(This letter was sent to the Secretary of the Army on July 25, 2008. As expected, there has been no reply. Why should the U.S. military be the least bit concerned today with affairs that went on several wars ago? Nevertheless, we consider it worthy of republication here for reader review and comment.)
INTRODUCTION AND RATIONALE
Composing this piece gives the writer an impression similar to that of affixing the needle to the appropriate starting place on an obsolete 78 rpm phonograph record. The subject matter amounts to little more than nearly-forgotten World War II history of a relatively insignificant nature in the global scheme. Nevertheless, despite the late date, so to speak, a fundamentally serious question remains open, at least in this fellow’s mind.
What we’re harking back to is the German counteroffensive attack in the Ardennes Sector, which began on December 16, 1944, and briefly threatened to neutralize or even negate what had required considerable effort by Allied troops starting even with D-Day.
That didn’t happen, of course, thanks to the courageous stand taken by the 101st Airborne Division at Bastogne, along with other units in the general vicinity. The war’s final push by the German High Command eventually ground to a screeching halt, due to intense bravery on the U.S. defenders’ part, fortunately aided by severe equipment, vehicle fuel, and supplies shortages which hampered the desperation-ridden attackers.
The enemy’s master plan had envisioned an overwhelming breakthrough, leading its forces deeply into Belgium, from whence mastery of the situation could be regained. As a matter of fact, German rank-and-file troops had been thoroughly imbued with the idea that such counterattack would take them right on to New York.
This particular “Battle of the Bulge” has since been enshrined in U.S. military history as a monumental effort on behalf of the American GI. As Abraham Lincoln said following the action at Gettysburg, “It is altogether fitting and proper that we do this”. However, there is far more to the story.
A reasonable amount of credit was heaped upon the 106th Infantry Division for delaying the German offensive long enough to enable the 101st Airborne and other forces to regroup and finally stop the advance cold. Still, what has been completely overlooked is the buildup process that amounts to a highly significant betrayal to a microcosmic group of American youths in their earliest full manhood years. In this fellow’s humble opinion, the U.S. Army had given thousands of us an extremely dirty deal, with the result to be forever covered up by exaggerated glorification for supposed line-holding efforts.
As a lowly dogface non-com within the ill-fated 106th Division, this writer found himself trapped and surrounded in the center of the fracas which took place between December 16 and 19, while the German advance was beginning to appear unstoppable. His potentially useful service to the cause abruptly ended, through capture and prison encampment for nearly four months, along with an extremely huge host of comrades-in-arms.
BACKGROUND
It’s necessary at this point to backtrack to 1943.
With the possible exception of any lad unusually big for his age who may have accordingly lied and joined up no later than during the war’s closing month of August 1945, a fellow would presently have to be at least in his early eighties. By now, therefore, natural forces have relegated those of us to distinct minority status, losing more and more members each day. However, this certainly shouldn’t preclude the right to expound upon the basic theme of this work – how we were betrayed by a government we’d sworn to uphold, but under specifically established pre-conditions.
During the earlier war years, the U.S. Navy launched two ambitious programs available to students nearing high school graduation. One bore the label V-5 and related to the air sector of said branch. The other became known as V-12, pertaining only to high sea service. Those academically qualified would be eligible following enlistment and boot camp for advanced educational training at any number of contracted colleges or universities.
Not to be outdone by its service rival, the Army similarly adopted ASTP, standing for Army Specialized Training Program, whereby the same conditions would apply as to Navy V-5 and V-12 selectees. At some time not later than in 1943, the plan got underway, with qualified enlistees or draftees bundled off to various classrooms, once basic infantry school training had been completed.
The irony of the situation is that a high school senior interested in signing up for either program had a single-word decision to utter. He would be asked simply “Army or Navy?”. Any fellow opting in the first instance would eventually find himself completely betrayed. As for the smarter ones who chose the sea instead, they’d be allowed to spend some of their coming service years “hitting the books”, provided their grade levels remained satisfactory. Not a bad deal in the latter case, but a mighty bum one for the lads who preferred to join the ground forces.
VIEW FROM A PERSONAL STANDPOINT
From here onward, prime focus will be placed on the writer’s direct experiences, leading up to the major betrayal and its resultant effect on so many lives, both lost and somewhat damaged to varying degrees.
After naïvely signing up for such potential added schooling at government expense, but employing the fatefully selected word “army”, this eighteen-year old lad went through the enlistment routine and was inducted in early January 1944. He successfully passed the qualification tests administered by the Fort Thomas, Kentucky reception center, and February found him at Fort Benning, Georgia, renowned as the infantry school, to undergo the rigorous training carried out on behalf of said service.
The scheduled indoctrination period isn’t remembered, but probably would have run for several months, after which he could become Joe College, perhaps for the war’s full duration.
However, the fighting on all fronts had reached a pretty sad state by early 1944. Hitherto 4-Fs were being upgraded to 1-As in relatively wholesale lots, since battle casualties had taken a significant toll. In the plainest of terms, the U.S. Army found itself in severe need of “cannon fodder”, to fill altogether too many gaping front-line combat holes. Apparently then, the proverbial light bulb flashed above the heads of numerous high-ranking military individuals, as well as the civilians who direct their actions from Washington. Why not cancel those college classroom deals and shove all the kids into active duty?
What difference did it make that so many young lads held well-above-average academic qualifications? Heavens, wouldn’t they be more valuable to their country up there facing enemy artillery fire or bayonet charges? Virtually overnight, the entire attitude toward these student-soldiers became reversed.
And so it came to pass that all textbooks had to be turned in, to be replaced by rifles and hand grenades. Every single lad theretofore enjoying collegiate life was promptly shipped off to an infantry unit somewhere in the country. After all, that’s how they’d been trained, right?
Now, what about the others who hadn’t yet completed their basic training, of which there were many, including this writer? The answer was quite sample. Cut the program short and send them straight to camp too.
Consequently, this eighteen-year old’s training at Fort Benning promptly ceased after approximately two months, along with the same fate for everyone else there. The group, which numbered in the hundreds was dispatched to three locations. The small handful of black soldiers on the site were assigned to the 92nd Infantry Division, an all-negro unit (except for white officers) at Camp Polk, Louisana. The rest were sent either to Fort Bragg, North Carolina or Camp Atterbury, Indiana. The writer fell into this last-mentioned crew.
Our arrival at Camp Atterbury, a short bus ride from downtown Indianapolis, took place only a few days following the 106th Infantry Division’s having finished taking part in Tennessee Maneuvers. They formed a pretty bedraggled-appearing bunch as a result of the ordeal. Since this outfit had been formed only about a year before at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, it was already pretty green, to be supplemented by numerous 18-20 year-olds of a distinctly greener hue.
We thus formed what was certainly the Army’s newest division in point of historical service – at zero level, to be precise.
Over the months from March to October, our newly-blended unit underwent additional training, including a few maneuver-type exercises, but was certainly far from what could be called a crack outfit. Perhaps battle experience would eventually harden us.
As it happened, such supposed proving ground didn’t lie far off. The generals overseas were yelling for warm bodies to fill the rapidly-depleting front ranks. So, on October 7, 1944, we marched off to trains headed for Camp Myles Standish, Massachusetts, our Port of Embarkation. Then came New York Harbor, HMS Queen Elizabeth “her very self”, and a five-day ocean jaunt to Clydebank, Scotland.
From there we entrained to Central England, where we were lodged in or near various small- or medium-sized towns. Our company found itself just outside of Cheltenham, on a leased civilian estate known as Sandywell Park. The officers were housed in the rather spacious residence, and temporary barracks had been built for us doggies.
Our stay at Sandywell Park included a few lengthy hikes and exercises, in an effort to toughen us up, and the result seemed fairly satisfactory. Many of us managed to develop endurance skills not apparent before. Still, it’s doubtful that we’d yet reached a stage of battle hardiness.
As mid-December approached, our next outward move led to Southampton and an LCT voyage across the English Channel. This proved to be a rather disastrous journey, however, due to such mishaps as losing an anchor and other difficulties. As a result, we were seriously delayed in arriving at Le Havre, France.
Since we were so late, orders from higher up had been given to get us across France and Belgium with all deliberate speed by motorized convoy. This fellow’s transport means was by jeep, being a radio squad driver.
PRELUDE TO COMBAT ACTION
After a single-night bivouac in snow-covered Belgian fields, we finally moved into the German Army’s Siegfried Line pillboxes on December 10, relieving the 2nd Infantry Division, the hitherto conquering occupants. We were just six days away from the fateful battle.
Enemy patrols were exploring our sector night after night, and no evening could be considered complete without a hefty German artillery barrage. We all grew very antsy, however.
Returning now to the larger picture, as already discussed, the German High Command had methodically laid out a monstrous frontal counteroffensive attack, intended to mow us down and allow them to proceed hastily onward to Antwerp, Brussels, and other Belgium areas.
The facts of the case were these:
· The enemy knew we were a green outfit, and fully expected to run us into the ground –
which they readily managed to do;
· We were short of heavy weapons ammunition, medical supplies, combat rations, and
winter outerwear;
· Our sector spanned an approximate 21-mile hilly-terrain front, which was far greater than
standard operating procedure for the U.S. Army;
· The terrain was not conducive to needed tank support;
· The sky was heavily overcast, offering us no possibility of air support.
In summary, we were dead ducks and didn’t know it, except at the upper command levels. The more gruesome factor is that our unit’s average age was 22 years – consisting largely of kids who’d either been yanked out of college classrooms or had their essential training curtailed in order to load up the battlefront with whatever persons could be mustered.
No matter how you slice it, our division was offered up as a sacrifice. No counteroffensive of such magnitude ever goes unanticipated. You can read official reports from some quarters to the effect that the enemy “surprised” us. That is mere Army window-dressing bunk.
BATTLE RESULTS
We did our best, launching offensives of our own here and there, but with little effect. Our particular company quickly fell into isolated small units, each having their own skirmishing experiences, which would become interesting conversation topics during our prison camp days which lay just ahead.
As casualties go, the killed and wounded rates were relatively low. On the other hand, we were forced to surrender in droves. This writer’s capture took place as a member of a large group, including our regimental commander, in early evening on December 19, 1944. Thousands of us were force marched and/or entrained further into the German interior until finally arriving in prison camps.
