Booth and Consequences
At Thanksgiving dinner, my beloved aunts
Becky and
Treasure told me that not only do they read The Dawn Patrol every day (always nice to hear), but it's
blatantly inaccurate—at least as far as
my account of my grandparents' courtship is concerned. For one thing, a photo in the post that I stated was of my grandmother at age 21 with a college pal was actually her at age 43 with her brother. Oops.
I've made a number of corrections to the post and have found better photos of my grandparents. Among them are these photo-booth shots of the strikingly attractive couple—I've never seen Grandpa so rakish—which I believe were taken in 1936, during either their honeymoon or their courtship (though I'm afraid to assume anything now).
If you haven't read the post, it's a highly romantic tale of my grandfather's determined pursuit of my grandmother, who was not at all easily swayed. If you have read it, do take another look, if only for the photos.
2:46 AM
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Ain't That a Kicker in the Hed
Last night, I had to write a kicker (the catchy phrase that precedes a photo caption) for a photo of a dour Nelson Mandela next to a beaming Beyonce. I came up with "AGE BEFORE BOOTY".
12:02 AM
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Friday, November 28, 2003
Bread Alone (Hold the Mayo)
Lately, accomplished cartoonist/illustrator (see left) and old friend David Chelsea (whose cult classic David Chelsea in Love has just been republished) has been spraying the e-mail equivalent of Silly String on the Dawn Patrol's windshield.
First, after I started devoting more effort to faith- and values-related posts, he wrote to ask if I believed in Hell. I realize that an unapologetic apologist should always have a ready response to such questions. But without his asking any related questions as well, I just didn't feel like writing back with the one-word answer, "Yes."
I should have responded, because now he's pulling out the big guns. He just sent me an e-mail with a header that appears calculated to disgust me, since he knows I grew up in a Jewish household where such things are unheard of: "Eat your white bread and mayonnaise." In it, he writes of my post in which I described how I've yet to find a church service as deep and substantive as Jewish services:
"You seem disinclined to reply to e-mails in which I twit you about religion but I can't help myself. If you truly believe that one testament was not enough, then attending Jewish services is harmless but dilettantish, like reading the Bible as literature or putting on a Gregorian chant CD to groove on the harmonies. To carry your World Series analogy further, it's as if you've put your money on the Marlins but are sitting with the Yankees fans because their team has prettier uniforms."
Actually, now that I read it again, it's not such a bad question. Perhaps he's not spraying Silly String so much as giving me an unrequested squeegee.
I believe that what David is saying is that if I attend Jewish services—which I don't except on the rare occasions I go with family—I can't get true religious feeling from them, because I have accepted Jesus. What I tried to say in my post, but apparently did not articulate strongly enough, was that Jewish services do in fact give me a genuine religious experience. Messianic prohecies and references to eternal life run throughout the Jewish service. When I hear them, I think about how they were and are fulfilled in Jesus.
The reason I don't normally go to Jewish services is because I find them ultimately unsatisfying. I can add the words "in the name of Jesus" in my head as I pray, but everyone else there—for all their faith in God, which I don't doubt—is still waiting for a Messiah in whom relatively few of them actually believe. (I'm speaking of Reform and Conservative congregations, which, to my knowledge, have placed Messianic beliefs progressively lower on their articles of faith. Belief in the coming Messiah remains essential to Orthodox Jews.)
What I would like to find, and haven't yet, is a Christian service in which the prayers feel as meaningful as they do in a Jewish service—something I've described more at length in the post that inspired David's e-mail.
4:41 AM
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Thursday, November 27, 2003
Baby You're a Fitch Man
Roy Currlin has asked that I let you know that his e-mail correspondence with me regarding his disagreement with my post on the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign is now available on his own Web site. He says that, when I responded to him on this page, I mischaracterized his reasons for opposing the campaign.
Roy did make one observation that has led to my making a correction. When I responded to him, I did not have his e-mail in front of me, and I thought he had accused me of working for a bottom-feeding newspaper—or words to that effect. In fact, while he did point out that another paper owned by my employer used images that would fit in the Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, he never said that of the paper for which I work, so I've corrected it in my post.
9:02 PM
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Cub Reporter
They used to keep cartoon characters' floats in the Macy's Parade years after the characters were popular. Otherwise, how could I possibly remember watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV and seeing a float of Linus the Lionhearted go by?
UPDATE: Michael Lynch writes with the startling information that Linus the Lionhearted was in the Macy's parade from 1964 to 1991.
10:27 AM
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The Grateful Fed
Happy Thanksgiving—or, as my friend Caren says, happy turkey day!
I have a great deal of things for which to be thankful this year. The one that's affected my life most dramatically is my job at the paper, which I'd wanted for a long time. I'd started there as a freelancer in January 2002, working one day a week, and kept it up even when I had a full-time job at Women's Wear Daily, in the hope that the paper would someday hire me full-time. They did—but not until September of this year. So, come to think of it, I'm thankful both for the job, and for being given the strength to keep freelancing there even when there was no indication that I'd ever be hired.
I'm very thankful for my family, and sorry I can't be with all of them this Thanksgiving. I will be with my mother and stepfather, which will be great, and I'll miss the rest of my family, including my sister (next to me at right, in gold), brother, father, and stepmother, who are in different part of the country.
I'm very thankful for my friends, both old and new.
I'm thankful for answered prayers, especially the way that God has lately been turning my lemons into lemonade. It never ceases to amaze me how He can change my sadness into joy.
I'm thankful that, unlike my sister, I have never been threatened by a giant ant.
Most of all, I'm thankful that God saved me four years ago, and that He healed me of depression, enabling me to better appreciate the faithfulness and grace that He shows me and everyone in everyday life.
One of my favorite authors, G.K. Chesterton, had some enlightening things to say about gratitude. I'll leave you with a few:
- "Civilization has run on ahead of the soul of man, and is producing faster than he can think and give thanks." (He wrote that in London's Daily News—in 1902.)
- "I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought,
and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder."
- "We all depend in every detail…upon God…The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank. The converse of this proposition is also true…All goods look better when they look like gifts."
6:18 AM
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Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Spreading the News
Yesterday's e-mail brought the kind of shamelessly abrasive and confrontational message that could only come from a valued friend. It was from Roy Currlin, responding to my post in support of the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign. Roy is a 25-year, second-generation employee of the network-television industry who is all too familiar with the Rev. Donald Wildmon's boycotts, as well as Terry Rakolta's campaign against "Married With Children."
Roy asked me how I reconciled my position as a member of the press with my opposition to the Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue—especially when the newspaper for which I work is owned by the same company that puts topless young women on "Page Three" of a London tabloid.
At first glance, I thought it was a perfectly valid question. Although I'm proud to say that I work for the most patriotic and pro-Israel newspaper in the country, one that treats the President with the respect that he deserves, the paper's views on marriage and family are schizophrenic at best. A critical profile of a deadbeat dad could be right next to a feature on a teenage heiress's "sex romp" with a married man. There's a fine line between holding up misdeeds to the light and exposing them for the sake of titillation, and my employer crosses it repeatedly.
However, as I was considering a response to Roy's question, I realized that the question itself was a dodge. Admittedly, my job puts me closer to the seamy edges of the mainstream media world than, say, if I worked in a flower shop. But if one claims that those connected to a company that produces offensive products forfeit their right to complain about other offensive products, then practically no one working in the secular world is safe.
In this day and age, almost every company does business with a company that has some connection with morally offensive TV shows, films, video games, music, clothing, or publications. Even the sweet old lady in the flower shop benefits financially from her connection to 1-800-FLOWERS, which advertises on ABC, which is owned by Disney, which just released a film about a Santa Claus who curses and fornicates.
So Roy's real message is that people with Christian values should stay on the fringes of society, where they have no share in anything immoral—or shut up. (I think he means the latter, because I don't think he wants me to become a nun.) This view, which is shared by many in the secular world, is arrogant in more ways than one. Besides implying that complaining Christians are hypocrites who are not entitled to criticize the world in which they are a part, it shows an assumption that Christians are not essential members of society. Take them out of their secular jobs and into Christian ones, and society would be none the worse.
The good news is that now, more than ever, America's Christians are becoming bolder and more secure in their faith. They are entering the mainstream media, not just with the intention of changing its product, but with the intention of showing their colleagues, through their example, that it is possible to conduct secular business with kindness, integrity, and moral strength.
I'm not in a position to change the world at my job. I just copyedit stories and write headlines. I'd be fooling myself if I thought that writing "Guru's life in the 'fast' lane" (from today's paper) helped bring souls to the Lord.
But I go into work every day thanking God for putting me in the job that I'd longed after for years. I ask Him to bless my employer, my boss, and everyone at the paper, and to let His spirit of peace descend upon the copy desk. I try to smile as much as I can, laugh at co-workers' clean jokes (and sometimes the not-so-clean ones), compliment others' work, and resist the urge to gripe. Admittedly, these things are far easier to do than at any other job I've had, because I genuinely like my job and my co-workers, something else for which I'm thankful.
Of course I can't be Little Mary Sunshine all the time, and I'm not. And it can be depressing composing headline after headline on "knife-slays," "pervs," and two-timing "gal pals." But I consider what I do at work to be a ministry, in the same way that being a Christian anywhere is a ministry. And if anyone asks me the reason for the hope that is in me, I have a miniature Gideons New Testament/Psalms/Proverbs in my desk drawer.
Nobody's asked me yet. Maybe nobody will. But it's there.
2:03 AM
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Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Start Me Up
Do you ever have one of those moments in conversation when you say something that makes perfect sense to you, and the other person has absolutely no idea what you're on about?
It happened to me recently when I was talking with a male friend. We were talking about relationships—always an enlightening topic to discuss with the opposite number—and I commented that, at this point in my life, I believe I should start every relationship as though it were going to resolve into marriage.
And I totally lost him.
I think it must have sounded like I intended every relationship to end in marriage—which thankfully is not the case, otherwise I'd get hurt a lot more often than I do.
