In keeping with an age when we seem obsessed with ourselves and especially with what we think about ourselves, the latest surveys ( Washington Post & Pew Center) breathlessly report what we think about the killing of Osama bin Laden. As if to say what we think-after-the-fact actually has a real bearing on the fact itself. Still, this self-indulgence is what most Americans like to call democracy. So for what it's worth, 72% of us "feel relieved," 60% "feel proud," 58% "feel happy," and 16% "feel afraid."
Not to mention the 100% of the chattering commentariat in the media who feel it their obligation to now psychoanalyze both the nation and its president as these pundits doggedly search for the "real story behind the story." Or to put it all another way, lately our society will dedicate about a thousand hours of talking to itself in the media for every one hour of actual national action.
The University of Kentucky tends to call this "America's narcissism." Research director Nathan DeWall analyzed the lyrics of Billboard's Hot 100 songs over the last three decades, finding "a steady increase in self-centeredness along with a growing hostility toward others." Whereas earlier songs were often about love, "recent hits are about what the individual wants, and how they have been disappointed or wronged."
The frequency of "I" and "me" versus "we" and "us" is clear. Words like "love" or "sweet" are far less common versus "hating" and "killing. Not surprisingly, self-centered plutocrats like Donald Trump take it upon themselves to speak for the nation, sharing with the little people the wisdom from such great people as themselves. A politician/celebrity habit whose narcissism can quickly snap back in their faces with the next headline.
Somewhat like the American economy now focuses more and more on virtual concepts while less and less on actual products, the American culture often seems more interested in thinking and talking about what it is thinking and talking about, rather than attaching itself to some collective national cause or consensus. The last time we saw such attachment may have been JFK's call to a"New Frontier." And before that, FDR's call to action against "the evils of dictators."
American leaders tried to portray bin Laden as the "new Hitler" in hopes of reviving some of that national passion. However -- in a time when black & white has given way to grays, and in which government is often considered a liar more than a leader -- there is little of that post-WWII jubilation over collective achievement. Instead, a very particularized America is now polled about what each particular segment of the population thinks about what it thinks about.
Is everyone in America now a Monday-morning-quarterback...? Is there anyone left to actually play quarterback...? And then when we elect someone to that role, is there ever a time when we stop talking and talking and talking, instead start listening and joining and doing...?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
SHAKESPEARE FORGOT SOMETHING
Everyone remembers Shakespeare's "all the world's a stage." And everyone has learned each in their own way that "we are all players." However, the Bard never told you about that other stage. Backstage.
For every glistening stage -- be it a theatre, a community, a city, or a country -- there's something important going on behind the curtains. The world of backstage is a remarkably different venue than the world on stage. Somewhere back of all the colorful lights and sets and costumes and performers, moves a phantom army of silent people in black. The invisible people who cunningly make possible that splash of illusions out front for the audience.
I was again reminded of this as I stood backstage of the fabled Chicago Theatre, waiting for my cue. On stage was a "cast" that included the Cardinal of Chicago, local columnists, comics, retauranteurs, and the comedy troupe from Second City. It was being taped in front of a live audience of urbanites who love this city and what's happening in it.
My role was a small one, but waiting there in the wings you quickly understand the remarkable contrast between what the audience is experiencing and what the stage crew is making possible. Very much the same contrast that exists in every facet of life. What humanity presents "on stage" are the illusions we wish to share. But no more. After all, to look behind the curtain is to spoil the show.
And that's OK, because life looks a lot nicer this way. The question, though, is how to define the show? Is it all a sham, a fraud, a lie? Some will say so, doubting whatever their eyes report. These are the cynics among us. Others will doubt on an even larger scale. These are the conspiracy-theorists among us.
Still others will doubt nothing they see or hear. These are the fools among us.
It takes all three types to make an audience. But then there is a fourth category. The people who actually choose to go on stage, and do their best to make the show a long-playing hit.
