I've been trying to write a short story that's really giving me a hard time. The problem stems from controversial subject matter. If a person writes a story that portrays (what society thinks is) criminal behavior in a favorable light, and a reader emulates that behavior with dire consequences, is the author liable for the outcome?
Since the dawn of time, the oral, and later, written word has been positively rife with tales of deceit and murder, yet we do not hold the authors responsible for the deceit and murder that continues to this day. Mafia stories glorify the "made" man. Tarzan killed black men for sport, and don't even get me started on the Bible. But, if I write a story about a truly good, moral thing that happened to occur while under the influence of certain illegal substances, will I be accused of promoting irresponsible behavior?
It's easy to say that writers should take a "critics be damned" attitude, and write what they feel is important. Last time I checked, though, the only writers who said that had already established themselves or died, only receiving recognition for their genius post mortem.
If I were to write a story about how cool it is to sniff spray paint fumes from a paper bag and hang around a day care center leering and barking at children, I'd be vilified. If I wrote that contracting AIDS through unprotected sex was a remote and unlikely possibility, any number of groups would accuse me of, at best, ignorance, and at worst, promoting genocide.
The human condition needs to be told, because we all learn from and inspire each other, whether we relate good deeds or bad. With that in mind, I think I'll finish the story I'm working on and hope for the best. I'm sure I flatter myself by worrying about it. What Jim Fixx did for jogging, I intend to do for reckless behavior.
Oh...wait.
27 March 2007
26 March 2007
Retirement Horror Vol. II
My last "retirement horror" post dealt with the dangers of not investing properly. Being old and broke is the stuff nightmares are made of. This essay isn't nearly as serious, but it is terrifying nonetheless. I cannot provide in this essay, as I did in the previous one about retirement, links to concrete sources to validate my argument. I can, however, provide eyewitness testimony to an event I witnessed last night that should scare the socks off anyone who spends time wondering how retirement might be.
I visited my parents this past weekend at their winter home near Tampa, Florida. They, like many others, winter in a retirement community; you cannot buy a home there unless you're at least 55. To be fair, it seemed like a very close-knit group of people living there. Since my folks don't smoke, I stood outside when smoking, and there was a nearly constant parade of retirees walking in the warm Florida weather, and without fail, every person that walked by smiled and/or waved and said "Hello", or "Good Morning". I learned from my folks to be gracious and gregarious, so I of course returned their greetings. I felt a little guilty though, because my parents had told me that there were a lot of "walkers" in the park, and I immediately pictured a horde of old people looking for all the world like zombies, lurching aimlessly about the neighborhood. I'm happy to say that the people I spoke to were all very nice, and were obviously enjoying themselves. You might ask, "Where's the horror in that"?
Since the members of this community are so social (presumably because they can afford to have little else to do), they invent all sorts of reasons to congregate with alarming frequency. Last night, they held a birthday party for everyone, complete with cake and ice cream and, as an added treat, they had a musical revue featuring several residents who called themselves "The Choralettes". Each had a red sparkly vest with a bow tie; they were dressed like an old fashioned barbershop quartet (sans moustaches), and they sang show tunes and Frank Sinatra and a Rogers & Hammerstein medley. Songs from their youth. Again, where's the horror in that? Were they, for the most part, horribly off-key? Yes. Did the mere 40 minute show seem like a grinding, inexorably tortuous lifetime? Of course, but they were old people, and I expected that. But as I watched this performance, I suddenly saw in my mind's eye a sight that made my skin crawl.
In an absurd (and wholly understandable, I think) moment, I saw my own retirement community, and it was very unpleasant. Instead of blue-haired geriatrics dressed like an organ grinder's monkey, I saw a crowd of aging hippies, complete with bald pates and scraggly ponytails, dressed in black pleather vests straining to complete "Stairway to Heaven". I saw 70 year old women, frail with age, stooped over to compensate for the weight of their breast implants. (The sight of a woman that age with boobs that still stand up like a 20 year old's really disturbed me). Instead of cake and ice cream, it was hash brownies and jell-o shots. The emcee told sort-of-dirty jokes that nobody found offensive, and instead of golf shirts and blouses, clothing consisted of tye-dyed jeans and plaid maxi skirts.
