Tomser's Blog

I have done something I did not think I would. My 50^th High School reunion is coming up. When this first arose, I got out my Yearbook, shook off the dust and paged through the class pictures (the mid-70’s was not pretty). Few of the pictures rung a bell, so I decided to skip it. But then the names of those attending started to trickle in and I realized that there were more folks that I wanted to see than I originally thought. So, I committed to go.

I am of mixed minds about this. I have not seen most of these people since graduation day. I do not have a clue where life has taken them. While there is some interest in finding out, to date I have been content to forego that pleasure. At this juncture is it anything more than random curiosity? Is that worth asking and answering the same questions repeatedly for four hours?

The are contradictory fears floating around as well. Will anyone recall who I am? Will I approach someone I want to catch up with only to have them stare at me blankly, glance surreptitiously at my nametag and then feign recollection until they can slink away? Will this confirm how invisible I was in high school?

Conversely, will they remember too much? I know I did and said stupid things back then. Who didn’t? Sadly, those are the memories that stick best in my mind. Are people going to look and me and ask, are you as big a clueless nerd as you were in 12^th grade?

Both fears are unfounded. People will remember me as I remember them. We all will be confronted with ghost-like wraiths that somehow have aged. There will be mutual sticker shock when we are faced with the reality of time passing. Yet reality will not eviscerate the younger spectre that we recall.

Nor will people remember the personal inanities that stick with me. We were all so self-absorbed in our teens that what each of us has retained will focus largely on ourselves, not others. Yes, we will recall general personality traits, but few specifics. My embarrassments will be mine to keep.

But what will we talk about? Once we get past where we live, and a brief synopsis of the last 50 years, what is left? It is unlikely that we indulge in deep explorations of life, love and the pursuit of happiness. I am not even sure that I would want to head down that route with someone that is barely beyond a stranger, even if the conversation heads in that direction.

Consequently, we are unlikely to get any sense as to how we have changed. The question itself presupposes that I discerned who anyone was back then. I cannot pretend that I was prescient. To the contrary, I have no doubt that I was oblivious. I took people as they came and really didn’t dig beneath how my classmates presented themselves. Heck, I am not even sure that I realized you could do that.   

It gets more complex because I am not sure if I can answer that question for myself. It is hard to reenter into that kid with a ready smile masking insecurity. At times I see him peeking through, and at others he seems left far behind. I know my horizons have expanded significantly since High School, but has the basic rugged concept of my personality (to paraphrase George Harrison in “A Hard Day’s Night”)? If my own development is vague, how can I possibly expect to recognize change in others, especially during a four-hour sprint where most of the time will be spent just trying to dredge up long lost, and probably best buried, memories.

The attendees are bound to leave the festivities with the same shallow impressions that we have retained for 50 years. We are likely to think, “That was nice”, and move quickly on, as we would with a mediocre movie. Little will be said that is memorable or sheds any light on who were then or are now.

My guess is that anyone reading this is thinking, “Lighten up Tom. It’s only a reunion.” No one in their right mind expects anything more than some chuckles at spotty recollections, and an occasional shock, both positive and negative, at what people did with their lives. And, of course, the mixed blessing of seeing how people have aged.

That is, undoubtedly, the right attitude. This is a lark. A brief window into the past that will blessedly be opaque. If all goes well there will be a few laughs, a few hugs, and a few shallow connections. Expecting anything else is both silly and simplistic.

I will try and walk in with that attitude. However, it will be a struggle. As the Indigo Girls intoned, “You know me, I take everything so seriously.” Part of me will want something more or at least will think that I do. In the end the best I can honestly hope for is that some memories, both good and bad, will be dredged up, and a long past element of my existence will be subjected to a tad more light. Frankly, that would be fine.   

I recently reread The Hobbit. I first read it when I was in the 6^th grade and have been a Middle-Earth fan ever since. It was over 20 years ago when I last dropped in on Bilbo’s Shire and enjoyed the invasion of 13 dwarves and a wizard. Happily, the ensuing adventure was as engaging as ever.

Revisiting Bilbo and the boys (more on that later) prompted me to go back and watch Peter Jackson’s adaptation of the novel. I saw the first of this trilogy in the theaters when it was released. I think I saw the second in the theaters but couldn’t swear to it. I am not sure that I have ever, before now, sat through the finale. That should tell you something about my reaction to these films.

I have a lot of sympathy for Jackson’s quest to retell this story. It is hard to adapt a well-known literary work for the screen. Books and films are very different media. What works well on the page does not necessarily translate to the screen. The pacing is different. Sharp book dialogue becomes stilted. People have a vision of the characters and settings which differ from the filmmaker.

Some say to heck with the book and retain little more than the general structure. Sometimes that works, sometimes not. One of the most famous reimagining was by Stanley Kubrick of Stephen King’s The Shining. The basic plot is the same, but that is about all. King hated it, and so did much of the public when it first came out. Now it is hailed as a masterpiece, though I doubt if King has changed his mind.

Jackson did not have that option. The Hobbit is too iconic and too beloved. He would have been drawn and quartered for significantly altering the story. Jackson had to honor the vision of the legions of fans so anticipating his movie. His wiggle room was limited.

