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From Cuckold to Wittol

wittol - noun - a man who knows of and tolerates his wife's infidelity (Lexico.com)

I have to admit that five minutes ago, I didn't know that wittol existed. However, I am aware of cuckold. The term is used quite a bit in classic 19th century novels, usually to refer to an old, rich geezer married to a beautiful young nymph who can't seem to be faithful to her boring, infirm hubby. Her cuckolding him results in derision aimed at him, naturally. Others, particularly his male peers, see him as laughable since he is unable to "control" his woman. Tolstoy's Anna Karenina is my favorite of these books. Anna's husband does know of her infidelity, but tolerates it only up to a point. If you read the book, you already know that what he thinks of her dalliance with her military man soon becomes superfluous at the end.

On the other hand, wittols are not merely a product of the literary past. There are quite a few out there in reality. For example, an ex beau of mine knew his wife was cheating on him. In fact he couldn't help but noticing as she dangled her younger lover, a college professor, like a 4-H-blue-ribbon carrot right in front of him, the jackass. Still, he was unprepared to grant her a divorce. What? Finally, he was forced to because she wanted to marry the academic. And he, the wittol, of course, wanted to date me. It worked out fairly well for all parties involved until I happened upon another lover myself and left the man who had been left. Needless to say, Fate wasn't too kind to the wittol. Later, though, he married his office manager, the next woman that looked at him, and as far as I know, they are still married. The guy got himself somewhat of a Hollywood ending after all. His wife is too unattractive to cuckold him, so he probably feels secure. It happens.

Needless to say, wittols don't like being wittols. Many have to be because they simply can't afford to divorce. After a few hard years, their once straight-arrow marriages take a turn in another direction, going from linear to incurved, from closed to open. I guess this romantic modernity could work, but if I were the wittol, the divergent arrow of infidelity would puncture my blow-up kayak of equanimity. Basically, I'd rather swim than sink to new lows morally. But to each her/his/their own, right? Who am I to judge? In the end, I suppose that wittols wind up loving their wives too much. And sometimes when you love someone that much, you, like that arrow, can't quite see straight. It happens.

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An Indecorous Weekend

indecorous - adjective - not in keeping with good taste and propriety (Google)

As a content, part-time retiree, sometimes–but not often–I miss the daily routine of the workplace. Banal as some of it was, I always looked forward to the indefatigable question, "How was your weekend?" which at least one colleague invariably would ask me each Monday morning. Since this Monday came and went sans the question, on this Tuesday morning, I find myself asking, How was the weekend? Hmm. The good outweighed the bad as per usual, but the indecorous events–three in particular–still linger.

As you may or may not have noticed, decorum in our society is no longer in vogue. For the most part, it has died out with the passing of each individual belonging to the Last Generation, truly the last generation to read, digest and exemplify Emily Post's Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage. To Ms. Post (1872-1960), decorum or good manners began with considering others' feelings first, something that is no longer high on priority lists even though I did notice when I Googled "Emily Post" that Obama has a book out on manners albeit I doubt that it has been a runaway bestseller. On the page devoted to Post, there was a question posed, "Is Emily Post still relevant?" The answer was disheartening because it mentioned the near-deceased fine art of writing a thank-you note. Guess what, Google? There are VERY few people (particularly young people) who bother to sit down and write a thank-you note in their own handwriting on a card or stationery. (Some of you are probably asking, "What's stationery?" at this moment.) So much for Post's contemporary relevance.

But I digress somewhat. And now for...the incidents. Incident #1: On Friday, I invited an ex-boyfriend to join me and my daughter at a local pub to watch UNC play UCLA in basketball. He had gotten to the bar two hours beforehand and managed to ingratiate himself with the perfect strangers who surrounded him at the bar. When we arrived, he pretty much ignored us, preferring his "new friends" as companions over us. So much for chivalry or manners. On Saturday morning, after I had forwarded him Bill Maher's most recent closing monologue featuring men who no longer make an effort, he didn't associate it with his own actions. Out of frustration, I didn't waste any breath explaining my purpose in sending it. Ironically, this man still has no idea why I or any of his other girlfriends or wives dumped him as a romantic partner.

Incident #2: On Sunday, I attended a swank party celebrating my talent agency's thirtieth birthday at the Grammy Museum ensconced within the Prudential Center of Newark. The ticket to the event came with a ticket to a New Jersey Devils' hockey game. While we were being ferried from the museum to the arena, an indecorous miscreant Devils' fan–a grown man who was in the neighborhood of forty–was being detained for stealing fifteen baseball caps that were supposed to be doled out to attendees on a complimentary basis. Since they were "free," he saw no reason why he couldn't just take as many as he wanted. Obviously, he had never been introduced to Ms. Post.

