Al Smith ran to the waltzing beat of The Sidewalks of New York.  Roosevelt had the snappy Happy Days Are Here Again. For Truman it was I'm Just Wild About Harry, and Kennedy beamed that Beacon Hill smile to High Hopes. 

Wikipedia has a fairly comprehensive list for many of the others going back to Andrew Jackson all the way through:  Mike Huckabee: More Than A Feeling by Boston (Tom Scholz of Boston asked Huckabee to stop using the song) 

The strangest choice in the bunch  is probably the one for Ross Perot. He chose Patsy Cline's Crazy in 1992

But what is Romney’s song?  All I can find online is that he's been torturing the ears of his followers at every rally and speech with the bland and faux Springsteenesque Kid Rock  Anthem Born Free.  

So, encouraged by the belief that the Romney campaign is still looking to Name that Tune for their man, I submit the following Gilbert and Sullivan inspired ditty for their consideration. 

"I believe in an America where millions of Americans believe in an America that's the America millions of Americans believe in.  That's the America I love.  

-Mitt Romney (January 2012)

( I am the very model of ) 
A Presidential Candidate 

I am the very model of a presidential candidate

can light up any room where loaded people pay ten Grand a plate

I know the Wall Street barons who like me are steeped in privilege

And guys who blithely sail on yachts made possible by funds that hedge

I come from rugged pioneers who founded their own settlement

Where folks worked hard and feared their god and beverages that might ferment

Where marriages gave men the choice, and women didn’t have a voice

I am the very man for whom America should now rejoice

The cynics say I change my views and pander, lie and obfuscate

But in The Prince Niccolò said "to rule you must equivocate"
The game that we call politics is one in which you must rely

upon the how and not the who or what or where or when or why.

I get up in the morning and I shave and dress conservative

To look the part of one who hopes to act as a preservative

of all that we among the flock, with class --and I mean Class A stock

require to stay rich while keeping congress in non-stop gridlock.

I know I said "I saw my father march with Martin Luther King"

And said a bunch of other stuff which didn't have the truth of ring

But sometimes I get all mixed up and words start coming out all strange

but vote for me and I'll make sure that that's something I will that change

To run the nation properly you must have grit and diligence

the kind that comes from ancestry with U.S. roots and permanence

Obama is a transient whose mom lived off the continent

His Dad I hear just disappeared and drank till all incompetent

  

I'm very good at shaking hands and kissing babies on the cheeks

I’ve learned the names of foreign lands and nearly all the Saudi Sheiks

I’m married to a loyal lass who stays at home to copulate--

With me --and ain't it big of me (bigamy?) as one hot hunky candidate. 

I speak my mind regardless of the facts or truths empirical

Pay no heed to my critics or when SNL’s satirical 

I always follow Mormon law, I stand before my faith in awe

Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you that I have no flaw.

My daddy said to me “Son if you dream of white house occupance...

You must pay heed to folks who live in houses stocked in opulence

Ideas and law and policy may be what makes democracy

But money talks and money wins--God Bless our great plutocracy.”

I’ve paid my dues in wingtip shoes in conference rooms in every state

I’ve wheeled and dealed and made a mint cause baby “I communicate”

I never lack for confidence, can straddle just 'bout any fence

My mojo is the Quid Pro Quo --and you thought it was temperance?

In Massachusetts I was known for innovative policies

My record shows successive blows to wasteful old bureaucracies

My Universal Healthcare law, the one I thought would never pass

Has now returned to haunt me as it bites me in my great big ass

My moment has arrived and now I’m ready for the final test

The GOP will soon choose me and then with Morman zeal n' zest

Just fill er up, dog’s in the crate, he’s on the roof— no need to wait

Here comes the very model of a presidential candidate.

The tireless techies at Blogspot (Google) have upgraded the Blogger toolkit and made it possible (once you get over the shock of arriving one day to discover that someone has changed your entire office without warning) to do all kinds of nifty new things like change fonts, colors, move and resize pictures, and a bunch of other things I haven't figured out yet.  And I had this post all ready to go last week, but decided to add pix since it's now easier (and better looking) than before.  

I wonder if all these new gizmos are going to inspire me, distract me, or make me a lazier writer.  Time will tell...

Working every day in the Times Square area in Manhattan...

...I’ve become generally oblivious to the garish cacophony that makes this the world epicenter for neon, (actually it's all digital now) noise, and non-stop Uber-urban stimulation—but I’m always sensitive to the brief moments of human interaction happening all around me like little one-act plays acted out by a cast of thousands in a multitude of colors, accents and flavors to produce a real world Big Apple Circus. And here’s some of em.


Deli/restaurant. Mid-afternoon.  Teenage girl (Caribbean? African? ) with older couple (parents?) at hot buffet counter. Apparently unfamiliar with our customs, all three are sampling the feast and taking nibbles of turkey, shrimp, beef stew, pasta etc. while the rest of the customers look on in surprise and mild horror. Employee finally comes to tell them that they can’t do this…but the three don't seem to be getting the message--seems they think they’re being chided for using the large serving tongs, utensils, and fingers-- rather than the proper implements—which they are now trying to ask the employee about providing for them. I leave before it’s all resolved, but the fact that they still don’t seem to understand the protocol makes them appear almost comically innocent and appealing. They weren’t taking big bites anyway…just enough to “get a taste.”


