Category: Uncategorized

I did it. For the first time since seeing Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights on Tuesday, March 10, 2020 at the Ambler Theater, I went into a movie house to see a film. Appropriately, it was a classic, the 1940 screwball comedy, His Girl Friday, with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Also, appropriately, I saw it at the HiWay Theater, a Main Street independent movie house in the grand tradition of old time Hollywood.  

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The movie did not disappoint, even though I had seen it countless times. The fast-paced dialogue. The spot-on performances by the stars. The great character actors filling out the supporting roles. I knew what was coming and I still laughed out loud. Even though there were very few people in the theater (basically the five of us who went together, and one other couple) it was still wonderful to be sitting in the dark, laughing with those around me. 

Someone asked me if I had ever seen this movie in a theater before, and it really sent me on a nostalgic trip of the venues that I have loved. It’s unlikely I ever saw it in a theater while growing up in Bethlehem. There were no theaters there that showed old movies that I knew of, though I do remember going to a Marx Brothers double feature at a local multi-plex (At the Circus and A Night at the Opera) where I literally (and I do mean literally) fell out of my seat I was laughing so hard (the stateroom scene). 

Maybe it was at the theater in the student union at the University of South Carolina. They showed a different movie every night, either a foreign art film (that was where I discovered Bergman and Truffaut) or old Hollywood. Weekends were recently released films for $1.00. I certainly saw enough movies there, especially during my first two years when I lived in the dorms. I know that is where I first saw Monty Python and the Holy Grail (the second time I literally fell out of my seat with laughter) and Rocky Horror Picture Show (before we started throwing things at the screen). 

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Or could it have been the Pittsburgh Playhouse, which was two blocks from where I lived my first year of Law School? This is something they definitely would have shown. It was where I saw Casablanca, and A Clockwork Orange (Singing in the Rain has never been the same). A couple years ago, I snuck into the Playhouse building, which was being used by the University for film studies. It looked totally different, but I was still so glad to visit it once again. I read that since then they tore it down (Noooooo!!!!!)

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There is no doubt that His Girl Friday would have been part of a double-feature at the TLA on South Street when I first moved to Philly (now its just music). Probably paired with screwball comedies like Bringing up Baby or My Man Godfrey. I would have been sitting towards the front on the left-hand side. I’ve been back for concerts at the TLA since, and by instinct gravitate to that spot. 

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If I hadn’t seen it at any of those theaters, I would have probably seen it as part of the Summer Nights series at the Ambler Theater once I moved out to the burbs. That series was big on James Bond films, and I know I saw the Godfather there, but there was plenty of old Tinsel Town masterpieces as well. I loved going there with my kids to see these films.

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What does it say about me that some of the places I remember best in every city I lived are movie houses? They’re all of a style. Small, independent, willing to go beyond the most recent blockbuster. I can still feel the sensation of walking into these venues and seeing the big screen waiting to be lit up. Sinking into a well-worn seat and anxiously anticipating the dimming of the lights. There is nothing like it. 

I was once accused of never having seen a movie I didn’t like. With very few exceptions (don’t get me started on Happy Feet or No Country for Old Men) I stand guilty as charged!!!!!  

Have you always wanted an ocean view? If so, Psychic Nikki has good news for you. By the end of 2021 cities will begin to form underwater. You can indulge your love of the sea to the fullest extent possible. Of course, this does put an entire new level of peril to the phrase, “We sprung a leak.” 

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Underwater cities may be our only refuge in light of Nikki’s prediction that penguins will be invading a metropolis near you. If underwater living doesn’t excite you, and you aren’t thrilled at having penguins for neighbors (and who is), you could sign up for the inevitable expedition to track the giant gorilla that will be found on a remote island sometime this year. Though I would caution you, such expeditions have not always worked out so well. 

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Looking at psychic predictions for the year ahead is one life’s great guilty pleasures. Publication of the annual prediction issue of the Weekly World News creates one of the few times that I don’t mind standing in line at the grocery store, though I do get some odd looks when I keep letting people go ahead of me. After all, who can resist knowing what Bat Boy has planned next. (To my conservative friends, no, Joe Biden is not Bat Boy).  

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 There have been other recent, more serious predictions, for the years ahead. According to a recent New York Times article world demographers are predicting that the global population is expected to reach its peak by mid-Century, and then decline precipitously from there. China’s population is slated to fall from its current 1.4 billion to 730 million by 2100. The vast majority of countries will have fertility rates below replacement level by that time, including the good ole U.S of A.  

For those of us who grew up in the wake of the Population Bomb this is a real shocker. Through the 1970’s and 1980’s the prediction was that the global population would continue to grow exponentially until we found ourselves in a Malthusian nightmare where resources were scarce, leading to a Darwinian struggle for existence. (Sorry, I just couldn’t resist using some of the academic speak of the time). Since the global population increased from 1.6 billion in 1900 to 6 billion in 2000 this seemed not only possible, but inevitable. 