PRISON CAMP LIFE AND AFTERMATH
There seems to be little need to dwell on our internment days. They were a challenge for survival in the face of hunger, illness, and exposure to the elements. Not everyone succeeded in staying alive throughout the ordeal, and that included numerous lads in their early twenties. It shouldn’t go without mention, however, that during the four-month internment period with severe food and supplies inadequacy, the main body of American POWs exhibited spoiled brat tendencies, inconsideration for their comrades in general, and outright food and other thievery within the ranks. The frightful behavior example they set proved incomprehensible even to our German captors. The British and other empire nation forces, with which we had become merged, earned far greater respect.
Our camp near Fallingbostel was liberated by the British 7th Armored Division on the morning of April 16, 1945.
Once back in allied hands, the U.S. Army couldn’t have been nicer while attending to our every medical, dietary, and other personal need, with haste being the order of the day for getting us safely home again. This, however, certainly falls short of compensating for the betrayal leveled on so many lads in their early youth – especially those either unable to make the return trip to U.S. shores, or else leaving a limb or two behind.
Perhaps a groundswell of resentment should have built up in the years immediately following war’s end. As we’re all fully aware, no such event took place. Just being able to return fully or partially intact and get on with one’s life seemed to offer adequate satisfaction, at least insofar as this writer’s memory best serves. Nevertheless, utter and wanton betrayal can be difficult to forget, albeit many decades later.
Still, what about the other side of the coin, namely the post-war benefits accorded to those who survived the ordeal unfairly foisted on us? It’s true, the government gave the writer four years of free advanced education at his own chosen institution and curriculum. Many other duly betrayed victims received the same. It would be illogical to completely ignore such compensatory treatment. However, did the dollars and cents expended on our educational behalf balance out the effect the combat and prison camp ordeal had had on our ensuing personal lives? I think not.
We were all psychologically damaged in some manner and to varying degrees. Many of us altered our approaches to life, careers, and otherwise, not necessarily for the better, which is at least partially attributable to the enormous betrayal we suffered from.
It’s true that we were engaged in a monstrous war, and everyone had to make sacrifices, but this doesn’t excuse the Army from having acted most irresponsibly when it closed down the AST Program. The heaviest burden, of course, was borne by those who didn’t return safely or in one piece.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
DAVID KOUVEK'S SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD
MAN-MADE
1. The Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
2. The Taj Mahal
3. Madame Tussaud's
4. The Louvre
5. Stonehenge
6. The Leaning Tower of Pisa
7. Disneyland, California
GOD-MADE
1. Mt. Fujiyama
2. Mt. Kilimanjaro
3. Niagara Falls
4. The Midnight Sun
5. The Alps
6. The Canadian Rockies
7. The Scottish Highlands
1. The Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
2. The Taj Mahal
3. Madame Tussaud's
4. The Louvre
5. Stonehenge
6. The Leaning Tower of Pisa
7. Disneyland, California
GOD-MADE
1. Mt. Fujiyama
2. Mt. Kilimanjaro
3. Niagara Falls
4. The Midnight Sun
5. The Alps
6. The Canadian Rockies
7. The Scottish Highlands
BLUENOSINOUS -- A NEARLY OBSOLESCENT PUBLIC CAUSE
A good many memorable events took place throughout the 1930s, undoubtedly the most prominent dealing with Hitler’s and Stalin’s rapid rise to power, all of which eventually kicked off the long-anticipated second world war. Devastating though they were, this writer’s recollections still focus on numerous matters of considerably lesser world-shaking effect, yet significant in certain respects. The actual theme of this piece is show business, mainly films, radio broadcasting, and popular music.
We probably wouldn’t be far wrong in labeling the 1930s as the Decade of Bluenose Reign. Perhaps the same breed of people who had previously equated National Prohibition with excellence ten years earlier were now carrying on to the fullest extent feasible by imposing severe censorship and other controls on the entertainment industry. Wherever legal restrictions couldn’t prevail, the capability remained of expressing widespread consternation over apparent flagrancy from the moral corruption standpoint. We can readily cite several outstanding examples.
On December 12, 1937, a regular Sunday afternoon radio show sponsored by Chase and Sanborn, one of the era’s leading coffee producers, featured a brief dramacomedy skit where Don Ameche and Mae West – the latter being the raciest double-entendre female exponent of her time – portrayed Adam and Eve’s legendary submission to the serpent’s proferred apple.
This writer, then but a towheaded youth, heard this particular broadcast, reflecting the famous Westian heavily exaggerated “come hither” delivery style, which came across as sheer harmless cornballia. However, no more than a day later a loudish coast-to-coast hue and cry arose over the excessive vulgarity, suggestiveness, blasphemy, and whatever else seemed fitting. The lady, if we may be so blatantly presumptuous in using such term for her, was accordingly banned from radio, not to return until twelve years later. We’ve been personally asking why ever since, more than seven decades afterward. There seemed to be so little to get excited about, other than a couple of her typical borderline remarks.
Those, however, were power-wielding days for the bluenosed gentry. The slightest word or deed coming remotely close to supposed immorality would be subject to virtually explosive reaction.
In that same year of 1937, a rising popular music world star named Maxine Sullivan turned out an immediate hit record, singing Loch Lomond to more than the customary semi-gloomy lugubrious beat. Wow! Did this ever give our bluenose friends an open opportunity to condemn the girl’s “swinging of an old favorite”! Having quite recently acquired a latter-day copy of that very number on CD, the writer finds it sounding absolutely normal, really more conservative in tempo than many lyrical outpourings we’re forced to endure today. Once again, though, the do-gooders had chosen to make a mountain out of a molehill for reasons of so-called sanctity.
Oddly enough, the pace of Miss Sullivan’s 1937 recording was identical to that churned out one year later by Martha Tilton, who sang the same tune at Benny Goodman’s fabled Carnegie Hall Concert. We recall no comparable shouts from the cheaper seats at that time. The bluenoses had evidently cooled down.
Not much, however. Among 1938’s “jazz band” output was Larry Clinton’s orchestral presentation, wherein romantic lyrics had been written and sung to Debussy’s Reverie. “Horrors!”, came the shouts. “Now they’re swinging the classics! How offensive can things become?”
Happily for Clinton, his vocalized My Reverie became a big hit, in spite of the snorts and yelps. Listening to the very original rendition today remains a pleasure.
Moreover, that number seems to have set the stage for a minor trend, as works initially composed by the “Old Masters” came to be either lyricized or played in a bouncy manner. This practice continued for many years, and the most fortunate related aspect is that we remember no outcry over Woody Herman’s Woodchoppers’ Ball (Quartet from Rigoletto), Les Brown’s Marche Slav (Tchaikovsky) or Bizet Has His Day (L’Arlesienne Suite) or Mozart Matriculates, plus various classical themes with complementary vocal wording.
Also in 1938, the Andrews Sisters added another big seller to their list, belting out idiotic lyrics to a forgettable tune called Hold Tight. No opposition arose to the song, inane as it happened to be, until the “beloved” Walter Winchell reported that the words “foo-ra-de-acka-saki” which it contained meant something vulgar in Swahili. So what was the result? The bluenoses succeeded in having the song taken off the air, unless the “dirty” stuff was substituted for. Good Lord!
Famed bandleader Jan Savitt recorded a song about that same time entitled WPA, whose lyrics were judged to be disparaging (as they truly were) to that governmental body created to help ease the severity of the Great Depression’s unemployment problem. For such stated reason and no other, the disc was completely suppressed from further production or radio playing, the U.S. Constitution notwithstanding.
Jumping now to the movie industry, people the world over can promptly identify with the heroic icon John Wayne. It happens that the film which catapulted him to fame and fortune was Stagecoach, released in 1939. The story depicted a trek by such a passenger vehicle through hostile country with, naturally, a redskin onslaught woven into the script to accompany the other usual western boiler plate.
What chiefly stands out in this at-the-moment young lad’s recollection was not the Duke’s spectacular hurling himself onto the fear-laden team of horses pulling the stagecoach, thus helping avoid a disastrous runaway amid the Comanche or whatever attack. Instead, it was having one of the female characters being roughly 8.99 months pregnant in the opening scenes, but with a stomach as flat as a pancake. That’s right, the bluenose rules of propriety permitted bulging bellies only for aging male actors overly indulgent as eaters or beer-consumers.
Another early scene in that same production showed Thomas Mitchell playing the town drunk role, whose impending permanent departure from the town stagecoachwise featured him about to raise both hands to thumb his nose farewell at the assembled do-gooder lady standers-by. Since this gesture is alleged to convey the message, as they say in Spanish, “Besa mi culo”, it could not be fully carried out on the silver screen, so the camera had to switch immediately to the shocked expressions on the offended women’s faces. To quote the classic little boy Charlie Brown on this score, we have to say “Good grief!”
Those were also moviedom days when couples playing husband and wife roles, a common scene back then, had to be filmed sleeping in twin beds, with full pajama sets on the male and floor length, high-cut nightgowns adorning the missus.
The earliest of the Weissmuller-Sullivan Tarzanesque flicks had both Johnny and Maureen sporting costumes so brief, especially for the feminine mate, that the viewer could see just about everything except Trafalgar Square. From there on, in that and any other King of the Jungle series’, the heroine’s garb was forced take on a relatively more Whistler’s Mother appearance.
Doesn’t this all amount to frightening hypocrisy, especially when MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer owned a Hollywood brothel, which his male stars were virtually commanded to frequent, purportedly to avoid forbidden interstellar “sackbound” affairs with the fairer sex – which it most certainly never did?
We’ll now cease our delving into the 1930s age mockery by jumping to the 1972 Italian-produced film with a middle-aged Brando’s Last Tango in Paris lead role, offering absolutely no plot other than one bordering on unadulterated pornography. Ironically, that was the same year when Marvelous Marlon mumbled his way into Oscar entitlement and tinseltown immortality as Vito Corleone in The Godfather.
The sole point we’re endeavoring to establish in the above paragraph is “Look how disastrously the bluenose doctrines collapsed between the 1930s and 1972!” By then, and even more so today, our vanquished friends must have slowly sunk into a state of chronic near-regurgitational trauma. God bless them, everyone.
