduated college just over 10 years ago. What in hell has happened since then?

I’m not saying that education should be punishment. It shouldn’t be as laborious as breaking rocks with a hammer. But since when are teachers obligated to be entertainers, too? What happened to the sense of satisfaction that came from accepting and meeting a challenge? Has college simply become a vocational school? You just go there, put the round pegs in the round holes, get the diploma and toddle off to the job? If it has, then students are being cheated out of the small fortunes they pay for the privilege of attending college.

Then, there’s reading. I don’t mean to criticize young Bobby or Kimberly. I’m sure they’re nice kids. But when it comes to the purpose of fine literature, they’re as clueless as Paris Hilton. Reading is not a passive activity. You have to invest time and effort in reading the books. You must actively use your imagination to bring the stories to life. But it yields a fantastic payoff. Your brain provides an entertainment experience greater than anything Lucas, Spielberg and their army of special effects technicians could hope to put on a movie screen. You transcend time and space, attain direct access to the author’s mind and the world that only exists there. You change and expand your own mind in doing so. But Rocketbooks can’t do it for you. It’s like going to a restaurant and simply looking at pictures of food on the menu, instead of actually tasting the food. To appreciate literature, you have to read the words and turn the pages.

I think the high school and college students of today are being cheated, by themselves and by the teachers, professors and administrators that are catering to the Rocketbooks mentality. They’re being cheated out of the skills they need to give them a leg up in the working world, regardless of what field they’re pursuing.

Chew on this for a minute:

''… A stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.''

That’s a quote from Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe. It’s one of the greatest American novels, and it has, most especially, appealed to people on the high school-college cusp. If the quote doesn’t touch you in some way, if it seems a ‘trial’, then you’re intellectually lazy and very hard-hearted. And you’re denying yourself one of the most enriching experiences the world has to offer. It’s as plain and as simple as that.

Harvey Pekar's No 'Quitter'

2006-01-20T18:43:00.000-08:00

Those of you who have been reading my rants regularly may recall my teenaged love affair with comic books. Well, specifically, my love affair was with Invisible Woman from The Fantastic Four. And with the Catwoman, Black Canary and Mary Jane, Peter Parker’s girlfriend from The Amazing Spider-Man. But those are tails I’ll spin some other time, nudge-nudge-wink-wink. The point, true believers, is that much of my junior high school allowance lines Stan Lee’s retirement coffers.

You probably remember how my love affair with comic books ended, too. Young Johnny discovered the infinite charms of the female sex. Four-color cartoon heroines paled beside the flesh-and-blood ingénues of my freshman class. The comics were banished to the basement and I took up a new hobby, one that to this very day fills most of my leisure time: the plebeian art of skirt-chasing. Over the years, I’ve dipped into a comic book or two. I tried Frank Miller’s updated, adult version of Batman. I checked into The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and Sin City. Some of these were quite good. Sadistic, bleak and over-plotted at times, but good. Not enough, though, to prompt me to join the ranks of other pot-bellied thirtysomethings filling the aisles of local comic shops on any given Saturday. My passion for the genre, it seemed, had faded with my last case of acne vulgaris.

This changed over the holidays. A friend gave me a copy of Harvey Pekar’s The Quitter for Christmas. At first, I thought she was trying to tell me something; but no, she just thought I’d like a book she’d enjoyed reading herself. The Quitter is 104 pages long and hardbound. But it’s not a “book” book. It’s a graphic novel. That, in layperson's terms, is a comic book. It’s also one of the best pieces of autobiography published in America in 2005.

The Quitter (Vertigo/DC Comics) tells a story that manages to be both universal and unique at the same time. Harvey Pekar grows up in a tough, middle-class neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio in the 1940’s and 1950’s. His parents, Polish-Jewish immigrants, run a small grocery store and love the son they don’t understand. Pekar, when he comes of age, longs to make a “success” of himself. He tries the usual channels for doing so: high school sports, college, the military and jobs of various kinds. Pekar shows ability in many of these endeavors, but he’s sabotaged by a self-defeating attitude and a fear of failure. He bolts at the first sign of a challenge of any kind. The only thing he consistently excels at is street-fighting. Early on, his skill as a brawler brings him some much-needed self-esteem. A spontaneous act of violence against a family member, however, shocks Pekar into recognizing that the path he’s following is a dead-end street. He realizes he needs to find a purpose in life, but seems patently unable to do so.

Pekar’s unlikely salvation is music. Intrigued by the blooming jazz scene of the 1950’s, Pekar soaks up jazz records of all kinds. He attempts to learn the trumpet, but true to form, he soon grows frustrated and quits. Jazz criticism, though, holds his attention and he’s driven to start writing it himself. He publishes reviews in some noted jazz magazines. His interest piqued, Pekar branches out and explores other kinds of music and, later, literature. A man who seems to be the antithesis of the intellectual becomes one, thus confirming the ennobling powers of culture. Around the same time, he finds a job he can live with—file clerk at a Cleveland V.A. hospital. He attains a bit of peace. Then, things get interesting.

In 1962, Pekar befriends a young cartoonist named Robert Crumb. By the end of the decade, Crumb is a celebrated “underground” comic book artist and counterculture darling. Pekar, watching Crumb’s star rise, hits upon the idea of using the comic book genre to tell stories of average people’s everyday lives. He writes a few autobiographical tales, which he persuades Crumb and other artists to illustrate. Pekar self-publishes these tales in a comic book series he dubs American Splendor. In doing so, he at last seems to overcome his personal obstacles. Over the years that follow, through its creator’s ceaseless effort, American Splendor attracts a loyal cult audience and mainstream media attention. David Letterman (back when he had hair and an interest in his job) invites Pekar on his program for several well-received appearances. Mass-market anthologies are published. By 2003, a film adaptation starring Paul Giamatti is released to wide acclaim. Yet Pekar, now a retired family man and a comic book icon, still worries about failure. The story comes full circle.

There’s a lot more to this book than what I’ve summarized here. Pekar’s depiction of himself is brutally honest. The hero of The Quitter is, like all of us, a mass of flaws and contradictions. He does take this opportunity, as Whitman phrased it, to “celebrate [him]self” a bit. But not too much. By the end of the novel, I found myself admiring this Midwestern shlub for not giving up, for discovering his purpose while in the process of fulfilling it. If you happen to be a “lost child” like me, or happen to know one, you’ll find solace in Harvey Pekar’s saga, vividly rendered in black and white by artist Dean Haspiel.

Harvey Pekar is many things, but he’s not a quitter.

ALSO CHECK OUT:

The Best of American Splendor (Ballantine Books, 2005)

American Splendor: Our Movie Year (Ballantine Books, 2004)

American Splendor: the Life and Times of Harvey Pekar (Ballantine Books, 2003)

See Above Post

2006-01-20T18:17:00.000-08:00

These are pictures of my junior high school "girlfriends": the Catwoman, Black Canary, Mary Jane from The Amazing Spider-Man and Invisible Woman from The Fantastic Four. The references to them will make sense if you read the posting listed above. Cool pictures, though, huh?

One Day at a Time

2006-01-09T13:37:00.000-08:00

2005 used one hand to shake the empty Fritos bag. The other, he used to wipe grease on his T-shirt. “Hey, John,” he called, “you’re out of snacks again. Fetch me those chips in the cupboard. I can’t get up now. It’s Tatum O’Neal’s turn to dance.”

John Left walked over to the TV and switched it off at the console. The image of Tatum O’Neal and her partner twirling about dissolved into a blank screen.

“Hey!” exclaimed 2005. “What’s the idea? Some host you are. Keep it up and I might feel unwelcome. Turn Tatum back on.”

Left folded his arms and stood in front of the TV. “In case you haven’t noticed, the holidays are over. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

2005 scratched the stubble on his face. “Well, yeah. But I’ve got to reexamine my options first. Make a few phone calls. Figure out my next move. I’ll get it done soon.”

“That’s what you said back in November,” said Left, standing his ground. “You haven’t done shit since then. All you do is sit on your ass, gobble junk food, run up the phone bill and watch TV. Sorry, ‘pal,’ but the party’s over. Time to move on.”

“Look, Johnny-boy. You don’t want to get stirred up. Think of your delicate condition.”

“I am. It’s not that ‘delicate’ anymore. And I’d probably be a lot farther along if I didn’t have to deal with a layabout like you 24-7.”

“I told you, Johnny. I got it all planned out.” 2005 tapped his forehead with his index finger. “It’s all up here. I just got to wait for the right opportunity and spring into action. You can’t rush these things. Timing is key.”

Left didn’t reply. He exited the room. 2005 cracked a satisfied grin, dug into the candy dish sitting on the coffee table in front of him and shoveled a handful of M & M’s into his face. He could hear Left moving through the house, but he paid little attention. 2005 had used the remote to switch the TV back on and was fully focused on the waltzing figure of Tatum O’ Neal. Not bad, he thought, ogling Tatum, for a recovering smack addict.

Minutes later, Left reappeared. He tossed a bulging Minnesota Vikings gym bag onto the couch next to where 2005 was sitting.

“Hayb! Whub’s dis?” asked 2005, his mouth full of chocolate.

“I did you a favor,” said Left. “You’re all packed and the car’s warming up outside. Remember that fifty bucks you won on the football pool? It’s just enough for a bus ticket out of town. Come on, I’ll drive you down to the depot.”

2005 sat there with his mouth agape. A yellow M & M was still sitting on his tongue. Before he could say a word, Left grabbed him by the hand and hauled him to the door.

“B-but Johnny!” whined 2005. “You can’t do this. Think of your shoulder. Who’ll keep you company while you’re convalescing?”

Left shoved 2005 out the door. Once outside, he led his rotund guest to the idling Volvo in the driveway. By the nose. “My shoulder’s just about fine. I won’t need any company, ‘cause my convalescing’s done. As is your stint of freeloading here.”

A swift kick in the ass propelled 2005 into the back seat of the Volvo. In a flash, Left was behind the wheel and on the road. The old year sat and chewed his nails.

“You’re gonna regret this, Johnny,” said 2005. “I’ve stuck by you through thick and thin. You’re gonna miss me when—”

“Don’t even say it!” said Left, hanging a sharp right. “No, I won’t. You were the worst year ever. I’m gonna miss you like. . .like a shoulder injury.”

The Volvo skidded to a halt in front of the Greyhound station. Left exited the car and ran around to the passenger’s side. He opened the door, grabbed 2005 by his leg and pulled.

“Please, John, don’t do this!” pleaded 2005, clinging desperately to the seat. “One more month! Just give me one more month, to get my head together! You know I don’t move fast. I like to examine all the angles first. I look before I leap! Please, John, I’ll be good, I promise!”

Left dragged 2005 onto the sidewalk and dropped him there in a trembling heap. He returned to the car for the Vikings bag; this he dumped on the pavement next to ’05. He pushed a fifty-dollar bill into the old year’s sweaty palm.

“There,” exhaled Left, “you’ve got just enough cash to buy a one-way ticket to Minneapolis. You’ll love it there, since you’re such a Vikings fan. Better hurry. The Dog leaves in about fifteen minutes. Thanks for a rotten, miserable and wasted year. Never come back now, y’hear?”

Left hopped back into his Volvo. 2005 screamed something as his beleaguered former host zoomed off. Left, however, cranked up the radio to avoid hearing it. An oldies station. Katrina and the Waves were warbling “Walking on Sunshine”. Left sighed. Even Katrina’s caterwauling was preferable to 2005’s.

“Pardon me,” said a sqweaky voice from in back. “But could you change the station? Unless you like this retro crap.”

Left glanced into his rear view mirror. Mini-Me—or his twin brother—was sitting in the back seat, wearing a top hat and a diaper.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Left asked, turning down the volume.

“I slipped in when you were wrestling with that fat greasy guy on the sidewalk,” said the little person. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’re John Left, right?”

Left winced. “Yes. And I’ve only been hearing that joke since I was ten years old. Glad you got it out of your system. Sorry I’m late, but the old year was reluctant to leave. Please tell me you’re totally different from him.”

Mini-Me laughed. “Don’t be so impatient. You and I have plenty of time to get to know each other. Let’s just take it one day at a time. Speaking of time, what time is it?”

Left checked the dashboard clock. “It’s 8:15pm. Why?”

Mini-Me’s eyes widened. “Step on it, would you, John? ‘Dancing With the Stars’ is on tonight and I want to catch the show. Tatum O’Neal is on there, and let me tell you, she is quite the hot-tie!”

Left groaned and drove on. “One day at a time,” he said to himself. “One day at a time.”

Like the Moon, the Stars and the Sun

2005-12-09T16:52:00.000-08:00

Certain days are frozen in time. November 22, 1963. April 4, 1968. June 6, 1968. Once every year, the shadow of Now falls on these special dates. Reflexively, those of us who experienced them are transported back to these moments in history. We relive and reflect on them and on how the events linked to these dates changed the world we live in today. December 8, 1980 is one of those days.

For music fans age 30 and over, December 8, 1980 is a no-brainer. I don’t even have to mention the name of the gifted musician whose life was stolen from him on that date. I refuse to mention the name of the soulless, cowardly thief who took it. There’s no sense in giving that rat-bastard any more attention than he’s already had. One senseless act by one lunatic left a hole in our culture that will never be filled.

Of course, tragic occasions such as this one should be commemorated. The rare individuals who died on the above-listed dates deserve to be remembered. How else will we, collectively, learn from these horrible events if we don’t make time to reflect on them? In doing so, generations who were either too young or unborn when these events occurred will learn from them, as well. At least, you hope so.

So it goes, year after year. In the early part of December, you can set your watch by the fact that at least one national magazine or newspaper will run a story on John Lennon. Inevitably, they will ask one question. Is Lennon’s influence still felt today? Until recently, the answer was just as inevitable: yes, of course. The answer would usually be followed by a list of testimonials by fans or notable musicians confirming it. The list, most likely, would be designed to appeal to Lennon’s fan base—the typical rock demographic of Boomers and Gen-Xer’s who would recognize their generational reflections there. The implied messages were clear. Hey man, it told the Boomers, Lennon was yours and if he’s still fab, you are too! Hey dude, it told the Xer’s, Lennon’s the Shit and if you ‘get’ him, you’re the Shit too! Those of us in the demographic would smile as we turned the page, knowing that Beatle John’s legacy would survive.

Anyone recently watching those marmalade skies, however, may have noticed some gray clouds gathering. The Yoko Ono-authorized Lennon, a 2005 “musical biography” that contained many of the rocker’s solo standards, as well as two previously unreleased songs, tanked on Broadway after a handful of performances. Most of the reviews I read of John, the memoir recently published by the ex-Beatle’s first wife, Cynthia, emitted a distinct “here we go again” odor. Then there’s Rolling Stone. The December 15th edition of this magazine, which featured Lennon on the cover of its first issue, includes “Lennon Lives Forever”. This by-the-numbers remembrance, penned by Mikal Gilmore, smells exactly like Cynthia Lennon’s book. What is going on?

It’s only the changing of the Guard. I didn’t recognize this until I read Gilmore’s article. It’s a Lennon primer. Every aspect of the oft-told tale is recycled yet again: his motherless boyhood, the Beatles, Yoko, his peace activist years, his “Lost Weekend” and house husband periods and his assassination. Surely, an artist of Lennon’s stature is entitled to a grade-A effort. Why did Gilmore, a skilled journalist, aim so low and slant it so basically? The answer lies in the “what’s” accompanying each “who” dropped into the text. Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman are identified as “radical activists”. Harry Nilsson, Gilmore explains, was a “favorite songwriter of Lennon’s”. Did you know that Keith Moon, the drummer for some band called the Who, died of a drug overdose in 1978? Back in the 1970’s, Gilmore reveals that Lennon’s favorite TV program was The Tonight Show, which was then hosted by someone named “Johnny Carson”. Does Mikal Gilmore think we’ve all gone senile? No, aging hippies and grungies—he’s simply filling in the blanks for (and perhaps preaching the Gospel to) the rock demographic, Rolling Stone’s target audience. That’s right, we’re no longer it. The rock demographic, circa 2005, knows as much about John Lennon as it does about Millard Fillmore. And apparently, on its scale of hipness, the Bard of Liverpool and America’s Thirteenth President are tied, as well.