I tried to explain to him that it involved not doing anything at the beginning of a relationship that I would later regret. Even if something helps one win a mate, if it involves dishonesty, disrespect, game-playing, or a lack of ual restraint, it's not something one looks back upon fondly after years of marriage.
In the New York City area where I live, whether men and women meet one another in bars, at work, through friends, or through the personals, the for relationships remains the same for many: They become physically intimate to see if they want to be in a relationship.
That used to be my paradigm for a relationship too—the "let's have fun and see if it turns into something" philosophy. The underlying concept is the old Freudian conceit that people ual "needs," and that these needs can exist either on their own, or as the prelude to a relationship, but that it is unnatural to prioritize other types of intimacy ahead of them.
Although I myself do have these "needs"—or, rather, desires—I never really wanted to place them before emotional intimacy. I don't think it's natural for women to operate that way unless they have serious problems with emotional intimacy, and even then, I don't think it makes them happy.
Now that I'm no longer a hopeless fish in New York City's sea of singles, but instead a little ichthus swimming against the current, self-restraint is a priority, as are the other things I mentioned earlier: honesty, respect, and not playing games. Those last three in particular seem obvious, but they go against the nature of dating in a sophisticated urban social world that encourages men and women to hide their true feelings from one another.
The example I should have given my friend is that of drawing a circle. If someone asks you to draw a circle and you agree, you don't get cagey and pretend at first like you're going to draw a square. It messes the whole thing up. If you're a person of your word, you have to start the circle with the same steady curve with which it ends. Otherwise, the whole thing is no good.
Likewise, it's almost impossibly hard to start to draw a perfect circle without a compass, and it's impossible to start a relationship leading to marriage without a moral compass. It's even harder to draw a perfect heart...
12:18 AM
Monday, November 24, 2003
And Now for Something Completely Different
Since last week when WMCA's Kevin McCullough spotlighted my entry about the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign, "Nude, Where's My Country," The Dawn Patrol has been discovered by several other bloggers who purvey a blend of faith-positive messages and conservative commentary, topped with a nonlethal dose of worldly wit. As a result of this unexpected and welcome attention from people whom I'm proud to have as my peers in the blog world, I've been putting extra effort into my posts. This has not gone unnoticed by Eric Siegmund, who sent me a wonderfully supportive e-mail yesterday that nonetheless warned me to pace myself.
With Eric's advice in mind, I do indeed have something completely different tonight, a special treat from the Eden archives. For Monty Python fans, this should be self-explanatory:
12:26 AM
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Sunday, November 23, 2003
The Dawn Patrol Delivers!
Last night at work, I had one of those rare moments where a story hands its own headline to me on a silver platter.
It was a tale of four midwives at St. Vincent's Hospital who quit in anger over what they considered intolerable work rules. For example, they claimed that the hospital insisted that they induce delivery if labor lasted six hours or more.
I know, I know. You can see it coming. Well, I could too. And while I'm not certain that the headline will appear exactly as I wrote it (I get a little comma-happy), I can tell you what I wrote (and my editor approved): "4 midwives quit St. Vincent's, claiming unfair 'labor' practices".
It's a Jungle Out There
After I left work last night, I walked as usual past Sixth Avenue's Rockefeller Center area, which has more tourists each day now that the holiday season is approaching. As I approached 43rd Street, something in front of me caught my eye. A man walking ahead had a metal contraption around his neck that was kind of like a giant version of Bob Dylan's harmonica holder, only there was a horizontal bar where the harmonica would be, and it was in the back. On top of it, above the man's head, was the largest cockatoo I'd ever seen. It was about the size of a small chicken. And it was facing me, bobbing serenely as the man walked along.
As I got within a few feet of the man—a neatly dressed, clean-shaven gent in his 30s with a trendy bangs-across haircut—I noticed some snakeskin hanging off his shoulder. Except...it wasn't snakeskin.
I don't know snakes, but whatever it was, it was about eight feet long. And it looked about as comfortable as the Buddha-like bird. Lucky for me I'm not afraid of those things—at least, not when they're hanging around another person's neck.
I looked over to the man walking beside the snakeman. He too was neatly dressed, clean-shaven, 30s, slightly less trendy hair. And he was holding something that I would not want to find in my apartment.
Saying hello to the snakeman (or should I say birdman), I asked what was that...reptile that his cohort held at his side.
"It's an alligator," he said simply.
He also explained why the walking menagerie. He was a photographer, and they were returning from a photo shoot.
Oh, of course. Silly me. Why didn't I think of that? Don't I know that everyone carries their alligator home from a photo shoot? The night air does them good.
But I didn't get sarcastic with the man. It wouldn't have been advisable under the circumstances anyway. So I said the first thing that came into my head—"That's great!—and went to catch my underground train home.
I did think about whether or not I should report the scene to the police or the paper where I work. But the alligator didn't look like an imminent danger to anyone—it seemed quite calm and content, just like the other creatures—and the man was carrying it in full view, in an area where there was a police presence.
As for reporting it to the paper, well, the truth is, this is New York. Things like that happen all the time. Well, maybe not all the time, but often enough that it's not news.
What I thought, as I walked on past the concrete lions of the New York City Public Library and down through Herald Square, was that when I feel like there's something missing from my daily life, I should remember that at least I work in the most extraordinary city in the world.
12:32 AM
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Saturday, November 22, 2003
Summer of Love
The lovely and enigmatic 18-year-old future "Mamselle X"—also my future Grandma Jessie—surrounded by some of her siblings—clockwise from top: Alma, Marshall, Richard (front), Reggie, and Dan. One of the reasons Clarence Bowles' blog touches me is because it reminds me of the sort of thing my grandfather would have done had he lived to see the age of online journals. Like Clarence, my Grandpa Buddy (Abraham I. Levin) was a nonprofessional writer from a working-class background whose writing had an everyman's touch (though Grandpa was more studiously working-class, having made a conscious effort to come down to earth from his exceedingly cultured upbringing). And while Grandpa was a gruff old man on the outside, when he picked up a pen, he had, like Clarence, the soul of a romantic.
Back in February, I wrote about the unpublished book blending poetry and prose that my grandfather wrote when he was courting my grandmother, Jessica Denenholz, in the summer of 1935, A Fool in Love. (He looks very much in love in the photo-booth shots at left, which I believe were taken on his honeymoon or during his courtship of my grandmother, whose own photo-booth shot is below right.)
As I wrote in that earlier post, when I first rediscovered A Fool in Love, I cried my eyes out. In it, my grandfather, who refers to himself as "Bud" and my grandmother as "Mamselle X," describes how he adored my grandmother from the day they met—June 30, 1935. From that day on, he threw himself into chronicling his love for her, writing poems—often three or more poems per day—which he eagerly presented to her on dates.
Grandma, however, was a tough sell. She was a Cornell graduate, a drama major, who could have had a bright career onstage or as a teacher. Her parents had died and her family had fallen on hard times, so she had financial reasons for needing to get married and settle down. However, she had no shortage of admirers, and I'm sure some were financially stable enough for her to marry (though from what I'm told, Bud was the only one of them, during that Depression era, who had a car).
Although my grandmother was poised and graceful, I think she may have had a youthful wild streak. At any rate, my grandfather seems to have been somewhat cowed by what he perceived as her worldliness and experience.
Bud was a genius who had earned high scores on the Regents (the then-rigorous tests New York City high school students have to take to graduate). On the Spanish test, he actually scored first in his borough (Queens). His scores got him a scholarship to City College, but he sadly had to quit to support his family when his father died (the school cruelly denied him a leave of absence). Although he was a voracious reader with a fine knowledge of the classics (when he and my grandmother were married and didn't want their kids to know what they were saying, they conversed in Latin), he felt clumsy and oafish around the Ivy League-educated and highly cultured Jessica.
OK, enough background. It's three minutes after three and I have a lot of Fool in Love excerpts to type for you before I sleep. Here's Episode 11, the one that made me bawl when I rediscovered the book. As I read it tonight for the first time since February, I thought I could be strong, but I got a few verses down and was all "bwaaaaaaa" again. At the time Bud wrote this, July 23, 1935, he had known Mamselle X for just over three weeks.
Bud to X --
When first the Sun on Eden shone,
And first the Moon was fair,
I think our Love, already grown,
Its roots had planted there.
When Knights in armor made their vows
To flowering Chivalry
I think our Love was growing still
Through ageless History.
And now in Modern times that be
I know in Heart of Mine
Our love has flowered, and brought forth
This Passion so Divine.
And when the Judgement Day shall come
And to Paradise we fare
I know our Loves, shall hand-in-hand
Still be united there.
Flash to Episode 45, Sunday, August 11, 1935:
Weather rainy and drear. May clear up?
* * * *
Mistake #1. Bud calls too early. Goes away to visit friends.
Misunderstanding #2. Bud returns too late.
Unintentional.
(Forgiven??)
* * * *
Off to Jones Beach. Bathe in pool and surf. Sun comes out. Show off before admiring (?) gallery. Wunderbar! Then movies -- and home. Nicest day yet!
* * * *
Ready to say Good Night. Then the bomb-shell! X resolutely throws Bud over -- like a worn-out toy! No more dates -- all FINI!
* * * *
Bud stammers, stutters, pleads, howls, grunts, growls, explains, and more explaining. Finally patches things up -- temporarily anyhow. Everything happy again!
* * * *
Drives home in a daze -- Muttering --
"Whatta girl -- Whatta girl!"
Episode 51, circa August 22, 1935:
Letter
From X
To Bud
Dear Bud:
I do appreciate your swell letters and poetry.
Tomorrow night, as soon as I finish my work, I expect to leave for somewhere with a bathing suit, a toothbrush, and little else.
How would you like a post card?
Don't forget our next date is Sunday, September 8th.
I'll be seein' you.
-- X
Episode 58 (following a series of love poems), August 30, 1935:
Mamselle X Dear:
Just a little note to prove to you that
"An elephant never forgets!"