For every glistening stage -- be it a theatre, a community, a city, or a country -- there's something important going on behind the curtains. The world of backstage is a remarkably different venue than the world on stage. Somewhere back of all the colorful lights and sets and costumes and performers, moves a phantom army of silent people in black. The invisible people who cunningly make possible that splash of illusions out front for the audience.
I was again reminded of this as I stood backstage of the fabled Chicago Theatre, waiting for my cue. On stage was a "cast" that included the Cardinal of Chicago, local columnists, comics, retauranteurs, and the comedy troupe from Second City. It was being taped in front of a live audience of urbanites who love this city and what's happening in it.
My role was a small one, but waiting there in the wings you quickly understand the remarkable contrast between what the audience is experiencing and what the stage crew is making possible. Very much the same contrast that exists in every facet of life. What humanity presents "on stage" are the illusions we wish to share. But no more. After all, to look behind the curtain is to spoil the show.
And that's OK, because life looks a lot nicer this way. The question, though, is how to define the show? Is it all a sham, a fraud, a lie? Some will say so, doubting whatever their eyes report. These are the cynics among us. Others will doubt on an even larger scale. These are the conspiracy-theorists among us.
Still others will doubt nothing they see or hear. These are the fools among us.
It takes all three types to make an audience. But then there is a fourth category. The people who actually choose to go on stage, and do their best to make the show a long-playing hit.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
COPULATION & MAXWELL HOUSE COFFEE
Copulation and Maxwell House Coffee, what could they possibly have in common? I may be stretching the point to make a connection, but let me try...
By the early 20th C in America, copulation was hardly new, but still not public. As for Maxwell House, it had only been around for a generation, but very much wanted to remain public. Each faced a different future. Whereas coffee was already a national habit, watching copulating humans was not. As a result, Maxwell House came up with a million-dollar marketing campaign: "Good to the last drop." Porn, on the other hand, could depend only on, shall we say, word-of-mouth marketing.
But by the late Twenties, America's dedicated porn makers could now add music tracks to their grunting bodies. And so, my friends, behold a peculiar new art form that was soon selling better than coffee.
By the Eighties porn was big business and growing, while coffee was still big business but not growing. The boys at Maxwell were getting a little desperate. About then they hired me. No -- I wasn't the act of desperation; their new marketing strategy was. I just happened to be the writer they found to help them reach their national sales force with their very first satellite-feed sales meeting.
They gathered their good-to-the-last-drop sales gang in various cities, sat them in front of large hotel screens, and tried to generate a new passion for selling and drinking coffee. From what I could tell, their sales did tick up, but they had completely missed the historic coffee moment.
What American drinkers were looking for -- even without themselves knowing it -- was a whole new coffee. experience. Enter Starbucks...! As we say, when we don't have time for statistics, the rest is history.
Extrapolating from our cozy coffee story, we may find an instructive back-story here. Whenever the market has too much of a good thing, give them the illusion of an exciting new thing. Something different. Something special. Something eventually known as a "trend." American enterprise has generated hundreds of these throughout the years. From Barnum traveling circuses to vaudeville shows to hoola hoops to pet rocks to cabbage-patch dolls to hookah and tequila bars to today's must-have hand-widgets.
Get it? Keep it new. Keep it fun. Even if you have to keep it stupid.
Looking back on our last century, we can now study the history of trends. [Well, copulating doesn't quite fit under the rubric of trend as much as perhaps relentless]. But while we may be able to study past trends, few of us are gifted with the foresight to recognize the next new one. Although several among our ranks are right now trying hard to become just that.
You will find them scattered around the nation in comedy clubs...concert halls...campus groups...Silicon Valley...oh, and in every coffee and porn stop in Washington...!
By the early 20th C in America, copulation was hardly new, but still not public. As for Maxwell House, it had only been around for a generation, but very much wanted to remain public. Each faced a different future. Whereas coffee was already a national habit, watching copulating humans was not. As a result, Maxwell House came up with a million-dollar marketing campaign: "Good to the last drop." Porn, on the other hand, could depend only on, shall we say, word-of-mouth marketing.
