Audrey vs. Marilyn

A video of Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's. As miscast as she was in that movie, it showed her at her most (incredibly) beautiful: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOByH_iOn88&feature=related

Truman Capote, who wrote the book, said that the part of Holly Golightly (an extroverted prostitute) called for a Marilyn Monroe type, which Hepburn was most definitely not.

Monroe famously sang "Happy Birthday Mr. President" to John F. Kennedy on May 29, 1962. But in fact Kennedy's favorite actress was Hepburn, and she sang "Happy Birthday, Dear Jack" to him exactly a year later, on what would turn out to be his final birthday. (The reason Hepburn's rendition isn't as famous as Monroe's is undoubtedly because it didn't feature the same subtext.)

Monroe, in her own dysfunctional way, was the archetype of a modern movie star: drug-addicted, irresponsible, and incapable of any stable relationships. Hepburn, who devoted the last fifteen years of her life to working for UNICEF, was pretty much the opposite.

Hard to blame Monroe for what she was, though. Read the "Family and Early Life" section of her bio on Wikipedia, upbringings don't come much more unstable than this:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marilyn_Monroe#Family_and_early_life

Ooh la la

There is much to be critical of when it comes to Continental culture. But one aspect of it I have never felt particularly critical of is that if European women like the way you look, they will make themselves available for that reason alone.

The United States started out as a Puritan nation, and that tradition has never completely died. The way it expresses itself these days is through political correctness, a type of Puritanism no less silly than the original. One form that correctness takes is in the matter of sexual politics. American women have been brainwashed into thinking they should be the same as men, and must act (somewhat) like men. They have also been taught that a man should "respect" them. But exactly what that "respect" entails is a little fuzzy. So they have all sorts of self-serving rules, like having to have a certain amount of money spent on them first.

Wanting some evidence of commitment is something that evolution has programmed women for, but some of the grounds for winning "respect" are simply silly. ("Honey, you may never have accomplished anything in your life, your IQ may be 95, your thinking may be utterly logic-free, and you may be a spoiled little princess, but I really respect you since you waited until the third date to sleep with me.")

And, when you think about it, judging a man on his money-making ability in fact does connote a distinct lack of self-respect, at least for those women who abjure prostitution.

European women can be as pretentious as anybody, but they don't let politics get in the way of their instincts. If they're attracted, they'll go to bed with you. Period. No "respect" required.

Perhaps for that reason, European women also pay more attention to their appearance. They tend to be thinner. (Of course, that may be partly because they tend to smoke more.) They also tend to be more fashionable; grunge never really caught on over there. 

I've observed these differences (from afar) with women from Belgium, France, the Czech Republic, Romania, Sweden, Holland, Spain, Germany and even a couple of former Soviet Socialist Republics (I'm including first generation Americans from all these countries). My experience is limited, but somehow I doubt the Poles and Danes are all that different.

Europeans also tend to take the boundaries of marriage less seriously. In France, it is simply expected that a married man will have a mistress. And if he does, it is no great cause for scandal. (A Monica-gate would never happen over there because an affair would never be considered a significant transgression.)

Prime Minister Berlusconi used to joke with the Italian press about the man his wife was said to be having an affair with. It's hard to imagine an American President doing this.

Back when I was single, in the early Eighties, I saw a thirtyish woman from France for a few weeks. At one point I asked her how many men she had slept with. She said fifty. Most American women would never admit to that many, even if it were true, so I expressed surprise. She then felt obliged to explain: "You have to remember, I was married for a long time."

Conclusion: the Old World may be more degenerate, but that's why it's more fun.

Robin Hood

The Wikipedia entry on Robin Hood offers a dismayingly complex and inconclusive explanation as to the possible origins of his story. I had looked it up hoping to be able to pick from maybe two or three competing versions of his story, and possibly come to a conclusion based on some little bit of logic that others might have overlooked. But there are a myriad of possibilities as to how the legend originated, and they are all very, very iffy. It's not at all clear whether or not he was based on a real person, or possibly a number of people. It's not even clear exactly when he lived (it could have been either the 12th or 13th centuries). If he existed, he may have been a peasant, and he may have been an artisan. And he may have been loyal to King Richard the Lion-Hearted (and resentful of his brother King John) -- or he may not have been.

