Tomser's Blog

It has been some time since I have taken the metaphorical pen in hand. Frankly, the state of the world has made me question whether musing on such inane topics as Love Boat, the Trenton bridge and UFOs are worthwhile. And I know that I have nothing unique to say on the political situation that merits expression.

I did, however, realize that I missed the writing, as useless as it might be. Plus, things keep popping into my head, and if I ignore them, they get stuck there to crop up at the most awkward moments. So, I am back at it.

It helps to receive a thoughtful prompt, and I got one by watching the recent documentary “Sly Lives (aka the burden of black genius)” directed by Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson. Questlove illuminates the life of the enigmatic Sly Stone, but wants to ask a deeper question, as evidenced by the parenthetical in the title. Was Sly’s failure to live up to his early success, and his descent into self-destructive behavior a personal failing, or emblematic of the pressures on those we consider geniuses, especially if they are Black?

Though I knew the Family Stone hits, I was a few years too young to remember the extent of their popularity. The documentary reacquainted me with those hits but also made me realize the incredible impact Sly had on music I was better acquainted with. By delving into the Stone catalogue Questlove made clear that much of what was standard radio play in the mid to late 1970’s and beyond owed a lot of its sound to the Family.

By 1975 when I toddled off to college the innovation had dried up. Sly was battling personal demons which manifested themselves in copious drug use. The drug use led to erratic behavior, run-ins with the law, and the break-up of the band. Despite numerous attempts, Sly was never able to recapture the magic.

Genius is such a loaded, overused term. Society is quick to apply the label to anyone who excels. But Questlove makes a good case that Sly was well in front of his contemporaries, and anticipated trends in music that became the norm. He was more than your run-of-the-mill hitmaker.

So, whether Sly Stone was/is a genius or not (yes, he is still alive), he is a fitting subject to explore Questlove’s concerns. Do geniuses carry a special burden, and is that burden greater when they are Black? To Questlove’s credit he does not provide a simple answer or wallow in convenient bromides. Instead, he challenges the viewers to try and answer the question for themselves.

As a rule, genius manifests itself in the young. Marconi was 27 when he developed, demonstrated and marketed the first successful long-distance wireless telegraph. Many of Edison’s inventions germinated when he was in his 20’s. Pascal created a proto computer at age 16. The list goes on.

Yet scientists seem able to continue their production well beyond their early years. While many made their best-known innovations while young, they continued to build on them. Maybe they felt haunted by early success, but it is rare that they fully dried up, or stopped being leaders in their respective fields, even if they never achieved another revolutionary breakthrough.

Artistic genius is different, and it is in this realm that Questlove’s inquiry becomes more interesting. As with many scientific geniuses, most artists make their largest leaps while young. Whether it is in music, the visual arts or literature, masters of the arts usually do their most radical work as they start their careers. Unlike scientists, continuing to expand on that work does not necessarily enhance their reputations.

Maybe it’s our fault as consumers. We become bored easily and demand constant innovation from our heroes. We do not want to hear the same tunes reworked or see the same paintings redone, regardless of how radical the original concept was. We quickly integrate new concepts into our realm of the possible and ask, “Now what?”

The pressure on true artists must be palatable. You are proud of your unique creation. You revel in the recognition. Maybe you even start to believe the press notices labeling you a modern-day Mozart or Austen. But you still have to generate the next song, paint the next picture or write the next novel. You are conscious of the pressure to meet expectations. It is a situation wrought with danger, likely to unleash personal demons.

We must come back to the definition of genius. We are too free with the term. We apply it to the creator of every new thing that emerges. Genius has to be more than a single brainchild, especially in the arts. It must embody the ability to continue to push limits past initial success and continue to create in a way that defies convention, even a convention you yourself developed.

Those who meet this standard are few and far between. Miles Davis comes to mind. He went from bebop to cool jazz to jazz fusion and at each step redefined the genre. Picasso is another. In his blue and rose periods his output was unique but followed traditional styles. From there, however, he pioneered cubism, surrealism, and other forms that led us to what we know as modern art. I would also include James Joyce. His early writings, “Dubliners” and “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” are brilliant but it was with “Ulysses” and “Finnegan’s Wake” that he redefined what the novel could be.

Still, we have not answered Questlove’s inquiry. Are there “geniuses” who never fulfill the promise of their initial work because of the burdens they face? Instinctively, the answer must be yes. Yet, it is impossible to prove. Delving into the human psyche to understand why radical creativity stops is a fool’s game. Was it the burdens placed on the artist or the inability to replicate the original lightning bolt?

Does this question become even more unanswerable if the artist is Black? Questlove does a good job of delineating the unique burdens these artists face, especially in the United States. Historical reality forces the Black artist to represent a race and stay true to racial roots whether he or she wants to or not. White artists do not bear this weight. Paul Simon integrated South African music into his “Graceland” album, and while he was accused of cultural appropriation, no one charged him with abandoning his Whiteness.

While we will never know if Sly was a genius, the burdens were undeniable. The late 1960’s had to be a hard time on Black artists with the emergence of the Black Power movement. Heck, the Black Panthers even pressured Sly. For someone like him who wanted to harmonize many musical styles, it had to be particularly difficult.

I would like to ask Questlove whether the pressures unique to Black artists that Sly faced have abated somewhat over the years. Is it still as big a burden, or have so many artists blurred the genre lines that there is more acceptance? It seems to me that’s the case, but last I looked I am not a Black artist (or an artist of any kind) so my opinion means next to nothing.

I will always be skeptical of the label “genius”. It is too easy to use, but so much harder to live up to. We will never know whether Sly Stone was a genius or just a very talented innovator. We will never know whether he was ultimately defeated by outside influences or by inner conflicts. What we do know is that achievement carries with it burdens that we all too often overlook as we obsess on radical artistic creations. The pedestal we erect is a fragile one, and we need to keep that in mind.  