Looking back upon earlier days once more, the skies did manage to continue their brightness a little over Bluenoseville for a short while. We remember how, during the late 1940s post-war years, the well-known group singalong number Beer Barrel Polka could only be played over the sacrosanct radio waves with the announced title restricted to its last two words. Specific reference to that terrible hops and barley beverage had become a no-no.
That was the same age during which film stars Rita Hayworth and Ingrid Bergman were branded with outright condemnation for having given birth to children without benefit of clergy, the bluenose euphemism for the dirty word illegitimacy. To say that overall public opinions have since changed can only be the grossest of understatements.
1948 as well saw Frank Sinatra having done something typically offensive to the prevailing false morality codes (we can’t remember exactly what any longer), and thus judged unfit to be cast as a priest in the movie Miracle of the Bells. However, he did play the role, and with reasonable adequacy.
Never allowing itself to die completely, the omnipresent Bluenose Brigade still had enough breath left to criticize Jimmy Stewart, Lee Remick, et al for appearing in the now classic 1959 Anatomy of a Murder, because the plot focused on such tsk tsk unmentionable matters as rape, sexual climax, and other non-niceties we’re supposed to omit from public conversation.
About all we can add in closing is the question as to how the bluenose folk might be faring today, at least in light of the film industry’s prevalent focusing on “between-the-sheets” scenes, supplemented by frequent once totally forbidden dialogue use. Have they resorted to donning blindfolds and earplugs, so as to hide in the sand, or simply limited their attendance to Disney productions? Perhaps they indeed deserve the heartfelt sympathy of us more liberal-minded types.
However, even though our social feeling has progressed in giant strides from 1930ish until now, have we perhaps advanced just a bit too far? To what extent should the rubber band be allowed to stretch? Maybe the never-ceasing-yet-drastically-decaying do-gooder crusade did and does possess some degree of merit.
We probably wouldn’t be far wrong in labeling the 1930s as the Decade of Bluenose Reign. Perhaps the same breed of people who had previously equated National Prohibition with excellence ten years earlier were now carrying on to the fullest extent feasible by imposing severe censorship and other controls on the entertainment industry. Wherever legal restrictions couldn’t prevail, the capability remained of expressing widespread consternation over apparent flagrancy from the moral corruption standpoint. We can readily cite several outstanding examples.
On December 12, 1937, a regular Sunday afternoon radio show sponsored by Chase and Sanborn, one of the era’s leading coffee producers, featured a brief dramacomedy skit where Don Ameche and Mae West – the latter being the raciest double-entendre female exponent of her time – portrayed Adam and Eve’s legendary submission to the serpent’s proferred apple.
This writer, then but a towheaded youth, heard this particular broadcast, reflecting the famous Westian heavily exaggerated “come hither” delivery style, which came across as sheer harmless cornballia. However, no more than a day later a loudish coast-to-coast hue and cry arose over the excessive vulgarity, suggestiveness, blasphemy, and whatever else seemed fitting. The lady, if we may be so blatantly presumptuous in using such term for her, was accordingly banned from radio, not to return until twelve years later. We’ve been personally asking why ever since, more than seven decades afterward. There seemed to be so little to get excited about, other than a couple of her typical borderline remarks.
Those, however, were power-wielding days for the bluenosed gentry. The slightest word or deed coming remotely close to supposed immorality would be subject to virtually explosive reaction.
In that same year of 1937, a rising popular music world star named Maxine Sullivan turned out an immediate hit record, singing Loch Lomond to more than the customary semi-gloomy lugubrious beat. Wow! Did this ever give our bluenose friends an open opportunity to condemn the girl’s “swinging of an old favorite”! Having quite recently acquired a latter-day copy of that very number on CD, the writer finds it sounding absolutely normal, really more conservative in tempo than many lyrical outpourings we’re forced to endure today. Once again, though, the do-gooders had chosen to make a mountain out of a molehill for reasons of so-called sanctity.
Oddly enough, the pace of Miss Sullivan’s 1937 recording was identical to that churned out one year later by Martha Tilton, who sang the same tune at Benny Goodman’s fabled Carnegie Hall Concert. We recall no comparable shouts from the cheaper seats at that time. The bluenoses had evidently cooled down.
Not much, however. Among 1938’s “jazz band” output was Larry Clinton’s orchestral presentation, wherein romantic lyrics had been written and sung to Debussy’s Reverie. “Horrors!”, came the shouts. “Now they’re swinging the classics! How offensive can things become?”
Happily for Clinton, his vocalized My Reverie became a big hit, in spite of the snorts and yelps. Listening to the very original rendition today remains a pleasure.
Moreover, that number seems to have set the stage for a minor trend, as works initially composed by the “Old Masters” came to be either lyricized or played in a bouncy manner. This practice continued for many years, and the most fortunate related aspect is that we remember no outcry over Woody Herman’s Woodchoppers’ Ball (Quartet from Rigoletto), Les Brown’s Marche Slav (Tchaikovsky) or Bizet Has His Day (L’Arlesienne Suite) or Mozart Matriculates, plus various classical themes with complementary vocal wording.
Also in 1938, the Andrews Sisters added another big seller to their list, belting out idiotic lyrics to a forgettable tune called Hold Tight. No opposition arose to the song, inane as it happened to be, until the “beloved” Walter Winchell reported that the words “foo-ra-de-acka-saki” which it contained meant something vulgar in Swahili. So what was the result? The bluenoses succeeded in having the song taken off the air, unless the “dirty” stuff was substituted for. Good Lord!
Famed bandleader Jan Savitt recorded a song about that same time entitled WPA, whose lyrics were judged to be disparaging (as they truly were) to that governmental body created to help ease the severity of the Great Depression’s unemployment problem. For such stated reason and no other, the disc was completely suppressed from further production or radio playing, the U.S. Constitution notwithstanding.
Jumping now to the movie industry, people the world over can promptly identify with the heroic icon John Wayne. It happens that the film which catapulted him to fame and fortune was Stagecoach, released in 1939. The story depicted a trek by such a passenger vehicle through hostile country with, naturally, a redskin onslaught woven into the script to accompany the other usual western boiler plate.
What chiefly stands out in this at-the-moment young lad’s recollection was not the Duke’s spectacular hurling himself onto the fear-laden team of horses pulling the stagecoach, thus helping avoid a disastrous runaway amid the Comanche or whatever attack. Instead, it was having one of the female characters being roughly 8.99 months pregnant in the opening scenes, but with a stomach as flat as a pancake. That’s right, the bluenose rules of propriety permitted bulging bellies only for aging male actors overly indulgent as eaters or beer-consumers.
Another early scene in that same production showed Thomas Mitchell playing the town drunk role, whose impending permanent departure from the town stagecoachwise featured him about to raise both hands to thumb his nose farewell at the assembled do-gooder lady standers-by. Since this gesture is alleged to convey the message, as they say in Spanish, “Besa mi culo”, it could not be fully carried out on the silver screen, so the camera had to switch immediately to the shocked expressions on the offended women’s faces. To quote the classic little boy Charlie Brown on this score, we have to say “Good grief!”
Those were also moviedom days when couples playing husband and wife roles, a common scene back then, had to be filmed sleeping in twin beds, with full pajama sets on the male and floor length, high-cut nightgowns adorning the missus.
The earliest of the Weissmuller-Sullivan Tarzanesque flicks had both Johnny and Maureen sporting costumes so brief, especially for the feminine mate, that the viewer could see just about everything except Trafalgar Square. From there on, in that and any other King of the Jungle series’, the heroine’s garb was forced take on a relatively more Whistler’s Mother appearance.
Doesn’t this all amount to frightening hypocrisy, especially when MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer owned a Hollywood brothel, which his male stars were virtually commanded to frequent, purportedly to avoid forbidden interstellar “sackbound” affairs with the fairer sex – which it most certainly never did?
We’ll now cease our delving into the 1930s age mockery by jumping to the 1972 Italian-produced film with a middle-aged Brando’s Last Tango in Paris lead role, offering absolutely no plot other than one bordering on unadulterated pornography. Ironically, that was the same year when Marvelous Marlon mumbled his way into Oscar entitlement and tinseltown immortality as Vito Corleone in The Godfather.
The sole point we’re endeavoring to establish in the above paragraph is “Look how disastrously the bluenose doctrines collapsed between the 1930s and 1972!” By then, and even more so today, our vanquished friends must have slowly sunk into a state of chronic near-regurgitational trauma. God bless them, everyone.
Looking back upon earlier days once more, the skies did manage to continue their brightness a little over Bluenoseville for a short while. We remember how, during the late 1940s post-war years, the well-known group singalong number Beer Barrel Polka could only be played over the sacrosanct radio waves with the announced title restricted to its last two words. Specific reference to that terrible hops and barley beverage had become a no-no.
That was the same age during which film stars Rita Hayworth and Ingrid Bergman were branded with outright condemnation for having given birth to children without benefit of clergy, the bluenose euphemism for the dirty word illegitimacy. To say that overall public opinions have since changed can only be the grossest of understatements.
1948 as well saw Frank Sinatra having done something typically offensive to the prevailing false morality codes (we can’t remember exactly what any longer), and thus judged unfit to be cast as a priest in the movie Miracle of the Bells. However, he did play the role, and with reasonable adequacy.
Never allowing itself to die completely, the omnipresent Bluenose Brigade still had enough breath left to criticize Jimmy Stewart, Lee Remick, et al for appearing in the now classic 1959 Anatomy of a Murder, because the plot focused on such tsk tsk unmentionable matters as rape, sexual climax, and other non-niceties we’re supposed to omit from public conversation.
About all we can add in closing is the question as to how the bluenose folk might be faring today, at least in light of the film industry’s prevalent focusing on “between-the-sheets” scenes, supplemented by frequent once totally forbidden dialogue use. Have they resorted to donning blindfolds and earplugs, so as to hide in the sand, or simply limited their attendance to Disney productions? Perhaps they indeed deserve the heartfelt sympathy of us more liberal-minded types.
However, even though our social feeling has progressed in giant strides from 1930ish until now, have we perhaps advanced just a bit too far? To what extent should the rubber band be allowed to stretch? Maybe the never-ceasing-yet-drastically-decaying do-gooder crusade did and does possess some degree of merit.
THE LEFTIST KID
Years ago, when the writer was a staff member for a well-known professional services firm, every autumn featured in influx of recruits from various universities within and beyond the immediate area. Consequently, a good deal of semi-idle office time would always be devoted to getting acquainted with new fellow workers.