Robert was a common name in the early Middle Ages, and Robin was its diminutive. Wood was a common surname, and might easily have been changed to Hood. There are evidently a number of people by that name who fell afoul of the law, although it's not clear that any of them had anything to do with the legend. One possibility is that "Robin Hood" was just a stock alias used by all thieves of the era. And some feel that the legend was based on a famous outlaw who lived in Sherwood forest in the 13th century whose name was Roger Godberd. (There is also a school of thought that Robin Hood was in fact based in Yorkshire rather than Sherwood.)

Given that questions still swirl around Shakespeare's identity -- and he left a discernable paper trail --  it's not surprising that there would be some question about Robin Hood. Unfortunately, there are nothing but questions. (Why did Shakespeare never write a play about Robin Hood, by the way? He does make brief mention of  him in Two Gentlemen of Verona.)

Over time the legend -- and it is an appealing one -- has evolved a bit. In the 14th century Robin Hood was generally depicted as a brigand. By the 15th century people started ascribing noble blood to him, and Friar Tuck came into being. Maid Marian was most likely a later addition to the myth as well.

There is simply too much confusion to be able to even form an opinion.

One intriguing possibility was suggested by Walter Bower, who wrote in 1440: 

"Then [c. 1266] arose the famous murderer, Robert Hood, as well as Little John, together with their accomplices from among the disinherited, whom the foolish populace are so inordinately fond of celebrating both in tragedies and comedies, and about whom they are delighted to hear the jesters and minstrels sing above all other ballads."

Robin Hood as multiple murderer -- and possibly serial killer?  Is it possible we have been celebrating another Ted Bundy all these years?

In any case, we are all familiar with the legend as it has evolved: Robin Hood, together with his friend Little John and their merry band of men, robbed from the rich to give to the poor. His lady love was Maid Marian and his chief adversary was the Sheriff of Nottingham. (Traditionally, most who have robbed from the rich have given to themselves; whether or not there was a Robin Hood who flouted this rule is questionable.)

Since then, every liberal politician has at some point fancied himself a latter day Robin Hood. Back in Robin's day, if indeed he did exist, the peasantry were not allowed to hunt in the king's forest, and if they did, they could have their eyes put out. You were either a noble with inherited lands or you were not, and if you were not, there was simply no way you could advance.

Today, of course, things are much more complex. 

In any case, it would have been more fun if the Wiki account had been more definitive. They chose accuracy and completeness instead, which is, as always, less gratifying.

Can you tell the difference?

Guy Davis pointed this out the other day: at left wing protests, you tend to see a preponderance of professionally made signs which are mass produced and handed out to marchers who are often bused in by union organizers and their like.

At Tea Party rallies, most of the placards you see are homemade.

What does this say about which side is the grass roots movement (and which is the Astroturf)? What does it say about which side has people who can think for themselves?

Vlad, again

The irrepressible Vladimir Putin was in the news again this weekend, this time for racing a Formula One race car at speeds up to 150 miles per hour. (He only spun out once.)

Putin's powerful political position has allowed him to live out his Walter Mitty-ish fantasies to his heart's content. This was alluded to in an earlier post:

http://justnotsaid.blogspot.com/2010/04/vladimir-putin.html

It's now gotten far beyond the point where these activities appear to be a pose, calculated to win the respect of the Russian electorate; they now seem an integral part of his self-image.

It has been widely speculated that Putin is planning to run for Russia's Presidency again in 2012.

Perhaps, instead, he should just try out for a job he would undoubtedly prefer: replacing Daniel Craig as the next James Bond.

Then again, if you can actually be James Bond, or even better, his boss, why settle for just playing him?

Haile Gebrselassie

Part of the reason to watch the NY Marathon today was to see Haile Gebrselassie, the greatest distance runner of all time. Gebrselassie has set 26 world records in his career, at distances ranging from 2000 meters to the marathon, which he holds the current record in at 2:03:58. He's won two Olympic gold medals at 10,000 meters, as well as four world championships at that distance.

Gebrselassie has always looked older than he is. At age 37, he now looks a bit grandfatherly. Maybe being that tough ages you prematurely. One of his most impressively tough performances came during the 2004 Olympics, when he was so badly injured that he couldn't even warm up for the 10,000, but still ran the race and finished fifth. Gebrselassie is Ethiopian, but at 5' 5" and with those heavy epicanthic folds and wrinkled forehead he looks a little like a San Bushman of the Kalahari.

