If there truly is a season for everything, the closer we get to New Year’s Eve, the more likely we are to realize that it’s time to check one more list --- the one that's really final.
Sure enough, as each year nears its end, newspapers will present a passing parade in print of the names and faces of the famous or once-famous who have left this Earth since last Dec. 31.
So it goes that if you read The List, some will be more meaningful than others, depending on where the deceased ranks in your own recognition of them and how they might have figured in your life. What the rest of the world thinks hardly matters.
I've probably known about Dame Joan Sutherland, opera's coloratura soprano who died in October, since my first music class as a kid in school. But among the folks I've known through music who exited life's stage in 2010 -- a list that also includes another legendary singer, Lena Horne, and Alex Chilton, leader of the rock groups The Box Tops and Big Star -- none ranks higher than Clay Cole.
As anyone who was a teenager in the New York area during the 1960s is likely to recall, Clay Cole was a disk jockey who hosted a television program that rivaled Dick Clark's "American Bandstand." Chubby Checker introduced The Twist on one of the shows at Palisades Amusement Park and I first saw the Rolling Stones on TV because of Clay Cole.
In some cases, reading the names of people who died during the year is simply a reminder, while in others, it’s news to us.
When actress Barbara Billingsley’s Oct. 16 death was reported by various media outlets, I quickly heard about the departure of the woman best known as Mrs. June Cleaver, a television housewife on a par with Mrs. Margaret Anderson and Mrs. Donna Stone, portrayed by Jane Wyatt and Donna Reed, respectively, on shows of their own. On “Leave It to Beaver” in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, Billingsley's Mrs. Cleaver was the mother of The Beaver and the inspiration for transparent Eddie Haskell’s dumb attempts at flattery.
The role gave Barbara Billingsley an enduring measure of fame. In contrast, Johnny Sheffield, who had played Tarzan’s adopted son Boy in the 1940s movies starring Johnny Weissmuller and later starred in his own series of motion pictures as Bomba the Jungle Boy, died the day before Billingsley, yet I didn’t learn of it until today, in reading a recap of this year’s passings.
But at least he made The List.
As for me, I think I'll stick with my sufficient obscurity to ensure a sort of immortality. By not qualifying for The List, I can live on, content in knowing I'll never be on it.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
This Day, Back In The Day
I spent more than 20 years in the newspaper business. But there was a time before that when I imagined that my life's journey would be spent along a very different road.
Thirty years ago tonight, I was watching Monday Night Football on TV when the world stopped, though the game (Patriots-Dolphins) went on, as Howard Cosell told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed.
I know that there are a lot of folks who have little or no use for The Beatles. But I come from a different time and place. The Beatles changed my world and, in at least several respects, my life --- including the fueling of a desire to play music, too.
Today, I remember that 30 years ago, I was attending St. John's University as an evening student. I was home on that Monday night, but when I went to my next class, one on media history, I found that the professor viewed John Lennon's death as some kind of opportunity for a discussion on news coverage.
Well, there were only eight of us or something like that in the class and I was the oldest student. When The Beatles had made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan's TV show, I was a high school freshman. Following the shock of Lennon's death, I moved around, feeling as though I had blown a tire.
In my first class after that night, I found it necessary to ask the professor, as politely as possible, if she intended to continue the discussion as a classroom exercise, because I'd like to excuse myself
"Why, do you feel that strongly?" the professor asked.
And I remember my response: "I think this is as close as it gets to a death in my family without actually being one."
All these years later, that hasn't changed.
Peace, John.
Thirty years ago tonight, I was watching Monday Night Football on TV when the world stopped, though the game (Patriots-Dolphins) went on, as Howard Cosell told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed.
I know that there are a lot of folks who have little or no use for The Beatles. But I come from a different time and place. The Beatles changed my world and, in at least several respects, my life --- including the fueling of a desire to play music, too.
Today, I remember that 30 years ago, I was attending St. John's University as an evening student. I was home on that Monday night, but when I went to my next class, one on media history, I found that the professor viewed John Lennon's death as some kind of opportunity for a discussion on news coverage.
Well, there were only eight of us or something like that in the class and I was the oldest student. When The Beatles had made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan's TV show, I was a high school freshman. Following the shock of Lennon's death, I moved around, feeling as though I had blown a tire.
In my first class after that night, I found it necessary to ask the professor, as politely as possible, if she intended to continue the discussion as a classroom exercise, because I'd like to excuse myself
"Why, do you feel that strongly?" the professor asked.
And I remember my response: "I think this is as close as it gets to a death in my family without actually being one."
All these years later, that hasn't changed.
Peace, John.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Scary Side Of Plagiarism
The recent news that Tony Blair, Britain’s former prime minister, may have lifted a line from a movie for use in A Journey, his published memoir, has cast a new spotlight on an old sin.
But if it’s true, then this might be the strangest example of plagiarism since English dramatist Ben Jonson (1572-1637), a true Renaissance man, came up with a word (“plagiary”) for the theft of another’s intellectual work.
It remains to be seen whether Blair did, in fact, plagiarize a quote that was the work of Peter Morgan in his script for “The Queen,” the highly acclaimed 2006 film -- and a personal favorite -- starring Helen Mirren, who won an Academy Award for her portrayal of Queen Elizabeth II.
As I see it, the strangeness is not owed to the possibility that a world-class politician could be accused of plagiarism. After all, here in the U.S., Vice President Joe Biden was a senator campaigning to become President in 1987 when he admitted to borrowing without the bother of attribution. Biden acknowledged that in writing a paper for law school, he had plagiarized a law review article.
For some odd reason, it seems that people tend to be more forgiving when the alleged plagiarist is a politician --- a dabbler at writing, instead of someone who had made his name by it. Possibly, it has something to do with low expectations.
Had he been a wordsmith by trade, Joe Biden might have experienced career ruination or at least a serious stain on it. Although he dropped his bid for the Democratic nomination in 1988, he managed not only to endure, but to ascend eventually to the second-highest office in the land.
Of course, Tony Blair has already been to the political mountaintop, so worries about the impact on his career are hardly a factor. But this is a matter of honor and few things can prove as hurtful to honor as even the hint of plagiarism
In Blair’s case, the accusation means that in his book, the former prime minister allegedly took a line from a movie script --- one that had been imagined by Morgan as the words Blair heard during a private meeting with Queen Elizabeth.
In the film, which is really about the sequence of events and attitudes following the 1997 death of Diana, Princess of Wales, the conversation takes place early on, as the two meet at Buckingham Palace following Blair’s election.
Morgan admits that he has no knowledge of what the Queen actually said.to Blair, but these are the words he put in her royal mouth, as spoken by Helen Mirren: “Well, you are my tenth prime minister, Mr. Blair. My first, of course, was Winston Churchill.”
In recalling the conversation in A Journey, Blair recounts it in a way that seems to follow the screenplay for “The Queen” a bit too closely, in the eyes of the script’s writer.
Now some well-known authors have found themselves in some pretty hot soup in recent years over charges of plagiarism. Historians Doris Kearns Goodwin and the late Stephen Ambrose are two whose reputations were damaged.
But whenever I come across the word for theft of intellectual property, the most shocking example that comes to my mind is one that didn’t involve any heads of state, members of a royal family or renowned writers. On the contrary, I am reminded of an episode that involved a contest, held by a community newspaper based in New York City’s Queens County, for youngsters at local schools.
This particular tale of plagiarism was a quiet one, which I recall because I was working at the newspaper when it happened. The annual competition was held prior to Halloween and students would submit their scary stories for the chance to be judged a winner. Selected honorees had their stories, along with their photo, published in the newspaper and received a cash prize.
Unfortunately, one year yielded a crop of winners in which one of the young honorees proved less than honorable, after a reader notified the newspaper that a student’s story was, in truth, the work of a certain published author.
After the charge of plagiarism was determined to be true, the school was notified and its principal was stung to learn of it. Dropping from pride’s peak to plain embarrassment, he promised to contact the child’s parents and inform them that the prize money would have to be returned. When he called back, however, the school administrator was even more troubled: not only was the student’s mother unapologetic, but she made it clear that the money would not be returned.
According to the principal, the mother believed that it had been the newspaper’s responsibility to detect the plagiarism before selecting her child’s scary story as a winning entry. As word of this circulated internally, everyone who made their living by the written word or had anything to do with the contest went from anger to disappointment in their reaction. In the end, we mostly felt sad for a child in need of good guidance whose deprivation was unlikely to end with a contest.
Since that happened, I’ve found that plagiarism cases no longer shock me. As for the controversy involving Tony Blair, I’ve thought it over, only to find that I cannot remember anything like this: somebody who had been part of a two-person conversation behind closed doors allegedly swiping the words that somebody else – a third party who wasn’t in the room -- concocted for the purpose of a film script.
Reportedly, Blair claims that he had not seen “The Queen.” This likely seems odd to most people familiar with the movie, since Blair is such a main character in it.
There have been plenty of times when I’ve thought of going to the movies, but didn’t, for one reason or another. In some cases, by the time I was ready to see a particular film, it was no longer playing on a local screen. But I can say with certainty that if I were being portrayed by an actor in a major motion picture -- or even a low-budget one -- I wouldn’t be waiting for its DVD release. As it is, “The Queen” has been accessible in that manner for some time.
At this point, it’s unknown how the matter of Tony Blair’s published remembrances will play out. But the lesson remains the same: when it comes to the marriage of storytelling and good writing, honesty is the simple noun that is worth more than a hatful of inspired adjectives. There’s no need to make the process any scarier than it is already.
But if it’s true, then this might be the strangest example of plagiarism since English dramatist Ben Jonson (1572-1637), a true Renaissance man, came up with a word (“plagiary”) for the theft of another’s intellectual work.
It remains to be seen whether Blair did, in fact, plagiarize a quote that was the work of Peter Morgan in his script for “The Queen,” the highly acclaimed 2006 film -- and a personal favorite -- starring Helen Mirren, who won an Academy Award for her portrayal of Queen Elizabeth II.
