Nothing of Our Own

If there’s one thing the right gets right, it’s this:

Liberals are stupid.

Not all of us, perhaps not even the majority, but enough to keep us from effecting anything more than superficial change. And when that change disappoints or fails, the right can shut it down and double down on what once was.

Most glaring example was in 2009. Wall Street had just collapsed, and the titans of capitalism faced ruin. A new, liberal president had a chance to hit a reset button, a whole new economic order that would have eliminated the speculation of shareholders, leaving only the investments of stakeholders with first-hand involvement in the business from which they earned income. Without shareholders, markets would thrive as employees thrive. Customers would benefit from lower prices, and communities would not face threats of re-location.

We don’t need to look to Denmark or Sweden, much less Cuba or Venezuela, to know how that would look. Instead, we can turn our own American clock back 70 years when corporate CEOs made a healthy 20 times the average income of workers who back then had plenty, enough to be unanimously considered a thriving middle-class. All that was during the two terms of Dwight Eisenhower, a Republican president in the 1950s that many think of as the “again” in the MAGA phrase.

It began to unravel under a liberal Democrat named Kennedy who slashed corporate tax rates in the 60s. Even the saintly Jimmy Carter aided corporations with deregulation in the 70s. By the time antigovernment Ronald Reagan took over, CEOs made 40 times what workers made. Who could tell Republican from Democrat during the 28 years that Reagan, two Bushes, and one Clinton served Wall Street as dutifully as well-trained dogs. So dutiful that CEOs now make 350 times more than workers who work second and third jobs to make ends meet.

And we wondered why people in the Rust Belt wouldn’t vote for another Clinton?

Obama seemed different in 2008, but in retrospect, he had the presidency handed to him. In the primaries, his opponent was part of that 28-year, if not 48-year corporate binge. In the general election, his opponent chose a certified looney-toon as a running mate. And, from his election right past his inauguration, America’s economy was in the tank.

Some will want to add race and age as factors, but whatever the case, Obama had a chance to take this country off the narrow and ruinous path followed by the last nine presidents–four Democrats, five Republican–and return it to the wide and successful path blazed by two Democrats and one Republican who preceded them.

Instead, he fell in line with the nine and shored up Wall Street. To do it, he needed a slogan, and who could argue with “Too Big to Fail”? There was the promise of immediacy, of jobs protected and restored, not to mention the convenience of keeping everything as it was, no hassle of paperwork that any real systemic change would require in anyone’s bank accounts, mortgages, insurance policies. All so easy with tax revenues to shore it all up, no matter that most of those revenues now came from the general public rather than from corporations as would have been true in the FDR-Truman-Eisenhower years.

“Too Big to Fail” paved the way for “Make America Great Again.”

No, liberals never fell for the second slogan, as much a lie as what we now call “the Big Lie.” But most of us remain silent while our senators and representatives compromise public interest with that of corporations. Because we are so quiet, those who represent us have little to bargain with, like poker players dealt a weak hand. Meanwhile, we know that the other side is as loud as can be. What president other than Donald Trump has ever had his name, sometimes his face, superimposed on an American flag and flown from roof tops, porches, front-yard flag poles, pick-ups, and boats?

When has the threat of violence ever before gripped town halls, election boards, and school board meetings across the country?

What makes liberals stupid is the belief that, in the face of all this, after we cast our votes, we can let our Joe Bidens and Kamala Harrises, our Nancy Pelosis and Chuck Schumers, our Bernie Sanders and Liz Warrens confront it for us–as we remain silent and smug that we are on “the right side of history.”

What if, in the weeks following his inauguration, Obama heard from just half of us who voted for him insisting that any bailout had to be of the middle class, not from it? What if, in the months following that, every Democrat in congress heard from half those who voted for them during the debate that began with universal health care, before it began to be watered down? Phone calls, letters, emails, letters to newspapers, peaceful assemblies in town centers, town halls, as or more frequent and relentless as the MAGA crowd but without MAGA’s threats of violence and expressions of hate?

Instead, we expected it to be done for us. Therefore, we ended up with the middle-class bailing out the corporations, and with the uncertainties of “Obamacare.”

Even when one of us does speak up, others consider it a chance to excuse their own comfortable silence. So it was following a letter that appeared in my local paper that refuted an earlier letter’s claim that mask mandates and vaccines are “government overreach.” The rebuttal was strong and spot-on, as I made sure to let the writer know–my way to encourage her to write more.

A week later, another letter appeared on the editorial page which identified the second writer without ever mentioning the subject before declaring:

I totally agree with her, and now I don’t have to write a letter of my own.

For all the times I’ve used the line, “Sometimes the jokes just write themselves,” I never thought it could be literally true.

Meanwhile, others who agreed with her blamed the newspaper for printing the first letter to begin with. In effect, they would prefer that editors do the work of democracy for them. Come to think of it, why should the First Amendment matter to those, liberal or not, who think democracy is a spectator sport?

Ever since the red MAGA caps first appeared, I’ve joked that they are 21st Century dunce caps. Liberals aren’t so bad that any one of us should be wearing anything like that on our head, but we sure are good at stuffing gags in our mouths.

The right could call them “dunce gags,” as they may as well be indicative of our collective IQ.

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Mingya As It May

Yesterday I drove past a restaurant once a favorite of mine–from teenage dates in the Sixties to celebrations with my teenage daughter at the turn of the century–only to be reminded that it is now part of an East Coast chain.

Starting to reminisce of times there, I could not recall the name, but I did realize that I could put the question on social media when I got home.

The group devoted to the Merrimack Valley calls its page “Mingya Valley” using a common expression that, as kids, we always intended as an expression of surprise or excitement. So common, that it was usually blurted out spontaneously with no thought or intention at all.

What we–at least those of us on Tower Hill– didn’t know until well into adulthood was that it is an Italian expletive. Which makes us wonder to this day why so many Italian parents, including one of mine, never stopped us from saying it. Was it a shared, subversive, secret stab at all the Irish parents, including the other of mine, who outnumbered them?

