All great civilizations before us have had their decline. Ours will be the first to play itself out on television. It will be a reality.
On May 9, 1961, then FCC chairman Newton N. Minow delivered a speech titled "Television and the Public Interest." Here is an excerpt of what he said.
"When television is good, nothing — not the theater, not the magazines or newspapers — nothing is better.
“But when television is bad, nothing is worse. I invite you to sit down in front of your television set when your station goes on the air and stay there, for a day, without a book, without a magazine, without a newspaper, without a profit and loss sheet or a rating book to distract you. Keep your eyes glued to that set until the station signs off. I can assure you that what you will observe is a vast wasteland.
“You will see a procession of game shows, formula comedies about totally unbelievable families, blood and thunder, mayhem, violence, sadism, murder, western bad men, western good men, private eyes, gangsters, more violence, and cartoons. And endlessly commercials — many screaming, cajoling, and offending. And most of all, boredom. True, you'll see a few things you will enjoy. But they will be very, very few. And if you think I exaggerate, I only ask you to try it.”
I think it is important to note that Minow said this before 24/7 broadcasting, before an infinite number of channels, and, perhaps most notably, before reality programming. Back then, programming came to a close each day, usually with a prayer. Someone should have prayed harder.
George Carlin included a cut called "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television" on his 1972 stand-up comedy album titled Class Clown. When he performed this routine, he was, of course, referring to broadcast television, on which there are now only three words from the list that have still not been used. Needless to say, viewers of cable and other forms of pay television are afforded numerous and frequent opportunities to hear all seven words. Isn’t it odd that while Carlin’s seven words are apparently gaining usage on television, efforts to suppress prayer are on the rise. You can bet it is not because programming no longer comes to a daily close.
Surely Minow would have thought “wasteland” to be a totally inadequate descriptor if he had known back then about reality programming, which I believe to be the bane of the medium that has defined our times. I will admit to enjoying the first seasons of Survivors and Apprentice. Been-there-done-that was the cure after seasons one. I always wished I could dance like I was born to it, so I have watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars. Watching Tom Delay may have cured me on that one. My admission that I will forever be a fan of George Carlin, his list, and all of his other work as far back as wonderful WINO is enthusiastic. I just threw him in as a humorous measure of change. Besides, the progression of his seven words into usage enables me to freely and correctly identify many reality programming offerings as shit.
There are good stories performed by good actors that are more appealing to me than reality shows. I like fiction. Hell, I write fiction. I like drama. I like Grey’s Anatomy, The Closer, Castle, Brothers and Sisters, and more. I like comedy. I like Two and a Half Men and more. I like books. I’m finishing South of Broad by Pat Conroy and have been wowed by the gentleman from South Carolina. Before that it was Greg Iles’ The Devil’s Punchbowl, and it was the best of an unbelievably good body of work from the man from Natchez. I’m getting excited about The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown, mine as soon as Suzie polishes off the last hundred or so pages.
Fiction makes no bones about it. It ain’t real, though it often imitates reality. Reality programming purports itself to be real but is almost always the farthest thing from it. I’d say make it go away, but since it now has its own categories at the Emmy’s, the chances of its disappearance are getting more and more slim.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Book Surfing and Censorship
Recently, the topic du jour on Nathan Bransford - Literary Agent, the best-in-class blog by the eponymous Curtis Brown author representative, was a question he posed for comment by his readers:
When do you stop reading a book? << Click to read the post.
I decided to put in my two cents:
"Some of the very good reads I've had in the suspense genre have been provided by James Patterson. In the last few years, I have found that most of his books seem to be coming off an assembly line. He annually does two or three on his own and three or four that are jointly written with other authors. Even though he has gotten watered down, he can still pump out a doozy from time to time.
Back when he was golden most of the time, I decided to buy his first book, The Thomas Berryman Number. Though it won a first-novel Edgar all those years ago, I thought it was very murky and sucked in a manner not dissimilar to a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I have had two agents say that my novel-in-waiting might, at 72,000 words, be too short for the suspense genre. Almost everything Patterson writes is between 70,000 and 75,000 words, and Berryman contained 58,000 award-winning words. Though my research has shown me that most suspense novels are 80,000 words are more, I still believe in the wisdom passed to me by one Nathan Bransford intimating that he did not pay much attention to word count.