The actual scene I was watching was surreal; the imagined one was downright hellish.
I'm not sure if I'll live to retirement age, and my lapses into imagination tend to convince me that maybe it's best if I don't. I believe that if you plan for the worst, you'll never be disappointed, and I cling to that philosophy in the hope that I'm right. Retirement looms large, though, and I worry about it. A lot. But you know that.
I visited my parents this past weekend at their winter home near Tampa, Florida. They, like many others, winter in a retirement community; you cannot buy a home there unless you're at least 55. To be fair, it seemed like a very close-knit group of people living there. Since my folks don't smoke, I stood outside when smoking, and there was a nearly constant parade of retirees walking in the warm Florida weather, and without fail, every person that walked by smiled and/or waved and said "Hello", or "Good Morning". I learned from my folks to be gracious and gregarious, so I of course returned their greetings. I felt a little guilty though, because my parents had told me that there were a lot of "walkers" in the park, and I immediately pictured a horde of old people looking for all the world like zombies, lurching aimlessly about the neighborhood. I'm happy to say that the people I spoke to were all very nice, and were obviously enjoying themselves. You might ask, "Where's the horror in that"?
Since the members of this community are so social (presumably because they can afford to have little else to do), they invent all sorts of reasons to congregate with alarming frequency. Last night, they held a birthday party for everyone, complete with cake and ice cream and, as an added treat, they had a musical revue featuring several residents who called themselves "The Choralettes". Each had a red sparkly vest with a bow tie; they were dressed like an old fashioned barbershop quartet (sans moustaches), and they sang show tunes and Frank Sinatra and a Rogers & Hammerstein medley. Songs from their youth. Again, where's the horror in that? Were they, for the most part, horribly off-key? Yes. Did the mere 40 minute show seem like a grinding, inexorably tortuous lifetime? Of course, but they were old people, and I expected that. But as I watched this performance, I suddenly saw in my mind's eye a sight that made my skin crawl.
In an absurd (and wholly understandable, I think) moment, I saw my own retirement community, and it was very unpleasant. Instead of blue-haired geriatrics dressed like an organ grinder's monkey, I saw a crowd of aging hippies, complete with bald pates and scraggly ponytails, dressed in black pleather vests straining to complete "Stairway to Heaven". I saw 70 year old women, frail with age, stooped over to compensate for the weight of their breast implants. (The sight of a woman that age with boobs that still stand up like a 20 year old's really disturbed me). Instead of cake and ice cream, it was hash brownies and jell-o shots. The emcee told sort-of-dirty jokes that nobody found offensive, and instead of golf shirts and blouses, clothing consisted of tye-dyed jeans and plaid maxi skirts.
The actual scene I was watching was surreal; the imagined one was downright hellish.
I'm not sure if I'll live to retirement age, and my lapses into imagination tend to convince me that maybe it's best if I don't. I believe that if you plan for the worst, you'll never be disappointed, and I cling to that philosophy in the hope that I'm right. Retirement looms large, though, and I worry about it. A lot. But you know that.
19 March 2007
Students Beware!
Since I started this blog late last year, I have tried very hard to not let it become a bully pulpit from which to rant about anything that makes me angry or to complain about my personal life. A quick perusal of the blogosphere will show that there's enough of that already. I think it's all well and good that there are blogs that describe the minutiae of someone's life, and I'm also sure that it's very therapeutic to jot down thoughts, but I just don't feel the need to put my personal crises out for all to see. For the most part, nobody cares what I had for breakfast or how my relationships are going. I try very hard to write about things I consider relevant, things that perhaps someone else can identify with and maybe, just maybe, draw some inspiration from.