As I see it, the strangeness is not owed to the possibility that a world-class politician could be accused of plagiarism. After all, here in the U.S., Vice President Joe Biden was a senator campaigning to become President in 1987 when he admitted to borrowing without the bother of attribution. Biden acknowledged that in writing a paper for law school, he had plagiarized a law review article.
For some odd reason, it seems that people tend to be more forgiving when the alleged plagiarist is a politician --- a dabbler at writing, instead of someone who had made his name by it. Possibly, it has something to do with low expectations.
Had he been a wordsmith by trade, Joe Biden might have experienced career ruination or at least a serious stain on it. Although he dropped his bid for the Democratic nomination in 1988, he managed not only to endure, but to ascend eventually to the second-highest office in the land.
Of course, Tony Blair has already been to the political mountaintop, so worries about the impact on his career are hardly a factor. But this is a matter of honor and few things can prove as hurtful to honor as even the hint of plagiarism
In Blair’s case, the accusation means that in his book, the former prime minister allegedly took a line from a movie script --- one that had been imagined by Morgan as the words Blair heard during a private meeting with Queen Elizabeth.
In the film, which is really about the sequence of events and attitudes following the 1997 death of Diana, Princess of Wales, the conversation takes place early on, as the two meet at Buckingham Palace following Blair’s election.
Morgan admits that he has no knowledge of what the Queen actually said.to Blair, but these are the words he put in her royal mouth, as spoken by Helen Mirren: “Well, you are my tenth prime minister, Mr. Blair. My first, of course, was Winston Churchill.”
In recalling the conversation in A Journey, Blair recounts it in a way that seems to follow the screenplay for “The Queen” a bit too closely, in the eyes of the script’s writer.
Now some well-known authors have found themselves in some pretty hot soup in recent years over charges of plagiarism. Historians Doris Kearns Goodwin and the late Stephen Ambrose are two whose reputations were damaged.
But whenever I come across the word for theft of intellectual property, the most shocking example that comes to my mind is one that didn’t involve any heads of state, members of a royal family or renowned writers. On the contrary, I am reminded of an episode that involved a contest, held by a community newspaper based in New York City’s Queens County, for youngsters at local schools.
This particular tale of plagiarism was a quiet one, which I recall because I was working at the newspaper when it happened. The annual competition was held prior to Halloween and students would submit their scary stories for the chance to be judged a winner. Selected honorees had their stories, along with their photo, published in the newspaper and received a cash prize.
Unfortunately, one year yielded a crop of winners in which one of the young honorees proved less than honorable, after a reader notified the newspaper that a student’s story was, in truth, the work of a certain published author.
After the charge of plagiarism was determined to be true, the school was notified and its principal was stung to learn of it. Dropping from pride’s peak to plain embarrassment, he promised to contact the child’s parents and inform them that the prize money would have to be returned. When he called back, however, the school administrator was even more troubled: not only was the student’s mother unapologetic, but she made it clear that the money would not be returned.
According to the principal, the mother believed that it had been the newspaper’s responsibility to detect the plagiarism before selecting her child’s scary story as a winning entry. As word of this circulated internally, everyone who made their living by the written word or had anything to do with the contest went from anger to disappointment in their reaction. In the end, we mostly felt sad for a child in need of good guidance whose deprivation was unlikely to end with a contest.
Since that happened, I’ve found that plagiarism cases no longer shock me. As for the controversy involving Tony Blair, I’ve thought it over, only to find that I cannot remember anything like this: somebody who had been part of a two-person conversation behind closed doors allegedly swiping the words that somebody else – a third party who wasn’t in the room -- concocted for the purpose of a film script.
Reportedly, Blair claims that he had not seen “The Queen.” This likely seems odd to most people familiar with the movie, since Blair is such a main character in it.
There have been plenty of times when I’ve thought of going to the movies, but didn’t, for one reason or another. In some cases, by the time I was ready to see a particular film, it was no longer playing on a local screen. But I can say with certainty that if I were being portrayed by an actor in a major motion picture -- or even a low-budget one -- I wouldn’t be waiting for its DVD release. As it is, “The Queen” has been accessible in that manner for some time.
At this point, it’s unknown how the matter of Tony Blair’s published remembrances will play out. But the lesson remains the same: when it comes to the marriage of storytelling and good writing, honesty is the simple noun that is worth more than a hatful of inspired adjectives. There’s no need to make the process any scarier than it is already.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Phone Schmoes On Wheels, Or Maybe Not
Ask any driver for the thing that is most likely to induce a mood swing while motoring and the answer might take a minute --- but not because it’s hard to come up with something.
For a long time, my own pet peeve as a driver involved a split decision: finding myself in front of a tailgater or behind some lunkhead who waited until the last nanosecond to signal a turn, if he or she signaled at all. The perfect storm would have me sandwiched between them.
But because technology seemingly rules our lives and even our gripes, at some point, I grew increasingly bothered by phone schmoes on wheels --- drivers who feel the need to stay in touch by yakking on a cellular telephone.
Admittedly, it wasn’t just the troubling idea that driving near somebody who may be distracted puts you in harm’s way as effectively as sharing the road with a person who is drunk or drugged.
After all, when it comes to pure distraction, you can lose your focus while holding a phone conversation that involves one hand or none. There are other causes, too, as any “Seinfeld” fan well knows. In an episode of that classic TV series, Kramer and Jerry are taking George Costanza’s auto to the car wash but end up in a crash after catching sight of Sue Ellen Mischke’s sidewalk stroll in a bra.
So, stuff happens.
Part of what would bother me whenever I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a driver gabbing on a hand-held phone was the fact that the operator of the vehicle directly behind me was not only a fool but a law-breaking fool, at that.
According to the Governors Highway Safety Association website, New York is one of eight states in the U.S. that prohibit all drivers from using hand-held cellphones while driving. Besides the other seven (California, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, New Jersey, Oregon and Washington), places where you can land in hot water for using a hand-held phone while driving also include the District of Columbia and the Virgin Islands.
An initial reading of the list left me a bit baffled, as I wondered why only eight states have such a law. I asked myself: when the well-paid legislators in the other 42 aren’t on recess or giving themselves a raise, what kind of laws are they making, if not this one?
I've since learned that Utah qualifies as a ninth of sorts. You can be charged with careless driving for talking on a cellphone, if you also commit a moving violation other than speeding.
Finding Massachusetts missing from the GHSA's list surprised me, if only because I've always thought of it as a place where many intelligent people reside. Further digging showed that law-wise, a youth movement of sorts is under way there --- with a focus on texting messages, not making calls.
Come October, it will be unlawful for anyone under 18 to use a cellphone -- banning text and talk -- while driving in the Bay State, as though age makes a difference in distracted driving. Older motorists will still be able to engage in hand-held phone talk, but they'll run the risk of a fine if they're caught sending a text message.
Frankly, I'd thought better of Massachusetts.
Since New York is one of the enlightened eight states that prohibit hand-held phones altogether while driving, it’s another reason to be glad I live here, since I happen to believe that it’s better to have a law that discourages dangerous behavior than not to have it.
Of course, the best strategy would be to ban all phone use behind the steering wheel. As noted in a Boston Globe report about the new law in Massachusetts, the National Safety Council blames 28 percent of motor vehicle accidents on distractions due to cellphone use while driving.
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about the need for another law that would boost public safety and help reduce traffic accidents -- as well as cut the chances of a stroke among drivers with high blood pressure -- while creating fairness in New York's existing law about cellphone use.
In short, I’m hoping for a law that would put pedestrians on the hook, too.
The thought hit me recently, as I was waiting at a traffic light to turn onto Sunrise Highway. When the red turned green for me, a fellow suddenly appeared from the right and kept on walking, moving from one corner to the other in front of my car without regard for right of way or life and limb. If anything, he reduced his pace after stepping into the street.
The jaywalker was wearing a business suit, but the thing he was wrapped up in was conversation --- with whoever was on the other end of his cellphone. Before I proceeded to drive on, I suggested that he stay off the phone when crossing the street and the shouted response was a vulgar blend of outrage and profanity. But the message was clear: who was I to tell him anything, much less how to use his phone?
I don’t doubt that the exchange was out of the man’s head by the time he returned to his office. But for me, it was a true epiphany. Mark Twain wrote about the riverboat pilot who, once he learns the river, can never see it again the same way. Well, I’ve had a revelation of my own regarding pedestrians. Where once I was blind, now I can see --- all the phone schmoes on foot who saunter across the street without a hint of awareness as they talk or text en route to their destination, which, hopefully, will not become the nearest hospital.
I fail to see how a cordless phone in hand makes somebody a walking “Stop” sign while crossing the street. At this sorry time in civilization, when holding a door for the next person is a chore, it's hardly a safe bet that an oncoming motorist who is already exceeding the speed limit will be inclined to show more care -- and smarts -- than the distracted pedestrian.
Under New York State law, drivers at an intersection without a traffic signal must yield to pedestrians. But a law to keep the schmoes off the phone when they step onto the road seems only fair --- and more so than the legal one-way street on which we currently travel.
For a long time, my own pet peeve as a driver involved a split decision: finding myself in front of a tailgater or behind some lunkhead who waited until the last nanosecond to signal a turn, if he or she signaled at all. The perfect storm would have me sandwiched between them.
But because technology seemingly rules our lives and even our gripes, at some point, I grew increasingly bothered by phone schmoes on wheels --- drivers who feel the need to stay in touch by yakking on a cellular telephone.
Admittedly, it wasn’t just the troubling idea that driving near somebody who may be distracted puts you in harm’s way as effectively as sharing the road with a person who is drunk or drugged.
After all, when it comes to pure distraction, you can lose your focus while holding a phone conversation that involves one hand or none. There are other causes, too, as any “Seinfeld” fan well knows. In an episode of that classic TV series, Kramer and Jerry are taking George Costanza’s auto to the car wash but end up in a crash after catching sight of Sue Ellen Mischke’s sidewalk stroll in a bra.
So, stuff happens.
Part of what would bother me whenever I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a driver gabbing on a hand-held phone was the fact that the operator of the vehicle directly behind me was not only a fool but a law-breaking fool, at that.