Okay, so I took a long route here to say that I used to read books all the way through. Berryman cured me of that. I get excited when I'm grabbed in the first three pages. I find a new way to spend my time if the Geiger counter doesn't make noise by page 50."
Not a stranger to commenting at Nathan's site, I was surprised and disappointed that he deleted my comment that day. There is no doubt that he thought my criticism of Patterson's first novel and current tendency toward cookie cutting inappropriate. I thought I balanced my comments by pointing out that James has written some beauts and still pops a hot one from time to time. That he doesn't always hit the target is evident from my own experience and discussion with numerous Patterson readers, some of whom are consequently now his former readers. It is especially true with his books written with helpers. I know the people who pick the Edgars are more expert in the literary field than I, but perusal of the reviews of Berryman at Amazon will let you know that I am not alone in my opinion.
Oh, well, I hope I haven't worn out my welcome at Nathan's place, and despite my comments, I still think James Patterson is a giant when he doesn't stoop. Finally, I just have to mention that Tyler Cowen's suggestion that we should consider surfing our books like we surf our channels is fascinating. Of course, we don't pay $25 for each of those channels we click through.
When do you stop reading a book? << Click to read the post.
I decided to put in my two cents:
"Some of the very good reads I've had in the suspense genre have been provided by James Patterson. In the last few years, I have found that most of his books seem to be coming off an assembly line. He annually does two or three on his own and three or four that are jointly written with other authors. Even though he has gotten watered down, he can still pump out a doozy from time to time.
Back when he was golden most of the time, I decided to buy his first book, The Thomas Berryman Number. Though it won a first-novel Edgar all those years ago, I thought it was very murky and sucked in a manner not dissimilar to a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I have had two agents say that my novel-in-waiting might, at 72,000 words, be too short for the suspense genre. Almost everything Patterson writes is between 70,000 and 75,000 words, and Berryman contained 58,000 award-winning words. Though my research has shown me that most suspense novels are 80,000 words are more, I still believe in the wisdom passed to me by one Nathan Bransford intimating that he did not pay much attention to word count.
Okay, so I took a long route here to say that I used to read books all the way through. Berryman cured me of that. I get excited when I'm grabbed in the first three pages. I find a new way to spend my time if the Geiger counter doesn't make noise by page 50."
Not a stranger to commenting at Nathan's site, I was surprised and disappointed that he deleted my comment that day. There is no doubt that he thought my criticism of Patterson's first novel and current tendency toward cookie cutting inappropriate. I thought I balanced my comments by pointing out that James has written some beauts and still pops a hot one from time to time. That he doesn't always hit the target is evident from my own experience and discussion with numerous Patterson readers, some of whom are consequently now his former readers. It is especially true with his books written with helpers. I know the people who pick the Edgars are more expert in the literary field than I, but perusal of the reviews of Berryman at Amazon will let you know that I am not alone in my opinion.
Oh, well, I hope I haven't worn out my welcome at Nathan's place, and despite my comments, I still think James Patterson is a giant when he doesn't stoop. Finally, I just have to mention that Tyler Cowen's suggestion that we should consider surfing our books like we surf our channels is fascinating. Of course, we don't pay $25 for each of those channels we click through.
Monday, July 27, 2009
A Friendship Treasured
I’m getting old. Yes, I know I look very youthful in photographs, but truly, accumulated chronology is barking at my heels. As fast as my number of years is gaining on me, the light at the end of the tunnel, retirement, isn’t visually enlarging on the approaching horizon fast enough. I’m hoping the economy will bounce enough by the time I am 62 or 63 to put me among those images instead of still seeing them in the distance.
I won’t miss the work. I’ll write and ride my bike and play golf and read and eat lunch over a Scrabble board with Suzie and do all sorts of things for which there never seems to be enough time right now. What I will miss is the daily interaction with the people who prevent workdays from being drudgery. There have been a number of those at each place I have been employed. Among them, if you are lucky, there are a few rare ones who are undeniably special.
Sometimes, from one job to the next, you regrettably lose touch. I have. The Web and e-mail and Facebook and the like have enabled me to rebuild bridges in some cases. Thank goodness those utilities are there to prevent relationship gaps now and in the future. I mention this today because a dear friend is leaving my place of employment in the next few days. If yours is on the list of e-mail addresses to which I pass interesting, inspiring, or humorous forwards, you know her as one of my most prolific sources and probably have at least a feel for her specialness.