Having said that, today's essay concerns the paradox of needing a college education in today's world juxtaposed against the real world's apparent desire for experience over schooling. To be blunt, I am fairly baffled that a BA means little to many employers. It doesn't matter if you have a degree in something if you have no "real world" experience. For instance, I have a degree in English with a specialty in composition. Anyone who has been to college knows that it is very difficult and time consuming (not to mention outrageously expensive) to EARN a degree in a chosen field. I chose English/Composition because I love to write, and I can think of no other job that would afford me the opportunity to get paid doing what I love to do. But do you think I can find a job doing it? I spent countless hours studying all styles of writing. MLA. Chicago. APA. Not only did I study them, I studied them under the tutelage of doctorate level professors, published authors and instructors with concrete, first hand knowledge of what to do and what not to do in order to succeed. And, if I might toot my own horn, I did very well at it. Yet every single job I apply to wants to know how much experience I have. Did they not read my resume? Do they think that degrees in composition are handed out willy-nilly to anyone who can afford it?
In almost every cover letter I write, I make sure and include the following line: "Anyone who knows anything about writing knows that in order to earn a degree in composition, one must do a good deal of writing". Doesn't my four years of seemingly endless hours producing reams of papers count for anything? Isn't that experience?
Let me digress for a moment. When I was 18 years old, I went to work in a 7up factory in Flint, Michigan. It was my first "real" job, and I of course had to start at the bottom of the ladder, as a general warehouse laborer. Except for a three year stint in the Army, it was the only job I had for nearly 20 years. In that time, I worked very hard, and eventually made it to supervisor of both the Quality Assurance and Maintenance departments. Anyone who has worked in a factory knows that it is not easy. Wait, I need to clarify that: It is not easy to do the same job, day after day after day for 20 years. Being tied to a machine or even supervising those tied to machines is a living hell. Some people do it for an entire career, operating the same machine every single day of their working lives, and good for them for being able to stand it. There's no doubt that I made decent money, but the sheer ennui of the job felt like very slow suicide, not to mention a waste of my life.
I applied for a managerial position, but was told I could not advance any farther because I did not have a college education. Fair enough. I took three years off and, by virtue of my hard work, finally earned a degree (University of Michigan). And now, firmly set in middle age, I cannot find a job writing, because I "have no experience". I have been around the world (thanks to the Army), and I have seen things that most people will never see, done things most will never do, and, crazy as it sounds, I remember it all. I have worked on both sides of a union, I have worked on farms, I have stood guard in the one of the most inhospitable places on the earth, I have even worked on a garbage truck (that's another essay). I have made presentations to boardroom executives and interviewed janitors to make sure I was able to produce training manuals that all audiences could understand, yet I do not have enough experience to write marketing material. How hard can it be?
I suppose the main point I'm trying to get across is this: Do not assume that a college degree is a ticket to an enjoyable, well paying job. I made that mistake, and I would save others that pain if I can. I often find myself wishing I had never gone to school, that I had stayed in the factory and relied heavily on alcohol to keep me from remembering that a monkey could do my job. No matter how bad it was, it was better than trying to convince a twenty-something job recruiter that experience, especially as it relates to writing is gained not only through work but life as well.
Having said that, today's essay concerns the paradox of needing a college education in today's world juxtaposed against the real world's apparent desire for experience over schooling. To be blunt, I am fairly baffled that a BA means little to many employers. It doesn't matter if you have a degree in something if you have no "real world" experience. For instance, I have a degree in English with a specialty in composition. Anyone who has been to college knows that it is very difficult and time consuming (not to mention outrageously expensive) to EARN a degree in a chosen field. I chose English/Composition because I love to write, and I can think of no other job that would afford me the opportunity to get paid doing what I love to do. But do you think I can find a job doing it? I spent countless hours studying all styles of writing. MLA. Chicago. APA. Not only did I study them, I studied them under the tutelage of doctorate level professors, published authors and instructors with concrete, first hand knowledge of what to do and what not to do in order to succeed. And, if I might toot my own horn, I did very well at it. Yet every single job I apply to wants to know how much experience I have. Did they not read my resume? Do they think that degrees in composition are handed out willy-nilly to anyone who can afford it?
