Hey, Maybe People Aren’t So Bad After All

Hey, Maybe People Aren’t So Bad After All

I hadn’t realized how thoroughly I had come to expect daily accounts of humans being beastly until I found the story describing the courage and decency displayed by ordinary people in Panama City, Florida, who, seeing children and adults trapped in a ferocious rip tide, joined hands, stepped up, formed a human chain, and put themselves in danger in order to rescue people they didn’t know.

After week after week of defaced temples, graves, and mosques, after swastikas, Klansmen, murders, and bullies, after being assured that there are no safe spaces, I realize that I have allowed myself and my world to shrink.  I have allowed all that is ugly to blur all that I know is lovely.

Political discourse has always brought recrimination and occasionally brought assault upon the character of those in office or the character of those holding a point of view other than one’s own, but we’ve lived through administrations that displeased us without abandoning the rule of law for the most part.  For the most part.  As I write today, it is hard for me to remember that the groovy Sixties included violence on a terrifying scale and moments in which it seemed the Republic as we knew it might not survive. I’d like to take some comfort in believing that just as those wounds healed, the current climate of animosity and distrust might not mean the end of tolerance, civility, and security.

After all, doesn’t everyone need a safe space?

I’m tempted, of course, to use the brave Floridian human chain metaphorically, recognizing the leap of … what?  Faith to be sure.  Faith that people of all sorts cherish life and are willing to go to great lengths to protect it.  Courage too, the summoning of capacities we rarely know, summoning the willingness to step into troubled waters because others need help.

Stories such as this reveal generosity of spirit and shared humanity both moving and restorative, but in addition to the “feel good” appreciation of what others have had the courage to do, they also ask us to question our own willingness to act in the interest of something other than, greater than, ourselves.  I don’t know the ethnicity of those who saved children from drowning.  I don’t know what political convictions they hold or who they love.  I only know that they came together, took a stranger’s hand, and did as a whole what they could not have done alone.

 

 

 

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Why Don’t We Wait Until We Get There, Do It Anyway, And I Did That

Why Don’t We Wait Until We Get There, Do It Anyway, And I Did That

I’m trying to change.

I’m finding that old habits die hard, and old ideas die harder.  The weight of every bad decision, the memory of each act of thoughtless unkindness done to others, the stinging charge of every carefully cultivated  resentment is more than enough to slow the progress of change, and, if all of that weren’t enough, archived rationalizations are running relentlessly in the background, convincing me that I’m not the one who needs to change.

OK, so it takes some gumption to slog through all of that and recalibrate – maybe gumption plus the sense that living a nettled and swampy life is not much fun.  I’d like to say that gratitude is my go-to response to all that the world presents, but the truth is that I often react rather than respond, and my first reaction is not always graceful.  Rationalization can only take me so far, and I inevitably end up catching myself being myself again, nettled and swampy, and once again forgetting that I had intended to do better this time around.

I’ve read spiritual guides and self-help books galore and have found much of value there, but when I’m reacting with my dinosaur brain or trapped by my inner petulant child, I need immediate and foolproof correction.  On the spot.  Straightforward and uncomplicated.

Fortunately, I have stumbled upon a few helpful tools, not really mantras, but verbalized reminders that I have learned to consider before spinning out on one of the day’s curves.

I don’t take direct orders well.  Even lighthearted orders.  The British use the phrase, “Don’t get your knickers in  a twist,” jokingly advising that there’s not much to be gained in acting as if the future has already arrived.  It does seem reasonably clear that experiencing the emotional impact of things that might not happen brings neither comfort nor consequence, but I’m inclined to bridle at even this mild injunction. Apparently, I’m stubborn.

Fortunately, I overheard someone on a bus help a child who was very concerned that strawberry ice cream might be gone by the time they arrived at the next stop.  I was not asked and did not offer my opinion, which is a good thing because when intending to comfort, I often revert to the extension of promises I might not be able to keep.  “Of course, there will be strawberry ice cream.  There is always strawberry ice cream.”  Well, maybe not.  There might have been a run on the flavor, or the freezer might have gone on the fritz.  Thieves might have run off with all berry flavored confections; the FDA might have recalled all ice cream starting with “s”.  Who really knows until one knows?

The enlightened parent on my bus simply said, “Why not wait until we get there?”  Not an order.  More a suggestion.  Options still wide open.  Here’s the thing:  I am not wealthy or young.  Things really do tend to loom from time to time.  However, I am really not at my best when I invest all my energy in reaction to the might happen.  Sure, judicious planning makes sense and actually is comforting, but, having done what I might, the possibility of misfortune is always at hand.  So, by the way, is the possibility of lovely and unexpected good fortune.  I get all of that in the abstract, but in the heat of the moment, old habits can kick in, and I have the option of turning on the awfulizer. I also have the option of reminding myself to wait until I get there.

The results are in:  I feel better, act better, and plan better when I choose to wait until … well … whatever happens.