Incident #3: Will Smith vs. Chris Rock at the Academy Awards. I won't even bother to relate the details because you already know them. All I have to say is that if Emily Post were invited to that shindig, after witnessing that fray, she would've passed out, not from an overly tight corset but from horror. And smelling salts would not have been available to revive her.

What it comes down to is this: we as a society seriously need to begin to consider the feelings of others first. "Me, too" does not translate into "Me, always." "To thine own self be true" means don't do anything that isn't indicative of who you are. It doesn't mean to put yourself first in every situation. Selfishness only gives way to misery as the aforementioned examples illustrate.

Today, Tuesday, take the "in" out of "indecorous" and do something mannerly, something for someone else. You will find that the experience will be heartwarming.

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Thoughts on Technology by a Millennial Mainly

nickel-and-dime - verb - greedily or unfairly charge someone many small amounts for minor services

adjective - of little importance, petty (Google)

Baby-Boomers tend to think that Millennials uniformly extoll the many virtues of the current technological wonders. However, this is a gross misconception as there are a few pragmatic, discerning minds within the generation that recognize their pitfalls. My daughter is one of them.

Yesterday, she and I were driving home from Easton, Pennsylvania after we and our young relations indulged in the not-so-sophisticated applied science at the Crayola Experience, and I expressed a somewhat related epiphany just to throw a wrench in the silence: "You know, your grandmother lived 81 years without encountering much in the way of change in gadgetry. The only major apparatus she had to figure out in order to use was the TV, which involved turning a knob." This minute observation touched a nerve in my daughter and stimulated a rant: "I know. And it isn't fair! Technology is taking us down as a society! The Smartphone opened the doors of destruction." She went on to elucidate how on a recent trip to Puerto Rico, her best friend found it necessary to nickel-and-dime her and her companions via Venmo. Apparently by way of the application–a payment service that allows individuals to split bills–she was able to charge all of her guests petty sums for petty services without their permission upfront. All of this was done within seconds via her Smartphone. The successive nickel-and-dime activity on Venmo amounted to a major breach in their friendship, which might not have occurred, let's say, if it were 2005 and she still had a flip phone; or better yet, it were 1977, PayPal was a wealthy cohort, and princess phones were still in vogue.

As a detractor of modern inventors and inventions that are motivated by money, I had to concur with my daughter that I miss a life with fewer complications. Those of us in our sixties, particularly, have gone from famine to feast, having been sucked into so much in the way of automation, mechanization, computers, telecommunications, robotics, etc. in such a comparatively short time that it is more than daunting. The whole kit and caboodle is so confusing and consuming that I often want to scream out loud, but my penchant for Zen-like peace interrupts me, reminding me that I have to accept what I can't change personally. Admittedly, there are times when I wish my daughter were less circumspect as she was born into this mess and didn't have to take the leap from virtually nothing virtual to just about everything like I did.

The bottomline is that we sentient humans create our own problems or at least, complications. What we have to remember is that good and evil will always be part and parcel of this life we are living. And we need to think profoundly along those lines before we create and market anything that may earn us instant monetary rewards. I would like to think that pioneers like Bill Gates and Martin Cooper had purely unselfish intentions, but I would be naive if I did. The sad truth is that many Millennials are upsetting the economic balance by quitting their jobs only to launch their own on-line companies with the dream of becoming the next Jeff Bezos-esque entrepreneurs floating in a bath of billions. How's this for a novel idea: When it comes to anything new and different, let's put altruism before greed so as not to sway a healthy equilibrium.

I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind listening to the tirades of more Millennials who yearn to return to a degree of simplicity. On a positive note, I hear that nostalgia is back in style :).

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The “Mad” in March Madness

chicanery - noun - use of trickery to achieve a political, financial or legal purpose (Google)

When I think March, I think madness–the madness of college basketball, that is. I adore watching college basketball. The excitement that these tall, terrific tossers generate is often second to none. And I'm not alone in my opinion. According to Statista.com, 10.5 million people watched the NCAA tournament in 2019. In 2021, the proceeds from the games were 1.16 billion dollars, which is no paltry sum. And I'm afraid to research just how much Vegas has profited from the losses of gamblers who have wagered thousands on these potential, inchoate NBA greats.

As we all know, where there is money to be had, there is chicanery. But just how much and what kind of chicanery takes place on and off the courts is debatable. Case in point, last Saturday, my daughter and I spent three hours witnessing the back-and-forth between UNC (my daughter's alma mater) and the defending champs of 2021, Baylor. For most of the first half, UNC was winning by a margin. Yet during the second half, after Brady Manek, a key, high-scoring forward, was ejected for what might have been an unintentional elbowing of a rear opponent, Twitter lit up with posts of foul play on the part of the referees. Could it be possible that the refs were paid off to influence the direction of the game? It surely seemed like it since they kept making bogus calls against UNC from that point on–so many, in fact, that Baylor went on to tie the game at the bell. Although my daughter gave up hope of her beloved team winning, as a firm believer in David-Goliath pair-ups, I didn't. I knew that despite any chicanery on the part of the refs that good triumphs over evil in the end. And I was right. UNC won the game fair and square by playing above and beyond the possibly corrupt refs. In overtime, the UNC team members followed the rules so that no fouls could be called against them without making the refs look like they were intentionally hurling a wrench into the engine of the match-up. The result was exemplary.