It’s an unavoidable process. Each generation’s idols and “Where were you when. . .?” moments eventually fade into history. Today’s icons will become tomorrow’s homework, which some kid will get stuck memorizing for an end-of-the-chapter history test. “The imagery used by musician John Lennon in his song, ‘I Am the Walrus’, is an example of this literary movement: A.) Naturalism. B.) Surrealism. C.) Acidism. D.) Transcendentalism.” This will happen. “No,” you argue, “their parents will teach them, play them the music, keep the flames burning!” Maybe. But how closely did you listen when your parents raved about Rosemary Clooney or the Hi-Lo’s? Me, neither and there you have it. In spite of your, my, Gilmore’s or anyone’s best efforts, this will happen. It is happening, because it has to.

As obvious as this process is, it’s a difficult one to accept. Each generation, and its accompanying folklore, must at some point give way to the next one. That’s not to say that we automatically become fossils on our 26th birthday. I don’t, after all, work on Madison Avenue. But popular culture is a library that has only so much space on its “shelves” at one time. New “books” keep arriving every year and they are the top priority. When the shelves fill up, the older titles are gradually weeded out and moved to the back stacks, thus creating space for the fresh arrivals in front. Some of us dog-eared copies take offense at this. Readers almost always turn to the newest titles first. No book wants to languish unread, but what are you going to do? Father Time is the strictest librarian of all. Sass him and he’ll dump you on the “Withdrawn” table, where you’ll be sold, for 50 cents, to a drooler with sweaty palms.

This process must be especially challenging to the Baby Boomers. I pity the fool who’s assigned the task of moving them to the back stacks. Most members of this group, who once cautioned themselves against trusting anyone over 30, are now within spitting distance of 60. Still, evidence suggests that they will not go gentle into that good night. They, in their minds if nowhere else, remain evergreen. Woe unto any and all naysayers who’d suggest otherwise. Jay-Z graces the cover of the December 15th Rolling Stone and an overview of hip-hop is its main story. Mikal Gilmore’s Lennon tribute appears on page 57. That’s how it should be. Jay-Z is an icon of youth culture. Ten or twenty years ago, though, Beatle John would’ve been the lead article. If I wasn’t broke, I’d bet that R.S. editor Jann Wenner will soon find himself ass-deep in caustic Christmas cards, and every one will accuse him of “selling out”.

Boomers, please save your stamps. While you might struggle with this hard truth, your late contemporary, John Lennon, did not. Lennon made these remarks in a Playboy interview conducted shortly before his death: “I don’t appreciate worship of dead Sid Vicious or of dead James Dean. . .No, thank you. I’ll take the living and the healthy.” I think it’s fair to say that Lennon didn’t just recognize this process, he embraced it as a part of life.

The back stacks might not be so bad. That’s where the eclectic readers hang out, the ones who hunger for more substantial fare than soup du jour. Back there, a quieter, equally unavoidable process happens. On a rainy afternoon, decades from now, it will happen. A twenty-something will wander through those stacks. She will stumble across a copy of John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band. An adventurous sort, she’ll give the album a casual listen. The contrast between its muted cover art and its raw, confessional music will shock her—pleasantly. “What,” she’ll ask with a wide smile, “was this guy about?” When the album ends, she’ll play it again and focus on its lyrics, which will sound like letters from an old friend. And light from a long-gone star, reflected off of eyes of the future, will shine on.

Counting the Days 'Til January 2nd

2005-11-09T15:35:00.000-08:00

The candy grows stale in the pantry. The pumpkin rots on the porch. Then why, pray tell, does the eeriness remain? It remains because dreaded figures keep haunting stores, both far and near. Three figures, in fact, that embody a season awash in terror—a terror far worse than what the spookiest ghouls could conjure on Halloween. I shudder to even mention their names: snowman, reindeer and Santa Claus.

Big surprise, huh? As you may have guessed, Professional Sourpuss Left is not a fan of the holidays. But allow me to clarify my griping. I don’t dislike the core ideas behind the holidays. Giving, sharing, gathering with family and friends, commemorating significant religious events. I bow to all the winter holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s and any I might’ve missed. These are all worthy occasions that deserve to be celebrated.

Therein lies the bone I wish to pick. As our society (d)evolved into its modern form, few of the core ideas behind these celebrations survived. We’ve chosen to focus on social homogenization, speed, status and price. In doing so, we’ve stripped these holidays of their essences, the fundamental reasons why we celebrate them. What remains is one big hysterical bash—draped in ornaments, candles, blinking lights, ribbons, balloons and streamers—that stretches from late November to early January. It comes and goes so fast and is “celebrated” so furiously, it runs together like several colors of paint. Six months later, all you have left is a gray blur you can barely remember. I call it “the holidaze”.

How’s this for irony? These holidays, initially dedicated to communal or spiritual concerns, now concentrate almost exclusively on personal and material issues. That, at the very least, is true of the Big 3. Thanksgiving: food and booze. Christmas: presents, food and booze. New Year’s: booze, booze and booze. We can’t consider the spiritual side of these occasions because we’re stuffed to the gills, drunk and drooling over all the goodies we netted from rich old Uncle Kenny. Which holiday? Doesn’t matter, we seem to say. As long as there’s beer, at least three desserts and presents, it’s all good. Not.

I suppose I should apologize. I probably shouldn’t be singing the blues in this season of red and green. Maybe this is a result of my having worked in retail for so long. Retail veterans tend not to fa-la-la, if you know what I mean. Nothing kills holiday cheer quicker than a December spent toiling in a department store. The horrors Charles Dickens imagined for Scrooge in A Christmas Carol pale by comparison.

I hear the snickering and scoffing. Those of you who are, most likely, are the Uninitiated. Lucky people who have never worn a name-tag or piloted a cash register. Come, you blessed souls, walk a mile in my tattered shoes. Share with me a page from my rookie year, the Christmas of 1994, and taste the trepidation through which I lived. Picture an overcrowded, understaffed general merchandise store one week before December 25th. To make it more palpable for you, I’ll put it into the musical format of a traditional holiday standard:

On the 7th day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at me.

On the 6th day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .two brats shoplifting Sega games and an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at me.

On the 5th day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .a whining shrew returning a Flowbee with a 3-year old receipt, two brats shoplifting Sega games and an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at me.

On the 4th day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .four adult men wrestling over Power Rangers, a whining shrew returning a Flowbee with a 3-year old receipt, two brats shoplifting Sega games and an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at me.

On the 3rd day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .a 25-foot long checkout lane! Four adult men wrestling over Power Rangers, a whining shrew returning a Flowbee with a 3-year old receipt, two brats shoplifting Sega games and an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at me.

On the 2nd day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .a manager who wrote me up for saying “Merry Christmas” to a customer who turned out to be Jewish, a 25-foot long checkout lane! Four adult men wrestling over Power Rangers, a whining shrew returning a Flowbee with a 3-year old receipt, two brats shoplifting Sega games and an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at me.

One day before Christmas, retail gave to me. . .12 trashed aisles I had to clean up before I could leave at midnight, a manager who wrote me up for saying “Merry Christmas” to a customer who turned out to be Jewish, a 25-foot long checkout lane! Four adult men wrestling over Power Rangers, a whining shrew returning a Flowbee with a 3-year old receipt, two brats shoplifting Sega games and an asshole throwing his maxed-out charge card at meeee-eee-eee-eee!

I hope my little ditty helped you innocent ones visualize the “Apocalypse Now”-like horror in your minds. Pity, truly, the retail drone at year’s end.

At the end of the day, plain ol’ griping never got anyone anywhere. You’ve got to take a proactive approach and DO something about it. Hey kids, why don’t we do the holidaze differently this year? Why don’t we do the opposite of Emeril and turn it down a notch? Holiday shopping wasn’t meant to be a pissing contest. Isn’t one truly considerate gift, one you spent quality time physically going out and selecting, better than a truckload of crap you found online? Isn’t it? Either I'm going deaf or the crickets are chirping extra-loudly this season.

Imagine how novel a more modest holiday party would be. Instead of weeks of frantic preparation for a Disneyesque pageant that lasts less than 24 hours—BIG FOOD! BIG DRINK! EVERYONE YOU EVER MET SINCE THE FIFTH GRADE!—downsize it. Plan a smaller, more personal and heartfelt gathering to which you invite just your closest family and friends. One that doesn’t require bowl game-watching and boozing as a competitive sport. One that focuses on being together and sharing the occasion. It could be a holiday party your guests might actually remember next July.

If you’re going to go that far, why not go all the way? During your downsized holiday party, set aside a little time for collective consideration of those core ideas behind the holidays. True, these “heavy” topics often make some folks uncomfortable. In order to avoid that, you might ask them to recall their favorite or most unique holiday experience ever, or perhaps the earliest holiday experience they remember. Everyone likes to reminisce—especially those family members my mom affectionately calls “the old farts”. Still, you have to plan ahead for party poopers. Say one of your guests questions the validity of this activity. What should you do? “Hey,” you respond kindly, “it ain’t just about presents and food, right?” Only a doofus would disagree. If this person happens to be a doofus, just cram some fruitcake in their yap before they can spout off again.

I think I’ll close this off with a brief consideration of my favorite winter holiday. You won’t find it listed on any calendar, because officially, it isn’t a holiday. But it should be. January 2nd, the day things return to whatever passes for normal. I call it Holiday Recuperation Day. Stay home, turn the TV off and the answering machine on. Ignore all doorbells. If anyone knocks, to hell with them. Spend this day in quiet contemplation. In layman’s terms, this is called “sleep”. Rest you, merry gentlepeople.

As inviting as this proposed holiday might seem, I will acknowledge that many of you out there would find the idea distasteful. You're the “energetic” type, someone who would never “waste” Holiday Recuperation Day on recuperating. Fear not. I have a suggestion for you, too. Why not spend January 2nd pulling all the festive outdoor decorations down off your house? Including the blinking lights that have been ruining your neighbors’ sleep for the last six weeks? This will enable you, for the first time in years, to spend Spring just enjoying the weather.

Housecleaning Issues

2005-11-09T12:41:00.000-08:00

Hello again, Kindred Souls. Sorry for the long gap between posts. Allow me to do a bit of “housecleaning”, i.e., address a couple issues and answer a question or two.

1.) My medical condition: I saw an orthopedic surgeon last week. For a few anxious days, I thought I might have to go under the knife. But the surgeon checked my MRI and said that wouldn’t be necessary, thank God. He took me off most of the painkillers I was on. This made me happy, since I was tired of being a drugged-out zombie. (At first I truly needed the pills, but certain nameless physicians I no longer see need to be a bit more attentive to their jobs. Three months on Gabapentin is ridiculous!) Now I just take Aleve for occasional pain. The surgeon extended my physical therapy until December. God willing, I should be good to go in January.

Those of you who asked: thank you for your concern. I truly appreciate it.

2.) “My Fair Brady” update: Okay, slap my wrist and call me “butthead”, but I watched the whole damn thing. I'm sorry. I know what I said. But I got hooked on it, like soap operas or chocolate. It's a similar addiction, only much worse. With chocolate, you gain ugly pounds you can at least see. Empty video calories like these make you lose something—IQ points—and you don't realize it until after the fact. “My Fair Brady” reduced me to the intellectual level of your average “Maury Povich” viewer. "Thank God for Professors Crick and Watson," I found myself saying. "If they hadn't discovered DNA, we might never have guessed that mouthbreathing trailer park residents practice unsafe sex and suffer from a complete lack of scruples!" In order to bulk up my gray matter, I’m on a strict PBS and History Channel diet for the next three months.

For both of you who care, here is a Cliff’s Notes summary of the conclusion of “My Fair Brady”:

When all was said and done, Adrianne Curry decided that she’s a good Catholic girl. Never mind that she’s also a recovering drug addict, an admitted bisexual and a cheesecake model who habitually prances nude in front of TV cameras. In her own mind if nowhere else, Adrianne is batting for Pope Benedict’s team. So the 22-year old beauty threatened to dump her boyfriend, former “Brady Bunch” star Christopher (“Peter”) Knight, unless he agreed to marry her. Throughout the series, Adrianne maintained that her fondest dream was to wed Knight, make a traditional-style home with him and bear his children—in other words, a real-life “Brady Bunch”. It was time, she said, for Knight to make a “commitment” to her. After all, they had been dating (and sleeping together) for almost seven whole months.

So what did Mr. Porkchops-and-Applesauce do? Put yourself in his shoes. Peter (I mean, Christopher) is a 47-year old ex-child TV star. He managed to stay out of trouble, build a lucrative career for himself outside of acting (computers/software), revive his career as an actor/TV host and maintain a minimum of dignity while doing so. Peter (I mean, Christopher) also has two failed marriages under his belt. What would you do?

You got it. He ducked and danced like Muhammad Ali. In episode after episode of “My Fair Brady”, Christopher Knight made more excuses than the mayor of New Orleans and FEMA combined. He encouraged Adrianne to slow down, get her own place and be “independent”. He dragged her to Puerto Rico for a diversionary vacation that I’m sure VH1 didn’t pay for. Knight even went out and found Adrianne a fancy townhouse he said she could “make her own”. But the young model would not be denied. In a tearful finale, Knight dropped to his knees, pulled out a ring (nestled in a box emblazoned with the name of the jewelry store chain Adrianne coincidentally endorses in TV commercials) and popped The Question. Of course, Adrianne said yes. Boo-hoo-hoo, smooch-smooch, the end. Almost.

One day after the “My Fair Brady” conclusion aired, radio personality Howard Stern announced that the two lovebirds had broken up. Adrianne is supposedly dating some “American Idol” reject who’s even less famous than she. Knight is probably at home, searching through his little black book for Eve Plumb's phone number. I emerge from this reality TV cesspool clinging to a single, glittering hope: that VH1 switches back to an all-music video format. As soon as possible.

3.) Moron Alert: I don’t know the exact name of the program, because I came in on it halfway through. But earlier this week (Sunday), A&E aired a show chockfull o’ nuts who claimed that the slew of hurricanes, tsunamis and earthquakes our planet has recently endured is either:

A.) Proof that God (Christian and Muslim) is punishing us for our sinful ways.
B.) A sinister plot by Russia, China, India or the U.S. to gain world control.
C.) A sinister plot by the Japanese mafia to punish the U.S. for A-bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War II.

Then, there’s always choice D.): proof that A&E is so desperate for ratings, it would stoop to giving such shameful tabloid-fodder a national forum. “Arts & Entertainment Channel” my ass. It should be called “The National Enquirer Channel”. Methinks it’s time to use the “Child Lock” feature on my cable box. No, I don’t have kids. I’d be locking A&E out to protect myself. From idiocy, that is.

4.) The Overstock.com Woman: Come on, you’ve seen her. The chestnut-haired beauty pitching Overstock.com, the internet bargain bin, on TV? “It’s all about the ‘o,’” she purrs sensually. Well, I’m in love with her. Truly, madly and deeply. More than Marg Helgenberger or Jennifer Connelly. More than Uma Thurman, Jennifer Aniston, Lucy Liu, Jennifer Garner and Misty Mundae combined. Overstock.com is a point-and-click version of the classic shlockhouse. I’d never shop there. But I love, Love, LOVE the Overstock.com Woman! I saw her new ad for the first time this morning. My beloved strolls down a “winter wonderland in Anytown, U.S.A.” street, clad in a white fur coat and sexy boots. She sings an Overstock.com jingle set to a soft-rock rendition of “Jingle Bells”. “Sweet Christ on a cracker!” I exclaimed, bug-eyed and panting heavily. “She’s beautiful and talented!” Then I passed out. Information overload.