Trim, intense guy in jeans and tailored sports jacket wandering up the street looking dazed and confused. He’s obviously looking for a building address and failing to spot it.
As I get closer I realize that it’s Terence Stamp, the British Actor. I ask if I can help, he says he’s looking for The Brill Building (where I happen to do much of my own post-production work) and so I confidently point out to him that it’s across the street (in defiance of the address numbering system of odd and even numbers on opposite sides of the avenue) and he and I share a quick laugh about the “oddity” of this fact. He says thanks, and I say “ My pleasure Mr. Stamp”…and he bows to me as if to acknowledge my recognition while at the same time tacitly acknowledging the possible advantage his fame may have played in his “lucking” into a helpful passerby. But I would have helped him anyway…cause he really looked dazed and confused.



Lively group of 6-8 theater-goers coming out of the Show Wicked (in a theater that occupies the ground floors of the building I work in) all standing in the middle of the street looking up into the sky. I look up too. I don’t see anything. They’re laughing and pointing and joking around and pointing up to the sky over and over again as if they’re reading funny skywriting. Again I look up and see nothing. I have to know, so I ask them what they’re looking at—and gleefully they help me to focus my attention on a window of the hotel across the street. In the window is a woman with a camera…and in her birthday suit. They know her, and she’s taking pictures of them on the street and laughing with them—and enjoying the reaction that her nudity is having on her pals. I wave to her, she waves back—and I thank the group for solving the mystery for me.



Middle age couple. Can’t place Accent. Norway?
“ Can you how we go Rockefeller Center?”
“ Yes, two blocks, that way.”
“ Can taxi go ?”
“ It’s only two blocks, you can walk there in 3 minutes”.
“ But Taxi can go?”
“Sure.”
“ We get Taxi here?”
“Well, if you do, you’ll be going the wrong way and the cab will take you way out of your way to get there”
“Get where Taxi?”
“Well, you can get one on the next block over, but then you’ll be only one block away.”
“One block?”
Ahha. The problem is the word “block”. For the next minute or so I’m totally at a loss in trying to communicate the meaning of “Block”. I’m doing Charlie Chaplin imitations and pretending to look at my watch and snapping my fingers to indicate “ in short time”. I’m a total failure (and was never good at Charades) and they smile at me as if they had mistaken me for a sane person and slowly walk away from this manic New York weirdo.


Guy is there almost every day—except when it’s very cold or raining. Sits on a milk crate or some such—playing old beat up Fender Strat plugged into small Pignose amp.
He’s black, lean, early 50’s maybe and never sings, but talks to himself and mumbles as he plays. And what he plays are licks, vamps and riffs and only licks vamps and riffs—over and over and over again. Jimi Hendrix riffs. Classic soul and Motown riffs. Song intros, vamps from famous songs—but never the song itself. And it occurs to me that he’s on to something. He knows that most people just walk by and don’t stop to listen—so he’s gonna make sure that when they walk by, they’ll hear something catchy and familiar and hot. And it works! I watch people walk by and smile as they catch those two or three familiar bars of a Stevie or Smokey or Aretha tune—and they drop a dollar or loose change in his gig bag. I’ve never spoken to him, but we know each other by sight and I often give him a salute as I pass—and I think he knows that I’m on to his secret formula.



New York has it’s variation on the Rickshaw…and it seems there’re more and more of em every year. It’s a Pedi-cab and they’re ubiquitous in the area just after the Wednesday Matinee gets out. Most of the drivers are young (it’s hard work peddling those things all day in traffic) but they seem like a fraternal bunch and not as hard-boiled as one might assume. I had an appointment cross-town and couldn’t find a cab—so I flagged one of these guys down. I hop aboard and off we go. He says something that sounds like “ You Mike Katz?” The traffic is loud, and I ask him to repeat the question.
“ You like cats?”.
“ Oh, uh, yeah, cats are cool” I reply expecting to now hear a story about his fondness for felines…but Nooooo. Seems I didn’t really understand the question, because between 7th Ave and Lexington Ave I’m treated to a solo performance of a medley of songs from (what he announces is “the greatest and longest running show in Broadway history). You haven’t lived till you’ve been serenaded with:

“...if you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is...”

from an aspiring Broadway star peddling through the exhaust fumes and horn honkings on a mid-Manhattan mid-week afternoon.

Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense.
--Mark Twain

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

--Elmore Leonard

Ellen asked me if I still had my copy of The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach. This simple request cut me to the bone. How could she want to read it? I had already told her that I thought it was a terrible book. No actually, I think what I told her was that it was a pretentious, artless and absolutely terrible book. And whatever redeeming features it contained were more than offset by the inane, inaccurate and totally gratuitous references and associations to Melville and Moby Dick. I previously mentioned the book here and said that I would abide by the " if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing" motto, but I'm changing my mind...cause Ellen now says she wants to read it and by ignoring my warnings of the dangers ahead, she's reignited my urge to jump on a soapbox and vent.


