Cheater!

“Cheater!” she yelled, but I just kept going.

“Ignore the flak,” I thought to myself, “this is no shortcut or violation of rules.”  So I continued my steady pace down the steps of the ‘down’ escalator, even though it was moving ahead at its own plodding pace.  Careful not to bump other riders on my escalator that ran in the same direction parallel to its fuller partner in JFK International Airport in New York City, I was cruising faster than other riders precisely because I was walking.  I was running late, needed to reach my flight at an outlying gate — the last flight to Seattle for the evening.  Guess my hurry offended a female rider on the adjoining escalator.

As I turned briefly to look at her glaring at me, I noted that she was young (probably late twenties) and carrying only a handbag slung over her shoulder.  Best I could tell, she was not disabled in any way and could have walked, too. But for some unknown reason, she chose to stand her ground and yell at me.  Oh, well.

As I reached the bottom of the escalator and stepped off, I hurriedly covered the distance to a second down escalator that dumped me off just before a turn, after which one of three moving walkways, each in succession, came into view and would take me nearer my gate faster than I could walk on “solid ground.”  Marked with signs that said to move to the right to stand, to the left to walk, the walkways were there for all.  I moved to the left and continued my brisk pace forward, passing several riders in the process without bumping or being rude to anyone.  On the second of the three motorized walkways, another woman chose to yell “cheater!” at me after I passed.

Now my curiosity was triggered. “What the heck is that about?” I asked myself as the analytical corner of my brain started searching for answers at this second accusation.  One heckling remark could go unanswered, but two in a short time required an  answer.  After all, if I was offending someone — two someones, in this instance — I needed to know why in order to avoid further offense.  So the analysis began:

• I’m in New York City, so perhaps it’s nothing more than high-spirited and confrontational New Yorkers.
• On the other hand,  maybe there’s an unwritten code here that I’m unaware of.  What could it be?  Nothing obvious; no signs that said one must stand still on escalators and motorized walkways.  Matter of fact, signs on walkways clearly anticipated the opposite, as already mentioned.
• These were comparatively young women yelling at me, neither of whom I’d touched, hit on, or compromised in any other known way, nor had I impeded their progress or threatened their spot in some unknown line.  Am I missing something?
• If I had been running up a static set of stairs, would they have yelled at me because they were only walking?  Wasn’t what I had just done analogous to using the left-hand passing lane on a highway, passing in a legal manner?
• Was the heckling a result of some weird distortion of egalitarianism?  That we must all be equal, so no one can go faster than anyone else on any moving conveyance? If so, this is the airport equivalent of “dumbing down” the classroom by holding back the quicker students to the pace of the dullest.
• In a corollary vein, was the heckling a result of some ostensibly-liberal (but quite the opposite) outlook that dictates that one must never “take advantage” of others in any way?  And was I taking advantage of others by simply walking, using my legs to cover ground at a faster clip than they could cover by standing still and letting the equipment do the work?  Such a conclusion would mean that no one could walk faster than the slowest walker on a public sidewalk.
• Was I somehow not being “green”?  That would be a far-fetched conclusion, since I was not enlarging my carbon footprint and was the only one exponentially expanding efficiency by using my own muscles.

I reached no firm conclusion in my mental queries.  My faster progress had not hurt anyone, delayed anyone, or consumed “more than my fair share” of the world’s space or energy or resources, nor had it profited at the expense of others. Yet it had offended at least two for reasons unstated and unknown.

I mark it up to insanity, some distorted view born in the Political Correctness maze, some weird moon cycle, or … mere heckling for the helluvit.

Can you, my readers, enlighten me?

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© January 21, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

No Dogs Allowed

Exclusions abound in this world.  Consider the dog, a creature often excluded from the affairs of man.  They wait, tied outside, while their owners buy coffee, sit and read books, shop, etc.  Dogs are often associated in speech with disrespect (whether accurately or not) , as in “I’ve been working like a dog,” “He treats me like a dog,” or “The world is going to the dogs.”  Even though they enjoy a great deal more affection and attention from owners these days, they are still creatures of comparatively low station – perhaps moreso because they often cower before humans – that are only occasionally honored for utilitarian value. This is so even though some of the dogs I’ve seen do credit to their masters.  As Mark Twain said, “If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.” Judging by the sign at right, dogs may be smarter, too!

Speaking of dogs — have you ever had someone say, “We can talk about that if you’ll agree not to get emotional” (or more precisely, “all” emotional)?  Talk about an exclusionary structure!  Emotions are the dogs of human discourse.  “You can come in, but don’t bring that dog (your emotions)!”  Think about how many times that restriction is applied to the affairs of everyday life.  About the only place “getting all emotional” receives any respect is in the shrink’s office.  Oh, and in the sports arena.

Consider whether perhaps there’s some reparation and repatriation due the outcast of human conversation known as emotions.