I came to some time later, feeling a sharp hankering for. . .knowledge. A sweaty-palmed Google search revealed my beauty’s back-story. Her name is Sabine Ehrenfeld. She’s a German model, is at least 40 years old (unbelievable!) and is well-known across the pond. Sabine speaks German, French and Italian and she is a licensed pilot. Her wide range of hobbies includes yoga, rock-climbing, skiing, snowboarding, martial arts, target shooting (pistols) and equestrian show-jumping. My God, my beloved is a Renaissance woman! Oh and uh, she’s married and has a couple of kids, too. Bum-mer.

But I can still dream, can’t I? A good place to do that is at the “Sabine Ehrenfeld Internet Fan Page” (http://sabineehrenfeld.tripod.com/performance.html). You’ll probably run into me over there. Just follow the trail of drool. If Pamela Anderson can get her own show, why not Sabine? Are you listening, Hollywood?

That’s it for housecleaning. I'm going to go take a cold shower. Catch you later!

Go White Sox!

2005-10-26T17:10:00.000-07:00

Go Chicago White Sox go! All the way! Next Year is here!

The Weblog Review

A Remembrance

2005-10-12T14:23:00.000-07:00

There’s a tiny version of me perched on my (good) shoulder right now. I guess you could call him my conscience. He looks exactly like me, right down to the ketchup-stained T-shirt and Chicago Bears slippers. He sounds like Chip & Dale. My conscience is pointing at me and screaming his ass off. He’s screaming because I’m about to break a promise I made.

“No preaching, no preaching!” my conscience yells. “You swore, you swore! Bullshitter, bullshitter!”

He’s right, of course. When I started this blog, I told myself I’d stay off the soapbox. If there’s anything I hate, it’s some self-righteous Marjoe Gortner wannabe pushing their “Message”—be it religious, political or otherwise—at me like Aunt Wilma jamming her rock-hard, 80-proof rum balls down my throat on December 25th. I’ve tried hard to keep my promise. Honestly.

But like Gulliver in Lilliput, I dispatch the yammering imp with one flick of my mammoth forefinger. Sometimes, when you’ve got some truth to share, you’ve got to do a little sermonizing. So please excuse Brother John, this one time, as he climbs up into the pulpit. When it comes to spreading the word, I strive to be more like Flip Wilson’s Reverend LeRoy (of the Church of What’s Happening Now) and less like the 700 Club’s Reverend Pat Robertson. Open your hymnals to page one. . .

Ever since the Iraq War began, I’ve kept my opinions on the conflict to myself. There are so many speaking out, pro and con alike. What could I say that hasn’t already been said, in clearer and more poignant terms than I could ever hope to muster? No matter how much I ponder, I find myself stuck on the proverbial fence. Thoughts of delusional zealots and suicide bombers make my blood run cold. Just as cold as it runs when I read the obituary notices of brave soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice so far from home. Freedom is a privilege everyone should have. But the price of freedom is always high and it’s always paid in blood. How easily we forget that.

When this conflict finally ends, whose names will we remember? I suppose at some point they’ll build a memorial. Perhaps it will resemble the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial in Washington, the famous “Wall” that lists the names of the American heroes who died in battle. As well it should. Remembrance would be a small token in return for all the young lives that are being sacrificed for us.

As far as I know, there are no memorials for humanitarian-aid workers. You know, people who willingly go into these danger zones to provide care for civilians caught in the crossfire of history. Much like the cost of freedom, it’s easy to overlook these people and the inestimable service they provide. If such a memorial is ever built, I’m sure the name Marla Ruzicka will be listed there.

I saw Marla Ruzicka’s name two times in the media. The first time was when she died. It was on some “Nightline”-type program. Ruzicka, 28, was killed on April 16th, 2005, by a suicide bomb that exploded in the vicinity of her car as she trailed a U.S. Army convoy near Baghdad. I remember seeing pictures of an attractive blonde-haired woman who, they said, was a Californian and a college graduate who had been raised in a white-collar home. Immediately, I thought of “activists” like Sean Penn, Martin Sheen and Janeane Garofalo. “A damn shame,” I said to myself. “A limousine liberal who got in over her head.”

Soon after, I learned how wrong I was. I read Janet Reitman’s article, “The Girl Who Tried to Save the World”, in the June 16th issue of Rolling Stone. It’s an in-depth portrait of Ruzicka, and a pretty even-handed one at that. I encourage you to seek it out. True, Ruzicka was in some respects a starry-eyed idealist with black-and-white views of our very gray world. But she was also a gentle, benevolent spirit who put herself on the line to represent and protect the voiceless civilian victims in Afghanistan and Iraq.

I’m not going to quote from the article at length. You can find it at www.rollingstone.com. I don’t care if you’re the most liberal Democrat on Barbra Streisand’s AOL Buddies™ List or a lifelong subscriber to the National Review. This is one person you, however grudgingly, should respect. We’re talking about a woman who, with no special training and few provisions beyond what she could carry, headed off to Afghanistan and Iraq, two of the hottest hell holes on Earth. Her sole intention: to help the noncombatants there. A fool’s errand, you say? You could call it that—if nothing positive had come of it.

Working primarily on her own, Ruzicka compiled a body of information on civilian casualties which she took back to Capitol Hill (Reitman 76). There, she found a sympathetic ear in Senator Patrick Leahy (D, Vermont). Together, Ruzicka and Leahy helped create “a program to provide medical care, home rebuilding, micro-loans and other forms of assistance. . .It was the first time the U.S. government had taken responsibility to help those they had specifically harmed” (Reitman 76). None of it would have happened without Ruzicka’s initiative.

While highlighting her accomplishments, Reitman takes care not to besaint Ruzicka. Apparently, she was anything but perfect. Even as she toiled to help war victims, Reitman writes, Ruzicka also struggled with bipolar disorder and anorexia (78). A friend confesses that he often found the young woman’s manic energy “somewhat exhausting” (Reitman 78). According to associates’ accounts, she may have suffered from a martyr complex, as well. When the fighting in Iraq intensified as 2004 wore on, Ruzicka “ignore[d] warnings” about the danger and continued her humanitarian efforts (Reitman 77). Ruzicka’s father comments that his daughter seemed to believe “she was invincible” (Reitman 72). Her fate, at last, was one she chose.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m still the guy who chafes against the sanctimonious of our world who would deign to show me the Way. If there is any value in a Cause, I prefer to arrive at it in my own way and time, thanks very much. Maybe that’s not the right way, but it’s my way. Based on Reitman’s article, I can confidently say that I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed sitting next to Ruzicka on an airplane. Not without a set of earplugs, that is.

About now, you may have joined my little conscience in pointing and screaming “Bullshitter, bullshitter!” at Brother John. I wouldn’t hold it against you. But notice I’m not forcing you to do anything. Read Reitman’s article or don’t read it. That’s your choice. And you don’t have to do something else. You don’t have to let my cynical attitude lead you to think that I can’t recognize the value wrought from Ruzicka’s life. Look at how we pat ourselves on the back for writing a check to our favorite charity once or twice a year. While that’s all well and good, how many of us could do what Marla Ruzicka did? Few, if any. I’ll go on record here and say that I couldn’t walk in Ruzicka’s shoes. Not for a single day.

This is why Ruzicka’s death is such a tragedy. She wasn’t a limousine liberal spouting P.C. platitudes at a Hollywood photo-op. Marla Ruzicka was a genuine idealist, one who took her ideals out into the world and fought to make them actualities. I'm proud of my hard-earned cynicism. But I realize that when it comes to examining life's Important Issues, cynicism can sometimes be more of a blindfold than a lens. While idealists can be a pain in the ass, the fact is, we need them. We need them to pull off our blindfolds. We need them to remind us that there are people living in these map-squares where wars are being fought. We need them to venture into these war-zones, bringing the “human” part of the human race to the unfortunate souls who are stuck there. We need them to do these things, because most of us can’t.

If you take nothing else from this blog, please take this lone idea, one I’ve repeated so often that it’s in danger of becoming a platitude: human life is not a partisan issue. It’s a humanist issue and the humanist party is one we all belong to, regardless of politics. The courageous men and women of our armed forces who were killed in action are American heroes. So was Marla Ruzicka. Her actions were heroic and very American. She helped many people and she died far too soon. Shouldn’t she be remembered?

Stooge Impersonators, Dollar Dumbasses and Not-So-Fair Bradys

2005-09-14T16:51:00.000-07:00

Is anyone still out there. . .There. . .THERE (echo effect)? If so, thanks for sticking with me. I truly appreciate your loyalty.

Here are a few scraps from the sluice box of my mind. I would’ve written full-length posts on these topics, but for two reasons. First, I’m a lazy bastard. Second, every writer currently using the English language (or its modern facsimile) has already done so. These horses begged me not to kick them, since they had already been dead for awhile. Being an animal-lover, I agreed.

So like hungry guests gathered ‘round a fondue pot, you’ll ask, “What the hell is this shit?” Then you’ll have to make the most of these pieces and bits I’ve offered you. Sorry. It’s the painkillers.

HURRICANE KATRINA: There is nothing more I can add to the accounts of the devastating losses suffered by our fellow citizens along the Gulf Coast. What more can I say about the heroic rescue and recovery effort that hasn’t been already said? May God bless and help them all. And please, friends, give whatever you can to your local Red Cross or Salvation Army.

I do have something to say, however, to certain politicians connected to this disaster. Having no desire to shame them any further, I won’t mention their names. I’ll simply identify them by their job descriptions: the mayor of New Orleans, the governor of Louisiana and the President of the United States. While I was aware of Elvis impersonators, I didn’t know that the Three Stooges had imitators, too. What an act! First, you sleep through a hurricane. Then, you take turns kicking each other in the ass for doing so. Moe, Larry and Curley couldn’t have done a better job themselves. Nyuk, nyuk, YUCK.

Spread out, you political numbskulls. Quit playing the Blame Game. You each own an equal part of this catastrophe. And Democrats in Congress, can the righteous indignation. You’re the Shemp, Joe and Curley Joe of this routine. Human life is not a partisan issue. Democrats and Republicans alike, that red stuff on your hands is blood. Red blood spilled because of red tape. Like Lady Macbeth, you will find that it never washes off. True, you can’t undo what has been done. But instead of finger-pointing, you can make sure it doesn’t happen again.

MONEY: I don’t mean to be judgmental. When I’ve got a few extra bucks to spend, I also like to have fun. Wine, women and song are just a few ways in which I blew significant parts of Ye Olde Paycheck. When I had one, that is. But I’d like to take this opportunity to note a certain phenomenon that has become difficult to ignore. A whole generation of Americans seems to think that money grows on the proverbial trees. Instead of nurturing those trees, these Americans are using and abusing them down to stumps, like that idiot kid in Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. It’s time for Uncle John to fetch these younguns out to the woodshed and give ‘em a talking to.

I’m no economic wiz, but then, you don’t have to be to figure it out. Recently, I haven’t had a paycheck. So guess what? Wine, women and song have been put on indefinite hold. The only luxury I allow myself is porn, and that’s only because the ‘rents have HBO. What money I have goes for necessities which, at this time, include medical bills, physical therapy and a boatload o’ meds. I’d rather spend it on wine, women and song, but I can’t. At least, not right now, because—here’s a term that’s passed out of the language—I can’t afford to.

Let me translate that last phrase for those of you wearing question marks on your faces. It means, “first things first.” An alternate definition: “Never spend more than you earn.” American kids used to learn these concepts in grammar school, in “educational” films they’d watch on squeaky, fuzzy-lensed projectors manned by retainer-wearing dorks from the A.V. Department. Now, these concepts seem as dated as those films. “Dick has his eye on a nifty Cub Scout knife at the hardware store. It sure would come in handy, he thinks, at the next campout! The Scout knife costs $2.00. But Dick’s in a jam. He invited Jane to the drugstore after school tomorrow for a 25-cent chocolate soda. And Dick finds that there’s only $1.50 in his piggy bank! What should Dick do?” The camera would zoom in on the puzzled face of a preteen wearing way too much Brylcreem in his hair. At this point, Miss Crabtree would have A.V. Dork stop the projector for a class discussion. “What, boys and girls, would you do if you were in Dick’s jam?” she’d ask innocently. Then, she’d send the fat kid to the principal’s office for giggling at the question.

In those days, the answer was obvious. Dick would’ve told Jane to enjoy a glass of rich, chocolatey Ovaltine at home, while he collected pop bottles to earn 50 cents for the Scout knife. To get what you wanted, you had to cut corners, work a little harder, save your money and wait patiently until you could afford it. Back then, you would’ve filed this idea under ‘d’ for “Duh!” Not anymore. The thought has become so foreign, I could have written it in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. If that “educational” film were made in 2005, Dick would charge the Scout knife and the sodas to his Discover card, maxing it out in the process. And in case you didn’t know it, yes, kids Dick’s age now have their own credit cards.

TV commercials provide proof that some of us have forgotten these concepts. There is a chain—a chain, mind you—of payroll advance stores called “Check Into Cash”. From their ads, you’d think they were giving money away, no strings attached. The actual product they’re pushing, of course, is debt. Debt is now a product advertised on American TV. Following “Check Into Cash” are ads for umpteen strip-mall lawyers who promise to dig you out of debt (lawyer's fee = more debt). These commercials are trailed by ads for car dealers who will sell you that Lincoln Navigator on a payment plan so easy, you’ll forget that you’re broke and your credit rating’s destroyed. “Worry about it,” they seem to say, “when the bill comes due. Figure it out then.” So you’re in still more debt. Remember the story about the tortoise and the hare? The tortoises have disappeared. We’ve become a race of hares. Only now, we’re running from bill-collectors.

But don’t fret younguns, Uncle John has the answer! It’s called the Dollar Dumbass Club. Anyone who’s consistently ass-deep in trouble for careless spending could join. A judge would send them to a certified Dollar Dumbass class. All D.D. classes would be taught at night at local grammar schools. D.D. teachers would be former Army drill instructors or Catholic nuns age 60 and above. Typical spendoholics are overgrown children who can’t say no to their impulses. In a Dollar Dumbass class, they would be treated and taught like children, (re)learning the money management skills most kids have absorbed by the 5th Grade. During their stint in the D.D. Club, members would be strictly limited to a court-determined monthly allowance. Access to bank accounts and credit cards would be restored following members’ successful completion of the Dollar Dumbass course. Yes, there would be a Final Exam.

When it comes to money, friends, we should remember something good ol’ Ben Franklin once said. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” We should also remember that Ben Franklin died a wealthy man.

REALITY TV: I could write a book about this horse-pucky. In the interest of space, I’ll focus on just one new show. Thank you, dear VH1, for bringing us “My Fair Brady” (Sunday, 9:00p.m. CST). Sing along, won’t you?

This is the story of the man who played Peter Brady. His acting career crapped out three decades ago. But he craved another taste of the spotlight and a young chick to bone.

This is the story of a girl named Adrienne Curry. She won “America’s Next Top Model” because she’s really, really fine. But because she’s also talent-free, she latched on to this old fart to keep her name in the headlines.

“My Fair Brady” is a train wreck waiting to happen. This flower of love first bloomed last Spring, when Adrienne Curry and Christopher Knight (Peter) hooked up on VH1’s “The Surreal Life 4”. According to “inside sources” I don’t care enough about to cite here, the 47-year old Knight initially resisted the 22-year old Curry’s bulldozer-like advances. But VH1’s producers, in the interests of true love and higher ratings, convinced him to pursue the relationship. Curry first admitted her feelings for Knight during an on-camera phone conversation. With who? Her mother, her best friend? No, with her manager and with the same passion she might muster in discussing college football stats. The only things missing were Oprah Winfrey and a couch to jump on.

In actuality, what Curry and Knight had was a vacation fling. It was like all vacation flings—short, intense and fun while it lasted. Sadly, the couple didn’t split up when “The Surreal Life 4” ended. They moved in together. And as anyone who has ever had one can tell you, trying to extend your vacation fling past your vacation is like wearing your Halloween costume all year ‘round. If you enjoy such silliness, it’s on full display here (at this writing, only episode #1 had aired). “My Fair Brady” is the chronicle of two otherwise cool-seeming people who are forced, for contractual reasons, to continue playing at a relationship that’s clearly played out. Unfortunately, the viewer will find that Curry and Knight’s undeniable frustration with each other makes for rather uncomfortable viewing.

