Chick-A-Chick-A Boom! The Residual Effects of War

 

residual - adjective - remaining after the greater part or quantity has gone (Google).

There can be no debate. Nothing good comes from full-scale destruction. Obviously, the weightier the war, the more consequential the effects on the people who experienced the fray head-on in the trenches. Yet the deleterious outcome or outcomes are not limited to the participants. Successive generations can feel the sting of violent opposition. Hatred can obliterate the capacity to love over decades. 

Case in point: take the damaged men of my generation, most aptly named the Baby Boomers. The moniker is not meant to stand as onomatopoeia attached to the soundtrack of battle as in "Boom went the bombs" (but if the shoe fits...). No doubt, boom could be a play on the word boon (windfall) or the slang term booming (as in increasing), representing the surge in population after World War II. Let's face it, after being deprived of physical love for such a long time, the soldiers wanted to make up for lost time,"boom-boom"legitimately with their significant others, and they did. The results of which produced about 2.5 babies per household, many more if the vet dads ascribed to a specific religion. Yet the shoe does fit in the literal sense. Many Boomers are suffering from the after effects of the bombs that fell around their desperately ducking dads on the battlegrounds. They are damaged goods and got that way due to the residual effects of the war. Sorry, men of my generation. You are inextricably blemished, and I have the common sense to prove it.

World War II left its participants torn, bleeding, not merely physically (in some cases), but psychologically. Most who had survived combat walked away with PTSD. There was no way around it. However, these men were expected to "get over" their feelings perceived as "weak." Of course, they couldn't do it themselves; consequently, having no choice, they went on with their daily lives, thankful to be alive. These psychologically impaired men continued on to become the flawed fathers of Boomers, who couldn't authentically be available for their children. The halved vets were incapable of being whole, and their sons, who really needed them as role models (Moms couldn't do everything but often did), found them to be feckless examples as absentee parents. 

The most tragic residual effect of World War II? Male Boomers' inability to love. Okay, fine. I'm not saying all of them are cursed in this sense, but many of them are. (Most of the single ones are. Believe me.) Just listen to the complaints of us female Boomers, who often are creased as well but who have ironed out better and can function well emotionally because we are wired that way. There are men of my generation who hold topnotch degrees and successful positions in their places of employment, but these same people can't seem to love in the true sense albeit they think they can. Ironically, they can commit to academia and the demands of their vocations, and perhaps even their offspring, but they are clueless when it comes to intimacy in the form of romantic love, hence the growing rate of divorce and mass loneliness. As for the predecessors of the Boomers, are they better off? I think not. Many of them can't commit to anything at all, no less love.

Maybe the defect I'm underscoring has nothing to do with war at all? Maybe it is just part and parcel of human nature? I can't give you a definitive answer because my thesis is based on opinion and personal experience. But this I do know to be factual. Nothing good comes from war. So if you feel the solution to the miscellaneous confrontations making front-page news today is bombing the antagonists all to oblivion, think again. A solution can never fall under the nomenclature of HATE and pan out well. I think Martin Luther King, Jr. whose birthday we recently celebrated, said it best: "Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." 

So man up, Boomer men, and learn how to love your women well. Gender and generational differences aside, we all need to stop blaming our parents for whatever they might have or might not have done and commit to full-scale love.

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Wealthy, Fortunate, Blessed

 

wealthy - adjective - having a great deal of money, resources, assets; rich.

fortunate - adjective - favored by or involving good luck, fortunate; lucky.

blessed - adjective - feeling lucky to have health, fame, fortune, talent. 

-Google 

Happy New Year to my few, but quality readers!

Stepping into a new year often includes taking along with you a few adjectives pertaining to how you feel about who you are. Hopefully, the descriptors are positive as opposed to negative. You always want to begin on the right foot. Right?

As some of you know, I have a friend–a psychotherapist, in L.A.–where I am planning to move this spring. Because he cares (I hope so, anyway), he is constantly preparing me for the environmental changes indicative of Los Angeles that I might not be aware of, most of which I am. Sometimes I think that he thinks I live in the state of Naivety rather than New Jersey, too close to the pavements of New York City to be as green as grass, but he means well. He commented that as wealthy as I might consider myself on the East Coast, my monetary status pales in comparison to the riches pretentiously displayed in L.A. I retorted that many of those Lost Angels may have a lot in terms of money, resources, assets, what have you, but little in the way of actual wealth, wealth of character, spirit–the kind that can't be minted or grown on trees. He agreed. I told him that I am in a different category in that I'm under the Fortunate-To-Be-Blessed nomenclature. My angels are not lost as they always seem to be working overtime to keep my head above water unlike many other heads today who are genuinely struggling to keep from drowning.