I go to the bookshelves to pull it down for her and I don’t see it anywhere. Did I give it away? And if I did, why don’t I remember? And to whom would I give it? I certainly wouldn’t have recommended it to a friend.  I must have given it to someone else to whom the  hype and "buzz"  drowned out my personal advice. And I know many people (like Ellen) who would consider a big red stop sign from me to be the equivalent of a bright green light.  Such is my unearned reputation for chronic contrarianism.

Writing poorly is not one of the deadly sins, and I’m generally inclined to forgiveness—especially when I sense that the writer is sincere and doing his best --and I don’t consider literary cluelessness to be any more dangerous a threat to humanity than short order cooks without hair nets.
But perhaps in some way I actually do feel some sense of personal violation when I encounter works like the one in question (damn, I don’t even like having to type the words of the title) which make me feel compelled to say something on behalf of the dutiful (and more deserving) servants of the craft.  Now I know how Pat Metheny felt when he heard the Kenny G album that rudely insulted the music and memory of Louis Armstrong. You can see him on YouTube...he's so angry it looks like he's gonna burst a blood vessel.

And so I will try to state my case with a brief analysis of a single paragraph. I think it’s fairly representative of most of what you’ll (repeatedly) encounter in the work of which we speak--but will not name again.

I should stop drinking coffee too, he thought. He’d almost thought 'give up' coffee, but that was a misleading phrase. There seemed to be meaning in it, meaning that didn’t exist. When you gave something up, who or what did you give it up to? Giving something up implied that your sacrifice made sense, and Henry knew this was untrue. The days did not accumulate and turn into something better than days, no matter how well you used them. The days could not be used. He did not have a plan. He’d stopped playing baseball and eating beans and now he would stop drinking coffee. That was all.

Let’s start at the top with a hanging curve-- as he thought one thing and almost thought another. How does one almost think something? I’ve had thoughts that went unspoken, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a thought that went un-thought. This is either absurd or way too deep for me. Strike one.

There seemed to be meaning in it, meaning that didn’t exist.

Next pitch is a change up and it freezes him. First he almost thinks a thought  and now he almost discerns meaning that doesn’t exist. Really? But I’ll concede one point…there is no meaning here that I can discern either. Still, oh and two

When you gave something up, who or what did you give it up to? Giving something up implied that your sacrifice made sense, and Henry knew this was untrue.

Wow, a slider in the dirt, but he swings and he’s outta there --with a “giving up” of something that implies a sacrifice (why?) that makes sense that is untrue. Just give me the hemlock now. What’s the point here? Is he just having fun with semantics or is he trying to say something? I’m stumped. Harbach does this kind of thing all through the book in addition to his annoying habit of  blurring the lines between what he's thinking and what his characters are thinking.  The net result is that we never really get to know the characters because the author keeps getting in their way and we come to realize that he has no intention of giving them any kind of inner life that we can relate to. Instead we have to spend an inordinate amount of time listening to Harbach pondering imponderable nonsense. Ok, who's up next?

The days did not accumulate and turn into something better than days, no matter how well you used them.

And if days did accumulate and turn into something better than days, (assuming one used them well) what would that something better be?  Dribbler to the mound... and he's out.

He did not have a plan. He’d stopped playing baseball and eating beans and now he would stop drinking coffee. That was all.

That was all? Then why all that other stuff? I learned nothing from the entire paragraph except that he stopped playing ball, eating beans and drinking coffee. Everything else was just foggy minded filler. And after reading a hundred pages of this stuff, I realized that the author is so taken with the rhythm of his enigmatic “paradox inside a conundrum” Two Step that he doesn't even care if it has all the grace of a “No soap, radio” Cha Cha.  Game called on account of spectator indifference.

I recall hearing a story about Ethan Coen, who was in rehearsals with one of his plays, and the director came up with a gag that didn’t seem to work for anyone who saw it—and the director said it didn’t matter if anyone didn’t get it…that was what was so cool about it. And Coen said “If nobody gets it then what the fuck is it?”

 And now that I think about it some more, it really does almost equate to something worse than cooking without a hair net. Not caring sufficiently about one’s characters is unpardonable in a writer of fiction. It’s like a musician not caring about the melody —or an actor saying he doesn’t care about the person he’s portraying. Then what does he care about? Well, I guess that’s obvious, he cares about himself--and showing off his way (No Way) with juggling the elements of the novel--rather than simply writing a coherent story. Not for a moment while reading this book did I feel anything for any of the characters. They weren't human--they were abstract constructs used as vehicles for transporting the rusty parts of a flimsy fairy tale.  And when some of them just disappeared without warning or explanation, I didn’t miss them or even notice sometimes. And after 200 pages I gave up on them---because in essence, they ceased to matter.