Jackson was also the victim of his own success. The Lord of the Rings trilogy had been hailed critically and commercially. He was undoubtedly under considerable pressure to repeat that, which likely prompted the decision to stretch The Hobbit into three films. A stretch it was. The Ring trilogy numbers over 1200 pages. The Hobbit, with larger type, barely 300. Clearly, much would have to be added.

There was another decision to be made. The Hobbit is a prequel to the Rings, but its tone is totally different. The Hobbit is, in many ways, innocent. Yes, there is darkness and evil, but that evil can be overcome with a bit of courage and perseverance. In the Ring trilogy evil is pervasive, and each victory a small step to something worse. Middle-Earth hangs by a thread in the trilogy, not in The Hobbit.

It would have been exceedingly difficult to capture the tone of The Hobbit after making the Rings trilogy. It became impossible when Jackson committed to three movies. The only way to fill that time was with plotlines separate from Bilbo, which would naturally foreshadow the films we had already seen. In the book most of the predicaments are resolved through cunning. In the movie, the additions are all resolved in fight scenes.

Two of the most effective scenes in the movies – Bilbo’s riddle game with Gollum and the initial encounter between Bilbo and Smaug the dragon – do not involve great derring-do. Instead, they are battles of wits. These are the scenes that best recall the book. They are a welcome respite from axe-swinging dwarves, Warg riding orcs and acrobatic, sword-wielding elves.

The other problem Jackson faced is that there are no female characters in The Hobbit. None. Nada. Zilch. It was no doubt unthinkable to have 8 hours of screen time without a feminine presence. In fact, even if he had condensed the story to one or two films, it would not be tenable. (Again, what works in a book doesn’t necessarily work in a film).

Jackson didn’t have that problem in the Rings trilogy. Yes, those books and movies are as male as could be, but at least he had three strong female characters in Galadriel, Arwen and Eowen to leaven the testosterone. He expanded their roles, but they fit naturally into the plot. Conversely, there was no easy way to insert a woman into The Hobbit and give her a meaningful role.

For example, in the Fellowship of the Ring Frodo is rescued from the Ringwraiths at Bruinen Ford. In the book the rescue is made by an Elven Prince. In the movie it is Arwen who rescues Frodo and washes away the Ringwraiths, introducing us to a strong, capable female elf. The scene loses none of its power for the change. In the second Hobbit movie the Elven warrior Tariel comes forward, but other than some clownish fight scenes, the best Jackson can muster for her is an unlikely love triangle with Fili the dwarf and a resuscitated Legolas.

Every change made in the trilogy seemed to pay off, whereas in The Hobbit they fell flat. What is left is a shadow of the book. The basic story survives, but none of the nuance which makes it so delightful. The joy in watching Bilbo find courage and wits he never knew he had is overshadowed by meaningless grand battles. It was a big swing and miss by Jackson.

Luckily the book remains to be savored. Like all great literature, it retains its immediacy, even as language and literary tastes change. It can also be read in less time than it would take to watch the three Jackson movies, at least in their unnecessary expanded editions. Time well spent indeed.

I know it is silly for a grown man to care so much about a novel he first read over 50 years ago, especially a fantasy. Yet, there are few books that have had a bigger impact on my life. Worlds of imagination and creativity were opened and have never closed. Notions of the power of the underdog to use resourcefulness rather than brute force were implanted. No matter what he did, Peter Jackson could never match that.    

The Russian poet Anna Akhmatova said that there is nothing more tedious than someone else’s dreams or someone else’s fornication. I would add someone else’s meals to the list. Yet here I go.

I am in many ways the wrong person to write about a dining experience. For one, I have mixed feelings about restaurants. Often, I walk away thinking how mediocre the meal was. Rarely is it bad, but just as rarely is it memorable. My dissatisfaction expands when I look at the bill. What I ate was fine, but the bill suggests that it was superb. It wasn’t.

Plus, I do not have very discriminating taste buds. Don’t ask me to identify a flavor in something I’ve eaten. I won’t be able to do it. I know what I like, but beyond that I am generally lost.

Finally, writing about food is an art I cannot master. Great food writers – and they are few and far between – can make you salivate with their gastronomic descriptions. Somehow, they recreate a complex taste in a way I cannot fathom. If you’re hoping to get that here, stop reading now.    

All that being said, once in a blue moon I am surprised by a restaurant that provides a dining experience exhibiting creativity and originality. Most importantly, the food tastes so damn good that the flavors linger in your mind long after they’ve left your palate. That is an undeniable pleasure and begs to be shared.

Recently I had such an experience. It was at a restaurant in the Getsemani neighborhood of Cartagena, Columbia called Celele. The restaurant was touted as the Latin America’s 6^th best restaurante. I am generally skeptical of such rankings, but in this case, it lived up to its billing.

Celele presents contemporary Caribbean cuisine based on the culinary and cultural diversity of Columbia. Every item is locally sourced, and the menu changes seasonally. The owner of the restaurant spent two years “surveying the territory, inventorying products, recipes and techniques”. It shows.  

Our sojourn to Celele started on an odd note. The reservation, which was made for us, was at 9:30, which seemed unusually late. We decided to go at 9:00 and see if we could get in early. We were met at the locked door and politely told that the staff was on break and that 9:30 was a general seating time. Luckily, there was a nice little bar across the street, so it was a minimal imposition.

We returned at 9:30 and were ushered to our table. At first, I was disappointed since we were seated near the small open kitchen, not my general preference. That disappointment quickly dissipated when I realized that we had front row seats to a gastronomic ballet.