* * *

I reconnected with an old friend the other day, one I hadn’t heard from in several years.  As is often the case, distance and life’s circumstances had broken the bond of commonality.  In earlier times, our friendship involved frequent and serious discussions held in good faith about a lot of life’s issues – politics, economics, education, children, church and religion in general, science, etc., — and often they went on for hours in generally healthy directions, incorporated a great deal of agreement or concurrence, involved sporadic rabbit trails, and sometimes got really earnest.  To my recollection, there was never anger, even in the midst of disagreement.  But now I wonder.

Our recent resumption of dialog began with random possibilities for conversation when the following add-on suddenly lurched to the top: “… that is, if we promise to discuss it without emotion ….”  His comment hung like the poised blade of a guillotine, ready to terminate our exchange. I restrained the immediate impulse to ask, “Why did you say that? Is there something more you wish to say, or is this merely an arbitrary prohibition?”  More to the point: “What is wrong with emotions?”

But his statement seemed determined – his underlying implication being that “emotions” have no valid place in human discourse.  That’s often the case with conversation, isn’t it?  People want to banish or exclude emotion and will often describe third parties as “too emotional,” especially when they disagree.  Emotional expression, other than saying something acceptably funny, is often the conversational equivalent of disclosing a deadly disease, as hilariously lampooned in Gary Larson’s The Far Side cartoon entitled “Canine Faux Pas.”  Larson’s cartoon shows a bunch of upright dogs at a party, all with drinks in their hands and — all but one — shocked looks on their faces, when the one shouts to another over the noise of the party, something like, “My vet told me today I have worms!”  A sure turn-off, the canine equivalent of HIV.

In human conversations, the “emotional” tag  is inextricably tied to “reaction,” and that perception strengthens with every repetition like a snowball gaining mass as it rolls downhill.  We want to kick emotions out the door as quickly as possible.  Reactions are seldom welcome, unless in response to a physical emergency, at which point they are not only welcomed but encouraged.  Otherwise, though, you can check ‘em at the door because they are second-class citizens, the stuff of unsophisticated harshness, raw, unpolished society, the “lower classes.”  Even when someone asks you for your reaction, as in “What’s your reaction to today’s news that …?”  If you give them something they weren’t expecting, you may get blamed with “overreacting” or “getting all emotional” even if your response was measured and calm.  Why?  Is it, perhaps, because we fear that we’ll be touched by the emotion, don’t know how to cope with it appropriately, or will be unable to defend against it?

What responses fall within the definition of “emotional”? And what emotions, if any, are acceptable in culture?  Easy ones come to mind.  While it’s perfectly acceptable to cry at a wedding or funeral, an award ceremony, or upon receipt of sad news, it’s far less acceptable to cry when someone makes a snide remark to you, when your boss or spouse is unnecessarily blunt.  Likewise, it’s perfectly acceptable to yell things, even stupid things, at a sporting event, but not so where a disagreement arises, even though both are expressions of emotions and may convey no more than the speaker’s passion on a certain issue. One just “should not yell” when in conversation; the unspoken assumption is that one must be contained at all times.

But passions [here, not to be confused with a romantic or sexual context] and emotions are sometimes not so easily identified or separated, and neither should be dismissed out of hand as being inherently disqualified.  After all, we want our employees, board members, players and coaches, students, et al., to be passionate about our team, our products and services, our organization, our accomplishments, etc., but when it comes to passionate expressions in the discussion, it’s usually “Katy, bar the door!”  Why are we so eternally ill-at-ease with another’s emotions and passions? Are the two related?  Can one be distinguished from the other in the midst of conversation, and if so, how?  Are we reasonable in expecting others to abide by the arbitrary fiat that an emotional or passionate tone is not allowed into civilized conversation?  Can one have her/his say without being preempted or prohibited for bringing an important human element to the conversation, that of emotion or passion?  Don’t we all come packaged or hard-wired with emotions that, to varying degrees and according to our personalities, convey something important about who we are, how we feel, and what we stand for?

Some of the most articulate and memorable quotes down through history have been passionate, emotional statements. Look at Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death!”; Nathan Hale’s “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country!”; Abraham Lincoln’s immortal Gettysburg Address, about two minutes in length.  All are laced with raw emotion formed in the crucible of war or the contemplation of it, all three statements issued by sane men and calculated to instill courage in the listener, or at least express the urgency of the moment.  When Admiral Farragut yelled “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” as his fleet momentarily flinched in the face of mortal danger upon sailing into Mobile Bay in 1864, he issued a stirring call to action.  Would you remember it – more important, would his men have appropriately acted – had he calmly said, “You know, I’ve been thinking that perhaps we should not worry so much about the torpedoes and just keep forging ahead”?  Of course not!  Totally inane, and insane, bereft of any power.