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If the decline in population comes to pass, it will not necessarily be good or bad, it will just mean that there will be significant changes in how we live. Countries will have to allocate their resources to account for an older mean population (mean, as in as in average, not temperament, though we know how cantankerous old people can be). People may have to work longer (heaven forbid!!). However, there could be less strain on the environment and natural resources (though let’s not forget we will still be the same voracious species we have always been).   

The seeming fact that the prior predictions about population are not playing out as expected does not mean that those predications were frivolous. They were soundly based on realities at the time, but did not, and could not, take into account subsequent shifts in societal norms, such as the significantly higher number of women in the workforce, and the increase in the cost of living, both of which have acted to reduce the number of children being born. The prognosticators also could not foresee China’s one child policy, and its far-reaching impact.  

We also should not discount the influence such predictions had on the world’s view of population, regardless of whether they were ultimately accurate. Such concerns may have driven misguided policies, such as China’s, but they also made us ask hard questions about resource use and allocation. They sparked a critical examination of how humans are tied closely to the well-bring of the planet, which dovetailed into a broader environmental movement, and today’s concerns about climate change.   

The difficulty in predicting exactly how issues like population and climate change will play out over decades has led many to wholly dismiss these concerns as chimerical. I have seen a number of recent articles scoffing at predictions made around the first Earth Day in 1970, many of which were apocalyptic and contradictory, as a means of dismissing the concerns of climate scientists today. But that is missing the point. 

There is a general consensus, at least within the scientific community, that there has been a significant shift in the earth’s atmosphere, with the vast majority of scientists believing the shift has been caused by the activities of mankind. There is also a general consensus that this shift could result in extremely serious consequences over the next 50 years if it is not slowed down significantly or reversed. However, scientists differ as to the exact nature of those consequences, opening the door to those who want to scoff at these predictions, and thereby dismiss the problem. 

The truth of the matter is that most of the scientists’ predictions will probably not come true as stated. I don’t mean to get all Professor Malcolm on you (or Werner Heisenberg if you prefer), but there are just too many variables and unknowns to accurately predict exactly what will happen a year from now, let alone 50 years from now (unless, of course, you are the reincarnation of Nostradamus).  

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Even if we accept that the current estimates of future harm are likely to change, it would be ludicrous to ignore the scientists’ warnings. The predictions are based on what is happening to the Earth today. The planet is warming. The ice caps are melting. The makeup of the atmosphere is changing, and not for the better. And while the planet has had similar climactic shifts before, they have never occurred in as short a time span. These are facts, and they must be dealt with. 

So, while we are contemplating the coming fire that will destroy Graceland, or wondering which movie star will be eaten by a crocodile (my money is on Shia LaBeouf), let’s not conflate scientific predictions with psychic prognostications. The hit rate may be similar (after all, Psychic Nikki was right in predicting that there would be flooding in Venice in 2020), but the basis of the predictions, and the consequences for ignoring them could not be more different.  

Last week I thought that I would write a blog post on India as soon as I finished the one I was writing on WWI (which I struggled with). After all, India was all over the news because of its COVID crisis, and I have always been captivated by the country. Its culture. It’s history. Its religions. It was very distressing to see this wonderful, crazy, beautiful, outrageous country go through a very predictable, yet horrific health emergency. 

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However, by the time I turned my attention to this new post I had to search through the New York Times to find out what was currently going on in India. Did the crisis end as soon as it began? Were the 1.4 billion citizens of India vaccinated overnight? Did I just dream it all? The answer to each of those questions in no (though I have been having some weird dreams lately). India is still getting about 300,000 new cases a day, and suffering through over 4,000 daily deaths. The emergency has not moved on, but we have. 

Of course, there was reason to move on. The Israeli Palestinian conflict had flared up again. Palestinian rockets. Israeli airstrikes. So many questions about the cause and nature of the Palestinian attacks, and the scope of the Israeli response. On the one hand this seems like a never-ending story, and, yet, on the other hand, there is no doubt that it too will retreat to the back pages now that a ceasefire has been agreed to and, hopefully, we have a period of relative calm (relative being the operative word). 

We consider ourselves the most informed people in the history of the world. After all, the daily goings on globally are at our fingertips. We are immediately informed of a coup in Myanmar, or China landing on Mars (and probably claiming it as a historic territory of the Ming dynasty), not to mention the myriad insanities around the United States, from a police shooting in Elizabeth City, North Carolina to Representative Chaney being cancelled by the GOP (pardon me if I don’t shed tears for Liz).  And yet I wonder.  

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The more I try and pay attention to what is going on in the world, the more I am convinced that I know very little. I feel like Jon Snow in Game of Thrones. As much as I think I may be aware of the forces at play, I cannot escape the taunts of that voice which says “You know nothing Tom Wamser”. (I just learned Ygritte and Jon are a couple in real life. It warmed the cockles of my heart!! Though don’t ask me why they got married in a cemetery).

