A few years ago a friend of mine tuned me into a local blog named "Wormtown Taxi" that was written by a man named Jeff Barnard. The blog was a collection of Jeff's thoughts and observations as he drove his cab around central Massachusetts, particularly the city of Worcester. Jeff also reminisced about events of his life, moments he shared with his wife, took pictures with his cell phone of scenes around the area and posted them with his thoughts, delved into local history, and shared his views on a wide range of subjects.
His was the first blog that I ever followed, as did many people in the Worcester area. It became part of my morning routine to see what subject Jeff was going to touch on today. He was always entertaining and insightful, and for myself and several friends, losing his blog was like losing a part of our lives.
Jeff was diagnosed with melanoma a couple of years ago. During his convalescence, Jeff would often share in his blog what he was going through with his chemotherapy. He told us of his feelings, his trials, and his triumphs. I found him to be especially brave to share his thoughts with us for as long as he could. His life ended last November, but his memory continues.
A good friend of mine has prodded me to follow in Jeff's footsteps because of my penchant to write, and my knowledge and experiences in the Central Massachusetts area. While in no way could I ever fill the shoes of Jeff Barnard, I have been waiting for someone else to step up and continue the genre of work that he started. To date, no one has. So, being a the kid who usually took the dare that his friends put out, I have decided to give it a try. As I said, Jeff's shoes are too big for me to try to walk in. I may not be able to produce the volume of work he did, but in his memory and honor, I will try to measure up to the quality of content.
This will be a work in progress and I will gladly take suggestions for subject matter.
So Mikey boy, let's see what happens.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Guy rant...no particular reason.
I live with three women, my wife and two adult daughters. They really are the light of my life, and every night I thank God for them. They are each amazing women in their own right. I cherish my relationship with each of them, and cherish each moment I have with them.
As the only guy in the house, sometimes my priorities and motivations are foreign to them, as I know that theirs are to me.
For a guy the following things are important, and in no particular order: Food, sleep, sex, bathroom time with newspaper, beer, clean car, power tools, mowed lawn, fire pit, football, and dog. We basically can walk around the house in the same boxers for a week, and pretty much all of our thoughts and motivations are from the list above. Some guys may add or delete some of the items above, but the essential list of human animal needs and toys pretty much summarizes the thought.
Guys do not get excited about the following: Shoes, malls, clothing sales, jewelry, telephone, Facebook, Desperate Housewives, scented candles, new neighbors, and pocket book knock-offs.
In my bathroom, I have a drawer. It contains everything that I need for grooming: mouthwash, anti-perspirant, hair brush, razor, Vicks vapo-rub, hair gel, Tums, nail clipper, and after shave lotion. The draw above mine is like an archaeological dig. It contains about one hundred containers of colored stuff that somehow ends up in strategic places on my wife's body. There are all sorts of brushes, and tools that are used somehow with the colored stuff.
Then there is another drawer that has our toothpaste and toothbrushes in it. Also in this drawer are cotton swabs and a bag of cotton balls. Ok, so I do use the swabs after I shower to dry my ears, but what the hell are the cotton balls for? All these little white monsters ever do is attack my toothbrush from time to time. They are sneaky little bastards that usually attack in the morning when I least expect it, and my eyes are not opened yet.
I have a workshop in my basement that has all of my hand and power tools in it. The room is fairly organized and clean, and most of the tools have their place on peg boards. Sometimes when I go into the workshop, I find that a tool has been used for some alternate reason. One day I found a precision, delicate wood chisel had been used to open a paint can. That chisel has since been retired. For the record, the cheap paint can opener that they give you when you buy a gallon of paint is safe and sound. And where the hell are all my needle-nosed pliers?
Let me just say that I would gladly give up all of my power tools, and never watch another football game again if my wife or daughters needed me to as a sacrifice to the gods. I will gladly take them to the mall to go shoe shopping, smell a hundred different candles at the candle factory, and I will sit through another Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston chick flick if it makes them happy. All I ask in return is to please call off the cotton balls and return my needle-nosed pliers.
As the only guy in the house, sometimes my priorities and motivations are foreign to them, as I know that theirs are to me.