But by the late Twenties, America's dedicated porn makers could now add music tracks to their grunting bodies. And so, my friends, behold a peculiar new art form that was soon selling better than coffee.
By the Eighties porn was big business and growing, while coffee was still big business but not growing. The boys at Maxwell were getting a little desperate. About then they hired me. No -- I wasn't the act of desperation; their new marketing strategy was. I just happened to be the writer they found to help them reach their national sales force with their very first satellite-feed sales meeting.
They gathered their good-to-the-last-drop sales gang in various cities, sat them in front of large hotel screens, and tried to generate a new passion for selling and drinking coffee. From what I could tell, their sales did tick up, but they had completely missed the historic coffee moment.
What American drinkers were looking for -- even without themselves knowing it -- was a whole new coffee. experience. Enter Starbucks...! As we say, when we don't have time for statistics, the rest is history.
Extrapolating from our cozy coffee story, we may find an instructive back-story here. Whenever the market has too much of a good thing, give them the illusion of an exciting new thing. Something different. Something special. Something eventually known as a "trend." American enterprise has generated hundreds of these throughout the years. From Barnum traveling circuses to vaudeville shows to hoola hoops to pet rocks to cabbage-patch dolls to hookah and tequila bars to today's must-have hand-widgets.
Get it? Keep it new. Keep it fun. Even if you have to keep it stupid.
Looking back on our last century, we can now study the history of trends. [Well, copulating doesn't quite fit under the rubric of trend as much as perhaps relentless]. But while we may be able to study past trends, few of us are gifted with the foresight to recognize the next new one. Although several among our ranks are right now trying hard to become just that.
You will find them scattered around the nation in comedy clubs...concert halls...campus groups...Silicon Valley...oh, and in every coffee and porn stop in Washington...!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
AN AMERICAN CLASSIC, THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
America cheerfully lives with a great many classics. There's our love of freedom towering in the Statue of Liberty, our passion for individualism riding the range in the Old West, our zeal for success reflected in our great glass cities. But no American classic is more iconic than the "girl next door." The fresh-scrubbed, all-American girl who perfectly blends perky tom-boyishness with irresistible sensuality.
Over the last 100 years we've had them by the cinematic dozens. Mary Pickford...Judy Garland....Doris Day ...Debbie Reynolds...Julia Roberts...Cameron Diaz.
Putting chauvinism and feminism aside, both genders really like our girls-next-door. What's not to like? But in grading this particular classic, my vote and heart go to Doris. Anyone under 40 won't remember her; anyone over, will never forget her. Her songs and her movies were marquee events throughout much of the American Century. And yet Doris has never garnered any of the lifetime achievement awards or White House tributes. So how can this blond icon from not-so-long-ago remain so ignored?
Couple theories. One, she's chosen to remain fiercely private since retiring in the 70s. But there may be a second and less spoken reason. Pretty, perky Doris has become a cultural dinosaur. Today's guys like their sugar laced with a lot more spice! Today's gals like their image to be a lot more assertive! When TMC plays all those 50's and 60's Doris Day-Rock Hudson flicks...well, the under-40 crowd see right through the gauze on the cameras perky but aging Doris insisted upon. Which, in this age of proclaimed realism, makes her roles' idealism seem pretty suspect and silly. Which in turn makes realism for me seem pretty shallow and sanctimonious.
I do remember thinking the same shallow and sanctimonious way during the 50's looking back at Mary Pickford from the 20s. That's when the classic SUNSET BOULEVARD came out portraying aging film icons as pathetic has-beens. However, I couldn't imagine that happening to my Doris. But then, well....
Everyone's heart has its very own once-upon-a-time. That memorable moment when love comes missiling through your life changing it forever. Although once-upon-a-time usually comes only once, it usually comes with a song somewhere in the air on that starry night. Doris's classic "It's Magic" was in the air the night I fell in love with my very own icon. Lets see, how long ago was that...? Oh, yes, a remarkable eternity ago. But that night, that Joan, that eternity WAS magic. After all, didn't Doris say it so in the eternal key of C!