There is a lesson in this episode of March Madness that is quite sane and applicable to life: Even if Deceit surrounds you on all sides, if you are honest and play the game by the rules, you will prosper because the good guys tend to win eventually. I'd like to think that life is capable of that Hollywood ending, a winning bracket sans chicanery.

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The Luck of the Irish

luck - noun - success or failure apparently brought by chance rather than through one's own actions (Google).

As today's is St. Patrick's Day, more than a few of us may be cavorting about with the taste of green beer and "May the luck of the Irish be with you!" on our lips. How did luck become associated with the Irish? I'm guessing that it might have something to do with the four-leaf cover, otherwise known as the shamrock, that I have most likely mistaken for a weed many times over while fertilizing my front lawn. Between my unintentional eradication of the symbol of good fortune and the fact that I am only a mere five percent Irish, it is no wonder I have such bad luck.

Well, I really shouldn't say "bad luck." What I have is inconsistent luck. Something ambiguous on the horizon that may look favorable winds up being a hurricane. In my soon-to-be-released-somewhere memoir, at one point I characterize myself as Sisyphus, the figure from Greek mythology whom Zeus punishes for cheating death twice. (I actually have cheated death twice, but I leave out the episodes in the book since death is not a theme.) Ill-fated Sisyphus has to push a boulder up a hill only to step aside to see it roll back again, eliminating any progress made. Such has been my life in publishing and in show business and maybe yours in another field as well. Why? It could have something to do with predestination or luck, or the lack thereof.

Some say that luck skips generations. They may be right. My father, for one, was a very lucky man. In 1988, he entered a local raffle and wound up winning a very luxurious Lincoln Town Car. Oddly enough, as a humble soul and fan of GM economy cars, he wasn't interested in keeping it until my mother convinced him it would be bad luck if he refused the prize. Not wanting to disappoint my mother, he kept it. Believe it or not, 34 years later, my sister owns and drives it pretty much daily. Albeit a tad rusty, the car is still very much alive and well despite the fact that neither our dad nor mom is. Whether or not the Town Car has brought my sister luck is moot. In any case, since the front end on that vehicle is a mile long, if she were to hit anything or anyone, she'd most likely wind up being the fortunate one.

I read on a fortune cookie recently that luck is brought on by one's actions, which is in direct contrast with Google's definition. Because I am the reincarnation of Sisyphus, I disagree. No matter how much effort you put into something, it does not guarantee a favorable outcome. But that doesn't mean you should pack it in and quit trying. I haven't. I'm still shouldering that boulder in hope that I will be able to reach the summit of the hill so that the rock will find itself a downhill path, and I will win the lottery of my expectations. It's possible, I guess. Just not likely.

May the luck of the Irish be with you today (and maybe, just maybe with me)!

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Surviving a Break-up

immemorial - adjective - originating in the distant past (Google).

Painful break-ups (like breakouts) are egregious, immemorial traditions that are alive and well today. It is said that the longer you are with someone romantically, the longer it takes to recover from the split. I tend to disagree. Take it from me, an experienced senior who has gone through several traumatic disentanglements firsthand and secondhand as a counselor of heartbroken friends, here are seven ways to truncate your suffering (cut the time it takes to forgive in half):

1. Be a Buddhist: Don’t share your pain with others (unless they ask you. Even then it isn’t a good idea). If you need to obsess, keep a journal of all the mental mayhem. And know when to stop rehashing all of the ugly minutiae. The sooner you quit thinking/talking about the ex, the better. If you just can’t reset your thoughts, try mediation. 

2. Watch purging chick flicks or read the books on which the films are based. Two good ones are Eat, Pray, Love and Under the Tuscan Sun. The protagonists in these oldies but goodies have got recovery from gut-wrenching divorces  down pat. 

3. Put together a protracted, polished plan as to how you will spend your time in singledom, but try not to go the route of the rebound. Desperation breeds distain, your own for yourself.

4. If you are grieving a loss and can’t be a Buddhist about it, reach out to close friends for tea and sympathy, but don’t dump on them unless they beg you for the dirty details. It is always preferable to redirect the conversation onto objective topics like daytime television. 

5. Volunteer your time. Any nun will tell you this is the best way to transcend grief. The local food bank is always looking for help.

6. Change your perspective and take onus. Walk out of your own skin and step into your ex mate’s. Ask yourself what hand you played in the dissolution of the relationship. A little empathy can go a long way. When it comes to break-ups, many point the figure of blame at their partner when what they really need to do is take a good look in the mirror. 

