There's another, more deep-seeded reason that the newspaper industry is failing.
It has lost all its former internal discipline, and is mostly populated by people who despise their readership. I've worked on the staffs of 4 different daily papers, and the first one where I was employed in the late 1980s was the only one that actually had a department devoted just to proofreading the content before it published – not just in editorial, but in advertising content. The next one I worked for, in the early 1990s, was the last one that did not depend on the internet to shore up a lack of content. The next one, from the mid-90s onward, had an actual circulation department staffed by people focused entirely on guaranteeing distribution and customer service. It was not a single Circulation Officer, but an entire department.
None of those independent factions exist anymore, like they once did. It was also the last paper I worked for that printed its product on-site, rather than shipping it off to another, then hauling it back for distribution in its intended circulation zone. There still exist writers and editors who put out original product worthy of the cover price, but the overall product becomes more and more inferior as a platform for their diligent work, seemingly by the day.
Most content is bought. Graphics are produced by third-party outsourcing – sometimes overseas. In short, the daily newspaper is now a prefabricated consumer commodity; assembly-line packaged, and aimed at nobody in particular – just whomever will spend money for it. Like a fast-food hamburger. Its faux relevance is maintained by a media industry that stirs up "newsworthy" content based on the obsessive, quirky political whims of a customer base, rather than the edification of a "readership."
The newspaper is an obsolete medium, hanging onto its existence because of a dying demographic that is either computer illiterate, stubbornly attracted to tangible products (like a printed newspaper), or both. I myself was raised to appreciate tangible products in exchange for my money – but now even our money is intangible.
The nearness of this demographic's extinction is precisely why the quality of the product has been handed over to automation-based systems staffed by non-skilled labor and out-of-country interlopers who are allowed to undercut the cost of domestic skill-based labor. Quality has in turn decreased accordingly. The newspaper is now a non-product, designed merely to sell, rather than also serve and inform. People are not considered "readers" but "customers" (read "marks.") In some cases it's brought to you by people who would not find work elsewhere, unless it was in production of something equally as worthless. It is consumed by a section of the population that the media wishes would hurry up and die off.
Don't place blame for this tragedy solely on the Internet.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Monday, November 4, 2013
From Cradle To Grave In America
First, escape being aborted.
Become "educated" according to State requirements, and trained from childhood to believe State-servitude is your most advantageous destiny. That self-reliance and self-determination are treasonous concepts.
Get funneled through a State-approved curriculum in order to qualify for...
College loans, so you enter adulthood accustomed and assimilated to a life of debt.
Take advanced technology courses, to become a cog in the State-designed infrastructure, as it devolves into the foremost subsistent-salary industry, and its role in the durability of the State becomes more and more mundane.
Stay distracted by perennial side-issues (to be trotted out promptly should your attention be swayed by current events which may indict the powers-that-be), so as not to ponder the status of your life quality, or of the actual corruption lording over it.
Convince yourself that the continual loosening of moral values compensates for the gradual removal of your freedoms.
Become addicted to State-provided substances; GMO foods, and other non-nutrients, so that you will...
Develop one or more of several State-approved conditions like diabetes, hypertension, or various lingering pre-cancerous conditions… so that you will...
Work your most productive 30 years producing tax revenue for the State while serving as a dutiful, medically dependent drone/consumer, and then promptly…
Drop dead at around 55-60 (the new "retirement" age) so that you do not overwhelm the newly "reformed" healthcare system, or require expensive healthcare due to advanced aging. If you do…
You will be denied adequate medical help until you can fulfill your State-bound duty to expire and make room for the next generation of "useful" citizens.
And most importantly… profess happiness and personal fulfillment during all of the above.
Become "educated" according to State requirements, and trained from childhood to believe State-servitude is your most advantageous destiny. That self-reliance and self-determination are treasonous concepts.
Get funneled through a State-approved curriculum in order to qualify for...
College loans, so you enter adulthood accustomed and assimilated to a life of debt.
Take advanced technology courses, to become a cog in the State-designed infrastructure, as it devolves into the foremost subsistent-salary industry, and its role in the durability of the State becomes more and more mundane.
Stay distracted by perennial side-issues (to be trotted out promptly should your attention be swayed by current events which may indict the powers-that-be), so as not to ponder the status of your life quality, or of the actual corruption lording over it.
Convince yourself that the continual loosening of moral values compensates for the gradual removal of your freedoms.
Become addicted to State-provided substances; GMO foods, and other non-nutrients, so that you will...
Develop one or more of several State-approved conditions like diabetes, hypertension, or various lingering pre-cancerous conditions… so that you will...
Work your most productive 30 years producing tax revenue for the State while serving as a dutiful, medically dependent drone/consumer, and then promptly…
Drop dead at around 55-60 (the new "retirement" age) so that you do not overwhelm the newly "reformed" healthcare system, or require expensive healthcare due to advanced aging. If you do…
You will be denied adequate medical help until you can fulfill your State-bound duty to expire and make room for the next generation of "useful" citizens.
And most importantly… profess happiness and personal fulfillment during all of the above.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Why I Hate Music
I don't hate music. I just hate a few particular recordings. But 'Why I Hate Music' seemed a much more provocative title.
Last night I heard two songs back to back, that solidified my notion that there are some songs that should never be remade, simply because the original artists already gave us the definitive versions of them.
The tunes in question played on my eccentrically beloved Humbolt 101 – an internet radio station that prides itself on a huge range of sometimes oddball hits and misses. For example, where else can I hear the theme from "Easy Rider" done by the Percy Faith Orchestra?
Anyway, my point is that last night they backed way up into left field and threw to home plate two incredible pieces of poor producers' judgment. I winced through the first with a strand of hope that the next song would offer a soothing balm to my raw nerves, only to be pelted with another hacky-sack of musical saw dust.