I assume you surely remember the key your once-upon-a-time came in....
Over the last 100 years we've had them by the cinematic dozens. Mary Pickford...Judy Garland....Doris Day ...Debbie Reynolds...Julia Roberts...Cameron Diaz.
Putting chauvinism and feminism aside, both genders really like our girls-next-door. What's not to like? But in grading this particular classic, my vote and heart go to Doris. Anyone under 40 won't remember her; anyone over, will never forget her. Her songs and her movies were marquee events throughout much of the American Century. And yet Doris has never garnered any of the lifetime achievement awards or White House tributes. So how can this blond icon from not-so-long-ago remain so ignored?
Couple theories. One, she's chosen to remain fiercely private since retiring in the 70s. But there may be a second and less spoken reason. Pretty, perky Doris has become a cultural dinosaur. Today's guys like their sugar laced with a lot more spice! Today's gals like their image to be a lot more assertive! When TMC plays all those 50's and 60's Doris Day-Rock Hudson flicks...well, the under-40 crowd see right through the gauze on the cameras perky but aging Doris insisted upon. Which, in this age of proclaimed realism, makes her roles' idealism seem pretty suspect and silly. Which in turn makes realism for me seem pretty shallow and sanctimonious.
I do remember thinking the same shallow and sanctimonious way during the 50's looking back at Mary Pickford from the 20s. That's when the classic SUNSET BOULEVARD came out portraying aging film icons as pathetic has-beens. However, I couldn't imagine that happening to my Doris. But then, well....
Everyone's heart has its very own once-upon-a-time. That memorable moment when love comes missiling through your life changing it forever. Although once-upon-a-time usually comes only once, it usually comes with a song somewhere in the air on that starry night. Doris's classic "It's Magic" was in the air the night I fell in love with my very own icon. Lets see, how long ago was that...? Oh, yes, a remarkable eternity ago. But that night, that Joan, that eternity WAS magic. After all, didn't Doris say it so in the eternal key of C!
I assume you surely remember the key your once-upon-a-time came in....
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
IT'S OFFICIAL -- D.C. HAS GONE HOLLYWOOD
Henry Fonda. Peter Sellers. Michael Douglas. Morgan Freeman. They've all played presidents in front of Hollywood cameras. Heading up dazzling story-lines of international intrigue and danger. Overseas villains...CIA operatives...special ops...night-time raids...White House command centers giving the orders and watching the results.
Lately, though, it's getting harder and harder to distinguish Hollywood from Washington...movie stars from presidents ....screen plays from actual events. Now, as of this week, it's official...! All the confirmation we need for this new national wedding of fact & fiction can be studied in that official White House photo of President Obama with his national security team. A real cast watching a real military op in real time taking out a real enemy.
And they pulled the whole thing off even without Bruce Willis! What will they think of next?
This blurring of the lines between duty and dazzle, blood and ketchup, is not exactly new. Americans have been eating their popcorn and venting their primal screams in front of movie screens for generations. But without a national draft, 90% of us have no longer any real-time, real-blood experience with the military. Something like other specialties -- from oil rigging to brain surgery -- warfare has become something far-off that you mostly read about while going about making money.
If you look closely, the only woman in that photo is Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. And if you look even closer, she is the only one holding her hand to her mouth. I read that as an intuitive gesture of awe. Concern. Angst in the midst of bloodshed. Some might say it's a typically feminine gesture. Maybe so. Whatever it is, isn't it perhaps the most authentic response to a world over-flowing with violence and vendettas, causes and counter-causes? And isn't the message to this movie-of-the-month really the human tragedy that our species has not -- in all these hundreds of millions of years -- really learned how to walk out of the jungle...?