Throughout episode #1, the stars engage each other in a desperate tug-of-war. Curry wants to marry Knight and have his children. Twice divorced and childless, Knight wishes Curry would slow down and give him breathing space by moving into her own apartment. She bitches about his hyper-neatness. He grumbles about her habitual sloppiness. “Brady Bunch” mom Florence Henderson, a licensed couples therapist (when did that happen?), drops in to visit and advise the embattled lovebirds. In a private moment, Florence tells Knight what every alert viewer already knows—that this relationship is as doomed as Jessica Simpson’s husband’s solo career. In between the soap opera histrionics, there are plenty of PG-rated sex scenes; the most memorable one features Curry dressed in a black leather dominatrix outfit. While fun, these segments fail to serve their true purpose—making the viewer forget the diminishing chemistry between Beauty and the Brady.

VH1’s producers must be sadistic. Why else would they so eagerly inflict this sorry trash on the public? They clearly intended the conflict between the two stars to serve as a cliffhanger of sorts, as if the spectacle of a disintegrating romance would keep us tuning in each week. Will Curry, who has apparently settled for marrying a celebrity instead being one herself, break down Knight’s defenses? Will Knight, who seems to feel so trapped he’s all but blinking an S.O.S. to the audience, convince Curry to back off? Will Knight finally tell Curry that she’s the only one who thinks her continuous burping is funny? Will Curry finally recognize Knight as the old horn-dog he is (in episode #1, Knight tongue-kisses singer Jane Wiedlin at a party, directly in front of Curry)? Will she at last dump him for someone her own age? After watching one episode, I didn’t care. I don’t suppose many other healthy-minded viewers will, either.

They say an audience gets the entertainment it deserves. Is this what we deserve, friends? “My Fair Brady”, like most reality shows, is a mere variation of a stale joke. You know the one. Invite someone to sit down next to you. Pull the chair out for them. Just before their ass touches the chair, pull the chair away and watch them hit the floor. Over and over and over, live on videotape. The joke has been refurbished enough to be palatable to the MTV/VH1 generations, most of whom weren’t even born when “The Brady Bunch” was on the air. But it’s still stale and it’s still a joke. A pitiful one, if you ask me.

We’ve had at least five years of this joke called reality TV. How many more times can we watch washed-up actors, has-been models, over-the-hill musicians and other glory hogs hit the floor? All that’s left is one simple question that you can only answer for yourselves. Why are we watching this shit?

The Doctor Do-Si-Do

2005-09-14T15:02:00.000-07:00

The following post is based on actual events. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

The first part of this tale has already been told. Intellectual giant tumbles down a dark staircase and injures shoulder. Spends the next 6 weeks sitting on his ass and gulping pills like Johnny Cash before he found Jesus. Surfaces only to post drug-inspired rants on his blog. Bores everyone, including himself. Now, to quote Paul Harvey, here is the rest of the story.

The day after It happened, I did what any normal person would do. I called my primary care physician, Dr. Innsbrook. Dr. I., a knowledgeable, thorough and personable M.D., has treated me for over ten years. I would trust her with my life, and that’s no pun. Unfortunately, my shoulder injury was out of her department, so she recommended a specialist. Since Dr. Innsbrook is always on-target, I took her advice. I made an appointment to see Dr. Cunningham, an orthopedist.

Dr. Cunningham could answer a Hollywood casting call for a “doctor-type”. He’s got the whole look working for him: bald head, little round glasses, white coat, academic bearing. His hands, regardless of the weather, are always ice-cold. His spits out medical jargon so complex, I can’t reproduce it here. Thankfully, he’s always willing to translate it into moron for me. Best of all, he keeps me stocked with painkillers.

While Dr. C. is a fine orthopedist, I don’t believe it was his first career choice. I get the impression that he would’ve preferred psychology.

“I’m scheduling you for an MRI, John,” he said during our first visit. “How does that make you feel?”

How did it make me feel? I didn’t know MRI’s from M & M’s. MRI is the abbreviation for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. I’ll let the Merriam-Webster’s Medical Dictionary define it for you: “a noninvasive diagnostic technique that produces computerized images of internal body tissues and is based on nuclear magnetic resonance of atoms within the body induced by the application of radio waves called also MRI.” I guess the MRI provides the doctor with a more detailed picture of the target area than an x-ray. To my deviant mind, it sounded like something you paid extra for at an Asian massage parlor.

“If it involves someone resembling Lucy Liu and a bottle of baby oil, I’m all for it!” I grinned.

“Okay,” Dr. Cunningham smiled back, “we’re talking the same language.” This is another odd thing he keeps saying. Odd, because his language is medicine and mine, as you know, is bullshit. Odd, because the MRI, to my surprise, had nothing to do with either Lucy Liu look-a-likes or oily rubdowns.

Have you seen “2001: A Space Odyssey”? Remember those scientists in those little cylinder-shaped things? The scientists we never see, because they’re in suspended animation until the spaceship reaches Jupiter? That’s what the MRI machine looks like. An MRI technician stretched me out on a conveyer-belt, covered me with a lead-lined blanket and rolled my ass all the way into that freaky “2001” cylinder. There couldn’t have been more than three or four inches of space in any direction. I swear, if anyone had started singing “A Bicycle Built For Two” I would’ve lost it. At first, I found myself lying in total darkness. Then, there was soft light and intermittent buzzing, not to mention my panicked breathing.

In these kinds of situations, you need a calm, reassuring voice to guide you. My MRI technician happened to be a young Indian man. I would’ve preferred a young Indian woman, but that’s beside the point. Many Indians have musical, lilting voices. And where but India would you find the sense of Zen-like tranquility I so urgently needed at that moment? At least, I figured, I had that thought to cling to.

“Hey, Twitchy!” called the MRI technician in his lilting, Indian voice. “Stay still or you’ll ruin the image! I’ve got an ass-load of patients to see, and no time for horseshit!” Just my luck. Indian voice, American attitude.

“Sorry,” I panted, “I’m just hyperventilating.”

“Well, don’t,” he said, which really helped. “Think of something nice. Like a field of flowers or a pretty girl.”

Aha! A bolt of inspiration hit me! Julianna Margulies and I were resting on a blanket in a field of Queen Anne’s Lace. I was shirtless and she had a bottle of baby oil. You can fill in the blanks. The tension ran out of my body and I breathed easily. Sometimes, it pays to be a perv.

Two days later, I was back in Dr. Cunningham’s office.

“How was your MRI experience?” Dr. Cunningham asked. See? Weird.

“Not bad,” I said, “if you’re a Stanley Kubrick fan. Thank God Julianna Margulies showed up or I wouldn’t have survived.”

Cunningham didn’t bat an eye. “All right, we’re talking the same language.” He scribbled on two pages of a prescription pad, tore off the pages and gave them to me. “I want to cover all the bases here. I’m sending you to the Pain Center downstairs for an evaluation. Then, you start physical therapy. The phone numbers are on those pages. See me again in a month.”

Another week, another examination room. Why are all examination rooms so damn cold, I was thinking, when in walked William “Refrigerator” Perry, the defensive lineman for the 1985 Super Bowl champion Chicago Bears. No, not really. Just a guy who looks like him. He’s NFL-big and NFL-round and wears a white coat that’s a size too small for him—even though it’s probably the largest size available.

“John,” he said, “pleased to meet you. I’m Dr. Weber and I’ll be doing your pain evaluation.” Why do these mammoth-sized guys always have such low, muted voices? This dude needed some Phlegm-B-Gone.

Okay, I’m not going to sass the Fridge. He kicked things off (ha-ha) by asking me for information.

“What medication are you on?” inquired Dr. Weber. “What dosage and dose schedule?”

This troubled me, because I assumed Dr. Cunningham recorded this data in my file, the folder Dr. Weber was holding in his giant paw. I had to think for a minute.

“Uh, there’s the big orange pill. I think it’s called Gabapentin and I take two of those three times a day. Vicodin, one tablet, which I take occasionally for any pain I might have between doses of the other one. Then there’s a little green pill, Elavil, which Dr. Cunningham has me take one of at bedtime, to help me sleep. I don’t know the dosages.”

Next, Dr. Weber asked me a question any orthopedic patient will soon commit to memory.

“How severe is the pain you’re feeling right now? On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst and one being the best, how would you rate your pain at this current time?”

“Before the painkillers, it was an eight or nine,” I said. “Since the meds, I’d rate it a three or four.”

Weber was writing something in my file. “What is a tolerable level for you?” he asked.

“One. If one is pain-free, then one is what I’m aiming for. What else, right?”

Weber didn’t respond. Unlike Cunningham, I guess he was happy being a pain evaluator, or whatever his official title was. He didn’t bombard me with questions regarding my feelings or experiences. Weber focused on my symptoms and used words like there was a charge for each one. Often, he just grunted or nodded when I responded. His evaluation of my pain? It was state of the art. Weber pinched and squeezed my right shoulder, saying “Uh-huh” at various intervals. Then he poked and prodded me along my shoulder and arm with an actual toothpick, while asking me how it felt. That was it.

I was putting on my shirt when Dr. Weber asked me a question that bugged me.

“Has Dr. Cunningham seen your MRI?” he said.

With all due respect to Dr. W., I found the question foolishly obvious. It was like asking me if birds flew or if Duran Duran was a crappy band. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why wouldn’t he? He ordered it.”

Dr. Weber mumbled something I couldn’t make out, then wished me a swift recovery.

Like a ship adrift on a pharmaceutical sea, I meandered through the next few days. Soon, it was time for physical therapy. A new, equally frigid examination room awaited me. I was dosing in a chair when the therapist entered.

“Morning Mr. Left! I’m Mr. Malph! Take off the shirt and lie face-down on the table. Your mug goes in that little hole at the top. We’ll have you all right in no time, Mr. Left. Get it? Right, Left? Just some humor to take the edge off.”

Hardy-har-har. Like I haven’t been hearing that crap for half my life. I did as he asked. Dr. Cunningham ordered me six weeks of physical therapy, three days a week, so Mr. Malph and I will become well-acquainted. Malph is short, no more than five-five. His fiery red hair is closely clipped, as is his chin beard. He has the compact frame of a gymnast. His tone of voice borders on shouting, as if he thinks I’m deaf. The things he considers to be jokes never stop.

“Mr. Left,” Malph yelled, as he kneaded my back like fresh dough. “Did you hear about the man who had the whole left side of his body cut off? It was awful. But he’s all right now. Hear that? All right!” He broke into a fit of hyena-like laughter.

What I dreamed of was a gentle massage given by a beautiful woman. What I got was a series of wrestling holds applied by Milton Berle reincarnated as a leprechaun.

Based on my experience with Weber, I was a bit wary of Malph. I saw him making detailed notes throughout our first session. At the end, I pulled him aside.

“Dr. Cunningham is my orthopedist. He sent me to you. Will you be faxing your notes over to him for reference?”

For once, Malph struggled for words. “Uh, I can if you’d like me to. Usually, I just keep them on file here. It’s the patient’s choice.”

You know, I’m not the brightest bulb on the wire. But I was gradually catching on. I was getting a funny little feeling that I didn’t like. It carried over to my next visit with Dr. Cunningham.

“So, John,” said the venerable doctor, poking and feeling my shoulder. “How did the pain evaluation go?”

That did it. The little red warning light inside my head was flashing now. “Don’t you know?” I asked him.

Slight pause from Dr. C., along with an anxious glance at the file he left sitting on the counter across the room. “Oh, c-certainly,” he stammered. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

Our culture has standard images. The compassionate parent. The teacher dedicated to learning, the cop sworn to uphold the law. Along with these stands the doctor, a devoted healer who knows and treats each patient individually. Leaving Dr. Cunningham’s office that day, I felt like I did the day I discovered Santa Claus wasn’t real. My father sensed this in the car on the way home.

“What’s eating you?” Dad said. “I haven’t seen you this depressed since Air Force Amy left the Bunny Ranch on ‘Cathouse.’”

“I’m not depressed, Dad, I’m worried,” I said. “I’m seeing two doctors and a physical therapist. I’ve trusted these guys with my health. It’s clear that none of them knows what the other is doing toward my recovery.”

“Well, don’t just sit on your duff waiting for these quacks to screw up. Call your sister, she’ll know what to do. Either that or get used to wiping yourself southpaw.” Dad reached for the volume knob on the radio. “Now, zip it. Limbaugh’s on.”

Dad was right. My sister had worked in nursing homes for several years. Before that, she’d been a candy striper in a couple of area hospitals. She’d learned a lot about the in’s and out’s of the medical business. I phoned her and told her what was on my mind. Sis was the picture of benevolence.

“Christ, what planet have you been on?” she asked. “News flash! It’s not like on ‘ER’ where the doctors hang out together and talk to each other all the time. They’re extremely busy, all too human beings with diverse schedules.”

“All right, but what am I paying them a shitload of money for?” I said. “So I can play messenger running between their offices, keeping them informed about my case?”

“Welcome to the 21st Century. It’s a self-serve world. If you don’t do it, no one else will. Write everything down, including names and dates. Have them fax all paperwork to Cunningham. If they won’t fax, go there, photocopy the papers and deliver them to Cunningham yourself. Then, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“Aw, that’s a pain in the ass!” I whined. I could never sing, but I can sure hit that high note when I’m crying in my beer.

“Right,” said Sis. “But you’ve got to do it. You have to be your own advocate. You have to ask questions, read all the fine print, take nothing for granted and make sure everything needed gets to where it needs to be. You have to be a fussy bastard. It’s the only way you can be sure they’ll give you the best care possible.”

It was hard, but I did it. I started a notebook in which I record names, dates and descriptions of what was done. I organized all my paperwork in a folder. I keep an updated list of the names, dosages and dose schedules of my meds. I made sure Malph’s notes were faxed to Cunningham. I hand-delivered copies of Weber’s pain evaluation to Cunningham. This pissed me off, because Dr.C.’s office is one floor above Weber’s. But Weber’s receptionist, due to “privacy laws”, refused to fax those documents. It meant a wasted half-hour brown-nosing the clerk in the clinic’s Records Department, but I did it. All of my info is now in my file in Cunningham’s office, ready and waiting. And yes, it was a pain in the ass.

But you know what? I’m not worried anymore.

Stuff I Don't Want to Hear About Until Next Summer List

2005-09-01T08:35:00.000-07:00

Drugs, doctors, physical therapy, doctors, therapy and drugs. I'll be sure to check in with my thoughts on these delightful subjects (and Lord, I've got a mother-lode, stay tuned!) once I've fully emerged from my Vicodin haze. In the meantime, I figured I'd help put a big period to this wild n' crazy summer with the above-mentioned list...

Okay, okay. I know lists are cheating. But admit it, they are kind of fun. All right then, humor your drug-addled correspondent. You can at least concede that these people/things got way too much coverage this summer. In the interest of sanity, let's all agree that they shouldn't be mentioned again until the next time you see flip-flops on sale at Wal-Mart.

1.) Tom Cruise

2.) Katie Holmes

3.) Tom Cruise and/or Katie Holmes. To anyone over age 12, this relationship/business deal looked phonier than William Shatner's toupee from the get-go.

4.) The well-meaning-but-ultimately-vague-in-conception-and-somewhat-disappointing-in-execution-won't-be-remembered-in-20-years-like-Live-Aid-do-you-think-Bush-and-Blair-actually-watched-it-how-did-MTV-bungle-Pink-Floyd's-segment-hope-they-got-whatever-they-wanted-from-this-event known as "Live 8".
Living proof that you can't reheat a souffle, not even with the best of intentions. Sorry, Gen Y, but this counts as your first cultural/generational phawkup. U2 kicked Coldplay's ass. Next time, pull out those iPod earplugs and listen to your Baby Boomer parents' stories about Woodstock, so you'll know how to run a proper rock festival.