In almost every cover letter I write, I make sure and include the following line: "Anyone who knows anything about writing knows that in order to earn a degree in composition, one must do a good deal of writing". Doesn't my four years of seemingly endless hours producing reams of papers count for anything? Isn't that experience?
Let me digress for a moment. When I was 18 years old, I went to work in a 7up factory in Flint, Michigan. It was my first "real" job, and I of course had to start at the bottom of the ladder, as a general warehouse laborer. Except for a three year stint in the Army, it was the only job I had for nearly 20 years. In that time, I worked very hard, and eventually made it to supervisor of both the Quality Assurance and Maintenance departments. Anyone who has worked in a factory knows that it is not easy. Wait, I need to clarify that: It is not easy to do the same job, day after day after day for 20 years. Being tied to a machine or even supervising those tied to machines is a living hell. Some people do it for an entire career, operating the same machine every single day of their working lives, and good for them for being able to stand it. There's no doubt that I made decent money, but the sheer ennui of the job felt like very slow suicide, not to mention a waste of my life.
I applied for a managerial position, but was told I could not advance any farther because I did not have a college education. Fair enough. I took three years off and, by virtue of my hard work, finally earned a degree (University of Michigan). And now, firmly set in middle age, I cannot find a job writing, because I "have no experience". I have been around the world (thanks to the Army), and I have seen things that most people will never see, done things most will never do, and, crazy as it sounds, I remember it all. I have worked on both sides of a union, I have worked on farms, I have stood guard in the one of the most inhospitable places on the earth, I have even worked on a garbage truck (that's another essay). I have made presentations to boardroom executives and interviewed janitors to make sure I was able to produce training manuals that all audiences could understand, yet I do not have enough experience to write marketing material. How hard can it be?
I suppose the main point I'm trying to get across is this: Do not assume that a college degree is a ticket to an enjoyable, well paying job. I made that mistake, and I would save others that pain if I can. I often find myself wishing I had never gone to school, that I had stayed in the factory and relied heavily on alcohol to keep me from remembering that a monkey could do my job. No matter how bad it was, it was better than trying to convince a twenty-something job recruiter that experience, especially as it relates to writing is gained not only through work but life as well.
12 March 2007
Abducted Infants and Missing Editors
I have company, so I'll be brief. I have seen the film of the woman who abducted an infant in Lubbock, Texas. As it happened, every time I saw the tape, I was in a place where I could see a television, but couldn't hear the sound. The main points of the story were clear though; an infant was taken. Today, on a whim, I checked the status of the story, and saw that the baby has been found, and arrangements are being made to return it to the parents. The title of this short essay is a link to the story as reported from News 8 in Austin, Texas. Notice the last sentence of the story. Apparently, both the hospital staff and the channel 8 news team are asleep at the wheel and need to be alerted before any more damage is done.
02 March 2007
TV Wasteland Vol. 1
I've tried to start this essay several times, but I kept getting hung up on the first line. Now that I don't have that to worry about any longer, I can go right to it. I try not to watch too much television. For starters, it's way too expensive, and, in my opinion, there's just not that much quality programming. There are, however, a few shows that I will watch, and maybe one day I'll let that slip here. But this installment (the first in what I hope will be a series) has to do with commercials. There are good ones and bad ones, and in deference to those in advertising, they caught my attention, so they're doing their job. Some make me laugh, and some make me angry, but almost none of them make me want to buy the product. As I watch them, I always wonder how much thought went into them, and I imagine a boardroom where the advertisement has been screened, and then given the green light to air. I wish I could be there at some screenings to either laud them for their insight and creativity, or excoriate them for pandering to fear or worse, portraying inappropriate behavior as normal.
I have a friend who thinks I read way too much into commercials, but I think he's not taking into account how much time and money goes into advertising. Billions of dollars go into advertising, and comprehensive research is conducted to precisely identify the myriad audiences of consumers. It's perhaps the biggest overhead any company has, and, as far as I know, entities that spend billions of dollars expect results. Some, I think, are right on the mark as far as having a finger on the pulse of the purchasing public. Others, however, would do better if they would just send me a few million dollars, and for that money, I would make sure that their plea to buy would be heard by an adoring audience. How would I do that? I'd make sure that whoever was making my ads knew and understood their audience.