7. Once you’ve mastered #6, figure out what can be learned. What will you do right the next time based on the mistakes you made this last time? Return to your journal and write them down for future reference. Even if it is something like, “Never look at another good-looking guy again,” you’ll be off on the right foot.

Forgiveness, the final signpost illuminated at the end of the tunnel, comes when you check the anger and resentment at the entrance and can recall all of the reasons why you bothered loving the person to begin with. Yes, it does take time, but if you accomplish the aforementioned, it’ll come sooner than you think. 

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English and Aphorisms

aphorism - noun - a pithy observation that contains a general truth (Google).

In this day and age of pauciloquent persons who rely on four-letter words that can be used randomly for emphasis, educated listeners tend to miss the literary wizards of the past who could put together quotable aphorisms. Just this morning as I was sipping my smoothie and scrolling through my Facebook feed on my iPhone (I can't believe I have conformed to this sort of morning routine since I just gave up my flip phone a little over a year ago.), I came across a post in support of enlightening epigrams. It featured a short list of some of the best adages from the best minds like Oscar Wilde (my personal favorite), Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, and William Faulkner, men who knew how to read and write well, skills that seem to have gone the way of the Studebaker today. Being that I am a pronounced logophile and am not ashamed to admit it, I read the entire list, pausing to exhale a chuckle every few seconds. After finishing up, I continued the finger-numbing habit of liking posts, mumbling to myself, "They sure don't make minds like they used to."

Ironically, yesterday, my L.A. man and I were on the phone discussing the necessity of space in romantic relationships. I neglected to mention that we have too much physical space, nearly 3,000 miles, separating us, but the observation would have led to a foregone conclusion, and therefore, would have been redundant. I truncated Mark Twain's "Distance lends enchantment to the view," an aphorism that he had never come across in his peregrinations of pithy truths. He challenged my quote with one more familiar albeit opposing one, "Familiarity breeds contempt." We were one for one in the contest. And the match concluded at that point in a tie.

The one aphorism by Oscar Wilde that I like to contemplate at this time of year is as follows: "To give and not expect return that is what lies at the heart of love." Christmas, a holiday that has come to feature materialism ("Capitalist Christmas") is coming up soon. Maybe we all need to walk on the Wilde side and concentrate on the true meaning of the day, which involves a healthy portion of love. Yum. We can all indulge in that concept freely sans regret.

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The Virtual vs. the Real

virtual - adjective - not physically existing as such but made by software to appear to do so (Google).

Over the years, the meaning of virtual has changed quite a bit. Interestingly enough, the word derives from the medieval Latin virtualis, or "possessing certain virtues," virtues being positive traits (just in case you might have forgotten). Up until the onset of C.E. (a.k.a. the computer era), most of us were in agreement that virtual meant "almost as described, but not completely as defined." You know, like "virtual reality" or not quite real. The definition still comes up as the primary denotation on Google. However, when most people use it today in daily confabulation, they are most likely referring to the term associated with anything computer generated. Of course, this makes sense since COVID-19 and its derivatives necessitated our reliance on Jetsons-esque applications, such as Zoom, Skype, and Google Meet–all of which are still around even though more people are starting to let down their masks along with their hair.  

Out of necessity, some of us are still encased in this virtual, virtual reality that stimulates only two of the five senses. It's okay, I guess, better than "long distance" alone. Which reminds me of Charley Harper's quote, "Long distance is the next best thing to being there, but a dove in love would rather reach out and touch someone." Yup. I'm there. When it comes down to relating on intimate terms, I am REALLY missing the REAL. On Friday night, my date with my L.A. man (the one who is 2,400 miles away by the crow) consisted of a two-hour Skype while I was immersed in the whirlpool tub, and he was still behind a desk in his office. Hmm, guess I got the short end of the stick in terms of the visual. Oh, and yes, speaking of sticks, since I don't have one of those selfie sticks that doubles as a tripod, I held my iPhone up and out of reach of the foaming water for most of the call. The conversation would have gone on longer if it hadn't been for the fact that the skin everywhere on my body (except for my left hand and a portion of that arm) pruned up at approximately the same time that the water grew cold.

The next day, L.A. Man invited me to attend his African drum class, again via Skype. The idea was creative in theory but didn't quite pan out since the screen was only large enough to include portions of dunduns, flailing arms, hands, sticks (yet all of the instructor). Also the sound was distorted albeit loud enough for me to discern that there were multiple student drummers in the class. Adorable L.A. Man, complete with a clown-like grin on his face, kept intermittently tipping over sideways and into the phone's camera just to see if I was still watching. I was, but it wasn't easy.

I know what you are thinking: Why doesn't she just hop one of the five non-stop flights out of the closest NYC area airport to make her virtual romance actual? I'm hoping to do that really soon. Virtual computer reality may beat long distance, but it can never quite top the real McCoy.