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There is no doubt that we hear more of what’s going on than at any time in human history, and we hear about it in as close to real time as possible. But the truth is that I don’t have the time, or, admittedly, the inclination, to delve deeply into any one news item, and I doubt if many people do. Plus, I am just as susceptible as anyone else to forgetting the important story of yesterday as soon as I am presented with the crucial news story of today. In many ways it seems that more news is less news. 

I think that this information overload is one reason blind loyalty to certain news channels is prevalent. It is a pragmatic way to filter what is going on. Let someone you trust decide which of the myriad of stories is worth your attention. The trouble, of course, is that you are then beholden not only to their view of what is important, but also the slant put on the news you do hear. Consistency can be reassuring, but it’s rarely enlightening. 

If you are ambitious, you can try and take in a variety of sources, with multiple viewpoints. Yeah, right. And you can also write the great American novel, or discover the secret of cold fusion in your spare time. There are too many stories, too many slants, too many people willing to craft any narrative to achieve their own ends.  

Sometimes I fear that I am caught in the Pink Floyd approach to the news. Every now and then something happens that acts as a pinprick to wake me from my stupor, whether it be renewed violence in Syria, or the Supreme Court confronting Roe v Wade. I read a few articles in my favorite sources, catch a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. Then I turn to look and it’s gone. Once again, I have become comfortably numb.  

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I must admit that I see little way around this dilemma. There is too much in life to bury oneself in every news story. More importantly, even if I could I am not sure that it would be worth doing so. News items come and go, and usually it takes time to truly evaluate what is important and what is a blip (Will this health crisis in India abate, or is it a harbinger of larger societal issues? Will this current conflict between Israelis and Palestinians lead to any change in the status quo?). Often it makes more sense to read some history to gain context than to focus on the ins and outs of today’s headlines. 

I guess I will just continue to gather what surface knowledge I can about what is happening in the world, and wait for those occasional pinpricks of importance to delve deeper. Like the bombshell dropped by Luis Elizondo, former Department of Defense intelligence officer, backed by Harry Reid (who is looking a bit like an alien himself these days), that there are UFOs and they have been officially documented by our government. Now that is a story worth pursuing. I want to believe!!!!  

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In the summer after Law School my friend Mike and I spent a month wandering around Europe. One of the stops we made, at Mike’s urging, was Verdun. I probably would not have considered stopping there if he hadn’t suggested it. Battlefields are interesting to a certain extent, but I had never been to Europe before and there was so much to see. However, that stop started an obsession that continues to this day. 

Verdun just knocked me out. There was the sea of French graves, all of unknown soldiers. There were markers showing where villages had been before the war, but were no more. There was the town itself, which had been destroyed in 1870, 1914 and 1940. More than anything else, however, there was the pervasive sense of insanity. In the four years this area was contested, the front moved a less than ½ a football field at the cost of hundreds of thousands of lives. Oy vey!!  

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World War I has largely faded from memory in the United States. It just doesn’t have the pizzaz of World War II. Our involvement was much shorter. We weren’t directly attacked. The venality of the enemy was not as obvious. It wasn’t fought by the “Greatest Generation” (whatever that means). Plus, and maybe most importantly, WWII played much better in the movies.   

Hollywood churned out a seemingly endless string of compelling, taut dramas covering all aspects of WWII, both during the war and after, that deftly combined a sympathetic view of the men (and occasionally of the women) fighting, tales of personal heroism, and a sense of the global conflict. Hollywood also had a ready-made bad guy in the Nazis, that it could fully exploit. In some way, albeit through tinted glasses, the home front lived this war with the soldiers.  

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The movie business was in its infancy during WWI, and not in a position to dramatize the war. It was left to writers to try and bring to life the reality of WWI to the American people. That wasn’t possible during the war because of censorship. Plus, Americans did not really experience the reality of the trenches the way the Europeans did.  

For Europeans WWI was much more immediate. From the euphoria of August 1914, through the grind of four years of unrelenting warfare, to an unstable peace. The endless clamor of the artillery. The self-defeating lunacy of gas attacks. The desolation of no-mans-land. For much of the war, on the Western front at least, the two sides were sitting a soccer pitch away from each other. Battles were an exercise in mass slaughter (British forces suffered more than 57,000 casualties—including more than 19,000 soldiers killed—on the first day of the five-month Somme offensive alone). Between battles was the looming possibility of sudden death through snipers, shelling, or small raids, all while living like moles.        

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But WWI also embraces an incredible heroism. I cannot envision what it took to clamor over a rampart and run full tilt across a muddy field through a hail of machine gun fire as your mates fell all around you. Or to volunteer as a nurse in a field hospital close to the line, facing a never-ending stream of wounded and dying, all looking for help. Incredibly, the memoirs make clear that even those who left with injuries were inexorably drawn back to the front, as if by a psychological magnet.  