Back in the first half of the twentieth century, the Boers, not a group known for their respect for the local indigenous population, reportedly held the Bushmen in very high regard. The Bushmen were legendary trackers, had extraordinary eyesight, and could go on forever, sometimes actually running down their prey. 

Gebrselassie can seemingly go on forever, too. He won his first world championship in 1993, and set his most recent world record, for 30K, in 2009. (His  two marathon records were set in 2007 and 2008.)

Towards the beginning of today's race one of the commentators solemnly intoned, in an effort to build up his hometown race, "If he [Gebrselassie] wins in New York City today, he'll be the greatest ever."

Proof, as if it's needed, that some sporting events are better watched with the mute button activated.

Gebrselassie dropped out of the race today with a bad knee at the sixteen mile mark. But, contrary to what that pompous announcer said, his status as greatest ever has long since been cemented.

The Gael

A little while back, in "Pomp and circumstance," I mentioned the theme from Last of the Mohicans. If you haven't seen the movie, it may not have quite the same emotional import for you, but it's still a beautiful piece of music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_Oqf3WVnMc&NR=1

Filial respect, Part 1A

In the previous post I described how my son had mocked my narrow readership a few days ago. That wasn't the only insult he hurled my way last week. 

At one point I mentioned to him that there were a couple of jobs I think I'd be good at, and which I'd enjoy, but which I could never get. (Retirement has started to seem like purgatory.) One job would be working for the FBI tracking down and helping convict sociopaths (not necessarily serial killers). Another would be teaching a course on sociopathy at the college level. My son agreed, "Yeah, you'd never be able to get those jobs," then added, "You know what I think you'd be good at? Being a Squeegee guy."

At one point he expressed annoyance that I would write those pieces about basic training, etc, which were essentially pieces about him. He shook his head disgustedly and said, "Telling you something is a little like saying it into a microphone."

"Dad, I care about you about as much as Tyke [our dog] cares about the French stock market."

Once, at the pool, Johnny put his hands on his pectoral muscles and pushed downward, as if to prematurely demonstrate the effect of gravity on an aging body. "Look," he said, "I'm Dad."

And, of course, the old standby: "You can't be my real father. You're too ugly. My real father is Sean Connery."

A Killing Machine

Dolph Lundgren has an impressive resume. He was a European heavyweight champion at karate. He completed his military training at the Swedish Amphibious Ranger School, their equivalent of Navy Seal training. He has a master's degree in chemical engineering from the University of Sydney. And he was awarded a Fulbright Scholarship to study at MIT, though he soon dropped out to pursue acting.

Lundgren was also, back around the time of Rocky IV, better-looking than any of the other action heroes of the day (Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Willis, Seagal, and Van Damme). He was so good-looking he didn't even really look human. Yet he was also less successful than any of those others. Why? It couldn't have been his lack of acting ability; none of the others could act either.

Perhaps it was his inability, despite the academic credentials, to choose scripts. That doesn't seem to have changed. His latest directorial and acting effort is called Dolph Lundgren is The Killing Machine. Evidently, that is actually the title of the movie, not just the way it's presented on the jacket of this straight-to-DVD effort.

The first clue that something was awry came during the opening credits. The first actor credited was, of course, Lundgren himself, and as his name flashed across the screen a picture of him looking grimly handsome appeared. The second actor credited was Stefanie von Pfetten. But as her name flashed on the screen, so did another picture of Lundgren, looking grimly handsome. And so it went, with each actor's name came another picture of Dolph, looking grimly handsome.

Perhaps a lifetime of having people tell you how handsome you are can skew your perspective.

There is, to be sure, a large audience which cares for action movies. To appreciate this one, you cannot care in the least about plot, character, and dialogue. Early on, Lundgren's somewhat trashy girlfriend is killed, as is his ex-wife's boyfriend. Neither Lundgren nor the ex-wife waste any time mourning, but instead quickly hop into bed with each other.

Lundgren is supposed to be very devoted to his little daughter in this movie. But at one point, he holds her in one arm while shooting at the bad guys with the other. (Wouldn't it have been wiser to set her down before he started attracting enemy gunfire?)