North Dakota is considering a law that would require colleges and public schools to hang a copy of the 10 Commandments in every classroom. They already have a law that shields teachers from lawsuits if they elect to display these ancient rules of conduct. They are not alone. Other legislatures are considering, or have passed, similar laws.

Proponents of these statutes argue that, regardless of religious affiliation, the Commandments provide moral guidelines essential to ethical living. There is little doubt that they are more concerned with imposing their religious beliefs on society. The Commandments are to appear as a talisman of faith rather than any real guide to behavior.

These ulterior motives are evident by the fact that supporters of these laws eschew any rational discussion of what the Commandments actually say. Of course, even quoting them is problematic, unless you go back to the original Hebrew. I will use the King James version because it is the one most generally accepted by Christians in this country. In fact, I would bet that many think God used the King’s English when speaking with Moses on Mount Sanai.

Exodus 20: 2-17 states:

2 I am the LORD thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.
3 Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
4 Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth:
5 Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me;
6 And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments.
7 Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.
8 Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
9 Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work:
10 But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates:
11 For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it.
12 Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.
13 Thou shalt not kill.
14 Thou shalt not commit adultery.
15 Thou shalt not steal.
16 Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.
17 Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.

Let’s look at what is to be imparted to the children of North Dakota.

Commandment 1 is bound to confuse the young ones. The edict to have no other God before this God implies that more than one God exists, heresy to any monotheist. The Bible itself does recognize these other Gods, mentioning, by one count, 54 alternate deities. My guess is that will not be discussed.

More difficult is the identity of the “me” referred to. Moses’ followers knew who this was. But there is still that pesky First Amendment. We cannot just come out and say that this is the Christian God (sorry Jews and Muslims, but he’s ours!!!). Does that leave “me” to be defined by each student based on their own beliefs?  Are we really just saying, “Hey, get a God and put it before all the others.”?

The Second Commandment is one we kind of ignore. After all, we are a society of graven images, whether it’s touchdown Jesus, a meme coin of an orange god, or a poster of the latest pop idol. And we certainly do bow down and serve those idols, especially if there is money to be made doing so.

The second half of this Commandment (Exodus 20:5) will certainly be excised. How can we explain to kids that even if they keep the Commandments they are in deep doodoo if their Grampa slipped? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose? Plus, it doesn’t fit well with the idea of a loving God we like to project. Let’s face it. The God that promulgated these Commandments was not cuddly. Best to skip over that.

Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Make it useful, Gosh Darn it!!!

Keep the Sabbath holy. It’s a day of rest. No tee ball games. Close the mall. Don’t go to restaurants, but have something at home, preferably made the day before. No football on the telly. They’re working and that’s forbidden. On second thought, let’s not get out of control.

We can all agree that honoring your mother and father is a good thing, can’t we? (Unless your parents are worthless heathens who voted for the wrong party, and object to us posting these commonsense rules of behavior).

Thou shalt not kill. It gets no more basic than that. However, as the Genie would say, there are a couple of provisos and quid pro quos. While you cannot kill, the state can do so on your behalf. Oh yes, and you can kill if we put you in a uniform and point you at someone we call an enemy. Otherwise, it’s a no, no.

I think it is a wonderful idea to introduce adultery (No. 7) to elementary school children. I can imagine the following conversation:

Tommy: Mrs. Snodgrass, what’s adultery?

Mrs. Snodgrass: Why that’s what your father does with his floozy of a secretary when he goes on [air-quotes] business trips.

Tommy: I get it. Like what you and Principal Principle do in the janitor’s closet when you think no one’s looking.

Mrs. Snodgrass: Shut-up Tommy.

There can be no argument with Number 8, can there. We should not steal. Failure to pay contractors who have done work for us or buying a painting of ourselves with money set aside for charitable donation doesn’t really count. Then again, most legislators are probably relying on kids not going that deep.

The prohibition against “false witness” also makes sense. Children should be taught that claiming something untrue is true with the intention of hurting someone or ruining their reputation is wrong. You know, like alleging that your neighbors are capturing pets and eating them when you know that’s false. No decent person could support that.

The final Commandment raises the inevitable question as to who our neighbor is. Moses could not have meant just the family next door. Might he have meant only those in our “tribe”? Possible, but certainly by the New Testament this was understood more broadly. That’s the whole point of the Parable of the Good Samaritan, isn’t it?

Putting that side, this is a good one. It is almost Buddhist. Striving is the source of suffering. Envy eats at the soul. For your own sake, and that of your community jealousies should be put aside. I think we have a winner!!!!

So, if we just pare these Commandments down, ignore the bits that are problematic and the hypocrisy of those pushing for their display, we have some decent guidelines for living a virtuous life. We could display these and explain away the difficulties, or we could look to another set of precepts that are not so laden.

I would suggest the Seven Social Sins, a list promulgated by Anglican Minister Frederick Donaldson, and popularized by Mohandas Gandhi. These sins are:

1. Wealth without Work

2. Pleasure without conscience

3. Knowledge without Character

4. Commerce without Morality

5. Science without Humanity

6. Religion without Sacrifice

7. Politics without Principle

These I can get behind. They apply to everyone, regardless of gender, race or creed. No provisos and quid pro quos are needed. Put them up in every classroom. Make it mandatory that a week is spent reviewing and discussing them. Of course, for that to happen we would have to have legislators that avoid sin Number 7. Good luck with that!!

In the meantime, we have to fight to uphold the secular Commandment embodied in the First Amendment separating church and state. There should be no backdoors or loopholes to this Commandment. The beliefs of religious sects do not belong in our classrooms, no matter how you mask them. As my Father would say, “And thus ends the reading of the word”.

Once again, Time has picked it’s Person of the Year. Once again, it is the most banal and obvious choice possible. Does anyone really want to rehash the 2024 antics of He Who Will Not Be Named in This Blog? We have been inundated with his insanity to such an extent that the thought of reliving his buffoonery is more repulsive than Saw VII. At least that movie would get my blood pumping, which is preferable to getting my blood pressure soaring.