That observation brings me to the second helpful phrase.  Having admitted that I don’t take orders well, I guess I might as well suggest that I would rather not do things that are difficult or uncomfortable.  Preparing our taxes is difficult for me; visiting a sick person in the hospital makes me uncomfortable.  Once again, over the years it has struck me that there are consequences to both action and inaction.  A tax return not filed will bring pain, sorrow, and penalty.  The same can be said of ditching a dental appointment or not putting coins in a parking meter.  Cause and effect.  Not visiting a sick friend, not returning a phone call to a friend in need, not addressing a sticky issue in a relationship, each has consequences.  Cause and effect again, darn it.

It appears that how I feel about the relationship between cause and effect has absolutely nothing to do with how things turn out.  Remember those classic rationalizations on perpetual loop right somewhere next to the limbic system?  Here’s where they pump up the volume and coax me into believing, say,  that there are a dozen reasons why everyone else should pay taxes, but I should not.  Pick one:

Hedge fund guys are probably living in Barbados with the money I lost in 2008, three hundred and twenty-one million people live in the united States – surely the IRS won’t notice if one person not living in the lap of luxury misses a year or two, I don’t think I filed in 1969 – nobody seemed to care, the pothole on my street still hasn’t been fixed – I’m not sure where my tax money goes, people in the United Arab Emirate don’t pay tax, and so on.

In this case, coercion actually has worked; my taxes get done … grudgingly.  But the things I do grudgingly get neatly sorted and filed in that chamber of resentments I mentioned earlier.  I can only speak for myself – life in the chamber of resentments is no fun at all, and given that I only have this life to work with, I’d rather try to work out a way to meet the exigencies of life without grudging up on a regular basis.  That being said, I need help in breaking out of old thinking and found that I do much better when I realize that while I can choose to wish that consequence might be cancelled this year, I can also choose to just do that which ought to be done anyway.

Do it anyway.  See, the magic for me here is that I’m not being bashed for having all the screwy thoughts that I have.  I get to acknowledge the difficulty in doing something I would rather not do.  Sure, it’s uncomfortable having to tell a friend that he is out of line telling offensive jokes.  It is uncomfortable; do it anyway.  Moving the car from the handicapped parking place next to the door all the way to a spot a block a way is a pain.  It is a pain; do it anyway.

Whew!  Who knew I’d get more done and feel a lot better by just doing what I know has to be done.  And we do know.  We always know.

Oddly, I call up the final phrase, “I did that” even more frequently than the others.  It serves two purposes:  Obviously, it brings accountability.  William Carlos Williams wrote poems, but when my wife asks who ate the plums, I have to say, “I did that”.  It also gives me some perspective when I rush to judgment on other people.  I hear someone boasting and pontificating, I prepare to assign him to the lowest ring in Hell, then remember, “Oh, yeah, I did that last week at the picnic”.

It turns out that I’m allergic to accountability. I don’t like to admit my mistakes, don’t like to admit I’m  wrong, don’t like to admit I’ve done something thoughtless or just plain dumb.  A lifetime of weaseling has not done much to prevent the accountability coming my way; it’s just made every situation a bit uglier.  In  the same way that I pretty much always know what ought to be done, I pretty much know when I need to own up and stand accountable.  Apparently, knowing what needs to be done, even if my ego is battered, I have to do it anyway.  I’m a work in progress on this one, but I am increasingly convinced it’s worth the effort.

It turns out that it is actually harder and more painful to wriggle and squirm, deflect and deny, than it is to own up.  Once again, who knew?

Then, this judgment thing.  I am currently unindicted and haven’t killed anyone or carried out acts of unspeakable cruelty, but when it comes to the ordinary catalog of human failings, I have pretty much messed up as frequently as anyone I might choose to judge.  Abandon a friend? I did that.  Make fun of someone behind his back?  I did that.  Want to be the star of the show?  Ta Da!  Pretend to be something or someone I am not?  Did it.  Stretch the truth?  Uh huh.  Bore a roomful of people talking about myself?  Yep.  Try to look cool?  OK, once. And so on.

I used a phrase earlier – catching myself being myself.  That’s really where I find any progress I might make in trying to change those old habits and old ideas.  Here’s the thing though: I am starting to get a kick out of catching myself being my older self.  I am occasionally amused and almost always informed.  “Ah, there it is!  I’m terrified of something that certainly won’t happen today and may never happen.  I’m thinking about not doing what I know is the right thing to do.   I’m trying to be important.  I’m judging that guy when I’ve done what he does.  I don’t want to own up to something I’ve done.”

Interesting.

Now I have the choice to wait until I get there, do something I don’t want to do anyway, and hold myself accountable.

I like having the choice; it feels a little like freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wait! You Haven’t Read That?

Wait!  You Haven’t Read That?

In my final decade as a teacher of English at Cate School in California, I found great pleasure in adding a course to the elective options given to students in their senior year.  I’d come to miss some of the books I most enjoyed teaching in my early years, and became determined to bring a few back into the classroom.  Fashions in literature change, less rapidly than some other elements in education perhaps, but with significant impact.  Abandoned are a number of books once found in every high school curriculum, from The Iliad and Tess of the D’Urbervilles to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Scarlet Letter.   A few familiar standards still appear; The Great Gatsby, for example, appears to have staying power far beyond that of equally highly regarded novels by Hemingway, Faulkner, and Steinbeck.  Over the years with my sophomores, I had brought back The Odyssey and Of Mice and Men, and had added newer books such as  All the Pretty HorsesNever Let Me Go, and Ordinary People and certainly would have added Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel, but there were so many books and so little time left for senior before they sailed into whatever remained of discussion of books in their college years.