Mingya as it may, the group is heavy with nostalgia. I typed the question to the page where it was soon approved and posted. Within minutes, three fellow Mingyans typed in the name which I immediately recognized: “Thompson’s.” I quickly thanked all three and considered the case closed.

Before long, I gained notice that there were more answers, which all proved to be the same answer even though the identical answer still appeared several times above those answers as well as above new answers–answers identical to all the other answers–that continued to appear below the answers I just answered.

None of this is intended as complaint. Far from it. Many of the answers added praise for the restaurant’s food generally and for its bread and pastries specifically, all of which cooked up mouth-watering memories of meals I enjoyed at Thompson’s, a name which now appears at least 30 times and counting in the comments section of my post.

One fellow said he worked there and that he knew it was Thompson’s until well into the Seventies. I delighted in the opportunity to let him know Thompson’s was Thompson’s for at least another quarter century before Thompson’s became something other than Thompson’s and is no longer Thompson’s no matter how much we miss Thompson’s.

And I enjoyed reading the memories of those who were little kids taken there by parents, and who would become adults returning the favor, with their own little kids along for Thompson’s then-(and-now-again)-heralded pecan rolls.

To conclude and to finish, I can report that there are now 48 people (and counting) telling me the name of the restaurant, and only one got it wrong. Oddly, that wrong answer is the 48th, appearing below the still-visible 47 correct answers–or the one correct answer that appears that many times.

One woman near the end of the list hedged her bet with “maybe Thompson’s,” and another fellow wrote, “The Star movie house around the corner, on Essex.” But Essex Street and downtown Lawrence are at least a mile away, making me think that he was answering the wrong post, much like someone writing a Christmas card to one friend and then putting in an envelope addressed to another. Been there, done that.

In addition to the comments, over 39 people (and counting) like or love the question and/or the answers and comments it drew. All hearts and thumbs up, no tears or frowns

Best of all, not a single argument ensued.

Mingya!

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No pics to be found, but you can own this matchbook for just $49.00: https://www.ebay.com/itm/333563561515?chn=ps
The Ayer Mill which now houses a New Balance outlet factory. The clock tower is no doubt the foremost image of my native Lawrence, Mass., and is the masthead (or featured photo) of the Mingya Valley page. This photo is by Shaggy Shag on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/99008891781936122/

Let Nothing Slide

My New Year’s resolution was tested before it technically took effect. Twice.

Shouldn’t be surprised that a resolution to never let anything slide is going to result in confrontations, but I thought that New Year’s Eve would be a demilitarized time-zone.

And notice that I didn’t use the word “trouble.” If I did, I’d plagiarize John Lewis to call it “good trouble.”

Nothing good about the start of two events on New Year’s Eve, preceded by the supermarket being out of orange juice. In retrospect, that early disappointment seems like comic relief for what awaited me.

On such a mild if overcast day, I enjoyed my walk along the Plum Island marsh, and was able to sit on the bench for as long as I would in April or May. By the time I arrived back here, I had a full draft of a column for Martin Luther King Day in my head, or, as one friend says, written with my feet.

Always rueful about walking 2.5 miles on perfectly level land only to end by climbing a steep driveway, I’m a bit air-headed when I reach the top of the drive and start the short downward slope to my door. Thanks to Plum Island’s odd configurations in sand dunes, the back of my driveway overlooks the back of a house on the next street over.

So call him a backyard neighbor. I rarely see him, and have exchanged no more than hellos over these 33 years. Nor did I look in his direction when I turned toward my door. Then I heard him: “Happy New Year!”

I went back to the top and looked down at him: “Yes, Happy New Year, although I’m starting to think the toast should be Here We Go Again!”

He laughed, and I turned back toward home before I heard him again: “Ya! Another year of goddamned Biden!”

For years, for decades, I’ve heard and read the word “snapped” to describe these moments. Many times I’ve used it myself, and have applied it to myself, though I can’t recall the last time. To me, it was always a figure of speech. This was different. I felt an actual snap. Nothing painful or with any specific location, but alarming in that I could not control it anymore than I could get back on a diving board after bouncing off.

My splash was as loud as I could make it: “So what you want is a return to the hate and destruction of a con-man???”

I had returned to the top of the driveway where I could see him, but I caught myself and turned around. That one splash was enough to make the point. Anything more would be a waste of time.

When I walked away, I heard his voice, and immediately yelled back, “Shut up!” No idea what he was starting to say. He started again. “Shut up!”

Back inside, it took awhile to calm down. For probably a half hour, no matter what I picked up to read, I replayed the encounter, what was said, what could have been said, what should have been said. I tried paying my electric bill by phone. When the prompt asked if I wanted to pay by credit card or checking account, I yelled: “Shut up!!!”

Pause. “I’m sorry. I did not understand your answer. Please say ‘credit card’ or ‘checking account’.”

That may have been what snapped me out of it, and before long I was fully absorbed in the MLK Day column, taking a break after a full draft was down to answer emails and to send a message to a writer of an admirable recent letter to the Daily News, a rebuttal of an anti-vaxxer. This is someone I don’t know other than on social media, and so I went there to contact her.

Here we go again:

Before I sent my thanks and support, I noticed that she posted the letter two days earlier. The first commenter gained her thumbs up with a statement that found…

…it to be grossly irresponsible of the Daily News to even publish an opinion from someone opposed to the vaccine in the first place. It’s promoting and disseminating misinformation, the polar opposite of what newspapers are supposed to do. Shame on the Daily News.

Over the years I’ve become quite used to the idea that newspapers should shut down views deemed idiotic or harmful. One basic purpose of the First Amendment (as spelled out in the Federalist Papers) is that all views are aired, that those harmful to the public will be answered (such as she did), and that those answers will outweigh what is harmful.