There were about 20-25 tables and 75-100 patrons. Seating them all at once meant orders came in a flood. We were in prime position to watch as these complex dishes were cooked and assembled, with the expediting chef only a few feet away. It was clear why a break in the evening was essential.

Cartagena must be the specialty cocktail capital of the world, with each restaurant listing an array of unique libations. Celele was no exception, but it took it a step further. Julie ordered a Guayarita, which was composed of Olmeca White Tequila, mezcal Ozo de Tigre, sour guava chutney, mandarin lemon and a basket pepper. It came in a small martini glass filled with 1/3 of the drink, the remainder resting in a small cruet sitting in a bowl of ice to keep it cool until needed. It was advertised as smoky and refreshing and it was.

I had a Vereda Tropical. It was concocted with Columbian Le Hechicera rum, Enate Rose wine, coastal plum leaf syrup and lactofermented plums. The plums sat on a bridge straddling the rim of the glass. I was instructed to take a bite of plum before ingesting the drink. The plums were very salty, but when combined with the fruity cocktail the result was incredibly stimulating – a surprisingly fresh and soothing treat.

For an appetizer Julie ordered a Caribbean Flower salad, a layered extravaganza. The bottom of the bowl was lined with cashew paste, smooth, but with some nut fragments intact. Atop the cashew sat fresh local greens. The greens were topped with edible flowers in an array of colors. A light dressing was added by the server. It was almost a shame to dig in, but it was so tasty it was worth spoiling the effect.

I had Smoked Seasonal Fish with Arab Spices. (sorry, no picture. I started eating too quickly). Nut hummus adorned the side of the bowl, with fermented greens and bits of fish. The waiter poured a light fish broth into the bottom of the bowl all and I mixed it all together. The result was both unexpected and exquisite.

For my main entrée I was feeling adventurous and ordered the Braised Rabbit. The waiter just shook his head and redirected me to Lamb marmaon with Arabian spices. I would not have chosen this without the waiter’s suggestion since my appetizer included Arab spices, and I had no idea what marmaon was. Turns out it is similar to couscous.

The waiter was, of course, correct. The dish was adorned with edible flowers.. Underneath, the lamb was melded with smoked eggplant, gooseberries, and a very light sour cream all within a crispy filo dough. The lamb was incredibly tender. The smoked eggplant and gooseberries gave it a pleasant tang which was perfectly moderated by the sour cream and filo. My taste buds could do nothing, but scream, yes!!!

Julie had the Confit Local Hen, which was adorned with sour guava BBQ, roasted bananas with coconut oil, long green beans, fired banana peels and smoked hen broth. It came in a bowl that highlighted the green beans. The guava BBQ was added by the waiter through a dropper, who then encircled the dish with the hen broth. Again, disturbing the presentation seemed disrespectful, but that hesitancy was well worth overcoming. The complex flavors blended perfectly.

Having had appetizers we would normally skip desert, but that was not an option. We split a “Creamy Chocolate from La Sierra Nevada de Santa Maria”. The dish was white chocolate ganache, tropical dry forest crumble borojo gel and sorbet. It was an elegant combination of chocolatey sweetness and fruity tang. To say it was delectable is an understatement.

I was shocked when I saw that we had been at the restaurant for over 2 hours. Usually, I get antsy after an hour or so, but not that night. As we stood up to leave – one of the last – I caught the eye of the chef. I gave him a big smile, and, like an idiot, two thumbs up. In response he flashed an even bigger smile, giving the impression that for all the awards and rankings the restaurant has garnered, it is still the experience of the individual diner that mattered. You can’t ask for anything more than that.         

There he was smiling up at me from the Sunday New York Times sitting outside my neighbor’s door, flashing his ubiquitous peace sign. Was it possible that the Times was revisiting, for the umpteenth time, Richard Starkey? He was not celebrating a notable birthday, though at his age they’re all somewhat noteworthy. Nor was it a significant Beatles anniversary. Yet, it was definitely the one, the only, Ringo Starr.     

Ringo holds a unique place in modern culture. As a member of the biggest act of the 20^th Century he is one of the most photographed, written about, dissected, parodied people in the history of the world. For many years that scrutiny has been done with a cheekiness that not too subtly asks whether he deserves all the adulation. No one questions the prominence of John, Paul and George. But Ringo? Wasn’t he just along for the ride and to provide comic relief?

In many ways, Ringo has never lived down the discredited quote attributed to John Lennon that he wasn’t even the best drummer in the Beatles. Actual or not, many jumped on the bandwagon to suggest that he was just a lucky guy who got to sit behind the big three and keep time. He was fine doing that but musically provided little else.

In recent years, the tide has shifted. Drummer after drummer has stepped forward to testify to his influence. Dave Grohl, Stewart Copeland, Max Weinberg and Questlove, among others, have heaped praise on his ability to “play for the song” and thereby take them to new levels. Increasingly it is acknowledged that Ringo was an integral part of the Beatles sound.

I cannot solve the debate, and my guess is that many who weigh in are in no better position to do so either. However, I do take in the testimony of my friend Phil Moore. He is a lifelong drummer who still plays for fun. He told me, somewhat abashedly, that he found the Beatles the most satisfying to practice with because Ringo’s drumming was inventive and challenging. If Uncle Phil says so, that’s good enough for me.