She was the first person other than Suzie to read my novel-in-waiting. We have exchanged our likes in reading matter. She introduced Suzie and me to Dean Koontz. She now has two copies of his best book, Watchers, because I inadvertently let her original get wet. The result was wavy pages that could cause seasickness in too lengthy sessions of reading. I knew I had to get her a new copy, as it was obvious from the wear on the original that it was my friend’s literary Velveteen Rabbit, a truly loved volume. I have always been impressed that she and her daughter, Alyssa, would be in the late night hordes to get their new copy of each Harry Potter book. They took turns reading them to each other aloud. Those are treasured mom and daughter experiences for sure.
Anyway, Christine Harris will be missed here in the halls of the venerable old bank I visit each day. I wish her enjoyment of the lighter workdays and much shorter commutes she’ll experience in her upcoming endeavor, as well as in every other aspect of life. Suzie and I promise to make sure that Christine and her ever-dashing hubby, Darren, pop up on our social calendar with regularity.
Take a look at the links here at Red Stick Writer, click on the one for Christine’s photography, and view the world through the eyes of one who sees its good side.
I won’t miss the work. I’ll write and ride my bike and play golf and read and eat lunch over a Scrabble board with Suzie and do all sorts of things for which there never seems to be enough time right now. What I will miss is the daily interaction with the people who prevent workdays from being drudgery. There have been a number of those at each place I have been employed. Among them, if you are lucky, there are a few rare ones who are undeniably special.
Sometimes, from one job to the next, you regrettably lose touch. I have. The Web and e-mail and Facebook and the like have enabled me to rebuild bridges in some cases. Thank goodness those utilities are there to prevent relationship gaps now and in the future. I mention this today because a dear friend is leaving my place of employment in the next few days. If yours is on the list of e-mail addresses to which I pass interesting, inspiring, or humorous forwards, you know her as one of my most prolific sources and probably have at least a feel for her specialness.
She was the first person other than Suzie to read my novel-in-waiting. We have exchanged our likes in reading matter. She introduced Suzie and me to Dean Koontz. She now has two copies of his best book, Watchers, because I inadvertently let her original get wet. The result was wavy pages that could cause seasickness in too lengthy sessions of reading. I knew I had to get her a new copy, as it was obvious from the wear on the original that it was my friend’s literary Velveteen Rabbit, a truly loved volume. I have always been impressed that she and her daughter, Alyssa, would be in the late night hordes to get their new copy of each Harry Potter book. They took turns reading them to each other aloud. Those are treasured mom and daughter experiences for sure.
Anyway, Christine Harris will be missed here in the halls of the venerable old bank I visit each day. I wish her enjoyment of the lighter workdays and much shorter commutes she’ll experience in her upcoming endeavor, as well as in every other aspect of life. Suzie and I promise to make sure that Christine and her ever-dashing hubby, Darren, pop up on our social calendar with regularity.
Take a look at the links here at Red Stick Writer, click on the one for Christine’s photography, and view the world through the eyes of one who sees its good side.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Corny Reminiscence - Buck an Ear
Toward the end of spring last year, Suzie and I trekked to Baton Rouge to attend the 40th reunion of Broadmoor High School’s Class of 1968. Prior to that, the last reunion I attended was the 10th back in 1978, and people hadn’t changed much in that first decade. Interaction was still somewhat cliquish. Most importantly, I was still living in Baton Rouge and kept up with some folks by bumping into them from time to time.
My 1992 move to the Johnson County, Kansas, suburbs across the state line from KCMO put the skids on that time-to-time bumping. As the years passed, I increasingly missed that incidental contact. When I visited Baton Rouge, I made time to see immediate family and a few close friends with whom I’d maintained contact, but there was never enough time to contact and see all of the other relatives and friends I wanted to see.
I was in the middle of a job search when the 20th reunion was held. Rather than a fault of my own, it was mismanagement by loan-related people who had caused the problems that resulted in the middle management layoff of which I was a victim at Ambank. Despite that, you always feel self-conscious when you’ve suffered a “jobectomy.” Afterward, I regretted having missed the gathering of my fellow Buccaneers of ‘68.