Theoretically, beneficial ideas and candidates will prevail. Of course, after four years of Trump and who-knows-how-many of McConnell, not to mention the Q-Anon crackpots in congress, we know the difference between theory and reality.

Why? The unwillingness of many to make their voices public. Instead, they are content to vent privately or in what they perceive as a friendly confines–such as on a friend’s post on social media. So divorced are they from the concept of the First Amendment, let alone participatory democracy, that they condemn the messenger as much as the message.

In effect, they would rather be consumers than citizens. They want the obligation of democracy done for them (by editors) rather than attend to it themselves. Put another way, because they themselves will not use the First Amendment, they want it denied to others. Ironically, we criticize the MAGA crowd for claiming “censorship” and even “martyrdom” while giving them the very grounds on which to make those claims.

By their logic, the US Post Office should be filtering our mail, if not shut down entirely.

If you ever wondered how it is so easy for right-wingers to ridicule liberals with terms such as “cancel culture” and words such as “hypocrisy,” this is your answer.

This much I have withstood for years. But this time I was in the act of offering praise to a woman who approved the condemnation of the very paper that gave her the platform to have her say–not to mention a paper that has given me a platform for 39 years.

Yes, there’s a seeming contradiction. Hours after yelling “shut up” at him, I was sending her messages about the First Amendment. Had I to do it all over again, I’d have walked away from him in silence, but only after the initial splash. No “shut ups.” And anyway, isn’t there a difference between your driveway and the editorial page of your local paper?

More compelling is what the two incidents have in common: The snap.

While the second incident did not involve any raised voice or result in the verbal abuse of a recorded phone message or spilled water from a glass in a shaking hand, it did inflict a sickening physical sensation. At a loss to describe it while writing this riff headlined “Let Nothing Slide,” I eventually recalled something that began with the very conviction to let nothing slide.

At the start of the #MeToo Movement, one woman told an interviewer that the catcalls and suggestive remarks aimed at her in public are like mud being thrown on her–that, even after she is out of hearing and sight of the offender, she is left feeling soiled.

Admittedly, what happened to me never implied the possibility of an unwanted advance, much less assault, but there’s still something filthy about a backyard neighbor taking for granted that you share his ignorance. And something humiliating about offering praise to someone who thinks that the paper you write for is toilet paper.

So, yes, I did cause trouble on the last day of 2021. But it was good trouble. Do I have any regrets? No, because letting things slide over the years has sustained all the seemingly harmless quips and “jokes” that, when added up, have given us the racism and sexism, paranoia and fear, greed and intolerance that weigh on us today. It is the soil from which con-artists and crackpots can grow with promises that they “alone can fix it” and make us “great again.” It is the air in which their foul breath seems fair, even fragrant.

Do I have any apologies to offer? Just one:

I am so sorry that I yelled at National Grid’s recording to shut up. Such a sweet, if mechanized, voice…

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Give Me Pulp!

For years I have wished that Florida would somehow break off the North American continent and float off into oblivion.

Better yet, that it would sink into the Atlantic never to be seen or obscene again.

It is known for sinkholes, so there is a chance.  Also, reports last week say that an ice shelf “the size of Florida” will break from Antarctica before Tom Brady retires from Tampa Bay. If it can happen down under, why not up here? Even if not, the predicted ten-foot rise in ocean levels all around the globe might turn the whole state into Everglades.

But more: If a man with a gun can pursue an unarmed boy, gun him down, and then win in a Florida court on the stupefying grounds that he was “standing (his) ground,” then let him stand in sinking ground and take Florida’s obscene mockery of language, logic, and law with him.

Good riddance to him! Good riddance to them! All of them! And take your damned golf carts with you!

Yes, I would hope that there would be time for the rest of us to convince friends and relatives to leave.  I have a dear friend of fifty years in Fort Myers and a cousin of nearly all my seventy in Naples who should really get back to Massachusetts and Ohio where they once belonged.  But, if not, then more New England clam chowder and Lake Eire perch for us.

My contempt for this insane asylum posing as a state began in the last two months of 2000 when its inability to print clear ballots and its unwillingness to recount them despite a clear need for one put a moron in the White House.

Since then, the only positive cultural or political statement to emerge from Florida was the film Sunshine State in 2002.

Since then, the state has elected governors who put gag orders on any talk of erosion on its coasts and, more recently, deny the right of local schools to mandate the wearing of masks.  And let’s not forget the US rep who openly rigged the 2016 Democratic presidential nomination which led to yet another moron in the White House.

Wasn’t always like this.  In the 20th Century, I was among the millions of Northerners who enjoyed Florida vacations.  In fact, it was a time when we would race from Virginia’s northern border to Georgia’s southern border, never veering far from the interstate, to the perceived safety of Florida.

Especially with a Massachusetts license plate, home of the hated Kennedys, you had reason to worry, and if you didn’t believe the warnings ahead of time, the Ku Klux Klan billboard welcoming you to North Carolina made the point.

In retrospect, my youthful perception of Florida as safe may have been warped.  Both of my trips were to Key West, a Provincetown of the South, as far off the mainland as you can get.  Friends of mine told me of their spring breaks in Fort Liquordale.  Others describe the childlike fantasy of Disneyworld.

None of that is indicative of a place now ruled by a governor who may as well be named what many Floridians call him, “DeathSantis” or “DeSatan,”and where political honchos from all over the country go to pay homage to one of their ex-presidents, the Orange Moron of Mar-an-Ego.

Is it mere coincidence that you can’t talk about Florida without talking about oranges?  Yes or no, all of this is nagging me today.

Every day of my life since I can recall begins with orange juice.  A must have.  A large glass.  Some days two.  Yesterday, I ran out, but rather than going out, I figured I’d go to the supermarket this morning after a cup of coffee, come right home and have it with a slightly delayed breakfast.