5.) Paris Hilton

6.) Paris Hilton's feud with Nicole Richie. What is it about these two untalented, spoiled, clueless brats that rivets America's attention? Well, besides that? In 20 years, they'll be dueling Janice Dickinsons. And yes, the fact that I know who Janice is says that reality TV, in general, belongs on this list, too.

7.) The heat. It's summer, for Christ's sake. All bitching about the cold is strictly forbidden until at least November. Midwesterners, you know who you are!

8.) Any and all crappy movies. Again, it's summer, for Christ's sake. Hollywood's "Let's Fob Our Junk Off on the Multiplexes" season. Like baseball, it's a summer tradition.

9.) Z-list celebrities ballroom dancing. It wasn't that good (except when Kelly What's-Her-Name's top "accidentally" fell off). Evander Holyfield, what happened? Could a fox-trotting Mike Tyson be far behind? Yeeesh!

10.) All the old 1960s peaceniks weaselling in on Cindy Sheehan's protest down in Crawford, Texas. Joan Baez, Ritchie Havens, Pete Seeger, etc.,"Kum Bi Yah" your way back to wherever you came from. We'll catch you on "Swinging Sixties Memories" during the next PBS fund-drive. A mother's grief is not a photo-op (except perhaps, depending on how you view the issue, for that mother).

There have been so many overexposed people/things this summer, I couldn't remember them all. Feel free to chime in with yours. I'll be back with a real post, I promise, ASAP. Gotta go now, 'cause I have a date with a physical therapist.

Hey, get your mind out of the gutter!

"CSI", Sir Mix-a-Lot and Psychological Piracy

2005-08-17T14:23:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of things an unemployed guy with a shoulder injury can do to fill his time: gobble painkillers; lie in bed with his wounded wing cushioned on a pillow; watch endless hours of TV. Whoopee.

Whilst convalescing in such a manner, I came to one undeniable conclusion. A conclusion, mind you, that was based strictly on careful observation, rational thought and bone-dry logic alone. The conclusion? BIG BROTHER (or maybe by now, his Big Grandson) IS SYSTEMATICALLY CONTROLLING US FROM THE BRAIN-PAN OUTWARD! Yessirree Bob. I swear, on England’s crop-circles and Al Capone’s lost vault, it’s happening as we speak. Or, read, rather.

I know. “Holy Vicodin!” you’re saying. “Left is flying higher than Rev. Jim on ‘Taxi’!” And while I do happen to be stoned on Vicodin just now, I assure you, there is a method to my drug-induced madness. Join me, won’t you, on the yellow brick road to the point?

It all comes down to music. Long ago, in a far-off land called America, TV was chock-full of original music. Each and every last frigging show on the boob tube, even McLean Stevenson’s, had its own unique theme song. Some shows’ theme songs even had lyrics, performed by notable singers like Sammy Davis Jr. (“Baretta”) or by actors trying to be singers, like the Brady Bunch Kids (well, you know). These theme songs helped us remember the shows and cajoled us into watching them. In those pre-iPod days, this meant something to us. “‘Cop Rock’ sucks like a Hoover upright,” we told ourselves, “but at least I can hear some snappy tunes!” Which is why, almost 30 years later, that lame John Denver rip-off theme song to “Grizzly Adams” is trapped between my ears, stuck on replay. Damn, how desperate were they to rip off John Denver? But I digress.

The party didn’t end with theme songs. Commercials, too, had more original music than Snickers has peanuts. Bright, crisp jingles which became embedded in the mind and made shopping yourself into debt fun! Everyone wanted “Chiquita” bananas, the “San Francisco Treat” (Rice-a-Roni), to “feel like a nut” (Mounds Bars) and to “be a Pepper!” (Dr. Pepper) And for those overzealous kids who tried to eat all these things in one night, Mom used “Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!” to wipe them off the kitchen floor afterwards. Yes youngsters, back in the day, television—America’s cultural dipstick—was more musical than an Andrew Lloyd Webber extravaganza. “Huzzah!” cried the viewers, gathered ‘round their sets after a long day of spending. “Huzzah!” cried the corporate executives, as boxcars of cash rolled in. And everyone was happy. . .

Something is missing, right? Yup. The “forevermore” tag typically found at the end. That’s because Sinister Forces came along to mess up this shiny, happy arrangement. No one knows exactly why. Like rust and evolution, it just happened. Under normal circumstances, I studiously avoid the idiot box, so it has taken me longer to notice it. Just the other night, as a matter of fact, while I was perusing a copy of Maxim magazine. As I scanned the interview with Brooke Burke, searching for insights into the acting craft of this noted thespian, I heard the chorus from the Who’s classic “Who Are You” kick in. I glanced at my TV, expecting to see a documentary about the world’s greatest rock n’ roll band. Dumbass me.

Instead, I saw the mere opening credits of “CSI”. “C-frigging-SI”? The searing vocals of Roger Daltrey, the stampeding drums of Keith Moon, the pulsating bass of John Entwistle and the fiery guitar of rock genius Pete Townshend—reduced to a paltry TV theme song? For a show about pseudo-cops solving mysteries by chopping up dead people? What the phawk!

Then I remembered the drugs. I had been seeing and hearing interesting things lately. Like the time Heather Locklear crawled out of a “T.J. Hooker” episode, sat next to me in bed and. . .well, that’s another story. I chalked it up to an audio hallucination and returned to Maxim.

But it happened again. “Baba O’Reilly” used as the theme for “CSI: New York”. And again. “Pinball Wizard” used to sell Saabs. And again. A neutered Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby’s Got Back” pimping for Target’s Back to School sale. AAAARRRGGGHHH! Mommy, Mommy! Some bad men stole my music!

Years ago, some lameass record club I didn’t join had a slogan. “Music: the Soundtrack To Your Life.” Truer words were never spoken by a corporate entity trying to glom onto your Visa card. When you hear a familiar song, you should think of the subjects explored in the song’s lyrics. You should recall where you were, who you were with, and when you first heard the song. That’s what makes music a universally potent force. A 3-minute song can be a time capsule of thoughts, impressions and feelings.

Of course, commercial jingles and TV theme songs don’t quite measure up, artistically, to classic rock songs. But they can perform the same function. Years after the product or show has disappeared from the shelves or airwaves, that certain combination of notes and words can conjure up a long-gone place or face from the past. They become personal as well as cultural touchstones.

The problem is, America Incorporated has started to (blatantly) cheat. And it isn’t simply a matter of cut budgets with no money for original music anymore. By shanghaiing preexisting songs, they’re tapping into a ready-made bank of emotions, ideas and standards. Saab, the official automobile of who? The Who? Daltrey and Townshend have never officially endorsed the car, but the implication is there. Maybe this will prompt Baby Boomers to cough up for a Saab, but it might just do something else, too. Maybe a new generation of listeners will dismiss Tommy, because they won’t be able to hear it without having personal images induced by the songs supplanted by car ads. I hope not, but it’s possible.

This is not just a matter of artistic integrity, either. I wonder if the Target big-wig who green-lighted the use of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby’s Got Back” ever heard the original 1992 version of the song? Upon initial release, this tune, a baudy ode to full-figured gals, propelled its author to the top of the feminist Shit List. Come on, Target. It hasn't been that long. Maybe frumpy grandparents and Michael Jackson find the sight of preteens hip-hopping to decaffeinated Mix-a-Lot cute. But to this Gen X-er, it’s just plain weird.

This is psychological piracy. They’re swiping our memories, manipulating our feelings, stealing the soundtracks to our lives! This is George Orwell-1984-thought police stuff. Don’t let them do it. If you see one of these shows or commercials come on, close your eyes. Listen to the music. Replay your own private music videos. Fight the Power.

I’m going to go listen to the Who’s Ultimate Collection. Hopefully, it won’t be infected by psychological pirates from Hollywood or Madison Avenue. Although the sight of Marg Helgenberger go-go dancing to “Who Are You” in a silver bikini wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

Sorry. That’s the Vicodin talking.

An Explanation

2005-08-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

Hello again, friends. I know, I know. Where have I been for 2 weeks. Here's the brief and sad tale. . .

Late one evening in the recent past, Yours Truly was sitting up in his room watching "Cat House", an HBO documentary about the delightful goings on at the Bunny Ranch, a sporting ladies' club in Nevada. Suddenly, I remembered some cold leftover chicken in the fridge downstairs. Cold chicken and porno---how could I resist that combination?

I trotted off to retrive the leftovers. It was about 11pm. I had to go down a flight of stairs to get to the kitchen. I've lived in this house, off and on, for most of my life. Turn on the light above the staircase first? Ha! I knew the way by heart.

One minute later, I was laying at the foot of the stairs holding my injured right shoulder. Dad rushed down to see if I was okay. No biggie, I assured him, just pulled muscles.

24 hours later, I was in the local hospital's ER, begging for painkillers. The shoulder truly was injured. Now, I'm seeing an orthopedic specialist, eating painkillers like your average Hollywood celebrity (Vicodin---it's not a drug, it's a world unto itself) and I'm staring down the barrel of 6 weeks of physical therapy. Joy, joy, joy.

Now, don't get all nervous. It's not that bad. It just means that my entrys here will become a bit irregular. You see, I don't own a computer. I use public computers to create this blog. For the time being, I can't drive (the cops, I'm told, might frown on a one-armed driver whacked out on prescription painkillers). I have to depend on relatives and friends to get me to the wonderous world of the Internet.

So here's the deal: I have no intention of giving up this blog. You guys are stuck with me. I promise to log in at least twice a month. Once I'm back to speed, I'll return to the previous once a week schedule. Okay?

This has been a truly positive experience and I appreciate everyone who reads my rantings regularly. I hope you'll stick with me through this. Feel free to browse previous postings and leave comments. And by all means, invite your friends to drop by, too.

If my future postings seem a little, well, psychedelic, remember that the author is drifting through John Lennon's world of tangerine trees and marshmallow skies. Until then, take care and thanks again. Now, I have to ride home on Aladdin's magic carpet. Puff the Magic Dragon is waiting to frollock with me in the Land of Honnalee.

Three Suggestions & a Short List

2005-07-19T15:37:00.000-07:00

If you have been reading this blog on a regular basis, you have learned a few things about me. You know that I dearly enjoy my privacy. You also might’ve noticed that I do NOT enjoy having others force their opinions on me. I march to the beat of my own drum, in the grand American tradition of Henry David Thoreau, Charles Lindbergh and Gary Busey. “Don’t Tread On Me, Either!” is my motto.

“What a coincidence,” you say. “I have a brother who, all through grammar school, insisted on wearing the exact same pair of Captain America Underoos®. There are places for you both at the Too Big For Their Britches Hall of Fame. So what?”

I’m just saying that, under usual circumstances, politics and I go together like peanut butter and salsa. While I realize the importance of politics, I loathe the intrusiveness, preachiness, greediness and all-or-nothing, cookie-cutter mentality of the business. But sometimes, you must make exceptions and this entry is one of them. Today’s lunch special is PB & S on Midwestern wheat bread.

Hey, wait! Come back! Having just read the above paragraphs, you don’t think I’d dump that kind of stuff on you, do you? Uh-uh. I’m merely going to make three suggestions and give you a list of five brief factoids. You may, of course, take or leave them as you wish. The choice is entirely yours and whichever option you pick, we’ll still be friends. Okay?

Anyone who follows the news has heard something about the supposed connection between mercury and autism. Over the course of at least a decade, exposure to high levels of thimerosal, a mercury-based preservative commonly found in childhood vaccines, allegedly caused autism in millions of children across America. I have a young relative who, three years ago, was diagnosed with autism. I became convinced of the link between mercury and autism after reading two recent articles on the subject. These articles, “Deadly Immunity” by Robert F. Kennedy Jr. (Rolling Stone 977/978 [2005]: 57-66) and “Debate on autism and vaccine puts parents on edge” (Chicago Tribune, 17 July 2005: 7) by Julie Deardorff, are the most cogent and concise analyses of this subject that I have seen. Both of these articles are available online (www.rollingstone.com and www.chicagotribune.com, respectively). Suggestion # 1: seek out these articles and read them, if only to be updated on a crucial topic.

Here’s that list I mentioned, gleaned from Kennedy’s and Deardorff’s articles:

1.) Between 1988 and 1992, Deardorff states that the number of vaccines kids were given “more than doubled”. Tragically, nobody “bothered to calculate cumulative exposure [to mercury]. When a government researcher finally did in 1999, he found that it exceeded federal limits” (Deardorff 7).
2.) “During the 1990s, 40 million children were injected with thimerosal-based vaccines, receiving unprecedented levels of mercury during a period critical for brain development” (Kennedy 60).
3.) Over the past 15 years, “the estimated number of cases of autism had increased fifteenfold, from one in every 2,500 children to one in every 166 children” (Kennedy 57).
4.) Between 1930 and 1971, Eli-Lilly, the drug company which developed thimerosal, received an abundance of scientific evidence clearly indicating that the preservative was harmful; yet, the company publicly maintained that thimerosal was safe (Kennedy 60).
5.) Why, through the 1980s and 1990s, did drug companies continue to produce vaccines containing thimerosal? The reason, Kennedy claims, was “cost considerations”. Thimerosal “enables the pharmaceutical industry to package vaccines in vials that contain multiple doses, which require additional protection because they are more easily contaminated by multiple needle entries. The larger vials cost half as much to produce as smaller, single-dose vials, making it cheaper for international agencies to distribute them to impoverished regions. . .” (Kennedy 60).

Okay, it’s time for Suggestion # 2, which is also the primary reason for this one-day-early entry. Deardorff’s article alerted me to an important event scheduled for Wednesday, July 20, 2005 in Washington DC. On that day, a parents’ group called Moms Against Mercury (www.momsagainstmercury.org) will be marching in the Capitol “to rally for anti-thimerosal legislation” (Deardorff 7). Deardorff notes that thirty states “have pending legislation” that would outlaw thimerosal-based vaccines (7). If, after reading this, you are so inclined, why not seize the day and show some support for the Moms Against Mercury? Check this site (www.conservativeusa.org/mega-cong.htm) to obtain your state governor’s e-mail address. Then, send your state governor a polite, 1-line message: “Please ban the use of mercury-based vaccines in (INSERT STATE NAME HERE). Thank you.” It’s that simple. Countless kids, maybe even one you’re related to, will be grateful.

Now, let’s wind it all up with Suggestion # 3. I am NOT, in any way, implying that parents should avoid having their children vaccinated. Vaccines save lives. If your child is due for his/her shots (or boosters), be sure to get them. And be sure to demand “thimerosal-free vaccines” when you do (Deardorff 7). Remember that knowledge is power, and the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

Thanks for hanging in there with me. Next Wednesday, I promise to leave my soapbox at home. See you then. . .

UPDATE 8-19-05

Yesterday, Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich signed the Mercury-Free Vaccine Act into law in my home state! Way to go Rod! You've got my vote in the next election.

See, friends? Sometimes the good guys win. For those of you with anti-mercury vaccine bills pending in your states, please write your senators, congresspeople and governors. For those of you in states not currently considering banning vaccines containing mercury, please write your senators, congresspeople and governors. This is not a partisan issue. It's a human rights issue. A short e-mail or post card from you could help save thousands of kids' health and well-being, if not their lives. Be one of the good guys!

The Gatekeeper

2005-07-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

It started with waving. Or more accurately, not waving.

I must admit that I’m not a super-social kind of guy. I figure this comes from working sales jobs for so long. As a retail drone, you have to do so much gladhanding and asskissing, you strenuously avoid doing any more on your own time. I have my own circle of relatives and friends. While I’m not opposed to meeting new people, “live and let live” is my usual policy.

The neighborhood I’ve lived in, off and on, since age 8 is not a “Waltons”-style community. No one ever drops in to sample Grandma’s apple pie; if they did, she would probably sic the dog on them before she’d offer them a taste. That may seem harsh, but it’s also very American. I mean, the notion of respecting a person’s space, of leaving them alone to do as they please (within the law) is as American as, well, apple pie. Still, there are many misguided souls who are forever searching for Walton’s Mountain.