I think they convened again at 25 years, at which time I was just finishing my first year as a Kansan, and I believe there was some sort of work-related conflict. Uncle Sam moved me here as part of my employment with the Resolution Trust Corporation, the temporary Federal agency created to resolve the S&L crisis. About 30 of us from the Baton Rouge office of RTC had relocated to the Kansas City office in the spring of 1992, as the agency pared itself from 14 offices around the country to six. Again, I hated to miss the Buc camaraderie, but I had yet to realize how being away from my hometown would make reunions so much more meaningful.
When the 30th Class of ’68 conclave was held in 1998, my dad was in the middle of chemotherapy for colon cancer. I chose to pass on the reunion and visit after Dad was finished with his treatments a couple of months later. That way, he would have been feeling better and would get more enjoyment from my visit. This time, in addition to being sad about not getting to see my former classmates, I was also devastated by the loss my father. On the August Sunday morning before he was to have his last Thursday treatment, a cardiac event took him from us. Had I traveled to BR for that reunion, I would have gotten to see Dad one more time. No MasterCard ad is necessary to tell me that would have been priceless.
When the 40th reunion rolled around last year, there was no way I was not going to be there. Getting to see these people with whom I walked the halls of Broadmoor High School from the seventh through 12th grades was, and I’m dating myself here, almost like an E-ticket ride at Disneyland. Gone was the cliquish behavior. Wisdom and a comfort with life had set in. My classmates looked great.
In a moment, I felt younger. Remember, it was the first time I’d seen some of these people for 30 years. In the interim, I saw myself aging in the mirror, while I kept seeing them as they looked in high school or at the 10th reunion. Oh, they still looked good, but at least they were now my age again.
I thoroughly enjoyed the evening at the Walden Club. Though I had a previous engagement early on the next evening, I went to the Pastime around 10:30 or 11:00 to enjoy remainder of the less formal huddle to which even other graduating classes were invited. My disappointment was palpable when I got to the bar under the bridge and discovered an empty parking lot. Apparently, my classmates and the Pastime are getting older than I thought. Either that or my memory is failing. I know I’ve been at that place past midnight many times.
I told myself right after the reunion that I would make and maintain contact with the people with whom I had refreshed my acquaintance. There were good intentions, but it turned out to be like one of those let’s-do-lunch things, at least until now. After hearing friends and family here in Kansas talk about good experiences in reconnecting with old friends on Facebook, I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did. Initial contacts have already occurred with a number of my Broadmoor friends and I hope there will be more.
I know that over time I’ll be more actively communicative with some than others. That said, it will be nice to know that they’ll all be there to bump into from time to time. I was going to say that we shared a moment in time and should exercise some semblance of staying in touch. The reality is that we shared a fairly large chunk of our lives. Some of us to back into elementary school, but as a class, most of us were lucky enough to string six years together at BHS. I believe I read in some of the reunion material that we were the only class to take full 7-through-12 advantage of what started out as Broadmoor Junior-Senior High School. As a consequence, we know over a decade’s worth of Goodwood Boulevard pirates.
If any of you who, like me, were among McLavy's minions happen to stop by here, please leave a comment. It’s been nice knowing you. Let’s do lunch.
My 1992 move to the Johnson County, Kansas, suburbs across the state line from KCMO put the skids on that time-to-time bumping. As the years passed, I increasingly missed that incidental contact. When I visited Baton Rouge, I made time to see immediate family and a few close friends with whom I’d maintained contact, but there was never enough time to contact and see all of the other relatives and friends I wanted to see.
I was in the middle of a job search when the 20th reunion was held. Rather than a fault of my own, it was mismanagement by loan-related people who had caused the problems that resulted in the middle management layoff of which I was a victim at Ambank. Despite that, you always feel self-conscious when you’ve suffered a “jobectomy.” Afterward, I regretted having missed the gathering of my fellow Buccaneers of ‘68.
I think they convened again at 25 years, at which time I was just finishing my first year as a Kansan, and I believe there was some sort of work-related conflict. Uncle Sam moved me here as part of my employment with the Resolution Trust Corporation, the temporary Federal agency created to resolve the S&L crisis. About 30 of us from the Baton Rouge office of RTC had relocated to the Kansas City office in the spring of 1992, as the agency pared itself from 14 offices around the country to six. Again, I hated to miss the Buc camaraderie, but I had yet to realize how being away from my hometown would make reunions so much more meaningful.