Of course I ain't quite that heavy yet, but the good times I'm looking forward to may have that effect. Or maybe you'll keep running me so ragget that I'll lose another thirty pounds! We shall see what we shall see.
How you likee sad heart-throb enclosed? If you ever forget me, I hope it'll haunt you. Night and day your every thought will have the weird background of a mysterious voice of dual personality softly sobbing--
"Oh, Dear, who was THAT guy --
Who WAS that Guy --
Who was that GUY ???"
And echo will softly, sweetly, helpfully
Answer --
** BUD --
P?S? Echo will be doing a better job of answering
Then you've been doing to my letters so far!
Relent, Reform, and Repent -- P L E A S E !
Episode 59, August 31, 1935:
From: Mamselle X
To: Bud
Dear Bud:
Returning from my vacation, I found and enjoyed your letters.
But concerning us, I find my feelings are running unmistakeably in the direction of someome else whom I have known for a long time.
Please accept this as the only reason for our not continuing to go out together -- Not even with our next date.
-- Mamselle X
Episode 60, September 4, 1935:
From: Bud
To: Mamselle X
Dear X:
Just got in and of course just read your letter of August 31.
I am thinking primarily of your happiness, Dear, and want to do whatever is best for you.
But I do feel it fair you keep our date for Sunday. I can assure you it will be nothing but a pleasant memory and a last good time together.
Let's do this, and then let the Future be whatever you most desire!
-- Bud
Episode 61, September 6, 1935:
From: Mamselle X
To: Bud
SPECIAL DELIVERY
Dear Bud:
NO!
-- Mamselle X
That is the final chapter of
A Fool in Love. However, there is an Epilogue. (There has to be, or I wouldn't be here.) It doesn't say exactly how my grandparents reconciled, but it does include the following untitled poem, which I think is a nice way to let this sleepy blogger, who is very proud of her romantic grandfather, finish this and get some shut-eye. Please let me know if you've enjoyed reading this entry. This poem actually makes me tear up too, even though it's not really sad—there's something poignant in knowing one is descended from a union that was born of such love:
Oh, I could love Freddie
For Romance so ready --
Or Bessie, so simple and sweet --
Or I could love Molly
So cunning and jolly
Or Frances -- so chic
and petite!
But strictly between us
My love goes to Venus
I've fallen a prey to her charms --
For there's many a Miss
Who's wanting a kiss,
But Venus -- I know
Wants two arms!
POSTSCRIPT: My grandparents' marriage lasted 46 years, until Grandma Jessie died in 1982 at the age of 70. Grandpa was disconsolate and died a few years later. They had six kids, most of whom you can see at left in a 1942 photo. Besides Grandma, still with her Mona Lisa smile, there's (from left) my mother Rachel, Polly, and the twins Becky and Hank.
Both my grandparents placed a very high value on education (as did my father's parents as well). I for one am impressed that, while the family endured many years of hard times and was never what I would call wealthy, every kid in that photo not only went to college, but got a graduate degree—some more than one.
Above right are my grandparents at their 30th anniversary party in April 1966. I love it that even though they've been married three decades, Grandpa still has the body language that says, "Don't even think about it, Mac. She's my girl." You can tell how much it means to him to be able to protect her.
And here's how I remember Grandpa Buddy: as the maker of cardboard carpentry. During the 1970s, he and my grandmother had their own cardboard carpentry workshop in their basement, where they invented all kinds of cardboard toys. They would go into schools to do programs with kids, showing them how they could make and decorate things like a miniature house or car using cardboard and household items. In this photo, Grandpa is holding a school bus and a police car.
2:21 AM
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Friday, November 21, 2003
The Heavenly Hillbilly
I am from tag soap and Robin Hood flour
I am from RC Cola and Moon Pies
The fragrance of the general store at the head of the holler
The pot-bellied stove with it stable of whittlers
Spinning tall tales, spitting ambure* into rusted cans
I am from poverty and want, egg money and wood fired cooking stove, ashes on the floor that are swept through the cracks in the poplar flooring planks
I am from under the house playing with chickens and pups
Searching for Doodle Bugs to call from their pits
I am from Floyd Charles, Lula Marie and Carrie June
I am sturdy stock, strong of back and will
I am bathed in Moonshine, reared in slate piles,
Coal mine grit rubs thin places in my ruddy skin...
In case you're wondering, no, I did not write that remarkable bit of poetry. Despite having spent nine years of my young life in Galveston, Texas, I myself am from underground trains with remants of tabloid newspapers scattered on the seats, all-night Korean delis with fake-crabmeat sushi rolls, and twentysomething women who walk the bar-strewn streets with gangs of friends on Friday and Saturday nights in 50-degree weather wearing jeans and a low-cut top with no cover-up.
No, those verses are from "Where I Am From," by Clarence Bowles, a 63-year-old self-styled "hillbilly philosopher" from Kenton County, Kentucky whose four-week-old Can You Hear Me Now blog is the most unusual and rewarding online read that I've discovered in a long time.
I would almost call Bowles the literary equivalent of a blissfully unaffected folk artist or outsider musician, only he's got just enough blogosphere worldliness that you know he's no fool. He comes from a Southern literary tradition that evokes Carson McCullers and a Pentecostal Harry Golden.** He writes with the sort of disarming candor that blogs are supposed to have but rarely do. Here's a typical gem, from his "About Me" page: "I have four grown children and have been married to the same woman for over 32 years. Can't find anything to complain about where she is concerned and only wish that the same were true for her. She deserves better but seems determined to stick with the choice she made. One tough lady is she."
With the current vogue for authors from down-home, non-literary backgrounds, I wouldn't be surprised if a literary agent (maybe even one who reads this blog, hint, hint) snapped Bowles up. One more excerpt, from an entry that had special meaning for me, titled "Looking at life with one eye":
"I can't see it!" she said.
How can she not see it? It's right in front of her, just a bit over her head, in the upper left corner of the patio door's glass panel. The bright sky as background, and the Ladybug moving along at a good pace for a small bug. Surely she can pick up on the movement.
Gail and I were calling out location coordinates as if we were all involved in a game of Battleship. I could see it so plainly, even from my seat at the kitchen table. It was then I realized that she didn't have on her glasses. It's easy to forget that Maureen has only one good eye and it needs help from a strong prescription lens to help her make her way through life.
I wish I could take responsibility for discovering Bowles, but the truth is, not only have many others discovered him during the short time his blog's been live, but he found me (through Eric Siegmund's Fire Ant Gazette, I think). He wrote with some thoughts on my post on being a Jew who has accepted Jesus and asked, "What in tarnation is super-ultra-new-improved-crunchy Whizzo Christianity?"
What I meant by that was that some well-meaning Christians, in congratulating me for discovering Jesus, act as though I've gone from total unenlightenment to enlightenment. They seem to think of Judaism as something that is simply an ignorant choice—like using the bargain brand of single-ply paper towels—and can't understand why anyone would stay with it when there clearly is a better alternative.
That unwittingly superior attitude offends me, because it ignores the fact that Judaism is a great religion that comes from God, and Jews are upholding a godly heritage that extends back thousands of years. Just because the veil remains over the eyes of the Jewish people (Paul's analogy for the Jews' not recognizing their Messiah) does not take away the great holiness and wisdom of their faith, the foundation of Christianity.
Now I'm annoyed at myself for bringing this back to me, when it's supposed to be about Clarence Bowles. Read his blog. You'll thank me. And if you sign him to a literary agency, my finder's fee is a sushi meal. I wonder how far one has to go in Kenton County, Kentucky to find good sushi.
*"Ambure" is Bowles's spelling for "ambeer," which is tobacco juice. All excerpts used by permission.
**While searching for articles on Harry Golden, I found an excellent, sensitively written article that sheds light on some the problems in Jewish-Christian relations that I discussed in my "Mets Call the Whole Thing Off" post: "The Two Faces of Billy Graham," by Dennis Roddy. If you read it, please read it to the end, as it starts out appearing to be an anti-Graham piece but is actually a nuanced look at the roots of misunderstandings.
2:25 AM
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Thursday, November 20, 2003
Confessions of a Masticator
A NEW DAWN: Me in 1987 (age 19) and today.
Tired of
waiting for that elusive sugar-daddy boyfriend, I took matters into my own hands last night and bought myself a pair of jeans that fit—two, in fact, since they were on sale. (I mention that last bit because my mom reads this blog and I know she will be proud of me.) I won't tell you where I bought them because it's too embarrassing, but rest assured it was
not Abercrombie & Fitch.
The big news is the size: 6. That's the smallest size I've been in my adult life.
Back when the above-left photo was taken, I was 40 pounds heavier than I am now, on a diet that was taking me from an 18 (the largest size I ever wore) to a 16. For most of my adult life, I barely squeezed into a size 12 or 14. My current size is the result of losing 25 lbs. a couple of years ago, and then an extra 10 over the past few months.
Recently, when I read Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson for the first time, one quality of Johnson's resonated with me. Boswell noted a few times that Johnson confessed to being incapable of temperance. He could eat or drink to excess, or he could abstain, but he could do nothing in between. That's my story. Not that I've been starving myself—far from it. But I can't eat many of my favorite foods anymore. My fear is that if I eat one thing that I've been avoiding, the floodgates will open and I'll be unable to stop.
What do I miss? I'm glad you asked. I've mentioned some of these things in an earlier post, but I'm sure I can think of some new ones: Cheez Doodles (serving size=7-oz. bag); Ben & Jerry's ice cream, or any ice cream (serving size=1 pint); milkshakes; anything chocolate; french fries; Kentucky Fried Chicken; fried anything; pasta; muffins that aren't fat-free; pretty much any kind of dessert or pastry (the only ones I can manage these days are Tasti D-Lite fat-free "frozen dessert" and fat-free cookies); butter (especially on bread or baked potatoes); peanut butter (in a sandwich or out of the jar); alcohol (I'm not much of a drinker, but even one drink can cause water retention, according to the Diet Center, where I used to work as a counselor);and the list goes on...