So, I grabbed two trimesters for a course entitled, “Wait!  You haven’t read that?”, presenting books that I thought deserved a place in the great conversation between books in the auditorium of the mind.  At the start, Pride and Prejudice had slipped from view, but was soon to gain traction again and take its rightful place on the bookshelf.  I loved teaching the book, but had to give it up  as it gained popularity.  Mansfield Park is ready for the next jump if my successor is looking for a dark horse.  Hemingway’s In Our Time was an obvious choice as were Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood, Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss, and Margaret Atwood’s Blind Assassin.  Best book/worst response?  Lolita (worth it!) .  Second Worst Response?  Molly Gloss’ Wildlife (Still hurts).

Ok, with a few spare minutes in retirement and in the spirit of  continuing the adventure, I’m lumping through Infinite Jest with my eldest son as a jesting buddy.  We’ll see.  In the meanwhile, I tell my friends about the authors who have recently jumped on my list, most notably Heidi Julavits, David Mitchell, and Kelly Link, but all of these went out the window this morning when, in an ill-advised moment, I picked up the Spring 2015 edition of Lapham’s Quarterly.

Seriously, unless you have world enough and time to track down the seventy to eighty authors/philosophers/lords of enterprise/scientists/poets/historians whose work is anthologized in each journal dedicated to bringing voices from the widest perspective over the widest span of time to the contemporary reader, remarkable voices collected in order to animate the various themes of the quarterly, don’t even read past the cover  I include the link so that the unwary can appreciate the sweep of ideas taken up in the life of this extraordinary quarterly.

My mistake was in picking up, Volume VII, Number 2 – Swindle and Fraud.  Lewis Lapham is the editor of the Quarterly and its moving force, but also something of a literary firebrand, an American aristocrat with truly democratic sensibilities.  Formerly the editor of Harper’s Magazine, Lapham is a prolific writer whose 2005 film, The American Ruling Class, is one of the most curiously arresting documentaries of its time.  Described as, “… the bedrock of classic academic purity and discipline,” Lapham also enjoys a wicked sense of irony, made clear in his preamble to Swindle and Fraud, in which he compares the emptying of trillions of dollars from the nation’s resources during the Great Recession to Houdini’s performance at the Hippodrome Theater in 1918, a performance in which Houdini made a five ton elephant disappear from the stage.  Writing of the great and general fleecing in 2008, Lapham writes, “Throughout the whole of its extended run, the spectacle drew holiday crowds into the circus tent of the tabloid press, and joyous in Mudville was the feasting on fools.”

Feasting on fools is celebrated in articles written by a range of observers including Bertolt Brecht and William Shakespeare, Bernie Madoff and Charles Ponzi.  Two articles captured me entirely:  “Manila” by Lawrence Osborne in which the author, fascinated by accounts of faked deaths, sets out to perpetrate an act of “pseudocide” by purchasing in Manila an authentic certificate of his own death and an excerpt from David Maurer’s The Big Con in which Maurer presents an extensive guide to the language of the confidence artist.  

The ease with which Osborne was able to buy a death certificate was disturbing, but I was instantly absorbed in tracking down the novel that sent Osborne off on his quest, a meticulously researched book (Osborne assures us it was written,”with an entertainingly maniacal attention to detail”), The Family Business, by Byron Bales, who as a private investigator in Bangkok knew the ins and outs of faked deaths and disappearances throughout Asia;  Amazon will sell me the paperback copy for thirty-five dollars, but I can pop it on my Kindle for less than three bucks.

Except that, I have to read The Big Con if only to further broaden my grasp of confidence lingo.  I’m ok with “The Big Store” (essentially the con run in The Sting) and “The Money Box” (a con in which the mark buys a machine he believes will actually make genuine paper money), but “Cackle-bladder”?  “Tin Mittens”?  “Laying the flue”?

Except that, I just finished “The Fully Licensed Whore, or, The Wife” by Patricia Highsmith, which is stunningly understated, as in this passage: “Sarah’s idea was to kill Sylvester with good food, with kindness, in a sense, with wifely duty.” This short piece by Highsmith is but one of the eighty or so spider webs into which Lapham is pleased to toss me, each of which carries me off into yet another web.  I last read Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley more than four years ago, intending at the time to follow up with the other four books in “The Ripliad”, so there goes tonight’s bout with Infinite Jest.

Wait!  You haven’t read those?

Eloise, Robin Hood, and Temps Perdu

Eloise, Robin Hood, and Temps Perdu

It happens that I’ve been thinking quite a lot about children’s literature for the past few days.  My favorite conversations often begin with discussion of shared books, and memories of books beloved in childhood equally animate an exchange with old friends or new acquaintances, and, the remembering seems to elicit other sensory moments, forgotten, now recovered.