According to the Governors Highway Safety Association website, New York is one of eight states in the U.S. that prohibit all drivers from using hand-held cellphones while driving. Besides the other seven (California, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, New Jersey, Oregon and Washington), places where you can land in hot water for using a hand-held phone while driving also include the District of Columbia and the Virgin Islands.
An initial reading of the list left me a bit baffled, as I wondered why only eight states have such a law. I asked myself: when the well-paid legislators in the other 42 aren’t on recess or giving themselves a raise, what kind of laws are they making, if not this one?
I've since learned that Utah qualifies as a ninth of sorts. You can be charged with careless driving for talking on a cellphone, if you also commit a moving violation other than speeding.
Finding Massachusetts missing from the GHSA's list surprised me, if only because I've always thought of it as a place where many intelligent people reside. Further digging showed that law-wise, a youth movement of sorts is under way there --- with a focus on texting messages, not making calls.
Come October, it will be unlawful for anyone under 18 to use a cellphone -- banning text and talk -- while driving in the Bay State, as though age makes a difference in distracted driving. Older motorists will still be able to engage in hand-held phone talk, but they'll run the risk of a fine if they're caught sending a text message.
Frankly, I'd thought better of Massachusetts.
Since New York is one of the enlightened eight states that prohibit hand-held phones altogether while driving, it’s another reason to be glad I live here, since I happen to believe that it’s better to have a law that discourages dangerous behavior than not to have it.
Of course, the best strategy would be to ban all phone use behind the steering wheel. As noted in a Boston Globe report about the new law in Massachusetts, the National Safety Council blames 28 percent of motor vehicle accidents on distractions due to cellphone use while driving.
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about the need for another law that would boost public safety and help reduce traffic accidents -- as well as cut the chances of a stroke among drivers with high blood pressure -- while creating fairness in New York's existing law about cellphone use.
In short, I’m hoping for a law that would put pedestrians on the hook, too.
The thought hit me recently, as I was waiting at a traffic light to turn onto Sunrise Highway. When the red turned green for me, a fellow suddenly appeared from the right and kept on walking, moving from one corner to the other in front of my car without regard for right of way or life and limb. If anything, he reduced his pace after stepping into the street.
The jaywalker was wearing a business suit, but the thing he was wrapped up in was conversation --- with whoever was on the other end of his cellphone. Before I proceeded to drive on, I suggested that he stay off the phone when crossing the street and the shouted response was a vulgar blend of outrage and profanity. But the message was clear: who was I to tell him anything, much less how to use his phone?
I don’t doubt that the exchange was out of the man’s head by the time he returned to his office. But for me, it was a true epiphany. Mark Twain wrote about the riverboat pilot who, once he learns the river, can never see it again the same way. Well, I’ve had a revelation of my own regarding pedestrians. Where once I was blind, now I can see --- all the phone schmoes on foot who saunter across the street without a hint of awareness as they talk or text en route to their destination, which, hopefully, will not become the nearest hospital.
I fail to see how a cordless phone in hand makes somebody a walking “Stop” sign while crossing the street. At this sorry time in civilization, when holding a door for the next person is a chore, it's hardly a safe bet that an oncoming motorist who is already exceeding the speed limit will be inclined to show more care -- and smarts -- than the distracted pedestrian.
Under New York State law, drivers at an intersection without a traffic signal must yield to pedestrians. But a law to keep the schmoes off the phone when they step onto the road seems only fair --- and more so than the legal one-way street on which we currently travel.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Old Game's Name For Digital Age Dopes
When I was a kid, the major toy companies were Marx, Remco, Mattel and Ideal.
Unlike Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” the 1983 movie based on the works of radio storyteller Jean Shepherd, I never went to bed with dreams of finding a Daisy BB air rifle under the Christmas tree.
No, my dreams were made of the stuff provided by the TV commercials on behalf of those four toy companies back in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
I remember Ideal for the talking Robert the Robot, which, as I found out later, was the cause of my father and grandfather having to go on a hunt that ultimately proved successful without much time to spare one Christmas Eve night.
In those days long before action figures, I thought that Marx had the best toy soldiers, along with the similarly-sized plastic likenesses of characters such as Tom Corbett and Roy Rogers, space cadet and king of the cowboys, respectively. Others, like my friend and neighbor, Mike Festa, recall Marx for The Great Garloo, a 24-inch green-skinned monster of a toy robot that paved the way for the Incredible Hulk.
Mattel gave girls Barbie dolls, but it also armed boys of a certain age with some great cap pistols -- in particular, the Shootin’ Shell and Fanner lines -- and a hard plastic weapon known as the Thunder Burp Gun, a sort of tommy gun that made a lengthy firing sound, yet didn’t involve caps or need batteries. Among the kids in my neighborhood of Elmhurst, NY, that was the gun you wanted for Christmas, if you didn’t already have one.
Remco produced some wonderful toys and the one that scored highest with me was something called the Radar Rocket Cannon, a yellow-and-black plastic console equipped with “radar,” a communications component, such as it was, and the capability to launch a toy airplane --- just the thing, I thought, to obliterate an enemy army of Marx foot soldiers.
But I also remember that Remco made something called Shmo --- a board game in which the object was not to become a Shmo. If anyone needed to know why not, the game was contained in a box with an illustration of a rather dopey-looking fellow about to step into an open manhole. A word balloon said it all: “I’m a shmo and that ain’t good.”
So, to me, "shmo" was another four-letter word for "jerk" and not to be confused with "shmoo," which was the name for some silly but lovable creatures in the "Li'l Abner" comic strip. There's a difference, since I can't say that I find jerks lovable.
As the years passed, I forgot about some of the games I had played as a kid and Shmo was one of them. But then something made its name pop up again in my head and that memory trigger was the cellphone.
I don’t remember when or where exactly, but I know that I must have been waiting on a line somewhere --- most likely, in a supermarket or at the post office when the word “shmo” came back to me. Then again, maybe I was in a store, trying to pick out a greeting card that had just the right message. All I know is that suddenly, I was being subjected to somebody else’s conversation, as they carried on with a cellphone. It was as though I had been pulled into a telephone booth against my will.
Once there, I knew not the name of my abductor, but with a slightly different spelling and the addition of a noun-turned-adjective, I could brand the species: phone schmoe.
If only the one-sided conversation was worth sharing, I might not have minded so much having the peace of my personal space hijacked by a phone schmoe.
Unfortunately, I’ve since determined that there’s really no redeeming value in being forced to listen to other people who either believe they’re doing us a favor or simply don’t care as they blab away.
One of the early examples took place some years ago in a Rockville Centre restaurant, where My Wonderful Wife Peg and I were enjoying dinner until some fool seated alone at a nearby table decided that he had been waiting too long for his meal, so he pulled out his cellphone and called a friend -- or therapist -- to vent his frustration, loudly and at great length.
Whether a coincidence or not, his food was served shortly thereafter. Thankfully, he didn't make a second call to file a review.
Up until now, I have referred to the mobile communications device wielded by the self-absorbed as a "cellphone." But, in truth, more often -- and quite ironically -- the thing in use proves to be a "smartphone," the generic term for a BlackBerry, which combines the features of a computer with those of a cellphone.
While the technology may be smart, that doesn't necessarily trickle down to the impolite user, however.
On the contrary, phone schmoes like the impatient diner call to mind Adam Sandler's 1995 film comedy, "Billy Madison." Whenever I have to listen to one, I start thinking about the movie’s principal, when he tells Sandler's character: "...what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard...Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it."
Wouldn't you just love to use that one sometime?
I can't think of a better response, short of having The Great Garloo suddenly appear to test the phone for endurance in his own special way.
Unlike Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” the 1983 movie based on the works of radio storyteller Jean Shepherd, I never went to bed with dreams of finding a Daisy BB air rifle under the Christmas tree.
No, my dreams were made of the stuff provided by the TV commercials on behalf of those four toy companies back in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
I remember Ideal for the talking Robert the Robot, which, as I found out later, was the cause of my father and grandfather having to go on a hunt that ultimately proved successful without much time to spare one Christmas Eve night.
In those days long before action figures, I thought that Marx had the best toy soldiers, along with the similarly-sized plastic likenesses of characters such as Tom Corbett and Roy Rogers, space cadet and king of the cowboys, respectively. Others, like my friend and neighbor, Mike Festa, recall Marx for The Great Garloo, a 24-inch green-skinned monster of a toy robot that paved the way for the Incredible Hulk.
Mattel gave girls Barbie dolls, but it also armed boys of a certain age with some great cap pistols -- in particular, the Shootin’ Shell and Fanner lines -- and a hard plastic weapon known as the Thunder Burp Gun, a sort of tommy gun that made a lengthy firing sound, yet didn’t involve caps or need batteries. Among the kids in my neighborhood of Elmhurst, NY, that was the gun you wanted for Christmas, if you didn’t already have one.
Remco produced some wonderful toys and the one that scored highest with me was something called the Radar Rocket Cannon, a yellow-and-black plastic console equipped with “radar,” a communications component, such as it was, and the capability to launch a toy airplane --- just the thing, I thought, to obliterate an enemy army of Marx foot soldiers.
But I also remember that Remco made something called Shmo --- a board game in which the object was not to become a Shmo. If anyone needed to know why not, the game was contained in a box with an illustration of a rather dopey-looking fellow about to step into an open manhole. A word balloon said it all: “I’m a shmo and that ain’t good.”
So, to me, "shmo" was another four-letter word for "jerk" and not to be confused with "shmoo," which was the name for some silly but lovable creatures in the "Li'l Abner" comic strip. There's a difference, since I can't say that I find jerks lovable.
As the years passed, I forgot about some of the games I had played as a kid and Shmo was one of them. But then something made its name pop up again in my head and that memory trigger was the cellphone.
I don’t remember when or where exactly, but I know that I must have been waiting on a line somewhere --- most likely, in a supermarket or at the post office when the word “shmo” came back to me. Then again, maybe I was in a store, trying to pick out a greeting card that had just the right message. All I know is that suddenly, I was being subjected to somebody else’s conversation, as they carried on with a cellphone. It was as though I had been pulled into a telephone booth against my will.