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The war was integrated into the European home front as well. After all, the war was right on the doorstep, even for the Brits. The Somme battlefield was only 150 miles from London, approximately the same distance as between Abington, where I live, and Washington, D.C. Those on the coast of England could hear the guns. More importantly, soldiers could come home on a regular basis, either for leave or because they had been injured, constantly reminding those left behind of the nightmare in France, even if they couldn’t really understand it.   

After the war, writers like Erich Maria Remarque, Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon, Henri Barbusse and Ford Madox Ford (what a great name!!) took readers into the trenches, depicting the war from the perspective of the individual soldier. Grand strategies were less important than the experience on the front line. More than that, the WWI writers expressed the absurdity of war in a way that had never been done before, forever changing our view of war generally. You can’t read Robert Graves “Goodbye to All That” (which I recently did prompting this post), or Erich Maria Remarque’s “All Quiet on the Western Front”, without wondering what the point of all this was. 

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When the movies caught up, they were generally as cynical as the literature. The film version of “All Quiet at the Western Front”, “Paths of Glory” and “Grand Illusion” painted a grim picture of the conflict, and through that of war in general. (There were exceptions, like Wings and Sargeant York, both quintessentially American movies). War was not something to be celebrated, but a vehicle to look at the absurdity of man.     

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Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to WWI. It strikes me as the turning point in our view of the rationality of humans. Before the conflict people could believe that we Sapiens were inexorably moving forward to a better world. Progress was inevitable. War was a positive, necessary test of the metal of a nation. Afterwards, that just wasn’t possible. The modern became the postmodern. Truth was up for grabs. 

I admit that’s overly dramatic. The world does not turn on a dime that neatly. Plus, of course, it’s a very Western-centric view of history, which I find hard to escape. Yet I can’t envision anything like Picasso’s “Guernica”, Ginsberg’s “Howl”, Godard’s “Alphaville” or Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse 5” without WWI, and the literature that followed. 

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I continue to find in WWI an endless treasure trove of mass psychology, delusional judgment, individual bravery, disconnected leadership, and so much more. It remains, for me, a touchstone for the era we live in. A fascinating fulcrum when things could have gone differently, were it not for notions like national honor and the glorification of power. A trove of lessons that I am afraid we still have not learned.   

Why do a blog if you don’t take chances, reveal uncomfortable truths, risk losing your readers? Sometimes you have to go out on a limb and make confessions that may shock, may hurt, may alienate. Now is one of those times, so here goes. 

In my youth, I smoked marijuana. There, I got it out. And while I’m being brutally honest, I have to admit that there was nothing medical about it. I smoked marijuana purely because I liked how it affected me. I liked the sense of floating through the world. I liked that everything seemed a lot funnier. I even liked that it gave me the superhuman ability to eat an entire package of double-stuffed Oreos in one sitting. Let the judging begin.  

I have chosen this time to make my confession, and risk the pounding on the door in the middle of the night, because marijuana has been coopted by big business and it irks me. Why should all of those law-and-order zealots who spent years screaming about life terms for anyone caught with an ounce of weed profit now? And yet this is undoubtedly who is investing heavily in ganja, and pushing for its full legalization. It’s just not right.  

It’s especially irksome because it has been clear for the last 30 years that the drug laws have been both unfairly administered and obsolete. While all studies showed that drug use was just as prevalent for white people as for people of color, an inordinate proportion of those imprisoned for drug violations were African-Americans and Latinos. I would refer anyone interested in this disturbing history to read The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, by Michelle Alexander.  

Here is what I propose to remedy this historic wrong. We should identify all of those people who were arrested and convicted of the illegal sale and distribution of marijuana over the last 30 years and provide them with the seed money (pun intended) to begin their own legal Bhang business. My guess is that the initial reaction from most of you will be, “Oh no, another government giveaway”, but hear me out. I think grass roots generosity (another pun) would be beneficial for all. 

I contend that there is no one better positioned to crush the Maryjane market than those who have already shown the skills needed to master it. Let’s consider what it took to be a successful  reefer retailer.  

First of all, you had to establish reliable sourcing. Where were you going to get the hemp to hawk? Who could guarantee the steady flow of sinsemilla to assure success? These are difficult decisions that had to be made under adverse business conditions, like the potential for jail. 

Next the wannabe tea tycoon had to create a system of distribution. How could he or she establish their dope domain? Advertising was key. It had to be surreptitious, yet effective. Did it make sense to give out free samples/ have buy one, get one ½ off, sales events? A business strategy was essential. 

Administrative and employment options also had to be weighed. Do you want to keep staff small, or become a franchisor, with all the headaches that entails? How quickly should you grow your business? Can your supply keep up with the demand you are developing?  

Then there is pot pricing. What is the appropriate profit margin between cost and reefer rates? Are there Acapulco Gold adversaries, ready to underprice to increase market share? Does it make sense to keep prices affordable to attract new Panama Red purchasers, or should you highlight the most excellent nature of your product by charging a premium? 

What about quality control issues? This wad of weed may not be as good as the last. If you let potency lag, customers will look elsewhere. How do you assure heady hash time and time again? If quality begins to lag, do you look for a new supplier to assure dependable doobies?   