Drumming aside, Ringo has a special place in our family. Like many, my kids were raised on Beatles music. I considered it part of their necessary education. Not surprisingly, they took to the music, but even more so they took to Ringo. He was their favorite, hands down.

I remember once we were on a driving vacation and stopped into a convenience store where they discovered fake IDs of celebrities, including Ringo. A battle ensued as to who would get that prized souvenir. If we were playing any kind of game where they could name a character after Ringo or use him as a punch line, it was done.

One Christmas our eldest, Aster, proudly entered while we were decorating the tree with a cutout of Ringo’s face. He proclaimed that it was time to put the Starr on top of the tree. It has been a family tradition ever since.

It’s not hard to define Ringo’s attraction. He has always come across as somewhat naïve and innocent. John and George were engaged in a never-ending analysis of the Beatles’ place in the universe. Paul has carefully guarded his and the group’s musical legacy. Ringo seems to just take it all in and enjoy the ride. His approach reminds me of the life philosophy of Spinal Tap keyboardist, Viv Savage, “Have a good time all the time.”

Ringo’s public persona was established in the 1964 movie “A Hard Day’s Night”. It is a unique film. I cannot think of another that cemented the perception of its stars the way that did, especially for Ringo. Since then, he has unalterably been the somewhat befuddled, easy-going bloke with the goofy grin. It has served him well.

John Lennon anointed him as the Yogi Berra of Rock and Roll. He’s been credited him with inadvertently crafting the title of “Hard Day’s Night”, as well as the song “Eight Days a Week”. Whether that’s true is beside the point. It fits too well with his image to be denied.

Not that Ringo hasn’t had his share of troubles over the years. He was, after all, the first to leave the band, though he famously came back to a drum kit adorned with roses. The breakup of his first marriage was not pretty. He had a well-documented substance abuse problem, which lasted many years longer than John’s lost weekend. Yet, he never misplaced his charm.

I think that the most surprising thing about Ringo is how much the music really matters to him. For someone who was supposedly just along for the ride, he has been devoted to asserting his own musical voice post-Beatles. Immediately after the breakup it seemed that the other ex-Beatles were looking to prop him up, with George co-writing some of his biggest hits, and the others guest starring on his albums.

After the early supportive spurt largely petered out, Ringo continued to put out albums. Between 1976’s “Ringo Rotogravure”, which peaked at number 28 on the US charts and “Look Up”, his most recent country-tinged effort Ringo put out 15 albums, many of which hardly cracked the charts at all. He hasn’t had a single in the top 50 since “Oh My My” in 1974. Clearly, making music is more important to him than many of us imagined.

In fact, it was “Look Up” that sparked the Times article. Ringo’s interest in country music is nothing new or invented. As usual he was able to surround himself with top notch talent, including T-Bone Burnett, who wrote most of the songs and co-produced the album, Alison Krauss and Joe Walsh, his brother-in-law.

I wish I could unequivocally urge you to listen to the album, but I can’t take it that far. Like almost all his efforts, it is pleasant enough, has some catchy hooks and is instantly forgettable. I do enjoy Ringo’s voice. It is solely his own and can add sincerity to mediocre lyrics. However, it’s nothing that is going to make you sit up and take notice. Neither is the album.

That being said, I hope Ringo keeps rocking as long as he can. As Rob Sheffield of Rolling Stone observed in reviewing “Look Up”, Ringo is “the least jaded rock star in the universe”. In a world of braggarts, blowhards and bombastic baboons, that is something to cheer. Keep on shining Ringo Starr!!!!  

I am so White. Not in a supremist way, mind you. I know my Whiteness doesn’t make me anything special. But in my White view of the world, I am as White as the driven snow, and my Whiteness often gives me snow-blindness. It makes me miss things that should be clear.

Take my recent blog post about Stefan Zweig and Fredrico Fellini. In that post I cited two strong statements in support of artistic activism and the power of art to influence the world we live in. I also lamented that artists today do not seem to be standing up to call out the injustices and insanity engulfing us.

I was thinking of the White artists that populated my youth in the 60’s and 70’s as exemplars of the activist artist. In my narrow mind they set standards in public commitment. I did not see a new generation following their example.

What I ignored was the fact that Black artists have never stopped agitating. This struck me when I saw the movie, “Sinners”. (The following will contain spoilers, so if you care about such things, you should stop here). Even though the film was set in the 1930’s, it clearly was speaking to today and the legacies of the past that continue to intrude.

The scene in which the young guitar prodigy is joined by echoes of the past and future not only highlighted the continuity of that music, but how it is an integral part of American heritage. The vampires want to take that away and meld it into a polyglot. I loved how seductive the head vampire is. Assimilation sounds great, though it is also a route to losing cultural identity. These lures and threats still exist.

Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl halftime was an even more explicit statement. Not surprisingly the import of what he was saying went right by me. I could plead my normal indifference to what I consider the most bloated, overhyped musical performance of the year, but I know that even if I had paid close attention I would not have picked up on what he was throwing down.

As with Sinners, Lamar’s performance linked historic allusions with current problems. Having his red, white and blue clad dancers form a torn American flag delineated the way the American dream has been and still is withheld from people of color. Samuel L. Jackson as Uncle Sam was on hand to warn Lamar not to take it too far, the way Blacks have been told constantly to be patient and not make trouble. It was a bold statement on a huge stage.