It occurs to me now that the first awareness I had of thought, of mentation not attached to some immediate response, came as I tried to puzzle out the relationship between letters, symbols, and the ideas they portrayed.  We really are asking an awful lot of children as we expect them to take the mastery of their language, perhaps the most daunting and important cerebral task they will ever undertake, a complex and subtle figurative construct in its own right, acquired only recently and still not completely mastered, (unless your four-year old can handle the subjunctive mood) and apply it to simultaneous symbolic translation.  Shoot!   When I look at it that way, I feel pretty darned good about the progress I made through the first two grades.  Reading is mildly miraculous; no wonder I’m so attached to books.  Of course, I have sentimental attachment to the first books I read on my own, books such as Bobby Had A Nickel, a primer in financial planning, perhaps not the most arresting of tales, and yet …

“Bobby had a nickel.  A nickel all his own.  Should he buy an _____ or an ice cream cone?”

I’ve forgotten what his other choice was, probably because the ice cream cone seemed the obvious investment to me.  What comes to mind is, “… should he buy an igloo or an ice cream cone”, which scans but seems unlikely.  In any case, the mystery remains alive as a cognitive triumph I failed to celebrate at the time.

The gradations of children’s literature today appear to be more finely stratified than those in my day, if, in fact, there were any gradations.  Somewhere after Babar and Celeste faced the machinations of Rataxes the Rhino, I found the 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, Stuart Little, the Oz books, Little Women, then Robin Hood.  By the age of ten, I was reading indiscriminately, hopping from Smokey the Cow Horse, written and illustrated by Will James, to Robert Heinlein’s Farmer in the Sky, which had been serialized in Boys’ Life Magazine.

I should probably be grateful that I came of age before the young adult novel was a genre.  There were books in which children came of age, of course, but they tended to move along,  concentrating on immediate issues to be handled and zipping right past awkward adolescent angst and self-absorption, on to whatever became of narrators who survived the end of childhood.  I suppose Great Expectations would be considered a Young Adult book if Dickens was pumping classics out on a weekly basis these days in his Zine.  Huck Finn?  Kidnapped?  The Count of Monte Cristo?  All of which would make sense as I am told by those who elect not to publish writers such as … never mind …  that the only profitable market is in  YA literature, which is no longer a genre but an empire of genres, directed at consumers between the ages of ten and twenty-four.

To return to this morning’s reflection, in addition to books deemed “classics”, such as Huckleberry Finn and Oliver Twist, there were some books commonly presented to children that were oddly not really for children at all; they seem to have been written in the expectation that adults would find it wryly amusing that their children had walked through a looking-glass into some fairly disturbing settings.  Alice in Wonderland, for example, is a darkish fantasy, an allegory, a puzzling adventure in logical reasoning, and a true example of literary nonsense.  It was clear that I was supposed to find it charming, but as a child, I found logical nonsense nonsensical; I was not amused.  I was expected to read it so I read it, but I felt put upon and badly used.

And so we come to Eloise, essentially a picture book, written by Kay Thompson, illustrated by Hilary Knight.  The original book was subtitled, A Book for Precocious Grown-Ups, intended, I suppose, to amuse adults who immediately passed the book to children, presenting them with a model of precociousness that was simultaneously an unatainable fantasy for any child not living a life of grotesquely advantaged financial circumstance and a terrifying nightmare for any child recognizing abandonment, no matter how deliciously precocious Eloise’s language, or how stylishly pink and black the decor, or how cute the turtle.

Again, I was supposed to love it; I did not.  But …

Lots of children did, seeing Eloise as a strong, resourceful, empowered girl, making more than the best of her situation, claiming her power.

So, abandonment issues obviously driving the bus, I shoved Eloise aside and picked up The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire, written and illustrated by Howard Pyle.  It was a bubbling good read for a boy of twelve, and I remain very fond of Pyle’s illustrations.  Why Pyle added an epilogue to the book in which Robin is dispatched by a treacherous cousin, not simply killed, but ensanguined, bled to death, I cannot guess.  Yes, I fell for the twist in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.  Yes, also  Gone Girl, Shutter Island, “The Lottery”.  But I recovered from surprise quickly in those cases; I still smell the copper pools of Robin Hood’s blood lo these many years.

Perhaps I should thank Pyle for preparing me for a lifetime of loss and betrayal; maybe I needed Robin’s death to inoculate me against sappy frivol and fantasy.  All I can say after all these years is that the books I met as a young person are still with me, for good or for ill; they travel with me, more vivid in my memory than the days in which they were read, always at the edge of recall.  Oh, and if you think the 500 Hats of Bartholemew Cubbins is pretty snappy, take a look at James Thurber’s The 13 Clocks, in which the dangerous Duke admits, “We all have flaws; mine is being wicked.”

Consider:

Once upon a time, in a gloomy castle on a lonely hill, where there were thirteen clocks that wouldn’t go, there lived a cold, aggressive Duke, and his niece, the Princess Saralinda. She was warm in every wind and weather, but he was always cold. His hands were as cold as his smile and almost as cold as his heart. He wore gloves when he was asleep, and he wore gloves when he was awake, which made it difficult for him to pick up pins or coins or the kernels of nuts, or to tear the wings from nightingales.