About ten years ago, one neighbor of ours went off seeking John-boy and company. She organized what she called an “annual summer block party” at her house, and invited everyone in our locality. By the time it was all over, this lady knew how Max Yasgur must’ve felt looking over his farm after Woodstock. The block party turned into a hedonistic beer blast, which culminated in one drunken reveler’s wild dance atop a picnic bench as “U Can’t Touch This” blared from the stereo. The fun ended when M.C. Hammered lost his balance and fell, twisting an ankle in the process. One lawsuit later, the “annual” block party was permanently discontinued.

Following that debacle, our neighborhood returned to its “polite but private” plan, which suited me perfectly. Think about it. Wouldn’t TV-type neighbors like Fred and Ethel Mertz, who were forever barging and butting in, be giant pains in the ass? They nosed into Lucy’s business so much, it’s a wonder Little Ricky was ever born. One of the blessings I always counted was that my neighbors left me alone. That is, until the Gatekeeper.

The Gatekeeper lives just up the street from me and my parents. His house sits on the corner of our little side-street and the main thoroughfare, which is the central entrance to our ‘hood. If you want to enter or exit, at least on my block, you’ve got to go past the Gatekeeper. Night or day, rain, shine, snow, or tornado, the Gatekeeper will be on patrol, waving and grinning like a coked-up Target door-greeter.

Before he transformed into a Marvel Comics-style villain, the Gatekeeper was a mild-mannered fellow resident I’ll call “Mr. Mancuso”. A widower with two kids, Mancuso moved into our subdivision about twenty years ago. His kids, a daughter and a son, were the same ages as my sister and I. We went to school together, and while we weren’t best friends, we’d occasionally hang out at each other’s houses. I met Mr. Mancuso just once, circa 1984. The rest of the time, he never seemed to be around. The common excuse was that he was “at work”. He was a single parent and he had to make a living. It was understandable.

After high school, I lost track of the Mancuso kids. They moved out and moved on. Soon after, Mr. Mancuso remarried. I was not invited to the wedding. While I never met her, I’d often see his wife out doing yard work when I drove by. Mancuso himself maintained a low profile. I assumed he was still working. Didn’t know, didn’t care. I had my own life to live.

Around the time I quit my job, something changed. The once-elusive Mancuso was suddenly as unavoidable as Tom Cruise on a press junket. I remember the day clearly. As I returned home from my orientation at the Career Center, I turned down my home street. Out of nowhere, a gray-haired and plaid-clad figure jumped in front of my car. I hit the brakes and stopped inches away from him.

“Hi, John!” said Mancuso, waving. “How’s tricks? What ya up to these days?”

Having just aged five years, I was too startled to say anything. I simply drove on.

Later that evening, I had a curious conversation with my mother.

“John,” she said, poking her head into the living room, “I just got off the phone with Mr. Mancuso.”

“Really? How’d he get our number?” I asked, quickly changing channels to PBS. Didn’t want her to catch me drooling over “G-String Divas”, you see. Doesn’t matter how old I am. Mom’s house, Mom’s rules.

“I don’t know,” Mom said, “but he was pretty upset. He said he waves to you every time you pass by his house, but you never wave back.”

I nearly gagged on my Hard Lemonade. “Are you kidding me? He should be glad he isn’t road pizza, after the stunt he pulled!”

Mom leaned on the doorframe and folded her arms---her “reasonable” stance. “He’s an old man and he just retired. He has all this spare time on his hands and doesn’t know how to fill it. You should know what that feels like. He waves to me and everyone else. Why not humor him and wave back?”

“Nevah!” I exclaimed, in my best British accent. “My life is my own. I am not a numbah, I am a free man!”

Mom didn’t get the joke. She isn’t a fan of the 1960s British TV series “The Prisoner”, from which I was quoting. She simply took away my bottle of Hard Lemonade and left the room.

But I wasn’t totally joking. Mancuso was out of line. I didn’t mean to ignore him, but when I’m driving, I have this odd habit of focusing on the road ahead and not on someone who appointed himself the one-man welcoming committee. I don’t wave to anyone; nobody waves to me. It’s nothing personal and that’s how it’s always been. It’s just a fact of life in our neighborhood.

I suppose I could’ve accommodated him. This shouldn’t have been a major issue, but Mancuso made it one. His “you must acknowledge me” game of chicken was bad enough. Then he goes to my mommy and tattles on me? According to standard playground rules, that was an act of war. I had, as an American, a God-given right not to wave. If it pissed him off, tough buns. He’d started the tussle, but I’d finish it! It was mark-your-territory, alpha-male, chest-beating, Tarzan-yelling pride time!

So it went, for weeks. Every time I drove past his house, the Gatekeeper would be there at that precise moment. Taking out the garbage, getting the mail, washing his car, grilling burgers or just standing there, like he was waiting for a bus (we don’t have bus service in our area). He must’ve lived in his driveway. As soon as he spotted me, he’d make like Uncle Jed, toodle-looing as the credits rolled on “The Beverly Hillbillies”. I swear he was psychic, in addition to being psychotic. But I did not wave. I didn’t even look at him. And it felt oh-so-very satisfying.

The battle raged on, through spring and into summer. I realized I was irking the Gatekeeper as much as he was irking me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that his waving had taken on a frantic quality. As time went on, though, the fun of snubbing him faded dramatically. It became, frankly, a staring contest and I was tired of it. But backing down was out of the question. I hoped the old fart would poop out and quit, the sooner the better.

Mom thought I was nuts and refused to take sides. But I was not without allies in this titanic struggle.

“Hey,” said my father, plopping down next to me at the kitchen table one day. “I talked to that goombah on the corner this morning.”

Dad, you see, is a politically correct and sensitive soul.

“He flagged my car down as I was coming back from the chiropractor,” Dad said. “He asked me why you came and went at such irregular hours. Then he asked why he never saw you wearing your red work shirt anymore.”

With that, my battle with the Gatekeeper sank from the “silly” to the “pitiful” level. Evidently, the Gatekeeper was so lonely, so without purpose, he’d been watching me even before I chucked my job, much longer than I thought. This guy had missed his calling. The F.B.I. could’ve used him. I asked Dad what he’d said to my foe.

“I said it was none of his business, and told him to go chase his tail. Listen son, everyone in life has a long list of asses they have to kiss. But Mancuso’s name isn’t on yours. Stick to your guns.”

Wow, the old man had stuck up for me, just like John-boy’s dad would have. Believe me, that hasn’t happened very often. I thanked him.

“No problem,” Dad said, grabbing the sports page and ambling off to the TV. “I never liked Mancuso. The guy who owned that house before Mancuso, now he was a neighbor. He was a dope-dealing goober who landed in jail, but he minded his own business.”

While I appreciated the support from Dad, I had by then had enough. Life had become a “Seinfeld” episode. I was George Costanza, fighting tooth and nail over the petty “principle of the thing”. The Gatekeeper had become the defender of irrelevant gestures. There was an errand I had to run the next day and I was dreading it. I decided to give in and wave. Hopefully, the Gatekeeper would back off.

The next morning, I hit the road a humbled man. When I reached the corner, the Gatekeeper. . .was nowhere in sight. Lucky me. When I got home, the Gatekeeper still wasn’t there. Luckier me.

In fact, I haven’t seen the Gatekeeper in over two weeks. Maybe he finally figured it out. Perhaps he returned to his previous sane and elusive form. God help him, but I don’t know and I won’t go asking.

What’s it all about, Alfie? I learned that adult men, no matter how old, never outgrow games of oneupmanship. I also learned that TV shows are not idealized fantasies, but biting satires of true life. Or true life is a biting satire of TV, I haven't quite decided yet. But most of all, I’ve come to appreciate privacy. I come and go and nobody notices. The neighborhood is normal again.

Except for those people in back. The lights in their house were on until one o’ clock this morning. What’s up with that?

Highway to the Publicity Zone

2005-07-06T14:31:00.000-07:00

The 4th of July. A time for fun, celebration, remembrance and. . .scattering in all directions. At least, that’s what the Left family did.

You see, it’s like this. The parents spent the 4th attending a party thrown by one of Dad’s V.F.W. buddies. They were nice enough to invite me, but I declined. I didn’t care to spend the day viewing some guy’s collection of World War II bayonets. Also, the ‘rents are suffering from serious overexposure to Yours Truly, so I figured they needed a break.

Normally, my sister’s house is a safe haven. I always look forward to hanging out with my nephews, ages 3 and 5, respectively. But this year, Sis went mushy and invited her ex-husband. This meant that her ex-husband would show up with his entire family, including second cousins twice removed, and proceed to eat and drink everything in sight, while hogging the TV. This, coupled with the fact that my former brother-in-law is a walking, talking case of hemorrhoids, made it an occasion I could afford to miss. I opted out.

So how does one spend a holiday alone? I had friends who were throwing parties, but a guy on his own is a third wheel. I was sick of hanging out at home. I did the only thing any self-respecting loner could do: I went to the movies.

Arriving at the local multiplex, I found it to be busier than I anticipated. An unexpected cloudburst had sent people running for cover. Many people, apparently, had nothing better to do. But I was different, I told myself. I was no mere holiday refugee. I was there to make a Serious Study of a burning question of Cultural Significance. Namely, would Tom Cruise’s nutspell be visible on film? Time would tell.

I know a million and one people have weighed in on this subject which, in some circles, has even pushed the war news off the front page. But when all is said and done, media is a secondhand source. Since Hollywood’s golden boy is not listed in the Yellow Pages, I did the next best thing. I saw “War of the Worlds”.

I am not going to review the film. I’ll leave that to Roger Ebert and the boot-licking geek who replaced Gene Siskel. I’ll only say that if you’ve seen “Jaws”, “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” or “E.T.”, you’ve already seen “War of the Worlds”. This screen adaptation of H.G. Wells’ classic novel is a succotash of Spielbergian trademarks: scary lights, John Williams soundtrack, bug-eyed actors staring into the camera, and C.G.I. galore. Note to Steven: time for a fresh approach, bro.

What about Generation X’s answer to Paul Newman? Listen, I was never a Tom Cruise fan. Years ago, I was working in the Electronics section of Nameless Department Store. The store sold TV’s, and in order to demonstrate each idiot box on display, we’d play a video on a VCR that was hooked up to every TV. Trouble was, our manager was a cheapskate who pinched pennies until they screamed. We had only one videotape to play, “Top Gun”. For eight hours a day, Monday through Friday, on a dozen screens for nearly a year, it was “Highway to the Danger Zone”. Some anonymous do-gooder finally, thankfully stole the tape (stop looking at me like that). God bless them, wherever they are.

Needless to say, this left me with little tolerance for Cruise’s cocky, go-getter charisma. With the exception of “Eyes Wide Shut”, I’ve avoided all of Maverick’s oeuvre, except for bits and pieces seen on TV. As far as actors go, I could either take him or leave him.

I was, however, firmly committed to my study. Something crucial, I figured, had to have caused Cruise to go apeshit so suddenly and publicly. Perhaps the genesis of this could be viewed through the brutally honest eye of the movie camera, similar to the tics and twitches of Inspector Clouseau’s progressively looney police chief in the “Pink Panther” series. Surely, film wouldn’t lie, would it?

Alas, all the camera revealed was a first-class performance. Cruise ably and authentically portrays an absentee (cocky, go-getting) father who makes superhuman efforts to protect his kids from alien invaders and reunite them with their mother. Over the course of the film, I actually forgot about my study and the media hoopla and simply accepted him as the character he was playing. That, friends, is acting. Credit must be given when credit’s due. Onscreen for 98% of the time, Cruise alone saves “War of the Worlds” from being a lazy compilation called Spielberg’s Greatest Hits.

True, my study did not attain its objective. But I did come to one important (to me, anyway) conclusion. Cruise’s media antics are what brought me to the theater. Without them, I would’ve passed on this movie, too. Most likely, the crucial something behind his behavior is called publicity. Plain and simple.

Somewhere in California, Tom Cruise is laughing heartily. He’s laughing, because he knows he’s a better actor than anyone ever suspected.

Red, Gameboy & the Entrepreneurial Spirit

2005-06-29T16:28:00.000-07:00

Muggy, sticky summer arrived in Illinois a week ago. Apparently, it likes the Heartland, because it’s in no hurry to leave. “HELP WANTED” signs, seemingly, have gone extinct like the Dodo. My advisor at the Career Center keeps saying that the job market will “crack open” in late July. I spend these oven-like days driving around, scouting potential employers, in preparation for that time. It beats sitting at home, anyway.

During one of these scouting trips, I stumbled across a bit of Americana that was tantamount to a live Dodo sighting. On the corner of a quiet residential side street, two boys (roughly twelve years old) sat on folding chairs behind a card table. On the table sat an Igloo jug, a stack of Styrofoam cups and a metal strongbox. Taped to the front edge of the table was a hand-lettered sign: “LEMONADE 50¢”. I blinked and looked again. No, I hadn’t been watching too much Nick At Night. It was real.

As I pulled off the main road and parked along the curb, I half-expected the theme song from “The Andy Griffith Show” to kick in. I wasn’t really thirsty. Even if I had been, there was a supermarket about five minutes away, peddling everything from Red Bull to buttermilk. But how could I pass up this experience? I wouldn’t want to disappoint Aunt Bea, who was probably watching from the kitchen window.

“Hi,” I said, approaching the table. “I can’t remember the last time a saw an actual lemonade stand. How are sales today?”

One of the boys, sporting a blond crew cut, sat playing a Gameboy. “Shitty, until you came along,” he deadpanned, with his eyes glued to the screen. “I wanted to sell Kool-Aid. But El Cheapo said no.” He pointed to his associate, a lanky lad with a shock of bright red hair.

“Hey, bite me!” grunted the red-haired boy, scowling at his friend. “Lemonade is cheaper. Besides, your fatassed sister drank all the Kool-Aid. I told you, it’s this crappy location. I wanted to set up on County C, near the shopping center. But Queen Amidala here wouldn’t walk the extra block!”

“Kiss my ass!” snapped Gameboy, punching buttons.

“Blow yourself!” countered Red, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Boys, boys, hold it,” I said, playing the Hugh Beaumont role. “Never mind all that. It’s a hot day and your price can’t be beat. Give me one lemonade.”

Gameboy grabbed a cup and filled it from the jug. I fished the lone $5 bill out of my wallet and dropped it on the table. Gameboy forked over the cool, dripping cup. I took a sip.

“How’s it taste?” asked Gameboy. “My mom made it fresh this morning!”

“Yeah,” said Red, “if you can call Crystal Light fresh.”

Gameboy elbowed Red in the ribs. Red punched Gameboy in the shoulder.

“Mmm!” I said, finishing the cup. “Tangy!” Actually, it tasted like rainwater filtered through a leaf-clogged drain pipe. But one must indulge the innocence of youth, right?

I returned the cup to Gameboy. He returned the cup to the bottom of the stack of cups, and refocused his attention on the tiny screen. Red sat staring blankly at me in the mid-day sun. I wondered if I had any syrup of ipecac in the medicine cabinet at home.

“Well,” Red finally chuckled, “have a nice day.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “That’s my five bucks sitting on the table. What about my change?”

“What about it?” said Gameboy, with an electronic chirp underlining his question.

My heart soared! A Teaching Opportunity! Being unemployed can rob you of your sense of purpose. But there’s nothing like imparting knowledge, especially to the youngsters, to revive this sense of purpose. Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

“Look, guys, I realize this may be your very first job,” I said, “so let me explain something about business to you. Your sign says 50¢ a cup. I bought one cup. I gave you a $5 bill. Five dollars minus fifty cents equals four dollars and fifty cents. That means you should give me $4.50 in change.”

Red and Gameboy looked at each other and shrugged.

“That’s, like, weird,” said Red.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because no one else ever asked us for change,” said Gameboy.