Not there!  The shelves were overstocked with lemonade, limeade, and other “blended” fruit drinks, but OJ was nowhere to be found.  Tropicana, gone.  Minute Maid, gone.  Florida’s Natural, going.  There were a few containers of that last one, but they were of those calcium- or somethingum-added varieties that I never trust.

And don’t bother me with anything that has the word “free” or “diet” on it.  “Fat free” means “taste free,” and “diet” is just another four-letter word for all you have to lose.

Only the undiluted, unenhanced, uninfused stuff for me.  Give me “Plenty of Pulp,” or give me Grapefruit juice!

None of that either.  In fact, those shelves were empty, reminding me of the beginning of the pandemic when flour, mayonnaise, and, yes, toilet paper were hard to find.  But never orange juice.

No doubt, most of you will blame this shortage on the supply chain problems we hear of, although I’m more inclined to think it a consequence of climate change.  Already mentioned Antarctica, but did you know that England now has olive orchards? Or that the snows of Kilimanjaro are nearly gone?

Win some, lose some, some would say.

If wine production is rapidly moving from Spain, France, and California to Norway, Sweden, and Oregon, shouldn’t orange groves move from the Sunshine State up into the Garden State or the Nutmeg State?  Problem is, neither New Jersey nor Connecticut has the room, and even if they did, they ain’t ready.

Whichever, I hope they solve it soon, and until they do, I’d hate to see anything bad happen to Florida.

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It is available on Netflix. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0286179/
Since I mentioned it… Photo by Steve Salvo, 1972.

Harold & Maude Light

Licorice Pizza has its moments, goofy and funny enough of the time, but nothing to blog about.

Or so I thought before I gave it thought. As I think of it a day later, it keeps getting better, especially as a look at America in the early Seventies, although I still can’t imagine blogging about a film with the opening line, “F— off, A–hole!”

Over morning coffee, I began thinking of it as satire. Over the top scenes alternate with others all too real. You’ll laugh out loud at Tom Waites in tandem with Sean Penn, but you’ll be slapped by surprise back into place by Alana’s delivery of a lost wallet to a restaurant.

That’s one of several scenes that might make one wonder if Licorice Pizza offers completely different meanings for the two genders. Not a duel between them, but dual intentions, one for each. Yes, Alana and Gary are both lead roles, but I doubt that any viewers experience the film through the eyes of both.

Good thing, too, because she’s aware of the world around her, volunteering for a mayoral campaign to fight corruption and protect the environment at a time when all he can think of is pinball machines.

How else to explain the title? Two items that don’t at all match, although it could be called Harold & Maude Go Pop.

Is it merely coincidental that it appears in the 50th anniversary year of the cult classic? That Gary (Cooper Hoffman) looks so much like Bud Cort who played Harold? Is Alana (Alana Haim) just one decade older than Gary to make the film more mainstream than could the six-decade spread between Harold and Maude?

When viewers left the Screening Room, many asked what the title meant. The question almost hurt. In a previous life as an English teacher, I got a lot of mileage by making that an essay assignment. In time, I assigned John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath and August Wilson’s Fences just so I could read the results.

Last night, I had no answer. In the film there is neither licorice nor pizza, despite all the scenes with children and others set in restaurants. Just as curiously, Licorice Pizza bears no resemblance to director Paul Thomas Anderson’s best known films, Boogie Nights (1997) and There Will Be Blood (2007).

Given that, what can that title be but an announcement of dual intention?


Turns out that it’s named after a Southern California record store chain. One of the Screening Room proprietors calls it “a sweet association,” and the article she sends (link below) says it represents the “vibe” felt growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the Seventies.

Yes, that fits the film, but it also raises the question:

How does the film fit it?

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https://www.thrillist.com/entertainment/nation/licorice-pizza-film-title-explained

A Mockery of Christianity

Somewhere about halfway between the Black Hills of Rocky Racoon and the alfalfa fields where a fellow named Tom Lawrence and I long ago wrote incendiary columns for the South Dakota State University Collegian, lies the town of Winner, so named because it was declared the “winner” of Tripp County’s contest to determine its most successful point of trade in 1909.

After four years of a president who defined Americans as winners and losers, it is perhaps understandable that Winners–Winnerers? Winnerites? Winnerarians?–feel more confident and aggressive when expressing themselves in the middle of an otherwise modest and soft-spoken heartland of America.

To put that in context, in 2008 there was a documentary film in which the late Sen. George McGovern, in the middle of an otherwise calm commentary about the Vietnam War with comparisons to the on-going wars in the Middle East, suddenly raises his voice and throws his hands in the air:

“I’m sick of old men sending young men off to war!”

Screening Room audiences cheered and applauded the declaration every night, but few made much note of the outburst. We all do it now and then. As I told many when they left, in the Dakotas, that’s a full-blown tantrum.

Such is the memory triggered by the cover of a pull-out advertising section of the weekly Winner Advocate just posted on social media by my old SDSU buddy, now co-editor of and writer for The South Dakota Standard. Lawrence was, and perhaps still is, looking for comments,* but before we return to the good town of Winner, winner of accolades and a county seat for successful trade, let’s veer 200 miles due east to South Dakota’s largest city, Sioux Falls, where a hockey team recently did its best to support the city’s underfunded schools with an event called “Dash for Cash.”

Perhaps it was the team’s name, the Stampede, that prompted 5,000 one-dollar bills to be laid out on the ice for ten local teachers to scoop up while groveling on their hands and knees during an intermission. Stampeding against each other, some managed to grab over $600 while a few fell under $400.

Immediately viral, the video plays especially well in authoritarian countries where dictators have been trying to convince their people that American democracy is a flimsy veneer for the harsh realities of unrestrained money-grubbing since before Calvin Coolidge proclaimed that the business of America is business–and that America has a debasing class system no matter how much we deny it.

Yes, if you’ve been reading my blogs, you’ll notice that I mentioned the humiliation of Sioux Falls teachers just days ago, but for good reason. More than anything else that happened in 2021, the Stampede disgrace represents what America has become:

Taxes are cut, the rich toy with savings, teachers go begging, the public is entertained.