When the 30th Class of ’68 conclave was held in 1998, my dad was in the middle of chemotherapy for colon cancer. I chose to pass on the reunion and visit after Dad was finished with his treatments a couple of months later. That way, he would have been feeling better and would get more enjoyment from my visit. This time, in addition to being sad about not getting to see my former classmates, I was also devastated by the loss my father. On the August Sunday morning before he was to have his last Thursday treatment, a cardiac event took him from us. Had I traveled to BR for that reunion, I would have gotten to see Dad one more time. No MasterCard ad is necessary to tell me that would have been priceless.
When the 40th reunion rolled around last year, there was no way I was not going to be there. Getting to see these people with whom I walked the halls of Broadmoor High School from the seventh through 12th grades was, and I’m dating myself here, almost like an E-ticket ride at Disneyland. Gone was the cliquish behavior. Wisdom and a comfort with life had set in. My classmates looked great.
In a moment, I felt younger. Remember, it was the first time I’d seen some of these people for 30 years. In the interim, I saw myself aging in the mirror, while I kept seeing them as they looked in high school or at the 10th reunion. Oh, they still looked good, but at least they were now my age again.
I thoroughly enjoyed the evening at the Walden Club. Though I had a previous engagement early on the next evening, I went to the Pastime around 10:30 or 11:00 to enjoy remainder of the less formal huddle to which even other graduating classes were invited. My disappointment was palpable when I got to the bar under the bridge and discovered an empty parking lot. Apparently, my classmates and the Pastime are getting older than I thought. Either that or my memory is failing. I know I’ve been at that place past midnight many times.
I told myself right after the reunion that I would make and maintain contact with the people with whom I had refreshed my acquaintance. There were good intentions, but it turned out to be like one of those let’s-do-lunch things, at least until now. After hearing friends and family here in Kansas talk about good experiences in reconnecting with old friends on Facebook, I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did. Initial contacts have already occurred with a number of my Broadmoor friends and I hope there will be more.
I know that over time I’ll be more actively communicative with some than others. That said, it will be nice to know that they’ll all be there to bump into from time to time. I was going to say that we shared a moment in time and should exercise some semblance of staying in touch. The reality is that we shared a fairly large chunk of our lives. Some of us to back into elementary school, but as a class, most of us were lucky enough to string six years together at BHS. I believe I read in some of the reunion material that we were the only class to take full 7-through-12 advantage of what started out as Broadmoor Junior-Senior High School. As a consequence, we know over a decade’s worth of Goodwood Boulevard pirates.
If any of you who, like me, were among McLavy's minions happen to stop by here, please leave a comment. It’s been nice knowing you. Let’s do lunch.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friends, A Lake Setting, and Old School Schlitz
We often enjoy the camaraderie experienced when we gather with a dinner club with which Suzie has been associated for about three decades. As is commonly the case with such groups, the location of dinner club events is rotated among the homes of the participating couples. We additionally get together for a shared meal at a restaurant on occasion.
One of the couples shares with siblings in the family a quintessential lake house near Laurie, Missouri, at the Lake of the Ozarks, and the rest of us are blessed by invitation to relax there over a weekend and bask in collective friendship a time or two each year. We enjoyed just such a gathering two weekends ago.
We boated all over the lake. Suzie proved her continuing youthfulness by waterskiing as adeptly as a teenager. Unfortunately for me, she was at the tail end of her endurance when she failed to catch my favorite bucket hat with her knees when it blew off of my head and flew between her legs. Games such as Apples to Apples and Catch Phrase were played to stave off the diminishment of our old minds. Way too much good food was consumed, and as a Louisiana native, I fully endorse such behavior.
It seems that there is always some bonus moment associated with these trips to the lake. On one occasion, Suzie and I stopped at an antique shop in the little town of Cole Camp on the way home. We found for a bargain price a silver plate tomato spoon that has added to our joy of eating sliced homegrowns each season. This time one of the dinner club guys brought a half-case of Schlitz beer. I had been seeing news items and ads that mentioned that Schlitz was being reintroduced with its original formula that put it in the top two American beers in the Sixties and Seventies.