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “This is a fund-raiser, right? You should write that on your sign. Who are you selling for? Boy Scouts? Little League?”

“No,” said Red.

“The 4-H Club?” I asked. “Your church?”

Gameboy looked at me like I’d just farted. “What’s the 4-H Club?”

“We’re just selling lemonade for us,” said Red. “We’ve both got Apple Mac’s. We’re saving up to buy ‘Doom 3’. He and I are splitting the cost fifty-fifty.”

“Right,” added Gameboy, nodding. “Everybody who buys our lemonade always tells us to keep the change, because they, uh. . .what is it they say?” He turned to Red.

“Mr. Golgovski next-door said he admired our entrepreneurial spirit,” said Red, rolling the phrase over his tongue like an exciting new flavor. “A U.P.S. driver who stopped yesterday said the same thing.”

“Yeah!” agreed Gameboy. “Don’t you?”

“Oh, uh, certainly,” I stammered. “Absolutely. That’s a rare quality in kids today.”

I stared at them and they stared at me. I stood there, sweating wordlessly in the summer heat.

“Well,” smiled Red, stashing my wrinkled $5 bill in the strongbox. “Thanks for stopping by. You’ve probably got to get back to work.”

Gameboy was shooting aliens or slaying dragons or whatever it is they do on video games these days. “Glad you liked the lemonade,” he said, without looking up. “We appreciate it.”

I retreated toward my car. “Okay, guys. Keep up the good work.”

I climbed in the car and drove back toward the main road. Just before I turned, I glanced in my rear view mirror. Red and Gameboy were high-fiving each other.

In twenty years, I thought, those kids will be corporate executives. They already knew more about business than I ever would.

The Four-Thousand Dollar Roof

2005-06-22T15:47:00.000-07:00

“We’ll just give it a try,” Unc said, with an eager look on his face. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

In the summer of 1987, I was working my very first job. A friend had gotten me a position as an office clerk at a small, family-owned welding and machine shop in Chicago. It wasn’t the most interesting job for a 16-year old kid, but the work was steady, the office was air-conditioned and the pay was. . .okay.

It was there that I encountered one of the few genuine characters I’ve ever known. The woman who owned the business (its founder, her father, had died several years before) had a great-uncle, then in his early 70’s, who’d spend days puttering around the shop. Everyone called him “Unc”; I don’t remember anyone ever calling him by any other name. I do know that he had been retired for several years. The reason Unc came in, I think, was to keep himself from going stir-crazy. But in the process of saving his own sanity, Unc destroyed everyone else’s.

Unc would’ve stood out in any crowd. He looked like a pair of barrels, one stacked atop the other---a large one for his round burly frame, and a smaller one for his head, which was crowned by a shock of silver-white hair. To the untrained eye, Unc appeared to be a man of modest means. He drove a rusty blue 1969 AMC Rambler, with a long-deceased muffler that warned you of his approach three blocks early. His wardrobe consisted of two pairs of shabby gray workpants and two shirts, both of them plaid. I never once saw him buy his lunch; his mid-day meal, always a tuna fish sandwich on toast, was hauled from home in a plastic grocery sack. But according to the owner, this was a ruse. Unc, she claimed, had “enough money to choke a plow horse”. He was, she said, very careful with money. His money, that is.

Unc was always trying to help out. He was a hard worker, but his good intentions often worked against him. He would be sent out on short deliveries and pick-ups, and wouldn’t return for hours. He would be dispatched with a company credit card and a purchasing list for tools and material. Half a day later he’d return, with a hundred bucks’ worth of stuff he thought the shop needed. These vital supplies would then be pitched into the company supply closet, where they would rot, forgotten and unused. That famous road to hell, paved with good intentions, could have been renamed in honor of Unc.

The, there were his famous “repair jobs”. Unc once fixed a faulty electric time-buzzer. He fixed it so well, it never worked again. Then, there was the time he turned off a grinding machine one of the welders had left running. It took three days to get the machine started again. Unc tried to remove some rust from a sheet-metal plate using what he called a “weak acid solution”. I recall seeing that same plate days later, riddled with holes like a rifle-range target, lying in a trash-heap in the alley behind the shop. Yes, Unc was the Resident Pain in the Ass. Every workplace has at least one. But nobody dared mention it, because he was the boss’ flesh and blood.

Unc’s greatest repair job was the roof of the small, run-down garage located next-door to the shop. It was at least fifty years old and a paradise for rats and bugs. The garage’s only saving grace was that it was made out of cobblestone bricks. Back in the olden days, before they figured out quality was bad for business, they paved streets with those bricks. Cobblestone bricks, apparently, were considered valuable, even collectible in some circles. For this reason, nobody ever had the garage ripped down. Or maybe, they just didn’t care. The years can play tricks with your mind.

By the early summer, Unc had run out of odd jobs. He noticed that the garage roof was becoming ragged and shoddy. He told the boss about it and she phoned a roofing contractor. To fix the roof, it would cost an estimated $1,800.

“WHAAAATTT?!” said Unc, dollar-signs dancing in his eyes. “That’s highway robbery! Tell that shylock to go jump. I’ll fix it myself and keep us out of the county poor house.” Anything, according to Unc, that cost more than a dollar would surely bankrupt the business and send us all to debtors’ prison.

In mid-June, Unc started work on the roof. He went to Handy Andy’s and bought enough stuff to re-shingle ten roofs, plus an outhouse: shingles, tar paper, plywood, roofing nails and assorted tools. Like a man who’d found the work he was born to do, he gleefully stripped away the old shingles. “I’ll have this job knocked by the 4th of July!” he said. Everyone kept quiet, because the task would, if nothing, else, keep Unc occupied.

Every day, Unc climbed up on the roof and toiled from morning to night. The 4th of July came and went. He wasn’t finished yet. Two more weeks passed. Unc was still working.

In late July, temperatures shot up into the middle nineties and stayed there deep into August. Unc complained of fatigue and dizzy spells. He took some time off and went to his doctor. The diagnosis was heat exhaustion.

By this time, everyone hoped that Unc would, well, say “uncle” and call in a pro to finish the job. Not only was he endangering his own health, but the financial health of the business was in jeopardy as well. Fifty bucks here, seventy-five bucks there---it was really beginning to add up.

But Unc was cursed with a work ethic. Soon, he was back at it. Only now, he had two of the welders up on the roof helping him. I noticed a change in the boss’ behavior. When I first met her, she was a one-pack a day smoker. By August, she was up to two packs. Perhaps Unc’s pulling paid workers off jobs from paying customers to putter on the roof did it? Either way, bills started to appear out of nowhere.

One bright and steamy Friday, a tired and haggard-looking Unc trudged into the office. “Give me the number of that roofing contractor,” he said. I half-expected the heavens to open and angels to float down, singing. The roofing contractor was called and he promised to have the roof fixed by Monday.

Monday came. The boss and the entire staff gathered outside to see the finished roof. One half of it was beautifully, seamlessly shingled. The other half was still torn up. Wordlessly, the boss turned to Unc.

“Oh, I’m going to finish that half,” he said. “I saved us some money. It only cost $750.”

The days grew shorter and cooler. I remember sitting in the office one lunchtime, eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and leafing through “Back to School” ads in the paper. Unc strode in like Alexander the Great after he conquered Persia.

“I. . .” he announced with a flourish, “. . .am finished!”

After work, Unc took us out to see the completed roof. One half said “flawless”. The other half said “Moe, Larry and Curly were here. Blindfolded.” Unc had painted the edges of the roof gray, splattering most of the paint everywhere except where he intended it to go. The roof’s air-vents had been replaced by holes drilled directly into the wood. Shingles on his side were already curling up at the edges. “It looks great, doesn’t it?” Unc beamed.

“Sure,” I said, weakly.

“Just think, if you would’ve paid a professional to do it, it would’ve cost you at least two grand, possibly more,” said Unc. “With me, it---"

“Cost us $4,000,” said the boss. “All of your bills and little expenses totaled up to nearly four grand.”

“That’s because I used only the best materials,” countered Unc. “You’ll thank me in the long run.”

A few days later, it rained. Several shingles on Unc’s side fell off.

After that summer, I returned to the shop just once, to visit. I asked my former boss about Unc. He had, she said, gone to live with her cousin in Florida. The cousin was a mechanic who owned his own business. The mechanic’s business closed six months after Unc arrived.

Ants, Grasshoppers and the Art of Doing Nothing

2005-06-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

“We’ll call you if or when we know anything,” the girl at Dick’s Sporting Goods said, pertly.

“But that’s what you told me last week,” I said, trying not to whine.

There was a slight pause. Static on the phone line. Funny, but with all of today’s whoop-de-do technology, why haven’t they been able to eliminate static on phone lines?

“We’ll call you if or when we know anything,” she repeated, with every bit of youthful sugar and spice as before, totally ignoring my last statement. She was, obviously, a Stepford Wife.

I thanked her and hung up.

I was getting a bit antsy, I tell you. It was mid-June. I had continued bombarding every viable employer within twenty miles of my parents’ house with resumes and applications. The phone was not ringing. I went back over my list of places I had applied to, and phoned them all, asking for updates on my applications. From all, I got responses similar to the one above. I continued to haunt malls and shopping centers, searching for “HELP WANTED” signs. These, which had been so plentiful in May, had disappeared. The malls and shopping centers, however, had broken out in teenybopper employees, much like these employees’ faces had broken out in zits. Yes, I know I shouldn’t resent them. I know they, too, need jobs. I came to a conclusion I’d been fighting since Memorial Day.

I will (most likely) spend this summer, my first since 1986, sitting on my ass.

Right now, I can hear you. You’re wiping away imaginary tears while bawling “Boo-hoo-HOO!” sarcastically, like Kevin Arnold’s big brother on “The Wonder Years”. No, you are, and I don’t blame you. I’m the one who put me here. I won’t deny it.

When I was in high school and college, I always seemed to have friends who, when June rolled around, decided to take a pass on the job thing that summer. My God, did I resent them. One example: circa 1994, I was toiling in the Toys & Sporting Goods department of Long-Gone Department Store. There was this one kid named Chuck, maybe 17 years old, who worked part-time in Hardlines. Chuck, who had the IQ of a tree sloth and long blond hair that he constantly fiddled with, was about as helpless as a 6-week old baby. You could ask him to do something as simple as filling an empty shelf with merchandise, and unless someone stood next to him and kept him focused on task, the bastard would either stand there sucking air, or wander aimlessly around the store until his shift ended. This earned him the nickname of “Shmuck”.

Anyway, summer came and most of the part-timers in the store, school kids all, were looking to pick up more payroll hours. I could’ve used some extra help, because summer time meant swing-set time. I was getting tired of loading Power Ranger Jungle Gyms into customers’ cars by myself. I knew Shmuck would be off school soon. One day, I approached Shmuck in the Pool Accessories aisle. The store sold thick tubes of Day-Glo-colored plastic, about three feet long, as children’s’ pool toys. In full view of passing customers, Shmuck stood holding a bright orange tube between his legs, stroking it furiously with one hand and grinning lasciviously.

“Yo, Johnny! Get me!” Shmuck guffawed. “Get it? Get it?”

“Chuck,” I said, overlooking his subtle comedy, “you out of school now?”

“Yeah.”

“Boss says there’s more hours if you want ‘em.”

Shmuck stopped fondling the plastic tube and gingerly brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Well…naw.”

“What do you mean? It’s a chance to make more money. You said you wanted to buy a car soon. I could use an extra hand.”

Much like a horse, Shmuck snapped his head back and to the side, once again adjusting his ‘do. “Um, naw.”

I was getting a bit annoyed. “Chuck, you only work 12 hours a week now. You won’t be in school. What are you going to do this summer?”

Shmuck leaned the tube against a shelf and used both hands to gather his long blond locks behind his head into a temporary ponytail. “Uh, chill.”

Now he’d done it. He’d pushed me across the border from perturbed to pissed off. “How old are you, Chuck? Can you tell me that?”

Shmuck released the hair and it cascaded to his shoulders. “Sure enough. 17, last March.”

“17 years old?” I asked. “17? You’re not in school, and you work just two days a week?”

“Yup.”

“And you’re going to spend the next three months ‘chilling’?”

“Chillin’,” Shmuck corrected me. “Yup.”

I was so mad, I wanted to strangle him. “So, while we’re here at the store, working short-handed, you’re going to just sit at home pissing away the summer, instead of seizing the opportunity to make money and gain experience?”

Shmuck thought deeply for a minute. “Yup,” he said, with an expression as straight as an arrow.

“Damn it, Chuck,” I said, pointing at him. “How can you waste your life that way? You’re a young man. You’re just too damn old to be spending so much time sitting on your ass! Tell me, what will you do while you’re ‘chillin’’?”

Shmuck ran a hand through his hair. “Thinkin’.”

“About what?”

“Stuff.”

I was too upset to continue. “See you later, Chuck,” I said, walking away.

Shmuck picked up the orange tube and resumed stroking. “Cool.”

I’m a living fossil. When I was young, my parents taught me a work ethic and it’s brought me nothing but aggravation ever since. My whole working life, it seems, has been plagued by Shmucks of some kind or another. I have always loathed lazy people, especially young lazy people, because it is they who are most physically able to tackle the tough, physical jobs. It is they, I felt,who needed to be out making their bones, learning the standards and practices that will serve them well later in life. The qualities of a good worker are the same, whether you’re standing behind a counter at Wal-Mart or sitting behind a desk at a Fortune 500 company. It’s like that old story about the ant and the grasshopper. I’ve always prided myself on being an ant and I’ve always hated grasshoppers.

But this summer, it seems, I’m a grasshopper. I was despising this fact, hating the fact that I’ll be wasting three months of my life. Until I picked up a book called Zen In the Martial Arts (Bantam, 1979) by Joe Hyams. The book chronicles Hyams’ 25 years experience studying various martial disciplines, such as karate and aikido, and his efforts to apply the “Zen principles” he learned through these disciplines to his everyday life.

There is one chapter in the book called “Active Inactivity”. Here, Hyams recounts how he learned the “art of doing nothing” from a European “saber” champion, Bronislaw Kaper. Kaper, wrote Hyams, advocated doing nothing as “ an activity and an exercise”, similar to a brief break in a piece of music. This “meaningful pause”, claimed Kaper, “allowed one to take stock of where one was.” Hyams goes on to write that he mentioned this to none other than Bruce Lee, who readily agreed. Lee, claims Hyams, said he “include[d] pause and silence along with activity, thus allowing [him]self time to sense [his] own internal processes as well as [his] opponent’s.” Wow. And here, I thought of it as sitting on your ass.

I never would’ve put Shmuck in the same class with Bruce Lee, but I guess the dunce was onto something. So I guess I’ll be spending the summer studying the art of active inactivity, plotting my next career move.

But I still hate grasshoppers.

On Cheeseburgers and Dairy Queen Nights

2005-06-08T13:28:00.000-07:00

The good job-hunter is also a good waiter. I’m not talking about food service; I’m referring to one who is proficient at watching time pass. With all these applications and resumes out, waiting is something I’ve been doing a lot of lately, and it hasn’t been easy. I’ve always been a do-it-and-get-it-over-with type of guy.

It helps if I have something constructive to occupy my mind. Books help. When I’m reading, I’m not obsessing over the second hand that’s running laps around the clock, running away with the time that I’m not using. Most often, I find myself turning to the books of Bob Greene.

You probably recognize the name, especially if you’ve spent any time in the Midwest. For about 30 years, Bob Greene was a Chicago newspaper columnist, first for the Chicago Sun-Times and later, for the Chicago Tribune. His work was syndicated in over a hundred newspapers nationally. He also authored a monthly column for Esquire magazine, as well as twenty-one books. Many of those were national bestsellers.

If you don’t recognize the name, I encourage you to seek out his work. “Cut the crap, Left,” you may say upon opening your first Greene book. “A million reporters are writing this kind of stuff. Big deal!” That’s right, and damn near all of them are imitating Greene. Poorly, I might add. This man pioneered the “human interest” column. Before him, most stories of this kind were relegated to the back pages of the Sunday supplement, away from the “real” news. Greene made “human interest” his stock-in-trade and showed us all the real news we were missing.