The reason I've made these sacrifices is that I really, really like being thin (or thinner; the message that I am thin never quite made it to my brain, probably blocked by the ghastly "Vegetarian Turkey Salad" thingies that I make myself eat instead of real food). It's gotten to the point where it has spiritual consequences. Clearly, my weight has become not only an obsession, but an idol in my life. And I'm not sure what to do about that, other than what is probably the best thing: pray on it. I need to follow Paul's exhortation that whatever I do, I should do it to God's glory.
It's funny how one's fantasies change over time. I used to fantasize about being thin, thinking that it would make me more attractive to men. Now, I have a new fantasy, and it does involve a man, but it also involves food.
As I said, right now I feel like I can't allow myself to eat any of the foods I miss, for fear that I might lose my resistance and go back to eating the way I used to eat, regaining some or all of that weight. My fantasy is to meet a man who makes me feel so loved and accepted that I could go out for dinner with him, eating all the things I've been avoiding—garlic bread, wine, the goopy dressing on the salad, the big bowl of pasta, the chocolate cheesecake—and not be afraid of what might happen if the floodgates were opened.
I'd have to feel really loved and accepted to take a risk like that...especially with the garlic bread.
5:17 AM
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Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Mets Call the Whole Thing Off
On Sunday, someone at my work was talking about how the paper was going to publish an article in which five people of different backgrounds gave their views after watching a rough cut of Mel Gibson's "The Passion of Christ."
"They should have asked me," I said.
My co-worker, who knew I'm a Jew who's accepted Jesus, said, "They wouldn't have wanted your opinion, because you would have come at it from a religious standpoint."
"That's why they should have asked me," I said. "Because I'm Jewish too. They could have done a 'Tale of the Tape' just with me. 'I think it's anti-Semitic.'/'No, it's not.'"
By this point, both of us were cracking up.
Gibson's depiction of Jews in the film, as described in media accounts, does not surprise me because he is a traditionalist Catholic. I have friends who are traditionalist Catholics, and I know that they believe what non-traditionalist Catholics and some Christian sects also believe—that the body of Christian believers has replaced Israel in God's eyes.
These people do not hate Jews. They look upon Jews as quaint relics. As much as they would like to believe what Paul says in Romans 11:1, that God has certainly not forsaken His people, they cannot conceive of what Paul describes as "a remnant" of Jews who will be saved. At the very least, they think it a very small remnant, and not enough to make it worth their trying to understand that Jews have never lost their importance to God.
I've noticed a pattern when I make friends with a traditionalist Catholic. (I would just write, "when I make friends with a Catholic," but it seems that all my Catholic friends are traditionalists.) After discussing religious and political issues with me for a while, they say something like, "We'll win you over."
I can't blame them for thinking I'm on the path to Catholicism, and I feel bad for disappointing them. I probably come off as a proto-Catholic to a lot of people when I talk about my love of G.K. Chesterton and honorary Catholic C.S. Lewis, and when I espouse my views in favor of family values and against the culture of death. And as far as the traditionalist wing's rejection of post-Vatican II popery goes, one look at my record collection tells you I already believe that practically nothing good happened after 1965.
But while I do in fact have serious reservations about certain Catholic doctrines, the main thing that's kept me from joining the Catholic Church, or any church, is the feeling of being an outsider. When I visit a church and the people there find out I'm Jewish, they tend to welcome me with this attitude of, "Congratulations! You've found something better!" It's as though I switched to New Coke or something. Pity those poor non-choosy Jews out there who haven't yet discovered super-ultra-new-improved-crunchy Whizzo Christianity.
What those well-meaning churchgoers don't realize is that I'm not switching to an aesthetically superior experience just by entering a place where the stained-glass windows depict the crucifixion of Jesus instead of the sacrifice of Isaac. Synagogue services have it all over church services.
At a good Conservative or Orthodox temple, I can pray like they did in Jesus' time, chanting in Hebrew to beautiful melodies. Many of the prayers describe hope for eternal life and the coming of the Messiah. There's also time for silent prayer and meditation. Best of all, the Word of God is brought out and read in the original language from a beautiful parchment roll like the one Jesus read from when he was asked to give the reading from Isaiah. The difference between a Jewish service's long, intense, ancient Hebrew prayers and a Christian service's comparatively lightweight, condensed, Evelyn Wood-like, copyright 1997 (revised 2002) English liturgy, is like the difference between experiencing a two-hour game at Shea Stadium and watching the five-minute coverage of it on the 11 o'clock news.
The catch is that the temple service is Game 4 of the 1969 World Series and the church service is Game 5.
If you're not a baseball fan, what I'm saying is that the temple service is the experience of surviving the battle but not winning the ultimate prize—waiting for a savior who has not yet come—and the church service is the experience of victory through Christ. So for me, in deciding where to worship, the choice is, would I rather have a deep spiritual experience that is ultimately unfulfilling, or a thin glossy one that reminds me of the Truth?
I'm afraid that until I find a church that understands Jews not just as curiosities but as branches from the same olive tree on which Gentiles have been grafted, I'll just stay home.
3:15 AM
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Hed of the Grass
On Monday, when I had to write a headline for a story about a Court TV poll that showed most people believe Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone, I wanted to write something that would reflect the obsessiveness of JFK-assassination buffs. I'm not putting them down; I have friends who are assassination buffs, and, as an outsider to that world, I'm amused by the depth of their fascination.
I was thinking particularly of an old friend I haven't seen in a while, a talented musician and Sixties-pop superfan named Scott Finter. He was the first person I knew who had a video of the Zapruder film that showed it frame by frame. I don't recall that he actually believed in a conspiracy, but he had a thorough knowledge all the angles from which people had argued conspiracy theories. And that's how, armed with a mental image of him, I had my headline: "Conspiracy knoll-it-alls top JFK poll."
1:40 AM
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Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Nude, Where's My Country?
I've been having a nagging loneliness lately—the kind that, if I'm not vigilant, can devolve into open self-deprecation and self-pity. So I've done a few things to get my mind off it (cue French horns; we are now reverting to point-form):
- Thanked God for saving me from real loneliness.
- Made plans to have dinner this week with my good pals Kittybeat and Michael Lynch to discuss the next installment of our POP GEAR! dance night at Rififi (Dec. 13).
- Bought a pair of the sexy knee-high black leather boots I've wanted for years—and, since they were half-off, bought a second pair too.
- Signed my name to the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" online petition.
Now, especially if you know me, you will notice that one of these things is very different from the others.
Since when did I ever desire to waste any brain cells on Abercrombie & Fitch? Since when did I ever allow myself to pronounce the name of that preppy bastion? Since when could I ever conceive of why anyone would see some shapeless gray sweater in its window and think, "My life will be enhanced if only I spend $150 on this item"? When God delivered me from the copy desk of Women's Wear Daily, I thought that Abercrombie & Fitch could be safely relegated to my mental graveyard along with Federated Department Stores, Tom Ford, Pillowtex, "earnings before interest, tax, dividends, and appreciation," and Suzy.
That changed the other day when I heard WMCA "Good Guy" Kevin McCullough exhort listeners to read his WorldNetDaily editorial and join the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" campaign. The campaign is in protest of the chain's new Christmas "magalog," which follows its path of recent years by including several dozen photos of partially or totally nude teens and youths. Teens on teens, gay, straight, every which way, naked as jaybirds. Marketed to teens (though supposedly only for those 18 and over), the magalog boasts on its cover of "Group Sex" and includes articles advising teens entering college to have as many sexual partners as possible—and that's the mildest of its many sex tips. McCullough's call to action sounded like just another boycott, but I was curious enough to visit the Web sites he mentioned.
Notice I wrote, "just another boycott." Fundamentalists like the Rev. Donald Wildmon have been trying to clean up pop culture for years, and, like most people, I ignore them. I believe in free speech—short of shouting "theater" in a crowded fire—and I generally think it's useless to try to stem the flood of immoral trash that overwhelms our airwaves, theaters, TVs, computers, bookstores, and newsstands. Moreover, there are gems in that trash—even Playboy had a good interview with John Lennon once—and self-appointed censors aren't known for their grasp of nuance. I'm old enough to remember how Randy Newman was hung out to dry for "Short People."
With that in mind, I viewed the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" Web site with suspicion. However, I was soon won over—not just by the campaign's techniques, which eschew Wildmonesque intimidation in favor of a grass-roots petition initiative, but by two words in the petition: "moral relativism." It said, "With over 50 pictures featuring nude or partially nude youth models and a clear message that sexual immorality must be embraced to be cool, A&F has clearly become one of our culture’s most aggressive promoters of sexual hedonism and moral relativism to America’s youth."
My first reaction was laughter. It's quixotic enough to think that one can stop pornography with a petition. How can one even presume to stop moral relativism, which is the religion of our age? Just the idea of telling people that a catalogue promotes moral relativism is like telling a cigarette manufacturer that their products cause global warming. They probably do, but the causal relationship, and the drop-in-bucket effect if the offending action were stopped, seems too minor to contemplate.
But when I thought about it, I realized that the The National Coalition for the Protection of Children and Families, which sponsors the "Stop Abercrombie & Fitch" campaign, had the right idea. We should unmask moral relativism as the real agenda behind this particularly heinous kind of advertising. We should refuse to pay obeisance to the god of our age. And we should give teenagers the message that they deserve to be loved for who they are inside, and they should save their love for someone who will treat them as more than just a body to be used and discarded.
In a letter notifying Abercrombie & Fitch of the petition campaign, National Coalition president Rick Schatz writes, "You diminish the values of many of the catalog’s readers with a philosophy that says personal restraint is a hindrance to happiness."
That's not a media soundbite. That's profound stuff. I signed that petition, and I hope you will too.
1:36 AM
Monday, November 17, 2003
You Must Remember This
I don't go to nightclubs much these days, but when I do, something interesting usually happens—something that's exciting but stops short of "back to my place." That's probably a good thing, considering that I'm a bit too old and moralistic for such hijinks. All right, if you must—it's not probably, but certainly a good thing.