There wasn't a single line in the movie which elicited a chuckle, at least not by design. There also didn't seem to be a single line which wasn't a cliche. Oh well. English is Lundgren's second language.

But all of this is of course merely an excuse to show Lundgren killing a myriad of people, using wide variety of methods. (With all that killing, no wonder the death of his girlfriend didn't affect him.) The bad guys, as is customary in this type of movie, are all extremely tough-looking and also extremely poor shots: their bullets always spray harmlessly around Lundgren but never hit him.

Lundgren is a killing machine, but mostly of decent movie-making; he's not exactly the second coming of that other gloomy Swede, Ingmar Bergman. (On the other hand, he's a lot better-looking.)

Even my son, at whose behest we watched this movie, admitted afterward that he was a little less enamored of Lundgren than he had been before seeing it.

Hereafter

(left, official poster for Hereafter with Cecille de France and Matt Damon; below, Damon with Bryce Dallas Howard)










Clint Eastwood's latest directorial effort, Hereafter, is sentimental, touching, predictable, slyly manipulative, and a bit slow.

One of the most reliable tricks in the romance genre is to have the two romantic leads -- whom we just know are going to end up together -- lead separate lives, and keep them apart for a long time. Each will have a romantic red herring who has some disqualifying trait which causes us to root against them ending up with the lead. By the time the two leads finally meet, a moment the audience has veritably been lusting for for the previous hour, there doesn't need to be a lot of interplay. The mere fact they've finally met makes romance seem inevitable, and the movie can end happily at that point. Nora Ephron used this technique to good effect in Sleepless in Seattle.

The twist in Hereafter is that there are three lives and threads for us to follow: the two romantic leads (played by Matt Damon and Cecille de France) and a little boy.

The third lead is a 12-year old Cockney boy. He is supposed to tug at our heartstrings, and he does. The boy has a twin brother, and both try nobly to save their heroin addict mother. How are we not supposed to be affected when one of the twins is killed while returning from the pharmacist after filling a prescription for a methadone-like substance for their mother? That's not even playing fair.

Cecille de France plays a French television journalist who wonders about her near death experience when she is caught in the Indonesian tsunami. Her romantic red herring is her producer, who seems okay at first but turns out to be a tad too slick.

Matt Damon's red herring is played by Bryce Dallas Howard, daughter of famous director Ron Howard. Her character is just aggressive and off-kilter enough to make us root against her ending up with Damon. Surprisingly, by Hollywood offspring standards, Howard is quite attractive, in fact more so than de France. This violates yet another Hollywood rule, that the hero must end up with the best-looking woman in the movie. (Quick, name the last movie in which the hero ends up with the less attractive female.)

Damon plays a reluctant psychic. Imagine for a moment what other actors might have done with that part. Jack Nicholson would have gone into convulsions playing the psychic, while making every dead person sound unpleasantly unrepentant. Tom Cruise would have acted as if contacting the dead were a matter of extreme, sweaty intensity -- but would always have emerged afterward with his winning grin intact and a thumbs up sign. Damon, who let himself lapse back into his natural chubbiness for the role, plays the psychic the right way -- abashedly. There are no histrionics, only a semi-apologetic explanation for his gift, or, as he sees it, curse. And while conveying messages from the dead he comes across as a slightly absent-minded guy who is trying to remember something hovering on the edge of his consciousness.

Most of us willingly suspend our disbelief for this kind of movie, which is essentially science fiction. But the characters should remain true to themselves, and there was one false note. Damon's character, George Lonegan, has a personality that is nothing but painfully raw, brutal honesty throughout the first three-quarters of the movie. But towards the end, when the little Cockney boy tells Damon where he can find Cecille de France, Damon suddenly acts like a flustered and embarrassed junior high school student and strenuously denies that he likes her. Silly.

And yes, it is The Man With No Name, the director of Unforgiven and Letters from Iwo Jima who helmed this movie. But don't expect Dirty Harry-style action. The pacing is slow, too much so at times.

Verdict: the movie underscores how great both Eastwood and Damon are, partly because it shows their versatility, but that's not quite enough to make it a great movie. Still worth seeing though, especially if you've always wanted to believe in life after death.