The novels of Percival Everett, especially “The Trees” and the much lauded “James” are incredibly subversive. Everett faces pivotal historical moments (the killing of Emmitt Till) and iconic Americana (Huckleberry Finn) and reinterprets them through Black eyes. In Trees, Everett voices the continuing rage at the senseless murder of Till and other victims like him. In James he vehemently rejects the demeaning depictions of the slave Jim, and the promulgation of stereotypes that continue to this day.

Everett knows that Twain’s depiction of Jim remains a vibrant source of American society’s view of Blacks, whether people have read the novel or not. He is not going to let stand an image that ignores the reality of the complex strategies that Blacks had to employ in slave times and still must employ today to survive. Much like Ta-Nahisi Coates in “Between the World and Me”, Everett depicts the intelligence, emotional and otherwise, needed to navigate a world that is skewed against Black Americans.

These contemporary artists are continuing a journey that has continued unaltered throughout the 20^th Century. In the 1960’s James Baldwin was the epitome of the forceful cultural critic. Through his writings and public appearances, he delineated the untenable nature of the inequality deeply embedded in American society.

Throughout the 1970’s the comedy of Richard Prior and the music of Marvin Gaye resonated with anger and protest. The 1980’s brought hip-hop and rap to the fore spouting lyrics that took no prisoners and haven’t stopped doing so. Toni Morrison’s novels from the late 1970’s through the early 2000’s are clear precursors of Percival Everett.

My failure to even think of these artists when discussing activism and social critiques is inexcusable. Making it even worse, I know most of these figures. I have read their novels, listened to their music (well, not hip-hop and rap. Some cultural divides are too large to cross), enjoyed their comedy.

Not to get too philosophical here, but it confirms the theories of the idealists. The world does not exist except as we perceive it. So much of that is dictated by how and where we were raised. Our biases are so deeply entrenched that we don’t even perceive them. They act as a sieve that allows some realities to filter through, but blocks others.

Thankfully, through education and perseverance we can expand on our otherwise narrow perspectives. We can appreciate views outside our comfort zone. Sometimes it’s through a glass darkly, but we can acknowledge and appreciate that our own judgments are not universal. We may even be able to incorporate some of the other ways of looking at life into our worldview.

However, the biases are deep. I am not referring to biases that denigrate anything different, but to those that color our senses and render them unreliable. We want to believe that the world is as we individually see it, but it is open to so many other interpretations.

I am who I am. There is no getting around that. However, it still pisses me off when I am so dense as to miss things right under my nose. I know that just makes me human, but it strikes me as a poor excuse for thick-headedness.    

Sometimes I think that I am the last person on the planet that reads the daily comics. I know I can’t be. They would not continue to publish them just for me. Others must indulge. Who are they? Are any under 65? Do they actually laugh at what they read, or, like me, are they just hoping that once in a blue moon something mildly amusing will pop up?

I am not talking about the Sunday Comics. Everyone reads them. Who can resist the large format, the bright colors, the extra offerings. They are irresistible. If every day had comics like those, newspaper circulation would zoom once again. Alas, it’s not to be.

I cannot remember a time when I did not devour the daily funnies. They have been a part of my day ever since I started reading. Through the Bethlehem Morning Call, the South Carolina State, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and now the Philadelphia Inquirer I have faithfully turned to the “Funny Pages” to see the cartoon antics.

My devotion to comics is such that for many years I considered papers without a funnies page as inferior. What was the point of the New York Times or Wall Street Journal if they didn’t feature Hagar the Horrible or Funky Winkerbean. At the very least the Times should’ve carried Doonesbury and the Journal Dilbert. Then I might have read them!!!

The comics differ from paper to paper. No matter, I have read them all. Whether they were masterpieces, like Calvin and Hobbes and The Far Side, mediocrities relying on the same joke over and over, like Beatle Bailey and Pickles, or just plain bad, like The Lockhorns and Ziggy, I persevered.

I am proud to say that I never stooped so low as to follow the serials, such as Brenda Starr or Prince Valiant. Even when I could figure out the never-ending storylines, these pseudo-serious sagas were so silly I could not stick with them. I do have standards. They may be low, but they exist.  

The comics I get in the Inquirer are your usual mixed bag. Get Fuzzy and Pearls Before Swine are modern classics. Blondie and Baby Blues are stalwarts you can count on. Pardon My Planet and Jump Start try and be contemporary, don’t quite make it, but are still worth reading. Then there are the just plain inexplicable.

Take Crabgrass, please (thank you Henny). For the last month this comic about two neighbor boys has been pursuing an arc where one kid launches himself into another dimension, plopping his doppelganger into ours. Characters come and go. The dimensions flip flop for no discernable reason. It is neither interesting nor funny. There is no reason to read it, and yet I do. (A trial has just started. Not sure why).

Heart of the City began as a cute cartoon about a little girl with overblown dreams of stardom. Then it jumped to Junior High and the plots (I use the term loosely) became banal and moralistic. Even worse, the renderings are so badly drawn, it is often hard to tell one kid from another. Still, it is part of my daily routine.

Standing above them all is Peanuts. My father would bring me a collection of Charles Schultz’s tour de force whenever he went on a business trip. If he had gone to Paris (he didn’t) he probably would have searched the book stalls along the Seine for the antics of Snoopy and Linus to bring home. I still have over 20 of these compilations, almost all from his travels.