At a nightclub last week, I felt a hand rubbing my fur. Don't worry, it was fake fur—though I reserve the right to wear the real thing if it's been dead longer than I've been alive. I turned around to see the source of the shoulder-stroke and it was a man who had been a good friend of mine for a few years in the early-to-mid-Nineties.
I'd had a crush on him way back when—not an obsessive one, just a wouldn't-it-be-nice-to-kiss-him-and-see-what-happens kind of crush—but nothing ever came of it. He went on to settle down with someone, and we eventually drifted apart for reasons unrelated to my attraction. Since then, I'd occasionally run into him and we were cordial to each other, but, until this occasion, it had been a while since we'd last met.
He greeted me warmly and we talked for a few minutes about old times. Then he let loose with a bombshell—something no man has ever, ever said to me.
"I remember when I first kissed you," he said.
My jaw dropped—noticeably—and my eyes took on that kind of glaze that they take when I'm thinking, "Does not compute."
"Do you remember?" he asked.
Homina homina homina.
I let him remind me of the circumstances and tried to form a mental picture. After a moment, I had enough of an idea of what happened to be able to insinuate to him that I remembered, but I was really at a loss. I remembered imagining kissing him, but not actually kissing him.
Yet I had no doubt that he was telling the truth. People don't usually lie about those things, and this was a man of integrity—one of the reasons I liked him—who was not known for messing with women's heads.
After we parted—with kind words but no smooch—I was left to wonder, how could I forget such a thing? Am I a cad?
Now, having thought about it, my best guess is that I blocked out the "first time" he kissed me [does that mean there was a second? A third?] because I was embarrassed. He was a good friend of mine at the time, yet I couldn't resist flirting with him. It probably took many months of flirting to win that one smooch. Once I got it, I probably felt silly for trying to push the boundaries of our friendship when I knew I wasn't really a love match for him—and maybe even realized he wasn't one for me.
But that he himself should still remember it, and fondly—wow!
So, class, what have we learned?
One lesson I'll take from this is that I should stop assuming that men aren't romantic. I sometimes find myself falling into this stupid New York (Sex-and-the-)City proto-spinsterian cynicism, thinking that men don't experience romantic feelings the way I do. Apparently, on some level, they can experience them even more than I do.
2:23 AM
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If you tried to read Eric Siegmund's blog that I mentioned in a couple of recent posts, or if you tried to read the entry he wrote about The Dawn Patrol, please try again, as I've fixed the links.
1:05 AM
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Sunday, November 16, 2003
Gear Itself
POP GEAR! at Rififi on November 8 was a shining success, with twice the crowd as our Columbus Day weekend debut. People were dancing to the mid-'60s pop platters spun by me, Kate, and Michael Lynch, staring transfixed at the poptastic vintage vids [Overheard: "Is that 'Fantom'?" and, "This is the one where Flint's brainwashed into thinking he's a psychiatrist..."], or just digging the scene.
I should really buy a digital camera so I won't have to rely upon the kindness of strangers—or, in this case, Mom and Ron, who brought a disposable camera. The photo above of me with Bill and this lovely shot pairing me with Kate are the only really good 'uns from the roll. Bill surprised me by being a super dancer—he rivaled my other fave-rave dance partners Michael Lynch and Pat Lozito for best male dancer on the floor. (The best female dancer, myself excluded, was Kelly, who, with her flowing brown hair, floral minidress, and knee-high boots, seemed to have stepped straight off the set of the '60s Europop TV show "Beat Club.")
Beautiful Kate has been told that she looks like silent-screen legend Lillian Gish, and I can't resist the opportunity to do a "Separated at Birth." That's Gish in the photo at right (from the excellent fan site SilentLadies.com).
I unfortunately don't have a shot of Michael, who looked fab that night with his paisley shirt and characteristic Michael Clarke hair (I prefer comparing him to Clarke than to a certain Mr. Jones, because I don't like mentioning That Band if I can help it). But I can share Michael's memories of the evening, which he sent to me and Kate the next day:
My two favorite moments of last night:
1) What a cool moment that was when Dawn first started playing "'Til The End Of The Day." During those three intro chords, there was instantly this vibe of everyone in the room basically stopping what they were doing, as if to say "Ah, I have to dance to this one!" That was great!
2) Hearing Blair recite the intro right along with [Cavern Club emcee] Bob Wooler when I played the Big Three record. I didn't know it was Blair at first...I could tell it was someone sitting near where he was...but I wrote him today and asked him, and his exact words:
"Yes, I'm the geek."
LOL.
Michael also sent a list of every record he played, which follows. The next POP GEAR! is Saturday, December 13—see you there! For more info, drop me a line (e-mail address art left). Michael played:ANIMALS I'm Going To Change The World/BANANA SPLITS You're The Lovin' End/BANANA SPLITS Doin' The Banana Split/BAND OF ANGELS Not True As Yet/BEATLES A Hard Day's Night/BEATLES Help!/BEAU BRUMMELS Ain't That Lovin' You Baby/BIG THREE What'd I Say/DAY BROTHERS I Wanna Be Your Man/ELECTRIC PRUNES Ain't It Hard/ADAM FAITH We Are In Love/ GERRY AND THE PACEMAKERS It's Gonna Be All Right/GUESS WHO Shakin' All Over/JON HENDRICKS Fire In The City/LIVERBIRDS Oh No Not My Baby/MINDBENDERS Off And Running/MINDBENDERS I Want Her She Wants Me/MONKEES Pleasant Valley Sunday/MONKEES Let's Dance On/ MOODY BLUES Go Now/MOVING SIDEWALKS 99th Floor/LOS SHAKERS Break It All/LULU The Boat That I Row/N' BETWEENS Delighted To See You/ADRIENNE POSTA Shang-A-Doo-Lang/POWDER Hate To See Her Go/ PRETTY THINGS Roadrunner/P.J. PROBY Hold Me/RICHARD AND THE YOUNG LIONS You Can Make It/ROLLING STONES Around And Around/ ROLLING STONES Empty Heart/SEARCHERS Doncha Know/SORROWS Let The Live Live/CAT STEVENS Come On And Dance/WARLOCKS (The Grateful Dead, pre name-change) I Know You Rider
1:18 AM
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Saturday, November 15, 2003
Eric the Read
Reading the "About the Publisher" section of Eric Siegmund's blog, I found a section in which Eric described his religious beliefs. It impressed me because it coincided so closely with my own, plus I liked its candor and wit. Eric's given me permission to reprint it below, along with a related item from the same page.
Two caveats: (1) Eric's bolder than I am in noting the relative merits of this world and the next. I normally avoid that because I don't want non-Christians to think I don't care about people who are suffering in this life. I do care. And I can tell from the rest of Eric's blog that he does too. (2) I admire Eric's being able to promise not to beat people over the head with his faith. I have not yet mastered the head-beating urge, though I'm working on it. Other than that, Eric's statements—including those on computer platforms—reflect the views of The Dawn Patrol:
Theology: Notice I chose this term over the more frequently used "religion"? I trust you're perceptive enough to understand the distinction, and the implications. But this area merits a little more detail, as it's important to me (unlike politics). Sometimes labels are helpful, even though no one likes being labeled ("I'm much too, um, complex for that"). In my case, you can label me a "conservative, born-again Christian" if that's something you understand and relate to (whether you agree with it or not). I believe in moral absolutes, and I look to God to help me make distinctions between right and wrong. I believe in Heaven and Hell as real places (as opposed to, say, Orlando and Las Vegas, which are obviously figments of someone's deranged imagination). I believe this life on earth is but a pale foreshadowing of that to come, and I can take great comfort in an eternal perspective of events that only seem to be unbearable at the present time. This also allows me to ultimately be an optimist, even if I present a very cynical view of events and people. And, finally, I'd very much like for you to have this same optimism (aka peace, love, joy and all those good things that sometimes seem just out of reach). But I won't beat you about the head if you decline.
Computer Platform: I suppose I should have included this under "Theology"...I'm a Mac user, of course.
3:41 PM
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P.F. Floater
I haven't had a lot of great headlines since Wednesday's "BLOATED 'ROSIE," but I do have a nice little nod to P.F. Sloan in today's paper. It's for a "floater"—a photo that's not attached to an article—depicting the singers* Eve, Sting, and Mary J. Blige at the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Since they were there as a sideline to a night of lingerie-clad models, I went for a triple-pun: "Eve of seduction." My editor added a "The" before it, but the musical reference is still clear.
It's a good feeling to be able to use my media power to honor one of my favorite songwriters. Now, if I can just find a way to work "That's Cool, That's Trash" into a headline...
*None of which deserve bold type.
2:06 PM
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Friday, November 14, 2003
Renee's Walk
My friend Linus's enthusiasm for my Left Banke-related posts got me re-interested in Renee Fladen. I was the first writer to ever publish the last name of the inspiration for "Walk Away Renee,"* as well as the group members' description of her as a beautiful, flaxen-haired dancer—which is why she also inspired the group's other Top 20 hit, "Pretty Ballerina." I was also the first to reveal that she dated members of the Left Banke, but not the group's main songwriter, Michael Brown—which is why she reportedly also inspired still another song from their first album, "She May Call You Up Tonight" (though I can't recall offhand if I ever got Brown to verify that).
A Google search for "Renee Fladen" turned up a two-year-old thread on a Left Banke Yahoo group—which I didn't even know existed (and which has an astonishing 221 members!)—about what happened to Renee. Contrary to what a band member told me about her being a housewife in Philadelphia, according to some Web sites, she now teaches voice (including opera) and is a classical singer in San Francisco under the name Renee Fladen-Kamm.
As far as I could tell, the Yahoo group members never actually contacted Renee themselves; they just found Web pages about her. I'm tempted to contact her, only I don't really have reason to do so other than curiosity, and I don't know what she'd think about my having written of what others claim to have been her personal life (though the details are nearly 40 years old).
But I'd like to think that Renee would look favorably upon me, because I confirmed what she has probably been telling people ever since "Walk Away Renee" first hit in 1966: that it's about her. One of the mentions of her on the Web is from a member of a band called Outgrabe who says the Renee from "Walk Away Renee" was his voice teacher. He wouldn't have known that if she hadn't told him (unless he read my articles, that is), so she must be proud of it.