Or so I thought until I saw the The Winner Advocate with a collage of Christmas ads. At top center is a photo of three men from Winner Welding & Machine holding up a sign saying “Lets (sic) Go Brandon,” a coded insult that stands for ”F—- Joe Biden.”

My friend adds, “The paper says it was the publisher’s decision.”

Makes me wonder what the difference is between “paper” and “publisher.” Are editors, or an entire staff, trying to distance themselves from the hand that writes the paycheck? That alone might make Winner a winner of my now-annual choice of Most-Representative-of-America Thing of the Year.


Could leave it at that, but since I brought up my friend’s request for comments, I’d be remiss not to report mine:

From, a novel** published just months ago: The “very basis of capitalism (is) people’s readiness to think of themselves as consumers.” That photo documents a triumph of consumerism over citizenship. Or a forfeiture of citizenship for what money can buy. That business and that newspaper–and the town of Winner if it goes without objection–are so oblivious to this that they make a mockery, not just of a president, but of Christmas.

Before long, a woman added a reply to my comment that I knew right away would be my headline. Remains to be seen what effect the ad will have in this most Christian and prize-winning center of commerce in the Heartland of America.***

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*I asked Lawrence if he is still seeking comments, and his reply was quick: I have finished my stories, but they can add all the comments they want, old friend. Thanks Jack! You can send them via the link added as a caption to this photo. If you want to reply directly to Winner Welding & Machine, their phone number is in the ad, minus South Dakota’s area code, which is 605.

https://www.sdstandardnow.com/

**Here’s the novel quoted near the end, though the quote was at the novel’s beginning. Since I haven’t gotten too far in, I can’t review it myself, but I offer a link to a brief description as a caption. Very likely I will post a review when holiday time allows:

***While writing this, I caught yet another post from Tom Lawrence. The Daily Beast has reported the story with some details that you just can’t make up: https://www.thedailybeast.com/the-winner-advocate-in-south-dakota-publishes-lets-go-brandon-christmas-ad

Based on Truly Possible Events

As a projectionist, I always see films from the back of the hall. Unless others start laughing, I make it a point never to do so no matter how hilarious any jokes, sight gags, surprises, twists of plot, or changes of characters’ hearts might be.

I know it’s considered quaint, even foolish, to be concerned about “conflict of interest” in 21st Century America, but I’m from the Eisenhower years when ethics were not yet just for suckers. And so, I never want to risk even the appearance of being a shill for any film, however much I like it.

Sorry if my assessment of USA today seems harsh, but it is the setting and spirit of Don’t Look Back.

For all of that, when Meryl Streep, playing the president of the United States, lights a cigarette with a flourish while plopping into a seat in front of a large container with the word “Flammable” stretched halfway across the screen… Let’s just say that I set off a chain reaction preferable to the one an audience might have feared about to explode in front of them.

Not to worry. By that time, they had laughed so loud and so often, that a shill holding up cue cards in front of them would have been redundant.


If Mark Twain could make one last statement on American life from “beyond the grave,” as he prefaced his autobiography, Don’t Look Up would be its adaptation.

As dark a satire as Twain ever wrote, it is in the cinematic tradition set long ago by Dr. Strangelove and Network–and sustained through the decades by agitprops such as Wag the Dog (1997), Burn After Reading (2008), and Bombshell (2018)–a commentary some critics and many viewers are calling “beyond pessimistic.”

Referring to a study of depression that took art-cinemas by storm ten years ago, one friend of the Screening Room quips: “They moved Lars Von Trier’s masterful Melancholia to the Divided States of Amnesia and turned it into a black comedy.”

Critics and viewers all have good reason to think it offers no hope. From government officials to political donors to media execs and personalities, all those who call the shots personify cynicism as Oscar Wilde defined it: Knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing.

And so they alternately avoid and toy with two astronomers from Michigan State trying to tell them that a comet the size of Mt. Everest is hurtling at Planet Earth. The university is demeaned in favor of “experts from Harvard and Princeton.” Even the fact that they are from “Wisconsin, or Montana, or Michigan, or wherever” is a joke.

Call me naive, but I’d rather regard this film as a wake-up-call. Tweak the dialogue and the comet could as easily be COVID as it could be climate change. Leonard DiCaprio’s sometimes-befuddled astronomer sounds very much like those of us who rationalized Dr. Fauci’s participation in the scheme of a president motivated only by polls. Streep’s POTUS appears to be channeling South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem at the Mt. Rushmore rally–her “Don’t Look Up” mantra an echo of an ex-president who is still telling followers not to believe what they see and hear.

DiCaprio and Streep are strong as always, while Jennifer Lawrence as a graduate student of astronomy and Cate Blanchett as a talk-show co-host are tour de force. That show, “The Daily Rip,” serves as the would-be, shoulda-been turning point in a plot that refuses to turn.

Only thing that does turn around is the Strangelove-esque mission to explode the comet into pieces. Instead of “Geronimo!” we hear the pilot’s pompous musing that Indians–“the ones who ride elephants” and “the ones with smoke signals”–might unite. “He’s of another generation,” the explanation goes.

And just why does the world not turn? To answer that, the most revealing performance is that of Mark Rylance as unflappable, happy-faced, often chuckling, half-mystical, almost sleepy Peter Isherwell, CEO of Bash, a communications company that contributed mightily to President Olean’s campaign–enough to give him a seat at the table when a comet made up of who knows how many trillions of dollars’ worth of minerals has Earth as its bullseye. Minerals used for computer chips; hence, the aborted mission.

That he always holds a mobile device in front of him is a mirror that Don’t Look Up holds up to us.