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Frank Lloyd Squirrel

artificer - noun - skilled craftsman or inventor (Google)

Although admittedly, I have never taken a class in physics, I have always been fascinated by our ability to invent ways and means of accomplishing the impossible: bridges like the Brooklyn that manage to stay in one piece to permit us to drive over water as opposed to trying to walk on it (which probably only worked for Jesus), airplanes and jets that allow us to travel aloft like birds yet protect us from the elements, houses like Wright's Fallingwater that transcend basic architectural principles, etc. We humans when we are at our scientific best can be godlike.

Yet we aren't the only impressive engineers on the planet. There are, after all, squirrels. Don't laugh. Seemingly dauntless, squirrels are at once physicists, architects, and civil engineers naturally as I know of none offhand that has ever graduated from Stanford or M.I.T. If you ever get the opportunity, just observe one in action. I happen to be aware of one plump, well-dressed rodent with an abundantly fluffy tail that I call Frank Lloyd Squirrel, the curious tenant of a homemade nest that rests high above my garden in a beech tree. This little creature is an A-list artificer, probably a lot smarter than the motley crew that is currently building the McMansion across the street.

The other day, FLS took it upon itself to invade the dumpster in front of McMansion-in-the-making's construction site in search of new materials to fortify its habitat. Frank Lloyd Squirrel found a long piece of thin, white foam–probably used for insulation–dragged it effortlessly via its teeth across frozen tundra (my lawn), and up the trunk of the tree to its home lodged in between two twigs sufficing for branches. What astounds me is how this unprotected leafy pompom, as obvious as a giant wort on a shin, even stays up there, enduring winds of 60 m.p.h. like we had the other night. With the white tail of foam still in its mouth, FLS disappeared inside of its nest and perhaps reinforced the interior with its serendipitous find. Whether it is hibernating on its newly renovated bed, I don't know because I haven't seen Frank in a while. But something tells me all is well.

The moral of the aforementioned, "cute" story is that we should never underestimate creatures big and small, Mother Nature's clan. If we gave them a humble audience more often, we could learn a lot from them.

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Aiding Ukraine: Abstract vs. Concrete

abstract - adjective - existing in thought but not having a physical or concrete existence (Google).

concrete - adjective - existing in material form (Google).

Before retiring, I spent much time in various classrooms teaching my students of English the difference between abstract and concrete since literature blends both in symbolism. A symbol is usually a physical object that can be experienced via the senses, yet beneath the surface, it harbors profundity. Most things that surround us can possess larger meanings, but many of us are too busy living the day to day to notice, except when something egregious, such as the Russian invasion of Ukraine, interrupts the day to day, and we are forced to think creatively with a specific purpose in mind.

Since we feel individually incapable of taking concrete actions to thwart the dirty tangible business occurring in Ukraine, we are leaning back on abstractions, notably sunflowers, representative of the fertile country that apparently grows them in abundance. I can't tell you how many Facebook posts I've seen emphasizing the Jurassic-tall flowers with leonine heads, advertising solidarity. Some of the posts also include the Ukrainian flag as a concrete marker just in case some people are in the woods regarding the photographs of the verdant, orange fields and their intention. It's all good, of course. Believe me, I'm all for subtle or blatant reminders to stand behind a small nation that is, at present, at the mercy of autocrat Putin, his band of greedy Russian oligarchs, mercenaries and other unfriendly usurpers, including the regular recruits in the army. Yet I can't help but ask, "Is posting abstract visuals on social media all that we can do?" Nope. We can definitely do more.

Fortunately, a friend and former colleague (leave it to the English teachers to step into the door of altruism) emailed me that the World Central Kitchen (worldcentralkitchen.org) is in the midst of accepting donations, which will enable it to feed Ukrainian refugees pouring into neighboring, neutral countries like Poland. At last, there is something concrete as opposed to abstract that we can do to make things just a teensy bit more tolerable for these poor people. Perhaps we can't stand in the way of the plummeting bombs, but we can help feed the hungry stomachs that have managed to skirt them. If this entry sounds like a commercial, maybe it is. Donate generously to any of the organizations risking lives to save lives. When it comes to war, the concrete means can mean more than the abstract.

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Earth-Shattering Youthquake

youthquake - noun - a significant cultural, political, or social change arising from the actions or influence of young people (Google).

There is nothing more monumental, more earth(or at least, norm)-shattering than the potential of youth. When one is young, one is so new, so vibrant, so hopeful that he or she (or they) feel invincible. In the sixties, the term "youthquake" graced the pages of many current periodicals since young people were at the forefront, risking their lives on campuses and streets, rising up against all that the Establishment stood for, including systemic racism in the South and unnecessary bloodshed in Vietnam. And yes, due to their activism, there was significant change as strength lies in unity and numbers. Ironically, though, many of these same juvenile activists are now the feckless lawmakers unable to see the forest for the trees. Could it be that sooner or later, motivated newbies age, lose their ebullience for innovation, and transmogrify into their pedantic parents? Maybe, but I'd like to think the current crew of reformers may be dedicated enough to fight complacency.