To rectify this travesty, I feel compelled to nominate my own person of the year. (I can feel the collective anticipatory intake of breath). My nominee is Gisele Pelicot. (I can now hear that intake of breath coming out in a collective, “Who?”). If you are not familiar with her story and her courage, you should be, as horrific as it is. I promise that it is much more enlightening than the drivel from Time.

Gisele Pelicot was, by all outer evidence, a normal housewife living in Avignon, France. In 2020 her husband Dominique was arrested for filming up the skirts of female customers at a local store. While investigating this crime police seized his computer, laptop and phones. What they found was mind-boggling.

Dominque’s electronic devices contained hundreds of images and videos of his wife being raped while unconscious. They revealed that he had solicited men to assault her and that over 50 had taken him up on that proposition. Gisele was faced with the nightmare reality that her husband had drugged her and then sold her lifeless body for other men’s “pleasure”.

Naturally Gisele felt the impact of the drugging and assaults. She went to see a doctor on numerous occasions, often accompanied by her husband, complaining of memory loss and pelvic pain. I don’t know whether the Doctor dismissed her symptoms or failed to do a thorough exam, but nothing came of those visits.

All of this brings to mind the 2022 movie Women Talking, and the book it was based upon. There too women were drugged and raped. Their physical complaints also led nowhere until incontrovertible evidence uncovered what was happening. After those responsible were arrested the women had a choice to make on how to respond. They chose to leave their community and head out to an uncertain future.

Gisele Pelicot faced a similar dilemma. French law offered her anonymity as the state pursued her husband and her rapists. She could testify behind closed doors. Her name and image would be kept out of the papers. “Justice” could have been pursued without public scrutiny.    

The choice that Gisele made, and the aftermath of that decision, is what sets her apart and leads me to think that she deserves to be honored. As horrific as her experience was, she recognized that being a silent victim achieves nothing. She went from being a casualty to being a crusader.

Gisele waived her right to anonymity and a closed-door trial. She not only agreed to testify in public but put herself forward as a spokesperson for victims of sexual assault. She did so with her head held high. She refused to be ashamed of something she had no control over. Instead, she proclaimed “The shame is theirs”.

In support of her plight and in recognition of her firmness and tenacity, thousands rallied around her. People gathered at the courthouse. Supportive slogans were pasted on walls around the courthouse. Demonstrations were held in her honor.

The trial resulted in the conviction of 50 of the 51 charged defendants, with the last convicted of having drugged and raped his own wife with Dominique. Moreover, it put the spotlight on a culture that enabled the abuse of women. The coverage made clear that while the nature of this crime might be exceptional, the attitudes that let the defendants act as they did was not.

Pelicot’s testimony put the spotlight on French women’s mistrust of the legal system and the perception, borne out by statistics, that judicial punishment of sexual assault was inconsistent and generally light. The result is that the vast amount of rapes cases reported to police (94% according to Euro News) are dropped. That discussion spread throughout Europe and beyond.

It is hard to say whether Gisele’s heroism will have any lasting impact. Other high-profile cases – Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby – have engendered similar outbursts which have died down as time has passed. One can only hope that the repercussions here are more permanent.

Even if not, I would choose to celebrate someone who bravely stood up for what is right and for a better world. Too often we recognize only those that are the most divisive and selfish-centered because they are the loudest. It takes someone like Gisele Pelicot to remind us of what is really important.    

I will leave the last words to Gisele. “I wanted when I started on September 2 [the opening day of the trial] to ensure that society could actually see what was happening and I have never regretted this decision. I now have faith in our capacity collectively to take hold of a future in which everybody, women, men, can live together in harmony, in respect and mutual understanding”.   

Year-end lists are proliferating. Click bait explodes so that we can re-experience the best new restaurants, most impactful technological breakthroughs or the craziest Housewife moments of the last 12 months (had to be the lunchtime brawl in New Jersey). Who am I to buck this trend? So here goes.

Best Movies Watched in 2024:

10. Infernal Affairs/L.A. Confidential – Two diverse films from different countries that show how much drama, tension and creativity can still be wrought from within the over-done world of the police.

9. Godzilla Minus One/Tetsuo the Iron Man – Divergent Japanese takes on the Monster genre. One affirming that you can make a Godzilla film where you actually care about the people as much as you do about the big lizard. The other going off the surrealistic deep end to show what a monster man can be. Both great fun.

8. Carnival of Souls – Somehow, I had never seen this small, unsettling horror gem. Now that I have it will be hard to get out of my mind.  

7. Playtime – Jacques Tati is unmatched in wringing comedic chaos out of the modern world, and he never did it better than in this film.

6. The Host/Memories of Murder – Early films of Bong Joon-ho that demonstrate what a master he is in creating memorable characters. I cannot wait for his new film.

5. Speed Racer/Heat – These should really be termed Best Movie Theater Experiences. Speed Racer is not a movie I would recommend you watch at home on TV. However, if you get to see it on the Big Screen in a packed theater do not hesitate. The non-stop buzz is visceral. Heat is a much better movie, and well worth seeing in any setting, but in a crowded theater you can feel the tension both on the screen and in those around you.

4. Conclave/Dune: Part 2 – These were the best of the 2024 mainstream movies that I saw this year. Both should generate Oscar buzz. Both deserve it.

3. Certified Copy/Seed of the Sacred Fig – I continue to be amazed by the vibrant movies emerging from Iran. Over the last few years, I have seen film after film from that troubled country that are as powerful as any. Certified Copy is an older one, while Seed of the Sacred Fig is as topical as it could be. Unfortunately, it also sent the Director into exile.

2. Portrait of a Lady on Fire – There is a reason that this movie was ranked so high in the recent Sight and Sound 100 (no. 30). It is beautiful both cinematically and thematically.