 

Parts Is Parts: Small Roles and Character Actors

Parts Is Parts: Small Roles and Character Actors

You’ve seen it a thousand times. The camera swoops in, holding on the yellow tape preventing gawkers from getting in the way. Week after week big name actors gather at the crime scene, kicking clues aside, generally bumbling their way toward a plot. They look down, or up, or under, pull the sheet off the mangled, strangled occasionally dangled corpse, and my mind always turns toward the actor playing Mr. Body; imagine the excitement with which the actor got the phone call: “Hey, Good News! You got a part. Bad News! You’ll be portraying a lifeless body which has been:

a.) dropped from a great height. b) left in a dumpster. c) riddled with bullets. d) poisoned. e) strangled. f) run over. g) splayed on the hood/roof of a car. And so on.

I guess it’s a better gig if:

a) the body has not been beheaded. b) the body is face up. c) the face is recognizable. d) a grieving friend/relative/lover weeps, allowing a lingering last look at the dearly departed.

Still, that’s it? You tell your mom you’re going to be on NCIS, she tunes in, the music swells, and you’re found in the conservatory bludgeoned with a candlestick? There’s some art to lying lifeless, I’m certain -no blinking, no breathing, no moaning — which makes me think that playing the comatose, bandaged victim of said bludgeoning might be a real step up in terms of acting chops. No blinking still holds, as you are coma bound, but moaning is probably optional.

Assuming that dead/almost dead limits acting artistry, a call from a casting director offering a role as terminally … well, terminally anything, really, is pretty good news. At least you’re alive … for a while. You get to summon phlegm, cough wetly, thrash, drool. Maybe still not worth a call home, but a definite improvement. Perform it well, and by well, I mean convincingly moribund, and your resume jumps to the top of the “Wanted: a believable victim of-terminal injury” list. Wrapped in sheets or bandages, the only line you are likely to get, assuming you’ve been hospitalized in a dark comedy, arrives as a catheter is removed abruptly. “Wow”, you are obliged to squeal as the actor playing the physician looks at you with the contempt you so obviously deserve. And merriment ensues.

Were I an actor struggling to make a living, my dream of stardom now a moist wisp of memory, I would not respond well when chided, “There are no small parts, only small actors.” I’m not sure what that expression can actually mean, unless the presumption is that small actors are so lacking in talent and ambition that they ought to be grateful to be ugly guy on the subway or slightly bucktoothed girl in the elevator. Small minded, we presume, rather than small persons.

There are, in fact, very small parts, bit parts, different from the cameo appearance of celebrities in that a celebrity’s appearance has contained meaning or association; the bit player, nada. Bit players have been described as “spear carriers”, “animated furniture”, and “human props”, and even though we have had a lifetime in which to learn that looks aren’t everything, for the bit actor, looks are everything. Type casting is one thing — Want a lanky grizzled cow poke with a seven-foot moustache? Call Sam Elliott. How about a spit flecked gonzo rapacious female side kick? Helena Bonham Carter may be available — but being cast as the guy who looks are slightly off, odd enough to be menacing or just odd, or the woman who looks rode hard and put up dripping wet really isn’t asking much in terms of acting. “Stand next to the bar and look skanky.” Not much room here for a conference with the director,

“What’s my motivation? What am I feeling as I come through the door? What do I really want? What part of myself am I keeping hidden? Where am I vulnerable?”

Yeah, it doesn’t matter. You are on the set to be thrown down a staircase; your motivation is gravity.

I’m sure that any aspiring actor will take virtually any role offered in the early days of a career; it’s certainly no worse to play a body than to be that guy who can’t fix the toilet in a commercial for Draino. “Parts is parts”, as they say at the meat-packing plant.

So, year after year, part after lousy part, an actor works, maybe does get a break, starts to build up a resume, begins to appear with some regularity as the sidekick, the wing-man, the hot chick’s best friend, the sister who helps the lead actress ride out the divorce, the concerned parent, the high school teacher or principal. And, once in a while, the designated also-ran moves up to lead roles. They have long been talented enough so that back when they were supporting characters, we “knew” them, and by “knew” I mean caused us to say, “Hey, isn’t that the guy/gal who was the other guy/gal in that other film?” And some of the time it was.

But I’m interested in the character actors who don’t take the lead. What holds them back? Are they prone to type casting? All this comes about because I happened upon a photo of an actor I must have seen twenty times or more, and I could not remember his name. A quick search identified him as Jack Elam, and I had seen him in at least twenty films or tv shows.

If you don’t recognize his name, you are in good company. Elam, a character actor with a filmography that represents constant employment from 1949, when he played the role of “Henchman” in The Devil’s Weed until his final appearance in the Lonesome Dove: The Series, was celebrated in Hollywood as the sort of anonymous actor who could add texture to any film or show, no matter how small his part. He did have the lead in several productions and acted with many luminaries, playing sidekicks and villains, intermittently villainous and comedic. His biggest films were westerns, including High Noon, Once Upon a Time in the Old West, and recurring roles in the Support Your Local Sheriff and Cannonball Run franchises. My guess is a constant filmgoer will recognize Elam’s face immediately; his wandering eye was the sort of trademark that got him roles and cast him as a type.