The conversation progressed into a discussion of socialism versus capitalism, uneven, controversial ground. What we both agreed upon is the idea that the billionaires need to remove their heads from the sawdust long enough to see that our country is becoming a land of severe monetary contrasts: the have's and have-not's are in juxtaposition to each other, and it is wrong. Rather than writing checks, these wealthy types (who tend to be miserable in their selfishness) need to spend some time on the other side of the tracks. Only after they acknowledge the disparities can they make any differences so that no one needs to suffer unnecessarily. The churches and civic organizations, funded by the wealthy, are doing what they can do, but everyone must get involved.

Okay, I'm getting a bit preachy here. I know. But I think we can all embrace a mutual New Year's resolution to spend a little more time doing our share for others. If nothing else, the effect of the cause may be feeling blessed, which is a prime adjective to describe you. One that you can be proud of.

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Agape at Agape

 

1. agape - adjective - wide open; being in the state of wonder. 

2. agape - noun - highest form of love, fatherly love, charity 

Every Wednesday annually, I make a serious attempt (at which I am usually successful) at participating in agape. Along with a church group of about twenty good samaritans (actually, true Christians) in an old van, I venture out in my quest to enact agape (2) among the multitudes of the down and out, a.k.a. homeless people in a nondescript New Jersey city called Elizabeth. What usually leaves me agape (1) is how easy it is to bring divergent peoples together in one room and witness and live agape (2) full on via the distribution of food. 

What always impresses me is how the youngest members of the group, the middle school students, usually quite wayward by nature, can find self-discipline and parcel out meals to over a hundred hungry people off of the streets, proving that when one entrusts another with an important task, age doesn't matter. These kids overcome all obstacles met on the floor and enjoy the responsibilities given to them. Heck, they can even manage the adults quite well while learning what is known as a work ethic. (Sound familiar?) The process is painless. In fact, most of them consider the experience to be "fun." Who would've thought? I stand agape (1) at their willingness to meet all incoming challenges. They leave me with hope that the younger generations will be able to tackle the world's myriad problems. 

I am usually in the kitchen, ladling out potatoes, meatloaf, beans, bread, bananas onto to paper plates at incomprehensible speeds. It is astounding that most of the goods don't wind up on the floor. This talent of keeping everything on the plates comes with experience, of course. I figure that it must be like working on an assembly line in a GM plant except that the rewards transcend the monetary since all of us on staff are volunteers. Imagine that: doing a job for nothing but love. I see it as another verse to Lennon's "Imagine." "Imagine all the people working for the sake of love..." Why not? I'm sure John would have approved. 

Perhaps my favorite segment of the evening comes after all needy bellies have been satiated and have found their way back out on the streets and we "disciples" sit to recount where we saw God throughout the evening. The kids usually see God in themselves; the adults see God in the kids, and I see God in the homeless people themselves who, on their way out, often come up to the kitchen door to thank me and my staff of friends. They grin with appreciation albeit they have little to be thankful for. Love is, after all, kind, selfless. 

In this season that is all about agape, let's try to think more about disseminating love. Christmas, after all, is not about materialism although most advertisers at this time of year might try to convince you that it is. Ignore them. Get back to basics. Be brave. Make a difference, even if it is just in your own neighborhood. Don't just stand agape at agape. Embrace it. Let it become a portion of yourself. 

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The Color Vermilion

 

vermilion - noun - a brilliant red color (Google)

For whatever reason, lately I've been noticing colors, red in particular. Yes, I've been seeing red, but mainly in the positive sense. Perhaps it is because it is autumn in the New York area, and the trees that are still managing to hang on to their leafy headdresses are modeling their most brilliant hues, vermilion being one since the Japanese maple is common in these parts. Two days before Thanksgiving, the retail store owners are busily preparing for the upcoming holiday season, displaying garlands of Fraser fir, garnished with vermilion ribbons to festoon the tops of the in-store cases. Even the winter wreaths that droop from up high on the street lamps sport smiling vermilion bowties. Like a narcissist, red likes to be noticed.

Yet vermilion isn't seasonal. The ubiquitous signs of red generally exist to warn not to forewarn. But are we beings who are inured to the color becoming immune to their attempts to control our actions? I often think we are, intentionally or unintentionally. For instance, there is a huge vermilion plaque that is posted next to the pool in my health club. It reads: "Shower Before Entering" or something to that effect. It is large enough to be viewed and ignored. Seriously, I think people see it and do the opposite, thinking it is just a suggestion, not a command. Heck, even I ignore it because it has a dictatorial attitude that is off putting. Yet the belligerent majority goes unpunished since the apathetic lifeguards dressed in matching red T-shirts don't enforce it. Maybe they should because I've noticed that the dirt littering the concrete bottom of the pool is becoming more and more apparent. Maybe I'll set an example and obey the signage if only to be rebellious. Other vermilion signs are meant to direct traffic accordingly, and I have witnessed oblivion in regard to them as well. Yes, I'm talking about the stop signs and the red lights at intersections. Running these might cause vehicular injuries or deaths, and does; however, some still don't respond to vermilion posts. And they should even if it is inconvenient. 