Now maybe if this book hadn’t been so hyped and promoted for so many months I might be more forgiving, but it was-- and if you go to Amazon and check out the reader reviews you’ll find that I am not alone in my disdain for both the book and the ballyhoo surrounding it. It reeks of industry corruption and cynicism of the most transparent sort. John Irving, whom one may accuse of many literary faults-- but never neglect or disrespect for his characters, was one of the many literary lions heaping praise on this unlikely “modern classic” candidate . I can only assume that it’s just part of an industry game with money being made and spread around for the benefit of all participants and that I’m the one who’s naïve in thinking that there should be a line somewhere that needs to be drawn and never crossed. I’m hoping the whole thing is a giant hoax perpetrated by some savvy soul for the purpose of teaching us all a lesson a la The Emperors New Clothes…but sadly, I’m not optimistic.



Was going to post an Emperor's New Clothes pic here...but prefer this one. It's the huge (30'x8') Maxfield Parrish mural that he created for the King Cole Bar at The St. Regis Hotel. (Stuffy old money joint that I was dragged to once for business) Story has it-- there was an unwritten competition among illustrators of the day to see who could sneak A Fart into one of their public works. Supposedly Parrish won this contest with this Old King Cole mural. Not only is the king smiling a secret smile but check out the reactions of his flanking knights. More detailed views below... Click on em to enlarge.

In Memoriam


Went to a memorial "celebration" on Sunday. Mother of dear friend Dan (who I've known for 30 years by virtue of the fortunate fact that he is one of Ellen's oldest and dearest friends) died recently and family and friends gathered together to share, reminisce and pay tribute.  Three generations were represented in an afternoon filled with profoundly eloquent expressions of love, meaning and memory. I only met Dan's mother a few times, and only briefly, but it was instantly apparent to me that she was a wonderful and remarkable woman. And Sunday confirmed my intuition as I heard one friend and family member after another recall in vivid detail the courageous and soulful journey that was her life. From a childhood in Italy through many years of struggle during the war, taking refuge from the Nazis in a convent, protecting and sheltering others, clandestinely working for the resistance and ultimately surviving to come to America to start a new life in an entirely new world. I know the afternoon meant a great deal to all who knew her well and loved her--and I am grateful to them for an afternoon in which they also gave me the gift of getting to know her as well. Such memorials are wonderful things.


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

Levon Helm. 


Someone said he was the only drummer who could make you cry. He was all heart and soul and never played or sang a note that wasn't filled to overflowing with both. A friend of mine played with him at one of his Midnight Ramble shows in Woodstock last year and said it was the highlight of his musical life. His book "This Wheel's on Fire" is a great read if you're a Band fan. He was the restless son of poor Arkansas cotton farmers and found joy in music at a very young age --then hopped on the mystery train of rhythm and blues and kept on riding it to the end. Rest in Peace.

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

Will came home Friday.  We fed him a mountain of Chinese Food and breathed a few sighs of relief as he showed signs of returning to full strength.   Hoping he finds some comic uses of this latest adventure cause otherwise it's yet just another reason to stick to atheism. 

For the curious. That arrow is pointing to a collapsed lung. But not Will's. His is considerably less collapsed (approx 25%) and therefore less dire of a circumstance. All they're doing for him at the hospital now is giving him oxygen and Percocet--so hopefully when all he needs is the Percocet, they'll let him go.

If they don't, we'll organize a group to picket outside on the street with "Free Willie" placards.

My son Will had a Primary Spontaneous Pneumothorax (Lung Collapse)--again.

First one was four years ago in his right lung, this one is in the other. So far, it appears this one is less severe and won’t require any invasive procedures and he’ll heal up fine with just a little rest. Will recognized the symptoms pretty quickly this time and after waking up with chest and back pain lost little time in calling an ambulance and checking into the Emergency Room at his local hospital. Smart move and glad he's not more like his stubborn and stoic Dad. Once there he called me --and then Ellen and I got there a few hours later.

Big hospital (NY Methodist) in the heart of Park Slope and the biggest Emergency Room I’ve ever seen. When I got there I tracked down the doctor who had attended to him when he arrived and got her assurance that a Pulmonary specialist would be coming to see us shortly. Two hours later we’re still waiting. And I can’t find the first doctor anymore. It's a busy place, and for some of the evening it’s really jumping with a couple of cases that appear to be matters of life and death—so I remain patient. But after another hour—my patience runs out and I make something of a nuisance of myself. And it seems to work because soon after baring my fangs at the front desk and interrupting doctor #1 in the middle of a consultation with another doctor –we get some attention. As Ellen said: “squeaky wheel…” and she’s right, but it’s never fun to have to act like an entitled A-hole when all you want is at least some information—even if it’s to tell you how much longer you’re going to have to wait. Luckily, Will was doing ok, except for an hour or so when the pain was severe enough to warrant some Percocet so he could at least wait more comfortably. And he still had his sense of humor—when Doctor asked about any history of chest injuries, Will rattled off list of minor scrapes and bruises and then added: “…Oh, and a broken heart.”

Anyway, so far, so good. Hoping to hear more good news today and hoping he’ll be released. TBD.

Candide.