Director Adam McKay–whose last film, Vice (2018), was an equally fast-paced biopic of Dick Cheney–mirrors much of American life today: The chirpy, clever, happy-talk of “The Daily Rip”; the willfully oblivious rant of “Patriot News”; the algorithms of social media; trolling; celebrity worship; fearmongering; reality TV; slanted public service announcements; lotteries; “thoughts and prayers”; slogans and memes; flags and monuments as theatrical props; billionaires in space; “job creators”; gun-point arrests of unarmed African-Americans; moneyed-donors heading federal agencies (as we saw in several cabinets under Trump); our impatience with, nay intolerance of, anything short of sensational; even a man shooting an automatic weapon at the approaching comet.

We may dismiss all of them as funhouse mirrors in a zany film. But if Don’t Look Up is to serve as a wake-up call, we need to see that we have met the distortion, and the distortion is us.

Think “distortion” is too strong a word for us? For US? Did you not hear of the ten teachers who, for the sake of their underfunded schools, groveled for dollar bills on a hockey rink in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, a few weeks ago during a game’s intermission for the “entertainment” of the crowd? Or are we supposed to call that “charity”?

Another case in point: This year, “woke” became a term of derision, even though it derives from “awake” which, in any political context, means “aware.” Therefore, the intent of “woke” as we hear it today is to tell us, Don’t Wake Up. All of which makes the film’s title an understatement.

McKay delivers in specifics. When Streep first lights a cigarette, always with a flourish, she laughingly offers a story to an amazed DiCaprio and souring Lawrence. Throughout her presidential campaign, she tried to hide her nicotine habit, but halfway in, a photographer caught her and the photo went viral. Streep pauses to stare at her listeners:

“You know what?” A slow, huge grim: “I went up five points in the polls!”

Compare that to the 2016 campaign when so many of us thought that ridiculing a handicapped reporter or a boast of grabbing women would surely end a presidential campaign. In fact, no one offended by either would have ever voted for him anyway. Worse, both acts appealed to many who would not have voted otherwise, those who never voted, those who never engage in any civic effort, those who resent what they call “political correctness,” those who never in any metaphorical sense look up, those who would never be “woke,” those who will resent anyone at all suspected of being “woke.”

Because these people never answered polls, their votes shocked pollsters in 2016. Many pundits, including me, used a colorful metaphor to describe it, a metaphor well-suited to help describe this film:

Don’t Look Up shows how, in America, we keep giving ourselves our own middle finger.


When the end credits begin to roll, some of the film’s main characters are left, literally, up in the air. The backdrop is of outer space as random objects float past. The Golden Calf is a nice touch, as were the portrait of Andrew Jackson and the polar bear struggling to stay atop an ice floe in the film’s earlier collages.

Be sure to stay through the credits for a postscript scene that could have easily been scripted by a modern day Mark Twain at his most riotous and irreverent. Stay to the very end for another that could have been Alfred Hitchcock’s adaptation.

-30-

Leaving Rubber

We have some very rich people here on Plum Island, as you might gather from the McMansions that line the oceanfront for much of the two miles from the Mouth of the Merrimack to the start of the wildlife reserve.

One, a talk-show radio host in the mold of Rush Limbaugh, recently bought a brand new, bumblebee-yellow Maserati sports car which a few of my neighbors have jokingly tried to hail, as if it were a cab. The Rush-wannabe took it well, laughing as he went by, and actually stopping to offer a lift to one elderly gent who could fit into the one remaining seat.

Just two weeks after he bought it, he hired a crew to put some curbing between his spacious driveway and the street, only to forget that the new curb was there when he returned from his late-night show.

BANG!!!

Or was it Bang-Bang? Both front tires blew. The impact was so bad that the rims themselves were bent out of shape, but he managed to hit the brakes soon and hard enough that the back tires were spared.

Before long, a large truck arrived to repair the damage. Why they always keep their engines running is beyond me, but whatever, I awoke to the commotion and went to my window to watch the truck raise the front of the car.

Clearly, Rush Jr. told the repairman to bring rims, as the new tires were already on them. Didn’t take long at all to change the two sides, and I poured myself a tall glass of water to take back to bed. But then I heard more commotion.

Instead of the truck driving off, it lifted the back of the Maserati. Back at the window, I watched the repairman remove the car’s rear tires and rims, and replace them with two more out of the truck.

I pinched myself. I sniffed my glass. I breathed on the window to see if it fogged. It did. I went back to bed wondering if I was going back to sleep or had been asleep all along.


Next night, out of pure curiosity, I tuned in to All the Same, my neighbor’s call-in show to see if he might chat about his mishap and, if so, how he would spin it as a crime committed by liberals–and how his tires were victims of “cancel culture.”

Occurred to me that he might prefer to keep the whole thing a secret. After all, if he applied his constant calls for “personal responsibility” to himself as he does to the world at large, then he would likely be embarrassed by his own mistake.

What if I called in and started filling his airwaves with it? My guess is that, since I had to tell him I was awake, I’d be condemned as “woke.” Never thought that awareness could possibly be a bad thing in a country founded on the principle of self-governance, but then I never thought I’d see the American flag used to sell beer and automobiles–or see those who profess to revere that flag sleep through an on-going coup d’etat against the democracy it represents.

Anyway, what I really wanted to know was why the back tires and rims were also changed. Why did he discard two tires with just two-weeks wear on them?

On the slim chance that he would explain it, I tuned in. But it was nothing more than his standard fare. It began with condemnations of “congress,” which the first few callers reinforced, several of them spitting out the phrase “all the same,” not as the title of the show but as what they think of any and all people in Washington DC.

While doing this, he and each caller complimented each other on how wise they were to have this understanding of how things “really work”–or “don’t work” as they seemed to mean.

I kept waiting for him or any of them to make distinctions between the branches of government, between the House and Senate, between federal agencies, between federal and state governments, between the two sides in court decisions that uphold or strike down laws. Never happened. It was all a blur for as long as I kept myself awake.

Nor was any distinction ever made between the two parties, much less between those within the parties. This one kept me awake a bit longer, as if against my will, as the callers kept complaining about what wasn’t getting done regarding the economy, infrastructure, health care, education, and more.