For a guy the following things are important, and in no particular order: Food, sleep, sex, bathroom time with newspaper, beer, clean car, power tools, mowed lawn, fire pit, football, and dog. We basically can walk around the house in the same boxers for a week, and pretty much all of our thoughts and motivations are from the list above. Some guys may add or delete some of the items above, but the essential list of human animal needs and toys pretty much summarizes the thought.
Guys do not get excited about the following: Shoes, malls, clothing sales, jewelry, telephone, Facebook, Desperate Housewives, scented candles, new neighbors, and pocket book knock-offs.
In my bathroom, I have a drawer. It contains everything that I need for grooming: mouthwash, anti-perspirant, hair brush, razor, Vicks vapo-rub, hair gel, Tums, nail clipper, and after shave lotion. The draw above mine is like an archaeological dig. It contains about one hundred containers of colored stuff that somehow ends up in strategic places on my wife's body. There are all sorts of brushes, and tools that are used somehow with the colored stuff.
Then there is another drawer that has our toothpaste and toothbrushes in it. Also in this drawer are cotton swabs and a bag of cotton balls. Ok, so I do use the swabs after I shower to dry my ears, but what the hell are the cotton balls for? All these little white monsters ever do is attack my toothbrush from time to time. They are sneaky little bastards that usually attack in the morning when I least expect it, and my eyes are not opened yet.
I have a workshop in my basement that has all of my hand and power tools in it. The room is fairly organized and clean, and most of the tools have their place on peg boards. Sometimes when I go into the workshop, I find that a tool has been used for some alternate reason. One day I found a precision, delicate wood chisel had been used to open a paint can. That chisel has since been retired. For the record, the cheap paint can opener that they give you when you buy a gallon of paint is safe and sound. And where the hell are all my needle-nosed pliers?
Let me just say that I would gladly give up all of my power tools, and never watch another football game again if my wife or daughters needed me to as a sacrifice to the gods. I will gladly take them to the mall to go shoe shopping, smell a hundred different candles at the candle factory, and I will sit through another Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston chick flick if it makes them happy. All I ask in return is to please call off the cotton balls and return my needle-nosed pliers.
Friday, September 9, 2011
I am your morning DJ, on WDAD
On the way to work this morning I was listening to my usual radio station. Typically, the two disc jockeys joke around and give the audience a few chuckles. It is a great way to drive to work for me, because it sets the tone for the day.
This morning one of the guys asked the other one if he felt as though he was as good a man as his father was. Immediately the other jock said that he wasn't 1/10th the man his dad was. The first jock replied that he too felt that he did not measure up to his dad. He then went on to tell how the day before as he was driving home in the rain, he passed a woman who was walking. His first instinct was to stop and ask her if she would like a ride, but quickly resisted because he did not want to be accused of any wrongdoing. As he drove down the road away from the woman, he thought about how sad it is that in today's world we cannot do a simple kindness for a stranger without fear of retribution. All it would take would be for the woman to accuse him of trying to do something nefarious, and he would be questioned by the police. Further, as a semi-public personality, just the accusation could have severe ramifications for him, his job, and his family.
He then thought about his father, and how twenty or thirty years ago his father would not have hesitated at all to offer a stranger a ride. He then proceeded to ask himself if he was as good a man as his dad.
I enjoyed this story, and the self opinion of the second disc jockey as well because I can very much relate to the question, and the opinion of myself. Just a couple of weeks ago, we had a small gathering of friends at my house, and for some reason my brother and I started telling funny stories about our father. We went on for over an hour, and each story was funnier than the last. Our friends who knew my Dad, Frank, related to the stories, and friends that did not have the pleasure of ever meeting him were laughing just as hard. One such friend told me days later that is face still hurt from laughing, and said that he wished he had gotten to know Frank.
As we were telling the stories, I could not help but wonder if after I have been gone for twenty years, as my Dad has been, will my kids remember me as fondly. I know that they won't have as many funny stories to tell because I am nowhere near the hoot my Dad was, but will they have fond memories.
My Dad was 41 years old when I was born, and I only got to share 31 years with him. I don't ever remember playing ball with him, he did not coach my soccer team, nor did he ever really help me build anything. My Dad never helped me fix my car, never golfed with me since he did not golf, nor did drive me to college every year since we never had money for any of us to go to college. All of the above things I have done for my daughters, but somehow I still do not think that I am half the father that my Dad was. Fatherhood does not come with a book, and I have always tried to do what is best for my kids. I try to measure up to the man that always gave me his time, his best advice, and made me see the funny things in life.