The first was "Don't Rain On My Parade," from the musical "Funny Girl." The version most people think of when they merely hear the title, is that which was recorded by Barbra Streisand. Though I admit to not being a huge overall Streisand fan, I also admit that this particular recording is in my Top-100 of all time. Sorry, but Babs really knocked this one out of the park – the musical equivalent of a Ted Williams homer past the flag pole. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who has ever tried to record this song in her wake, has gone down in flames – flames which only served to increase the light shined upon Streisand's genius, where this song is concerned anyway.
One of the "Glee" cast did a nice version, but was only again just kind of aping The Babbala. The take I heard, I'm pretty sure upon a little bit of Googling, was the one done by Idina Menzel. I give her credit for attempting her own spin – at least to set it apart as an alternative to Streisand's, but sheeeesh. That slurry, over-souled style that is so popular now just doesn't work with this song. Menzel proved it. I sat through it, grinding my teeth.
And still champ: Barbra!
My brief dour take of "over-souling:" Today's singers seem to have confused it with the craft of song interpretation. If you listen to say, Odetta's and Mahalia Jackson's versions of the same song, you'll hear power-filled, soul-filled renditions that would not sound alike, yet both qualify as "soul." The style would merely grace each's INTERPRETATION, not become the raison d'être. And on an aesthetic level, Broadway tunes and over-souling rarely… rarely, I say, can experience cohabitation. My humble op.
The second sensory assault that really caught me off-guard, was Roger Whittaker's version of "Good Morning Starshine." I can hear you groaning already. But I'm the one who endured it, in its entirety.
First, the artist himself: Has Roger Whittaker EVER been relevant?
Basically a one-hit wonder ("The Last Farewell"), he has been inexplicably blessed with a seemingly 100+ year singing career, during which he has recorded every pop tune ever written, up to and maybe including those of the early 90s. His last album was in 2007, and his last English hit was in the 80s. His lilting, roof-of-the-mouth, elevator music-breezy baritone brings to mind a banquet of banana sandwiches and unsweetened Koolaid.
This guy was already an "easy listenin' oldies" act when I was in college… Benny Hill did spoofs of him, for criminy-sake!
So here he comes with "Good Morning Starshine." Another song from a musical – in this case, "Hair." A folk-hippy block of bubblegum to be sure, that yet transcends itself. It goes with anything. You can play it in Church. You can play it at an Earth First rally. You might even punch it up on the jukebox in a biker bar and escape with all of your teeth.
The original hit recording was in 1969 by the singer Oliver. I like the song a lot. And the only artist I have ever heard make it unlistenable… is Roger Whittaker.
It isn't such torture when he's merely at "… the Earth says hello, you twinkle above us, we twinkle below…" and just starts to grate on my frontal lobe at "… early morning' singin' sonnng."
It's when he comes to the scat-portion of the lyrics (look up the traditional, jazz definition of 'scat,' it's not what you younger readers are thinking)… the "ooby-doob-dooby-hey walla-halla-hey-lo-lo-looo" section – is where one begins wishing that a flaming airliner full of doomed nazis had smashed into the recording studio at that moment. You fantasize, seriously, that someone had just lost it in the control booth and opened fire!
Whittaker puts so much empty calories into his "zooby-dabba-shoobies" that you can easily mentally picture him grunting a loaf into his pants, in pure unfiltered exuberance, as he sings. I applaud any artist injecting genuine joy into a song, but this is like watching those speed-eating contests. The ones in which some grossly over-weight hooligan weened on Coors Lite attempts to down a hundred hot wings in three minutes, under the guise that it's a 'sports event.' And the only thing one actually witnesses is an indulgent moron trading in an average normal lifespan for a chance at winning a t-shirt and having his name added to a cheap plaque in the restaurant.
Like WInston Churchill using a tobacco suppository to enhance his epic cigar intake.
Roger, this song is about as off your chart as anything. You might as well had tried to cover a Zappa tune. I'm sure he's thought of that. And he hasn't reached his 150th birthday, so it may be in the works.
Last night I heard two songs back to back, that solidified my notion that there are some songs that should never be remade, simply because the original artists already gave us the definitive versions of them.
The tunes in question played on my eccentrically beloved Humbolt 101 – an internet radio station that prides itself on a huge range of sometimes oddball hits and misses. For example, where else can I hear the theme from "Easy Rider" done by the Percy Faith Orchestra?
Anyway, my point is that last night they backed way up into left field and threw to home plate two incredible pieces of poor producers' judgment. I winced through the first with a strand of hope that the next song would offer a soothing balm to my raw nerves, only to be pelted with another hacky-sack of musical saw dust.
The first was "Don't Rain On My Parade," from the musical "Funny Girl." The version most people think of when they merely hear the title, is that which was recorded by Barbra Streisand. Though I admit to not being a huge overall Streisand fan, I also admit that this particular recording is in my Top-100 of all time. Sorry, but Babs really knocked this one out of the park – the musical equivalent of a Ted Williams homer past the flag pole. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who has ever tried to record this song in her wake, has gone down in flames – flames which only served to increase the light shined upon Streisand's genius, where this song is concerned anyway.
One of the "Glee" cast did a nice version, but was only again just kind of aping The Babbala. The take I heard, I'm pretty sure upon a little bit of Googling, was the one done by Idina Menzel. I give her credit for attempting her own spin – at least to set it apart as an alternative to Streisand's, but sheeeesh. That slurry, over-souled style that is so popular now just doesn't work with this song. Menzel proved it. I sat through it, grinding my teeth.
And still champ: Barbra!
My brief dour take of "over-souling:" Today's singers seem to have confused it with the craft of song interpretation. If you listen to say, Odetta's and Mahalia Jackson's versions of the same song, you'll hear power-filled, soul-filled renditions that would not sound alike, yet both qualify as "soul." The style would merely grace each's INTERPRETATION, not become the raison d'être. And on an aesthetic level, Broadway tunes and over-souling rarely… rarely, I say, can experience cohabitation. My humble op.
The second sensory assault that really caught me off-guard, was Roger Whittaker's version of "Good Morning Starshine." I can hear you groaning already. But I'm the one who endured it, in its entirety.
First, the artist himself: Has Roger Whittaker EVER been relevant?