Finally got around to tackling the Voltaire classic. (Although it seems that the "experts" maintain that the book is neither long enough or serious enough to warrant classic status--and who are these "experts" anyway?) And surprised (actually amazed) to discover that it reads like a children’s book. It certainly is a fable, and the language couldn’t be simpler --though filled with much bygone vocabulary in the original Smollet English translation that I’m reading-- or more direct and to the point. The story flies along light as cotton candy and you can see why Leonard Bernstein was inspired to turn it into a romp filled comic operetta—though Lillian Hellman (that's her and Lenny on the right) wrote a pretty didactic and humorless book. Richard Wilbur saved the day when he stepped in the wrote the lyrics for the songs—which are great, and given a choice, I'd rather read them than listen to them sung in that operatic style that always makes it virtually impossible to understand a single word. And all that emphasis on perfect tone...doesn't work for me.
Learned that the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755 ( 50,000 dead out of a population of 200,000—85% of all buildings destroyed and another 10,000 dead in Morocco) provided the inspiration for Voltaire and that in the aftermath of that tragic disaster he felt compelled to question the prevailing popularity of Liebniz's (Optimism) philosophy that stated :

"All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds."

It begins...

“Once upon a time in Westphalia, in the castle of Baron Thunder-ten-tronckh, there lived a young boy whom nature had endowed with the gentlest of dispositions.”

Candide is (like Huck Finn, Pip, Pinocchio?) cast out into the world as an innocent, only to learn for himself that all is not for the best, and that the world can be a dangerous, cruel, unfair and pitiless place. And Voltaire is savagely funny in his depiction of everything and everyone responsible for the world's ills and Candide’s disillusionment. It’s a very entertaining read…and I can imagine that in the right translation would make a terrific story to read aloud to kids.

Love when this happens...

Doing last Sunday NY Times Crossword-- interesting design and multi-themed, but not enjoyable and often annoying ( Rafael to friends is...RAFE?--since when? I've watched him play a hundred times and they always call him RAFA) ANYWHO... The gimmick is that the letters "fe" occupy the same space in some answers because it's the symbol for Iron...and the theme is " Grid Iron".

One of the clues requires the completion of Auto_______
The answer is da-fé..

And what is Auto da-fé ? (also can be de fe)

...It's was the ritual ("Act of Faith") of public penance of condemned heretics and apostates during the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions--after which the penitent soul would be duly rewarded with being burned at the stake.

And...

Voltaire was horrified by the practice and shrewdly attacks it when he introduces an Auto da-fé held by the people of Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake in chapter six of Candide.
Voltaire has the wise leaders of the country decide that the best way to preserve the kingdom would be by entertaining the masses with the sight of several persons being burned alive in a great ceremony-- and proclaim that this will appease God and prevent future earthquakes. And this particular part of the book is why Lillian Hellman got involved in creating the show--as she wanted to make a connection between the Auto da-fé of Voltaire's time with the HUAC witch-hunts of our own.

really do love when that happens...(the inter-related connections, not the Auto da-fé)





Syrian Government Soldiers firing on civilians in refugee camp. Hundreds being killed daily. News coverage offers no explanation other than speculation and quotes from members of opposing camps. Soldiers seen on video charging into camp chanting “God is Great”.


Keep trying to find out more and can only come to conclusion that it’s simply total Mayhem. Mayhem made possible via the madness of religious fanaticism. And Religious fanaticism made possible by spiritual deprivation arising from material desperation. Lawrence Wright in his book The Looming Tower about the history of Al Qaeda culminating in the 9/11 attacks often mentions the simple fact that Radical Islam just pays better. Bin Laden was more like a benign and generous CEO than anything else to his followers--providing decent pay, vacation time, medical care, bonuses, even a primitive kind of 401K plan. God is great cause he offers the better deal…




And as H.L. Mencken asked:

"Where is the graveyard of dead gods?

So...take it away Mr. Mencken...

What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley?


...What has become of:

Resheph, Baal, Anath, Astarte, Ashtoreth, Hadad,,Nebo, Dagon, Melek, Yau, Ahijah, Amon-Re, Isis, Osiris, Ptah, Molech?

All were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following:

Arianrod
Nuada Argetlam
Morrigu
Tagd
Govannon
Goibniu
Gunfled
Odin
Dagda
Ogma
Ogryvan
Marzin
Dea Dia
Mara
Iuno Lucina
Diana of Ephesus
Saturn
Robigus
Furrina
Pluto
Cronos
Vesta
Engurra
Zer-panitu
Belus
Merodach
Ubilulu
Elum
U-dimmer-an-kia
Marduk
U-sab-sib
Nin
U-Mersi
Persephone
Tammuz
Istar
Venus
Lagas
Beltis
Nirig
Nusku
En-Mersi
Aa
Assur
Sin
Beltu
Apsu
Kuski-banda
Elali
Nin-azu
Mami
Qarradu
Zaraqu
Ueras
Zagaga"

Which begs the question...

If there is a God what the hell is He for?
--WILLIAM FAULKNER, As I Lay Dying

and prompts the answer...

"God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh."

--VOLTAIRE

The good news is:
I won’t die because I couldn’t afford to stay alive.

The Bad news is:
I’m going to spend the rest of my life paying for the good news.

Ellen and I decided to buy some more health insurance…of the variety that comes into play when you’re old, unemployed and suddenly hit with medical bills that are enough to kill you even when you're young and prosperous. Mostly we got it cause her brother is selling it and we thought we could help him out while providing some late inning relief--which for Ellen is the same as providing current peace of mind.