I am not sure what makes Peanuts so enduring. The humor is light, never biting. The ensemble fulfills their assigned roles. There are few surprises. Lucy will pull the ball out from Charlie Brown every time. Peppermint Patty will fall asleep at her desk every day. In many ways, it is the soft jazz of strips.

And yet it works. Schultz marries the uncertainties of childhood with those that carry over as we get older. He gives play to the fantasy world we indulge in (fighting the Red Barron, being a star baseball player), yet grounds it in the reality that never lives up to those fantasies.

The Peanuts world can be harsh. Charlie Brown will never speak with the little red-haired girl. Lucy will never get Schroeder to pay attention to her. The Great Pumpkin will never appear for Linus. But harsh as the world may be, it is never nasty. The kids bounce back to try again and again. Schultz presents it all with a gentility that is endearing.

I hadn’t intended to deal so much with Peanuts, but that strip is the essence of the comics. Like all funnies, it is comfort food. As bland as the cartoons can be, they satisfy. To push a metaphor way too far, they are the meatloaf and mashed potatoes of reading consumption. Some have hot sauce that enhances the flavor. Others pour on Ketchup to seem colorful. Many lack even gravy to liven them up. Even those, however, I gratefully gobble.

I have no doubt that as I lie on my deathbed, hopefully many years from now, I will call my nurse over to request that she read that day’s Hagar the Horrible or Sherman’s Lagoon. While my beath may be short, I will still chuckle, even if it’s a joke I have heard a thousand times. And I will drift off into the netherworld with a smile on my face.     

I have written before how delightful I find kismet. Those rare times when two seemingly unrelated strands converge to send you down the proverbial rabbit hole. This happened recently with a book I was reading and a film I watched. The two combined led me to ponder the roles and obligations of artists.

Stefan Zweig wrote his memoir, “The World of Yesterday”, under extraordinary circumstances. The book was published in 1941 while he was living in exile, persona non grata in the German speaking countries which were his home. Zweig had been targeted by the Nazis as soon as they took power. He had two strikes against him, being Jewish and an unabashed humanist.

The memoir looks at pre-WWI Austria, Zweig’s native land, with rose colored glasses. His take was that the empire led by the aging Franz Joseph was a semi-paradise of freedom and creativity, with ominous rumblings well in the background. While this view is questionable, he can be forgiven as he was no doubt comparing it with the horrors of repression that were to follow.

For Zweig, however, Austria was less important than Europe as a whole. He was a true cosmopolitan, equally at home in France, Belgium, Switzerland or Germany. In each of these countries he found like-minded artists. Though he wrote in German, he sought both acceptance and inspiration throughout the continent.

It was this attitude that permeates his memoirs and solidifies his views on the role of the artist. Zweig wrote, and clearly believed, that “the writer’s true mission [is in] preserving and defending values common to all humanity.” He sought to live this tenet. He was appalled by the nationalistic demons unleashed by WWI, and spent part of the war in Switzerland trying, unsuccessfully, to create a multi-national coalition of artists opposed to both the war, and its disparagement of the “enemy”.

In “The World of Yesterday” Zweig confronted a continent where the hostilities to the other went far beyond what he could have imagined even during WWI. His despair runs through the work, as does his desire to, one last time, plea for a broader view of humanity and assert the artists’ obligation to bring that about. Tragically, in 1942 despair won out and Zweig took his own life.

Frederico Fellini has had a place near and dear to my heart for a long time. The second semester of the first year of law school is incredibly stressful. It dawns on you early on in that term that shortly you will have to take a series of tests to validate the proceeding nine months. John Houseman from Paper Chase is constantly in your head, saying, “Look to your left and then to your right, and three years from now only one of you will still be here”. (Even though he never said this and it is not true).

In the midst of this, I stumbled upon a Fellini film retrospective. Every Wednesday I would shut the books and trudge 20 minutes to lose myself in his world of creativity. Starting with Variety Lights, which he co-directed, through well-known classics like 81/2 and Amarcord, and including the rarely seen documentaries Roma and The Clowns, these films never disappointed. They also helped keep my head on straight as finals approached.

Over the years, I have seen many of these movies again and again. Somehow, however, I never saw the few films Fellini made thereafter. So, when one of these films, “And the Ship Sails On”, fulfilled my week 16 Criterion Challenge (don’t ask) I jumped on it. To be honest, I was a bit apprehensive, as my sense was that Fellini’s best work was long behind him by then.

“And the Ship Sails on” is not Fellini’s best film, but it is very good and one only Fellini could make. On the eve of WWI, a group of musical artists charters a steamship to take them to an island where they will scatter the ashes of a colleague. The company is a typically Fellini mix of eccentrics, egomaniacs and neurotics.

The film gets interesting when the Captain takes on board a bevy of Serbian refugees. Initially, the passengers are mortified, but before long they find common ground in music and are celebrating life with the Serbs. Some of the most enchanting scenes are of the stuffed shirt artistes one by one giving in to the exuberance of the Serbs and shedding their reticence.

The revelry is interrupted by an Austrian warship which demands that the Serbians be turned over to them, threatening hostile action if they are not. Having bonded with the refugees, the artists will have none of that, standing by the Captain in refusing the request. Fellini uses calculated artificiality in depicting the Austrian ship, to contrast the hollowness its warlike stance with the humanity of the artist community.