Every problem mentioned was one that most Democrats are trying to solve, but which all Republicans keep blocking. Regarding the few measures that Democrats have passed–such as unemployment stimulus to offset the pandemic shutdown–Republicans voted unanimously against, but then took credit for benefits received in their districts.

No matter. Neither host nor any caller ever made a distinction.

If I wasn’t asleep having a dream, I was awake with the nightmare of All the Same–a term applied as mindlessly to our government as it might be to the tires on a luxury car.

Call it a sleeping pill. And, yes, it may yet prove suicidal.

-30-

https://www.carmagazine.co.uk/car-news/first-official-pictures/maserati/mc20/

How D’Ya Like Them Apples?

When friends asked me to join them at a Christmas party, I didn’t want to go empty handed, and I had no idea what their friend, the host, liked or was like. So I played it safe.

I brought a big basket of fruit.

The store had done it up like a work of art. Plenty of apples–ruby, crimson, scarlet–and fat oranges and pears speckled with blueberries and green grapes, draped in bananas, punctuated with cherries, clementines, peaches, and apricots.

A riot of color, it looked like the centerpiece of a children’s banquet catered by Julia Child. And did I say ‘big’? It sat on my Nissan’s passenger seat, a pyramid bent a couple inches under the roof. The seat-belt failed to reach around it.

For all its size and shape, I balanced it up the walkway to the door which I had to bang with my elbow. My friends had an ear out for me and let me in. I had to walk in backwards as they said hello, but when I turned toward them with the basket, they fell silent.

From the middle of the room, I heard an indignant “What????”

“Hi, I’m Evan and Helen’s friend from Plum Island. I thought you and your friends might like fruit.”

“No fruit! Apples! In this house we have apples!”

“Good! Look, look, there are plenty of apples! See all the red?”

“But you called it ‘fruit’!”

“”Yes, apples are fruit. You can look it up.”

“No! Apples are apples! Call them apples!”

“Um, well, I don’t much like grapefruit, and pineapples are a pain in the ass, so I can understand if you don’t like grapes or peaches or blue–“

“No! In this house, it’s apples!”

“You can have as many as you like! Honey crisp! Maybe your guests would like the other fruit? Healthy fruit?”

“No ‘healthy fruit’! Don’t say that! It’s apples! Happy apples! We say ‘Happy Apples’!”

I turned to Helen: “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Joke!” the inhospitable host exploded. “This is no joke! It’s a war on apples!”

I turned to Evan, but he grabbed my elbow and turned me around while Helen took my other arm. They told me to take the basket to their new home, giving me a key, where they would join me after they “calmed things down.”

Back at the Nissan, I resisted the temptation to send the apples back in. One at a time. Through the front windows. But they were honey crisp, and as we used to say when someone failed to show at a drinking party: “More for us!”


Evan and Helen also gave me directions to the new pad they moved into just weeks ago.

I guess they’re planning to have kids, because it is one of those standard four-bedroom, two-floor, cookie-cutter, middle-class homes in a sub-division with nine other identical structures–though of various colors–lined on both sides of a semi-circular lane, generously spaced from each other and away from the highway. Behind it all gurgled the lovely Fox Run River. Since the trees were all saplings, I could see it all it once.

When I arrived, one of the other homes was ablaze. Three fire trucks were there and several hoses were aimed at it. I found my friend’s street number, left the Nissan in the driveway, and walked over with the basket of fruit, thinking the firefighters should have it when they got the fire under control.

As I arrived, a resident from one of the other eight houses came over and started yelling at the firefighters:

“Hey, what about my house?”

The firefighters were too consumed to pay any attention, but I was too curious not to: “What are you talking about?”

“My house deserves just as much water as this house! Why aren’t the hoses on my house, too?”

“Um, because this house is on fire?”

“That’s not a good reason! A fire in this house has nothing to do with my house! That’s this house’s problem!”

“But fire-fighters exist to solve problems, and you don’t have one, at least not now.”

“I pay just as much taxes as anyone who lives here!”

“Would you like an apple? Here, have one. Honey crisp. In appreciation for your support of your local fire de–“

Before I could finish and before my friends’ new neighbor could speak, two more residents approached. Both of them were carrying signs:

“All Houses Matter!”

“Is this a joke?” I blurted out, vaguely shaken by the echo of my surprise at the party I just left.

“No! Our houses matter just as much as this one!”

“But this house needs attention that yours do not!”

“That’s housism in reverse!”

A few more residents approached, all with the same signs. They started chanting: “Stop the Hose Job! Stop the Hose Job!”

Over the noise, I heard a car horn and looked up to see Evan and Helen waving me to return to them. I took the basket and put it on a side of one of the trucks facing the blaze and the fire-fighters. I caught the eye of one and motioned toward it, and he or she nodded in thanks. I then motioned to the gathering crowd and turned my hands up in question. The fire-fighter gave a shake of the head and went back to work.

I went back to Evan and Helen who told me that I had made a wrong turn, and to follow them home.


When we arrived at the cozy two-bedroom cape, all by itself along a little-travelled back road with a wide view over a long, glacial lake, they apologized for my reception at the party. Turns out that the host had been living at his girlfriend’s in a neighborhood where, as rumor had it, the drinking water had been poisoned by toxic waste from a chemical plant two miles upstream.

They knew he was having problems, but they did not know, as the police charged, that he had set a timer that morning in his girlfriend’s home that would start a fire when he could use the party as an alibi.

He was easy for the police to find. All they had to do was put out an all-points bulletin while they patrolled the town for a car with bumper-stickers saying “Happy Apples” and “All Houses Matter!”

-30-

What It Looks Like in Public

As we prepare to celebrate our various holidays–Christmas for me, but I’ll gladly join toasts for the two I can’t spell–we might think ahead to the all-American holiday just weeks away.