But the best part of the thing is the interview. It’s over the phone and takes about 40 minutes. For the first 10 minutes you simply keep repeating the word "no" to questions regarding all the diseases and conditions that would presumably be deal breakers, the rest of the Q and A takes the form of a memory test.

The woman on the phone had a southern accent thicker than a Louisiana crayfish stew. I must have asked her to repeat half the questions—so I wouldn’t be surprised if she disqualifies me for pre-existing deafness. And in the first memory test I had to listen to (and repeat one at a time) a list of ten words. When I had echoed back each word, I was then asked to try and recall the entire list. And I had to promise (remember, we’re on the phone) that I was not writing anything down or otherwise cheating.

So I repeat back all the words I remembered.
They were: butter, letter, arm, cabin, pole, queen, grass, engine, ticket, and I can’t remember the last.

We do this a few more times, and then she asks if I can estimate how well I think I performed. I told her 8 or 9 out of 10. Okay, part one of the “Why we should give you our money (actually, it’s my money with their interest) when you’re a demented old coot” test is over.

Then she tells me that she’s going to name three animals. I am to tell her which of the three is the least like the other two. And she says that there is no right answer to any of the questions.

What? What does that mean? While I’m trying to think of the right answer, I’m also supposed to remember that there isn’t one?

Beaver, Chimpanzee, Gorilla. Hmmm, Beaver right?
(Well no, cause there is no right. Right?)
And so it goes for the next 5 minutes with camels and dogs and giraffes and goats and a few more to round out the menagerie.

Now she tells me that she would like me to repeat back as many of the animal names as I can remember--and I’m pretty sure I aced this.

Finally at the end she has one more question: “ Did you at any time during this interview use a pen or pencil or other writing device to help you with formulating your answers? “ And “ Do you swear that the answer you are about to provide is the truth?”

Ahaaa! It’s not a memory test, it’s an honesty test! But of course. I’m on the phone talking about my health history and since there’s no way the insurance company can (at a reasonable cost in a reasonable time) investigate that long long history on their own with any real accuracy—then the only way for them to determine the relative risk of insuring me is to determine the relative reliability of my character. And if I’m suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, then you better believe I’m writing down everything. But I guess they're ready for that cause the cheats probably forget to make a few mistakes to keep their performance credible.

40 minutes on the phone because an insurance company wants to know if they can trust me. 'Is this a great country or what?'


So did I cheat?
What do you think?

What’s the difference between an author and a blogger?

An author is one who can ponder at length about deep and complex issues and then apply the requisite tools of disciplined research, thoughtful examination and inspired imagination to create a rich and varied world wherein the reader feels compelled to linger in a state of heightened awareness, engagement and suspended disbelief.

A blogger is one who may ponder in spurts about pedestrian and banal issues and then apply the requisite tools of search engine dexterity, and borrowed content to create a disposable and easily forgotten world wherein the reader becomes tempted in the blink of an eye to wander off and pursue links to other more promising sites in order to satisfy the need for random trivia, gossip and dubious information.

All of which is just a verbose way of saying: Who needs serious when you can be having fun. And for those of us in the “copy” trade, fun is spelled p-u-n.



AND SINCE A GOOD BOOK IS HARD TO FIND…

... I thought I would offer a new service here by which I could help other pun junkies to narrow the search for their next literary fix.


A SNEAK PEAK AT THE HOTTEST NEW BOOKS COMING IN 2013

(Warning: The following is useless, sophomoric and a very accurate reflection of what happens to the mind during 10 straight hours of editing footage of TV stars talking about their "commitment to the truth" and their "dedication to excellence." It is also not appropriate reading for the pun averse)


Move over racism and sexism …the greatest threat to society today is Tallism. Yes, the tall are taking over, and they’re growing. From the Corporate Board Room to The Halls of Congress, the long and the short of it is--size matters. Learn how luck and heredity are threatening our institutions and our future in: The Height Report. By I.B. Longfellow


He knew the darkest secrets, but couldn’t reveal them. He had access to the most powerful people in the world--but there was no way to make them listen. He held the key to life and death but remained locked within a prison of silence. He was…
The Hoarse Whisperer. By A.A. Cumagan.

Truck driver and budding entrepreneur Hops Martin thought he could open a small micro-brewery and be his own boss—until he ran headfirst into the power of big beer. The Brew Barons had all the weapons, but they didn’t know that they were dealing with a man who would rather taste his own blood than a bland Pilsner. Read In Cold Bud. By Suds Terkel

In a world where religious and tribal loyalty divides families as well as entire nations—it’s little wonder that even the most informed westerner finds it virtually impossible to unravel the tangled web that is the Muslim World. Now the curious layman can better understand this complex and volatile world in…. Everything you ever wanted to know about Sects.*
* But were afraid to ask. By Piah Allah Mohd.