This morning as I was multitasking–dipping into my Aussie breakfast of one hardboiled egg, an avocado, feta cheese and walnuts (Try it, you'll like it.), and skimming this week's issue of TIME magazine–I came across the centerfold dedicated to the contemporary youthquake. TIME's "Kid of the Year" is an eleven-year-old, Orion Jean, from Texas bent on propagating kindness via food for the hungry and books for those yearning for literacy. His purpose, like wholesome meals and well-written tomes, can be readily digested: "While we can't force others to be kind, we can be kind ourselves and hope to inspire other people." Nice and simple, but just try to be consistently kind. It isn't easy, but surely worth a concerted effort. Other adolescent ambassadors of change include a fifteen-year-old, Lino Marrero, also from Texas (What's in the water down there?) who has figured out how to charge his cellphone while running down the street. I could use that sort of invention, and so could just about everyone else who has ever thought of taking a mid-day jog around the corner while being serenaded by Spotify on a smartphone. Still more youngsters in other parts of the country rally against racial prejudice and bullying, two ongoing causes that will always make headlines as the issues seem ubiquitous. An impressive bunch of children, no doubt.

Indeed, according to TIME, it seems like the earth is vibrating with the energies of the young, and it needs to continue to be harnessed so that the human race can perpetuate itself. But any degree of revolution must originate from all, not just our junior citizens. Young and old, let's partner together to move the Earth in the right direction.

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Legacy of Poor Parenting

onanism - noun - masturbation

For whatever unbeknown reason, a topical subject of late has been poor parenting, and I confess that I haven't been solely responsible for broaching it. As cosmic irony would have it, in the midst of all the talk, I just happened to choose Phillip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint on advice from a trusted friend for next month's Book Club selection. The creative work of fiction in its entirely is pretty much an altruistic Jewish man's rant to his psychiatrist about how his inept, verbally abusive parents, particularly his schizoid mother, have driven him to onanism and other perverse attempts at escaping whatever guilt they have managed to conjure up in him throughout his life. Needless to say, the novel isn't an easy read, particularly because it is veracious. Because it is veracious, it can be humorous at times, most likely since all of us, no matter how old we are, have at one time or another blamed our parents for our own inadequacies.

The other day as my daughter and I were on our way to the local park "to shoot some hoops," she mentioned that her best friend, who dates back to kindergarten, said that she never felt that her parents truly loved her unconditionally–her therapist agrees–and consequently censures them for her propensity to bed down with just about any man who looks her way. Admittedly, I once suffered from a similar sense of insecurity most likely brought on by my parents who really didn't have a passion, not so much for me, but the concept of parenthood. The difference between my daughter's friend and me is that I don't consciously inculpate my parents for any idiosyncrasies that I might have developed over the years. Conversely, I think I turned out quite well, but my success has had little to do with my parents. If in the course of my youth, they made me feel unloved, I found love elsewhere, not in the arms of fatuous adolescent boys (although there was one or maybe two of them), but on the stage. OK, it did help that I had the talent to motivate audiences to rise up into ovations, yet no one needs to be gifted creatively to find outlets of love. What my daughter's friend has to do to compensate for her parents' foibles is not to surf Bumble, but to help others in need as a volunteer. Most likely, if she aids them, she'll feel loved, or at least, appreciated. And isn't appreciation a kind of love?

I will say that as a parent myself, I have tried to rise above my own parents' shortcomings (and most of us do), yet at the same time, have sought to find balance sans overcompensation. Which is quite a tightrope to walk.

If you are not a parent, but are thinking of becoming one, please remember that it is not easy. You may find that parenting will be the most difficult task you have ever tackled, no matter how difficult your current occupation may be. It is important to note that self-sacrifice is an essential ingredient to good parenting. If you are not willing to sideline some of your own wants and needs to satisfy a much smaller family member's on a full-time basis, parenthood is not for you. And that's okay because you should never feel as though you have to procreate just because everyone else is. People who become parents sans having their hearts in the right place only wind up creating a legacy of poor parenting. And who wants to fail at something so significant?

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All of the What-if’s

mucilaginous - adjective - having a viscous or gelatinous consistency

Admittedly, when I think of all of the what-if's and the would've-could've-should've's I have imagined at one time or another in my life, my brain melts into mucilaginous matter. As they say, "Hindsight is 20/20." Unfortunately, one can't go back and change things once the damage is done; ergo, thinking along the hypothetical lines is probably not healthy. On the other hand, when it comes to politics, perhaps it is necessary to enter the realm of the what-if, if only for preventative reasons.