Basically a one-hit wonder ("The Last Farewell"), he has been inexplicably blessed with a seemingly 100+ year singing career, during which he has recorded every pop tune ever written, up to and maybe including those of the early 90s. His last album was in 2007, and his last English hit was in the 80s. His lilting, roof-of-the-mouth, elevator music-breezy baritone brings to mind a banquet of banana sandwiches and unsweetened Koolaid.
This guy was already an "easy listenin' oldies" act when I was in college… Benny Hill did spoofs of him, for criminy-sake!
So here he comes with "Good Morning Starshine." Another song from a musical – in this case, "Hair." A folk-hippy block of bubblegum to be sure, that yet transcends itself. It goes with anything. You can play it in Church. You can play it at an Earth First rally. You might even punch it up on the jukebox in a biker bar and escape with all of your teeth.
The original hit recording was in 1969 by the singer Oliver. I like the song a lot. And the only artist I have ever heard make it unlistenable… is Roger Whittaker.
It isn't such torture when he's merely at "… the Earth says hello, you twinkle above us, we twinkle below…" and just starts to grate on my frontal lobe at "… early morning' singin' sonnng."
It's when he comes to the scat-portion of the lyrics (look up the traditional, jazz definition of 'scat,' it's not what you younger readers are thinking)… the "ooby-doob-dooby-hey walla-halla-hey-lo-lo-looo" section – is where one begins wishing that a flaming airliner full of doomed nazis had smashed into the recording studio at that moment. You fantasize, seriously, that someone had just lost it in the control booth and opened fire!
Whittaker puts so much empty calories into his "zooby-dabba-shoobies" that you can easily mentally picture him grunting a loaf into his pants, in pure unfiltered exuberance, as he sings. I applaud any artist injecting genuine joy into a song, but this is like watching those speed-eating contests. The ones in which some grossly over-weight hooligan weened on Coors Lite attempts to down a hundred hot wings in three minutes, under the guise that it's a 'sports event.' And the only thing one actually witnesses is an indulgent moron trading in an average normal lifespan for a chance at winning a t-shirt and having his name added to a cheap plaque in the restaurant.
Like WInston Churchill using a tobacco suppository to enhance his epic cigar intake.
Roger, this song is about as off your chart as anything. You might as well had tried to cover a Zappa tune. I'm sure he's thought of that. And he hasn't reached his 150th birthday, so it may be in the works.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Presidential... statements. Your call.
Chalk it up to being a quintessential outsider as a child, or a centerless rabble-rouser (read: asshole) as an adult – your pick, or list a third choice – I refuse to think tribal when it comes to politics. I will occasionally call even the guy I voted for on his crap. I tend to relent from speaking up too often, because more often than not I'm accused of being different and stubborn for its own sake, and will in some cases risk being horrendously wrong for the sole sake of being different. That tends to piss people off.
In this case, I hope to intentionally piss you off.
I gave myself a rather simple-sounding assignment recently: to go online and find a photograph of a U.S. President, of any party, either hugging or accepting a hug from someone he isn't politically obligated to; an electoral non-entity according to his party's agenda – and doing so with what at least appears to be genuine emotion.
Why did I do this? A whimsical question popped into my head, and it made me curious.
What I discovered may surprise you, and in a few cases it will definitely anger you that I would show "that guy" in the same heroic light as your Chosen One.
As my search term, I merely typed "President (insert sir-name) Hugs". I performed a separate – non-partisan – search of every POTUS who has held office since the year of my birth, and a few prior.
The list of those I could NOT technically find, will just as harshly rub you raw.
Roosevelt and Truman were apparently not huggers. Neither was Eisenhower. One may stumble upon plenty of pics of them shaking hands with cronies or foreign dignitaries – or even squeezing family members – but those shots wouldn't qualify. Read my criteria above, one more time.
President John F. Kennedy shook many hands, but only hugged his children. Lyndon Johnson never hugged on camera.
Nixon hugged, but Ford wouldn't.
Carter was not exactly a hug-junkie.
Hugging wasn't presidential enough for Reagan, or apparently Bush Sr.
Clinton must receive an asterisk (*) on this list, because though his Presidential Hugshots are numerous, finding one that didn't look like he was copping a feel (with everyone it seems except his wife Hillary) was a bit more difficult than you'd probably like to imagine. He still made the list, though.
Dubya made the hug roster, as did Barrack.
What statement am I making with this? Do you perceive a statement? Stop before you mentally answer that.
Again, are you merely grousing that I'm showing someone you dislike in a favorable light? The real statement is whatever you feel when you look at who's shown here, and who isn't.
I'm only asking you to examine what I had to, in seeing these photos in the context of themselves as a group.
Myself.
"But Rob, you fool, our guy is a man of heartfelt connection and a sense of humanity... their guy is obviously putting on an act."
This blog post is really starting to drive you up a wall, isn't it. These photos, in no other context but their own... your whole body is itching to cuss a blue streak in my ear.
No, I'm not favoring, supporting, or endorsing anyone here. In fact, a least one of the guys pictured above is definitely not on my favorite people list. But all I'm doing is showing the photo – with no comment. My mind has printed every sarcastic caption that yours is, as you read.
The change you want begins in the mirror. Sometimes I've boo'ed or applauded merely out of knee-jerk partisanship. That is inherently unenlightened.
I don't know what this little piece of cyber-vaudeville means – I only know it is bound to get a rise out of someone. And maybe, if they can stand outside of themselves, see a higher truth than mere party loyalty. At some point, we'll have to cast that aside anyway if we want our country back.
All I have as a commentarial capstone are a couple of quotes from a semi-hugless Commander-in-Chief:
A man does what he must — in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers, and pressures — and that is the basis of all human morality.
– John F. Kennedy, "Profiles In Courage"
If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can make the world safe for diversity. For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal.
– John F. Kennedy, 1963 Speech at American University, Washington D.C.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Last Randoms of 2011, or "Doomsday AGAIN??"
Overheard during the holidays...
"Give this box of candy to your department, with my compliments. I ate all the ones I like."
"Don't pay any mind to that Christmas tree – our actual Christmas tree is in the other room."