1. David Lynch – When I looked at the movies I watched in 2024 (thank you Letterboxd) I realized that it has been a Lynchian year. I saw 7 of his films (Inland Empire, Lost Highway, Eraserhead, Blue Velvet, Elephant Man, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Twin Peaks: The Return). Most I had seen before, but each had so much to offer that it was like seeing them for the first time.

Best Non-Fiction Read in 2024:

10. An Iron Wind: Europe Under Hitler (Fritzsche) – By focusing on individuals who find themselves subject to a venal regime, Fritzche illuminates how we cope, or don’t, when the world around us has gone mad.

9. House of Government: A Saga of the Russian Revolution (Slezkine) – Fed my never-ending fascination with the Russian Revolution by going beyond the well-known leaders to illuminate how the apparatchiks who made the revolution lived and what they believed.

8. The Celluloid Closet: Homosexuality in the Movies (Russo) – Amazing what lay just below the surface of Golden-Age Hollywood for all to see if you just looked.

7. Loose Balls: The Short, Wild Life of the American Basketball Association/Why We Love Baseball: a History in 50 Moments (Pluto/Posnanski) – I read a fair amount of sports books this past year. These were the two best. The insane story of the ABA, which had no right to exist as long as it did, and a paean to Baseball that brings out the essence of the game in vignettes, some well know, some obscure.

6. The Library at Midnight/Read Dangerously: The Subversive Power of Literature in Troubled Times/Where I’m Reading From: The Changing World of Books (Manguel/Nafisi/Parks) – I am a sucker for books about books.

5. Blood in the Water: The Attica Prison Riot of 1971 and It’s Legacy (Thompson) – I love when books reveal the relevance of something that happened a while ago and it makes you so angry you want to scream, though it’s not necessarily good for my blood pressure.

4. The Blood of Emmett Till (Tyson) – See last comment.

3. Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty (Keefe) – See last two comments.

2. Killing a King: The Assassination of Yitzhak Rabin and the Remaking of Israel (Ephron) – A good argument can be made that the last real chance of peace in the Middle East died with Rabin and this book makes it well.

1. Time’s Echo: Music, Memory and the Second World War (Eichler) – The intersection of art and tragedy resonate in this exploration of post-WWII works by four very different composers from very different backgrounds – Strauss, Schoenberg, Britton and Shostakovich. The result is breathtaking.

Best Fiction Read in 2024:

10. Children of Time/Ancillary Justice (Tchaikovsky/Leckie) – This was a year for Science Fiction. These two stood out. As with all great Sci Fi, both created a unique world and incorporated themes that went beyond that world into ours.

9. The Three Body Problem (Liu) – There is a reason this book was embraced. It was thoughtful and unique, though it’s strongest asset might have been its setting in Communist China.

8. The Neon Rain (Burke) – Nothing like a taut thriller that with an interesting lead Detective battling corruption and many levels of crime.

7. My Brilliant Friend (Ferrante) – While this is not my normal genre, the characters and cultural setting made this a wonderful read.

6. Life: A User’s Manual (Perec) – A sharp veer into modernism that was challenging in so many ways but rewarding in just as many.

5.  Zorba the Greek (Kazantzakis) – Few books celebrate life as much as this one does by presenting a lead character that is wholly unforgettable.

4. Circe (Miller) – Focusing on a side character in a familiar story seems to be a trend. It is especially perilous to do so by drawing on an epoch like the Odyssey, but Miller makes it work.

3. Nobody Walks (Herron) – Any fan of the Slow Horses series knows that Herron can create an engrossing set of characters and place them in compelling situations with numerous twists. He doesn’t disappoint here.

2. The Glass Bees (Junger) – Almost prescient in its depiction of a future where the technological dwarves and perverts the human.

1. Cloud Cuckoo Land (Doerr) – Pulls off the difficult task of blending three stories from different times, without losing the intensity of each, eventually drawing them together. A captivating read.     

Anyone who navigated airports in the 1970’s knows the drill. Walk along with your head down trying to get to the gate without being assaulted by seedy looking representatives of various organizations wanting your money, and, if you could believe the rumors, your soul. Among the more notable supplicants you had to dodge were Hari Krishna zealots with their shaved heads and saffron robes and the followers of Sun Myung Moon. The Moonies were the most annoying because they were less conspicuous, making them harder to avoid.

The approach was not subtle. Some token was shoved into your face, whether it was a book or flower. If you were silly enough to stop and engage you were hooked. I once got a copy of the Bhagavad Gita that way. The acolyte who approached me started talking about George Harrison and before I knew it, I was $20 poorer. I must admit, however, it was a nice-looking book. It sat on my shelf for many years, though I don’t remember ever cracking it open.    

Even before our airports became mini war zones with restricted areas abounding, the powers that be banned these annoying petitioners. While I never regretted the loss, it makes the airports more sterile. Luckily, before that happened “Airplane” captured perfectly the annoyance of most patrons by having Robert Stack take out solicitor after solicitor seeking contributions for everything from scientology to Jerry’s Kids and “more nuclear power”. (Everybody remembers Leslie Neilson for that movie – and rightly so – but Robert Stack was every bit as funny).

While the Moonies appear to be long gone, and saffron robes are a rarity, I have recently encountered a new wave of devoted panhandlers ready to accost you on street corners throughout Philadelphia. These are clearly a different sort of animal. They are young people who are presumably getting paid to collect on behalf of recognized charities. The basis of their remuneration is unclear.

Some of the charities represented are ones we know well, like the SPCA or the ACLU. Others have names that sound legitimate, like Children International, but seem to be counting on their generic names to assure you that you’re giving to a good cause. Kind of like George Castanza telling his co-workers that for the holidays he had contributed on their behalf to “The Human Fund”. It sounded good, so why should they care that he was the only human benefiting from the “contribution”.  