As we were leaving the theater I pointed out to my family that there actually have been numerous reports of people who've had near death experiences, whose hearts had actually briefly stopped beating, and who saw a strange luminous light at the moment of their "death."

My son, who is a huge fan of Eastwood's more action-oriented films, retorted, "Well I almost died of boredom during that movie, and I didn't see any light. I mean, my heart didn't actually stop, but I think it came pretty close. And I didn't see anything like that."

The backlash begins

Has there ever been a clearer instance of political correctness than NPR firing Juan Williams for his statement that seeing people in Muslim garb on his airplane causes him anxiety? This is, of course, a near universal reaction among flyers, and understandably so.

Williams didn't say that all Muslims are terrorists, nor did he say that Muslims ought not be allowed to fly. He merely gave voice to personal feelings which almost all of us have experienced.

And how ironic that the victim of this political correctness would be a liberal black man, especially Williams, who never emits anything but nice guy vibes. 

But at least there was a huge public outcry against these thought police. Maybe there's a tiny ray of hope for the cause of honesty after all.

Jimmy McMillan

(Jimmy McMillan)

I didn't watch the televised New York gubernatorial debate the other night, but supposedly third party candidate Jimmy McMillan stole the show by repeating several times, "The rent is too damn high."

McMillan's statement resonated with New Yorkers. The movie Men in Black II must have resonated with him. In one scene Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith get into a scrape with a group of aliens. Jones dispatches a couple of them, then kicks the last one between the legs, to no effect. Mystified, he does it a second time, again to no effect. Will Smith then yells out to him, "He's a Ballchinian!" Jones then pulls down the alien's scarf to reveal his unique anatomy, kicks him there, and the fight ends.

Perhaps that scene will prove instructive to McMillan's gubernatorial rivals.

Cat's Cradle

The twelve hours I spent in a car yesterday went quicker than they otherwise might have thanks to Kurt Vonnegut. I listened to Cat's Cradle in its entirety. I hadn't read it in over thirty years, but my belief in its greatness remains unchanged.

One of the central characters of the book, Felix Hoenikker, is described as "the father of the atom bomb." He invents "ice-nine," a type of ice which only melts at 130 degrees Fahrenheit. It also sets off an instantaneous chain reaction converting any water it comes into contact with into ice-nine, meaning that if it comes into contact with any large body of water that pretty much means the end of the world. As his legacy he has left each of his three children a tiny sliver of the ice.

Vonnegut had fought in WWII, and several of his books, most notably Mother Night, deal with the horrors of war. While listening yesterday I thought that Hoenikker must have been based on either J. Robert Oppenheimer or Edward Teller, and that the idea of ice-nine was inspired by the doubts about the very first atomic bomb test at White Sands Proving Ground in New Mexico. (Scientists were originally unsure as to whether the nuclear explosion would set off a chain reaction which would incinerate the entire world.)

But upon reading Wikipedia this morning, it turns out that Vonnegut's inspiration for Hoenikker was neither of those men, but rather Irving Langmuir, a scientist he had come into contact with while working in General Electric's PR department after the war. Langmuir had evidently actually originated the concept of ice-nine himself, as a way to amuse H. G. Wells, whom he had met in the 1930's.

Vonnegut's characterization of Hoenikker as a man who lives on a different plane than most humans, and who is emotionally uninvolved, even with his own children, is actually a perfect description of someone with Asperger's Syndrome, that mild form of autism which has only become widely recognized in the past two decades. (Vonnegut wrote the book in 1963.) Some people with Asperger's, partly because of their intense focus on one thing, are capable of tremendous insights. (It is thought that Einstein may have had Asperger's.)

Vonnegut's understanding of a syndrome as yet unclassified, as well as his insights into the essential silliness of social status, institutional association, mindless patriotism, and even romantic love, are all evidence of his genius. His ability to tie all these things together into an entertaining story is why he deserves to be re-read.

Sociopath alert: Robert McMahon

The NY Post ran the following article this morning:

Brooklyn bum fakes war wound for cash

Semper fake!

For years, Brooklyn commuters have opened their wallets for Robert McMahon, handing cash to this heroic and heartbreaking figure, a Vietnam vet in combat fatigues, his left arm missing and his right leg crippled, as he panhandles on Ocean Parkway in Kensington.