"Remember when they made Christmas lights that could set the house on fire? Yeah, it was fun then."
"I talked to Santa Claus. She ain't buying you THAT!"
"Hey all you all all have a good ol' – all of you have a good – whatever, OK?"
"Stop that crying right now, or no more brussels sprouts!"
----------------
According to the ancient Mayans, we now have less than a year left until... something. Maybe it's a big cosmic "Go Back To Square One" card.
I've often wondered if they really believed the world would just stop and disappear, or did the invading Spanish disrupt any further carving at the Mayan Calendars-R-Us? Or maybe the carvers just ran out of room and figured that the calendar they had already was aesthetically pleasing?
My marketing idea for an End of the World Party kind'a fell through. Four words: Mayan Calendar Jello Mold. Thoughts?
In 2011 we've already sent one Doomsdayer, Harold Camping, packing to Zealot Palms Retirement Village, rubbing his temples in frustration and shame. Will he have historical company in 2012? Will we skewer the Mayans with a similarly jocular post-modern cynicism? The only difference is that the Mayans aren't around anymore, to catch their blank, humiliated expressions for YouTube.
I think we will sooner bring about an "End" with our ever-expanding, techno-ccentric distractions from actual life and each other's tangible proximity.
On that note, Happy New Year!
----------------
In the past I have made a tradition out of getting on everyone's nerves with those stupid end-of-year wrap-up newsletters. I realize you are all fainting out of building anticipation for that pithy, condensed summary of what happened in my previous twelve months. Alas, I'm out of wind.
Let's see if I can do it in a paragraph. (Big breath...) I marked my 1-year anniversary with neuropathy. My graphic art career came to an abrupt end when my employer of 20 years decided to outsource my work to somewhere on the other side of the globe. I got a Red Ryder BB Rifle for Christmas, and no, I didn't put my eye out – it's still in its packaging in the hope it will transform into a collector's investment at some point years from now.
The only meaningful change has been... YOU. The cherished friendships, old and new, have made the hugest difference in my 2011, and I'm more than sure that miracle will repeat in 2012. Happy New Year everyone! Luv yaz!
"Give this box of candy to your department, with my compliments. I ate all the ones I like."
"Don't pay any mind to that Christmas tree – our actual Christmas tree is in the other room."
"Remember when they made Christmas lights that could set the house on fire? Yeah, it was fun then."
"I talked to Santa Claus. She ain't buying you THAT!"
"Hey all you all all have a good ol' – all of you have a good – whatever, OK?"
"Stop that crying right now, or no more brussels sprouts!"
----------------
According to the ancient Mayans, we now have less than a year left until... something. Maybe it's a big cosmic "Go Back To Square One" card.
I've often wondered if they really believed the world would just stop and disappear, or did the invading Spanish disrupt any further carving at the Mayan Calendars-R-Us? Or maybe the carvers just ran out of room and figured that the calendar they had already was aesthetically pleasing?
My marketing idea for an End of the World Party kind'a fell through. Four words: Mayan Calendar Jello Mold. Thoughts?
In 2011 we've already sent one Doomsdayer, Harold Camping, packing to Zealot Palms Retirement Village, rubbing his temples in frustration and shame. Will he have historical company in 2012? Will we skewer the Mayans with a similarly jocular post-modern cynicism? The only difference is that the Mayans aren't around anymore, to catch their blank, humiliated expressions for YouTube.
I think we will sooner bring about an "End" with our ever-expanding, techno-ccentric distractions from actual life and each other's tangible proximity.
On that note, Happy New Year!
----------------
In the past I have made a tradition out of getting on everyone's nerves with those stupid end-of-year wrap-up newsletters. I realize you are all fainting out of building anticipation for that pithy, condensed summary of what happened in my previous twelve months. Alas, I'm out of wind.
Let's see if I can do it in a paragraph. (Big breath...) I marked my 1-year anniversary with neuropathy. My graphic art career came to an abrupt end when my employer of 20 years decided to outsource my work to somewhere on the other side of the globe. I got a Red Ryder BB Rifle for Christmas, and no, I didn't put my eye out – it's still in its packaging in the hope it will transform into a collector's investment at some point years from now.
The only meaningful change has been... YOU. The cherished friendships, old and new, have made the hugest difference in my 2011, and I'm more than sure that miracle will repeat in 2012. Happy New Year everyone! Luv yaz!
Friday, December 23, 2011
Kids' Letters to Santa... Answered by Batman
Last year at this time, the Joker's most daring heist involved derailing a huge mail train out of New Jersey. After bringing the deranged clown of crime to justice once again, among the recovered goods was found a time-stamped parcel containing letters all marked to one addressee – a "Mr. Kringle" residing at the North Pole – all now hopelessly past their delivery date. Out of a sense of moral completion, The Dark Knight took it upon himself to personally respond to each undelivered missive. What follows is a small sampling:
I am trying to talk nice, and not say words I shouldn't say. Even if I am just repeating what daddy says all the time, it is still bad. I am very good to my sister, Hannah
- Sara, 4.
Dear Sara
I am appalled that any parent, directly or indirectly, would instill such a vulgar trait in his 4-year old child. Sounds like your dad could use a hour or so dangling at 50 stories by a batrope, staring fearfully into my angry gaze. Your call – let me know.
Season's Greetings – Batman
What type of fuel do you use for your sleigh or are your reindeers just hyper? Either way, I hope you won't miss our house.
- Matt, 11.
Dear Matt
The Penguin genetically altered his namesakes to fly once, each carrying an explosive charge to dive-bomb Gotham. Luckily, I was able to divert them into the maw of a nuclear reactor where they were each vaporized harmlessly.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I WAS AT THE MALL TODAY AND I WAS WAITING FOREVER IN LINE TO TELL YOU WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS. SO I REALLY LIKE THAT I CAN MAIL YOU MY LIST RIGHT AWAY WITHOUT LINING UP. WELL EXCEPT FOR AFTER MY LITTLE BROTHER.
- Nichole, 8.