Actor Hugh O’Brian (Don’t remember him? Wyatt Earp?) used Elam as an example of the speed with which careers teeter from obscurity to something like fame and back to obscurity. In a documentary on Hollywood, O’Brian put the casting game this way:

Stage 1: “Who is Jack Elam?”

Stage 2: “Get me Jack Elam.”

Stage 3: “I want a Jack Elam type.”

Stage 4: “I want a younger Jack Elam.”

Stage 5: “Who is Jack Elam?”

I will place Elam’s photograph at the top of this article; if you are of a certain age, he will certainly be familiar. Jack Elam had a solid career, lived well, and happily played the parts he was given, as did Elisha Wood, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Thomas Mitchell in the golden days of studio films, and as do the current crop of actors who are familiar but uncelebrated. It interests me that as somewhat independent filmmakers have had more opportunity to make theatrical release films, some character actors actually have names that are recognized. Philip Seymour Hoffman rose quickly to lead roles as did Paul Giamatti, Gary Oldman, and J.K. Simmons, but Luis Guzman, John C. Reilly, John Turturro, Joe Pantoliano, Dan Hedeya, Danny Trejo, and Ed Lauter get a lot of work without much recognition. Versatile Margo Martindale and Alison Janney are emerging from character roles to supporting actress, and Viola Davis now plays leading roles. The imitable Christopher Walken is essentially sui generis, an absolute original; now that’s an actor who brings texture to any film.

My hope is that there are aspiring young actors currently being autopsied or scraped off sidewalks who can get the right bit part that brings the right character role, that brings a shot at stardom. After all, for many years, Kevin Costner was best known as the corpse not shown in The Big Chill. Just take those phone calls, actors; who knows who the next famous unidentified corpse might be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wait! The Big Ten Has 14 Teams and One Of Them Is Rutgers?

Wait!  The Big Ten Has 14 Teams and One Of Them Is Rutgers?

To every thing there is a season, and long, steamy summer days clearly belong to baseball, but, without ignoring the crucial games just before the All Star break, I start to look to the fall and football, allowing myself to leaf through Street and Smith’s College Football Preview.  Chucking neutrality aside, I check Michigan’s place in the pre-season guesswork, assuming that guide is likely to be accurate if Michigan is properly placed in the mix of teams contending for a national championship then turn to the wealth of other information in the hefty magazine including presentation of pre-season All Americans at each position and evaluations of each team’s depth and strength.  Teams are ranked within their conference, the likely champions getting the most ink, the runners-up quarter page blurbs.

Conferences – aye, there’s the rub.  Michigan, a founding member of the Big 10, a midwestern conference made up of flagship public universities (with the exception of Independent Northwestern), now plays Penn State, Maryland, and Rutgers.  The conference can’t even call themselves the Big 10 anymore; the conference is now its own logo – BIG – which has been craftily shaded so the uninformed viewer can almost see a 10 hidden in the letters but will see two divisions of seven each season until sanity returns.

The flux in which we live has accustomed me to change, but I do treasure tradition and pageantry, pomp, circumstance, and rabid rivalry.  Once upon a time, most rivalries took place within long-established athletic conferences, but college athletics, I am told, generates a considerable amount of income, roughly SEVEN BILLION dollars which colleges and universities count on to … to … well, to do whatever it is that they do when they are not playing games, but to get to SEVEN BILLION, conferences had to add championship games to have one last mega-event before the bowl games.  The old familiar cozy conferences simply no longer brought in enough revenue, so abracadabra, tradition be damned and geography ignored.

A few of the conferences have not changed over the course of my lifetime as a fan; the Ivy League, for example, has been made up of the same eight distinguished colleges since 1954; almost all of the rest of the Division I conferences have changed both in composition and character.  Some of the changes made sense up to a point; the Big Five Conference made up of Cal, USC, UCLA, Stanford, and Washington became the Big Six with the addition of Washington State and then the Pacific 8 with the addition of Oregon and Oregon State.  As Arizona and Arizona State were poached from the Western Athletic Conference (WAC), the conference became the PAC 10.  The thoughtful reader will have noted that Arizona does not (yet) enjoy a Pacific coastline, but at least is within driving distance of the ocean, whereas Colorado and Utah, the institutions recently departed from the Big 12 and the Mountain West Conference, are considerably less Pacific.  Oh, and the Big 12 has ten teams.  I’m just saying.

The slide began in the late ’90s, but by 2013, madness had truly set in, traditional rivalries were abandoned, and the familiar regional associations gave way to collections that seem jury-rigged Frankenconfrences; odd bits of one were attached to limbs of another.  In retrospect, the dissolution of the Big 8 (Nebraska, Iowa State, Colorado, Kansas, Kansas State, Missouri, Oklahoma and Oklahoma State) allowed the first of the new super-conferences to spawn imitators as its members joined with Texas, Texas A&M, Baylor, and Texas Tech to create the Big 12, large enough that competition was divided into the Big 12 North and the Big 12 South, which mirrors the division of the Southeastern Conference (SEC) which was also split when the SEC picked off Arkansas which had defected from the conference depth-charged when the Texas colleges jumped into the Big 12 and South Carolina which had been homeless since ditching the ACC and the dominance of the North Carolina colleges.