Once there, I knew not the name of my abductor, but with a slightly different spelling and the addition of a noun-turned-adjective, I could brand the species: phone schmoe.
If only the one-sided conversation was worth sharing, I might not have minded so much having the peace of my personal space hijacked by a phone schmoe.
Unfortunately, I’ve since determined that there’s really no redeeming value in being forced to listen to other people who either believe they’re doing us a favor or simply don’t care as they blab away.
One of the early examples took place some years ago in a Rockville Centre restaurant, where My Wonderful Wife Peg and I were enjoying dinner until some fool seated alone at a nearby table decided that he had been waiting too long for his meal, so he pulled out his cellphone and called a friend -- or therapist -- to vent his frustration, loudly and at great length.
Whether a coincidence or not, his food was served shortly thereafter. Thankfully, he didn't make a second call to file a review.
Up until now, I have referred to the mobile communications device wielded by the self-absorbed as a "cellphone." But, in truth, more often -- and quite ironically -- the thing in use proves to be a "smartphone," the generic term for a BlackBerry, which combines the features of a computer with those of a cellphone.
While the technology may be smart, that doesn't necessarily trickle down to the impolite user, however.
On the contrary, phone schmoes like the impatient diner call to mind Adam Sandler's 1995 film comedy, "Billy Madison." Whenever I have to listen to one, I start thinking about the movie’s principal, when he tells Sandler's character: "...what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard...Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it."
Wouldn't you just love to use that one sometime?
I can't think of a better response, short of having The Great Garloo suddenly appear to test the phone for endurance in his own special way.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Shelving 'Law & Order'
I can't say that the news about the cancellation of "Law & Order" was like losing an old friend. I value old friends too much to put them on the same shelf as a television show. But just the same, I'll miss being able to spend time with it.
On some level -- the one that recognizes how each hour of sitting passively in front of the TV equals 60 minutes that could be spent doing something meaningful -- I might think that NBC's decision was like losing a candy bar from my youth; I'm probably better off if it's gone.
But I doubt that.
Nowadays I have to be in the mood for candy. Since acquiring my taste for "Law & Order," however, I've found that its sweet efficiency in getting to the point usually hits the spot.
Certainly, the rush to plot resolution that drives the show in shifting from criminal investigation to prosecution made New York City a natural choice for the filming location. Who moves faster than New Yorkers?
The pace also explains why "Law & Order" proved to be an easy watch for viewers unable or unwilling to invest their time in following character development or a story arc that advances with the speed of a glacier.
If your idea of great television means a season-long game of not only connecting the dots, but first having to find them, look elsewhere. This is the anti-"Lost."
For those who saw the appeal and embraced it, "Law & Order" has been series drama without commitment. The only requirement for full enjoyment is arrival in time to hear the signature opening ("In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute offenders. These are their stories.").
It's worked well enough to last 20 seasons, which is at least 100 in TV years, while becoming a franchise complete with spin-offs. Not bad for a show that reportedly was offered to two other networks before it found a home on NBC.
Right up until I learned that the cancellation was official, I had been rooting for the original "Law & Order" to notch the one more season it needed to surpass "Gunsmoke" in longevity among U.S. television dramas.
No doubt my father would feel differently. "Gunsmoke" with James Arness as Marshal Matt Dillon, which ran on CBS from 1955 to 1975, was probably his all-time favorite TV show and obviously, millions of others loved it with similar loyalty.
Many had come to it by simply crossing over from radio to television. As a radio program, "Gunsmoke" had a following for nearly ten years prior to its debut as a television western that targeted an adult audience.
On the strictly-audio version, which relied on actors' voices without regard to physical appearance, William Conrad -- today, best remembered for his TV work as an overweight detective in the 1970s series "Cannon" -- was an ideal radio Dillon.
Television, however, is all about appearances, whether the on-camera task calls for playing a lawman or reading the news. In that respect, James Arness showed himself to be the man for the job.
Tuning into Arness as a no-nonsense marshal was as close as it got to having John Wayne -- for my father's generation, the poster boy for a man's man, if ever there was one -- walk tall in your living room on a regular basis. In fact, Wayne did a promo for the show's first episode.
I'm old enough to remember when "Gunsmoke," as a half-hour series filmed in black and white, reigned as king of Saturday night TV for several years. Given a chance to watch it now, I'd prefer the later episodes that were an hour long and in color. They may not have ruled the national TV ratings, but those were the ones I enjoyed most for their storytelling and the picture they painted of Dodge City, Kansas a few years after the Civil War.
I admit that I started paying attention to "Gunsmoke" much the same as I have watched other TV series for the first time --- that is, sometime after nearly everyone else. For what it's worth, I may be the last person on this side of the River Nile to have discovered the greatness of "Seinfeld" before that show ended its run.
It was no different with "Law & Order."
Unlike "Gunsmoke," which starred James Arness as Marshal Dillon from start to finish, with long-term steadiness in the supporting roles of Doc Adams (Milburn Stone) and Miss Kitty (Amanda Blake), "Law & Order" launched in 1990 with a cast that would never stop changing.
By the time I caught up to it, only one of the original six cast members -- Steven Hill, the first to play the district attorney in the series -- was still around. Michael Moriarty was the executive assistant district attorney under Hill for four seasons. But even with the reruns on cable networks, I have yet to see an example of his time on "Law & Order."
When I started watching "NYPD Blue," much of the motivation had to do with my work as a reporter covering the police beat for a newspaper in Queens County. The show may have used a fictional Manhattan precinct for its detective squad, but many of the stories were inspired by cases that had occurred in Queens, including ones that I covered. I got a kick out of following the series, especially whenever I was able to recognize some of the real-life events and characters involved.
In that respect, my reason for watching "Law & Order" was very different. On "L&O," I enjoyed Jerry Orbach's veteran detective, Lennie Briscoe, and looked forward to hearing his weekly wisecrack at the opening crime scene. As a reporter, I'd certainly heard some good ones over the years at such sites.
In one case, I was on hand in a park as investigators discussed how the dead body nearby belonged to a victim who had been killed at another location and brought to the scene.
"Don't they know illegal dumping is a crime?" a detective said, and I was among those who laughed.
So, I had already developed an appreciation for the kind of dark one-liners viewers expected of Detective Briscoe. But that wasn't what got me started with "Law & Order."
In truth, it was the presence of actor Sam Waterston that drew me to check out the show in the first place. Years earlier, I had become a Waterston fan for life after seeing his film portrayals of two of my favorite characters in American literature --- Tom Wingfield, the son in "The Glass Menagerie," and Nick Carraway, the narrator in "The Great Gatsby."
Since joining "Law & Order" as Moriarty's successor, Waterston has endured with excellence, despite all the cast changes and a particular storyline. The latter boosted his character, Jack McCoy, to district attorney, but put him on a collision course with this state's governor.
In another example of how "L&O" stories were indeed "ripped from the headlines," as teasers would claim, the governor's sins included an all-too-familiar gubernatorial fondness for hookers.
In the end, the governor had about as much chance of intimidating Jack McCoy as the doomed gunfighter had of getting the drop on Matt Dillon in the opening of "Gunsmoke."
The final first-run episode of "Law & Order" airs next Monday, May 24. After that, there's always the reruns on cable TV, though it's hardly the same when you already know the verdict or the plea bargain that serves as a conclusion to the episode.
No doubt I'll miss watching Manhattan's chief prosecutor go after new offenders in our living room on a weekly basis, just as my father had been sorry to see Dodge City's marshal ride off into the sunset (though he did return in some made-for-TV movies over the years that followed).
Matt Dillon and Jack McCoy --- maybe it's only fitting that as the matter of longest-lasting TV drama is finally decided, they get to share the top shelf, after all.
On some level -- the one that recognizes how each hour of sitting passively in front of the TV equals 60 minutes that could be spent doing something meaningful -- I might think that NBC's decision was like losing a candy bar from my youth; I'm probably better off if it's gone.
But I doubt that.
Nowadays I have to be in the mood for candy. Since acquiring my taste for "Law & Order," however, I've found that its sweet efficiency in getting to the point usually hits the spot.
Certainly, the rush to plot resolution that drives the show in shifting from criminal investigation to prosecution made New York City a natural choice for the filming location. Who moves faster than New Yorkers?
The pace also explains why "Law & Order" proved to be an easy watch for viewers unable or unwilling to invest their time in following character development or a story arc that advances with the speed of a glacier.
If your idea of great television means a season-long game of not only connecting the dots, but first having to find them, look elsewhere. This is the anti-"Lost."
For those who saw the appeal and embraced it, "Law & Order" has been series drama without commitment. The only requirement for full enjoyment is arrival in time to hear the signature opening ("In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute offenders. These are their stories.").
It's worked well enough to last 20 seasons, which is at least 100 in TV years, while becoming a franchise complete with spin-offs. Not bad for a show that reportedly was offered to two other networks before it found a home on NBC.
Right up until I learned that the cancellation was official, I had been rooting for the original "Law & Order" to notch the one more season it needed to surpass "Gunsmoke" in longevity among U.S. television dramas.
No doubt my father would feel differently. "Gunsmoke" with James Arness as Marshal Matt Dillon, which ran on CBS from 1955 to 1975, was probably his all-time favorite TV show and obviously, millions of others loved it with similar loyalty.
Many had come to it by simply crossing over from radio to television. As a radio program, "Gunsmoke" had a following for nearly ten years prior to its debut as a television western that targeted an adult audience.
On the strictly-audio version, which relied on actors' voices without regard to physical appearance, William Conrad -- today, best remembered for his TV work as an overweight detective in the 1970s series "Cannon" -- was an ideal radio Dillon.
Television, however, is all about appearances, whether the on-camera task calls for playing a lawman or reading the news. In that respect, James Arness showed himself to be the man for the job.