Dear Nichole
Your little brother is indeed fortunate to have such a thoughtful older sister. I am deeply moved.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Santa, you know how it is nowadays, my parents are divorced, so please put me on your special delivery list to come 2 nights, Christmas Eve at Mom's and Christmas night at Dad's. Thank you!
- Ashley, 7.
Dear Ashley
Greed is the enemy of all free people, young lady. And you should be thankful you have parents, even crummy ones. Yes, crummy; they produced you. Do some time at a homeless kitchen and get back to me.
Season's Greetings – Batman
It is really cold here. Make sure Rudolph wears his sweater :) and Reindeer mittens.
- Donna, 9.
Dear Donna
Mittens would hinder a reindeer's hooves from sensing a need for traction and balance. They have fur for a reason. Basic biology, dear child. Science is your friend – hit the books a little harder next year.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I would love all the presents I asked for but my mom deserves them more. I have been getting presents all year from my mom and she works hard to get them for me. My mom doesn't know how much I love her that's why I want her to have all my presents. Love, Victoria
- Victoria, 12.
Dear Victoria
I almost teared up over this letter – nearly had to utilize the ol' bat-hanky. Nice try – but I see through your ruse. And one of those presents would no doubt be TICKING, wouldn't it. Rest assured, Victoria, your evil plan will fail. Didn't count on ME seeing this, did you? Give it up, Victoria, a life in prison isn't worth it.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I have tried to be good Santa, but boys will be boys. You must know that cuz you are a boy.
- Henry, 8.
Dear Henry
Bring your evil to Gotham and you'll have me to deal with, mister.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, Did you know that people here used to think that you were a goat?
- Johanna, 17.
Dear Johanna
A goat? Actually, I'm rather unhappy with the costume design for Christian Bale's persona of myself in the second film. The cowl looks like a doberman's head from the rear. Interesting observation, young lady. Thank you for allowing me to vent.
Season's Greetings – Batman
If my brother been bad, do I get all his gifts?
- Bradley, 8.
Dear Bradley
No, technically you wouldn't want that option. Santa, according to tradition, brings a lump of coal to bad children. So if you take your bother's gift, you'll only get his lump of coal. Interesting power-play attempt, young Bradley, but next time think things through a little more.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Please make sure the reindeers eat all their carrots, tops too! becauase they're veggies are good for them!
- Tara, 5.
Dear Tara
Reindeer are naturally vegetarians. So they probably don't need much encouragement to eat VEGETABLES.
Season's Greetings – Batman
You are very good at keeping quiet on christmas eve, but I know you`re there.
- Edwina, 8.
Dear Edwina
Yes, Santa is far and away the master of stealth. Though I have never met the man, I consider him a mentor. Truly an inspiring individual.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I know that I may not get the bike because mom & dad said I had to wait until I was 9 to get a new bike.
- Brenna, 7.
Dear Brenna
Your parents said 9. Are you 9 yet? Rhetorical question; it is obvious by the undertone of disappointment in your letter that not all the necessary elements are in place in order for you to obtain a bike, according to your parents' sensibilities. I'd say you would have wasted Santa's time with such a comment – grow up.
Season's Greetings – Batman
My friends didnt beleive that I could mail Santa. This is cool!
- Mikaela, 8.
Dear Mikaela
Cool but pointless. Your letter contains no gift request, which is the most basic purpose of a letter to Santa, is it not? So you may think you have showed up your friends, but the joke is on you, isn't it. Think next time.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Thank you for thinking of me and all the other kids around the world.
- Michael, 7.
Dear Michael
I'm certain Santa would have been touched by such a comment. To me it is meaningless. But if you are ever in danger at the hands of evil, Michael – the Riddler, Clayface, or someone of that nature, rest assured I am on the job.
Season's Greetings – Batman
My Dad did the naughty/nice test and was called a little stinker. Please give him somthing he did'nt mean to be bad.
- Saoirse, 10.
Dear Saoirse
My initial impression is that your dad certainly failed the "name your kid something pronounceable" test. My sympathies.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I have been I good boy this year but I have had quarrels and even fights with my little brother and I'm going to try and be better about stopping a fight instead of always picking fights with him. After all he is littler than me and I have realized it isn't fair.
- Austin, 10.
Dear Austin
I have an even better idea. How about I come teach your younger brother how to, oh, say... spin you like a top and send you head-first into a wall... or dislocate one of your shoulders with just his thumb... basically how to use your larger size against you and OWN YOUR BULLY ASS in any number of situations? I'm betting that would shut down all the "fight" problems at your house, wouldn't it. Spend Christmas THINKING ABOUT THAT, Austin.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I want everyone in the world to play nicer with each other. Mommy wants everyone to take better care of the world and Daddy just wants to read his Sunday paper in peace.
- Ellis, 7.
Dear Ellis
Your mother is likely the very reason WHY your dad wishes for serenity during his Sunday newspaper read. As you grow up, you too may find yourself in the company of a similar woman, if your mate selection instincts echo those of your father. Just a heads-up, young man.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I think I heard you in my house this morning but when I looked I could not find you.
- Candice, 9.
Dear Candice
I'm Batman.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I have tried to be very good all year, I only messed up a few times, but I tried my best, and thats what my mom and dad said counts.
- Heather, 8.
Dear Heather
Just make sure when you mess up, it's not in Gotham. That's my burg. 'Nuff said?
Season's Greetings – Batman
I help my mom with the dishes and i help my grandma and grandpa by giving them lots of hugs .......So please give them something nice too!
- Katelyn, 6.
Dear Katelyn
You could seriously injure your grandparents. Their bones are brittle at their advanced age. Try a joyous, but gentle, handshake instead. They will appreciate your thoughtfulness.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Thank you for waving at me at the mall. You really do love me!
- Marisa, 2.
Dear Marisa
If I "waved" at you, your next thought would have been "ow, that batarang glancing off my eyebrow really smarts... oh, I'm blacking out..." So it wasn't me. Sorry.
Season's Greetings – Batman
could you bring me some nail polish too, cause other kids in school have some, and i dont.and i would like to wear it cause im a girl and girls do that kind of stuff. thank you Santa
- Deryn, 5.