One such recruit, who is still rather well remembered, quickly became labeled as a “veering-to-the-left” type, which happened to be a rare breed in that sort of business environment. We’ll call him Raymond Burke for purposes of this piece, although only the first initials actually match. To offer a very slight hint, his real name was identical to that of a Detroit Lions and LA Rams defensive tackle from years back.
Since most of Raymond’s staff associates tended to lean toward the right in their political thinking, the general attitude was to write him off as more or less a joke. Still, among his fairly frequent opinionated outpourings, one remains vividly in the writer’s mind to this very day.
On the subject of major industrial companies falling into the supergiant class, he once stated somewhat emphatically that “bigness unto itself is evil”. In other words, only small business deserved respect. Everyone smirked at this, with the customary headshake that deemed the kid to be a real kook.
However, many decades later, following a period during which the writer found himself growing gradually more mature on numerous matters, that outspoken comment by young Raymond has never been forgotten. Nowadays, particularly in light of such affairs as Enron, AIG, Citibank, General Motors, and so many others in the news, the feeling clearly lingers to the effect that the fellow was absolutely right in his well-remembered observation. Perhaps this amounts to an overblown generalization, but we find it to have plenty of truth in principle.
One such recruit, who is still rather well remembered, quickly became labeled as a “veering-to-the-left” type, which happened to be a rare breed in that sort of business environment. We’ll call him Raymond Burke for purposes of this piece, although only the first initials actually match. To offer a very slight hint, his real name was identical to that of a Detroit Lions and LA Rams defensive tackle from years back.
Since most of Raymond’s staff associates tended to lean toward the right in their political thinking, the general attitude was to write him off as more or less a joke. Still, among his fairly frequent opinionated outpourings, one remains vividly in the writer’s mind to this very day.
On the subject of major industrial companies falling into the supergiant class, he once stated somewhat emphatically that “bigness unto itself is evil”. In other words, only small business deserved respect. Everyone smirked at this, with the customary headshake that deemed the kid to be a real kook.
However, many decades later, following a period during which the writer found himself growing gradually more mature on numerous matters, that outspoken comment by young Raymond has never been forgotten. Nowadays, particularly in light of such affairs as Enron, AIG, Citibank, General Motors, and so many others in the news, the feeling clearly lingers to the effect that the fellow was absolutely right in his well-remembered observation. Perhaps this amounts to an overblown generalization, but we find it to have plenty of truth in principle.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
THE TEN NO-NOS
One thing which has long seemed difficult to understand is why the "Official" Ten Commandments of the Christian faith are primarily stated in negative terms. From a mathematical standpoint, only 20% reflect a positive doctrine.
Is one therefore to presume that Christianity -- whose tentacles have spread from both the Old and the New Testaments -- is a negative religion? Certainly, the teachings of Jesus Christ don’t convey such impression. Quite the contrary, we'd have to say.
Nevertheless, the so-called hidebound fundamentals of the world's most dominant religious faith are still glibly quoted today, exhibiting the same negative tone in which they were originally handed to Moses.
Would it not be better to adopt a positive, not to mention sensible means for expressing such basic rules by which people are supposed to abide? In any event, a reasonable go at the effort is laid out below. You'll also find that the mere two that actually do accentuate the positive have been restated in a more practical way.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Accept God as the One Almighty Manifestion of yourself.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not make any graven image, or bow down yourself to them nor serve them.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Consider your God as absolute, Whose presence must not be substituted for by any artificial imagery.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.
THE UPDATED VERSION
The name of your God should always be spoken with due respect.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Although every day should be one where your faith in God is manifest, reserve at least the Sabbath to express this fact outwardly.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Honor thy father and thy mother.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Fathers and mothers should strive to earn the respect and admiration of their children.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not kill.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Do your utmost to preserve life as it exists on earth, in every aspect and species.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Maintain unbounded fidelity to your chosen mate.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not steal.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Accept the fact that the belongings of others are absolute, and therefore let them so remain.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Whatever statement you utter should be the absolute truth as you know it.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, wife, nor anything else that is his.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Be content with what you have and own, whether tangible or intangible, without regard to the related possessions of those around you.
Is one therefore to presume that Christianity -- whose tentacles have spread from both the Old and the New Testaments -- is a negative religion? Certainly, the teachings of Jesus Christ don’t convey such impression. Quite the contrary, we'd have to say.
Nevertheless, the so-called hidebound fundamentals of the world's most dominant religious faith are still glibly quoted today, exhibiting the same negative tone in which they were originally handed to Moses.
Would it not be better to adopt a positive, not to mention sensible means for expressing such basic rules by which people are supposed to abide? In any event, a reasonable go at the effort is laid out below. You'll also find that the mere two that actually do accentuate the positive have been restated in a more practical way.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Accept God as the One Almighty Manifestion of yourself.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not make any graven image, or bow down yourself to them nor serve them.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Consider your God as absolute, Whose presence must not be substituted for by any artificial imagery.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.
THE UPDATED VERSION
The name of your God should always be spoken with due respect.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Although every day should be one where your faith in God is manifest, reserve at least the Sabbath to express this fact outwardly.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Honor thy father and thy mother.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Fathers and mothers should strive to earn the respect and admiration of their children.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not kill.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Do your utmost to preserve life as it exists on earth, in every aspect and species.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Maintain unbounded fidelity to your chosen mate.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not steal.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Accept the fact that the belongings of others are absolute, and therefore let them so remain.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Whatever statement you utter should be the absolute truth as you know it.
THE TRADITIONAL DIGESTED WORDING
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, wife, nor anything else that is his.
THE UPDATED VERSION
Be content with what you have and own, whether tangible or intangible, without regard to the related possessions of those around you.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
BLONDIE
A MUSICAL VERSION AS MIGHT HAVE BEEN PERFORMED CIRCA 1936
SCORE BY GEORGE GERSHWIN
BOOK AND LYRICS BY RORY BUNGLEHEIMER
THE CAST OF CHARACTERS
· Fred Astaire as Dagwood Bumstead
· Ginger Rogers as Blondie
· Nelson Eddy as J.C. Dithers
· Jeannette MacDonald as Mrs. Dithers
· Allan Jones as Herb Woodley
· Donald O’Connor as Alexander
· Judy Garland as Cookie
· Dick Powell as the Mailman
THE PLOT
Opening on a comic relief theme, the bedeviled Mailman stands before the Bumstead residence and sings his plaintive song.
(Tune: A Foggy Day)
I am a mailman ordinary.
I follow my normal daily route.
Nothing about me is contrary.
Oh, but zounds, what abounds on my rounds.
Bumstead’s forever late leaving home.
So then frenziedly he dons his coat and hat,
And comes bundling out like the proverbial bat.
A pleasant morn on Bumstead’s street;
Soft, cool breeze, not much heat.
I reach his front walk, letters in tow;
A few steps remaining, not far to go.
How soon, I wonder, will he roar out
And bowl me over with such a clout?
Then suddenly the door is aft,
And the flying, hurried man comes lunging forward and I’m zapped.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Now moving on to serious matters, Dagwood appears on stage to make his confessional about having stolen money from his employer’s company.
(Tune: Summertime)
Blaw-on-dee,
Don’t you know how I need you?
I’m in trouble
And may end up in jail.
All I wanted was
To buy you a new mink coat,
But now I must tell you
My saddest of tales.
One of these days soon
Mr. Dithers will find out
That his funds are short
And I’m spending like mad.
He’ll know I’m guilty
And I will not deny that
I stole from the cash box
Each cent it had.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So as expected, Mr. and Mrs. Dithers arrive at the Bumstead house, and a full accusation is delivered by the boss man.
(Tune: I Got Plenty of Nothin’)
Bumstead, you are a bastard,
‘Cause you took money from me.
Oi, soch a schmuck,
What a louse,
A plague upon your house.
No use denyin’,
You’re a low, thieving mouse.
You think I’ve plenty of plenty?
Well, that’s a road full of ruts.
Our financial statement
For the last fiscal quarter
Shows a loss that drives me nuts.
You putz!
You’ve got no right to believe
I’m a wealthy bloke.
You may think that being a thief
Won’t make me flat broke.
Well, you’re wrong, that’s a fact.
Your embezzlement act
Was no joke!
Yes indeed, you’re a bastard,
A rotten one through and through.
You’ve robbed me blind,
Blown my mind,
Stabbed me from behind!
Unkind!
Someone who stoops to the level
Of takin’ what isn’t his’n
Faces a sentence
Of long years and years behind
The walls and bars of prison.
Listen!
The slammer’s where you’re off to.
That’s where you belong.
You’ll be eating dried beans and bread
Every day, every week, every year.
That’s how long!
Bumstead, you are a bastard,
Nobody can deny that.
So be prepared,
Take your lumps,
Rot in jail!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
However, Mrs. Dithers feels her husband’s attitude is extremely harsh, and sings her appeal on Dagwood’s behalf.
(Tune: Someone to Watch Over Me)
Julius, you are a cold-hearted brute,
Giving the boot
Like an old coot,
Simply by losing some loot.
Your behavior is a fright to behold.
You’re growing old,
Acting too bold
Against a lad from your fold.
Although his misdeed has been loathsome,
And damaging us both some,
In your heart should be sympathy.
It would seem you ought to alter your pace,
Display some grace,
Not be so base,
And show less hate in your face.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The two children, Alexander and Cookie, also register their appeal.
(Tune: It Ain’t Necessarily So)
ALEXANDER
Don’t make Daddy go to the jail.
His health will be certain to fail.
He’ll be so mistreated,
Dishonored and cheated,
He won’t come back hearty and hail.
COOKIE
Please give him a much-needed break.
Each person deserves a fair shake.
Don’t do us no favors,
We’re just little shavers,
But help him a bit for our sake.
ALEXANDER
He didn’t intend to harm you,
But needed to buy something new.
A mink coat for mummy,
Her old one was crummy,
So why are you in such a stew?
ALEXANDER
You paid him a trifling sum,
A salary fit for a bum.
You should feel quite shameful,
And thus somewhat blameful,
For being so senseless and dumb.
ALEXANDER AND COOKIE IN UNISON
We wish we could raise enough bail
To keep Daddy from, Daddy from, Daddy from, Daddy from, Daddy from going to jail!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After everyone else has left, Dagwood sits alone disconsolately with head in hands. Herb Woodley then drops in and sings his number.