Hearing the disc jockeys say that they felt the same way about their fathers kind of gave me more of a boost than any of the jokes they usually tell. Men do not typically share such feelings, and sometimes we think that we are unique in our thoughts. Hearing that other guys share this same sense about themselves kind of lets me know that I am ok. To my disc jockeys, Kevin and Pete, I am sure that you are too.
Sure, my girls are never going to laugh about how I got the neighbor to cut up a downed tree in my backyard and haul it away while I sipped on a cold beer, but they will remember that I cared about them and did the very best I could to give them all that they needed.
My Dad did the same for me, and although my time with him was way too short, he lives on inside of me and I still love him like crazy. And my girls love me too.
This morning one of the guys asked the other one if he felt as though he was as good a man as his father was. Immediately the other jock said that he wasn't 1/10th the man his dad was. The first jock replied that he too felt that he did not measure up to his dad. He then went on to tell how the day before as he was driving home in the rain, he passed a woman who was walking. His first instinct was to stop and ask her if she would like a ride, but quickly resisted because he did not want to be accused of any wrongdoing. As he drove down the road away from the woman, he thought about how sad it is that in today's world we cannot do a simple kindness for a stranger without fear of retribution. All it would take would be for the woman to accuse him of trying to do something nefarious, and he would be questioned by the police. Further, as a semi-public personality, just the accusation could have severe ramifications for him, his job, and his family.
He then thought about his father, and how twenty or thirty years ago his father would not have hesitated at all to offer a stranger a ride. He then proceeded to ask himself if he was as good a man as his dad.
I enjoyed this story, and the self opinion of the second disc jockey as well because I can very much relate to the question, and the opinion of myself. Just a couple of weeks ago, we had a small gathering of friends at my house, and for some reason my brother and I started telling funny stories about our father. We went on for over an hour, and each story was funnier than the last. Our friends who knew my Dad, Frank, related to the stories, and friends that did not have the pleasure of ever meeting him were laughing just as hard. One such friend told me days later that is face still hurt from laughing, and said that he wished he had gotten to know Frank.
As we were telling the stories, I could not help but wonder if after I have been gone for twenty years, as my Dad has been, will my kids remember me as fondly. I know that they won't have as many funny stories to tell because I am nowhere near the hoot my Dad was, but will they have fond memories.
My Dad was 41 years old when I was born, and I only got to share 31 years with him. I don't ever remember playing ball with him, he did not coach my soccer team, nor did he ever really help me build anything. My Dad never helped me fix my car, never golfed with me since he did not golf, nor did drive me to college every year since we never had money for any of us to go to college. All of the above things I have done for my daughters, but somehow I still do not think that I am half the father that my Dad was. Fatherhood does not come with a book, and I have always tried to do what is best for my kids. I try to measure up to the man that always gave me his time, his best advice, and made me see the funny things in life.
Hearing the disc jockeys say that they felt the same way about their fathers kind of gave me more of a boost than any of the jokes they usually tell. Men do not typically share such feelings, and sometimes we think that we are unique in our thoughts. Hearing that other guys share this same sense about themselves kind of lets me know that I am ok. To my disc jockeys, Kevin and Pete, I am sure that you are too.
Sure, my girls are never going to laugh about how I got the neighbor to cut up a downed tree in my backyard and haul it away while I sipped on a cold beer, but they will remember that I cared about them and did the very best I could to give them all that they needed.
My Dad did the same for me, and although my time with him was way too short, he lives on inside of me and I still love him like crazy. And my girls love me too.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Three priests and a plumber get into an elevator...
One day I found myself waiting to get on an elevator. Suddenly an old high school friend of mine, who is now a priest came around the corner with two fellow priests. We exchanged hello's and my friend and I had a moment to catch up. We had seen each other recently before this, so we were relatively current with our news. They were going to the 5th floor for a dinner, and I was going to the fourth for the same.