In this busy world filled with complications and distractions, it is hard to stay on track, hard to see the vermilion sign posts that exist to save us from ourselves. Despite being human, wanting to change the course of history by not following the rules, we just have to sometimes because in doing so, the greater good becomes better, healthier, safer. I am hoping to live to see more in the way of red. Just sayin'. 

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American Public Schools: Ephemera?

 

ephemera - noun/plural form of ephemeron - things that exist for a short time

I watch very little programming on "the box," otherwise known as the television. But when I do, I tend to focus in on offerings that stimulate my brain. Albeit controversial, Bill Maher's Real Time is one of my weekly choices. I tend to agree with him on a number of fronts, particularly when it comes to public education, this week's topic for the hour's closing monologue. Talk about hitting the nail on the head when it comes to the state of the nation's schools (and parenting)! Taking advantage of freedom of speech, Bill didn't spare words, not that he usually does anyway. According to Bill, contemporary statistics surely point to the nation's public schools as being an example of impending ephemera if positive change is not enacted immediately.

Just in case you didn't already know, I taught English full time to myriad students in grades 6-12 and substituted for pre-K through five children for 25 years. Four of those years I spent being the only Presbyterian instructor in an all-girls Catholic school, a member of the legions of effective parochial schools Bill mentioned. And yes, it is true that the private schools in the country are doing much better when it comes to meeting educational objectives. Why? For one, they don't put up with smart phone usage in the classroom, something that public educators seem to care less about as they use their devices for personal reasons in class as well (I saw this myself). And of course, the parents are no angels as they insist on being in constant communication with their children and can't wait until they get out of class to ask them how their day is going. (This I witnessed as well.) Teachers who put their foot down and tell the students to put their phones away are either harassed, threatened, or beaten by the unruly natives. Now I will say that the violence is nothing new as in the 1980s, I had a public high school senior, posing as a sophomore, threaten to shoot me because I had told him to stop talking, but I suppose things are getting worse as the culprits known as cell phones are all too ubiquitous and addictive. No wonder there is an 86% teacher vacancy rate in public schools today. Common sense will tell you that no great young minds want to deal with shenanigans like this for barely enough money to meet rent. 

Of course, as Bill stressed as well, not all public schools (and parents) are guilty of carelessness, but too many are. Either positive change needs to occur or the face of education will turn in an alternative direction towards Catholic schools, expensive prep schools, or homeschooling (and who has time for that?). The public school system, founded by Ben Franklin himself, used to be an example of socialism at its best. Now it is transitioning into a bad joke, one that needs to be rewritten into an illuminating parable worthy of remembering. 

Just remember that all things are possible with a bit of effort :). 

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Public Domain: The Slow, Painless Death of a Classic (Review of The Great Gatsby: The Musical)

 

public domain - noun - the state of belonging or being available to the public as a whole, therefore not subject to copyright.

On January 1, 2021, F. Scott Fitzgerald's comparatively brief, literary masterpiece, The Great Gatsby entered the public domain after 95 years of copyright protection. With it, the doors to Jay's mansion were opened up to permit party crashers (present writers) to enter and reek anarchic havoc indefinitely on a flawless classic that deserves to be preserved since perfection needs no improvement.

The other night, a close friend of mine invited me to see the premiere of the new musical The Great Gatsby at the Tony-winning regional theater, the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn, New Jersey. As a Gatsby connoisseur, I gratefully accepted, hoping for the best.

On the plus side, the show's cast list reads like the Broadway version of Who's Who, and the production values are excellent, completely comparable to that of any present-day Broadway musical. The music is pretty much Disney-esque (think "Frozen" here). Surely, the producers must have high hopes to realize a continuation of the show on the Great White Way after the limited engagement at the Paper Mill ends in December. The entire run, apparently, is sold out, which is most unusual for a local New Jersey theater. For The Great Gatsby: The Musical, the buzz is loud and boisterous. But is the reality? Sadly, no.