Our ability to communicate – whether expressed in words, gestures, art or music – often embodies the need to express powerful, eloquent and important messages that can penetrate the very essence of the moment.  Emotions and passion are able to cut through the fog and get down to reality, reducing much fumbling verbiage to a few concise words or phrases that pierce the veil.  We need not fear, and ought not forbid, expressions of emotion and passion when used within reasonable constraints and amenable circumstances.  Once we overcome the knee-jerk wish to suppress them, we often are able to learn, to hear, to feel, to respond and even to sympathize or empathize with the feelings of urgency, hurt, anger, despair, jubilation, inspiration, admonition, or encouragement we hear.  Instead of denying the privilege, we should embrace and extend openness to the expression of raw emotion — one of the great gifts of human creativity.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

©  September, 2010, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Trufe

TRUFE

Folks of’en say dey wants de trufe,
“Profits be hanged,” dey add.
“If he cain’t stand de trufe at last,
Well, that’s jes too damn bad!”

“Ah, de trufe,” you say, “de trufe
Will near-always win out.”
But way I sees it, it’s a tighter race.
I jes cain’t hep but doubt.

Ain’ no one got a-holta trufe
Near like dey thank dey do.
Fo’ ef a man gits holdin’ on trufe,
“Now, he jes ain’ gon’ do!”

“Know whut I mean?” I’s askin’ now,
An’ I sho’ly thank ya do.
‘Cause I know it done happen to me one time,
An’ I bet it done happen to you!

“Trufe,” dey say, “it’s time fo’ de trufe
Or we jes gon’ be bust!”
But what start out as de trufe, it seem,
Somehow wind up lookin’ like lust.

“De trufe gon’ come out at last, now,
An’ you jes gotta trust.”
But what start out as de trufe, it seem,
Somehow look awful like lust!
I sweah!

© September, 2010 by Michael E. Stubblefield. All rights reserved.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Honesty is the rarest wealth anyone can possess, and yet all the honesty in the world ain’t lawful tender for a loaf of bread. ~Josh Billings

Truth is the most valuable thing we have, so I try to conserve it. ~Mark Twain

Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing had happened. ~Winston Churchill

Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it. ~Emily Dickinson

Society can exist only on the basis that there is some amount of polished lying and that no one says exactly what he thinks. ~Lin Yutang

Saturday Coffee

“Coffee (café): Induces wit … Taken without sugar, very chic, gives the impression that you’ve lived in the Orient!” — GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, French novelist, playwright

I wasn’t headed up town early this a.m. for coffee, even though it’s Saturday. Coffee, the numero uno in my daily routine, would have to come later. My current mission, significantly less auspicious than the morning coffee quest, was a brisk bike ride with a group of new friends, mostly doctors and all specialists, who assured me that I’d be “better off riding with one GP than all four of” them. I had raised a rhetorical question to them in rather (but not entirely) lighthearted banter because of my cycling accident last October that landed me in three months’ recovery from a broken acetabulum (having little to do with my posterior, though it sounds otherwise), a separated shoulder, and a concussion – all this unknown to them. This morning I allowed as how it felt reassuring to ride in a pack of four medical doctors, when one of them ruthlessly (but in good humor, I might add) burst my enthusiastic bubble with the candid quip about the hypothetical GP. And I say “hypothetical GP” because that may be an extinct breed.

Anyway, these guys I was riding with are, respectively, urologist, radiologist, anesthesiologist, and oncologist – all pretty useless on a bike ride, at least from a medical viewpoint, though all are good riders. I mean, look — probabilities are low that I’ll be treated for cancer or a urological disaster on a bike outing, although I suppose if one were riding when a gallstone started it’s descent through the plumbing, it might feel reassuring to have a urologist standing by. But maybe no moreso than the comfort I get when I need help in the office.

Everyone seems to be a “specialist” these days. Even in my accounting office we no longer have the generic “accounting clerks” of the old days when I was a pup in the business. We now have “accounts payable specialists” and “payroll specialists” and “billing specialists” and … well, you get the picture. I can’t get help from the billing specialist when there’s a rush on getting an invoice paid; she only takes care of situations “when we’re asking for money to be sent to us, not the other way round” (for gosh sakes … with the eyeball roll!).

So back to the docs and the bike ride. I’m presently over my worries about the lack of a GP. We’re just having fun, exercise and a little camaraderie today. Have I mentioned that I have a lot of mental problems? With songs? Songs, for me, often get in the way of serious production of something worthwhile. Not songs I’m writing; I’m not a songwriter. The songs I’m talking about are songs that I’ve acquired through the aural canals and unintentionally stored in my brain’s wrinkles (of which there must be more than on even my face, judging by the numbers of songs that roll out with annoying regularity) over the years of my life. They are not evidence of creative brainpower surging through my synapses, at least not in the traditional sense, but random recollections of something I’ve heard, now being involuntarily spilled for no particular purpose. But it can be entertaining in otherwise inane activities like riding a bike with a bunch of medical specialists.