Tuning into Arness as a no-nonsense marshal was as close as it got to having John Wayne -- for my father's generation, the poster boy for a man's man, if ever there was one -- walk tall in your living room on a regular basis. In fact, Wayne did a promo for the show's first episode.
I'm old enough to remember when "Gunsmoke," as a half-hour series filmed in black and white, reigned as king of Saturday night TV for several years. Given a chance to watch it now, I'd prefer the later episodes that were an hour long and in color. They may not have ruled the national TV ratings, but those were the ones I enjoyed most for their storytelling and the picture they painted of Dodge City, Kansas a few years after the Civil War.
I admit that I started paying attention to "Gunsmoke" much the same as I have watched other TV series for the first time --- that is, sometime after nearly everyone else. For what it's worth, I may be the last person on this side of the River Nile to have discovered the greatness of "Seinfeld" before that show ended its run.
It was no different with "Law & Order."
Unlike "Gunsmoke," which starred James Arness as Marshal Dillon from start to finish, with long-term steadiness in the supporting roles of Doc Adams (Milburn Stone) and Miss Kitty (Amanda Blake), "Law & Order" launched in 1990 with a cast that would never stop changing.
By the time I caught up to it, only one of the original six cast members -- Steven Hill, the first to play the district attorney in the series -- was still around. Michael Moriarty was the executive assistant district attorney under Hill for four seasons. But even with the reruns on cable networks, I have yet to see an example of his time on "Law & Order."
When I started watching "NYPD Blue," much of the motivation had to do with my work as a reporter covering the police beat for a newspaper in Queens County. The show may have used a fictional Manhattan precinct for its detective squad, but many of the stories were inspired by cases that had occurred in Queens, including ones that I covered. I got a kick out of following the series, especially whenever I was able to recognize some of the real-life events and characters involved.
In that respect, my reason for watching "Law & Order" was very different. On "L&O," I enjoyed Jerry Orbach's veteran detective, Lennie Briscoe, and looked forward to hearing his weekly wisecrack at the opening crime scene. As a reporter, I'd certainly heard some good ones over the years at such sites.
In one case, I was on hand in a park as investigators discussed how the dead body nearby belonged to a victim who had been killed at another location and brought to the scene.
"Don't they know illegal dumping is a crime?" a detective said, and I was among those who laughed.
So, I had already developed an appreciation for the kind of dark one-liners viewers expected of Detective Briscoe. But that wasn't what got me started with "Law & Order."
In truth, it was the presence of actor Sam Waterston that drew me to check out the show in the first place. Years earlier, I had become a Waterston fan for life after seeing his film portrayals of two of my favorite characters in American literature --- Tom Wingfield, the son in "The Glass Menagerie," and Nick Carraway, the narrator in "The Great Gatsby."
Since joining "Law & Order" as Moriarty's successor, Waterston has endured with excellence, despite all the cast changes and a particular storyline. The latter boosted his character, Jack McCoy, to district attorney, but put him on a collision course with this state's governor.
In another example of how "L&O" stories were indeed "ripped from the headlines," as teasers would claim, the governor's sins included an all-too-familiar gubernatorial fondness for hookers.
In the end, the governor had about as much chance of intimidating Jack McCoy as the doomed gunfighter had of getting the drop on Matt Dillon in the opening of "Gunsmoke."
The final first-run episode of "Law & Order" airs next Monday, May 24. After that, there's always the reruns on cable TV, though it's hardly the same when you already know the verdict or the plea bargain that serves as a conclusion to the episode.
No doubt I'll miss watching Manhattan's chief prosecutor go after new offenders in our living room on a weekly basis, just as my father had been sorry to see Dodge City's marshal ride off into the sunset (though he did return in some made-for-TV movies over the years that followed).
Matt Dillon and Jack McCoy --- maybe it's only fitting that as the matter of longest-lasting TV drama is finally decided, they get to share the top shelf, after all.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Strange Return of Mr. Mum
There are many places where a man might want to sit down and spend his birthday on a warm spring day, if work isn't part of the plan.
An outdoor cafe, the ballpark or the deck of a boat are three possibilities that come to mind for an afternoon given to simple pleasures such as enjoying the sunshine and being glad to be alive.
No question, any one of the three would have been fine as I marked the anniversary of my arrival on Planet Earth recently and no need to stop there; feel free to add a beer garden to the list.
But the way it turned out, little time was spent outdoors or sitting down. There were no frosted mugs of brew being hoisted, although that might have made the experience a little easier --- or maybe not.
I know one thing: I wasn't expecting to find myself a part of the return of Mr. Mum.
For those who came in late, Mr. Mum was the star of a newspaper cartoon -- "The Strange World of Mr. Mum," drawn by Irving Phillips -- that was quite popular during the 1960s. The character, as I recall, was pictured with a canine companion and never failed to live up to his name. Ever the silent type, Mr. Mum would stroll from one odd encounter into another, each captured with humor in a single panel (except on Sundays, when a multi-panel strip appeared).
He was the would-be passerby who turns a corner only to be frozen in his tracks and thrust into the role of innocent bystander/involuntary witness amid some occurrence that's both unexpected and surreal. In his world, Mr. Mum was on the far side long before there was "The Far Side" by another gifted cartoonist, Gary Larson.
At some point in the 1970s, Mr. Mum and his pooch walked right out of the newspaper and into that land of the lost where cartoon characters go when their creator retires or a new feature comes along to bump them out of their space.
Whatever the circumstances, one day I noticed that Mr. Mum was gone.
Over the years that followed, I didn't give him much thought, until he suddenly showed up out of the blue on my birthday, of all days. I don't know whether Irving Phillips had ever dropped Mr. Mum into a scene at a New York State Department of Motor Vehicles office during his heyday, but that's where I encountered him when he made his comeback.
Life yields rewards and punishments that come in all shapes and sizes. Neglecting to renew my driver license sooner, via online or by mail, meant having to accomplish the task in person, due to the requirement of an eye exam.
Once I realized this, I wasn't sure which would prove more painful --- the wait that awaited or the new photo that was unlikely to be an improvement over the mug shot already in use. But it didn't really matter. My license was due to expire on my birthday, so there was no alternative, other than waking up as a pedestrian the next day.
I kept telling myself that as I pulled into and out of the parking lot for the DMV office in Nassau County where there were no spaces to be had. Resigned to my fate, I drove away, continued across Old Country Road, into a residential section where on-street parking was permitted and left my car in front of a house that looked too nice to belong to a family of auto strippers.
This resulted in a hike that amounted to a week's worth of exercise and provided enough time to come to grips with the awful truth (as the late great thinker Bucky Fuller put it): I was going to walk into the place and find it packed.
So the good news was that I wasn't shocked at what I saw when I entered the DMV facility and as a preliminary to the main event, waited briefly to receive the all-important ticket with a number that represented my turn.
Once I had the ticket, I scanned the area for a good spot where I could join the standing-room-only crowd behind twin rows of benches that reminded me of church pews. From there, I would wait and watch the electronic boards above the broken oval of customer service stations.
The turn numbers were displayed in red lights and if anyone in the crowd had telekinetic powers to move the numbers to their advantage, I didn't see those powers in use. I certainly tried hard to develop any that I might have been given at birth but didn't know about.
Ever so slowly, the digits would change and it was enough to make one wish that initiating small talk with an employee in a government office amounted to a capital offense. No need to talk about the weather, the Mets or how anyone is feeling; just answer the questions, get what you came for and keep the numbers moving, thank you.
As for where to stand and watch it all, I knew that the spot selection was important. After all, waiting your turn at the DMV is not the same as waiting for your number to be called at the deli counter in the supermarket.
Ideally, you want a spot that is somewhere off from the big crowd, to keep the jostling to a minimum -- unless you happen to enjoy physical contact with rude strangers in a rush. But you also need to have the kind of vantage point that makes it possible to watch the electronic boards and, with a nod towards strategic planning, be able to move out when that glorious moment finally arrives and it's your turn.
Until that happens, there's not much else to do to pass the time, besides turning your attention to the TV monitors programmed with trivia quizzes and public service announcements or observing your fellow travelers from a distance.
I thought I was standing in a pretty safe spot to do all of the above -- behind and slightly away from a row of benches/pews -- as I recalled a Tennessee Williams line from "The Glass Menagerie" about "the long delayed but always expected something that we live for." I wondered if a visit to the DMV had had anything to do with the inspiration for it. Maybe Williams had waited too long to renew his license by mail, too, and suffered the consequences.
If so, I could only guess how long a wait had sparked the great playwright. But in my case, minus the musings of genius, I was left to do the simple math of harsh reality. The way I figured it, comparing the number on my ticket to the one on the boards, with the rate of change as a factor, I was looking at about a two-hour wait.
"So, there you go --- a line skipper," I heard someone say.
Next to treason, there may be no worse accusation one could voice in a public place. My knowledge of French history is limited, at best (and I side with the Belgians who say they invented French fries), but I've always thought that Robespierre and the Reign of Terror began with the beheading of some fool who had jumped a line.
"Yeah, that's what she did. She skipped a line."
The voice came from my right and belonged to a middle-aged guy who was wearing a baseball cap and the look of someone seizing his moment upon the stage. He was standing in close proximity to a short queue of people whose wait for service was exclusive of the red numbers on the electronic boards.
Due to a large sign encased in Plexiglas or something similar that stood behind me, I couldn't see or hear the woman who allegedly had walked up to the counter, ignoring a line of folks waiting their turn.
For me, it was like watching somebody talk on a phone and being limited to their end of the conversation. As the person on the other end, the woman could have been standing in a department store in Holman, Indiana.
On this end -- the one I could see and hear -- another voice piped up.
"As a matter of fact, I'm not the one who said it, lady, but if the shoe fits..." declared the fellow who was on line and at the head of it.
"Well, I said it and I'm looking at you!" the actual accuser interjected.
With that, a large man -- younger and more physically imposing than the other two -- rose up and out of the last row of benches/pews as he proceeded to make his way towards the line.
"You're looking at her? Well, now you can look at me --- that's my wife you're talking to!" he roared, offering the first guy a sufficient amount of trouble, if that's what he wanted.