Lately, though, it's getting harder and harder to distinguish Hollywood from Washington...movie stars from presidents ....screen plays from actual events. Now, as of this week, it's official...! All the confirmation we need for this new national wedding of fact & fiction can be studied in that official White House photo of President Obama with his national security team. A real cast watching a real military op in real time taking out a real enemy.
And they pulled the whole thing off even without Bruce Willis! What will they think of next?
This blurring of the lines between duty and dazzle, blood and ketchup, is not exactly new. Americans have been eating their popcorn and venting their primal screams in front of movie screens for generations. But without a national draft, 90% of us have no longer any real-time, real-blood experience with the military. Something like other specialties -- from oil rigging to brain surgery -- warfare has become something far-off that you mostly read about while going about making money.
If you look closely, the only woman in that photo is Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. And if you look even closer, she is the only one holding her hand to her mouth. I read that as an intuitive gesture of awe. Concern. Angst in the midst of bloodshed. Some might say it's a typically feminine gesture. Maybe so. Whatever it is, isn't it perhaps the most authentic response to a world over-flowing with violence and vendettas, causes and counter-causes? And isn't the message to this movie-of-the-month really the human tragedy that our species has not -- in all these hundreds of millions of years -- really learned how to walk out of the jungle...?
Monday, May 2, 2011
PITY YOUR BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BRAIN
Take the human brain. Go ahead, take it. It's only a few pounds, and you can hold it right in your hand. But a funny thing happened on the way to becoming homo sapient. Our brains expanded a few centimeters, but our worlds expanded a few universes. Now, a hundred million years later, we're expecting much the same brain to process a hundred billion additional sight-and-sound bites.
Another way of saying if going to bed right after the 10 o'clock news leaves you a rattling wreck, you're not alone!
In smaller simpler times, the brain was expected to report the physical dangers to you within that 50-miles-radius in which you lived most of your life. Tough enough. But now -- now with daily newspapers, 24/7 network & cable news, and worldwide social-media -- you will know, whether you want to or not, virtually everything that's happening to everyone everywhere.
In just the last 24-hour news cycle: The beatification of a Pope, the assassination of a terrorist, the nearing capitulation of a half-dozen tyrants, not to mention gang-bangers in the local schoolyard, corruption in the city government, drug wars at the Mexican border, disasters in Tornado Alley, nuclear threats from Japan, and the Hadron Collider in Geneva on the brink of discovering the secrets to to cosmos. Not to mention a slew of new warnings about new symptoms about new diseases you never knew existed.
The cosmos...? Hell, I can't figure out how to make my coffee-maker work or to understand my grandchildren. Why do I have to fathom the cosmos and all the life-forms in it? At least not until after breakfast.
Information is power...but distinguishing what you need to know is wisdom...and accepting that limit is serenity. Go ahead, check it out for yourself. It's in every religion's holy books. And they're in every library. Where at least they don't scream it at you...
Another way of saying if going to bed right after the 10 o'clock news leaves you a rattling wreck, you're not alone!
In smaller simpler times, the brain was expected to report the physical dangers to you within that 50-miles-radius in which you lived most of your life. Tough enough. But now -- now with daily newspapers, 24/7 network & cable news, and worldwide social-media -- you will know, whether you want to or not, virtually everything that's happening to everyone everywhere.
In just the last 24-hour news cycle: The beatification of a Pope, the assassination of a terrorist, the nearing capitulation of a half-dozen tyrants, not to mention gang-bangers in the local schoolyard, corruption in the city government, drug wars at the Mexican border, disasters in Tornado Alley, nuclear threats from Japan, and the Hadron Collider in Geneva on the brink of discovering the secrets to to cosmos. Not to mention a slew of new warnings about new symptoms about new diseases you never knew existed.
The cosmos...? Hell, I can't figure out how to make my coffee-maker work or to understand my grandchildren. Why do I have to fathom the cosmos and all the life-forms in it? At least not until after breakfast.
Information is power...but distinguishing what you need to know is wisdom...and accepting that limit is serenity. Go ahead, check it out for yourself. It's in every religion's holy books. And they're in every library. Where at least they don't scream it at you...