The song running through my brain this overcast morning was the catchy, bluesy-but-pleasant little country tune with the typical cryin’-in-the-beer lyrics of that genre, Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues. Penned by Danny O’Keefe, it was popular in the early 70s (peaking at #9 in 1972). I have a very cool instrumental rendition of it on a CD project by the great guitarist Earl Klugh. It’s very whistle-able, so even if you’re not a vocalist – and I’m not, at least not when I’m pedaling up a steep hill on my roadie – you can hit your licks on this tune with your whistle. The lyrics go like this:

Everybody’s goin’ away.
Said they’re movin’ to L.A.
There’s not a soul I know around.
Everybody’s leavin’ town!

Some caught a freight. Some caught a plane.
Find the sunshine, leave the rain.
They said this town’s a waste of time.
I guess they’re right, it’s wasting mine!

Some gotta win, some gotta lose
Good time Charlie’s got the blues

You know, my heart keeps tellin’ me,
“You’re not a kid at thirty-three.
“You play around you’ll lose your wife.
“You play too long you’ll lose your life!”

I’ve got my pills to ease the pain,
Can’t find a friend to ease the rain.
I know I should try and settle down.
But everybody’s leaving town.

Some gotta win, some gotta lose
Good time Charlie’s got the blues
Good time Charlie’s got the blues
Good time Charlie’s got the blues

(whistling to end)

Pretty grim, huh? But lighthearted blues, thanks to the catchy tune. How did my thoughts get here this morning? I mean, I’m having fun with these guys and none of us seems particularly down on his luck! Did yesterday’s date (9/11) have something to do with my thoughts? After all, eight years ago yesterday was a disaster in international history and the lives of lots of folks. But I don’t know whether the memory of that day of infamy triggered Good Time Charlie …. I think it had more to do with stories I hear. Here’s an excerpt of one, ironically including “Charlie,” who may indeed start singing the blues. [Hope you can ignore the syntax errors typical of news journalism.]

The End of the Road for Charles Rangel?

Written by Catherine Mullins

Thursday, 10 September 2009

“After a 40-year career of liberalism and scandal, Rep. Charlie Rangel, one of the biggest fish in Washington, might finally be getting fried. [My Note: As New York’s congressman from the 15th District, he’s been in Congress since January, 1971. Think that’s long enough?! Maybe the following quoted excerpt from Wikipedia explains something about his longevity: “Rangel's district, the smallest in the country in geographic size, encompasses Upper Manhattan and includes such neighborhoods as Harlem, Spanish Harlem, Washington Heights, Inwood, Morningside Heights, and part of the Upper West Side, as well as a small portion of Queens in the neighborhood of Astoria. … Rangel earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his service in the Korean War.” That last sentence almost surely explains a common occurrence in human history – taking “heroes” who’ve served one purpose honorably, with the often-erroneous thinking that they’ll make good leaders in another, especially in politics. More about that topic another time.]

“As chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, the committee that writes the federal tax codes, Rangel failed to report $75,000 he earned in 2007 on a rental property to the IRS. Ironically, he claimed to be ignorant of tax laws. The ethics committee which has ignored Rangel’s tax law peccadilloes in the past is now engaged to look into the matter.

“Since that committee was appointed, it has been alleged that Rangel failed to report over $1 million in outside income and $3 million in business transactions,” CBS reported. The Washington Examiner broke it down further for us: “It turns out Rangel had a credit union account worth at least $250,000 and maybe as much as $500,000 — and didn’t report it. He had investment accounts worth about the same, which he also didn’t report. Ditto for three pieces of property in New Jersey.

“Beyond even that, we’ve learned that Rangel has failed to report assets totaling more than $1 million on legally required financial disclosure forms going back to at least 2001.

“On top of those allegations are ones that ‘he falsely listed a Washington D.C. residence as his primary address when he was living in rent-stabilized apartment in New York City; used Congressional letterhead for fundraising purposes; and helped a wealthy donor to a school bearing Rangel’s name establish a lucrative tax shelter in Bermuda,’ according to Fox News.

“With an ever increasing list of accusations, Charles Rangel is looking more and more like an arrogant and belligerent tax cheat. According to him, though, he has far beyond the average intelligence. With regards to his financial situation he told reporters: ‘I recognize that all of you have an obligation to ask questions knowing that there’s none of you smart enough to frame it in such a way that I’m going to respond.’“

Well, poor ol’ Charlie. I hope he’ll be singing the blues in Sing Sing for a long time.  But given our track record for actually prosecuting and incarcerating such cheats of high stature, I’m a bit skeptical. On to other “Charlies” of humbler origins and means.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Michael

© September 2009, Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.