The elevator doors opened, and I naturally held the door for the priests so they could enter before me. After we began our ascent, for some reasons I said out loud, "Three priests and a plumber get into an elevator..." As the words were coming out of my mouth, the little voice inside my head was telling me to stop, but it was too late. The Catholic school boy inside thought for sure that I was perpertrating some sort of sin and was going to hell, but the Irishman's gift of blarney inside me had already committed to the act, and there was no going back. How many Hail Mary's and Our Father's were in my future? I had not pissed off a priest since my junior year in high school when I nudged a vending machine in the school cafeteria that had swallowed my quarters without giving up the Fig Newtons, and faced utter embarrassment in front of half the school when the good Padre admonished me on the spot. I knew that what I did to that machine was wrong and accepted my punishment, and really never gave it much thought again. Now, as the words were coming out of my mouth in the elevator, I became the high school kid in the cafeteria again and thought for sure that a swift admonishment was coming my way.
Much to my surprise, all the Father's let out big laughs. One of the priests whom I did not know even uttered the words "Good one". Relieved, I swear that I heard the cookies fall to the bottom of the vending machine.
Luckily, before my Irish wit could try to get any more laughs, the doors of the elevator opened. I wished them all a good night, and made my exit.
For years, I have tried to finish that joke and have even solicited help from people to whom I have told this story. To date, the joke remains unfinished probably because the premise is really not that funny. It played well in the elevator at that time because it was in the moment.
The joke may not ever be finished, but it did provide me with an ending. As kids, we make mistakes and the reaction of adults to our errors stick with us for years to come, possibly even influencing how we react as adults to errors our kids make. In that nanosecond in the elevator, I was brought back to high school standing in front of a priest as he demonstrated in front of my peers on my legs his exaggerated interpretation of what I had done to the vending machine. Clearly, he hastily overreacted. My unfinished joke has taught me to step back when others do something that I perceive to be a mistake, to consider my reaction and to give them a chance to fix the error. Fig Newton anyone?
The elevator doors opened, and I naturally held the door for the priests so they could enter before me. After we began our ascent, for some reasons I said out loud, "Three priests and a plumber get into an elevator..." As the words were coming out of my mouth, the little voice inside my head was telling me to stop, but it was too late. The Catholic school boy inside thought for sure that I was perpertrating some sort of sin and was going to hell, but the Irishman's gift of blarney inside me had already committed to the act, and there was no going back. How many Hail Mary's and Our Father's were in my future? I had not pissed off a priest since my junior year in high school when I nudged a vending machine in the school cafeteria that had swallowed my quarters without giving up the Fig Newtons, and faced utter embarrassment in front of half the school when the good Padre admonished me on the spot. I knew that what I did to that machine was wrong and accepted my punishment, and really never gave it much thought again. Now, as the words were coming out of my mouth in the elevator, I became the high school kid in the cafeteria again and thought for sure that a swift admonishment was coming my way.
Much to my surprise, all the Father's let out big laughs. One of the priests whom I did not know even uttered the words "Good one". Relieved, I swear that I heard the cookies fall to the bottom of the vending machine.
Luckily, before my Irish wit could try to get any more laughs, the doors of the elevator opened. I wished them all a good night, and made my exit.
For years, I have tried to finish that joke and have even solicited help from people to whom I have told this story. To date, the joke remains unfinished probably because the premise is really not that funny. It played well in the elevator at that time because it was in the moment.
The joke may not ever be finished, but it did provide me with an ending. As kids, we make mistakes and the reaction of adults to our errors stick with us for years to come, possibly even influencing how we react as adults to errors our kids make. In that nanosecond in the elevator, I was brought back to high school standing in front of a priest as he demonstrated in front of my peers on my legs his exaggerated interpretation of what I had done to the vending machine. Clearly, he hastily overreacted. My unfinished joke has taught me to step back when others do something that I perceive to be a mistake, to consider my reaction and to give them a chance to fix the error. Fig Newton anyone?
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Lyrical analysis: Shipping up to Boston
I'm a sailor peg
And I've lost my leg
A climing up the topsails
I've lost my leg.
I'm shipping up to Boston,
Shipping off to Boston,
Shipping out to Boston
To find my wooden leg.
Lyrics by Woodie Guthrie
Musihttp://youtu.be/x-64CaD8GXwc by The Dropkick Murphy's
Forget about Jonathan Papelbon dancing a jig, the Irish gang portrayed in the video, or the kick-ass Celtic punk music by the Dropkick Murphy's that are all absolutely wicked awesome and are etched into any Boston sports fan brain. What about the lyrics?