He plays to their patriotism, having scrawled his nickname, "Rambo," on the back of his camouflage jacket, along with his years of service with the Marines and two stints in 'Nam that saw heavy action. The top of his empty left sleeve is pinned to his uniform shoulder, and he drags his bum leg behind him.

Photos: Alex Rud

Robert Mc Mahon appears an arm short.

While begging for cash in Brooklyn, he plays up his phony stints in Vietnam.

At day's end, he counts his cash - with both fully functioning arms.

When drivers stop for red lights, McMahon, 53, hobbles over and salutes gallantly, juggling a paper cup and a cardboard sign that reads, "Vietnam vet." They give freely.

They are being scammed.

McMahon has two arms -- and was seen using them last week to count the wads of cash he took off kindhearted New Yorkers.

He is not crippled, as was readily apparent when he swiftly dodged inquiring Post reporters.

And it seems he never served in the Marines nor in Vietnam, according to Corps and Veterans Administration officials who could not find any record of him...

Tuesday, The Post spotted the bearded, one-armed bandit at 4:30 p.m. at Ocean and Foster Avenue, where he limped over to the windows of idling vehicles and held up his cup. Many gave dollar bills. He yelled an expletive at a driver who turned him away.

At 5:09 p.m., McMahon quit for the day, darted across Ocean Parkway's seven lanes with surprising agility and walked briskly east along Foster. Two blocks later, McMahon adjusted himself and quickly thrust his left arm out from under his jacket. He used both hands to count his cash.

When he realized a photographer was taking his picture, McMahon tried to hide his left arm by putting it behind his back, then spat and screamed obscenities at the lensman, threatening to kill him. "I'll put a bullet in the back of your head," he howled....

Most people, when caught red-handed in a lie, display some sort of contriteness, or at the very least, embarrassment. Only a sociopath gets angry. (Remember Bill Clinton wagging his finger at his accuser and angrily saying, "I did not have sex with that woman"?)

But we didn't even have to see that particular behavior to be apprised of McMahon's sociopathy. The essence of sociopathy is dishonesty, and there is no form of dishonesty more manipulative than to pose as something one is not, in order to gain either plaudits or sympathy. But McMahon poses as an armless man. A cripple. And a Viet Nam vet. None of which he is. All to manipulate others' emotions and take advantage of them.

(Where else have we heard this recently? Oh, that's right, Richard Blumenthal, who is running for U.S. Senator. Of course, he doesn't want your money, just your vote.)

Most of us would be too ashamed to cadge money -- or votes -- from strangers under such false pretexts. We'd also be fearful of the hatred which would accrue were we caught. But sociopaths don't feel shame, nor are they fearful of social censure.

That is the key to the behavior of more people than you realize. Next time you come across someone who gets angry when you catch them red-handed, be aware that they have a whole list of other loathsome traits which you really don't want to uncover one by one. They are impulsive, disloyal, extremely manipulative, and wildly egotistical and egocentric. Most importantly, no matter now much they pretend otherwise, they care no more for you than you care for the well-being of the meat on your plate. 

Which is basically how they regard you.

Finally, that proverbial headline

This article appeared in the NY Post today:

Connecticut man bitten by police dog bites back

When a man in West Haven, Conn., was bitten by a police dog after attacking an officer, he bit the dog back.

Roderick Lewis, 23, allegedly approached a police officer on a West Haven street early Thursday morning and yelled out "I need a bag of dust," referring to the drug phencyclidine, also known as angel dust or PCP.

Lewis walked toward the officer, Scott Bloom, and reached into his waistband. When Bloom grabbed the man's arms to restrain him, Lewis punched the officer in the face, WVIT-TV reported Friday.

Onyx, the police dog, jumped from Bloom’s vehicle and attacked Lewis, latching onto his leg, but Lewis bit back -- he chomped down on the dog's side and did not release his bite until Bloom could pull him off Onyx.

Lewis was charged with assault on a police officer, disorderly conduct and cruelty to animals, while Bloom and Onyx were treated for their injuries.

Too bad they probably don't have a tape of the encounter, they could have sold it to one of those nature shows as an animal fight.