(Tune: Bess, You Is My Woman Now)
I will come to visit you,
I will, I will,
And even learn to play the violin outside your cell.
You will thus be entertained,
Not pained.
Happy, pleasèd,
And feeling easèd.
Yes, I’ll help you pass the days
Unphased.
My first thoughts will be with you,
They will, they will.
And maybe after twenty years or so you’ll get parole.
Then we’ll be neighbors once more,
Next door.
Friendly, p’litely,
And very quietly,
If you behave properly.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Woodley departs and the scene closes, only to reopen on the next, where we soon learn that Mr. Dithers has elected not to press charges, and Dagwood won’t have to go to prison.
Blondie now does her song.
(Tune: Embraceable You)
Oh Dagwood,
I’m greatly relieved for you.
Dear Dagwood,
I’ve always believed in you.
Just a day ago the charges on you were dropped.
Mr. Dithers changed his mind and everything stopped.
Now we’ll start
A brand new feeling again.
With full heart
You won’t be stealing again.
Don’t buy me no more fur coats,
Just a ratty, torn old rabbit skin.
We’ll go back to where we’ve been.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dagwood, Blondie, Alexander, and Cookie then perform the finale ballet to the music of Rhapsody in Blue.
(Curtain)
SCORE BY GEORGE GERSHWIN
BOOK AND LYRICS BY RORY BUNGLEHEIMER
THE CAST OF CHARACTERS
· Fred Astaire as Dagwood Bumstead
· Ginger Rogers as Blondie
· Nelson Eddy as J.C. Dithers
· Jeannette MacDonald as Mrs. Dithers
· Allan Jones as Herb Woodley
· Donald O’Connor as Alexander
· Judy Garland as Cookie
· Dick Powell as the Mailman
THE PLOT
Opening on a comic relief theme, the bedeviled Mailman stands before the Bumstead residence and sings his plaintive song.
(Tune: A Foggy Day)
I am a mailman ordinary.
I follow my normal daily route.
Nothing about me is contrary.
Oh, but zounds, what abounds on my rounds.
Bumstead’s forever late leaving home.
So then frenziedly he dons his coat and hat,
And comes bundling out like the proverbial bat.
A pleasant morn on Bumstead’s street;
Soft, cool breeze, not much heat.
I reach his front walk, letters in tow;
A few steps remaining, not far to go.
How soon, I wonder, will he roar out
And bowl me over with such a clout?
Then suddenly the door is aft,
And the flying, hurried man comes lunging forward and I’m zapped.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Now moving on to serious matters, Dagwood appears on stage to make his confessional about having stolen money from his employer’s company.
(Tune: Summertime)
Blaw-on-dee,
Don’t you know how I need you?
I’m in trouble
And may end up in jail.
All I wanted was
To buy you a new mink coat,
But now I must tell you
My saddest of tales.
One of these days soon
Mr. Dithers will find out
That his funds are short
And I’m spending like mad.
He’ll know I’m guilty
And I will not deny that
I stole from the cash box
Each cent it had.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So as expected, Mr. and Mrs. Dithers arrive at the Bumstead house, and a full accusation is delivered by the boss man.
(Tune: I Got Plenty of Nothin’)
Bumstead, you are a bastard,
‘Cause you took money from me.
Oi, soch a schmuck,
What a louse,
A plague upon your house.
No use denyin’,
You’re a low, thieving mouse.
You think I’ve plenty of plenty?
Well, that’s a road full of ruts.
Our financial statement
For the last fiscal quarter
Shows a loss that drives me nuts.
You putz!
You’ve got no right to believe
I’m a wealthy bloke.
You may think that being a thief
Won’t make me flat broke.
Well, you’re wrong, that’s a fact.
Your embezzlement act
Was no joke!
Yes indeed, you’re a bastard,
A rotten one through and through.
You’ve robbed me blind,
Blown my mind,
Stabbed me from behind!
Unkind!
Someone who stoops to the level
Of takin’ what isn’t his’n
Faces a sentence
Of long years and years behind
The walls and bars of prison.
Listen!
The slammer’s where you’re off to.
That’s where you belong.
You’ll be eating dried beans and bread
Every day, every week, every year.
That’s how long!
Bumstead, you are a bastard,
Nobody can deny that.
So be prepared,
Take your lumps,
Rot in jail!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
However, Mrs. Dithers feels her husband’s attitude is extremely harsh, and sings her appeal on Dagwood’s behalf.
(Tune: Someone to Watch Over Me)
Julius, you are a cold-hearted brute,
Giving the boot
Like an old coot,
Simply by losing some loot.
Your behavior is a fright to behold.
You’re growing old,
Acting too bold
Against a lad from your fold.
Although his misdeed has been loathsome,
And damaging us both some,
In your heart should be sympathy.
It would seem you ought to alter your pace,
Display some grace,
Not be so base,
And show less hate in your face.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The two children, Alexander and Cookie, also register their appeal.
(Tune: It Ain’t Necessarily So)
ALEXANDER
Don’t make Daddy go to the jail.
His health will be certain to fail.
He’ll be so mistreated,
Dishonored and cheated,
He won’t come back hearty and hail.
COOKIE
Please give him a much-needed break.
Each person deserves a fair shake.
Don’t do us no favors,
We’re just little shavers,
But help him a bit for our sake.
ALEXANDER
He didn’t intend to harm you,
But needed to buy something new.
A mink coat for mummy,
Her old one was crummy,
So why are you in such a stew?
ALEXANDER
You paid him a trifling sum,
A salary fit for a bum.
You should feel quite shameful,
And thus somewhat blameful,
For being so senseless and dumb.
ALEXANDER AND COOKIE IN UNISON
We wish we could raise enough bail
To keep Daddy from, Daddy from, Daddy from, Daddy from, Daddy from going to jail!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After everyone else has left, Dagwood sits alone disconsolately with head in hands. Herb Woodley then drops in and sings his number.
(Tune: Bess, You Is My Woman Now)
I will come to visit you,
I will, I will,
And even learn to play the violin outside your cell.
You will thus be entertained,
Not pained.
Happy, pleasèd,
And feeling easèd.
Yes, I’ll help you pass the days
Unphased.
My first thoughts will be with you,
They will, they will.
And maybe after twenty years or so you’ll get parole.
Then we’ll be neighbors once more,
Next door.
Friendly, p’litely,
And very quietly,
If you behave properly.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Woodley departs and the scene closes, only to reopen on the next, where we soon learn that Mr. Dithers has elected not to press charges, and Dagwood won’t have to go to prison.
Blondie now does her song.
(Tune: Embraceable You)
Oh Dagwood,
I’m greatly relieved for you.
Dear Dagwood,
I’ve always believed in you.
Just a day ago the charges on you were dropped.
Mr. Dithers changed his mind and everything stopped.
Now we’ll start
A brand new feeling again.
With full heart
You won’t be stealing again.
Don’t buy me no more fur coats,
Just a ratty, torn old rabbit skin.
We’ll go back to where we’ve been.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dagwood, Blondie, Alexander, and Cookie then perform the finale ballet to the music of Rhapsody in Blue.
(Curtain)
Monday, April 13, 2009
BOGEY AND THE SULTRY SEDUCTRESS
No, Folks, this isn’t a piece dealing with a sex-intensified movie review. In actual fact, it could hardly be more remote, as we’ll now proceed to explain.
The title should really make direct reference to the evils of tobacco use, since that’s what we’re writing about. However, had we used words along those lines, you’d probably be looking elsewhere for something to read.
Consequently, provided we haven’t lost your attention, here comes yet another essay on an already overworked topic, but with what we consider a pretty strong punch-in-the-mouth approach.
If you happen to be a heavy smoker, principally of cigarettes, in our book you stack up as not only being stupid, but further possessing no will power whatsoever. As an ex-consumer many years back of 30 to 50 fatal disease-generating objects per day, you can’t say we don’t know the score. We’ve been there, as the saying goes, right up to the brink of imminent danger.
For openers, we’ll cite a few statistics, beginning with the basic presumption that your habit adds up to one pack a day – twenty cigarettes. Since no smoker takes Sundays and holidays off from said activity, this means 7300 per annum. Let’s also say you began at age 20 and have now reached 45. Multiplying 7300 by 25 gives us 182,500. Personally, this writer finds such figure rather frightening, and potentially even more so if you’ve been indulging longer than that and at a greater consumption rate. That’s an awful lot of drawing, inhaling, and blowing out, undoubtedly supplemented by frequent coughing, not to mention an occasional chest congestion feeling. Besides, the cost hasn’t been exactly minimal.
The next point we wish to drive home with no holds barred is that you heavy smokers are indeed a bonanza for the funeral directors’ trade. The sooner you can manage to inhale yourself to death, the quicker they’ll make their money, to an early disadvantage for your surviving relatives.
On that particular score, what are your wife and children supposed to do thereafter? Blame the tobacco companies for coercing you into an excessive and deadly habit? On what truly logical basis can you deem them responsible for your untimely demise?
Did Liggett & Myers or Benson & Hedges or Philip Morris send arms-bearing thugs into your bedroom every night to hold a machine gun to your head and warn that “Either you’ll smoke (your own personal quantity) a day or we’ll come back and blow you away!”?
Of course they didn’t. They had no need to. Tobacco consumption is strictly a do-it-yourself venture.
For how many years now have you been consoling yourself with words like “Just one more won’t hurt”, as you slip yet another into your mouth and reach for the matches? How long have you laughingly said to friends “Quitting smoking is an easy matter. I’ve done it lots of times.”?
Frankly speaking, we fail to see the humor in such a remark. Why not tell jokes about people dying of cancer instead?
These wily cigarette manufacturers have already spent decades denying that their products will cause such diseases as lung or pancreatic cancer, emphysema, heart ailments, and the like. They claim the evidence isn’t sufficiently conclusive. Even though we realize they’re all damn liars, too many of you don’t seem to care. Those ridiculous warnings which adorn every pack may sway one habitué in half a million or so, but little more.
If this writer had his druthers, universal law would require that every street corner post, mailbox, office building wall, elevator, and wherever else appropriate would bear a simple 8½ by 11 two-word sign reading CIGARETTES KILL. At least this would provide an unceasing reminder, which just might bring about a few more dedicated quitters.