These words were written in a poem by Woodie Guthrie, the same man who wrote This Land is Your Land, which was described by Bruce Springstein as one of the most beautiful lyric ever written. More on this subject in a later post.
Guthrie was born in 1912 in Oklahoma and died in 1967 from complications of Huntington's disease. He was a prolific poet and songwriter. He lived through the dustbowl years in the mid-1930's and wrote extensively about the trials that people of that era faced.
Taken literally, the simple lyric is the words of a sailor who lost his wooden leg and is heading to Boston to find it. But, poetry is seldom literal.
I have wondered about this lyric when I first heard it sung by the Dropkick Murphy's. I had no idea that Woodie Guthrie wrote it nor what the words really were. I understood the chorus 'shipping up to Boston" and like any Red Sox fan, was content to get caught up in the moment and enjoy the celebratory nature of the tune. Besides, the music was infectious.
One day, I was curious about what the lyrics really were and what they meant. When I learned who they were written by, and when, I wondered what his message was. Online, I found a debate going on between those who feel the meaning is literal, yet somehow the sailor is a pirate. Others feel that the "lost leg" is a metaphor for something financial.
Not satisfied, I did a little research about the author, and am eager to read more about him. Woodie Guthrie was adamant in his personal mission to write poems and songs that would help people realize their self worth. He considered himself a story teller and a poet, and marginally good "picker" with the guitar. Truth be told, he was before his time and was the inspiration to the likes of Bob Dylan. His son, Arlo Guthrie is a folk artist who has had success in his fathers footsteps.
My research thus far has not yielded any story behind the lyric. At this time, I do side with those that feel the lost leg is a metaphor, however I think it is deeper than a financial comparison. Someone, who is missing a part of him, and is obviously handicapped is going to travel a great distance to get back something lost that cannot be replaced otherwise. The interpretation could go anywhere, and analyzing this would require more insight into Guthrie's mindset and circumstances when he wrote it. So, this I will do.
Meanwhile, watch the youtube video, and GO SOX!
And I've lost my leg
A climing up the topsails
I've lost my leg.
I'm shipping up to Boston,
Shipping off to Boston,
Shipping out to Boston
To find my wooden leg.
Lyrics by Woodie Guthrie
Musihttp://youtu.be/x-64CaD8GXwc by The Dropkick Murphy's
Forget about Jonathan Papelbon dancing a jig, the Irish gang portrayed in the video, or the kick-ass Celtic punk music by the Dropkick Murphy's that are all absolutely wicked awesome and are etched into any Boston sports fan brain. What about the lyrics?
These words were written in a poem by Woodie Guthrie, the same man who wrote This Land is Your Land, which was described by Bruce Springstein as one of the most beautiful lyric ever written. More on this subject in a later post.
Guthrie was born in 1912 in Oklahoma and died in 1967 from complications of Huntington's disease. He was a prolific poet and songwriter. He lived through the dustbowl years in the mid-1930's and wrote extensively about the trials that people of that era faced.
Taken literally, the simple lyric is the words of a sailor who lost his wooden leg and is heading to Boston to find it. But, poetry is seldom literal.
I have wondered about this lyric when I first heard it sung by the Dropkick Murphy's. I had no idea that Woodie Guthrie wrote it nor what the words really were. I understood the chorus 'shipping up to Boston" and like any Red Sox fan, was content to get caught up in the moment and enjoy the celebratory nature of the tune. Besides, the music was infectious.
One day, I was curious about what the lyrics really were and what they meant. When I learned who they were written by, and when, I wondered what his message was. Online, I found a debate going on between those who feel the meaning is literal, yet somehow the sailor is a pirate. Others feel that the "lost leg" is a metaphor for something financial.
Not satisfied, I did a little research about the author, and am eager to read more about him. Woodie Guthrie was adamant in his personal mission to write poems and songs that would help people realize their self worth. He considered himself a story teller and a poet, and marginally good "picker" with the guitar. Truth be told, he was before his time and was the inspiration to the likes of Bob Dylan. His son, Arlo Guthrie is a folk artist who has had success in his fathers footsteps.
My research thus far has not yielded any story behind the lyric. At this time, I do side with those that feel the lost leg is a metaphor, however I think it is deeper than a financial comparison. Someone, who is missing a part of him, and is obviously handicapped is going to travel a great distance to get back something lost that cannot be replaced otherwise. The interpretation could go anywhere, and analyzing this would require more insight into Guthrie's mindset and circumstances when he wrote it. So, this I will do.