That proposal was countered in short order by a younger male who had been standing on the line. He stepped forward and what he lacked in bulk he made up for in volume.
"You're talking to him? Well, why don't you talk to me? I'm his son and you want trouble with my father, you can start with me!" the newest participant screamed.
(Note: I have left out more than the gestures that accompanied their words. I like to think that while working many years as a newspaper reporter in Queens County, I quoted people correctly in presenting various heated exchanges that took place at school board meetings and public hearings. But possibly because I never filed a spot news story on line jumping, I cannot remember a time when -- for the sake of my more polite readers, if I have any -- I had to go to such lengths to soften the words of others through the subtraction of profanity as performed above.)
Seeing that I stood on the fringe of what seemed to be a contest to determine the angriest man/loudest cusser, as the son and husband squared off, I took the opportunity to display arguably my best footwork in public since the seventh grade, when I had danced The Twist with Patty LaReddola and we were the best couple on the floor until I ripped the seat of my pants.
Now, when it could mean a matter of life and limb, I deftly pulled off a 30-foot lateral glide to my left that was worthy of a "10" from judges Carrie Ann, Len and Bruno on "Dancing with the Stars." Meanwhile, a more daring fellow came up behind the husband and tried to hold him back, obviously unaware of the high casualty rate for peacemakers.
By then, whatever other conversations that had been going on halted and people had something else to watch besides the electronic boards and TV monitors. Some found the whole thing hilarious. From my new spot, I came to a sudden realization: I was viewing an amateur production of a professional wrestling scenario, with kibitzing managers and vulgar loudmouths full of bravado, threatening each other for entertainment and each determined to have the last word.
Just as the drama's fire seemed to go out, sure enough, it would flare up again. At one point, another big guy -- apparently a buddy of the husband -- entered the fray and demanded to know if this was where the trouble was. It was not unlike the wrestler who comes running out of the dressing room in a frenzy to help a friend from being unfairly outnumbered in the ring.
The only thing missing was the announcers.
Finally, the sound and fury died down in earnest, with no punches thrown, and business at the DMV went on as usual once again. I knew the show was over around the same time that I glimpsed the presence of a security guard for the first time. Since I don't know and am left to guess, I'm willing to accept the notion that he had gone out for a Wendy's Value Meal just prior to all hell breaking loose.
But before he made his appearance, others made theirs. Some Nassau County cops showed up and with the assistance of a DMV person who identified the various performers one by one, they escorted those individuals from the premises.
"Oh, sure, I have to leave now after waiting three hours," one griped.
"Sir, how long you waited today might prove to be the least of your problems," the cop advised.
They moved past Mr. Mum, who celebrated his birthday afternoon without much sunshine or the company of a dog, but eventually got what he came for -- new photo excluded -- and in considerably less time than he had calculated.
After one more walk, he drove home to sit down and hoist a cold one.
An outdoor cafe, the ballpark or the deck of a boat are three possibilities that come to mind for an afternoon given to simple pleasures such as enjoying the sunshine and being glad to be alive.
No question, any one of the three would have been fine as I marked the anniversary of my arrival on Planet Earth recently and no need to stop there; feel free to add a beer garden to the list.
But the way it turned out, little time was spent outdoors or sitting down. There were no frosted mugs of brew being hoisted, although that might have made the experience a little easier --- or maybe not.
I know one thing: I wasn't expecting to find myself a part of the return of Mr. Mum.
For those who came in late, Mr. Mum was the star of a newspaper cartoon -- "The Strange World of Mr. Mum," drawn by Irving Phillips -- that was quite popular during the 1960s. The character, as I recall, was pictured with a canine companion and never failed to live up to his name. Ever the silent type, Mr. Mum would stroll from one odd encounter into another, each captured with humor in a single panel (except on Sundays, when a multi-panel strip appeared).
He was the would-be passerby who turns a corner only to be frozen in his tracks and thrust into the role of innocent bystander/involuntary witness amid some occurrence that's both unexpected and surreal. In his world, Mr. Mum was on the far side long before there was "The Far Side" by another gifted cartoonist, Gary Larson.
At some point in the 1970s, Mr. Mum and his pooch walked right out of the newspaper and into that land of the lost where cartoon characters go when their creator retires or a new feature comes along to bump them out of their space.
Whatever the circumstances, one day I noticed that Mr. Mum was gone.
Over the years that followed, I didn't give him much thought, until he suddenly showed up out of the blue on my birthday, of all days. I don't know whether Irving Phillips had ever dropped Mr. Mum into a scene at a New York State Department of Motor Vehicles office during his heyday, but that's where I encountered him when he made his comeback.
Life yields rewards and punishments that come in all shapes and sizes. Neglecting to renew my driver license sooner, via online or by mail, meant having to accomplish the task in person, due to the requirement of an eye exam.
Once I realized this, I wasn't sure which would prove more painful --- the wait that awaited or the new photo that was unlikely to be an improvement over the mug shot already in use. But it didn't really matter. My license was due to expire on my birthday, so there was no alternative, other than waking up as a pedestrian the next day.
I kept telling myself that as I pulled into and out of the parking lot for the DMV office in Nassau County where there were no spaces to be had. Resigned to my fate, I drove away, continued across Old Country Road, into a residential section where on-street parking was permitted and left my car in front of a house that looked too nice to belong to a family of auto strippers.
This resulted in a hike that amounted to a week's worth of exercise and provided enough time to come to grips with the awful truth (as the late great thinker Bucky Fuller put it): I was going to walk into the place and find it packed.
So the good news was that I wasn't shocked at what I saw when I entered the DMV facility and as a preliminary to the main event, waited briefly to receive the all-important ticket with a number that represented my turn.
Once I had the ticket, I scanned the area for a good spot where I could join the standing-room-only crowd behind twin rows of benches that reminded me of church pews. From there, I would wait and watch the electronic boards above the broken oval of customer service stations.
The turn numbers were displayed in red lights and if anyone in the crowd had telekinetic powers to move the numbers to their advantage, I didn't see those powers in use. I certainly tried hard to develop any that I might have been given at birth but didn't know about.
Ever so slowly, the digits would change and it was enough to make one wish that initiating small talk with an employee in a government office amounted to a capital offense. No need to talk about the weather, the Mets or how anyone is feeling; just answer the questions, get what you came for and keep the numbers moving, thank you.
As for where to stand and watch it all, I knew that the spot selection was important. After all, waiting your turn at the DMV is not the same as waiting for your number to be called at the deli counter in the supermarket.
Ideally, you want a spot that is somewhere off from the big crowd, to keep the jostling to a minimum -- unless you happen to enjoy physical contact with rude strangers in a rush. But you also need to have the kind of vantage point that makes it possible to watch the electronic boards and, with a nod towards strategic planning, be able to move out when that glorious moment finally arrives and it's your turn.
Until that happens, there's not much else to do to pass the time, besides turning your attention to the TV monitors programmed with trivia quizzes and public service announcements or observing your fellow travelers from a distance.
I thought I was standing in a pretty safe spot to do all of the above -- behind and slightly away from a row of benches/pews -- as I recalled a Tennessee Williams line from "The Glass Menagerie" about "the long delayed but always expected something that we live for." I wondered if a visit to the DMV had had anything to do with the inspiration for it. Maybe Williams had waited too long to renew his license by mail, too, and suffered the consequences.
If so, I could only guess how long a wait had sparked the great playwright. But in my case, minus the musings of genius, I was left to do the simple math of harsh reality. The way I figured it, comparing the number on my ticket to the one on the boards, with the rate of change as a factor, I was looking at about a two-hour wait.
"So, there you go --- a line skipper," I heard someone say.
Next to treason, there may be no worse accusation one could voice in a public place. My knowledge of French history is limited, at best (and I side with the Belgians who say they invented French fries), but I've always thought that Robespierre and the Reign of Terror began with the beheading of some fool who had jumped a line.
"Yeah, that's what she did. She skipped a line."
The voice came from my right and belonged to a middle-aged guy who was wearing a baseball cap and the look of someone seizing his moment upon the stage. He was standing in close proximity to a short queue of people whose wait for service was exclusive of the red numbers on the electronic boards.
Due to a large sign encased in Plexiglas or something similar that stood behind me, I couldn't see or hear the woman who allegedly had walked up to the counter, ignoring a line of folks waiting their turn.
For me, it was like watching somebody talk on a phone and being limited to their end of the conversation. As the person on the other end, the woman could have been standing in a department store in Holman, Indiana.
On this end -- the one I could see and hear -- another voice piped up.
"As a matter of fact, I'm not the one who said it, lady, but if the shoe fits..." declared the fellow who was on line and at the head of it.
"Well, I said it and I'm looking at you!" the actual accuser interjected.
With that, a large man -- younger and more physically imposing than the other two -- rose up and out of the last row of benches/pews as he proceeded to make his way towards the line.
"You're looking at her? Well, now you can look at me --- that's my wife you're talking to!" he roared, offering the first guy a sufficient amount of trouble, if that's what he wanted.
That proposal was countered in short order by a younger male who had been standing on the line. He stepped forward and what he lacked in bulk he made up for in volume.
"You're talking to him? Well, why don't you talk to me? I'm his son and you want trouble with my father, you can start with me!" the newest participant screamed.
(Note: I have left out more than the gestures that accompanied their words. I like to think that while working many years as a newspaper reporter in Queens County, I quoted people correctly in presenting various heated exchanges that took place at school board meetings and public hearings. But possibly because I never filed a spot news story on line jumping, I cannot remember a time when -- for the sake of my more polite readers, if I have any -- I had to go to such lengths to soften the words of others through the subtraction of profanity as performed above.)
Seeing that I stood on the fringe of what seemed to be a contest to determine the angriest man/loudest cusser, as the son and husband squared off, I took the opportunity to display arguably my best footwork in public since the seventh grade, when I had danced The Twist with Patty LaReddola and we were the best couple on the floor until I ripped the seat of my pants.