When I was in college, I had to develop a taste for beer. Had might seem to be a strong word, but I was in school in Louisiana, so it truly was a necessity. As I did so, I finally settled on Schlitz as my brew of choice. Formula changes, a strike, and a buyout by Stroh’s of Detroit queered the beer. Now under ownership of Pabst and using the old original formula, Schlitz is back! When I took my first swallow two weekends ago, I knew my favorite beer had returned in all its original splendor. It was like a swallow of the longneck I ordered on the first day they sold beer at the LSU Union back in 1969.
Finally, here's another bonus moment by means of a picture of a billboard advertising a drinking establishment near the Lake of the Ozarks. I'll bet an Old School Schlitz could be enjoyed there.
One of the couples shares with siblings in the family a quintessential lake house near Laurie, Missouri, at the Lake of the Ozarks, and the rest of us are blessed by invitation to relax there over a weekend and bask in collective friendship a time or two each year. We enjoyed just such a gathering two weekends ago.
We boated all over the lake. Suzie proved her continuing youthfulness by waterskiing as adeptly as a teenager. Unfortunately for me, she was at the tail end of her endurance when she failed to catch my favorite bucket hat with her knees when it blew off of my head and flew between her legs. Games such as Apples to Apples and Catch Phrase were played to stave off the diminishment of our old minds. Way too much good food was consumed, and as a Louisiana native, I fully endorse such behavior.
It seems that there is always some bonus moment associated with these trips to the lake. On one occasion, Suzie and I stopped at an antique shop in the little town of Cole Camp on the way home. We found for a bargain price a silver plate tomato spoon that has added to our joy of eating sliced homegrowns each season. This time one of the dinner club guys brought a half-case of Schlitz beer. I had been seeing news items and ads that mentioned that Schlitz was being reintroduced with its original formula that put it in the top two American beers in the Sixties and Seventies.
When I was in college, I had to develop a taste for beer. Had might seem to be a strong word, but I was in school in Louisiana, so it truly was a necessity. As I did so, I finally settled on Schlitz as my brew of choice. Formula changes, a strike, and a buyout by Stroh’s of Detroit queered the beer. Now under ownership of Pabst and using the old original formula, Schlitz is back! When I took my first swallow two weekends ago, I knew my favorite beer had returned in all its original splendor. It was like a swallow of the longneck I ordered on the first day they sold beer at the LSU Union back in 1969.
Finally, here's another bonus moment by means of a picture of a billboard advertising a drinking establishment near the Lake of the Ozarks. I'll bet an Old School Schlitz could be enjoyed there.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Applied Science of Turns of Phrase
A writer I am, and it has nothing to do with “green eggs and ham.” As such, I am an avid fan of those who have mastered the art of turning a phrase. In this regard, I confess that I indulge in the sincerest form of flattery. My emulation has on occasion resulted in my phrases being called twisted rather than turned. I admit that I do it on purpose to make my readers think about what I have written.
A famous New York editor recently told me that some of my twisting is okay, and some should go away. That and other of her suggestions are why I am in process of rewriting parts of my novel about a twisted serial killer and his pursuers. Apparently, there are many out there who can be emulated. "Simplify, simplify."
We are all familiar with masters like Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, and Will Rogers. In Poor Richard’s Almanac, Franklin said, “Fish and visitors stink after three days.” When I stay with her in Baton Rouge, my mom would tell you that his aphorism holds true.
One group of guys who have been known to turn a good phrase is Jeff Foxworthy, Larry the Cable Guy, Bill Engvall and Ron White of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Foxworthy has even mastered bleeding a phrase like a turnip with that redneck thing.
Yogi Berra is another fellow who I think fits the mold of blue collar wordsmith. He would probably fit right in on the tour. It is indisputable that he can grind the language with the best of them: Dubya, Joe Biden, Dan Quayle. Both as a catcher and a manager, he certainly proved he knew “strategery.”
Suzie and I were riding our bikes one day when I pulled to a stop on a cul-de-sac and bent over to pick something up. She turned and asked why I had halted. I held up the cheap stainless fork I had plucked from the pavement and then stored it away in my bike pouch. When she asked why I wanted it, I matter-of-factly reminded her that the venerable philosopher, Lawrence Peter Berra, said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I liken this “Yogiism” to this excerpt from Frost:
“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
The eating utensil is now one of the treasures stored in a shadowbox hanging on the wall of my study, a manifest version of “memories pressed between the pages of my mind.” One of the items contained there is the napkin on which I wrote Suzie’s address and phone number on Halloween night in 1992 so I could ask her out for the very first time.