Then again, while Mr. Lewis doesn't sound like the most upstanding citizen, I'm not sure he should be charged with cruelty to animals: after all, the dog bit him first.

Mr. Teleprompter

(President Obama speaking to elementary school students in Falls Church, Virginia)

Barack Obama's reliance on Teleprompters has become legendary. He is the first President to even use them for press conferences. Even W, stumbling and inarticulate as he was, didn't use them there. One must admire, however, whoever it is who can write Obama's answers so quickly in response to the questions asked.

Even Chris Matthews, the MSNBC host who famously felt shivers going up his leg when he heard Obama speak during the Presidential campaign, is put off. The other day he disgustedly said that when Obama has a meeting with a group of business leaders at the White House, he brings in the Teleprompter so he can talk to them. Matthews asked, "What's the point of even having a meeting with them if all he's going to do is speak from the Teleprompter? There's no connection there."

From shivers to contempt, in less than two years. And on MSNBC, no less.

The Wizard of Oz no longer looms as large in our collective culture as it once did. But one has to wonder if those elementary school students were reminded of the movie while listening to Obama read from the teleprompter in their classroom:

"Pay no attention to that man behind the screen! I am the great and powerful Oz!"

At least the Wizard wrote his own lines.

The velvet rope

There was a reference in this morning's NY Times TV listings to some fashionable fellow who had never seen a velvet rope he hadn't been able to negotiate. It reminded me of an experience I had around twenty-five years ago with such a barrier.

A new nightclub had opened up in lower Tribeca, within walking distance of where I worked. It had just opened up and therefore attracted the kind of crowd which always wanted to try the latest, hottest thing. A friend (http://justnotsaid.blogspot.com/2009/07/strongest-guy-i-ever-met.html) and I happened to be in the vicinity and, curious about the club, got in line outside the little barrier they had erected (it may have been a velvet rope, I can't remember exactly).

We were never picked to go in. Others were whisked by; we were studiously ignored. Many of those let in were actually good-looking women, who of course always get through in such situations. But various men, most dressed in hipper clothes than the business suits my friend and I wore, were also whisked by.

Eventually my friend gave voice to the thought that had been lurking in back of my mind but which I hadn't wanted to acknowledge yet: "They're not going to give us a second look."

It was pure humiliation.

There are five stages you go through when this happens to you -- not entirely unlike Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's widely-cited five stages of grief.

The first is frustration. ("C'mon, I'm getting impatient just standing here.")

The second is disbelief. ("He must not have noticed me.")

Next is anger. ("Who does he think he is?")

Next is outrage combined with compensatory conceit. ("I'm smarter, richer, a better athlete than that loser. How dare he judge me!")

The fifth, and final step, is justification. ("Oh well, I'm leading a pretty good life and that lowlife is never going to be anything but a doorman.")

The problem is, the doorman has the last laugh, because your private thoughts regarding him remain private -- unless you're truly compulsive.

Of course, the best therapy is, as always, a really lousy memory.

The life I've lived, and the memory I'm cursed with, I could write an entire book on rejection. Maybe I should. It would probably sell.

Then again, it would probably just be rejected by the publishers like every other book I've written in the last ten years.

Bullying

(above, Tyler Clementi; at right, Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei)





The suicide of Rutgers student Tyler Clementi after his roommate secretly recorded him having a gay tryst and then streamed that recording on the internet has attracted must attention recently. Some are demanding that Clementi's roommate, Dharun Ravi and his accomplice Molly Wei be charged with manslaughter and receive sentences of up to ten years.

There have been other similar cases recently: thirteen-year-old Seth Walsh, from Tehachapi, California, hung himself in his backyard after classmates teased him about his sexual orientation. Gay teenagers are evidently four times more likely to commit suicide; certainly there should be protections for the vulnerable against this kind of bullying.

But it's hard not to wonder about the nature of the punishment warranted here. What if Tyler Clementi had not committed suicide, but had merely laughed off this intrusion into his privacy? What would be the appropriate punishment for the other two be in that case? Explusion from school? There certainly wouldn't be any calls for ten year jail sentences. But had Clementi laughed them off, their crime would have been no different than it was: a grotesque invasion of his privacy. Ravi and Wei had no idea he was going to commit suicide after they exposed him. They thought they were playing an ordinary practical joke. It was certainly an insensitive and cruel joke, but it could have turned out relatively harmlessly had Clementi not reacted so dramatically.