Now, when it could mean a matter of life and limb, I deftly pulled off a 30-foot lateral glide to my left that was worthy of a "10" from judges Carrie Ann, Len and Bruno on "Dancing with the Stars." Meanwhile, a more daring fellow came up behind the husband and tried to hold him back, obviously unaware of the high casualty rate for peacemakers.
By then, whatever other conversations that had been going on halted and people had something else to watch besides the electronic boards and TV monitors. Some found the whole thing hilarious. From my new spot, I came to a sudden realization: I was viewing an amateur production of a professional wrestling scenario, with kibitzing managers and vulgar loudmouths full of bravado, threatening each other for entertainment and each determined to have the last word.
Just as the drama's fire seemed to go out, sure enough, it would flare up again. At one point, another big guy -- apparently a buddy of the husband -- entered the fray and demanded to know if this was where the trouble was. It was not unlike the wrestler who comes running out of the dressing room in a frenzy to help a friend from being unfairly outnumbered in the ring.
The only thing missing was the announcers.
Finally, the sound and fury died down in earnest, with no punches thrown, and business at the DMV went on as usual once again. I knew the show was over around the same time that I glimpsed the presence of a security guard for the first time. Since I don't know and am left to guess, I'm willing to accept the notion that he had gone out for a Wendy's Value Meal just prior to all hell breaking loose.
But before he made his appearance, others made theirs. Some Nassau County cops showed up and with the assistance of a DMV person who identified the various performers one by one, they escorted those individuals from the premises.
"Oh, sure, I have to leave now after waiting three hours," one griped.
"Sir, how long you waited today might prove to be the least of your problems," the cop advised.
They moved past Mr. Mum, who celebrated his birthday afternoon without much sunshine or the company of a dog, but eventually got what he came for -- new photo excluded -- and in considerably less time than he had calculated.
After one more walk, he drove home to sit down and hoist a cold one.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Small-Talkin' Baseball
As Spring Training 2010 comes to a close, pondering the baseball season that's about to begin for the New York Mets calls to mind an exchange by two guys as they passed outside the local bagel shop.
One asked how the other was doing and the answer required neither to break stride.
"I got up this morning," the respondent said, then walked into the store.
Whether this will prove to be the best thing a fan can say about the team that is packing to head north to Flushing for Monday's game against the Florida Marlins at Citi Field remains to be seen. Traditionally, spring is the season when baseball fans' optimism is in full bloom and it's okay to dream big.
But right now, given the way that things have gone for the Mets the past two years -- and during this spring training -- it might be best to keep the talk small in early April, if only to reduce the risk of stomach trouble in mid-August.
For those who like examples, here are several that are safe enough (although this blogger can't guarantee an expiration date for any of them):
"Johan is the man."
"David Wright has been hitting the way he can."
"I really like what Jeff Francoeur brings to the table."
"Mike Pelfrey is keeping the ball down."
"Mejia and Tejada have opened some eyes."
"Jose Reyes is coming back."
Note that the above suggestions allow for some nice positive conversation while keeping the articulation of expectations to a minimum. This explains the absence of Jason Bay, the Mets' big-ticket free agent acquisition. Dropping his name can only lead to an attempt to project his home run and RBI totals for the season, which is simply asking for trouble.
Meanwhile, no such restrictions need apply when it comes to talk about the New York Yankees. The defending world champions have the honor of opening the baseball season tomorrow by facing their archrival -- Bay's former team -- the Boston Red Sox in Fenway Park, in a primetime game nationally televised on ESPN (except in New York and Boston, where the teams' own networks will be the providers).
Now that's about as small as it gets --- if you happen to believe that any film Cecil B. DeMille ever made with Charlton Heston can be called short.
The Mets are another story -- surely, if it were told in a movie, that story would need a Coen Brothers script written with Steve Buscemi in mind -- and that's where conversational downsizing shows its merit.
Some years ago, I saw the value in keeping things simple as a guest at a wedding reception where the only person I knew was My Wonderful Wife Peg. When you're seated at a table with several people who are strangers, instead of taking the initiative, sometimes the better choice is to stay quiet and listen until the moment comes when a comment is actually expected of you.
The other thing I realized is that just as one good suit can get a man through a string of wedding celebrations, a short list of responses can sustain an accomplished listener for three to five hours at a clip.
These included:
"No kidding."
"Really."
"I can imagine."
"You don't say."
"I know exactly what you mean."
After a while, I added some others (due, in part, because one of my brothers-in-law caught on). But just as the Mets have players whom people within the organization call their "core," I have had mine. One might say I started small with the small talk before expanding the roster of responses.
I also noticed that much the same as a successful pitcher learns to change speeds, altering an inflection or shifting emphasis arms one with an arsenal of ways to deliver an effective "You don't say" in the clutch. Think in terms of becoming the Tom Seaver of Small Talk, because over the long haul, there's more to the art of conversation than rising fastballs.
Above all, Mets fans should remember that just as there's no crying in baseball, there's no room for boasting in small talk. No need to declare something now that could come back to haunt you later --- a consideration that is largely unknown to fans of the New York Yankees.
The National Pastime is back and I'm ready. Just to show that my game is in mid-season form, catch this one: The Mets got up this morning and so did I.
We might even do it again tomorrow.
Play ball!
One asked how the other was doing and the answer required neither to break stride.
"I got up this morning," the respondent said, then walked into the store.
Whether this will prove to be the best thing a fan can say about the team that is packing to head north to Flushing for Monday's game against the Florida Marlins at Citi Field remains to be seen. Traditionally, spring is the season when baseball fans' optimism is in full bloom and it's okay to dream big.
But right now, given the way that things have gone for the Mets the past two years -- and during this spring training -- it might be best to keep the talk small in early April, if only to reduce the risk of stomach trouble in mid-August.
For those who like examples, here are several that are safe enough (although this blogger can't guarantee an expiration date for any of them):
"Johan is the man."
"David Wright has been hitting the way he can."
"I really like what Jeff Francoeur brings to the table."
"Mike Pelfrey is keeping the ball down."
"Mejia and Tejada have opened some eyes."
"Jose Reyes is coming back."
Note that the above suggestions allow for some nice positive conversation while keeping the articulation of expectations to a minimum. This explains the absence of Jason Bay, the Mets' big-ticket free agent acquisition. Dropping his name can only lead to an attempt to project his home run and RBI totals for the season, which is simply asking for trouble.
Meanwhile, no such restrictions need apply when it comes to talk about the New York Yankees. The defending world champions have the honor of opening the baseball season tomorrow by facing their archrival -- Bay's former team -- the Boston Red Sox in Fenway Park, in a primetime game nationally televised on ESPN (except in New York and Boston, where the teams' own networks will be the providers).
Now that's about as small as it gets --- if you happen to believe that any film Cecil B. DeMille ever made with Charlton Heston can be called short.
The Mets are another story -- surely, if it were told in a movie, that story would need a Coen Brothers script written with Steve Buscemi in mind -- and that's where conversational downsizing shows its merit.
Some years ago, I saw the value in keeping things simple as a guest at a wedding reception where the only person I knew was My Wonderful Wife Peg. When you're seated at a table with several people who are strangers, instead of taking the initiative, sometimes the better choice is to stay quiet and listen until the moment comes when a comment is actually expected of you.
The other thing I realized is that just as one good suit can get a man through a string of wedding celebrations, a short list of responses can sustain an accomplished listener for three to five hours at a clip.
These included:
"No kidding."
"Really."
"I can imagine."
"You don't say."
"I know exactly what you mean."
After a while, I added some others (due, in part, because one of my brothers-in-law caught on). But just as the Mets have players whom people within the organization call their "core," I have had mine. One might say I started small with the small talk before expanding the roster of responses.
I also noticed that much the same as a successful pitcher learns to change speeds, altering an inflection or shifting emphasis arms one with an arsenal of ways to deliver an effective "You don't say" in the clutch. Think in terms of becoming the Tom Seaver of Small Talk, because over the long haul, there's more to the art of conversation than rising fastballs.
Above all, Mets fans should remember that just as there's no crying in baseball, there's no room for boasting in small talk. No need to declare something now that could come back to haunt you later --- a consideration that is largely unknown to fans of the New York Yankees.
The National Pastime is back and I'm ready. Just to show that my game is in mid-season form, catch this one: The Mets got up this morning and so did I.
We might even do it again tomorrow.
Play ball!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Sunday With The Turk
On Valentine's Day, we went to the movies and saw "The Turk."
If you're wondering who's in it, or how it did at the box office compared to "Avatar" or the new movie that's actually titled "Valentine's Day," let me set you straight before this goes any further: "The Turk" is not the movie we saw last Sunday, but it could have been the name above the title.
In truth, My Wonderful Wife Peg and I went to a Sunday matinee screening of "Up in the Air," which stars George Clooney as a character named Ryan Bingham. But in watching him, I wasn't thinking as I usually do, that Mr. Clooney is this Hollywood's Clark Gable and Cary Grant all rolled into one.
No, this time, as we sat in the dark among the few others who were late in catching this hit film or maybe seeing it again, a different notion rose up and grabbed me early on. I suddenly realized that I was watching "The Turk" in action.
If you follow professional football to the extent that you not only watch the games on the field but read about the other stuff -- the "metagame" -- you caught my drift in the opening sentence.
But if, like My Wonderful Wife Peg, whose interest in watching any kind of football has always been determined by whether a family member was involved, "The Turk" is part of the unknown.
To anyone familiar with the challenge of trying to gain or maintain employment as a player in the National Football League, however, no explanation is necessary. Like an encounter with "The Grim Reaper," first-hand knowledge of "The Turk" is to be avoided at all costs. To meet him is to die.
"The Turk" is the fellow who makes the rounds at training camp each time the team's roster needs to be pared down. He's the one who knocks on a player's door to deliver the dreaded words: "Coach wants to see you --- and bring your playbook."
At that moment, when someone's hopes and dreams have just been tapped on the shoulder by an angel of death, what name the messenger may have been given at birth or called at baptism matters little.
To those he seeks out, he's simply "The Turk." When he comes a-knocking, the next thing you know, you've been cut loose.