Case in point: At present, I am devouring Phillip Roth's 2004 novel The Plot Against America, which was aptly made into an HBO mini-series during the Trump administration for obvious reasons that I won't spell out since this blog is supposed to be apolitical and approved for all audiences regardless of their political persuasions albeit I am stepping aside from that momentarily. Please forgive me, but it is important. Roth's ingenious work of historical fiction digests the what-if scenario whole by modifying history, replacing the Democrat, New Deal hero FDR with another hero, aviator Republican Charles Lindbergh in the White House of the early 1940s–a solid, credible choice since Lindbergh was a known Nazi sympathizer in reality. Roth's first-person narrator is a nine-year-old version of himself, growing up Jewish in Newark, New Jersey, not too far away from where I reside at present. Flawlessly, fellow Bucknell alum author Roth, a Pulitzer prize winner, combines the actual and the hypothetical, the results of which are stunning, if not downright frightening. In the novel, Lindbergh as president consorts with Hitler to contain the American Jewish population. I can't spoil the ending here because I haven't finished the book. But the direction it is about to take is definitely not favorable. If you have the time, please read this book since it might just alter how you perceive present-day politics as it shows what could happen if the wrong person were to be voted into office.

A dear friend's mother who survived the Holocaust once said, "Don't think that it cannot happen here." As woke as we may think we are, there are still anti-Semites among us, not to mention racists, white supremacists, general haters, etc., and they tend to find the right politicians who support their causes. I suppose what we, the ethically and morally upright, have to do is be more alert, keep our minds from transitioning into the mucilaginous by ferreting out the facts from the fiction when it comes to politicians and the media outlets that represent them. This, of course, is not easy, but essential if we don't wish to fall into the world of would've, could've, should've after it is too late to make changes. I don't know about you, but I don't want to view Roth's masterpiece of tension as foreshadowing, a harbinger of something ugly to come. I'd like to consider it just another literary what-if, fiction for fiction's sake.

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A Modern Day Machiavelli

Machiavellianism - noun - personality trait characterized by use of deceit, cunningness, a cynical view of human nature, and lack of morality (frontierin.org).

I often wonder whether or not the competition inherit in capitalism is a causative factor of Machiavellianism in anyone pursuing the gold ring on the carousel, the realm of business. The psychological malady has its eponymous origins in 16th century Italy with Niccolo Machiavelli, a philosopher, statesman, and author of The Prince, the content of which led his readers to view him as an atheist and immoral cynic (britannica.com). Needless to say, he probably would have had more friends and followers had he been born in the early 1960s and published in this century. I say that because sometimes I think I am surrounded by Machiavellians.

Case in point: Last Sunday, I attended an intimate Super Bowl party hosted by two of my closest friends, two successful entrepreneurs that have sustained various enterprises, including a marriage for over forty years. To accompany me and my daughter, I decided to invite along an ex-boyfriend of mine, who has been struggling to find a job in recruiting for six years. Since the my entrepreneurial friends are both recruiters, I figured they wouldn't mind throwing my ex a bone in the form of a business connection, or at least, some solid, practical advice. I never suspected that one of the two, a woman whom I have known since we were both in the fifth grade, would transmogrify instantly into a modern day Machiavelli, and neither did my ex. Insidiously, practically off the cuff, she devised a plan that included a revised resume of forged experience. In short, she proffered my ex use of her company as a legitimate place of employment even though he has no knowledge of platforms they use or anything else that a prospective employer might ask him to relate the minutiae of in an interview. If the prospective employer reached out to my friend during the course of a background check, she would be complicit with her husband in mendacity, and he would most likely get a job offer. ��My ex, who is on the smart, yet moral side, declined the offer, knowing full well that a machiavellian plot like this would most likely backfire as the employer would most likely delve further into tax records, etc. Consequently, the lie would be uncovered, and he would be blackballed in the industry. His attempts at finding gainful employment would be stultified.

Of course, I am not naive in that I know that the aforementioned kind of thing happens all of the time in business. Sadly, it is almost the way of the world–cynical, immoral people cheating and rationalizing it just to obtain what they want or need in less time than it takes to travel the legitimate route. I suggested to my ex yesterday that he ask my friend to employ him part time just so that he could legitimize including the experience on his resume. Since my machiavellian friend is often consumed with her own work, she might just need a sidekick to lighten her burden. And I am hoping she'll agree to the idea, which I'll admit is a good one. Yet even if she does, she won't automatically kick off Machiavelli's comfortable, Italian leather shoes simply because they are, after all, comfortable–perhaps too much so. It might take her getting caught red handed in a scam to remind her that the Machiavellian way isn't the correct one even though it might just be a time-honored tradition inside the steel and glass of capitalism.

Still, I'd like to think the ancient proverb "Cheaters never prosper" applies.