The ancient Egyptians prized it for it’s many uses from embalming to aroma therapy. To some it was a symbol of courage, to others it was nature's cure for nightmares and insomnia. Take an eye-opening (and nose-stimulating) tour of one of the worlds most potent plants in …A Brief History of Thyme. By Herb A. List

Think chasing big game on Safari is a daring adventure? Then just try living in Uganda as a male department store window designer with a limp handshake and a Judy Garland record collection—in Out in Africa. By Ubangi Nbacki

He wears a stiff tall hat, walks his beat with pride and needs no gun to keep the peace. He represents tradition, order, honor, rectitude and civil propriety. He is the British constable and his role in British History has come to symbolize much of what is still great in a once grand and glorious empire.
Our Bobbies, Ourselves by Riva Tembs

A Probing exploration into the world of Fertility medicine and a personal account of one woman’s path to motherhood in a world where greater options do not always make for easier choices.
A Womb of One’s Own. By. M.T. Hatchin

Healthy eating is smart, but when health concerns turn into chronic obsession and irrational fear, you have a recipe for disaster. In this controversial and daring new book, you will learn how the health food industry profits from consumer anxiety and ignorance. You will learn about the chemistry of cooking and how great traditions are being abandoned in the name of good health. Fear of Frying. Dr. Frank N. Bacon.

For over forty years, he was a beloved member of dozens of communities from Boston to Boise. He was like a father to some, and a father confessor to thousands. He was a man of the faith in whom many placed their own—but only briefly. His secret and uncontrollable passion for those who were not yet men themselves was the demon that forced him to live the life of a fugitive--but with the complete and total support of his powerful employers (who had mastered the arts of concealment and deceit over thousands of years) he was able to live a long and discreetly protected life filled with serial seductions of the young, the innocent and the ignorant. A Moveable Priest. By I.M. Knowangell.

Went for my annual checkup--which occurs about every three years...

and my suspicions were confirmed. Cholesterol-ly speaking, I am not an average man. I am an unusual and very special member of a very small and elite population blessed with a physical constitution so remarkable that I am able to function and thrive under conditions that would put the average man in an ICU if not a premature grave.

So I have decided that my next goal in life is to become an average man.

Yes, I know it’s a meager ambition, but I’ve already accomplished so much in this general direction that I think it would be negligent, if not downright lazy of me, to apply the brakes at this late date and fail to reach the final frontier of the middle ground whose path to which I have been trudging along lo these many years.

So, with renewed vigor and determination I shall venture forth into a land where chock full of Omega-3 oil fishies slide daily down my gullet and high fiber grains and steel cut oats blend and boil in bowls of non-fat liquids free of the poisonous preservatives and processed palliatives that once trafficked down the clogged roads of my intestinal interstate.


No, it won’t be easy. I’ll miss my friends who I used to joke around with at the Deli and Chinese Take out joints. I’ll miss those funny, sweet, master chefs Mufi and his cousin on the corner of 6th Avenue who make the tastiest and juiciest Shawarma this side of Azerbaijan. I’ll miss the thick sliced Liverwurst they always generously layer on for me at the friendly and affordable local grocery on 8th Ave and I’ll miss those creamy rich Mocha Lattes I so heedlessly shell out 5 smackers for simply to linger in the luscious memory of Malteds and Milk Shakes from days of yore.

But here’s the good news.




I love these guys!



And did you know…?

Another name for Sardines is Pilchards

Sardines are named after the Mediterranean island of Sardinia, around which they were once abundant.

A small serving of sardines once a day can provide 13 percent of vitamin B2; roughly one-quarter of niacin and about 150 percent of vitamin B12 of the recommended daily value.

Canned sardines in supermarkets may actually be sprat (such as the “brisling sardine”) or round herrings.

Sardines are a prominent prop in Michael Frayn's farce Noises Off.

The traditional "Toast to Pilchards" refers to the lucrative export of the fish to Catholic Europe:

“ Here's health to the Pope, may he live to repent
And add just six months to the term of his Lent

And tell all his vassals from Rome to the Poles,

There's nothing like pilchards for saving their souls!"

So why aren't they more popular here in America?

Apparently, for a host of reasons, but it mostly comes down to fishiness.
Seems that though we like meaty meat, we don't like fishy fish.
But I think it's also lack of familiarity and tradition. Sardines don't taste fishy, they taste Sardine-ey.
The only fish that tastes fishy to me is fish that's not fresh. And I think when people say they don't like fishy fish, they usually mean they don't like fish that isn't fresh. Anyone who's ever eaten any fish cooked minutes after being caught knows what I'm talking about. It's practically sweet. From what I've read, the industry still thrives in other parts of the world, but it's on life-support here in the states.

Packers fill sardine cans at the Stinson Seafood plant in Gouldsboro, Maine, April 25, 2005, Once the nations's last sardine cannery, Stinson closed after a century in operation.


In Australia’s largest Sardine Fishery by weight, with about 30,000 tonnes harvested annually, Sardines are raised mostly to feed farmed tuna, but increasingly to supply the human consumption market.

So if you’re eating tuna, you’re likely also eating Sardines.

And they're not expensive.
Which is why they played a prominent role in my diet during my lean years when a couple of the closely aligned sea critters laid (missing) head to (missing) tail across a couple of mustard covered onion bagels with sliced onions and tomatoes constituted a fabulous feast in my cockroach infested Hot Water Flat on W. 10th St. in Greenwich Village.