Finally, there is always accounting. How do you guarantee enough cash flow to purchase resalable reefer, keeping both suppliers and customers happy? On top of that you need to look like the well-established businessperson you are, which means that enough has to be made to finance personal grooming commensurate with your position in the community. Not a easy task. 

The productive pot producer had to exhibit all of these well-established business skills. Any flaws in the distribution chain could result in serious consequences. It is not easy to operate in that high-pressure, dog-eat-dog business environment, yet these Loco-Weed lords managed to do so, and we should acknowledge and take advantage of that expertise.      

You might argue that a flaw in this proposal is that we are funding the failures. Those who couldn’t establish the long term profitability we want to see. In other words, those who were caught. However, is one failure a criteria for cannibas cancellation? I think not. After all, apparently you can have as many as six business bankruptcies in this country and still be considered a successful entrepreneur.   

So you see, this proposal is hash heaven for everyone. Otherwise marginalized people are established in a business they know well, and for which they have the proven tools to succeed. The rest of us benefit from the roach revenue generated by a tax on their profits (estimated as up to 420 Million). It’s another marijuana miracle!!!!     

*With apologies to Jonathan Swift 

*Also, a shout out to Nathan McCall for his excellent memoir, Makes Me Wanna Holler, which put this idea in my head in the first place 

Are you ready to talk some football? It’s that time again. Time for the eagerly anticipated, truly splendiferous, awesomely breathtaking NFL draft, when fans gather to listen to a gaggle of has-beens and never-weres pontificate endlessly about what a bunch of 19-year-olds will do six months from now when they finally get on a football field. Millions hold their breath as a middle-aged administrator walks onto stage to read a name. This could be the one. The savior who will lead us to Super Bowl glory (once Tom Brady finally retires). Be still my beating heart. 

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It is hard to overstate the hysteria that surrounds this annual jamboree. Last year over 55 million people tuned in to listen to Mel Kiper, Jr. and his team of troglodytes go on and on about the virtues and short-comings of a herd of acne-scarred behemoths who may, but probably will not, change the course of football history. That blows the World Series, the Oscars and the Presidential debates out of the water (not that I can argue with the viewer’s choice on the debates).  

I follow the picks on the internet on draft day, and tune in, if I’m not doing anything else, to see how the Eagles will throw away their first-round pick this year (remember Danny Watkins, Marcus Smith and Freddie Mitchell?). But as much of a football fan as I am, I cannot listen to 4 hours of a testosterone filled bitch fest with no games on the horizon, let alone bury myself in the three-day marathon that encompasses all seven rounds. There has to be a limit somewhere.  

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All that being said, you have to give Kiper and the Kipettes credit. They have an incredible amount of time to fill and have amassed an endless supply of meaningless statistics to do so. For instance, did you know that Zeplin Stankowitz of Hamburger U. led the Condiment League in balls batted back in the QB’s face (3), can bench squat a full-grown gnu, and credits his grandmother, who raised him in a chicken coop, for his success, making him a perfect fit for the Arizona Cardinals? Or that Orville Schicklgruber of the Maharishi University of Management ran a 3.8 40 after someone hit him in a sensitive spot during a fumble recovery, can chug 5 beers in 30 seconds, and credits his great Aunt, who once played for the Minnesota Vixens, for his success, making him a must for the Jacksonville Jaguars? 

The absence of a live audience again this year will make the 2021 “event” even more monotonous. Frankly, the most entertaining part of the spectacle is watching the crowd react to a bad pick. The shellshocked look on the team representative’s face as the boos rain down is priceless. That was why Philadelphia was the perfect city to host the draft in 2019. Our teams may stink, but we know how to boo!!!  

I must confess that I once went to an NBA draft party thrown by the Sixers with my friends Jon and Dawson. The crowd wanted the Sixers to draft Vlade Divac, even though none of us had ever seen this Serbian play, continuously chanting his melodic, vampiric name (Vlade, Vlade!!). When the Sixers chose Kenny Payne instead, we all booed (of course), until a Sixer rep came out and tearfully assured us that Payne would be a superstar. It turned out that the crowd was right. Divac was an outstanding player for many years, and Payne a bum from day one. By the way, the Sixers never hosted a draft party again after that. I wonder why. 

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I really shouldn’t complain about the draft, or sports generally. For many of us sports remains the easiest conversation starter, and one of the least fraught with pitfalls. It is one of the few things that people with strong opinions can talk about in this crazy world and still (generally) avoid screaming at each other. Plus it is fun to endlessly speculate on what might be before being hit in the face with reality (Unless you happen to be from Tampa – curse you Alfarone). Still, the religious fervor is hard to take.    