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Cherishing Valentine’s Day

cherish - verb - to hold someone or something dear; to protect, care for lovingly (Google)

Valentine's Day is one of the "holidays" that as a mature adult, I cherish and look forward to every year regardless of whether or not I am in a romantic relationship. The cynical critics–and there are always cynical critics–claim it is a chance for companies like Hallmark to meet their annual quotas. But many of the Debbie-downer detractors are either ignorant of the occasion's historical connections, have never been in love, or just got divorced. (Perhaps all three? Yikes. I cringe to think about it.)   Apparently, according to legend and goodhousekeeping.com, there were two Roman men by the name of Valentine. One went around freeing imprisoned Christians (He is the one who ostensibly came up with the idea of sending cards.), and the other was a favorite priest in the third century who rebelled against a government that purported to prevent young men from marriage in order to keep the military strong. Someone who cherished the idea of adoration, Valentine, most likely the saint, illegally married couples, and consequently was apprehended and sentenced to death for his altruism. The theme sentence for this story? "No good deed goes unpunished."

Interestingly enough, February 14th first became directly associated with love in the 1300s. The English and French mutually believed that birds began their mating season on the actual day. Oh, those love birds! Englishmen tend to refer to their girlfriends as "birds" (at least they used to), which might have something to do with this bit of trivia as well, but don't quote me on it.

Why Valentine's Day has never been designated a national holiday in my opinion is unfathomable. Obviously, I am a romantic and feel as though love is an abstraction that should be valued more highly than let's say George Washington's and Abraham Lincoln's birthdays since both men would have probably had a worse time of it had it not been for the love of their wives. But I can't complain, especially since the sales at Macy's alone on Presidents' Day are worthy of a day off from work.

What most of us who are in love with love agree on is that love shouldn't need a particular day for reasons of commemoration. Love should be first on everyone's list every day of the year.

Happy Valentine's Day to all!

oxoxox

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“The Emperor’s New Clothes” and Pop Music

folktale - noun - a story originating in popular culture, passed on by word of mouth (Google).

One of my favorite didactic folktales is "The Emperor's New Clothes" written by the iconic, great Dane Hans Christian Andersen in 1837 (Google). Just in case you don't remember hearing it in elementary school, the plot involves a vain emperor who encounters thieves posing as weavers who create for him expensive, new clothing that only the most intelligent can see. As the emperor doesn't want to be labeled as stupid, he pretends to see garments that do not exist. And he actually pays for them. When he winds up parading sans any clothing at all before the plebeians, all are afraid to admit he is nude as none wants to be considered obtuse. A young, observant child, sans any degree of pride or deception, standing on the sidelines outs the Emperor by revealing the naked truth. Of course, there is a moral: Don't let yourself get in the path of veracity.

I have been thinking a lot about this story lately, especially as it pertains to the music industry. Since I, one of the thousands of singer-songwriters out there, have original tunes circulating on social media and on every other platform you can think of, I have to spend time promoting my compositions daily; otherwise, they would simply get lost in the vastness, the some twenty to sixty thousand other songs released per day. Which is an exorbitant, mind-numbing amount. Yet it has been noted that numbers don't matter because ultimately the inspired compositions rise to the top. Yet do they?

From my perspective, the "original" melodies are left at the bottom of the colander after the others sift through myriad holes and get washed down the drain. Yet is different considered quality? Are we adults on the sidelines of the parade imagining fine silk on performers who are actually stark naked? Given defined, accepted standards of theory, how many of these flash-in-the-pan artists are actually gifted musically? Virtually none. And it doesn't matter because ignorance is bliss. Most of us are willing to sacrifice what we may know to be exceptional for groundbreaking. And groundbreaking can very well be garbage. Yet we blindly embrace the territory, the entire dump, even the vocalists, the singer-songwriters whose voices crack off pitch or who can barely hit the notes at all even if there are only three of them. We forgo the nakedness of our celebrity emperors musically and reach into the lyrics, finding something to relate to, and come to the conclusion that the entire experience is relatable: the singer sounds no better than we do when we struggle to sing a tune in the shower, her/his words are the same that we spoke to a lover who had one foot out of the door five years ago. Because of the uncanny commonalities, we start to see ourselves on the float next to the disrobed Emperor, as celebrated as he, waving at the children who brazenly stuff their fingers into their ears when they hear the Emperor lip sync his hit pop release to enhance the visual.  

On the flip side, it's all good. It's all good because it is where we are right now: in a very strange place that is lightyears away from my favorite musical time period, the 1960s, when musical prowess and uniqueness went hand in hand, and one didn't have to be sacrificed for the other. I'm hoping that someday, we will stand among the children, and unbiased, educated clarity will once again be ours. The pop music that we prize will be sung on pitch by vocalists with three-octave ranges, and the sheet music will include more than three chords.

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