We often find ourselves in the company of another person who will politely ask “Do you mind if I smoke?”, to which our standard response has long been “No. Go ahead and kill yourself.” Hopefully, such remark might have helped at least one unfortunate soul to shake off a disgusting and dangerous habit.
A pertinent question which might be put to an uncontrollable cigarette addict, perhaps like yourself, is “How did your start this messy business in the first place?” Obviously, everyone has a different story to tell, so we can only cite our own personal experience, for what it might be worth.
This writer’s fateful step came at around age 15, long long before any announcements were made linking cigarettes to dire lung, heart, or other organic disease. The reasoning was simple defiance to “orders” dished out by parents in between puffs, or school teachers who would sneak off to the boiler room or somewhere else several times a day between classroom assignments, telling us to cease and desist for better health purposes.
We teenage kids found such “Don’t do as I do, but as I say” doctrines to be rather hypocritical at the very least, thus holding mighty little water.
Not only were we registering defiance to authority whose sincerity appeared highly questionable, but – and at last we’ve come back to our opening title – in our eyes, a cigarette dangling out of our mouth supposedly created a rough-hewn Humphrey Bogart image. In turn, our fellow-smoking girls considered themselves to appear as sexy hot-to-trot lasses while they puffed away.
Unfortunately, by the time we’d grown to realize that we didn’t actually look Bogartish or streetwalkerish, we’d become hooked on the habit, in most cases for too many years to come.
In this fellow’s particular case, the day finally did arrive around two decades later, when permanent cessation took place. Should any reader by interested, we’ll now render a brief description of what transpired.
The means employed more or less paralleled that which a drug addict knows as cold turkey, or a fully abrupt stop. Personally, we visualize no other suitable way.
Success was quite readily achieved, partially due to a pair of so-called blessings. The first was having a non-smoking wife who might have otherwise driven me crazy having to watch her carry on before my eyes. In addition, a close working “across the desk” every day colleague had chosen to quit himself a couple days before, and had become worried to death about having to associate with me. This proved to be a marvelous coincidence for both of us, without which the entire effort might have failed.
Punctuating the cold turkey approach with a page from the recovering alcoholic’s textbook, where the instructions are to take one day at a time, I looked forward to each occasion when a falloff would be apt to occur, in order to face the problem head on – after each meal or coffee break session, or whenever just having picked up the telephone, or upon starting an office conversation with someone, or watching an actor smoke on the TV screen, and so forth.
It worked. After two weeks following Day One, the ordeal was over. The desire had left completely, at least from the conscious mind standpoint.
However, the subconscious was yet another matter. Believe it or not, that element has never given up fully. The urge for a smoke still remains to a minor extent, but with the bodily effect greatly diminished over the long years in between. At the present time, we can estimate the lingering urge to have been reduced by roughly 99%.
The specific effects imposed on the body by the subconscious were as follows:
1. Initially, a frequent sense of numbness in all ten fingertips.
2. Then a spreading of the numbness as far up as each wrist.
3. Gradual progression of such feeling up to each elbow.
4. Waking up at least once every night during the wee hours, to find both fists tightly clenched, with both lower arm muscles extremely tense.
Stated quite simply, certain nerves and muscles were reflecting the need for a cigarette, as promulgated by the mind. How long this condition persisted isn’t recalled, but probably lasted several weeks.
Countless years later, an occasional dream occurs wherein a Lucky Strike is being held and puffed on, while this writer calmly proceeds to tell himself “I don’t smoke anymore”.
We’ve apparently arrived at a conclusion that “once hooked on tobacco, you may never succeed in scoring a 100% victory over it”. Although iron will prevailed at quitting time, and promptly achieved success in warding off the enemy, some degree of caution must always be exercised thereafter, so as not to find oneself slipping back, no matter how long the time span in between.
A while ago we watched a fairly prominent film and television actor telling Larry King about having licked the alcohol habit. One point he made remains well remembered. In order to emphasize the need to never stop being on the alert, he said “I’m four years away from my last drink, but arms length away from the next one”.
We find his words to have sound meaning, and have translated them into relative smoking habit terms by stating “I’m ump-tee-ump hears away from my last cigarette, but a single match stroke away from my next one”. We consider the potential backsliding problem that serious. The need to remain braced against sudden unexpected failure, thus reverting to supposedly forgotten bad days, appears mandatory. The subconscious is apt to play some mighty dirty tricks.
The title should really make direct reference to the evils of tobacco use, since that’s what we’re writing about. However, had we used words along those lines, you’d probably be looking elsewhere for something to read.
Consequently, provided we haven’t lost your attention, here comes yet another essay on an already overworked topic, but with what we consider a pretty strong punch-in-the-mouth approach.
If you happen to be a heavy smoker, principally of cigarettes, in our book you stack up as not only being stupid, but further possessing no will power whatsoever. As an ex-consumer many years back of 30 to 50 fatal disease-generating objects per day, you can’t say we don’t know the score. We’ve been there, as the saying goes, right up to the brink of imminent danger.
For openers, we’ll cite a few statistics, beginning with the basic presumption that your habit adds up to one pack a day – twenty cigarettes. Since no smoker takes Sundays and holidays off from said activity, this means 7300 per annum. Let’s also say you began at age 20 and have now reached 45. Multiplying 7300 by 25 gives us 182,500. Personally, this writer finds such figure rather frightening, and potentially even more so if you’ve been indulging longer than that and at a greater consumption rate. That’s an awful lot of drawing, inhaling, and blowing out, undoubtedly supplemented by frequent coughing, not to mention an occasional chest congestion feeling. Besides, the cost hasn’t been exactly minimal.
The next point we wish to drive home with no holds barred is that you heavy smokers are indeed a bonanza for the funeral directors’ trade. The sooner you can manage to inhale yourself to death, the quicker they’ll make their money, to an early disadvantage for your surviving relatives.
On that particular score, what are your wife and children supposed to do thereafter? Blame the tobacco companies for coercing you into an excessive and deadly habit? On what truly logical basis can you deem them responsible for your untimely demise?
Did Liggett & Myers or Benson & Hedges or Philip Morris send arms-bearing thugs into your bedroom every night to hold a machine gun to your head and warn that “Either you’ll smoke (your own personal quantity) a day or we’ll come back and blow you away!”?
Of course they didn’t. They had no need to. Tobacco consumption is strictly a do-it-yourself venture.
For how many years now have you been consoling yourself with words like “Just one more won’t hurt”, as you slip yet another into your mouth and reach for the matches? How long have you laughingly said to friends “Quitting smoking is an easy matter. I’ve done it lots of times.”?
Frankly speaking, we fail to see the humor in such a remark. Why not tell jokes about people dying of cancer instead?
These wily cigarette manufacturers have already spent decades denying that their products will cause such diseases as lung or pancreatic cancer, emphysema, heart ailments, and the like. They claim the evidence isn’t sufficiently conclusive. Even though we realize they’re all damn liars, too many of you don’t seem to care. Those ridiculous warnings which adorn every pack may sway one habitué in half a million or so, but little more.
If this writer had his druthers, universal law would require that every street corner post, mailbox, office building wall, elevator, and wherever else appropriate would bear a simple 8½ by 11 two-word sign reading CIGARETTES KILL. At least this would provide an unceasing reminder, which just might bring about a few more dedicated quitters.
We often find ourselves in the company of another person who will politely ask “Do you mind if I smoke?”, to which our standard response has long been “No. Go ahead and kill yourself.” Hopefully, such remark might have helped at least one unfortunate soul to shake off a disgusting and dangerous habit.
A pertinent question which might be put to an uncontrollable cigarette addict, perhaps like yourself, is “How did your start this messy business in the first place?” Obviously, everyone has a different story to tell, so we can only cite our own personal experience, for what it might be worth.
This writer’s fateful step came at around age 15, long long before any announcements were made linking cigarettes to dire lung, heart, or other organic disease. The reasoning was simple defiance to “orders” dished out by parents in between puffs, or school teachers who would sneak off to the boiler room or somewhere else several times a day between classroom assignments, telling us to cease and desist for better health purposes.
We teenage kids found such “Don’t do as I do, but as I say” doctrines to be rather hypocritical at the very least, thus holding mighty little water.
Not only were we registering defiance to authority whose sincerity appeared highly questionable, but – and at last we’ve come back to our opening title – in our eyes, a cigarette dangling out of our mouth supposedly created a rough-hewn Humphrey Bogart image. In turn, our fellow-smoking girls considered themselves to appear as sexy hot-to-trot lasses while they puffed away.
Unfortunately, by the time we’d grown to realize that we didn’t actually look Bogartish or streetwalkerish, we’d become hooked on the habit, in most cases for too many years to come.
In this fellow’s particular case, the day finally did arrive around two decades later, when permanent cessation took place. Should any reader by interested, we’ll now render a brief description of what transpired.
The means employed more or less paralleled that which a drug addict knows as cold turkey, or a fully abrupt stop. Personally, we visualize no other suitable way.
Success was quite readily achieved, partially due to a pair of so-called blessings. The first was having a non-smoking wife who might have otherwise driven me crazy having to watch her carry on before my eyes. In addition, a close working “across the desk” every day colleague had chosen to quit himself a couple days before, and had become worried to death about having to associate with me. This proved to be a marvelous coincidence for both of us, without which the entire effort might have failed.
Punctuating the cold turkey approach with a page from the recovering alcoholic’s textbook, where the instructions are to take one day at a time, I looked forward to each occasion when a falloff would be apt to occur, in order to face the problem head on – after each meal or coffee break session, or whenever just having picked up the telephone, or upon starting an office conversation with someone, or watching an actor smoke on the TV screen, and so forth.
It worked. After two weeks following Day One, the ordeal was over. The desire had left completely, at least from the conscious mind standpoint.
However, the subconscious was yet another matter. Believe it or not, that element has never given up fully. The urge for a smoke still remains to a minor extent, but with the bodily effect greatly diminished over the long years in between. At the present time, we can estimate the lingering urge to have been reduced by roughly 99%.
The specific effects imposed on the body by the subconscious were as follows:
1. Initially, a frequent sense of numbness in all ten fingertips.
2. Then a spreading of the numbness as far up as each wrist.
3. Gradual progression of such feeling up to each elbow.
4. Waking up at least once every night during the wee hours, to find both fists tightly clenched, with both lower arm muscles extremely tense.