I sincerely hope that I have not rained on anyone’s parade. If you want to sit through this annual gathering of the football clans, have at it. I will undoubtedly turn it on for the Eagles pick, unless it’s opposite the episode of Love Boat where Doc falls off the boat while giving rhumba lessons. Julie and Gopher commandeer a dinghy to go look for him while Isaac plots to take over Doc’s spacious cabin. Captain Stubing turns the ship around, putting his job in jeopardy, only to find the three of them safe and sound drinking Mai Tais with Mr. Roarke and Tattoo on Fantasy Island. Phyllis Diller and Robert Goulet guest star.   

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Julie and I recently travelled to Pittsburgh to see Cal and get away for a bit (You remember travel, don’t you? Leaving your home and going somewhere else?). While we were there, we went to the Mattress Factory, a contemporary art gallery. It sparked my ambivalence about modern art, and, frankly, representational art in general. I want to get it – to understand what the artist is conveying – but no matter how close I seem to get to grasping intent, it always seems to elude me. It’s frustrating. 

Take the installation Surmatants, Mars Rising, by Andrea Stansilav. After walking through a room featuring an upside-down white horse, and whirling curtains reminiscent of a Twin Peaks set, you come to a triple movie screen showing traditionally clad dancers whirling about in front of a derelict industrial building. A beautiful, highly ornamented woman on a white horse (death?) rides slowly into the circle and all of the dancers fall down, as if they were playing ring-around-the-rosy. It was unbelievably striking.

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 Striking, yes, but what was the artist trying to tell us? It is advertised as “an elegiacally [serious reflecting for those, like me, who would have had to look that word up in the dictionary] visceral response to the COVID-19 pandemic in three acts”. Really? My best guess was a commentary on the way in which heavy industry gobbled up immigrant workers, but what do I know.  

Or take the mind-boggling Museum of All Things. This was a room rendered by Jennifer Angus which featured thousands of mounted bugs. Some created a macabre wallpaper. Some were in bell jars and narrow display drawers, where the bugs were doing all kinds of things, like reading books or holding court. In the middle was a dining room table with various stuffed creatures and more bugs enjoying an elegant meal. All quite jaw-droppingly, wonderfully, bizarre.  

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There didn’t seem to be a deeper message here, or, at least I couldn’t discern any. I think that we were supposed to just stand back in awe that someone would so painstakingly create this incredible alternative universe. And it worked. I was in awe, even though there was so much there I doubt if I took in even 1/3 of the exhibit. 

I’ve had this same reaction in conventional art museums. I stand before an acknowledged masterpiece, and, being the pretentious, intellectual wanna-be that I am, I want so badly to grasp the symbolism, analyze the brush strokes, and place the work in its historical context. Instead, my depth of analysis is usually something akin to “Me like pretty picture”.  

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I have even recently had this experience while reading. I just finished George Saunders terrific “A Swim in the Pond in the Rain”, where he has us read seven 19^th Century Russian short stories, and then after each dissects them the way that you would in a Masters level creative writing course. It was exhilarating to follow his course of thought, which brought these stories to life with great insight and humor. But it was also humbling to realize how much I missed in each of these stories, and how often I failed to grasp what was, in retrospect, the most basic points. 

And yet, about 2/3 through this book, a light came on. Wait a minute (I thought), this guy is a professional writer, who teaches writing, and has not only read these stories 50 times, but has also had numerous discussions about them with graduate students and other professionals year after year. Of course he is going to be able to miles deeper than I could possibly go in one quick read. 

The same is true for representational art. People don’t just go into their basements and throw this stuff together. They study what others have done. They consider the symbolism they are invoking. They go through trial and error to get what they want. And those that curate these exhibits have spent hours and hours honing their craft, taste and sensibilities so that they can evaluate what they are considering and separate the wheat from the chaff.  

So why should I feel bad about my inability to fully understand what these artists are doing?  Can any of them dissect a reinsurance contract? (Of course, why would they? In fact, as I occasionally asked myself in the 20 years that I did reinsurance, why would anyone in their right mind do so? Then I would think of Mark Megaw’s inspirational speech about how reinsurance made the commercial world go round and feel better about myself, for at least 10 minutes or so).             

There is no reason for any of us to believe that we can truly grasp what artists are trying to do. However, there is also no reason that we shouldn’t interact with what we see and get out of it what we can. Maybe it will be something the artist never considered (I still think that Surmatants, Mars Rising, works better as a commentary on the immigrant experience in the steel industry than it does as a COVID-19 response). Maybe it will be nothing more than “That’s cool” or, “That’s silly”. It really doesn’t matter. It’s still worth the interaction. 

Despite my frustration and ambivalence, I will continue to go to these galleries whenever I can. I will take in what I see and occasionally be transported to another world, like I was by the Museum of All Things, even if I can’t figure out why I am there. I will revel in the creativity of people whose imagination dwarfs mine. We all need something to take us out of the “real world” and art does it as well as it can be done.    

The 2021 World Happiness Report is out. I am sure you, like me, have been waiting with bated breath to find out whether we are ecstatically happy, marginally happy, in a bit of a funk, or in full Oscar the Grouch mode (actual happiness categories, in case you were wondering). It turns out we are somewhere between ecstatically happy and marginally happy (pretty darn happy?). More importantly, we are just as happy as we were last year, supposedly a testament to our resiliency.  