Now I take you back to the beginning and the “green eggs and ham.” Theodor Seuss Geisel didn’t turn his phrases or even twist them, I have found. It seems to me he curved them to meet each other in “identicality” of sound.
A famous New York editor recently told me that some of my twisting is okay, and some should go away. That and other of her suggestions are why I am in process of rewriting parts of my novel about a twisted serial killer and his pursuers. Apparently, there are many out there who can be emulated. "Simplify, simplify."
We are all familiar with masters like Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, and Will Rogers. In Poor Richard’s Almanac, Franklin said, “Fish and visitors stink after three days.” When I stay with her in Baton Rouge, my mom would tell you that his aphorism holds true.
One group of guys who have been known to turn a good phrase is Jeff Foxworthy, Larry the Cable Guy, Bill Engvall and Ron White of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Foxworthy has even mastered bleeding a phrase like a turnip with that redneck thing.
Yogi Berra is another fellow who I think fits the mold of blue collar wordsmith. He would probably fit right in on the tour. It is indisputable that he can grind the language with the best of them: Dubya, Joe Biden, Dan Quayle. Both as a catcher and a manager, he certainly proved he knew “strategery.”
Suzie and I were riding our bikes one day when I pulled to a stop on a cul-de-sac and bent over to pick something up. She turned and asked why I had halted. I held up the cheap stainless fork I had plucked from the pavement and then stored it away in my bike pouch. When she asked why I wanted it, I matter-of-factly reminded her that the venerable philosopher, Lawrence Peter Berra, said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I liken this “Yogiism” to this excerpt from Frost:
“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
The eating utensil is now one of the treasures stored in a shadowbox hanging on the wall of my study, a manifest version of “memories pressed between the pages of my mind.” One of the items contained there is the napkin on which I wrote Suzie’s address and phone number on Halloween night in 1992 so I could ask her out for the very first time.
Now I take you back to the beginning and the “green eggs and ham.” Theodor Seuss Geisel didn’t turn his phrases or even twist them, I have found. It seems to me he curved them to meet each other in “identicality” of sound.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
We Need Ahnold to the Rescue!
An Associated Press article with a Chino, California, dateline on Yahoo! News caught my attention with the headline, “Some Calif. kids may get 34 extra school days.” The problem stems from the occasional trimming of school days to allow for teacher preparation.
Here is the gist of the article:
State law requires that shortened days must be at least 180 minutes in length. According to an internal audit, 34 days at two elementary schools in Chino did not meet that standard, having been trimmed to 170 or 175 minutes. Consequently, those days do not count at all toward the minimum number of days required to equal a school year. A spokesperson for State Department of Higher Education said the legislature made the requirements stringent on purpose to dissuade school districts from committing willy-nilly day shaving.
Leave it to the bureaucrats to try to cover their tracks. A district associate superintendent who is already scheduled to retire this year has taken blame. The district’s PR machine is trumpeting benefits of the mandatory summer school session that will “feature extra arts, music and science and give students a head start on next year’s curriculum.”
What about the enrichment those kids will lose by not attending the summer camps for which their parents booked them? What about the vacation reservations made by families that will now have to be foregone? What about the teachers who had summer employment lined up? What about a lot of stuff that is taking a backseat to bureaucratic stupidity and the so-called tough stance of the legislature?
Assume a 10 minute shave for each of the 34 days in question. That’s 340 minutes. A regular day for elementary students is, what, 360 minutes, including lunch and recesses. So, all of this havoc and deprivation of childhood is, in essence, all about a tad less than one regular school day.
Give me a break. I think the Kindergarten Cop, AKA The Governator, needs to get involved here. Come on, Ahnold, make these yahoos do the right thing, and give these kids their summer vacation back.
Here is the gist of the article:
State law requires that shortened days must be at least 180 minutes in length. According to an internal audit, 34 days at two elementary schools in Chino did not meet that standard, having been trimmed to 170 or 175 minutes. Consequently, those days do not count at all toward the minimum number of days required to equal a school year. A spokesperson for State Department of Higher Education said the legislature made the requirements stringent on purpose to dissuade school districts from committing willy-nilly day shaving.