Meanwhile, watch the youtube video, and GO SOX!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Sunny Day, Chasin' the Clouds Away.
When my daughters were younger we used to watch Sesame Street together. One of the segments that I clearly remember is the one which three or four items would be grouped together, and the characters would ask the children to pick the item that did not belong. "One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong" went the song.
If they grouped an apple, a lemon, and a toy car then most everyone would understand what item was not like the others. Naturally, they would make the odd item an obvious choice for the children, even though sometimes the obvious choice would be challanging for dear old Dad. I still maintain that a cow has more in common with fork than it does with a farmer, but I digress. Grouping together an apple, a lemon, and a banana would create some room for debate. Color, shape, edibility and a host of other factors could support any argument that one of the items is different than the others.
The real source of argument here is not the characteristics or intrinsic value of any of the pieces of fruit. The debate comes from the premise that "one of these things just doesn't belong" and that we have to choose which item is the outcast.
As a young man, I remember watching movies and television shows where you could always tell the good guy from the bad guy. The good cowboy was clean shaven and wore a white hat, while the bad cowboy was scruffy and dressed in black. The good guys on Hogan's Hero's were, of course the Allies imprisoned at Stalag 13 and always were able to outwit the bad guys, the German Nazi's, and prevail in any situation. In movies, problems and conflicts were resolved in less than two hours, and on TV, things were fixed in an astonishingly fast half hour. Somehow though, the movies and TV were programming and entire generation that situations should be resolved in these short time spans.
Today,in the post 9-11 world where there are very real and very complex problems. The kids that watched movies and television are getting frustrated because these problems do not seem to be going away in a "timely" manner. Also, we don't know who is wearing the black hat, because they are not all unshaven and German. We want so badly for Fonzie to tap the jukebox with his fist and for the happy music to start playing. If only Clint Eastwood would ride in, look the enemy in the eye, and shoot the son-of- a-bitch dead, then all of our problems would go away.
Whether you agreed with his politics or not, in 1980 we hired a President to fix the worlds problems then, such as the Iran hostatge crisis, and by golly, Ronald Reagan, an actual veteran white hatted cowboy from the big screen delighted all of us TV-lovin' baby boomers and fixed things lickety split. Hell, the Berlin wall came down, the Cold War ended, and the economy rebounded. This cowboy even got shot on the job, and survived quickly enough to tuck us all in after he fed us our milk and cookies.
Today, we don't have the hero of the big screen to save us. A whole new generation of people, who do not know that Commander Quintin McHale will outsmart Captain Binghampton, and win a battle against the Japanese Navy all in about 25 minutes. This generation has their own hero's, but are the Super Mario brothers going to be able to outwit Al Qaeda?
Without a hero to lead us, we look inward, and start over analyzing what is wrong with us. Which of these things just doesn't belong. Listen to the news, or worse yet listen to talk radio. Bert and Ernie think that because they are round, like their heads, that the apple and lemon are okay, but that banana, and it's funny shape is the problem. Big Bird however thinks that since the banana and lemon are yellow like him, it must be the apple's that is errant. As in the Sesame St. scenario, the problem is not any of the pieces in the group, it is the premise that one of these items is at the heart of all the fault. Is there really a problem with any of the pieces of fruit? Of course not, but because we have the premise that something is off, we have to choose and argue the point. The problem with us, the American people is the division amoungst us that all this arguing is causing. Specifially, the two party political system has a major fault. My party is wearing the white hat, and if you are in the other party, then your hat is black. Everything, repeat, everything you say is wrong and everything I say is right. I could go on and on about this but you get the point.
What is worse for our generation is that we are way beyond the time limit to fix the problem that the movies and TV allow. Our attention span to the complex problems that we are facing both globally and domestically is long past. We keep waiting for the magic fix to happen, so all will be well and we can get to bed, but it is not happening. Where is Mr. Brady to explain things to us? Where is our modern day Ronald Reagan?