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Researchers produce this annual bacchanal, by taking a poll in 95 countries, asking people to rate their current life satisfaction on scale of 1 to 10, with the highest rating being “the best possible life for you”. In this latest poll 58% of Americans rated their current life satisfaction at 7 or above, and approximately 67% said that they expected their life satisfaction to be an 8 or above within the next five years. That ranks us 18^th in the world, between Germany and the Czech Republic. (U.S.A., U.S.A.).    

I am not sure what to make of this. As we all know from the 2016 and 2020 elections, we can’t trust polls. Unless those polls support my point of view, and then they accurately reflect that most people agree with me. It would be easy to just dismiss this poll as another goofy survey.  (Did you know that 43% of Republicans said Olive Garden is a “quality source of authentic ethnic food”, and 41% of Democrats agree, showing how highly we all rate on the delusion scale?). However, if we take this poll at face value, what does it tell us? 

We spent the last four years being told by pundits that the United States is a nation of angry, frustrated, scared people, who think that this country is going to hell in a handbasket (I love that phrase). Is that wrong? A media invention? Are the majority of Americans Pollyannas, who think that the grass is growing just fine, and that it will get even greener soon (they obviously have not seen my lawn!!). Are we just heedless optimists ignoring the death and devastation around us (to be overly dramatic)? And how could this view of life possibly survive the pandemic? 

Actually, I think both, admittedly exaggerated opinions, can be held at the same time. The truth of the matter is that the vast majority of Americans are doing pretty well. We have become jaded to the extent of our wealth in this country, but when we sit back and reflect, it’s downright amazing. We abound in food, fresh water and secure shelter. The vast majority of us are gainfully employed. We have gotten to the point where expensive technical marvels, like cars, cell phones and computers, are not only commonplace, they are necessities. And we have the free time to indulge in things like writing silly blogs.   

With that abundance, maybe it’s not so surprising that people in this country, reflecting on their individual status, are bullish on the days ahead. Most people do not have have realistic fears that scarcity is right around the corner. They live their lives getting pretty much what they want, when they want, and more. Why shouldn’t they say “Yes, I am happy”? 

At the same time, when we look out of our bubble, life doesn’t appear so rosy. We know that there are too many people who live paycheck to paycheck, such that any unexpected expense could be a disaster. We know that our healthcare system could bankrupt anyone caught in a long-term illness. We know that violence potentially lurks around every corner (or in the next aisle). We know that for many systemic discrimination limits options. We know that major, seemingly insoluble, potential catastrophes await us, such as climate change.  

Plus, we live in a society that promotes fear. Our politicians tell us that our way of life is in jeopardy as a means to get elected, using fear of the criminal, the immigrant or the “socialist” (they’re all the same, aren’t they?). Our news sources distort any event with little regard for facts to enhance ratings. Our religious leaders tell us again and again how decadent and depraved we are as a society, and how our rejection of traditional values is leading us toward hedonistic chaos. How can anyone be happy with all of that baggage?  

Maybe what this poll really tells us is how open to suggestion we can be. Faced with the question of whether we are happy, we think of all the good things in our life, add them up, and say “Yes, I’m pretty happy”. However, if we ran an Unhappiness Report and asked people to rate their current dissatisfaction on a scale of 1 to 10, we would probably get the exact same numbers, in reverse. People would think of everything that’s wrong and say, “I’m pretty dissatisfied, and expect to be even more dissatisfied over the next five years”. 

I also don’t think that this poll tells us much about our resiliency. The last year has been difficult for many people, but most have considered it a temporary blip.  For the larger part of society there was a sense that we would be back to our old ways before we knew it, for better or worse. There has been no real fear of a permanent loss of the things that we depend on. Can we be said to have rebounded when we never really fell?  

In the end, this poll tells us little about our country. It doesn’t measure what it says it measures, and doesn’t impact how we live our lives. It may tell us something about the way that humans tend to compartmentalize, or confirm that some academics have way too much time on their hands, though I don’t think that was the goal. Ultimately, you can take this poll at face value and be amazed for five seconds at the human spirit, or dismiss it outright as smoke blowing in the wind. Your choice. As for me, I’m going to Olive Garden and have the authentic I-talian Lasagna Classico, just like my mother’s Austrian ancestors used to make. Oh, Happy Days!!!   

My Temple lifelong learning class (a nice euphemism for classes for us old people) recently discussed the new child tax credit just passed by Congress. It was generally a good conversation, until one of the participants asked whether we could be sure that the people who got this credit would actually spend the money on their children. This group is pretty much what you would expect from a Philly crowd – very liberal and very socially conscious – and yet this concern was being raised. And it was clear looking at the Zoom reactions that the gentleman who made this comment was not alone in his concern. 