*I wrote about Renee Fladen in my interview-based articles on the Left Banke that appeared in The Bob (1986) and Goldmine (1987), and also in Bob Shannon and John Javna's book Behind the Hits (1986), for which I provided research assistance.
9:58 PM
Read This Only if You Are My Mother
I think many of my readers* read the satirical publication The Onion regularly and have already seen the fictitious story "Mom Finds Out About Blog," but I just discovered it myself and I know it would make you laugh. While I can't relate to the concept of "blog as excuse to write about drugs and sex"—even if I were doing such things, I wouldn't write about them—and you know I don't curse if I can help it, I think you'll agree there are still some similarities to real life. I practically fell over laughing at the mom's concern that her son "looked tired" in his blog photos.
*Truthfully, I don't read The Onion much because it's so anti-God. And I'm not just writing that to make you proud of me.
8:16 PM
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Diet of Worms
My Web stats inform me that I am a worm. Let me clarify that. The Dawn Patrol is a Wiggly Worm in the Blogosphere Ecosystem of The Truth Laid Bear, meaning that relatively few blogs link to it.
If my status advances to Crunchy Crustacean or even Lowly Insect, I will have at least two bloggers to thank: Oscar Jr. and Eric Siegmund. My Web stats showed that Oscar had linked to The Dawn Patrol, and his blog in turn showed me that Eric had linked to it as well. I've never had contact with either blogger, and it's a great surprise to find that both have written kind and thoughtful plugs for this page.
Oscar reviewed The Dawn Patrol as part of his project to review all the blogs in Truth Laid Bear's Ecosystem. I can't get over that out of the thousands of blogs he has to choose from, mine is only #7. His review is short, so I won't spoil it for you by quoting from it here, but I like it that he appreciated David Chelsea's illustration (left) and Michael Lynch's jingle (which you can hear by clicking on the Dawn Patrol logo).
Eric Sigmund, whose blog is called The Fire Ant Gazette, writes in his Dawn Patrol review that he also liked the illustration and jingle. In addition, he enjoyed something I wrote on my main page, Gaits of Eden, but, again, I won't spoil it for you.
It really is heartwarming to read praise of my writings from total strangers. I was feeling kind of lonely today—partly my own fault, as I'm not as good at keeping up with friends as I should be (though my Bizarro World work schedule does make it difficult)—and these blogs gave me an unexpected boost.
12:10 AM
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Thursday, November 13, 2003
Luck of the Iris
I went to see my stepfather today, as he is a low-vision specialist and I had been having blurred vision when wearing my contacts. He discovered that I had eyelashes growing on the wrong side of my lids, causing my eyes to react by producing a protective layer of...stuff. And, yes, he plucked the offending lashes—gently, I'm happy to say.
But that's not the news. The news is that he discovered that my left eye, which is my lazy eye, now requires a lower prescription. That's partly because I'm getting older—hey, I'm 35—and nearsighted people have a window of time when their vision improves before they need to have bifocal correction.
The other reason for the improvement is that my left eye is working harder. Three years after my third and most recent operation to correct my lazy eye, my eyes are edging closer to true binocular vision. My eyes still appear much straighter than they really are—my right eye does the vast majority of the work—but I think it's miraculous that my left eye is participating more. These things do not generally happen later in life, especially if one is not actively engaging in eye exercises and the like.
If any of this interests you, you would probably enjoy an article for The Forward after my last eye operation, describing what it was like to grow up with lazy-eye and how my life changed after my left eye was made straighter.
8:30 PM
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The Best Things in Life Are Freberg
Last night, I completely redid my Stan Freberg page, adding the main article I wrote about him in 1996 (previously, only the sidebar about his advertising career had been available). You are hereby requested to read the short (by Dawn Eden standards), easily digestible profile of America's greatest living comic genius, who's influenced everyone from the "Saturday Night Live" creators to Monty Python and, I have no doubt, the writers of "The Simpsons." His career spans classic Warner Brothers cartoons, hit records (his "John and Marsha" was the fastest-selling record in Capitol's history), and outrageously funny ads. I was greatly honored to have the opportunity to interview him.
7:18 PM
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By Norge
I see from my Web statistics that someone from the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation has been visiting The Dawn Patrol. How exciting! Do drop a line (e-mail address at left) and say hello.
7:14 PM
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Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Banke of Philadelphia
I know a lot of you out there enjoy reading about the Left Banke, so here's an anecdote I've never heard about them, courtesy of Steve Harvey:
A friend of mine saw them early on down at John Wanamaker's [department store in Philadelphia] where they played in front of the Eagle [a huge statue inside, which was the store's symbol]. Had to play 'Day Tripper' three times to fill out their one set!
12:27 AM
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Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Death Be Not Prodded
My friend Kevin Walsh has a well-considered response to my entry about why I am pro-life. Normally, I would put his response right after my entry, but this time I'm putting it first, because he puts the issue in a gentler light than I do and so can ease you into my cri de coeur:
As you may know (or you may not...I avoid politics in Forgotten NY so that everyone can enjoy it) I am pretty much a political independent. I don't like abortion, but in some cases, you have to have it where the life of the mother is at stake. I don't have stats on how often that situation comes up.
However: I believe that for too many on the Left, death is the solution to too many problems, even though most leftists are against the death penalty (as I am). Death in the case of abortion, which represents, to them, the ideal of feminism because it allows women to make their own 'choice' and death in the case of euthanasia, in which death is the answer to high medical bills. Many leftists propose looking into euthanasia as well.
My family and I agreed with Calvary Hospital this summer that no extraordinary means would be taken to prolong my father's life. But if euthanasia were legalized, there's no way I'd allow them to do it.
[Dawn wrote:]"I like [a statement Reagan made about abortion] because it points out the importance of, as he puts it, giving life the benefit of the doubt."
Death is the answer to too many things in the world these days. We should try to turn that around.
11:49 PM
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Fetal Attraction
The Weekly Standard's Web site has an informative article by Fred Barnes that also appeared in the Wall Street Journal: "How Ronald Reagan founded the modern pro-life movement."
The article includes a quotation from Reagan that is the most succint nonreligious argument against abortion that I've seen:
"I have often said that when we talk about abortion, we are talking about two lives--the life of the mother and the life of the unborn child. . . . Anyone who doesn't feel sure whether we are talking about a second human life should clearly give life the benefit of the doubt. If you don't know whether a body is alive or dead, you would never bury it. I think this consideration itself should be enough for all of us to insist on protecting the unborn."
I often think that I should get more involved in trying to make the world a better place by becoming more active politically, as a volunteer, or both. While I've yet to settle on what to do—and I admit I'm not looking as actively as I should—I'd most like to help an organization that is aimed at making abortions illegal or dissuading women from getting abortions.
Politically and socially, there is really no issue more important than this. It is literally a life or death issue, brutally destroying the lives of one-and-a-half-million Americans every year. We don't think about it because we're so used to it, and we don't see the dead bodies. A woman's pregnant—and then she's not. The person inside her gets sucked down a trash chute.
To any sane human being, this is disgusting, yet we sanction it, because we're so afraid of making men and women responsible for the consequences of their sexual activity.
I didn't always think this way. I hated Reagan when he was president. I remember when he was shot and I quipped to someone, "You know what those bumper stickers said—"Reagan in '80/Bush in '81." I was only 12 then, but by the time 1988 came, I was old enough to vote—and I voted for Dukakis. Back then, one would have been hard pressed to find any item on the liberal Democratic agenda with which I didn't agree—including abortion, which I considered a right. That was the case from my childhood through the late 1990s.
Then I changed, and, yes, the change had to do with receiving strong faith. But when that faith gave me a new perspective on abortion, I realized that on a purely material level, I had been taking an obviously irrational view.
Believing in the rightness of abortion requires so many compromises, both moral and intellectual, all the way down the line. I like Reagan's statement because it points out the importance of, as he puts it, giving life the benefit of the doubt.
9:30 PM
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It Figures
I admit it. I wrote the banner headline for the story in today's paper on how Rosie magazine's publisher inflated its circulation numbers: "BLOATED 'ROSIE.'"
5:12 PM
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Just One Smile...
...is all you'll see in the photo of me and a very relaxed-looking Randy Newman that I just put up on Gaits of Eden. I put it up because Peter Horvath wrote to say he'd seen enough of the photo of me with Mike Smith, which had been up for six months or so. Here on dawneden.com, We Play Your Requests!
POP GEAR! went wonderfully Saturday night. I'll write about it later this week when the pix arrive, but in the meantime, I'll refer you to the kind entry that Linus wrote about it on the Home Office label's witty Weblog, Pepper of the Earth, which was nudity-free last time I checked.
2:14 AM
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Monday, November 10, 2003
Baring Fruit
I like to think that among my lurkers or known readers is at least one writer or aspiring writer who enjoys getting an inside view into the workings of a fellow scribe. So, if you are that reader, perhaps you'll be interested to read a snippet I discovered while attempting to clean out some computer files. (I say "attempting" because I'm one of those people who has trouble throwing things away.)
It was a snippet of a review I'd begun of Outrageous Cherry's album Out There in the Dark.
I never finished the review, probably because I wasn't excited enough about the album. I was attempting it at a time when it was slowly dawning on me that I could no longer make myself write about anything that I didn't either love or hate. Since the music I hate almost never deserves the press, and since most of the new music I love comes out on tiny indie labels that paying magazines don't care about, this meant I pretty much gave up on pitching review editors. (I still write occasional longform research pieces on Sixties pop, including the liner notes to Varese Vintage's upcoming 10cc collection.)
My computer file on Outrageous Cherry turned out to contain only a single sentence that I'd intended for my record review. That happens a lot, where I think of a good sentence that belongs in the middle of a piece, and then write around it. If I may say so myself, I still think this is a great line—anyone who would like Outrageous Cherry would probably understand the reference points I used to illustrate the lead singer's voice:
His earnest, slightly flat vocals can be endearing in an adolescent kind of way, like a cross between the Flamin' Groovies' Cyril Jordan and Joey Ramone with most of his adenoids removed.