The Good: Verizon Wireless
In this advert (for my UK readers), an everyday husband and wife are seated in a rather 50s-ish kitchen when their teenage daughter strolls through. The father asks her if she's going to meet a friend later, and the daughter, completely straight faced, says, "I don't know...let me call her", and proceeds to pantomime a phone with her thumb and pinky. She begins "talking", in a completely unsarcastic manner that positively screams sarcasm. The camera cuts to the father, who is staring at her as if she's unbalanced. We can plainly see that she wants a cell phone. We quickly change scenes, to a different room, with the daughter still talking on her imaginary phone in the background; the father's face is in the foreground so we can see his consternation. The daughter, carrying on her "conversation", says, "Hold on...there's someone on my other line", and she then pops her forefinger out and says, "Hello?" The expression on the father's face is priceless.
The entire mood of this commercial is relaxed, in that it doesn't overtly beg the consumer to buy for a full 30 seconds. (There are lapses within the commercial that do that, but I'm just concentrating on the acting part of it.) There is not a parent in this country who would not immediately identify with the interaction between the parents and the child. It is clever and (as much as I hate the word), cute. The daughter is clearly sending a message that she knows her father can't ignore, but she is not rude or disrespectful. The father is a stereotypical, eyes-rolling parent of a teenage daughter who more than likely will give in. This commercial has that rare ability to be very funny without seeming like it's trying to be. If only some of the tripe that passes for comedy between the commercials would pick up on that, maybe television would be a better place.
The Bad: KFC
In this one, a teenage boy of about 13 is on the phone to his mother from a friend's house. He tells her where he is, and wants to know if he can stay for dinner, anxiously adding that the friend's parents are home (the friend's mom is in the background, placing a bucket of chicken on the counter). We don't hear what the boy's mother says, but he is obviously more than a little disappointed as he huffs just a bit and rolls his eyes. He then turns to the friend's mom and fairly whines, "She doesn't believe me". Friend's mom takes the phone, and inquires, "Carol?", so we know they know each other on a first name basis. Friend's mom reiterates the boy's story, saying that they are all there, and it's OK if the boy stays. As she does this, though, she is putting her arm around the boy and, presumably steering him toward the dining area, looks at him as if to say, "What the hell is wrong with your paranoid mother? Sheesh!" The boy smirks back at her with a look of agreement.
I had to think for a little while before I could put my finger on what was wrong with this commercial, and it finally dawned on me that chicken was the last thing on my mind after seeing it. I was much more drawn to the fact that the friend's mom was polite on the phone while making faces and pretty much mocking the other mom in full view of the son, who, by expression, agreed. I couldn't help but picture the unseen mother as the crazy lady in the neighborhood. It's as if the friend's mom was doing the poor boy a favor by keeping him away from his own home; life is much better at theirs. Oh, and they have KFC too. Friend mom is far too busy secretly mocking those who trust her to cook something herself. This one left a bad taste in my mouth.
The Ugly: Quizno's
This one is a re-hash of an earlier campaign to showcase the difference in the amount of meat between a Quizno's sub and a Subway one. The guy who says, "Prime rib...it's the uber meat" just set the dork acceptance movement back 30 years. I had a real beef with this one.
For as prevalent as commercials are, I can't find links to specific ones on the internet, or I would most certainly provide them. If anyone can find them, please let me know and I will post them. I would be remiss if I didn't say how much I like the Geico caveman ad campaign; it wouldn't surprise me if it spins into a series. And if you think I read too much into commercials, run a Google search on "geico caveman racist". Lotsa fun stuff there.