There are so many things wrong with this comment – perpetuation of stereotypes of the poor, blaming those with less for their financial condition, a condescending “I know better” attitude – that it’s tempting to go on a general rant in response, but that would be meaningless and dull. However, there is one aspect of this credit that I think people ignore more than any other. That is the general economic benefit we get by putting more money in the pockets of people who don’t have much. 

Ronald Reagan made popular the concept of the trickle-down economics. The argument was that if you gave the wealthy more money to spend, they would put that money back into the economy and everyone would benefit. The Reagan administration predicted that their massive tax cuts would not result in a deficit because the additional money the wealthy now had in hand would spark an economic boom more than making up for the lost tax revenue. That didn’t happen, and by the end of the 1980’s we had huge deficit and a stagnant economy. 

There was a similar rationale to the Trump administration tax cuts over the last few years, though the focus was more on what corporations would do with extra cash if we cut their rates. The hope was that they would reinvest more in research and development, and increase hiring. This too never came about, as corporations generally increased dividends and executive pay, but did not expand as hoped.   

The problem is that those already well off, whether individuals or corporations, have what they need, and more. Anything extra does not really change their spending habits. Maybe someone buys a 2021 Lexus to replace the 2019 Beemer. Maybe they buy a luxury item, like a yacht. (I understand that the market for collectibles, like baseball cards, is through the roof. Woo Hoo!!!) More likely they invest this money in the stock market where it goes to corporations, which then increase dividends and executive pay. This creates a very nice circle maintaining and expanding the wealth of the wealthy, while doing little to impact the economy generally. 

Those on the other end of the economic spectrum don’t have the luxury to sit on any money they receive. The cost of living, especially for those with children, dictates that what they get, they spend. And they spend it on basics. Food, rent, computers, clothes. A luxury buy is trading in the 2011 Camry for a 2019 Rav4. Or taking care of the house repairs that have been put off.  

The extra money these people spend also goes back to corporations. However, it isn’t just extra cash. Companies now have to respond to a higher demand for their products. They respond to those demands through increased production. Increased production means more jobs. It also leads to more research, development and advertising because the corporations have to stay ahead of their competition.  

Look, I am not an economist, and know that I am dealing in generalities. I have no data to back up this argument, though I am sure I could find it, as well as data to back up the opposite view as well. However, this strikes me as common sense. I know, I know, that’s an old-fashioned concept, and hardly a basis for making decisions. But every now and then I fool myself that I can think rationally and fall back on what seems likely. Silly me. 

I also know that I am butting my head against basic psychology. We feel more of a loss if we give something up than if we fail to get something we were expecting. Failing to get $10.00 that you hoped to get does not seem the same as opening your wallet to give someone $10.00, and yet the economic impact is the same. Similarly, giving up tax revenue does not strike us the same way as money doled out by the government, and yet ultimately, we may get more back from what we shell out.     

Even if I am right, I am not saying that economics is the be all and end all of deciding what our policies should be. There are other considerations. Such as moral concerns (talk about an old-fashioned concept) and budgetary issues. All I am saying is that we should be judging tax cuts that put more money into the pockets of the wealthy by the same criteria that we judge subsidies that put more money into the pockets of those on the lower end of the economic spectrum. They are two sides of the same coin, though the impact may differ. 

As my father would say after one of my mother’s sermons, “And thus ends the reading of the word”.     

Maybe I should let the start of baseball season go by. Too many people wax poetic about baseball as if it is more of a Zen experience than a sport. Great writers that have tackled baseball abound, such as David Halberstam, J.P. Kinsella and Doris Kearns Goodwin, and explained the lure of the game much better than I ever could. Many more mediocre authors have gone on and on about the glories of the game, it’s timelessness, it’s grandeur. Blah, blah, blah. 

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And yet, the start of baseball season hits me like no other sport. Maybe because it’s in the spring when I am looking forward to the warmer weather and longer days. Maybe it’s because it’s going to be a daily companion for the next six months (and hopefully longer). Maybe because it takes me back to languid days sitting in the South Carolina sun watching Gamecock baseball, or the thrill of emerging into Connie Mack Stadium as a kid. I really don’t know. 

Baseball will never be what it was for me when I was young. I am unlikely to sit through all of a 9-inning game on TV. Too many players strike out swinging for the fences. There are too few singles hitters like Pete Rose and Ichiro for my likes. I will undoubtedly go on a regular rant about a “genius” manager pulling a pitcher because their pitch count is too high (isn’t it amazing that the magic number is 100? How convenient). I will repeat the old man’s lament “The game isn’t what it used to be”.

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And yet, all I know is that despite all of that I am really looking forward to the first pitch this afternoon. All I know is that even though logic tells me that the Phillies will be lucky to finish third in their division I am full of hope. All I know is that I will be religiously checking the box scores on a daily basis to see how my favorite players are doing (another 2 for 3, and 2 RBIs for Mike Trout). All I know is that the world feels a little different during baseball season.  Play Ball!!!