Considering what it is, a musical loosely based on Gatsby, the title is all wrong. It should have been called, "Jay and Daisy, Nick and Jordan." Why? Perhaps ignorant of the original, yet conscious of the contemporary trend to erase the ugliness of history in favor of "woke" ideology, the updated version pays little attention to Fitzgerald's organization of events, realigning key moments and lines of dialogue so that they just do not make any sense contextually. It also reimagines the main characters (a buffoonish Jay; a manipulative, vengeful Daisy) as well as relatively insignificant secondary characters, changing them to significant ones by reconceptualizing their personalities, and adding contemporary dialogue to make all of them scarcely credible given the setting of the 1920s. Forget about Nick's first person narration as well. Meyer Wolfsheim enters on occasion from stage left as somewhat of a stage manager–for what reason, I have no idea. Further plot complications are also included (Myrtle Wilson winds up pregnant with Tom's baby, which makes Daisy guilty of double manslaughter), but definitely not needed. The jostling, rearranging, reimagining and adding amount to chaos. Yet apparently, the audiences are eating it all up, awarding the piece with standing ovations night after night. Do they not see that the Emperor is not wearing any clothes? "Ignorance is bliss." I'll say so. 

No doubt, the money from the box office receipts will continue to pour in, bolstering this parody of the original. If Fitzgerald were still alive and seated in the audience, he might have enjoyed it, but don't forget that he had a sense of humor (he married Zelda), needed the money desperately, and most likely would have been roaringly drunk at the performance. My guess is that the masterminds of The Great Gatsby: The Musical might be fans, not of Scott but of Mark Twain, embracing his idea that it is "easier to fool people than to convince them that they have been fooled." 

My hope is that the laws of public domain will be edited so that classic literature will be protected from slanderous imitation indefinitely. Tip for writers: Be original. Come up with your own ideas for musicals. Don't borrow from the greats just for the sake of the all-mighty dollar. You'll most definitely come up short, maybe not in this climate, but in the long run when people finally wake up to see that the Emperor is actually naked, recognizing what they might have thought was ingenious is actually rubbish. 

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Pool Personalities: Different Strokes for Different Folks

 

natatorium - noun - an indoor swimming pool

To keep in shape as a sexagenarian (I like the look and sound of this one), along with numerous others of miscellaneous ages, I swim almost three miles a week at the local health club's natatorium, a word that I've known for years but can usually never remember. (Thank goodness it doesn't come up at cocktail parties.) Three days a week, I am usually fighting to find a lane for myself. I'm usually lucky, but when I'm not and have to wait, I spend the minutes watching how other people swim. Since no one stroke for anyone is executed in exactly the same way, it is quite amusing to see just how many personal styles there are. Believe me, there are multitudinous pool personalities, different strokes for different folks.

For one, men swim differently then women, generally–and not surprisingly–more aggressively. In my experience as an observer, when most men hit the water to swim freestyle, they proceed to hit the water– literally, unintentionally (maybe) slapping it with open palms so that swimmers in other lanes get splashed in the face. If you happen to enjoy keeping your head above water (good advice in and out of the pool), then you can't escape the brutal spray, which, I would imagine, might be comparable to swimming laps in the Olympic-size fountain at the Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas. Not fun. However, whenever the younger men who sport Speedos, wide, V-like shoulders, and six-pack abs approach the tank, you can bet they spent time swimming competitively. These men are perfect physically and are a joy to swim beside as they don't pound angrily. They alternate their arms, forming smooth arcs at the base of which are hands that dip quietly into the water, their legs beating out the right rhythm to guarantee forward moment with minimum wake. Ah! They are the sons of Neptune himself. A joy to observe and swoon over. (Too bad they don't come along too frequently.)

The women swimmers, on the other hand, can be idiosyncratic. For instance, there is one very petite Asian woman, a regular as I am, who likes to do the backstroke. Yet her stroke is more like that used in ballet. Her alternating arms move in slow motion to silent orchestration, her hands are splayed and her thumbs and forefingers, touching, like those of a plastic baby doll's. She doesn't get across the pool rapidly, but she composes her own aquatic poetry. Other women, the ones in my age group, tend to bring props like flippers and masks, noodles and such into the pool. They make me feel like I am on the beach at a resort hotel in the Caribbean, watching people snorkel among the shallow reefs. (I hope the club isn't thinking about making the pool into a salt water tank for colorful fish as it is kept healthy via bromide.) Perhaps these women at a young age were inspired by Aphrodite or Calypso albeit I can't imagine either in snorkel gear. 

Although I am not an athlete, I can still remember what I learned in fourth grade when our gym class had the unique pleasure of taking swimming classes at the local pool, conveniently located next door to our elementary school so that we could walk to the outdoor natatorium in June just before the end of the school year. I try to practice good pool etiquette when I can; however, I must admit that I disregard all signage that insists that swimmers take showers before diving into the pool. I have noticed that most people do ignore the signs. I guess we are rebels without much of a cause other than to get in and out of the pool sooner than later to free up lanes for others. After all, unselfishness is amphibious. I'd like to think so anyway.

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