I have a friend who thinks I read way too much into commercials, but I think he's not taking into account how much time and money goes into advertising. Billions of dollars go into advertising, and comprehensive research is conducted to precisely identify the myriad audiences of consumers. It's perhaps the biggest overhead any company has, and, as far as I know, entities that spend billions of dollars expect results. Some, I think, are right on the mark as far as having a finger on the pulse of the purchasing public. Others, however, would do better if they would just send me a few million dollars, and for that money, I would make sure that their plea to buy would be heard by an adoring audience. How would I do that? I'd make sure that whoever was making my ads knew and understood their audience.
The Good: Verizon Wireless
In this advert (for my UK readers), an everyday husband and wife are seated in a rather 50s-ish kitchen when their teenage daughter strolls through. The father asks her if she's going to meet a friend later, and the daughter, completely straight faced, says, "I don't know...let me call her", and proceeds to pantomime a phone with her thumb and pinky. She begins "talking", in a completely unsarcastic manner that positively screams sarcasm. The camera cuts to the father, who is staring at her as if she's unbalanced. We can plainly see that she wants a cell phone. We quickly change scenes, to a different room, with the daughter still talking on her imaginary phone in the background; the father's face is in the foreground so we can see his consternation. The daughter, carrying on her "conversation", says, "Hold on...there's someone on my other line", and she then pops her forefinger out and says, "Hello?" The expression on the father's face is priceless.
The entire mood of this commercial is relaxed, in that it doesn't overtly beg the consumer to buy for a full 30 seconds. (There are lapses within the commercial that do that, but I'm just concentrating on the acting part of it.) There is not a parent in this country who would not immediately identify with the interaction between the parents and the child. It is clever and (as much as I hate the word), cute. The daughter is clearly sending a message that she knows her father can't ignore, but she is not rude or disrespectful. The father is a stereotypical, eyes-rolling parent of a teenage daughter who more than likely will give in. This commercial has that rare ability to be very funny without seeming like it's trying to be. If only some of the tripe that passes for comedy between the commercials would pick up on that, maybe television would be a better place.
The Bad: KFC
In this one, a teenage boy of about 13 is on the phone to his mother from a friend's house. He tells her where he is, and wants to know if he can stay for dinner, anxiously adding that the friend's parents are home (the friend's mom is in the background, placing a bucket of chicken on the counter). We don't hear what the boy's mother says, but he is obviously more than a little disappointed as he huffs just a bit and rolls his eyes. He then turns to the friend's mom and fairly whines, "She doesn't believe me". Friend's mom takes the phone, and inquires, "Carol?", so we know they know each other on a first name basis. Friend's mom reiterates the boy's story, saying that they are all there, and it's OK if the boy stays. As she does this, though, she is putting her arm around the boy and, presumably steering him toward the dining area, looks at him as if to say, "What the hell is wrong with your paranoid mother? Sheesh!" The boy smirks back at her with a look of agreement.
I had to think for a little while before I could put my finger on what was wrong with this commercial, and it finally dawned on me that chicken was the last thing on my mind after seeing it. I was much more drawn to the fact that the friend's mom was polite on the phone while making faces and pretty much mocking the other mom in full view of the son, who, by expression, agreed. I couldn't help but picture the unseen mother as the crazy lady in the neighborhood. It's as if the friend's mom was doing the poor boy a favor by keeping him away from his own home; life is much better at theirs. Oh, and they have KFC too. Friend mom is far too busy secretly mocking those who trust her to cook something herself. This one left a bad taste in my mouth.
The Ugly: Quizno's
This one is a re-hash of an earlier campaign to showcase the difference in the amount of meat between a Quizno's sub and a Subway one. The guy who says, "Prime rib...it's the uber meat" just set the dork acceptance movement back 30 years. I had a real beef with this one.
For as prevalent as commercials are, I can't find links to specific ones on the internet, or I would most certainly provide them. If anyone can find them, please let me know and I will post them. I would be remiss if I didn't say how much I like the Geico caveman ad campaign; it wouldn't surprise me if it spins into a series. And if you think I read too much into commercials, run a Google search on "geico caveman racist". Lotsa fun stuff there.
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