Sunday, May 1, 2011
THE MYTHICAL SUMMER OF '41
My Chicago was just voted "Best Sports City in America" by Sporting News. Given all the titles by all the teams throughout all the years, you can see why. We won't even pause to lament the most lamentable of all sports stories: The Chicago Cubs 102-year record without winning a World Series. Instead, let us savor what we have, and restrain the sports-fan's gift for greed.
However, fan-or-not, there IS one thing we can all be greedy for again. The Summer of '41!
The national clock was ticking down to the last precious days before Pearl Harbor. Before our entry into WWII. Before everything about America and about us changed forever. It was still July. It was still baseball. It was still a time when Americans could still believe in magic, in peace, in happy-endings, in Washington, and especially in Joe DiMaggio. The Yankee's Jolting Joe was on an historic tear, and most of the nation held their breath. Even if they didn't know a tinker's damn about baseball.
DiMaggio -- executing what is considered the toughest skill in all sports -- was hitting those 95 mph fastballs with stunning success. He was doing the mathematically impossible all summer long by hitting in every park in every game for 56 straight games. While the Nazi Panzers had conquered half of Europe and had just now invaded Russia to seize the rest of it, America under FDR still hoped this was not our business. Instead, that mythical summer 70 summers ago was very much about one man smashing one record that would say to all men: Everything is still possible!
Sure we had an ugly inkling war over-there was getting close to over-here. And sure we knew the longest depression in our history was still not yet over. But summer-times are when grownups can still be kids again. Especially when the Yankee Clipper was belting the ball out of parks to the cheers of kids and fans and presidents alike. When you're the most afraid, that's often when you're the most likely to look for heroes.
Joe was our hero, but even heroes are mortal. And so it was that on a sweltering July 18, 1941, our hero's 56-game streak finally ended in Cleveland. The home crowds didn't know whether to cheer or to cry. But DiMaggio -- a study in grace rarely seen on today's playing fields -- knew it was over when he hit into a double play in the 8th.
Some fans and writers cried a little. Not Joe. For the rest of his life -- and ours -- he would know that in that special summer of '41 he had burst the bounds of the game. He had helped us remember that boundaries are made to be broken...
However, fan-or-not, there IS one thing we can all be greedy for again. The Summer of '41!
The national clock was ticking down to the last precious days before Pearl Harbor. Before our entry into WWII. Before everything about America and about us changed forever. It was still July. It was still baseball. It was still a time when Americans could still believe in magic, in peace, in happy-endings, in Washington, and especially in Joe DiMaggio. The Yankee's Jolting Joe was on an historic tear, and most of the nation held their breath. Even if they didn't know a tinker's damn about baseball.
DiMaggio -- executing what is considered the toughest skill in all sports -- was hitting those 95 mph fastballs with stunning success. He was doing the mathematically impossible all summer long by hitting in every park in every game for 56 straight games. While the Nazi Panzers had conquered half of Europe and had just now invaded Russia to seize the rest of it, America under FDR still hoped this was not our business. Instead, that mythical summer 70 summers ago was very much about one man smashing one record that would say to all men: Everything is still possible!
Sure we had an ugly inkling war over-there was getting close to over-here. And sure we knew the longest depression in our history was still not yet over. But summer-times are when grownups can still be kids again. Especially when the Yankee Clipper was belting the ball out of parks to the cheers of kids and fans and presidents alike. When you're the most afraid, that's often when you're the most likely to look for heroes.
Joe was our hero, but even heroes are mortal. And so it was that on a sweltering July 18, 1941, our hero's 56-game streak finally ended in Cleveland. The home crowds didn't know whether to cheer or to cry. But DiMaggio -- a study in grace rarely seen on today's playing fields -- knew it was over when he hit into a double play in the 8th.
Some fans and writers cried a little. Not Joe. For the rest of his life -- and ours -- he would know that in that special summer of '41 he had burst the bounds of the game. He had helped us remember that boundaries are made to be broken...
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