Since these kids are not true believers like the airport denizens the ardency of their solicitations varies. Most seem content to merely ask for a moment of your time. Others look at you pleadingly and only follow up if you respond somehow, with a raised eyebrow or twitch. In any event they give up quickly in response to a polite refusal.

However, I have had some more aggressive encounters. I was once approached in Washington Square by a vested schnorrer who was collecting on behalf of some children’s charity I had never heard of. She prefaced her pitch by asking me if I liked children. So many wise-ass responses flooded my brain (“Obviously, you never met my kids.” “Yes, at least until they can talk.” “No more or less than the rest of humanity, and that’s not saying much.”) that I froze. Finally, I merely spit out something insipid like, “Do you really think that will get you a donation?” I hate those missed opportunities.

(This exchange did remind me of when my son Will ran for Mayor of Allentown while a student at Muhlenberg College (“Where there’s a Will there’s a Wamser”). He took an ant-vax position. His explanation made perfect sense).

Another solicitor approached me by asking where I would rate myself on a scale of 1 – 10 as a nice person. I immediately shot back “0”, though I admit I did it with a smile. Having been asked this asinine question the “0” was honestly how I felt at that moment. The smile was disingenuous.

The problem is that I probably do rate higher than a “0” on the nice scale, though where I would not want to guess. I feel a twinge of guilt passing these kids by, especially when I know the organization they represent to be meritorious. I am tempted to stop and explain that I do give to charity, but not to street solicitations.  

I never had this problem with the Moonies. They were easy to blow off without a second thought. I just can’t do that with these fresh-faced youngsters who look so damn sincere. Believe me, I fight the urge to engage. I just don’t feel great about it.

Plus, I feel some commiseration with these street urchins. Likely they are more akin to the long-gone door-to-door supplicants selling magazine subscriptions to earn money for college. Like those dear departed mendicants, they are probably only making a pittance of what they need to survive. That alone is worth our empathy.

The irony is that the airport ambushers were true believers, or at least I assume so. I doubt if the Krishnas were paying anyone to shave their heads, don the saffron and troll the Philadelphia International walkways. Maybe they deserved more of my sympathy than this new crop of solicitors. Nah!!!

Solicitations will always be with us, whether it’s these patrons of the sidewalk, or in the flood of mail that comes daily, especially this time of year. Most are from worthwhile organizations doing important work. Picking and choosing those who you want to support can be agonizing. However, one thing is for sure. Come-ons more likely to elicit testy responses is not the way to go.  

The other day I was thinking about The Andy Griffith Show – as you do. In particular, I was pondering an episode where Ralph, the brother of Otis Campbell, the Mayberry town drunk, is coming to pay a visit. Otis is in a tizzy because he believes his brother to be a success, and he is ashamed that Ralph will see what a failure he is. To help Otis out Andy agrees to let him pose as a Deputy while his brother is in town, much to the antic chagrin of Barney.

All seems to being going well until Ralph comes staggering into the Mayberry jail three sheets to the wind. It turns out that he is the town drunk where he lives, and tops off his evenings, like Otis, by letting himself into the jail to sleep it off. In one of the most ironic moments in sitcom history, Otis lectures his brother on proper decorum. Back slaps occur all around, and a lesson seems to have been learned. Until the next episode.

There are numerous avenues to explore arising out of this 22-minute classic. Consider the concept of a town drunk. It appears that every small North Carolina town has one, but only one. No one else wobbles into the jail after a night on the town, just Otis, and apparently Ralph. You know they aren’t the only drinkers. Are they akin to the proverbial scapegoats, taking the alcoholic sins of the community onto their backs? Is this truly a public service?

Before I could answer these sociological queries, I became consumed with what led Otis and Ralph to this vocation. Why did they feel this need to not only drink copious amounts, but to display their inebriation to the world? Otis certainly could have headed home to pass out. It was rare that Barney and Andy went looking for him. He came to them, as did Ralph.

Having been raised on a shallow understanding of Freud, Bettelheim and Erikson, I naturally assumed that childhood trauma had to be the cause. The fact that they are brothers is instructive. I think it is probable that Ralph and Otis’ father was a drinker as well. Like them, he was a big man and when he was in his cups the fists would fly. Their mother wanted to protect the boys but was ineffectual.

As the brothers grew, they began to imitate the only strong role model they had. They too took to drink. They also realized, whether consciously or not, that the only time their father even noticed them was when he was drunk, so they imbibed in public to get the attention they longed for.

Their drinking led to endless trips to the Sherriff’s office in the dry town where they were raised. Oddly enough, it was only there that someone paid heed to them. Maybe it was not loving care, but it was more than they ever found anywhere else. They had located a haven, and a lifelong pattern had set in.

I realized that you could do this backseat dissection with many sitcom characters. They are perfect for analysis. With few exceptions, they are one-dimensional, letting us avoid the nuances involved in the personalities of real human beings. How many of us know that Otis works as a glue dipper, whatever that is? I didn’t and I have seen every episode countless times. He is one thing and one thing only – the town drunk.

Take Buddy Sorrell, Rob Petrie’s co-writer on the Alan Brady show. His nickname was The Human Joke Machine, but how did he become this person for whom jokes were everything? Undoubtedly, he was picked on as a kid for being both small and Jewish. He didn’t even have a Synagogue community to fall back on (he did not have his bar mitzvah until he was adult). Making people laugh was his defense mechanism. It became more than a way to distract his tormentors, it became an obsession. He had to have a joke for every occasion, just to feel safe. Luckily for him he found a professional outlet for his neuroses. Otherwise, he’d be sitting in a Bronx drunk tank, a Northern Otis, trying to make Deputy Barney O’Flaherty laugh.