On Sesame Street, Oscar the Grouch had a very important role. His transparent persona was argumentative and gruff, but his inner self was insightful and kind. He protected himself from the world through his demeanor, but somehow the good things going on around him penetrated not only his hard exterior, but the very garbage can he used to armor himself from others. What Oscar taught us is that positive things can penetrate the hardest exteriors, and the solution for problems come from within. The sunny day we all seek comes from chasing the clouds away ourselves.
If they grouped an apple, a lemon, and a toy car then most everyone would understand what item was not like the others. Naturally, they would make the odd item an obvious choice for the children, even though sometimes the obvious choice would be challanging for dear old Dad. I still maintain that a cow has more in common with fork than it does with a farmer, but I digress. Grouping together an apple, a lemon, and a banana would create some room for debate. Color, shape, edibility and a host of other factors could support any argument that one of the items is different than the others.
The real source of argument here is not the characteristics or intrinsic value of any of the pieces of fruit. The debate comes from the premise that "one of these things just doesn't belong" and that we have to choose which item is the outcast.
As a young man, I remember watching movies and television shows where you could always tell the good guy from the bad guy. The good cowboy was clean shaven and wore a white hat, while the bad cowboy was scruffy and dressed in black. The good guys on Hogan's Hero's were, of course the Allies imprisoned at Stalag 13 and always were able to outwit the bad guys, the German Nazi's, and prevail in any situation. In movies, problems and conflicts were resolved in less than two hours, and on TV, things were fixed in an astonishingly fast half hour. Somehow though, the movies and TV were programming and entire generation that situations should be resolved in these short time spans.
Today,in the post 9-11 world where there are very real and very complex problems. The kids that watched movies and television are getting frustrated because these problems do not seem to be going away in a "timely" manner. Also, we don't know who is wearing the black hat, because they are not all unshaven and German. We want so badly for Fonzie to tap the jukebox with his fist and for the happy music to start playing. If only Clint Eastwood would ride in, look the enemy in the eye, and shoot the son-of- a-bitch dead, then all of our problems would go away.
Whether you agreed with his politics or not, in 1980 we hired a President to fix the worlds problems then, such as the Iran hostatge crisis, and by golly, Ronald Reagan, an actual veteran white hatted cowboy from the big screen delighted all of us TV-lovin' baby boomers and fixed things lickety split. Hell, the Berlin wall came down, the Cold War ended, and the economy rebounded. This cowboy even got shot on the job, and survived quickly enough to tuck us all in after he fed us our milk and cookies.
Today, we don't have the hero of the big screen to save us. A whole new generation of people, who do not know that Commander Quintin McHale will outsmart Captain Binghampton, and win a battle against the Japanese Navy all in about 25 minutes. This generation has their own hero's, but are the Super Mario brothers going to be able to outwit Al Qaeda?
Without a hero to lead us, we look inward, and start over analyzing what is wrong with us. Which of these things just doesn't belong. Listen to the news, or worse yet listen to talk radio. Bert and Ernie think that because they are round, like their heads, that the apple and lemon are okay, but that banana, and it's funny shape is the problem. Big Bird however thinks that since the banana and lemon are yellow like him, it must be the apple's that is errant. As in the Sesame St. scenario, the problem is not any of the pieces in the group, it is the premise that one of these items is at the heart of all the fault. Is there really a problem with any of the pieces of fruit? Of course not, but because we have the premise that something is off, we have to choose and argue the point. The problem with us, the American people is the division amoungst us that all this arguing is causing. Specifially, the two party political system has a major fault. My party is wearing the white hat, and if you are in the other party, then your hat is black. Everything, repeat, everything you say is wrong and everything I say is right. I could go on and on about this but you get the point.
What is worse for our generation is that we are way beyond the time limit to fix the problem that the movies and TV allow. Our attention span to the complex problems that we are facing both globally and domestically is long past. We keep waiting for the magic fix to happen, so all will be well and we can get to bed, but it is not happening. Where is Mr. Brady to explain things to us? Where is our modern day Ronald Reagan?
On Sesame Street, Oscar the Grouch had a very important role. His transparent persona was argumentative and gruff, but his inner self was insightful and kind. He protected himself from the world through his demeanor, but somehow the good things going on around him penetrated not only his hard exterior, but the very garbage can he used to armor himself from others. What Oscar taught us is that positive things can penetrate the hardest exteriors, and the solution for problems come from within. The sunny day we all seek comes from chasing the clouds away ourselves.
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