His 1985 collection of columns, Cheeseburgers, is my favorite Greene book. Look into “Western Reunion”, about an annual gathering of that fast-disappearing breed, retired Western Union telegraph operators. Try “Strangers on a Plane”, the story of the young widow of an airline employee who, using “spouse passes”, flies randomly around the country, at once fleeing and seeking something she can’t quite put into words. Sample “Nixon on Nixon”, which is probably the most in-depth interview Tricky Dick ever gave to any reporter. See pages and pages of seemingly ordinary subjects, made extraordinary through Greene’s transforming lens. Then think about that old saying regarding truth, strangeness and fiction and wonder why so few reporters before this guy bothered to write these types of stories down.

Later in his career, Greene became something of an advocate for abused and neglected children, devoting many columns to this cause. Some of the best examples of these are contained in his 1997 book, Chevrolet Summers, Dairy Queen Nights. “Why Weren’t You His Friends?” describes the aftermath of the suicide of a brutally picked-on junior high school student in a small town in Iowa. “The Children’s Voices” recounts the often wrenching experiences of senior citizen volunteers at a Chicago call center for latchkey kids. “Please. . .Don’t Send Me Away” is one of Greene’s most famous columns. In it, he records the anguished final minutes that Richard, a 4-year old boy, spends with his beloved adopted family before being taken away—by order of the Illinois Supreme Court—to live with the biological parents who freely gave him up three years before. In my opinion, it’s some of the best news writing of the late 20th Century.

For three decades, Bob Greene was a star journalist in Chicago, if not nationally. But a shock wave—should I call it karma?—ended his star run in 2002. Greene resigned from his job with the Chicago Tribune, following a complaint the paper received from a woman who claimed that she and the married journalist had had an affair several years before. The reason behind her belated complaint remains speculative. At the time of the alleged liaison, Greene was in his mid-30’s. The woman was 18 years old.

A media furor of the kind Americans have grown so accustomed to followed this revelation. Greene, in his columns of the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, had championed a return to the morality and temperament of the pre-Vietnam War America. Evidently, he didn’t practice what he preached. Once the story broke, many women came forth with accounts of their supposed relationships with the columnist, some dating back to the beginning of his career. Greene, for his part, made no attempt to deny the accusations. I refer interested parties to Marcia F. Coburn and Steve Rhodes’ Chicago Magazine article (February, 2003) and Bill Zehme’s Esquire feature (April, 2003) for further information.

I won’t defend Greene. Obviously, what he did was wrong and he deserved to lose his job—years ago. Since the scandal, aside from his input on the above-mentioned Zehme article, Greene has virtually disappeared from the Chicago media scene he once dominated. He did publish a new book, Fraternity: a Journey in Search of Five Presidents (Crown, 2004), which collects his musings on and interviews with Presidents Nixon through George H.W. Bush. I haven’t read it. The reviews I’ve seen were polite at best, indifferent at worst. If Greene decides to continue his career in journalism, it’s certain that he’ll be playing to a much smaller audience than he previously enjoyed.

I will admit to having very mixed feelings. Greene’s transgressions disgusted me. Like millions of other readers, I believed in what he wrote and believed that the writings reflected the writer. If I had the chance to shake his hand, I wouldn’t. Still, Bob Greene was one of my literary role-models and remains one of my favorite authors. By all means, look into his books. Just not too far. I guess this is where I trot out that old English Department warhorse about having to separate the man from his work.

All I know is, his books still bring me comfort. When I open the paper each day, I miss reading his column. And I feel wrong for doing so.

Seeking Normalcy on Oblivious Lane

2005-06-01T18:39:00.000-07:00

My surprise “vacation” has given me the time to do many interesting and exciting things. Like reading my local newspaper. It’s a small tabloid weekly about 30 pages long, including ads. While my parents have faithfully subscribed to this paper since yours truly was in Pampers, I haven’t taken a sideways glance at it since I moved out into the “real world” over a decade ago. My community and I had been out of touch since then.

This is irony with a capital “I”, because for the longest time, I looked down my nose at people who weren’t “news-conscious”. I got into arguments with friends and co-workers who didn’t keep up on headline events. How zoned out could a person be, I declared, and still have his or her eyes open? You have to consciously try to be Hip to the Jive. Even when I was working, I read the Chicago Tribune’s editorial section every day. CNN and The Week, a magazine that boils national and international issues down into digest form, fill in the rest of the blanks for me. You don’t have to be a PhD to be tuned in to the world, but you do have to make an effort. Yes, have to, because the failure to do so strands you on the same intellectual desert island populated by Paris Hilton, Mr. Britney Spears and everyone who has appeared on MTV’s “The Real World” since 1997.

“But Jooohhhnnnn, everybody’s busy!!” Okay, I heard you and that is true (for everyone except, uh, me). Life in our jet set world, right? And somehow, we still find time for so many superfluous things---video games, internet chat rooms, porno, “reality” TV. But when it comes to learning about world issues, we don’t have a minute to spare.

How I loved wearing my cloak of self-righteousness, available in three canting colors from the Tim Robbins Collection at Kmart! Yet, I had to learn that there are levels of news-consciousness. I might’ve been up on happenings in Washington and Baghdad. But what about my own neck of the woods? This is the ironic part. When it came to local issues, I was sitting right next to Paris in that pink convertible, cruising down Oblivious Lane.

My whole argument for being an Informed Person always was that you had to focus on the Big Issues, because the Big Issues drive our world and determine the course it follows. Problem is, this noble-sounding argument is a bitter pill to swallow. The Big Issues are usually messy and often ugly. Daily life is already a raging fire of negativity---lousy boss, hectic schedule, mortgage, bills, etc. Worrying about what happens in Washington, Seoul or Baghdad will only add fuel to that fire. Why, countered my blissfully ignorant friends, be a glutton for punishment?

The news isn’t any better at the local level. Big city troubles, like gangs, drugs and common violence, have infected even the so-called “good” areas, the tidy suburbs and Mayberry-like provinces. More negativity, more logs on the fire. How can anyone stand so much bleakness without cracking up? If anything, Hilton-style haziness would seem to be a calming tonic for our super-stressed, self-immolating society. Why not just circle the wagons and muddle through? Flip on “American Idol,” log onto amazon.com and buy more stuff you don’t need. If you don’t know, you won’t care.

Modern demands and conveniences have driven us into the far corners of our heads. The communities in which we live have, for many of us, become little more than staging areas in between traveling to the job and traveling home from the job, where we eat, surf the Web, watch Jessica Simpson and sleep so we can get up and do it again. We know no more about these “hometowns” of ours than we do about those exotic locales that keep cropping up on “Nightline”. And honestly, why would you want to? I was beginning to think that Paris Hilton was a sort of visionary, not exiled to an island of mental deficiency, but rather, lounging on a sliver of sanity at the center of an insane sea.

Sometimes, thoughts are like paintings. You have to step back and take a hard look to see what they truly are. Only then did it come to me. Yes, you had to choose to be informed, had to actively seek out information. You had to seek out negativity, in order to come to terms with it. But you also had to seek out normalcy, to remind yourself that it’s still there.

I realized this when I picked up a recent issue of my local paper. The front page story detailed how a guy nearly beat his wife to death. One whole page was devoted to crime reports, infractions too varied to list here. Another page carried obituaries. All tragic events and all tragically part of life. But it wasn’t anything written that stuck in my mind. Two photos, printed deep within that edition, did. One photo was taken in the gymnasium of the local grammar school. A bunch of 5-year olds sat mugging for the camera at their kindergarten “graduation”. You could tell the types by their expressions---the clown, the serious one, the quiet one. Those personalities that somehow regenerate themselves with every generation. In the background, you could see a few parents, inflated with pride. On another page, another picture, taken outside a local banquet hall. A group of high school seniors were lined up and grinning, dressed in their prom finery. They looked happy and hopeful, as well they should at that time of their lives. Nothing special about the photo; it was just like a dozen before it, just like a dozen to come. The same thing every June.

Only then did I learn what it meant to be truly news-conscious. This is a sad and twisted time we’re living in, that’s easy to see. It’s these sad and twisted events that grab the lion’s share of headlines and the lion’s share of our attention. But at the same time, right under our noses, normalcy is happening. Positive, reassuring things that happen every year, in the towns we live in. In spite of a war, a failing economy, in spite of the continuing social erosion we’ve been talking about since, well, forever. Somehow, without fanfare, in the face of whatever horror we’re confronted with, these things happen as well. And somehow, we easily forget that.

You aren’t, I learned, informed for grappling with the Big Issues. You’re informed for acknowledging those things, large or small, that deserve acknowledgment. In remote outposts or right up the street. To do so, you must deliberately choose to seek them out. And often, that’s as easy as opening your local paper.

Checking In

2005-05-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

I was worried. It was Saturday and I had interviewed at Nameless Clothing Superstore over a week ago. It went okay---except I discovered, in the interview, that the position they wanted me for was not the full-time sales job I applied for. They looked at my education, work history and 10 years’ of sales experience and decided I would make a great shelf-stocker. Part-time. On their overnight shift. 9pm-5am, that is.

Another “Snark Interview”? You could say that, although it wasn’t the nightmare my encounter with Tammy the Invisible Woman had been. I had interviewed with “Chip”, a 20-something assistant manager who, back in the day, we would’ve called a “preppy”. What else can you call a guy who wears a halfassed crew cut and a pink dress shirt? He was polite enough, except for his caffeine-charged way of speakinglikethis withabsolutelynobreathsbetweenwordsknowwhatImeanhuh? Honestly, I wasn’t keen on the hours, but a job’s a job. So the little prick hired me.

I mean, he almost hired me. Chip said I was “95% hired”, pending the standard drug test and background check. Results on those, he said, would take 2-3 days. So I hurried over to the clinic that same day, filled the cup and went home and waited. Two days later, I hadn’t heard from Chip, so I called him back. The switchboard operator told me Chip wasn’t available, so I left a message. Chip still hadn’t called back.

Like I said, I was worried, and for three good reasons. First and most importantly, Ye Olde Cash Reserve was running low. I didn’t want to have to start hitting up the ‘rents. I was already living with them. I didn’t want to start asking for an “allowance”, too. Second, I was tired of vacillating between intense job hunting and sitting home waiting for callbacks. I am drug-free and the owner of a clean record. Why wouldn’t Nameless Clothing Superstore want me? Third, my nerves were wearing thin. One more near-miss and I’d freak.

By late Saturday afternoon, I was too antsy to sit by the phone anymore. Desperate times require desperate measures, so I did it. I broke down and went to church.

In a previous incarnation, I was a good Catholic boy. I put in four hard years at a Catholic school (grades 5-8). Dutifully went to C.C.D. and Mass each week, I did. In my bedroom, I even pulled down a poster of my then-idol, the Fonz, and replaced it with a picture of the then-newly-appointed Pope John Paul II. Hit all the Catholic highlights, Communion, Confirmation, etc. at all the right times. Yes, I was a true believer.

If you’ve been reading this blog regularly, you might recall I said I hadn’t been to church in 6 years. My attendance before that had become sporadic, at best. What happened? Call it Catholic burn-out. Too much of a supposedly good thing. I never stopped being a spiritual person. I prayed regularly (still do) and read a variety of spiritual authors, including Thomas Merton and Reinhold Niebuhr (still do). But for me, things were too cut, dry and exclusive in hard-line Catholicism. Too absolute regarding many things that are and must be speculative and personal. I wanted a relationship with God on His and my terms, not theirs. Then there were those scandals everyone has read about. I don’t like being preached at, so I won’t preach at you. And no, I don’t mean to offend anyone. This was just my own experience.

I realize my turning to the Church now smacks of hypocrisy. It is hypocritical to be a seasonal Catholic, or a seasonal anything. But then again, the Church is and is for its people, even lapsed members like me. I felt a need to check in, if you know what I mean. I didn’t know what I’d find there, I had no clear expectations. I just knew I needed to go.

At 5pm, I was sitting in a balcony pew at the local parish. The church, a typical post-Vatican II spartan setting, was less than half full. There was a lot of gray hair in that group; I’d say 80% of them were 55 and over. The rest seemed to be single parents (primarily moms) who’d dragged kids there to introduce them to the faith. It was odd. The five o’ clock Saturday Masses I remembered always seemed to be packed. But who am I to judge?

The Mass was both the same and different. The prayers, songs and responses hadn’t changed. The priest, a personable guy in his late 50s or early 60s, ably assisted us through the ceremony. He flowed easily from one idea to another and tempered his talk with gentle humor to hold our attention. It was a refreshing switch from the sour-faced clergy of the old days, who’d get up there and drone on like the robot from “Lost In Space”. It was Trinity Weekend and the priest spoke of the union of three persons in God (the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit), the Triune God, which he claimed lived within us all. To be honest, I never really grasped this concept back in C.C.D. and it remained sketchy now. But it was a nice sentiment.

One thing the priest mentioned sticks out in my mind. He urged us all to “search out ways to bring and create unity” in our homes and to “be and bring Christ” to our community. It made sense. He was saying that if we wanted to see and experience the benefits of the faith in action, we had to take action to make it so. Maybe this isn’t a new idea, but it was new to me. In the Catholicism I learned, people always seemed to be helpless pawns simply following rules, or waiting for gifts to fall from the sky. It was nice to know that we mere mortals could play a role in it, have some responsibility. I wasn’t bowled over, but I was pleasantly surprised.

Another thing that surprised me was the large part women played in this Mass. I recall priests being assisted in Mass by at least one deacon and a couple altar boys, exclusively a Y-chromosome crew. Here, the priest was assisted only by two altar girls, both around age twelve, and two women. The girls quietly and capably did their jobs. The women split their duties---one gave the readings and led the singing, and the other alternated between playing piano and organ. I always remembered the off-key caterwauling of a hapless crew of glee club rejects. These two ladies were professionals, or at least professional-level quality. They helped me understand what all those picketers outside the Vatican were yelling about. Again, maybe this isn’t so uncommon, but I’ve been off the radar for a while.

I pretty much sat back and observed. I was never a singer and I didn’t take Communion. It had been so long, it didn’t really seem right for me to do so. Toward the end of the service, I smiled in recognition when, just before passing the collection baskets, the priest mentioned “the Annual Diocesan Appeal”. Still hustling for the Cause. I dumped a dollar in the basket, mainly because I was happy they let me sit through the whole Mass. I feared they had some secret way of telling how often you attended and would bounce me out for letting my membership lapse.

Then the Mass was over. It was okay. Nothing earth-shaking. I didn’t have visions of angels and I wasn’t struck by an urge to go preach the Gospels in remote corners of the world. When I was a kid, I used to love attending Mass because---in spite of the tone-deaf choir and dull orations---I always came out of it with a certain feeling, a glowing feeling of community, security and purpose. Maybe it was something spiritual, or even divine. Maybe it was just relief in knowing I had a community, security and a purpose in a world where those qualities were often lacking. As nice as this Mass was, I didn’t get that feeling there.

Of course, that might say more about me than the Church. Perhaps I’ve become too skeptical, jaded or even lazy. After all, you only get out of it what you put into it. Still, I took that seat in the balcony for a reason. From there, I could see the whole crowd. I watched them, to see if they were getting that feeling. Most of the faces I read were blank, mindlessly mouthing the responses that had been drilled into them since kindergarten. At one point, the woman leading the singing reminded us to turn off our cell phones. Many---adults, mind you---fidgeted nervously in their seats, or whispered to companions through the service. One guy even nodded off for a few minutes. After Communion, nearly half the people left, before the Mass had formally ended. The priest’s closing blessing was drowned out by the sound of engines starting in the parking lot. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one missing that feeling.

I waited for the parking lot to clear before I left. I was glad I’d come. It had been an agreeable hour. I didn’t know if I’d be back next week, or ever. At least I had “checked in”. But that was no big deal. So had almost everyone else.