Fellini reaches the same conclusion as Zweig. Art is a vehicle for bridging seemingly unreconcilable cultures and, as such, artists must assert and support that common humanity. To do otherwise is to give into the impersonal, aggressive forces that would kill in the name of ideologies that divide us.

As I look at our present situation, I struggle to identify the artists that feel that obligation as strongly as Zweig and Fellini. It seems as if art for art’s sake has taken over. Much of it is very good and quite interesting. However, it appears designed to express individual rather than collective values. It rarely embraces and promotes concepts of universal humanity.

Maybe it’s that art no longer has the place that Zweig and Fellini saw for it. The written word that was Zweig’s milieu has lost so much of its sway to the world of digital media. And while I could craft an argument that the video arts have carried the humanist banner more effectively than any other, here too most of the output seems content to rely on cheap thrills in an artificially drawn black/white, good/bad world.

Or maybe Zweig and Fellini were dreaming of a society that never was. As much as these consummate artists wanted a role for the arts, perhaps it is one that did not, or only rarely, existed. After all, Zweig could not quell the jingoism that decimated Europe. And while Fellini’s vision is beautiful, that is not how things play out in the real world.

On the other hand, the musical artists of the 1960’s raised harmonic voices in support of civil rights, and against the Vietnam War. The impact was real and palatable. Artists didn’t end the war, or secure equality, but they did influence public opinion in support of these goals.

I don’t know whether artists today can break through the swirling hate. Many do speak out, but not so much through their art, and, at any rate, their pleas seem to fall on deaf ears. I would like an artistic statement that grabs people by the lapel, shakes them out of their lethargy and forces them to see that we are all one. That our survival on this planet depends on our ability to value each individual regardless of trivial differences. Could be that I am asking too much, though Zweig and Fellini didn’t think so.          

I recently went to see the re-release of the wonderful 1997 Studio Ghibli film Princess Mononoke. It was terrific to see this masterpiece of animation on the big screen. The story was thoughtful and exciting. Moreover, it was beautifully crafted, with many scenes that took your breath away.

Going to a film like Princess Mononoke was typical of my recent movie going. I rarely see first run fare, except during Oscar season. Instead, I see showings of older movies. (My other movie in a theater that week was the hilarious 2007 comedy Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story). Luckily, I live where such films are readily available.

The previews I saw before Princess exemplified why I skip most new studio releases. The previews were of “family friendly” movies and included a live action remake of How to Train Your Dragon, a teen action/adventure film called The Legend of Ochi and a live action remake of Lilo and Stitch.

While I am not the target audience for these films, the obvious lack of originality struck me. Both the Dragon and Ochi involve a teenager befriending an otherwise hated creature. Both included the exact same line, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you”. Dragon and Lilo seem to have been remade for no other reason than that they now have the CGI to let them do so. From what I could tell, they are a mere regurgitation of the originals.      

The dearth of new ideas from Hollywood is nothing new. The industry powers that be are constantly searching for something that will tickle the fancy of moviegoers but generally settle for rehashing what they have done before. They are either afraid to venture something different, or don’t have the ability to generate new ideas.

Hollywood struck gold 20 or so years ago with Marvel superhero films. Audiences seemed willing to swallow any savior with special powers, and Hollywood certainly was willing to keep churning such films out. After a while, however, they ran out of A-list heroes and dug deep for material, giving us such white knights as Black Adam, The Eternals, and Blue Beetle. Not surprisingly, interest waned.

With the superhero genre a mere shadow of itself, Hollywood is fishing for something new, by looking at things old. In addition to the live cartoons listed above, we have been recently graced with Snow White, Mufasa: The Lion King and The Little Mermaid. Hercules and Robin Hood are on their way.     

I get it. It’s expensive to make a film. If you can’t attract an audience, you will lose a lot of money. Put together a string of bombs and you could lose your job. It’s safer to put something out there that has, at least ostensibly, a ready-made following. Or at least that’s the argument.

The problem is that these are not normal times for the film industry. According to NPR, five years after COVID resulted in the biggest attendance drop in cinematic history, Hollywood still has not recovered. The first nine weeks of 2025 ticket sales in North America improved over last year, but they’re still running well behind the pre-COVID weeks of 2020. I just can’t see these rehashed films pulling Hollywood out of the doldrums.

The recent Oscars highlighted the problem Hollywood has. It was truly ironic when Sean Baker, director of Best Picture winner, Anora, pleaded with viewers to come back into the theaters and bring their kids. Has he watched his own movie? I can only imagine mom and pop bringing Susie and Johnny to see Anora, only to find that the first 40 minutes were as sexually explicit as Debbie Does Dallas. They would never go to see a film again (though Johnny may have his first wet dream that evening).

I shouldn’t care. I wouldn’t go to most traditional Hollywood output, even if they were of better quality. I am satisfied with small, independent cinema. Yet, for films to flourish and screens to proliferate, there must be movies of broader appeal.

I also don’t have an answer. In all likelihood the cycle will have to repeat itself. Blockbuster hits. Endless remakes, rehashes and reboots follow. The public buys in until it doesn’t and then a lull ensues until it starts all over again. We just have to hope the film industry as we know it survives until things improve.