Stated quite simply, certain nerves and muscles were reflecting the need for a cigarette, as promulgated by the mind. How long this condition persisted isn’t recalled, but probably lasted several weeks.
Countless years later, an occasional dream occurs wherein a Lucky Strike is being held and puffed on, while this writer calmly proceeds to tell himself “I don’t smoke anymore”.
We’ve apparently arrived at a conclusion that “once hooked on tobacco, you may never succeed in scoring a 100% victory over it”. Although iron will prevailed at quitting time, and promptly achieved success in warding off the enemy, some degree of caution must always be exercised thereafter, so as not to find oneself slipping back, no matter how long the time span in between.
A while ago we watched a fairly prominent film and television actor telling Larry King about having licked the alcohol habit. One point he made remains well remembered. In order to emphasize the need to never stop being on the alert, he said “I’m four years away from my last drink, but arms length away from the next one”.
We find his words to have sound meaning, and have translated them into relative smoking habit terms by stating “I’m ump-tee-ump hears away from my last cigarette, but a single match stroke away from my next one”. We consider the potential backsliding problem that serious. The need to remain braced against sudden unexpected failure, thus reverting to supposedly forgotten bad days, appears mandatory. The subconscious is apt to play some mighty dirty tricks.
Friday, April 3, 2009
SEVEN STAGES OF MAN
(A Modernized Concept of the Bard's Immortal Words About One's Life Span)
Stage One : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people four times your age
Stage Two : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people twice your age
Stage Three: Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people half again your age
Stage Four : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people your own age
Stage Five : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people three-fourths your age
Stage Six : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people two-thirds your age
Stage Seven: Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people half your age
Stage One : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people four times your age
Stage Two : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people twice your age
Stage Three: Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people half again your age
Stage Four : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people your own age
Stage Five : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people three-fourths your age
Stage Six : Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people two-thirds your age
Stage Seven: Having to put up with the stupidities and inefficiencies of
people half your age
ACCOUNTANTS
(A Syllable-for-Syllable Reprise of Carl Sandburg’s poem CHICAGO)
Bean counters for the world,
Gloomcasters, jugglers of books,
Fiddlers with figures and business purse-string holders,
Puny, furrowed, balding,
People of the green eyeshades.
You claim to be progressive, but we don't believe you for we've watched you do
things exactly the same way, time and again;
And you claim to be methodical, but we don't believe you for you can't even
structure accounts to house results sensibly;
And you profess clarity, but we don't believe you for we've heard you explain
in double talk what the financial statements mean;
And having answered, we examine the reports you prepare, with needless figure
columns and endless inane percentages.
Show us another profession so content with itself as long as debits equal
credits, even if they contain factual misstatements;
Allocating and redistributing costs in such haphazard fashion that end results
lose their entire meaning and reader value;
Distorting profits to a maximum degree by setting product costs and valuing
inventories on the full absorption method;
Sleeve-gartered,
Misinforming,
Tax man fearing,
Small-minded,
Hidebound, authoritative, disrespected;
Incapable of being meaningful through flexible budgets, responsibility reports,
return on investment analyses;
Incapable of determining sound product prices by taking cost behavior into due
consideration;
Happy in your ways, even though the output you now produce with computers is no
more useful than that done by hand in the fifties;
Self-satisfied despite your inadequate knowledge of cost control, proper asset
classification, and project management;
Secure,
Secure in the fact had the Creator made only accountants, we'd now be inventing
the wheel and lever, proud to be bean counters, gloomcasters, book jugglers,
figure fiddlers, and business purse-string holders.
Bean counters for the world,
Gloomcasters, jugglers of books,
Fiddlers with figures and business purse-string holders,
Puny, furrowed, balding,
People of the green eyeshades.
You claim to be progressive, but we don't believe you for we've watched you do
things exactly the same way, time and again;
And you claim to be methodical, but we don't believe you for you can't even
structure accounts to house results sensibly;
And you profess clarity, but we don't believe you for we've heard you explain
in double talk what the financial statements mean;
And having answered, we examine the reports you prepare, with needless figure
columns and endless inane percentages.
Show us another profession so content with itself as long as debits equal
credits, even if they contain factual misstatements;
Allocating and redistributing costs in such haphazard fashion that end results
lose their entire meaning and reader value;
Distorting profits to a maximum degree by setting product costs and valuing
inventories on the full absorption method;
Sleeve-gartered,
Misinforming,
Tax man fearing,
Small-minded,
Hidebound, authoritative, disrespected;
Incapable of being meaningful through flexible budgets, responsibility reports,
return on investment analyses;
Incapable of determining sound product prices by taking cost behavior into due
consideration;
Happy in your ways, even though the output you now produce with computers is no
more useful than that done by hand in the fifties;
Self-satisfied despite your inadequate knowledge of cost control, proper asset
classification, and project management;
Secure,
Secure in the fact had the Creator made only accountants, we'd now be inventing
the wheel and lever, proud to be bean counters, gloomcasters, book jugglers,
figure fiddlers, and business purse-string holders.
TV ADS: PITCHING CURVEBALLS TO WEAK HITTERS
For openers, the reader is hastily advised that the writer of this piece holds a lifelong hatred for TV commercials, no matter the product or service being ballyhooed.
Well, on the premise that there’s bound to be an exception to almost everything, such happens to be the case here. From exposure to literally thousands of “important messages from our sponsor”, we’ve been enthralled by exactly one and no more commercial break blowout. Many years ago, the makers of Alka-Seltzer showed us the woes besetting a chap whose smiling wife had just placed a whopping spaghetti serving before him. His repeated difficulty in trying to proclaim “Mama Mia, that’s a spicy meat-a-ball!” successfully proved to be an epic from the humorous viewpoint – a most legendary, but totally isolated masterpiece. The key point of this gastric relief ad within a hypothetical pasta dish ad was that the sparkly liquid product could be quite helpful in fighting off indigestion, even under hazardous stomach conditions such as those portrayed.
Still, did such a monumental contribution to media advertising inspire this writer to dash off to the neighborhood pharmacy to stock his medicine cabinet with Alka-Seltzer? No, not in the slightest. Our record of absolutely never making a purchase due to commercial-watching inspiration remained intact.
The thought occasionally comes to mind that your writer may be the only person among modern-day mankind who steadfastly refuses to be influenced by a television ad of any sort. This simply can’t be true, however. There have to be others of the same non-persuasion, yet evidently not very many. It seems obvious that millions upon millions of folks worldwide fall prey to sales pitches thrown in their faces at seldom more than ten-minute intervals from dawn to bedtime. If this weren’t the case, TV commercials would long ago have vanished from the social scene. Unfortunately, no such blessing has occurred, nor does it appear likely.
After this singularly-exceptioned disdain for broadcast commercialism had taken hold while this fellow was considerably younger than today, his career affairs caused him to leave North American shores to live and work on three different continents for a 36-year period. There were TV ads in all the countries of residence, with each and every one duly ignored, as had been the practice prior to departure.
When the eventual return to the U.S.A. took place in May 2007, our reaction toward television ad presentation soon changed from mere lack of interest to out-and-out disgust, brought on by nothing less than sheer shock.
Nowadays, instead of treating the pictorial word spiels with complete deference, we’ve come to gaze in awe at what amounts to either overblown nonsense, confusing dialogue, misleading remarks, utter disdain for professionalism, semi-frightening message conveyance, and nauseating trivia, sometimes rendered by talking apes, centaurs, or other grotesque fauna.
Probably the very worst of all are those ads which extol the benefits attainable from using certain pharmaceutical products, aimed at preventing or controlling disease, reducing harmful body system elements, sleeping more soundly, enhancing male sex capability (due to either equipment size or utilization timeliness), and anything else that might be bound to fix your wagon.
This particular type of commercial becomes even more insidious through shaded warnings about possible side effects or usage no-nos under certain conditions. Such innuendo is usually mentioned in monotonous vocal tones, or else written on-screen without adequate time to read the message fully. The viewer is further advised to “ask your doctor if gismuth can help you”, which barely anybody will be apt to do.
Obviously, these vague and misleading spiels have been closely vetted by the manufacturers’ legal counsel, to ensure that no lawsuits could ever be successfully filed against them. Every element in support of a “we told you so” defense is provided for, should any unfortunate user suffer unduly after succumbing to a carefully-tailored sales pitch.
Another set of products which is almost as evil, although less potentially dangerous to the overweight commercial watcher, deals with methodically and no doubt rapidly shedding excess poundage, while being able to like the proverbial horse day after day. Maybe this is possible, but we can’t help but harbor a few doubts. Reducing waistlines, oversize tummies or unattractively fattish limbs by such means has never appeared to be quite that easy. Since this writer doesn’t happen to fall into the obese class, he’s had no occasion to inquire further into the process.
There are also ads to assure that, by following their prescribed ways and means, the viewer can readily kick a longstanding yet undesirable smoking habit. A certain drug offered for this purpose mentions possible side effects which seem downright frightening, and predict the quitting process to require the outlandish period of twelve weeks or more. Honestly speaking, we fail to see no need whatsoever to pay for a product or service to help you perform a feat you can better do on your own through sheer will power. In this instance, we speak from past personal experience, having overcome this ugly habit without a smidgen of commercial assistance.
We come next to what simply must be categorized as televised ambulance chasing, 21st century style. We’re referring to these lawyers who proclaim on-screen that conditions exist whereby certain faulty product consumption or environmental surrounding exposure on your part may entitle you to substantial damage claims. These courtroom-anxious spielers are undoubtedly right in principle. Maybe we just don’t dig their ultra-modern rather blatant means for offering professional services.
Standing in line behind the lawsuit-happy attorneys are the fellows who purport to be IRS dragon-slayers, able to get those federal tax-collecting leeches off your back, by virtue of their ability to negotiate settlements more economically on your behalf.
Don’t misinterpret our feelings now. We’re not exactly lovers of government taxation agencies. We become somewhat grimly amused, though, when the fellows on-screen explain how they’ve resolved cases “at a fraction” of the amount sought by the bad guys. Come on, Lads. A fraction might easily be 7/8 or even 63/64. That can be quite misleading. In turn, whatever the victim may save will be offset to a certain extent by a legal fee which ain’t gonna be just peanuts.