But, wait!  There’s more.  The already over-large SEC added Texas A&M and Missouri, both of which deserted the Big 12, which made that conference shaky, especially as there were widespread rumors that Texas was about to bolt as well.  Texas is the straw that stirs the drink in the region with access to television money the others do not see, just as Notre Dame with its own independent contract with NBC had the golden ticket, allowing them to play a schedule of their choosing in football while playing basketball in the Big East, that is, until the Golden Domers by virtue of what must have been a Papal encyclical, have remained independent in football, bound to play only five games within their new home, the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC), but regular members in all other sports … except hockey, which now joins the BIG.

Let’s remember that like the Big East, the ACC has been most notably a basketball conference.  Why then, oh why, would Notre Dame join up, being as the clever will have noted, not on the Atlantic or even adjacent to states that are?  Why would the ACC, having its own well established traditions welcome feisty and independent Notre Dame?  Probably a union of like-minded academic institutions?  We think not.

There is this.  On any given Saturday, lacking the expensive football package from my cable provider, I am lucky if I can find more than one televised game from any single conference.  Generally, the conference game I will see is some sort of match-up, a rivalry game or a game on which a title might depend.  Of the twelve to fourteen teams in the conference, only two or four at most hit the screen.  Maybe NBC could work in one more?  Oh, that’s right!  They have a contract with Notre Dame.  Every Notre Dame game will have a national audience, and that suggests that Notre Dame and every team playing Notre Dame gets a share of national television bounty.  So, unlovely ACC football gets a shot in the arm, a national audience, name recognition while recruiting outside the Atlantic region, and dough that is split up among the members of the conference.  Yes, The North Carolina State Wolfpack is assured a national audience this fall as are Wake Forest’s Demon Deacons

Notre Dame gets to play most its traditional (and very telegenic) rivals (USC, Navy, Boston College, and Michigan State),  games that offer little challenge at crucial resting points in the season (Temple, Miami University of Ohio, and Navy), and two games against teams (Georgia and Stanford) that are strong enough to boost Notre Dame’s chances of landing a playoff spot or juicy bowl game.

Win-win.

My beef isn’t with making money or trying to enhance the recruiting profile outside of the region; college sports are no longer the bastion of purely amateur athletics played for the beauty of the game.  I am saddened, however, that Missouri no longer plays Nebraska, that Syracuse no longer battles Georgetown in basketball.  This spring, Johns Hopkins joins the BIG in lacrosse, leaving its own traditional regional rivalries behind.  Traditions seem to have died a quick death with the stroke of a pen.

OK, maybe I’m slightly miffed that Notre Dame didn’t elect to keep Michigan among its “must-have” independent games, or maybe I’m just a fussy curmudgeon. In any case,  I’ve got two months, fourteen days, and eight hours to get over myself before the opening game against Florida, and my therapist is on speed dial.

 

 

 

 

Making Vegetables Sexy?

Making Vegetables Sexy?

In an article entitled,” The Easiest Way To Eat More Vegetables”, researchers were credited with having found ” an ingenious way to get people to eat more vegetables”, not quite the same subject, but that’s apparently how research gets turned around.  In any case, the idea is this:  Presented with four categories of vegetables prepared in exactly the same way but labeled differently – Basic (beets, corn, green beans),  Healthy (vitamin rich-corn, antioxidant-rich  squash), Restrictive healthy (reduced sodium corn, carrots with sugar-free citrus dressing) and Indulgent ( rich buttery roasted sweet corn, dynamite chili and tangy lime-seasoned beets), diners most frequently chose the most evocatively indulgent menu.

Thus, at the crossroads of science and marketing, research indicates that we choose options that sound tasty.  I suppose that’s why restaurants go to the trouble of hiring itinerant authors looking for work between novels to bring the full force of literary imagination to their carte du jour.

It happens that I know what it is to face the bleak reality of an artless menu, having lived for a few years in a tiny Swiss village far from the elegant eateries in Zürich or Geneva.  No, in the hinterland dining options are notably rural and menus roughly translated.  I would not have needed translation, of course, had I been as clever as any Swiss child, able to speak four or five languages with functional fluency.  My rudimentary command of Swiss German allowed me to avoid some grotesqueries of communication.  Some, but not many.

Without dwelling on the fine points of inflection which separate the Swiss German word for chicken and the word for dog. suffice it to say that my visit to the town’s butcher went badly when I inadvertently ordered a hefty slab of dog breast.  My attempts to clarify this request aroused the butcher to greater ire as in an attempt to make myself understood, I pumped up the volume.  He apparently thought I really wanted that dog flesh, really wanted it, so much so that I dropped the deferential meekness which had characterized my tenure as a stranger in a strange land.   To him, I now understand, I was a barbaric Amerikaner screaming for dog meat and brooking no refusal.

This did not end well.

From that point on I was persona non grata in the village’s metzgerei, receiving no greeting but the untranslated,  “No meat for you”.