The expected summer moneymakers don’t bode well. We have another Jurassic Park movie, a film from the world of John Wick (I guess Kenau has had enough), three superhero movies (Superman, the third Fantastic Four reboot and Thunderbolts, whoever they are), the second half of the bloated Mission Impossible finale and Freakier Friday, for all of who have been pining to see Lindsay Lohan return to the silver screen.

The only summer “blockbuster” I am interested in seeing is also a sequel, 28 Years Later. Since 28 Days Later was released 23 years ago, this is clearly not an attempt to rush out a second movie to feed off the first. Plus, Danny Boyle is back at the helm, and I trust him.

I am sure other films currently off the radar will pop up as well. And who knows, maybe some of the other rehashes will be worth the price of admission. For Hollywood’s sake, I hope so. In the meantime, Mishima, a Life in Four Chapters, a Fassbinder retrospective and a slew of other great oldies are coming to the Philadelphia Film Society. Lower the lights and fire up the projector!!!               

We recently bought a new car. While I could write about the inherently terrible nature of making such a purchase, I won’t. Unless you’re a car person – and I definitely am not – you know that feeling of being in way over your head as you try and choose between car models you really can’t evaluate.

As a side note, the only entertaining car shopping experience I had was when I was getting my first car with my father. We took along the Pastor of our church, who doubled as a mechanic. He proceeded to crawl under the car in the midst of the lot, much to the amazement of the salesman and me. When he emerged, he pronounced the car fit and we moved on to the price negotiations.

Now that we had picked out the car and it had been blessed, so to speak, I was very excited. Then my father and the salesman started haggling over the price. I wasn’t paying, so I just wanted it to get over with. They reached an impasse. My father turned to me and said, “Let’s go Tom”. He walked out the door, with me following behind muttering, “but, but….” Sure enough the salesman chased us down as we got into our car and, after the inevitable visit with the Manager, we got our price. The irony of it all, and maybe the lesson too, is that the car we bought was a 1972 Ford Pinto hatchback, designated by Motortrend Magazine as “one of the most infamous cars in automotive history” because of its exploding gas tank.

Anyway, back to our new car. Inevitably, once we agreed to the purchase the salesman sat us down in the car and in a five-minute sprint went through its features. We were shown what each button and lever did, all the various permutations to cruise control, display, audio etc., etc. By the end my neck was sore from mindlessly nodding along.

A couple of months later we had the bi-annual time change. I figured the display on the car would do the same, but it didn’t. My first reaction was anger. How dare the car not perform any function automatically!!! Did this mean that I would have to figure out how to do this myself? Could we have sunk that low?

I dutifully pulled the ridiculous 700-page car manual out of the glove compartment. After searching through the index to discover where they hid the clock instructions (why list it as “Setting the Clock”, instead of just “Clock”?), I perused in amazement as they walked me through two pages of options, including an automatic update. I wondered why they didn’t just set that as the norm and save me the trouble of hefting this monstrosity.

As I flipped through the manual, I realized that I did not know half of what the car could do. Why were there 14 pages on the “Keyless Access System”? Could I really remember the meaning of the 39 indicator lights? What is a “Hill Descent Control System”? Did I actually have a “Traffic Sign Recognition System”, and, if so, why? Am I comfortable with a “Driver Attention Monitor”?

With a sigh, I put the manual back into the glove compartment, where I hoped it would remain for the next 5 years. I know I could have studied the tome and learned all the nuances of this major purchase, but I also knew I did not have the patience or interest to do so. Let’s face it, all I really want is for the car to start when I push the button and for my phone to hook in so I don’t get lost and can listen to whatever Spotify station strikes my fancy. Most everything else is superfluous.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was my life. I interact daily with a myriad of contraptions that I know little about. Right now, I am typing on a powerful computer that I have no doubt can do an amazing array of calculations, permutations, solicitations and alterations. Yet, all I ask it to do is display my e-mail, get me on the internet and run the Word program.

Even in Word my knowledge is minuscule. There are nine tabs at the top of the sheet, not counting “Help” (which rarely is). Under each of these tabs there are sub-headings too numerous to count. While I have been using Word for the last 40 years I doubt if I have used more than 10 of these.

As I looked around, I realized that every electronic device I own, from my phone to my “Smart” TV to my coffee maker, has a plethora of buttons that I have never used and never intend to. Manufacturers pile on features meant to impress, but the vast majority are mere window dressing. Do they really expect us to take the time to learn how to use the “Dehydrate” feature on the Air Fryer, or are they, as I suspect, just giggling at another useless add-on that will drive up the price?     

I should not be surprised at any of this. Even the simplest of these electronic devices is so complex it is beyond comprehension. I have no idea how any of them work. If I was honest with myself when one turns on I would fall to my knees thankful for the miracle that just occurred.

On the one hand this is just an old man’s rant. “Back when I was a boy, we had appliances with only one button, on/off.” However, the truth of the matter is that I didn’t know how anything worked back then either. Modern marvels just highlight and mock my ignorance.

Now and then I get it into my head to actually learn what the contraptions I own do. Needless to say, that urge quickly passes. I must admit to myself that I am content to use 1/3 of the functions of most everything I own. As for the rest, I just have to hope I don’t hit some button accidentally and descend into worlds unknown. The last thing I want is to pull out another manual!!!

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.