9:00 PM
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Sunday, November 9, 2003
Raising Their Cups
It's not every day that I get to sit by my dad and stepmother and watch screaming women twirl their bras over their heads. Only at a Tom Jones concert at Washington, D.C.'s 1500-seat Lisner Auditorium, where we sat in the 11th row and watched the more enthusiastic members of the crowd psych themselves up for the star's arrival.
Even before Jones took the stage, that image of the women twirling their lingerie—and looking back to make sure people noticed them—struck me as the crossing point where feminism meets egotism. Like the Me Generation feminists, they were removing their bras, so to speak (they undoubtedly hadn't actually taken theirs off, but had brought ones to twirl). And it likewise made them seem less feminine—but even more aggressively so. These were the would-be alpha females, eager to stalk their prey. But unlike alpha males—and thanks to Tom Jones's incredible, Janis Joplin-like ability to make love to an entire audience—they did not feel the need to fight for it.
Never having seen Jones perform, and never having been moved to buy his records (though I enjoy hearing them on the radio), I was prepared for a good time but not a great one. I was a bit put off at first by his appearance; with his loose black clothes and what must be a recent goatee, he looked vaguely Mephistophelean. But once he started singing, he was utterly transformed into a sex god. Which might still be Mephistophelean, in a way—but in his case, a good way.
There really is something magic about Tom Jones. He is one of the last representatives of the pre-television style of live music, when performers were required to do more than just sing. They had to put their songs across to the audience, turning each song into a story that builds up to a dramatic ending. For it to be effective, the audience could not doubt the singer's sincerity for a moment. That's the effect Elvis achieved, of course, but so did Sinatra before him, and Al Jolson* before him.
And when was the last time you went to a concert and could understand every word? To Jones as to other singers with artistic roots in the Tin Pan Alley era (and, in Jones's case, British music hall), lyrics are so important that each one has to be enunciated so that the audience gets the full emotional effect. I love that, especially in the love songs, where it reinforces the idea that this person is communicating directly to me.
Then there's his voice, which is just incredible. I had no idea what a great singer he was and is. The way he modulates his volume and pitch with such control, yet making it seem effortless and natural...Maybe I don't get out much, but I haven't heard such great technique since I saw Mel Tormé at Michael's Pub in 1990.
One thing I noticed about Jones which I had never before noticed was that he seems to have a strong Maurice Chevalier influence. I'm not talking about the old Chevalier of "Thank Heaven for Little Girls"; I'm talking about the young Chevalier of "Oh That Mitzi" and so on. I could hear his style very strongly when Jones sang "What's New Pussycat?" and a fun hit I'd never heard, "Help Yourself."
So you want to know more about the girls. I'll call them girls, even though they were women, and, to my father's surprise (though not mine), relatively young women—most looked at least a generation younger than the 63-year-old singer, and they weren't housewife types.
And yes, as I hinted before, they were scary.
The first one to rush the stage pretty much set the tone for the bacchanalian mood that followed. A few songs into the set, as Jones launched into "What's New Pussycat?", a 40-something femme with shaggy blonde hair and trim build—kinda like how the Kate Hudson character in "Almost Famous" would look if she'd kept up her lifestyle for another 30 years—ran down the aisle and up to the stage.
The security at the venue, which is owned by George Washington University, wasn't tight, but a guard at the stage did approach the woman when she reached the very front. As he leaned over, presumably to ask her to return to her seat, she leaned up to him and, in one amazingly graceful movement, with no pause at all, kissed him on the lips.
Well, that was it. She was golden. The guard wound up waltzing with her.
On a basic level, Jones's set was a one-hour and 40-minute, super-romanticized one-night stand. He has an outstanding knowledge of what women want, and he knows how to give it to them, from the experience of the first meeting, through the slow seduction, sly teasing, and all the way through to the earth-shaking ecstasy. And the ecstasy he promises is the way women imagine it—the kind of guilt-free passion that's better than even the least-uncomfortable real-life one-night stand could be.
There was another turn-on for me, beyond Jones's well-honed musical mating dance. I was blown away by the sheer breadth of his repertoire. First off, how many performers can you see who can follow one hit with another, and another, and another? Jones's own hits span four decades (and we're just talking about America—in Europe, he's still a huge chart presence).
But Jones's stage repertoire goes all the way back to the Fifties, with a mesmerizing version of Tennessee Ernie Ford's "Sixteen Tons" (in honor of his coal-miner father) and a stripped-down acoustic take on Chuck Willis's "What Am I Living For." Other covers included Lee Dorsey's "Working in a Coalmine" (following "Sixteen Tons," natch) and the Shocking Blue's "Venus." Add to that his original music and cutting-edge dance numbers like Prince's "Kiss," and basically, we're talking a trip through every genre of popular music of the second half of the 20th century.
Even my dad liked it. As he told me afterwards, he was expecting a night of middle-aged women's music, and he got "rock and roll."
Towards the end of his set, when the aisles were full of dancing, bra-twirling fans, I realized that, if my dad weren't next to me, I would have long ago rushed the stage myself, doing the out-through-the-sleeves bra trick. It's contagious. It really is.
* * **Just after writing that, I did a Web search for Tom Jones info and found this quote from a Jolson Web site: "Tom Jones says his greatest ambition was always to star in a remake of The Jolson Story, the 1946 film which marked Al's comeback, and which led to his being voted, just before his death four years later, America's favorite male singer."
6:10 PM
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Saturday, November 8, 2003
Not tonight, I have a headache...
I do have a minor headache, probably from wearing a blurred contact lens, plus I'm busy preparing my music for POP GEAR!, so no Tom Jones tale this morning—sorry. I like to keep my promises, even if I'm not quite sure to whom I'm making them.
Had another good day at work; the duty chief again called out to find out who wrote a headline and it was mine. It was a banner headline for a story about how there's more TV and film production going on in NYC than ever before. I only had room for two or three words, and I really didn't want to make a pun on "reel" if I could help it. Come to think of it, I could have easily written "REEL-BIG CITY" and it would have fit. But I didn't.
I wrote: "CITY FLICKERS".
1:20 AM
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Friday, November 7, 2003
Sill the One
Just got back from Washington, D.C., where I saw a Tom Jones concert with my dad and stepmother. More on that later, to be sure. For now, I'll share with you what's on my stereo right now: the Rhino Handmade edition of Judee Sill's self-titled debut. I got it a couple of weeks ago and haven't been able to stop playing it. It's become an addiction.
I remember when I first picked up a white-label copy Judee Sill, its cover missing, for $1 from the now-defunct 8th Street shop It's Only Rock and Roll. That would have been in 1986 or '87, when I was in college (perhaps even the day in April 1987 when a friend snapped this photo of me, age 18, by Washington Square). I recognized Sill as the author of the Turtles' "Lady-O" and saw that a version of the song was on the album, so that was enough reason to risk a buck.
I had absolutely no idea what I was in for.
On paper, there's no reason why I should love this album. I really don't like female singers in general; I can count on one hand the number of female singers whose albums I own. Women generally sound affected to me, and with the exception of a great vocalist like Petula Clark, or a true original like Lesley Gore who had so many beautifully produced hit singles, I can't identify with them emotionally. Most of them sound like they're afraid if they dropped the affectation for a moment, they'd muss their hair or look fat. Male singers—good ones, not just belters or ragged-voiced Dylan imitators—generally strike me as more honest.
I also theoretically should dislike Judee Sill because I pay great attention to lyrics, and Sill's are really out there. On paper, they look like the outpourings of a seriously confused Jesus freak from Laurel Canyon, one who can't decide whether she's longing for the Savior or the biker dude who dumped her.
So why do I love this album? Well, for one thing, Sill's voice. It's not just unaffected; it's heartbreakingly pure. Think Joan Baez, with the stack-'em-and-blend-'em backing-vocal ability of Kirsty MacColl. Or Francoise Hardy with the rough edges smoothed and the Gallic accent replaced with earthy Pacific Coast tones.
Then there's the music, which is like nothing else I've heard. The melodies are classically inspired, with a baroque feel that's drawn in fans of the Left Banke. But there's also a Bakersfield country edge, with orchestral pop crossover that really hasn't been done by anyone else, save for Gene Clark on Gene Clark With the Gosdin Brothers and Curt Boettcher on There's an Innocent Face.
And the lyrics? Well, they're still pretty out there. But they sound so beautiful sung by that voice, with those melodies and arrangements, that they quickly start making sense. I admit, Steve Allen could have had a field day with them, but, supported by the vocals and music, they're meaningful. At least, more meaningful than a lot of other music of the time. I mean, come on; "columnated ruins domino"?
So, go to the Rhino Handmade site, listen to a few sound samples from Judee Sill, and tell me what you think. Then I'll tell you about the 63-year-old man who still gets pelted with panties.
12:57 AM
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Wednesday, November 5, 2003
Untroubled Waters
Clay Waters seems to be a very good sport. Before I used his site as a jumping-off point for a Dawn Patrol rant against neocons, his link to this page read, "Dawn Eden's Dawn Patrol (Manhattan music maven—and closet conservative?)"
Now it reads, "Dawn Eden's Dawn Patrol (Manhattan music maven and scourge of the pornocons)."
1:12 AM
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Tuesday, November 4, 2003
A Cut Above
I am so happy! The duty chief (that's the chief editor on duty) just called over to ask who'd done a headline—and it was mine. That hasn't happened since "Durst detective can't get a head."
The one he liked was a banner headline that should be atop page 9 of tomorrow's paper (at least, the first edition), for a story on workers' walking out at '21' and another top restaurant: "JOBS AT STEAK."
The funny thing is, I didn't even think the headline was going to get used, because it was too short. My editor "blew it out" to a larger point-size and it was fine. I am now instructed that there is nothing to fear from increasing headlines' size. When in doubt, blow it out.