Sally Rogers, Buddy and Rob’s office mate, provides additional fodder. Why is her whole life focused on corralling a man and getting married? My guess is that she was doted on by her father when she was little. Her mother, however, was cold and distant. It got worse when her parents divorced and her mother blamed Sally. Ever since Sally has been searching for a substitute father figure. This fixation made her unpopular with other girls at Herbert Hoover High, fueling her lifelong inability to make friends with other women (secretly she hates Laura), as well as her caustic wit. Tragically, this same caustic wit has driven away the object of her obsession – a man to marry.   

As I thought about this, I realized that this could be a new parlor game. Players would be assigned a sitcom character and the one that comes up with the best psychological history wins. Extra points could be awarded for creativity, like opining that Otis’ mother became preoccupied with mah jongg as a way to escape her loveless marriage, further isolating Otis and Ralph. It could be called “Bonkers Backstory Bonanza”.

I think I have a winner here. Finally, a justification for all those years in front of the boob tube. Just so someone doesn’t decide to turn the tables on me and ask why I would watch the same sitcom episode so many times that I can remember it in detail 50 years later. But who would want to do that?   

In the wake of Tuesday’s election, I have been getting a lot of messages and poems from proponents of the losing candidate. These messages encourage us to keep our heads up, accept the result, and to look forward to better days. Wonderful sentiments, but, frankly, I am not there and may never be.

My state of mind recalls a scene from one of my favorite movies – Young Frankenstein. The good Doctor has just tried to animate his creation but seems to have failed. He turns to Igor and Inga* and softly says, “Be of good cheer. If science teaches us anything, it teaches us to accept our failures as well as our successes with quiet dignity and grace.” The three look revenantly down for a moment, before Gene Wilder loses it, as only he can, throttling the creature, while screaming “SON OF A BITCH BASTARD. I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?” I can relate.

Don’t worry, I am not going to be one of those pathetic people who wring their hands and whine, “I want my country back.” If anything, this election has brought to the fore what my country is and always has been. The moments when the angels of our better nature seemed to shine through were clearly just chimeras masking hate and paranoia.

I cannot be sanguine about this loss. The Republican reaction to their defeat in 2020 is too fresh in my mind. They lost, as the Democrats have here, but instead of accepting it as anyone would who cares about their country more than naked power, they decided to embrace lies that subverted the democratic foundation of our nation – fair elections.

I expected such behavior from He Who I Would Rather Not Name but was sickened by the sight of supposedly patriotic Republicans merrily jumping on that bandwagon. Many initially acknowledged the loss, but once they saw the political advantage of the lies, they quickly swallowed their courage and repeated what they knew to be untrue. In fact, it became a political litmus test for the faithful – country be damned.

All of this led to the abomination of January 6. More than 100 police officers reported injuries, some significant. All in the name of the party that purports to stand for law and order. Apparently, we should be tough on crime so long as those committing those crimes are not our supporters, or our candidate.

It will be interesting to see how this is swept under the carpet by the new administration. Will the Department of Education be kept around long enough to issue an edict that all be taught that the Great Orange One won the 2020 election and that the January 6 rioters where ANTIFA hoodlums pretending to be his minions? Will the 300 some convicted of participating in that riot be pardoned, and given medals for standing up for “Truth”?  

While this was only one lie, and one easily disabused, once it was repeated and repeated by supposedly intelligent people, it set the tone for an entire campaign. If we need to bash immigrants let’s just make up stories about them eating household pets. If we want to paint the current administration as out of touch and uncaring, let’s falsely claim that they ignored the devastation of Hurricane Helene. If any news organization dares to “fact-check”, let’s vilify them as biased and venal.

Yes, it worked. That does not mean that I can sit back and ignore the genesis of this “triumph”. It is not worthy of acquiescence. The “triumph” is one of cynicism and nihilism.

I have no illusions about the history of this country. I do not think that it was created by moral giants. You cannot embrace slavery and claim that designation. Nor do I think that we are the greatest nation on earth, or somehow a manifestation of God’s will.

I do think that no country was founded upon greater ideals than the United States. As flawed as the founders were, their embrace of concepts like equality, free speech, democratic elections and rule of law stand as pillars of what a nation should be, even if they failed to implement them. These ideals may never be reached, but they should be what we strive and fight for.

This nation has seen movements like Black Power, Women’s Liberation and Gay Rights struggle valiantly for recognition of those left behind. These are the most American of movements, seeking to apply the ideals embedded in our Constitution and other originating documents. They are also the ones most at risk with this election result. The leaders of these movements didn’t prevail by taking defeat with quiet grace and dignity. They faced setbacks by screaming “SON OF A BITCH BASTARD. I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS.”   

I am not sure what to do with this anger. I do not see many avenues to channel it positively. I just know that I intend to hold on to it and see where it leads. I know it will color anything done over the next four years, and I am OK with that. The election result may be valid, but that does not mean that I must accept this administration as legitimate.

So, once again, thank you to all who circulated those constructive, forward-looking, reasonable homilies. I know that they were drafted with the best of intentions. Forgive me if I tore them up and flushed them down the proverbial toilet. I am just not through throttling the monster yet, and hopefully never will be.

*RIP to the immortal Teri Garr

I have experienced many different emotions during Presidential elections – anger, bewilderment, even elation. However, I have never felt bereft – until now. Despite my strong views as to how I would like to see this come out, I cannot help feeling disconnected from the whole process. It’s as if this were happening in a different country that I cared about but was not a part of – like England. Debates about the impact of this or that statement or action by a candidate on their chance of success leave me cold.

I have no doubt that my disaffection is caused by the fact that the rules of engagement have clearly changed. I felt passionate about the outcome of prior elections but viewed them in the context of an ebb and flow of American politics. There were exaggerations and misdirection, but it was all within certain parameters of conduct. Candidates had to be careful not to overstep those parameters or risk, presumably, alienating voters. Those parameters are now gone.

I have developed defense mechanisms to limit witnessing the devolution of the American electoral system. I read only headlines, not articles. I shun conversations about the election as if they were the plague. I watch TV clutching the remote ready to instantly mute any political commercials that airs. While the old Tom Wamser would have reveled in watching a Presidential candidate nominated by a party that has declared war on the LGBTQ+ community swaying arrhythmically to a song praising unfettered gay sex, I now avert my gaze.      