Leave it to the bureaucrats to try to cover their tracks. A district associate superintendent who is already scheduled to retire this year has taken blame. The district’s PR machine is trumpeting benefits of the mandatory summer school session that will “feature extra arts, music and science and give students a head start on next year’s curriculum.”
What about the enrichment those kids will lose by not attending the summer camps for which their parents booked them? What about the vacation reservations made by families that will now have to be foregone? What about the teachers who had summer employment lined up? What about a lot of stuff that is taking a backseat to bureaucratic stupidity and the so-called tough stance of the legislature?
Assume a 10 minute shave for each of the 34 days in question. That’s 340 minutes. A regular day for elementary students is, what, 360 minutes, including lunch and recesses. So, all of this havoc and deprivation of childhood is, in essence, all about a tad less than one regular school day.
Give me a break. I think the Kindergarten Cop, AKA The Governator, needs to get involved here. Come on, Ahnold, make these yahoos do the right thing, and give these kids their summer vacation back.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Bearly Getting By
My grandfather came from Iowa farming stock, but a congenital heart problem prevented his pursuit of the farming life. The bad ticker eventually took him away from us at the young age of 52 back in 1958. Being an artistic young man, he took to the road and made a living for a while as a sign painter, first in Jackson, Mississippi, and then in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
One of the gigs often available for sign painters in that day was the painting of showroom windows for automobile dealerships, and my grandfather came to regularly decorate the windows of a Chevrolet dealership in Big BR with slogans, announcements of sales, and the like. The dealer liked him and told him he thought he could make more money selling cars for him than painting his windows. Dee-Daddy, which is what I called my grandfather, took him up on the offer, found the dealer was right, and ultimately started his own Chevy dealership a few years later.
One of the first jobs Dee-Daddy did as a sign painter in Red Stick (English for Baton Rouge) was to paint a sign for a local retail outlet called Hebert Store. Being from Iowa, he thought Hebert was pronounced Hee-Bert. Through his involvement in the creation of the Hebert Store signage, he learned that it was actually pronounced A-Bear. That’s how the store’s original sign came to include a picture of a big A with a bear leaning against it.
I now live in a Kansas suburb just across the state line from Kansas City, Missouri. My drive home from work each day has in recent months started stirring nostalgic thoughts of my grandfather and my old hometown. The St. Agnes School has adorned its front lawn with a large plaster cast of its mascot. As you can see he is a handsome bear wearing a jersey bearing (get it) a big A for Agnes.
The fiction writer in me likes to think this is manifest evidence of the creativity of Louisianans as they make their way through a tough economy. You’ve got to give credit to that Hebert fellow for poking around and finding a school mascot job all the way up here in the Midwest. Of course, he might not be so happy with the position when he finds out how hard it is to get crawfish here.
One of the gigs often available for sign painters in that day was the painting of showroom windows for automobile dealerships, and my grandfather came to regularly decorate the windows of a Chevrolet dealership in Big BR with slogans, announcements of sales, and the like. The dealer liked him and told him he thought he could make more money selling cars for him than painting his windows. Dee-Daddy, which is what I called my grandfather, took him up on the offer, found the dealer was right, and ultimately started his own Chevy dealership a few years later.
One of the first jobs Dee-Daddy did as a sign painter in Red Stick (English for Baton Rouge) was to paint a sign for a local retail outlet called Hebert Store. Being from Iowa, he thought Hebert was pronounced Hee-Bert. Through his involvement in the creation of the Hebert Store signage, he learned that it was actually pronounced A-Bear. That’s how the store’s original sign came to include a picture of a big A with a bear leaning against it.
I now live in a Kansas suburb just across the state line from Kansas City, Missouri. My drive home from work each day has in recent months started stirring nostalgic thoughts of my grandfather and my old hometown. The St. Agnes School has adorned its front lawn with a large plaster cast of its mascot. As you can see he is a handsome bear wearing a jersey bearing (get it) a big A for Agnes.
The fiction writer in me likes to think this is manifest evidence of the creativity of Louisianans as they make their way through a tough economy. You’ve got to give credit to that Hebert fellow for poking around and finding a school mascot job all the way up here in the Midwest. Of course, he might not be so happy with the position when he finds out how hard it is to get crawfish here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)