The funniest part is, I'm a vegetarian.
8:28 PM
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Monday, November 3, 2003
UPDATED—Val-iant Effort
UPDATE: Several hours after writing the following post, it occurs to me that the way I describe my reaction to my friend's smoking comes off as pretty harsh. I'd like to stress that any apparent animus is towards the habit of smoking, and not towards Valerie, who is a beautiful person and valued friend. I was angry at seeing smoke go in and around her the way someone would be if they saw a piece of spaghetti stuck on the Mona Lisa's nose. (And yes, there's a reason why so many of my metaphors are based on food, as you'll see below.)
Haven't gotten as many responses as I'd like to recent posts on substantial topics like Neil Postman and porn conservatives (though I appreciate the feedback I did get from David, J.R., and Perry) so I'll do the usual blog thing for this post: respond to other blogs.
I'm so happy to read in today's post from Valerie that she is quitting smoking. I only discovered last week that she smoked (it's an easy thing to hide in Bloomberg-era New York), and I was surprised. It's not that I had any immediate consideration of how it might affect her health. I just consider it a dirty habit—literally. It's like discovering that a friend of yours likes to eat doggie doo when they're not at the dining table—it's bad for them, and you just know that some of it's going to get onto their clothes.
Having said that—and having overcome binge-eating problems where I would gorge on things scarcely better for me than doggie doo (one 7-oz. bag of Cheez Doodles = one serving)—I am very, very proud of Val and anyone who tries to break a harmful addiction. I recommend you visit her endearing and very well-written Weblog and write her a message of support.
The Anonymous Blogger today, besides giving a kind and welcome plug for POP GEAR!, has an interesting observation about the Mickey character played by Catherine O'Hara in "A Mighty Wind." It's about a subtext that I hadn't thought about when I saw the film, but now that he mentions it, I can see that it's there. What I really like, though, is that the enigmatic Mr. Blogger in one way had the same reaction I did when I saw the film: He looked past the broad comedic characterizations and saw something that moved him.
What's that saying about the best comedy being one step removed from tragedy? Even though "A Mighty Wind" is a heavily ironic film, I think its best moments prove that sentiment.
4:52 PM
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Saturday, November 1, 2003
UPDATED—Feat of Clay
It's been an unusually slow day at work, so I did something that is actually fairly low on my list of things to do when I'm bored: searched for Web sites that link to mine. I was surprised to find a new one by a conservative pundit (as well as writer of fiction and poetry), Clay Waters. While I don't recognize his name, I suspect we've met, as we travel in the same circles. He is the editor of the Media Research Center's TimesWatch.org, the Media Research Center's vehicle for "documenting and exposing the liberal political agenda of The New York Times." To which I say: "Cool."
But what really grabbed me was one of the links on Waters' site: a review of the Kinks' Muswell Hillbillies from a libertarian perspective. Now, Muswell Hillbillies happens to not be one of my favorite Kinks albums—and I unwittingly irked Ray Davies once at a press conference by asking him what the people of Muswell thought of it—but there was something in his review that I found very appealing. It was Waters' use of quotes from G.K. Chesterton—some very good ones, in fact, that haven't been overused—to illustrate his points. I thought I was the only Kinks fan—albeit a Sixties Kinks fan—who would ever think of quoting Chesterton in a rock record review. (At least, I know I've thought of it, though I can't recall if I've actually had the chutzpah to do it.)
Because of Waters' amazing feat, and his nice Dawn Patrol plug, I'd love to link you to his Web site. Unfortunately, judging by his own description of one of his links, his site appears to be on the growing list of WSIMOEBCBTACACs: Web Sites I Might Otherwise Endorse But Can't Because They Are Conduits for "Adult" Content.
As they say in Texas, shoot. The resurgence of porn-fandom-as-hipster-badge is bad enough among liberals, but it's a great disappointment when I find it among right-wingers, whom I believe should know better. Really, what is it with these "South Park" conservatives? Where's the moral edge over the Gore-voting "blue states" that James Taranto calls "The Porn Belt"?
UPDATE, 11/2/03: From Portland, Ore. (Gore, 47%), David Chelsea writes: "I've talked it over with all the other degenerates here in the Blue States, and we'll take the South Park conservatives if you'll take Joe Lieberman, Tipper Gore and Andrea Dworkin."
7:58 PM
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The Last Metro Edition
"Mummy is gauze for celebration" is now the headline for me to beat, as I haven't composed any as good since that one earlier this week. However, Truffaut fans will appreciate a photo caption I wrote tonight, assuming it makes it into the paper. It was for a photo of a father helping his son into a Sir Galahad-type costume, which the boy was going to wear to school. The kicker: "KNIGHT FOR DAY."
6:01 PM
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Pepper of the Earth...
...is the title of Home Office Records' new blog. Featuring the writings of label head Linus Gelber and staffer Pierre Jelenc (who also maintains the highly useful Gigometer), it's marked by well-written, witty entries on everything from the local music scene to etymology. My favorite recent entry is "Rodents and Philology," on the connections between the roots of words for mouse and muscle—which somehow manages to work in the word "tsuris."
I should add that Pepper of the Earth is not a family-friendly site, which is why I'm linking to one entry and not the whole blog. However, while I may not always agree with Linus and Pierre on what makes good entertainment, I like their contagious spirit of warmth and good will—especially the generous way they let readers in on the wide range of New York City music, performance, and first-class beer that enriches their lives. Their rose-colored glasses almost Disney-fy the demimonde.
3:42 PM
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Marshall McLuhan—What're You Doin'?
I'll make one more try at posting a Neil Postman artifact, and if it gets lost via a computer glitch again, I'll consider it kismet...
My friend Robert Barry Francos recently sent me (via Alan Abramowitz) a fascinating and heretofore rare piece of writing by Neil Postman, who died last month. He probably remembered that I'd been taught by Postman.
I'm sorry to say that my own memories of the much-loved author of Amusing Ourselves to Death are really not of interest unless you're a Postman completist, an Eden completist, or both. If you're neither, I recommend you skip to the genuine Postman material that appears below in an appropriately Luddite font.
I took Postman's "Introduction to Media Criticism" course in the spring of 1988, when I was a 19-year-old NYU junior. By that time, I had decided that I was not going to learn anything valuable in NYU's communications program, and the best thing I could do was coast through it, doing as little reading as possible, so I could focus on what was really important—researching Curt Boettcher, writing about music for Goldmine and about five other publications, aiding with bookings and publicity at Tramps nightclub, working for Bob Shannon, etc. So, sitting at the feet of the world's most revered McLuhan disciple was pretty low on my list of priorities. However, I did like the idea of getting college credit to write media criticism, plus Postman seemed like a more interesting and enjoyable character than the other profs, so I signed up for his course.
Postman did not give the impression of being thrilled to teach a room full of undergrads. I remember him as always being late, as he took long cigarette breaks with Professor Chris (as in Christine) Nystrom. They were the very best of friends and clearly relished one another's company. (I recall that during the extra daydreaming time I had before Postman arrived, I used to fantasize in my bored teenage way that the tweedy, graying professorial pair were secretly carrying on a torrid affair.)
When Postman did arrive, I recall that he didn't use notes. He would just extemporize on something, but always find a way to bring it back to media criticism and what it entailed. His points were no surprise to anyone who's read his writings, but there was certainly a pleasure in hearing him state them with such force and conviction.
They were also important points. The overall effect was the opposite of that Samuel Johnson quote: "That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and it is a wrong one." Everything Neil Postman said boiled down to one idea—and it was the right one. Truly, his dedication to his message invited respect.
Another outstanding memory I have of Neil Postman is that, while he treated his students (or at least us undergrads) with detachment, he was nonetheless respectful and exceedingly fair. He would frequently pose hard questions to the students in the Socratic manner for which he was known. If a student voiced an opinion with which he disagreed, but was able to back it up logically, he would pause to think about what the student said. If he couldn't come up with something to counter it, he would grant that the student might well have a point. Needless to say, that is a quality one only finds in very special professors.
Lastly, I liked him because he gave me an A.
Now, here's what I wanted to share with you, starting with a message from Lance Strate. That message and the Postman e-mail that follows originally appeared on the Media Ecology Association's listserv (click that link for more info on the MEA). It then appeared on the Remembering Neil Postman Web site, and I am grateful to Professor Strate for allowing me to reprint it:
We all know about Neil being identified as a neo-Luddite, and his criticisms of our use of computers, e-mail, and the Internet. But many of you may be unaware that Neil did once send a post to the media ecology listserv. This happened during the very early days of our list. It was only about a month old, there were only a dozen or two subscribers, and most were from NYU. Neil was not subscribed to the list, of course, not having e-mail, but his colleague Chris Nystrom was on the list, and showed him the messages we had been exchanging. Neil's response, which I have pasted in below, was classic Postman—witty, imaginative, a brilliant bit of writing. And there is also something ironic now, reading it after his passing, in his put on of a voice from another world. As he was channeling McLuhan, through the Internet we can now channel Postman:
* * *
Archive-Date: Tue, 13 May 1997 15:37:46 EDT
Subject: Observing the Law
This is the Ghost of Marshall McLuhan speaking to you. I don't have to tell you from what world I come. I am using Chris Nystrom's facility in order to reach you. I will say what I have to say only once. You will not hear from me again unless you persist in your foolishness.
Does the word "books" mean anything to you? Do you have so much time on your hands that you can afford to waste yourselves on this infernal machine? Have you already accumulated so much wisdom that you no longer need to read the best that has been thought and written? Is this the way you honor the work and life of my great friend and disciple, Neil Postman? Do any of you actually know how to spell?
I have now read all of your idiotic messages. Hear, now, The Law: Every medium taken to its furthest extent flips to its opposite. Thus the written word, which is the source of all the intellect we have, when used in this unholy fashion becomes a medium for the expression of all our stupidities. This, you have demonstrated amply. Enough, I say.
I must now return from whence I came. Remember what happened to the Hebrews when they did not follow the Law.
Ghost
12:56 AM
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