When I look back on my assumptions about the American electorate, I flog myself for my naivete. I knew people were gullible and easily led, but I still harbored some belief that they at least appreciated veracity and at least a pretense of decorum. I was obviously wrong. The myth that a candidate had to “appear Presidential” has been exposed and destroyed.

I also knew that people only engaged with issues at the most visceral level. After all, there had to be some logic behind throwing all that money into ignorant, reductive, meaningless TV ads. Still, I bought into the idea that issues did matter, even if only at a surface level. Silly, silly man. What matters is lashing out at bogeymen created by inane media images and gross generalizations.

All people care about is their side winning. Everything is justifiable if you prevail. The consequences are meaningless. Who cares if we have a country that regards the system as rigged so long as you can use that lie as a hook to secure more support. Any fabrication is appropriate if it results in victory.

I really don’t know what to do with this estrangement from the process. I know how much our lives can be impacted by the outcome of the election, but can’t get by the sense that we have, as an entire country, already lost. The lies and obfuscation will not stop on November 5. I seriously doubt that once that genie is out of the bottle, and it is out, it can be shoved back in.

Sometimes various strands converge to lead me down rabbit holes that are hard to get out of. This happened when I stumbled upon a quote from author Saul Bellow where he allegedly said – he later denied it – “Who is the Tolstoy of the Zulus? The Proust of the Papuans? I‘d be glad to read them.” The quote is cited as a defense of the Western canon of literature, and a comment on the supposed dearth of literary art in the third world. In reply to this quote a writer named Ralph Wiley retorted “Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus.”

The obvious question in considering Bellow’s statement is “Can we dismiss other cultures because they have not produced denizens of the fine arts internationally recognized?”. The answer is, of course, a resounding no. Given the chance, writers such as Chinua Achebe, Ngugi was Thiong’o and Yaa Gyasi have proven they are every bit as talented and profound as their Western counterparts.

But Wiley’s response troubled me as well. Is it true that Zulus can read and appreciate Anna Karinina, or is the cultural gap too wide? Can I fathom the art of a society as different from mine as that of Papua New Guinea? Does my failure to understand their art make it any less important? The authors cited above make clear that many themes are global, but still there are no doubt nuances that are untranslatable.  

As I was pondering this debate, I came across a statement by Neil Gabler in his book, “An Empire of Their Own”, which explores the founding years of Hollywood. While discussing the transition from silents to talkies, he posited, in essence, that film is the most accessible artistic expression and is at its most accessible when a story is told through pictures alone, without the interference of dialogue. As such, silent movies were the ultimate universal art form.  

I have always had a fascination with silent movies, those odd flickering dinosaurs best known for over-expressive acting, outrageous physical comedy and people moving about at a speed that doesn’t look quite human. They seem like a time machine transporting us back to a long-gone age. The aspects that can render them unwatchable for many, I find captivating.

There is no doubt something was lost when the talkies hit the theaters. Silent directors had become masters at conveying plot with image alone. The visual was more than sufficient to convey their intent. To the extent title cards were used, they were supplemental. That simplicity of storytelling was somewhat lost when sound became the norm, as anyone who has had to suffer through a voiceover can tell you. Even today, the best filmmakers understand that a striking image is worth more than 10 minutes of chatter.  

Gabler’s comments sent me down another path, one already partially occupied by the Bellow/Wiley exchange. Were silent films a medium that could be appreciated both in remote Africa and Paris? Could cultural differences be overcome through moving images in a way they could not by other artistic mediums?

There is an argument to be made. Silents eliminate the need to struggle through extensive descriptive prose, find a museum to roam through or differentiate between doric and ionic columns. It is easy to inhale the power of an image. Fritz Lang’s vision of the future in “Metropolis” can be immediately consumed in a way that Issac Asimov’s intricate “Foundation” world cannot. That does not mean it’s better, just that it can reach a wider audience.

However, silents do express a sensibility that reflects the culture which produced them, just as talkies do. “Birth of a Nation” is a uniquely American film, unfortunately. Similarly, the silents of Mikio Naruse and Jasujiro Ozu highlight tensions rooted in Japanese society. To suggest that anyone, anywhere can grasp these films is questionable. Can a rural society that has never even conceived of a robot, let alone struggle with issues of capitalism, get “Metropolis”?

As I internally debated the universality of silent movies, I started reading the book “Radiance” by Catherynne Valente. Valente creates an alternative history in which the Edison family ruthlessly enforces patents on film technology so as to make the production of sound films so expensive that silents continued to reign. Audiences had become so used to silents that they rejected those few films where sound is used. (Note: I cannot recommend Valente’s book, as creative as it is. If you want to read novels on a secret film history, I would suggest “The Book of Illusions” by Paul Auster or “Flicker” by Theodore Roszak).

In Valente’s world, Gabler’s argument is ascendant. Silent films have become an art form that binds not only nations, but worlds (she has space exploration and colonization beginning in the 19th century). While history’s path as laid out by Valente seems unlikely, it is based on some fact. Thomas Edison did try and ruthlessly enforce his motion picture patents in the early 1900’s, until he lost an antitrust suit in 1915. Regardless, I cannot fathom a sole diet of silents.     

Amid this canoodling, I needed to watch a film from the 1920’s for my Criterion Challenge (a topic for another post). I chose the G.W. Pabst film, “Pandora’s Box”, starring Louisa Brooks. Released in 1929, this German production, this story of a femme fatale who leads men to their doom, is considered among the greatest in silent cinema.

“Pandora’s Box” both validated and refuted Gabler’s arguments. The storyline is likely universal (I assume that men everywhere blame women for their failings). The images were sufficiently evocative that the few title cards were almost extraneous. The direction was superb, wonderfully capturing the locales from elegant to seedy. Even the acting was sufficiently understated so as not to convey the characters’ emotions without eliciting laughter.