Dear Deryn
You're 5. Your parents have earned my wrath.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I'd prefer you bring us love and happiness not only during Christmas holidays, but also throughout the whole year!
- Stavroula, 6.
Dear Stavroula
The world is a dark place. Even a Santa Claus can be overwhelmed by a world of shadows and nefariousness. That's why there's me. I'm Batman. Tell your friends, scum.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I'd like the new Spiderman action figure play set. He is my favorite superhero.
- Danny, 7.
Dear Danny
Spiderman is merely a fictional character in comic magazines and cartoon TV shows. Wouldn't your parents disapprove of your living in such a fantasy world? How about instead one of the many Batman action figures and accompanying accessories? They're educational, well-made and really "cool." Reputable toy manufacturers like Mattel® and PVC® offer a wide array of posable action figures of myself and my friends, plus my "rogues gallery" of dastardly arch enemies for your playtime amusement – balanced against adequate periods for homework and chores of course. Look online, with your parents, for the best bargains – and shop early for the holidays!
Season's Greetings – Batman
(And finally this letter, unstamped, was among the others:)
Dear Santa, all the time you tell folks to be merry and joyful. I see smiles everywhere I go at Christmas. But I have a permanent smile that doesn't always reflect my mood, and all I'd like is a normal face that doesn't attract attention all the time. I'd really like to frown at something, not because I'm angry or sad, but because I'd just like to have the option. I think if I could change my facial expression occasionally, I'd actually become a nicer guy, and would be able to stay out of trouble completely... law abiding... actively involved in the betterment of my community and a boon to my neighborhood and family. Sincerely, The Joker.
You twisted fiend. Next time, you're going down for good. That's a promise.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Saturday, September 10, 2011
I'd Love To Stay and Hear the Context, But I'd Rather Keep Walking
A shirtless guy pacing his livingroom, on the phone, heard through the front window: "so... I do raspberry syrup down my left forearm. And I'm doin' slidin'. Y'know? Y'know how it is?" (Uh... yeah, sure.)
Shock-yellow mullet/mohawk combo. Fu Manchu facial hair. Tattoos on every inch of body. Sleeveless t-shirt and engineer's boots. With his spotted pit bull on a very long leash. Sitting at an outdoor coffee venue chatting up (how do these guys do it?) an attractive woman in business attire: "I go inside sometimes, but they make me feel awkward in there."
Parent, yelling across park at wayward youngster: "Brandon! Don't pet the water!"
Big guy in shorts and spats gets out of creaky 80s sedan to greet tall skinny guy in shorts and spats across the street: "Yo dawg whassup! Fugginbeautyday, isn't it?" (I'm going to try that one on my pastor this Sunday.)
Two elderly women walking ahead of me suddenly stop in their tracks, and part to either side of the walkway to let me through. Winded, but with a smile: "Sorry, we just passed our oh-shit distance."
_________________________________
HORRIFYING TALES OF... PASTRY!
In 2002 I worked at a large supermarket bakery department in Washington state. Part of my daily routine was to refill the donut case whenever it got sparse, and keep the donuts nicely arranged in pleasing aesthetic display. As time went on, I realized a few regular customers were, in effect, keeping tabs on my donut schedule. They knew about when I'd be pushing the big rolling tower-cart of fresh donuts out to the floor, to restock the self-serve case. One of them was a blind man, whose cane I could hear clicking toward me. I soon learned it meant that I should pull out two large cinnamon twists, in reserve. He'd ask if they were the best ones in the case, and I assured him they were, as I slid them into a bag for him. "I trust you, dude. The guy that used to do this would give me the cruddy ones he couldn't sell."
My favorite customer was Della, the "tall Texan lady." I loved her Lone Star drawl, as thick as boot leather. Her hair was snowy, worn long, down past her shoulders, with a streak of jet-black down the right side. Maple bars were her passion. One day she snuck up behind me. "Two big ones." I knew her voice, and by that time I knew what she meant. I found the two biggest maple bars without raising from my position, and swiveled around to present them to her. She smiled.
My other favorite old donut enthusiast was Anna. She'd put her soft little hand on my arm, and point deep into the donut case. She'd whisper, like it was top-secret. "Get me that great big chocolate thing there." I sometimes felt like I was climbing into the donut case to locate the exact treasure she desired. Once, I got for her the largest cinnamon roll the baker had made that morning, directly out of the tower-cart, rather than the case, which was technically against the rules. "My doctor says I'm not to have such things," she said, then beamed with self-assuredness, "but I'm 85 years old, and my doctor can kiss my boney butt." Rest in peace, Anna, if you are not still with us.
My least favorite was unfortunately a regular customer as well. I forced myself to forget her name, but I can picture her in my head as if she were painted by Norman Rockwell after a few stiff drinks. I recall her only as the "snicker woman." She had that classic little half-snort that she used to punctuate her statements if she disapproved of anything you said to her or did for her. A typical encounter would be her suddenly appearing at the counter with a loaf of national brand bread from the bread aisle. "What's the difference between this and the bread yer sellin' here?"
Not really having any insider bakery expertise to wield, I resorted to stating the obvious. "Well, that bread is baked at some factory and shipped here overnight. Our bakery bread is made here, and most likely fresh this morning."
"Why!!"
Why? Why exactly does a large supermarket bake its own bread (as markets have for decades), then also offer the prepackaged national bread (as they also have for decades)? I told her it was so that we could offer her all available bread options.
She decided I was getting smart with her, which I was. "Well I think yer all fulla shit," she said, with her patented snicker. She tossed the national bread in her cart and defiantly rolled on. She came in nearly every day.
But my all-time favorite bakery moment was the night Husso became indignant.
Husso was a large, blond master-race baker from Russia, who worked the night shift – he would bake specialty items like raisin-cinnamon loaf, poundcake, white and chocolate layers for the Wedding Cake Designer, and other items in quantity, that required a level of focus and discipline that just wasn't doable during a bustling shopping day. Husso considered himself a culinary artiste, and wasn't afraid to tell you so. "They just bake... but I AM HUSSO." It was pretty impressive for a guy who worked at a bleepin' supermarket!