So, obviously, I needed help when  it came to deciphering the menu at the local restaurant, and when I say local, I mean not visited by diners not born in the Gemeinde with the exception of the previously mentioned barbarian.  My host was always pleased to see me; obviously word of my canine fixation had not reached the Gasthof.  His command of English was immeasurably better than my Schweizerdeutsch but somewhat spotty, particularly when it came to adjectives, and, since it is precisely in evaluating the power of adjectival impact in convincing diners that tastiness lay ahead, his suggestions were, well, blunt.

Slight digression here in noting that every language has oddities of usage that probably mirror the culture’s deepest compulsions, but as I am entirely steeped in my own experience of language, I don’t recognize those oddities as I did in encountering Swiss translation.  The point being that the Swiss in this small village used the word “must” in virtually any situation:  “You must pay now.”  “You must now go to the laundry.”  “You must from here take that road.”

That being noted, my host’s urgings may sound less threatening.  “You must have the little cow.  Before it takes no milk from his mother, yes?  So small it has tiny skin, You know?  Little cow in the cream with potatoes that are shavings.  I put also in onion.”

I quite liked the candor with which the folks in my village spoke, if I understood them, and I appreciate it still.  The town seems to have grown more suburban in the forty years since I last chose not to eat the little cow with tiny skin; there are at least eight restaurants in the hamlet now, all of which cater to trade from outside the village.  Just as I now check the reviews posted on restaurants that are new to me, travellers can read comments posted in English on various sites.  It seems candor remains the expression of choice, and diners are given fair warning in language I appreciate.

“The restaurant makes already from the outside a dingy impression, what is going on inside.”  Who knows, really what is going on inside, but it sounds dingy to me as well.  The meticulousness with which these diners assess the restaurant is impressive but occasionally puzzling.  “The price/performance ratio is not.”  I see, but not …?  “The chef greeted us friendly and very sympathetically…”.  I could have used some sympathy,  but let it go, let it go.

To return to the subject under examination, let us consider the menu at our locally esteemed steak and chop-house, a restaurant with a reputation as one of the best in the Pacific Northwest, then sneak a peek at a description of an entrée at a fast-food chain, just to see how adjectives drive the appetite.

First, the mission statement provided by Omar’s Restaurant in Ashland:

It is our mission to provide our guests with the freshest and highest quality food products that are locally sourced whenever possible. It is our passion to turn these bounties of the land and sea into handcrafted, from scratch products for you. We hand cut all of steaks that are aged for an extra 6 weeks to ensure tenderness and enhance flavor. We receive 3 to 5 fish deliveries a week from local and global waters. We make all of our soups, dressings, sauces, and stocks from scratch. We do all of this in order to ensure that you, our valued customer enjoy delicious home cooked meal, from our kitchen to your plate.(sic)

It happens that every word in this introduction to Omar’s is true; the food is locally sourced, the chefs are passionate about their craft, the steaks are hand cut and aged, fish arrives frequently from global waters, and soups and sauces are made from scratch.

But… are we drooling?

No reservation is needed at Carl’s Jr’s various outlets.  Drive up, step in, read the menu on the wall and consider the Jim Beam Bourbon Burger.

Unwind with the Jim Beam® Bourbon Burger. Featuring a chargrilled beef patty topped with bacon, crispy onion , swiss cheese, fresh lettuce and tomato — slathered in a rich and tangy sauce flavoured with Jim Beam bourbon.

OK, fairly evocative.  Slathered.  Good word.  How about McDonald’s Maple Bacon Dijon burger?

Layered with thick-cut Applewood smoked bacon sprinkled with sweet maple seasonings, creamy Dijon sauce, grilled onions, smooth white cheddar, and crisp leaf lettuce, on a quarter pound of 100% pure beef with no fillers, additives, or preservatives, with your choice of an artisan roll or sesame seed bun. 

Thick-cut Applewood smoked bacon has more oomph than the pedestrian bacon or cured pork product, and this cheese is not simply white cheddar but smoooooth.  Getting close to whetting the appetite.

As a youth I was forced to eat unpalatable meals, the memory of which still make the gorge rise, so let’s take one of the standard components and see what a few well placed adjectives can do.  The lowly turnip is a root vegetable, easy to store over long periods of time as are the other root vegetables – bulrushes, onions, chufa, taro corns, yams, virtually any sort of tubers.  With some effort, the bulb of the turnip can be massaged into something like presentable food, perhaps by chopping, rinsing, then mashing the turnip into paste served hot with butter, slightly less bitter than the untreated turnip.

A word often used in describing the turnip is pungent, but pungent is not the sort of word to slide into the carte du jour, but powers of invention  abound in menu-speak, so here goes:

Early Harvest White Turnips in an Adelle-rind pasteurized cow & sheep’s milk 

Turnip Adelle is vibrant young turnip in a soft-ripened bloomy-rind cheese melange. With a light, fluffy texture and a flavor of butter and citrus, this creamy, smooth turnip in cheese melts in the mouth.

I know turnips far too well, and no amount of Adelle cheese would save them from being the roots that they are, but … sounds almost … tasty.  En Guete, mittenand!