Yet, lurking in this movie, fairly near the surface, is an antisemitism that is particularly chilling considering the time and country in which the film originated. The lead character, Lulu, is identified as Jewish by a menorah prominently displayed in her apartment. Her “father” – the exact nature of the relationship is unclear – is named Schilogh!!! With that genealogy established she is explicitly compared to the mythical Pandora, who introduced all evil into the world.  

No doubt someone unfamiliar with German history could watch this movie and simply enjoy it as the misogynistic romp it is, assuming you like that kind of thing. However, to fully “appreciate” it, the context is essential. The film would play much different in Tibet than it would in Berlin. (I am sad to say that, based on Letterbox reviews, and the Wikipedia article on this film, its problematic nature goes by most Americans as well).

Not surprisingly all this pondering has led nowhere. The questions remain unanswered. That may be for the best. We cannot avoid the culture that shaped us, but we can also open ourselves up to other cultures as well, even if the understanding is not exact. No one art form can fully bridge that gap, but, if it’s well done, each can bring to the table a universality that can open up worlds. That’s enough for me.   

We all love a good scam. Whether it’s reading about hustles like the Abscam entrapment or the Madoff Ponzi scheme or watching movies like Catch Me if You Can or The Sting, we enjoy the intricacies of plans that take others for a ride. Heaven forbid, however, it happens to us.

The most recent grand hoax was a doozy, and almost resulted in the sale of Elvis’ Graceland. Subsequent to the 2023 death of Elvis’ daughter, Lisa Marie Presley, “Naussany Investments” went into court claiming that Ms. Presley had borrowed $3.8M and put Graceland up as collateral. Naussany submitted loan documents and Deeds of Trust purportedly signed by Presley to support their claim.

A foreclosure sale was actually scheduled for May. It was only then that attorneys for Presley’s granddaughter went to court to stop the charade. The sale was blocked, and various law enforcement agencies got involved.

The scheme was uncovered as the brainchild of a Lisa Jannine Findley. Findley not only created a non-existent corporation, but numerous personas to support her claim. She reportedly has a history which includes romance scams, forged checks, and bank fraud. When confronted she apparently tried to blame that ever convenient group of scam professionals – Nigerian identity thieves.

The audacity of this scheme is breathtaking. Usually scams are done behind the scenes, in private face-to-face meetings or over the phone, and involve things of interest only to the scamee, like money. This one not only required the sanction of a court but involved one of the most famous buildings in the United States. It was bound to create significant publicity. You have to be impressed by the cajónes necessary to even try and pull this off.

In many ways that audacity was key to this ploy, and its attraction. Who would have thought someone would really try something this outrageous. You can’t blame the Court and Presley family for their initial acceptance of the documents produced. Yet, Findley had to know that sooner rather than later many people – lawyers, reporters – were going to pick the scheme to shreds. Maybe she thought she could get the foreclosure through quickly and disappear with the money. Maybe she just has more hubris than the average bear.

Most scams are not as intricate as this one, which is probably why many succeed where this one failed. We know how easy it is for people to be hoaxed by complete strangers who either promise the moon and stars or present some heartbreak story that would make even baseball players cry. The idea is to get the money fast and melt into the sunset.

I am not sure why humans are so susceptible to these ploys. It would seem that evolution would have honed our radar to look out for gifts falling from heaven, or sob-stories with no support. Wasn’t it beat into the heads of our ancestors that if Kronk in the cave next door told us that there was mammoth meat just sitting out on the veld waiting to be taken something was radically wrong? Did they just fall for the mammoth meat trick time and again, only to return to find their cave stripped of their best flint tools?

Why didn’t we learn that there are certain people out there that can render a story so convincingly they can have us signing over our first-born child? Has the narrative always been so enrapturing that it’s worth the price of whatever we give up, at least until we that time when we cry out “Eine moment, Bitte”? By that time the storyteller has generally flown the coop.

In some ways our gullibility reflects well on humanity. We tend toward trust and compassion, which makes us a target for those who would abuse that trust. We want to think that we are tough, but in reality we are marshmallows constantly on the precipice of believing whatever some silver-tongued shyster has to offer.

We also are eternal optimists. When a treasure trove appears to be dropping from the sky we hesitate, but then say, “why not?”. Why can’t it be me who strikes it rich through sheer luck? Why can’t I be as fortunate as all those rich jerks who are wealthy solely because of the family they were born into?

At the same time, we believe that we are better than that. We won’t fall for the tricks thrown at us. We aren’t going to respond to an email from a Nigerian Prince needing a few thousand dollars before they can transfer their massive wealth to us. We aren’t going to send money to a stranger to bail our grandchild out of jail.

Conversely, we think that those taken in by schemes are sad sack dolts who just couldn’t see the obvious. But when you read about the people involved, they are just normal folk. Yes, they made bad decisions. Maybe they let their greed get ahead of them. Maybe they thought with their heart and not with their head. But they aren’t that different from the rest of us.

I know that I am susceptible. While I have never been scammed, I have been tempted. Once Julie and I went to one of those Buyer Clubs. It was all hush, hush. Everyone there was talked to individually, and we were not allowed to ask questions before the entire group. Still, I was intrigued by their sales pitch. That was until Julie pointed out that their selection was very limited, and we were locked into what they had without seeing it. They wouldn’t even show us their prices until we joined. That’s when we walked out.

Knowing my predilections keeps my guard up. More important is to have someone to sanity check what seems attractive in the moment. A minimal explanation is generally needed to burst the bubble and see the scheme for what it is. Once that happens, we can just retreat to our own version of the Jungle Room and rewatch Paul T. Goldman.

*Sorry for my recent silence. I was having technical difficulties, which hopefully have now been resolved. I hope to get back to regular posts.