At about 2:00 a.m., he'd clean the kitchen for the all-important Donut Man who'd arrive at 4:00 a.m. Sometimes the donut guy wouldn't show, and Husso would, without complaint, work a double shift and produce the following day's supply of donutage.
It was around 9:30 p.m., and I was in charge of closing down the front counter for the night. Husso had just arrived and was busy prepping for his shift. In the middle of the bakery stood the Mighty Donut Tower, still about a third full from a slow donut day. Day-old donuts are usually arranged in those large pink boxes with plastic windows in the lid. Always remember... pre-boxed donuts = leftovers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Husso sneak around the donut tower, raise the cover and snitch one.
He just as quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he felt he needed to sneak around. He was in charge. Hell, if the donut man had gone on another bender, it's possible that Husso had even made this particular batch. They were his anyway. Bakers are allowed. It's code-named "quality control."
A few minutes later, Husso did it again. He sneaked open the cover, grabbed something, and zipped back out of sight. I paused what I was doing, in amazement, and looked to see where he'd gone. Damn, Husso, if you're hungry, don't be shy about it. Grab an armload. And toss one my way while you're at it!
About ten minutes later I had mentally skipped over it, and was trying to concentrate on getting my work done, so to leave on time – my shift ended at 10:30. Just then, Husso snitched another donut. And he looked me right in the eye as he did. He motioned me over... "Rhoberr... come." 'Rhoberr' was how he said 'Robert.' And he'd said "come" with a hint of alternate-lifestyle butch-seductress. I froze.
"Rhoberrr... come here, I show you sometink."
What have I got to lose, I wondered? I made up my mind to remain calm, remain CLOTHED, and not walk directly under the ceiling mounted security cam.
I followed Husso into the kitchen, and discovered he was not eating any of the donuts he'd swiped. He was WEIGHING them.
A medium-size apple fritter sat perched on a large shiny metal scale. "Look dis..." Husso sighed, pointing to the digital read-out. "Eight ounce." Husso never spoke in plurals... ever.
"Yeah, eight ounces. So?"
"Look how small. Eight ounce of dough, to make THAT! They waaaaaaasste." He said this like Lex Luthor. The world was about to kneel in fear at Husso's white-sneakered feet. They wwwaaaaaaaaassste... I haaaaate theeeemmmmmmm."
He swatted the apple fritter away and replaced it with another one, much bigger – about twice as big as the previous fritter. "Look... this one I MAKE."
Five ounce... er, ounces.
"Look at this one," Husso breathed, like a master chef presenting the main course at a White House fundraiser. "Only five ounce of dough, look how big, how fluffy... it good, yeah."
"Yeah," I said, unsure if he was going to make me eat something out of retribution – like the "evil" fritter that he'd just back-handed into the trashcan.
"Their fritter NO-GOOD. Husso's fritter GOOD."
For a minute I flashed on Boris Karloff in "Bride of Frankenstein."
He continued, "they waste so much here. I make twice as many donut, half the money. But no, they get bastard to make donut."
"That's a shame, Husso," said I. "Yeah, they'd sure be smart to put you on the donut shift."
"Hell no, I want to live in daylight. And I want to sing."
The conversation was taking a turn for the surreal, but I hung tough. "Oh, you sing too?"
"Yes, Husso sing, and bake expertly. Donut. French bread – a thousand loaf a day. In Russia, I bake donut in afternoon, and at night sing in club. You know, like a nightclub."
"Wow."
"Husso make donut... sing country, rock and what you call light-rock. Mellow rock."
"Ballads."
"No... donut. And I sing."
It went on like that for five more minutes, then he brought the discussion full circle. "But this place, they get bastard to make donut. I will not stoop to bastard. I am Husso."
That said it all. Husso and I were pals after that. He had allowed me into the Golden Fritter Circle of his confidence, and I felt honored as I made my way down the dark sidewalk, munching on a free cinnamon twist gifted me for the trip home.
Shock-yellow mullet/mohawk combo. Fu Manchu facial hair. Tattoos on every inch of body. Sleeveless t-shirt and engineer's boots. With his spotted pit bull on a very long leash. Sitting at an outdoor coffee venue chatting up (how do these guys do it?) an attractive woman in business attire: "I go inside sometimes, but they make me feel awkward in there."
Parent, yelling across park at wayward youngster: "Brandon! Don't pet the water!"
Big guy in shorts and spats gets out of creaky 80s sedan to greet tall skinny guy in shorts and spats across the street: "Yo dawg whassup! Fugginbeautyday, isn't it?" (I'm going to try that one on my pastor this Sunday.)
Two elderly women walking ahead of me suddenly stop in their tracks, and part to either side of the walkway to let me through. Winded, but with a smile: "Sorry, we just passed our oh-shit distance."
_________________________________
HORRIFYING TALES OF... PASTRY!
In 2002 I worked at a large supermarket bakery department in Washington state. Part of my daily routine was to refill the donut case whenever it got sparse, and keep the donuts nicely arranged in pleasing aesthetic display. As time went on, I realized a few regular customers were, in effect, keeping tabs on my donut schedule. They knew about when I'd be pushing the big rolling tower-cart of fresh donuts out to the floor, to restock the self-serve case. One of them was a blind man, whose cane I could hear clicking toward me. I soon learned it meant that I should pull out two large cinnamon twists, in reserve. He'd ask if they were the best ones in the case, and I assured him they were, as I slid them into a bag for him. "I trust you, dude. The guy that used to do this would give me the cruddy ones he couldn't sell."
My favorite customer was Della, the "tall Texan lady." I loved her Lone Star drawl, as thick as boot leather. Her hair was snowy, worn long, down past her shoulders, with a streak of jet-black down the right side. Maple bars were her passion. One day she snuck up behind me. "Two big ones." I knew her voice, and by that time I knew what she meant. I found the two biggest maple bars without raising from my position, and swiveled around to present them to her. She smiled.