This occurred to me last week when I attended Newburyport’s 2nd Annual William Lloyd Garrison Lecture which cited and quoted Martin Luther King several times in its one-hour duration and the 20-minute Q&A that followed.

Indeed, with the title, “The Gospel According to William Lloyd Garrison: Anti-Racism & the American Truth,” we might have expected to hear the foremost abolitionist of the 19th Century compared to the foremost Civil Rights leader of the 20th.

And if we heeded the word “Gospel” in that title, we would not have been surprised to hear the extent to which Garrison’s editorials were based on the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John–as much as were King’s speeches a century later, and for the same reason.*

Both called for us to “be willing to surrender comforts to expose… elements that bring ill to society,” as I gleaned from the speech, but don’t hold your breath waiting to hear that tenet of Christianity among all the declarations of and wishes for joy and peace these next ten days.

As for the King Holiday, speaker Edward Carson, Dean of Multicultural Education at the nearby Governor’s Academy, forecasted what will happen. That much is fairly easy since it happens every year: A safe selection of quotations from MLK’s Dream speech all over the media, especially in advertisements, to reassure us that America has achieved racial harmony.**

“Cheap talk!” Carson called it, reminding us that King was an unrelenting “disrupter” of the American status quo in the Father Knows Best Fifties. He echoed King’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” for examples of what we need to hear in a year that could very well see the effective repeal of the 1965 Voting Rights Act.***

“Be patient?” Carson mocked, summarizing advice from many white liberals in recent years, “Let’s just love each other in a way in which we don’t cause trouble or think about turmoil.” In a voice as loud and clear as Colin Kaepernick’s knee, Carson then gave his largely White audience an earful of Black: “We don’t have time for any of that stuff!”

Compare that to the title of King’s collected essays, Why We Can’t Wait. Or to the quote engraved on the pedestal of Garrison’s statue across from City Hall: “… I will not retract a single inch…”

About two decades older than Carson (unless he uses hair-dye), I can recall when King was literally the most hated man in America, which may be why I thought he sounded like King even when he wasn’t quoting him. More so with his numerous comparisons of King to Garrison, also most hated in his time.

If a white boy growing up in the Merrimack Valley could sense that, how deeply did Carson’s parents and grandparents experience it deep in the heart of Dixie?

Any description of Garrison’s and King’s legacies could be introduced by several lines Carson used to describe the lecture as he was giving it:

We’re not here to be popular, folks!

If you came to hear this romanticized, you came to the wrong lecture.

The silence of white liberals.

Invoking the “myth” of the “American Dream”:

I’m here to tell you about a nightmare that exists…

… problems that capitalism has tricked us into believing do not exist.

One phrase that recurred throughout the talk may sound incongruous or even off-putting to those not in attendance, but it does describe Carson’s gospel as well as all four gospels of the New Testament: “Radical Love.” Simply stated, it’s the willingness and readiness to speak and stand against injustice suffered by others.

Carson drove that home with “my favorite quote,” a line from Cornel West: “Justice is what love looks like in public.”

For the rest of what Carson said in context with a delivery ranging from tongue-in-cheek to in-your-face, a look and listen to the YouTube post will be an hour well spent. Both audio and video are excellent.

Highlights include a jaw-dropping analysis of the American Constitution consistent with what Garrison said, and descriptions of the Holocaust Memorial in DC and the Lynching Memorial in Carson’s native Montgomery, Alabama, that put us right there. We gasp at empty shoes. We hear Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” before he says her name.

He mentioned how Newburyport’s involvement in the triangular slave trade made the city wealthy, but he stopped short of mentioning the role in it played by Caleb Cushing, a leading apologist for the slavocracy in the decades before the Civil War. If Carson really wanted to make us uncomfortable, he’d have asked how “local historians” as recently as 2014 picked Cushing, not Garrison, as the city’s “most notable citizen.”****

Stands to reason that some of them were in the audience or have caught the video by now. Will they remain as silent on that choice–made in their name–as they have been these past seven years?

Anyone in the audience may have flinched during the Q&A when he dissed the idea of assimilation. His answer reminded me of a distinction that Canadians often make between our two countries: We like to compare ourselves to a melting pot, while they regard themselves as a salad bowl.

Perhaps our national identity could serve as a unifying subject of “a conversation we need to have,” as Carson likes to say, on that Monday in mid-January.

As well as during the holidays, no matter how we spell them.

-30-

Edward Carson at the Old South Presbyterian Church in Newburyport observing William Lloyd Garrison’s 216th birthday. Newburyport Daily News photo by Michael Springer, native son of Pierre, South Dakota, and alumnus of South Dakota State University where he wrote memorable essays in my Freshman Composition class a mere 40 years ago.

*Gospel is an attractive word in a title, but not to be used lightly. Only time I used it was for a film review. Unfortunately, the Daily News archives do not reach that far back into 2009 when I described Gran Torino as “A Gospel According to Clint.”

**RE: Martin Luther King Day: Always struck me as ironic that we all take a day off to observe the life of a man who never stopped working. Long before social media, I unfriended people who regarded it as nothing more than a ski weekend. In recent years I hold my breath and count silently past ten every time an ad for a local furniture company appears on TV bellowing about a “Martin Luther King Day Blowout Sale.”

***King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail is a staple of texts for college writing classes, or at least it was as late as 2002 when I taught my last class. As a model of parallel structure, point-counterpoint, use of metaphors, sense of sound, and turn of phrase, it was always the first thing I looked for in the table of contents of textbooks I considered. Its content makes it an ideal assignment for mid-January, the start of the spring semester. In the fall, I would schedule it for the holiday that now has at least five names.

****For more on Caleb Cushing, here’s the essay that I wrote for the Garrison Lecture website that was posted ahead of the event with links to the 2014 Daily News report and two responses to it: https://annualwilliamlloydgarrisonlecture.wordpress.com/2021/12/05/jack-garvey-why-here-why-newburyport/