All I gotta do is lose the bagel, and I'm back in business...30 years later and a bucket full of LDL points higher.

“The tipping point is that magic moment when an idea, trend, or social behavior crosses a threshold, tips, and spreads like wildfire.”
― Malcolm Gladwell, The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference


A few years back. Riding into the city on the 7:58 express to Grand Central, sitting next to a long time friend and former client/industry colleague. I’ve got my copied NY Times daily crossword (leaving the original at home for Ellen) on my lap and he’s got the hot new must read book of the month on his. It’s Mr. Gladwell’s new Hocus Pocus Opus The Tipping Point and by the time we reach The Bronx I’ve pretty much heard about as much as my freshly caffeinated nervous system can handle at that hour of the morning. It occurred to me then, and reoccurs to me now that perhaps there might be an appreciative (and easily seduced) market for another book of this type—one that similarly explores the mysteries of human behavior and societal trends as they intertwine and intersect in ways that are both quantifiable and yet paradoxical. But like all such ideas I have had arising from such moments of seemingly inspired revelation, I let the moment pass and at the risk of squandering an opportunity that could forever free me from the daily tedium of the 7:58 , I return to the more pressing problem of coming up with answers to questions concerning Norse mythology and the names of characters from TV shows I've never even heard of.


But today on the train, where I’m no longer in the habit of conquering the daily dare from Will Shortz, I once again thought about that idea I had—and now that I have this blog, I decided I would pick up the discarded pieces of my pipe-dream and prepare a workable outline for a book proposal that could propel me to the Olympian Heights of Oracular fame and fortune.



Title: The Point of Tipping

Sub-Title : What The Giving and Receiving of Gratuities Tells Us About Who We Are, What We Want And Where We’re Going in An Infinite and Ever Expanding Universe.

Employing the most advanced tools in data collection and management in conjunction with anecdotal evidence (mostly true) and analytical assessments based on instinct and intuition (see: Blink. M. Gladwell) this book will explore an uncharted and brave new world where an ever increasing population of low-wage workers dependent on voluntarily provided donations intersects with an ever decreasing population of donors for whom the meaning of honest employment and work has been lost or abandoned.

In this book you will meet big tippers and small tippers. You’ll get to know what makes Tippers who tip to gain status tick, and what makes tippers who tip to gain control sick. You’ll meet the status seeking tipper who wants everyone to know how much money he has, and the tipsy tipper who can’t help letting everyone know how little he knows about how much money he has.

You’ll also meet the Tippees. Waiters, waitresses, cab drivers and baggage handlers—all with telling stories to tell and secrets to reveal. You’ll learn how they have been surprised by sudden bursts of generosity from the unlikeliest of sources and shocked by equally sudden demonstrations of demeaning and humiliating abuse.

Conclusion: The Point of Tipping is both an idea and a book whose time has come. With the rise of the Occupy Wall Street movement and the continued expansion of Tea Party partisans and participants throughout the nation—the role of the voluntary gratuity in our economic system has never been greater or more critical to its continuance. This is a book that will be read by everyone who tips and everyone who is tipped. And that is a number that far exceeds the “Tipping Point” at which a book goes from being just another bogus bunch of bull to a Blazingly hot phenomenon that breaks out and breaks through to become an all-time bestselling bonanza for the publishing arm of a multi-national conglomerate with the wherewithal to maximize profits across a multitude of media platforms.

Bidding will begin at 5 million dollars.
(Gratuity not included)




At work, we do some projects for Cox Cable. As you might imagine, it’s kinda tricky doing any kind of communications work (and radio spots are trickiest) for a company with a name so easily subject to glib vulgarization. And we have a very entertaining file filled with various headlines and story leads that had to be discarded due to their double entendre implications. So I got to thinking about the world of the web and how I’ve been occasionally stupefied by the choices of some companies and individuals when it came to the selection of a URL.—cause when you remove spaces between words, you’re bound to create some confusion…or worse. I couldn’t remember any offhand, but search and ye shall find:


Looking to hire a celebrity? Then give the agent finders at “Who Represents” a holler.
You’ll find them at: 
www.whorepresents.com

Professional Programmers unite and exchange advice and views at : 
www.expertsexchange.com

Marooned without a pen to write your SOS message. Don’t panic, just go to Pen Island at 
www.penisland.net

A good shrink is hard to find. Unless you go to Therapist Finder at 
www.therapistfinder.com

I don’t what they do or how they do it, but as they say, when in Rome…go to Italian Power Generator company at: …
www.powergenitalia.com

Green thumb gardeners can find lots to like at the Mole Station Native Nursery, based in New South Wales: 
www.molestationnursery.com

Searching for software and just can’t hold it in any longer? always 
www.ipanywhere.com

Welcome to the First Cumming Methodist Church. Their website is www.cummingfirst.com

Then, of course, there’s art designers, and their whacky website: 
www.speedofart.com

Let’s got to Lake Tahoe! But first lets download some info at: 
www.gotahoe.com