My other favorite old donut enthusiast was Anna. She'd put her soft little hand on my arm, and point deep into the donut case. She'd whisper, like it was top-secret. "Get me that great big chocolate thing there." I sometimes felt like I was climbing into the donut case to locate the exact treasure she desired. Once, I got for her the largest cinnamon roll the baker had made that morning, directly out of the tower-cart, rather than the case, which was technically against the rules. "My doctor says I'm not to have such things," she said, then beamed with self-assuredness, "but I'm 85 years old, and my doctor can kiss my boney butt." Rest in peace, Anna, if you are not still with us.
My least favorite was unfortunately a regular customer as well. I forced myself to forget her name, but I can picture her in my head as if she were painted by Norman Rockwell after a few stiff drinks. I recall her only as the "snicker woman." She had that classic little half-snort that she used to punctuate her statements if she disapproved of anything you said to her or did for her. A typical encounter would be her suddenly appearing at the counter with a loaf of national brand bread from the bread aisle. "What's the difference between this and the bread yer sellin' here?"
Not really having any insider bakery expertise to wield, I resorted to stating the obvious. "Well, that bread is baked at some factory and shipped here overnight. Our bakery bread is made here, and most likely fresh this morning."
"Why!!"
Why? Why exactly does a large supermarket bake its own bread (as markets have for decades), then also offer the prepackaged national bread (as they also have for decades)? I told her it was so that we could offer her all available bread options.
She decided I was getting smart with her, which I was. "Well I think yer all fulla shit," she said, with her patented snicker. She tossed the national bread in her cart and defiantly rolled on. She came in nearly every day.
But my all-time favorite bakery moment was the night Husso became indignant.
Husso was a large, blond master-race baker from Russia, who worked the night shift – he would bake specialty items like raisin-cinnamon loaf, poundcake, white and chocolate layers for the Wedding Cake Designer, and other items in quantity, that required a level of focus and discipline that just wasn't doable during a bustling shopping day. Husso considered himself a culinary artiste, and wasn't afraid to tell you so. "They just bake... but I AM HUSSO." It was pretty impressive for a guy who worked at a bleepin' supermarket!
At about 2:00 a.m., he'd clean the kitchen for the all-important Donut Man who'd arrive at 4:00 a.m. Sometimes the donut guy wouldn't show, and Husso would, without complaint, work a double shift and produce the following day's supply of donutage.
It was around 9:30 p.m., and I was in charge of closing down the front counter for the night. Husso had just arrived and was busy prepping for his shift. In the middle of the bakery stood the Mighty Donut Tower, still about a third full from a slow donut day. Day-old donuts are usually arranged in those large pink boxes with plastic windows in the lid. Always remember... pre-boxed donuts = leftovers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Husso sneak around the donut tower, raise the cover and snitch one.
He just as quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he felt he needed to sneak around. He was in charge. Hell, if the donut man had gone on another bender, it's possible that Husso had even made this particular batch. They were his anyway. Bakers are allowed. It's code-named "quality control."
A few minutes later, Husso did it again. He sneaked open the cover, grabbed something, and zipped back out of sight. I paused what I was doing, in amazement, and looked to see where he'd gone. Damn, Husso, if you're hungry, don't be shy about it. Grab an armload. And toss one my way while you're at it!
About ten minutes later I had mentally skipped over it, and was trying to concentrate on getting my work done, so to leave on time – my shift ended at 10:30. Just then, Husso snitched another donut. And he looked me right in the eye as he did. He motioned me over... "Rhoberr... come." 'Rhoberr' was how he said 'Robert.' And he'd said "come" with a hint of alternate-lifestyle butch-seductress. I froze.
"Rhoberrr... come here, I show you sometink."
What have I got to lose, I wondered? I made up my mind to remain calm, remain CLOTHED, and not walk directly under the ceiling mounted security cam.
I followed Husso into the kitchen, and discovered he was not eating any of the donuts he'd swiped. He was WEIGHING them.
A medium-size apple fritter sat perched on a large shiny metal scale. "Look dis..." Husso sighed, pointing to the digital read-out. "Eight ounce." Husso never spoke in plurals... ever.
"Yeah, eight ounces. So?"
"Look how small. Eight ounce of dough, to make THAT! They waaaaaaasste." He said this like Lex Luthor. The world was about to kneel in fear at Husso's white-sneakered feet. They wwwaaaaaaaaassste... I haaaaate theeeemmmmmmm."
He swatted the apple fritter away and replaced it with another one, much bigger – about twice as big as the previous fritter. "Look... this one I MAKE."
Five ounce... er, ounces.
"Look at this one," Husso breathed, like a master chef presenting the main course at a White House fundraiser. "Only five ounce of dough, look how big, how fluffy... it good, yeah."
"Yeah," I said, unsure if he was going to make me eat something out of retribution – like the "evil" fritter that he'd just back-handed into the trashcan.
"Their fritter NO-GOOD. Husso's fritter GOOD."
For a minute I flashed on Boris Karloff in "Bride of Frankenstein."
He continued, "they waste so much here. I make twice as many donut, half the money. But no, they get bastard to make donut."
"That's a shame, Husso," said I. "Yeah, they'd sure be smart to put you on the donut shift."
"Hell no, I want to live in daylight. And I want to sing."
The conversation was taking a turn for the surreal, but I hung tough. "Oh, you sing too?"
"Yes, Husso sing, and bake expertly. Donut. French bread – a thousand loaf a day. In Russia, I bake donut in afternoon, and at night sing in club. You know, like a nightclub."
"Wow."
"Husso make donut... sing country, rock and what you call light-rock. Mellow rock."
"Ballads."
"No... donut. And I sing."
It went on like that for five more minutes, then he brought the discussion full circle. "But this place, they get bastard to make donut. I will not stoop to bastard. I am Husso."
That said it all. Husso and I were pals after that. He had allowed me into the Golden Fritter Circle of his confidence, and I felt honored as I made my way down the dark sidewalk, munching on a free cinnamon twist gifted me for the trip home.
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