Neither of the the two culprits looks like a prototypical bully. In fact, both look more like types more likely to be bullied themselves. But the internet has allowed technological skill to replace physical dominance as a vehicle for harassment. This raises the question of exactly what constitutes bullying. Is it bullying when someone makes fun of someone else? It would seem that one person's bullying is another person's well-deserved putdown. Do pretentious people not deserve to be put down? I recently made fun of artist Richard Serra in this blog. What if, Serra, in a depressive mood, happened to stumble across this blog and then committed suicide? Would I be guilty of bullying? Should I be charged with manslaughter? (Three guesses as to where I alight on this issue.) Making fun of some pretentious public person is a far cry from invading a closeted gay boy's privacy. But what of the classmates of the 13 year old boy who hanged himself in Tehachapi? They didn't invade his privacy, they merely mocked him; should they be charged with manslaughter?

What if, after seeing that his secret gay tryst had been exposed, Clementi had merely punched Ravi in the face? Wouldn't we all cheer this well-deserved comeuppance? But then of course Clementi would have been guilty of aggravated assault, and he would have been the one to be legally liable for what most of us would regard as a perfectly understandable outburst. And what if, when Clementi punched his roommate, his roommate had then run out of the room (without Clementi pursuing him), and in the process of doing so, slipped, broken his neck, and died? Then Clementi would be the villain of the piece, and would undoubtedly be incarcerated -- even though this would have been a direct outgrowth of a reaction we were all cheering for a moment ago.

Outcomes cannot always be predicted.

And what of Clementi's partner in that gay tryst? His name hasn't been aired, which is as it should be. But what has his reaction been? He is probably saddened by Tyler's death, outraged by the invasion of his privacy, and gratified that Ravi and Wei are now going to be punished severely. But he himself hasn't committed suicide; he evidently has a more sturdy temperament. Are Ravi and Wei less culpable in his case?

And what other factors may have led to Clementi's drastic action? He undoubtedly had a history that predisposed him to suicide. Is it possible that his father at some point communicated a visceral disgust for homosexuals and Tyler was afraid of coming out for that reason? Does his father bear some responsibility here? And what of the high school classmates who may have picked on Clementi for being a wimpy violin player? Did they contribute to his state of mind -- and thus this tragic outcome -- as well? If Ravi and Wei are to be charged with manslaughter, these others might as well be charged as accomplices.

Ravi and Wei should be expelled from Rutgers and charged with the applicable laws regarding invasion of privacy. And they richly deserve whatever social ostracism is coming their way. But they are not responsible for Clementi's fragile emotional state, and should not be charged with manslaughter.

Riddle #2

Guy just sent another riddle in response:

You have a fox, a chicken and a bag of corn.  You need to get them to the other side of the river.  You can only take one at a time.  If you leave the chicken alone with corn, he will eat the corn.  If you leave the fox alone with the chicken, he will eat the chicken.

How do you do it?

If you want the answer to this one, scroll down:











The key to this one is that you can bring any of them back as well as across the river. One answer would be to bring the chicken across the river, return to get the fox, drop the fox off and pick up the chicken, return with the chicken, then drop it off and pick up the corn, bring the corn across, and finally return to pick up the chicken.

Riddle

Q: There are two Indian tribes in Montana. One is the Whitefeet, who always tell the truth. The other is the Blackfeet, who always lie. You are hiking, and come to a fork in the road. Down one path lies the treasure you've been looking for, and down the other, a man-eating grizzly and certain death. An Indian stands at the fork in the road, but you don't know which tribe he's from. You get to ask him one question to find out which path to take. What question do you ask him?

I pretty much ruined a dinner party the other night by posing this riddle. All conversation stopped and everybody spent the rest of their meal trying to get the answer.

If you want the answer, scroll down:













You ask the Indian, "If you were a member of the other tribe, and I were to ask you which is the safe path, what would you tell me?" Then, whichever path he indicates, take the other one. Because a Whitefoot would tell you the truth about a Blackfoot's lie, and a Blackfoot would lie about the Whitefoot's honest answer, so whichever tribe the fellow you're talking to is from, he'll give you the wrong answer.