We merely tend to become bored when viewing the manifold ads outlining the benefits available from dealing with this or that health care or auto insurance carrier. Generally, none of them sound overly misleading, yet we do deplore one particular statement a presenter makes about the premium being only X dollars per month, but quickly adding the words “per unit” in a dulcet tone, followed by converting X dollars into (X/100) cents.
In order to obtain a definition as to what constitutes a “unit”, you must phone and request their explanatory booklet. We find this failure to disclose such a pertinent detail over the airwaves comparable to the fine print which often appears in a contractual agreement.
If you’ve fallen into deep credit card debt, there are organizations who promise to get you out from under at another of those nebulous fractions of the amount. What a great deal this is, having to buy their so-called service when it’s been your own stupid fault to allow such condition to develop in the first place.
We might sound old-worldish in adding one further point, but can’t help but admit becoming readily disgusted when we’re told how much better, more powerful, or cheaper the subject product or service is supposed to be compared to that of a specifically-identified competitor. Happily so far, we’ve noted only a few advertisers stooping to such level.
The fact that these commercials keep coming at us in rapid-fire and repetitive sequence gives a clear indication that gullible viewers everywhere are promptly picking up the phone to call the various 800-series numbers provided, so the follow-up pitch might be delivered. For those people so inclined, the best we can hope to offer is a set of caveats to employ when being struck with enthusiasm over those nicely-crafted messages. We encourage any and all not to let themselves be drawn into deals without taking every pertinent factor into consideration.
Our humble advice is that the following steps be applied:
1. Before dialing that 800 number, jot down every key question which comes to mind while listening to the initial pitch.
2. Make sure that each such question gets asked and clearly answered to your satisfaction, either over the phone or in supplementary written material sent to you.
3. Search out and resolve every potential loophole which might apply, either when watching the TV message, conversing by phone, or closely studying the supplementary material.
4. Be on the alert for vagueness or outright doubletalk methods on the sellers’ part. Remember that despite the nobility of their purpose, these people still represent profit-making organizations, which is the prime motivation.
5. If such facility is available to you, check your potential service provider via the internet, by simply calling up the various carriers’ names. You may find a number of valid complaints submitted by past clientele, which sometimes offer fascinating, and perhaps potential deal-killing facts.
6. In summary, therefore, don’t commit yourself too hastily, regardless of how pushy the sellers may be in their efforts.
Better yet, however, is our recommendation to become a little more like this writer. The moment that any commercial message appears on the screen, head immediately to your refrigerator or other suitably remote spot, whether to obtain a beer or soft drink, visit the bathroom, or anything else appropriate, and return very slowly to your easy chair, in hopes the ad will be missed completely.
Well, on the premise that there’s bound to be an exception to almost everything, such happens to be the case here. From exposure to literally thousands of “important messages from our sponsor”, we’ve been enthralled by exactly one and no more commercial break blowout. Many years ago, the makers of Alka-Seltzer showed us the woes besetting a chap whose smiling wife had just placed a whopping spaghetti serving before him. His repeated difficulty in trying to proclaim “Mama Mia, that’s a spicy meat-a-ball!” successfully proved to be an epic from the humorous viewpoint – a most legendary, but totally isolated masterpiece. The key point of this gastric relief ad within a hypothetical pasta dish ad was that the sparkly liquid product could be quite helpful in fighting off indigestion, even under hazardous stomach conditions such as those portrayed.
Still, did such a monumental contribution to media advertising inspire this writer to dash off to the neighborhood pharmacy to stock his medicine cabinet with Alka-Seltzer? No, not in the slightest. Our record of absolutely never making a purchase due to commercial-watching inspiration remained intact.
The thought occasionally comes to mind that your writer may be the only person among modern-day mankind who steadfastly refuses to be influenced by a television ad of any sort. This simply can’t be true, however. There have to be others of the same non-persuasion, yet evidently not very many. It seems obvious that millions upon millions of folks worldwide fall prey to sales pitches thrown in their faces at seldom more than ten-minute intervals from dawn to bedtime. If this weren’t the case, TV commercials would long ago have vanished from the social scene. Unfortunately, no such blessing has occurred, nor does it appear likely.
After this singularly-exceptioned disdain for broadcast commercialism had taken hold while this fellow was considerably younger than today, his career affairs caused him to leave North American shores to live and work on three different continents for a 36-year period. There were TV ads in all the countries of residence, with each and every one duly ignored, as had been the practice prior to departure.
When the eventual return to the U.S.A. took place in May 2007, our reaction toward television ad presentation soon changed from mere lack of interest to out-and-out disgust, brought on by nothing less than sheer shock.
Nowadays, instead of treating the pictorial word spiels with complete deference, we’ve come to gaze in awe at what amounts to either overblown nonsense, confusing dialogue, misleading remarks, utter disdain for professionalism, semi-frightening message conveyance, and nauseating trivia, sometimes rendered by talking apes, centaurs, or other grotesque fauna.
Probably the very worst of all are those ads which extol the benefits attainable from using certain pharmaceutical products, aimed at preventing or controlling disease, reducing harmful body system elements, sleeping more soundly, enhancing male sex capability (due to either equipment size or utilization timeliness), and anything else that might be bound to fix your wagon.
This particular type of commercial becomes even more insidious through shaded warnings about possible side effects or usage no-nos under certain conditions. Such innuendo is usually mentioned in monotonous vocal tones, or else written on-screen without adequate time to read the message fully. The viewer is further advised to “ask your doctor if gismuth can help you”, which barely anybody will be apt to do.
Obviously, these vague and misleading spiels have been closely vetted by the manufacturers’ legal counsel, to ensure that no lawsuits could ever be successfully filed against them. Every element in support of a “we told you so” defense is provided for, should any unfortunate user suffer unduly after succumbing to a carefully-tailored sales pitch.
Another set of products which is almost as evil, although less potentially dangerous to the overweight commercial watcher, deals with methodically and no doubt rapidly shedding excess poundage, while being able to like the proverbial horse day after day. Maybe this is possible, but we can’t help but harbor a few doubts. Reducing waistlines, oversize tummies or unattractively fattish limbs by such means has never appeared to be quite that easy. Since this writer doesn’t happen to fall into the obese class, he’s had no occasion to inquire further into the process.
There are also ads to assure that, by following their prescribed ways and means, the viewer can readily kick a longstanding yet undesirable smoking habit. A certain drug offered for this purpose mentions possible side effects which seem downright frightening, and predict the quitting process to require the outlandish period of twelve weeks or more. Honestly speaking, we fail to see no need whatsoever to pay for a product or service to help you perform a feat you can better do on your own through sheer will power. In this instance, we speak from past personal experience, having overcome this ugly habit without a smidgen of commercial assistance.
We come next to what simply must be categorized as televised ambulance chasing, 21st century style. We’re referring to these lawyers who proclaim on-screen that conditions exist whereby certain faulty product consumption or environmental surrounding exposure on your part may entitle you to substantial damage claims. These courtroom-anxious spielers are undoubtedly right in principle. Maybe we just don’t dig their ultra-modern rather blatant means for offering professional services.
Standing in line behind the lawsuit-happy attorneys are the fellows who purport to be IRS dragon-slayers, able to get those federal tax-collecting leeches off your back, by virtue of their ability to negotiate settlements more economically on your behalf.
Don’t misinterpret our feelings now. We’re not exactly lovers of government taxation agencies. We become somewhat grimly amused, though, when the fellows on-screen explain how they’ve resolved cases “at a fraction” of the amount sought by the bad guys. Come on, Lads. A fraction might easily be 7/8 or even 63/64. That can be quite misleading. In turn, whatever the victim may save will be offset to a certain extent by a legal fee which ain’t gonna be just peanuts.
We merely tend to become bored when viewing the manifold ads outlining the benefits available from dealing with this or that health care or auto insurance carrier. Generally, none of them sound overly misleading, yet we do deplore one particular statement a presenter makes about the premium being only X dollars per month, but quickly adding the words “per unit” in a dulcet tone, followed by converting X dollars into (X/100) cents.
In order to obtain a definition as to what constitutes a “unit”, you must phone and request their explanatory booklet. We find this failure to disclose such a pertinent detail over the airwaves comparable to the fine print which often appears in a contractual agreement.
If you’ve fallen into deep credit card debt, there are organizations who promise to get you out from under at another of those nebulous fractions of the amount. What a great deal this is, having to buy their so-called service when it’s been your own stupid fault to allow such condition to develop in the first place.
We might sound old-worldish in adding one further point, but can’t help but admit becoming readily disgusted when we’re told how much better, more powerful, or cheaper the subject product or service is supposed to be compared to that of a specifically-identified competitor. Happily so far, we’ve noted only a few advertisers stooping to such level.
The fact that these commercials keep coming at us in rapid-fire and repetitive sequence gives a clear indication that gullible viewers everywhere are promptly picking up the phone to call the various 800-series numbers provided, so the follow-up pitch might be delivered. For those people so inclined, the best we can hope to offer is a set of caveats to employ when being struck with enthusiasm over those nicely-crafted messages. We encourage any and all not to let themselves be drawn into deals without taking every pertinent factor into consideration.
Our humble advice is that the following steps be applied:
1. Before dialing that 800 number, jot down every key question which comes to mind while listening to the initial pitch.
2. Make sure that each such question gets asked and clearly answered to your satisfaction, either over the phone or in supplementary written material sent to you.
3. Search out and resolve every potential loophole which might apply, either when watching the TV message, conversing by phone, or closely studying the supplementary material.
4. Be on the alert for vagueness or outright doubletalk methods on the sellers’ part. Remember that despite the nobility of their purpose, these people still represent profit-making organizations, which is the prime motivation.
5. If such facility is available to you, check your potential service provider via the internet, by simply calling up the various carriers’ names. You may find a number of valid complaints submitted by past clientele, which sometimes offer fascinating, and perhaps potential deal-killing facts.
6. In summary, therefore, don’t commit yourself too hastily, regardless of how pushy the sellers may be in their efforts.
Better yet, however, is our recommendation to become a little more like this writer. The moment that any commercial message appears on the screen, head immediately to your refrigerator or other suitably remote spot, whether to obtain a beer or soft drink, visit the bathroom, or anything else appropriate, and return very slowly to your easy chair, in hopes the ad will be missed completely.
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