The first time I read about this entity, as necessary to a pro team's functions as the guy who maintains the Gatorade, the image I conjured up was inspired more by an interpretation of the monicker and less by reality. Of course, since I had never actually met anyone worthy of such a name, I initially relied on imagination and came up with something that was meant to be more imposing than the truth.
I imagined "The Turk" as a cartoon character --- a big, bald-headed brute with an enormous handlebar mustache, possibly with a hoop earring dangling from one lobe but surely wielding a mighty scimitar. This seemed to match my idea of somebody who handles the execution, though it's actually the head coach who tells you to sit down and then throws the switch.
Even so, I knew that the mental picture I had painted could be an animation cell for a 1930s Popeye short. To make "The Turk" truly frightening, I'd have to make him real.
Casting "The Turk" from the ranks of real people, I was reminded of a certain professional wrestler, who went by the name Abdullah the Butcher and was sometimes billed as "The Madman from the Sudan," even though he came from Canada. With deep gashes in his bald head, ones in which he reportedly could stick poker chips, Abdullah was not a pretty sight. But among the living, he was my idea of what "The Turk" should look like.
So it was something of a shock to be sitting in the Bellmore Playhouse last Sunday afternoon, when I looked up to find George Clooney -- the handsome devil for whom, by agreement, My Wonderful Wife Peg can leave me just as I can leave her for Vanessa Williams -- playing "The Turk."
The movie "Up in the Air" has nothing to do with football, but everything to do with a character who has embraced the lifestyle that comes with flying back and forth to practice his art of leaving ordinary people in a terrible place as cleanly as possible.
It may be a dirty job, but somebody has to do it, especially in a recession. So we watch as Clooney's Ryan Bingham goes from city to city, making his appointed rounds and delivering the bad news on behalf of the employers who have contracted with his company to handle the terminations.
The unlucky speak to us, reacting as they meet their doom, and some responses seem worse than others as they take their turns articulating at least one of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' stages of grief. Shock, denial, anger, bargaining and depression are all displayed. But in the end, there's the acceptance of taking the information packet from Bingham that puts the terms of an occupational demise neatly in print.
Meanwhile, seeing this introduction to Clooney's character was a little unsettling at first, considering that I've been out of work for three months now, ending a run of employment that spanned 30 years at two different places.
Fortunately, there is more to "Up in the Air" than watching how longtime workers do in coming face-to-face with "The Turk" and as a moviegoer, I'm glad I saw it.
Some scenes serve as amusing distractions. After Vera Farmiga's character -- Bingham's ideal woman -- becomes part of the story, one might entertain the notion that producer-director Ivan Reitman is shuttling his audience to the land of romantic comedy, where the lead players are warm and likeable even if their actions are not.
I had that feeling to such an extent that for a moment, I could see Rock Hudson in his heyday cast as Ryan Bingham, except for one thing: the U.S. economy in the early 1960s was a different story than the one that keeps the character busy in "Up in the Air."
As it is, a thorough appreciation for this take on current events figures to be difficult for anyone who has lost -- or is in danger of losing -- a job. When Bingham's boss, portrayed by Jason Bateman, gets giddy while talking at an office meeting about the country's deepening recession, he seems more heartless than any villain named Darth.
But for every person who has been turned into an unemployment statistic, one scene in particular might prove as discomforting as it is unforgettable. It has Bingham's young female colleague, perfectly played by Anna Kendrick, trying to perform as an efficient, electronic version of "The Turk" to an older worker named Mr. Samuels. The exercise does not go well for either of them.
Later, on our way out, My Wonderful Wife Peg and I shared our enjoyment of the film, though she admitted that had she known what kind of work the main character does, she probably would have suggested another movie for our Valentine's Day --- George Clooney or no George Clooney.
Like me, she had winced when all those employees about to receive their packet of doom from Ryan Bingham paraded across the screen.
That night, I got to thinking about something I had heard many years ago, regarding one man's remembrance of having seen Arthur Miller's tragic play, "Death of a Salesman," when it first opened in New York City.
"Usually, when people walk out of a sure-fire hit show, they're talking about how wonderful it was," he said. "But here were all these middle-aged men who were walking away in silence. They had just seen their lives and it scared the hell out of them."
More than that, they had just glimpsed "The Turk."
If you're wondering who's in it, or how it did at the box office compared to "Avatar" or the new movie that's actually titled "Valentine's Day," let me set you straight before this goes any further: "The Turk" is not the movie we saw last Sunday, but it could have been the name above the title.
In truth, My Wonderful Wife Peg and I went to a Sunday matinee screening of "Up in the Air," which stars George Clooney as a character named Ryan Bingham. But in watching him, I wasn't thinking as I usually do, that Mr. Clooney is this Hollywood's Clark Gable and Cary Grant all rolled into one.
No, this time, as we sat in the dark among the few others who were late in catching this hit film or maybe seeing it again, a different notion rose up and grabbed me early on. I suddenly realized that I was watching "The Turk" in action.
If you follow professional football to the extent that you not only watch the games on the field but read about the other stuff -- the "metagame" -- you caught my drift in the opening sentence.
But if, like My Wonderful Wife Peg, whose interest in watching any kind of football has always been determined by whether a family member was involved, "The Turk" is part of the unknown.
To anyone familiar with the challenge of trying to gain or maintain employment as a player in the National Football League, however, no explanation is necessary. Like an encounter with "The Grim Reaper," first-hand knowledge of "The Turk" is to be avoided at all costs. To meet him is to die.
"The Turk" is the fellow who makes the rounds at training camp each time the team's roster needs to be pared down. He's the one who knocks on a player's door to deliver the dreaded words: "Coach wants to see you --- and bring your playbook."
At that moment, when someone's hopes and dreams have just been tapped on the shoulder by an angel of death, what name the messenger may have been given at birth or called at baptism matters little.
To those he seeks out, he's simply "The Turk." When he comes a-knocking, the next thing you know, you've been cut loose.
The first time I read about this entity, as necessary to a pro team's functions as the guy who maintains the Gatorade, the image I conjured up was inspired more by an interpretation of the monicker and less by reality. Of course, since I had never actually met anyone worthy of such a name, I initially relied on imagination and came up with something that was meant to be more imposing than the truth.
I imagined "The Turk" as a cartoon character --- a big, bald-headed brute with an enormous handlebar mustache, possibly with a hoop earring dangling from one lobe but surely wielding a mighty scimitar. This seemed to match my idea of somebody who handles the execution, though it's actually the head coach who tells you to sit down and then throws the switch.
Even so, I knew that the mental picture I had painted could be an animation cell for a 1930s Popeye short. To make "The Turk" truly frightening, I'd have to make him real.
Casting "The Turk" from the ranks of real people, I was reminded of a certain professional wrestler, who went by the name Abdullah the Butcher and was sometimes billed as "The Madman from the Sudan," even though he came from Canada. With deep gashes in his bald head, ones in which he reportedly could stick poker chips, Abdullah was not a pretty sight. But among the living, he was my idea of what "The Turk" should look like.
So it was something of a shock to be sitting in the Bellmore Playhouse last Sunday afternoon, when I looked up to find George Clooney -- the handsome devil for whom, by agreement, My Wonderful Wife Peg can leave me just as I can leave her for Vanessa Williams -- playing "The Turk."
The movie "Up in the Air" has nothing to do with football, but everything to do with a character who has embraced the lifestyle that comes with flying back and forth to practice his art of leaving ordinary people in a terrible place as cleanly as possible.
It may be a dirty job, but somebody has to do it, especially in a recession. So we watch as Clooney's Ryan Bingham goes from city to city, making his appointed rounds and delivering the bad news on behalf of the employers who have contracted with his company to handle the terminations.
The unlucky speak to us, reacting as they meet their doom, and some responses seem worse than others as they take their turns articulating at least one of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' stages of grief. Shock, denial, anger, bargaining and depression are all displayed. But in the end, there's the acceptance of taking the information packet from Bingham that puts the terms of an occupational demise neatly in print.
Meanwhile, seeing this introduction to Clooney's character was a little unsettling at first, considering that I've been out of work for three months now, ending a run of employment that spanned 30 years at two different places.
Fortunately, there is more to "Up in the Air" than watching how longtime workers do in coming face-to-face with "The Turk" and as a moviegoer, I'm glad I saw it.
Some scenes serve as amusing distractions. After Vera Farmiga's character -- Bingham's ideal woman -- becomes part of the story, one might entertain the notion that producer-director Ivan Reitman is shuttling his audience to the land of romantic comedy, where the lead players are warm and likeable even if their actions are not.
I had that feeling to such an extent that for a moment, I could see Rock Hudson in his heyday cast as Ryan Bingham, except for one thing: the U.S. economy in the early 1960s was a different story than the one that keeps the character busy in "Up in the Air."
As it is, a thorough appreciation for this take on current events figures to be difficult for anyone who has lost -- or is in danger of losing -- a job. When Bingham's boss, portrayed by Jason Bateman, gets giddy while talking at an office meeting about the country's deepening recession, he seems more heartless than any villain named Darth.
But for every person who has been turned into an unemployment statistic, one scene in particular might prove as discomforting as it is unforgettable. It has Bingham's young female colleague, perfectly played by Anna Kendrick, trying to perform as an efficient, electronic version of "The Turk" to an older worker named Mr. Samuels. The exercise does not go well for either of them.
Later, on our way out, My Wonderful Wife Peg and I shared our enjoyment of the film, though she admitted that had she known what kind of work the main character does, she probably would have suggested another movie for our Valentine's Day --- George Clooney or no George Clooney.
Like me, she had winced when all those employees about to receive their packet of doom from Ryan Bingham paraded across the screen.
That night, I got to thinking about something I had heard many years ago, regarding one man's remembrance of having seen Arthur Miller's tragic play, "Death of a Salesman," when it first opened in New York City.
"Usually, when people walk out of a sure-fire hit show, they're talking about how wonderful it was," he said. "But here were all these middle-aged men who were walking away in silence. They had just seen their lives and it scared the hell out of them."
More than that, they had just glimpsed "The Turk."
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