Full House

Full House

By Charles E. Kraus

Two days have gone by since Trump's Tulsa Rally.  Actually, let's not call it a rally, let's call it what it was, a focus group.  You know focus groups.  Marketers bringing together a collection of very specific individuals.  Of course, these sessions are usually held in an office or conference room, not an event venue. It's a good thing Trumps' rally wasn't catered.  Lot of baloney would have gone to waste.

Personally, I'm surprised that Trump hasn't sent Kayleigh off to a press conference claiming his Tulsa numbers were misrepresented by the despicable traitorous liberal fake press, such as the Wall Street Journal ("Trump’s Tulsa Rally Draws Smaller-Than-Expected Crowd") and the Washington Examiner ("Trump rally in Tulsa failed to fill half the arena.")  

"The largest crowd ever assembled in Oklahoma," McEnany might tell us.  Except for the mob that stormed Tulsa's Black Wall Street during the massacre.

Actually, I've seen larger gatherings at bar mitzvahs.

Trump gave what he called an ok speech.  He was nervous.  Upset.   I'm sure he was worried about the health of his six campaign staffers who'd tested positive for Coved 19.

Besides, he was facing history.  History, in his case, did not have to do with speeches by Churchill, or Roosevelt, not by Kennedy or even Obama.  Our President comes from a line of work other than that of statesman.  From the land of televised entertainment.  Possibly, he could not help marveling at the fact that he was appearing in the very same hall that had featured Paul McCartney, Billy Joel, Elton John, U2, Justin Timberlake, Garth Brooks, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson, Lady Gaga, Guns N' Roses, Kenny Chesney, Bruce Springsteen, and many other big name draws.  Would he attract bigger numbers than Barry Manilow?   Such questions must have been on his mind.

Look at photographs and videos of the folks who showed up.  They seem baffled by the empty seats.  What happened to their missing friends?  Did they have the right date?  The right address?

The place was so empty people could scan the crowd in search of missing buddies, a process made easier by the fact that almost no one was wearing one of those stupid masks.   Republicans have been saying right along, no masks,  no hijabs -- on Muslims, or on God fearing Americans.  None of our founding fathers wore masks.  Well, maybe the Lone Ranger.

This whole thing was a Tik Tok ambush.  Just think of Tik Tok spelled backward and you'll understand.  Tok Tik.  Exactly.  A broken clock.  Time standing still.  Simply not the Trump way.  Trump wants us to return to our golden past, to go backwards.  Standing still is not an option.

In my opinion, the specific reason for low turnout is that people were scared off by the deep medical state in cahoots with John Bolton.  Bolton, one of those self centered loud mouths, out to make a buck.  Obviously folks who showed up for the Tulsa rally are immune to such hucksters.  According to their immunization records, that may be the only thing they're immune to.

The Floyd Effect - a voter algorithm

The Floyd Effect - a voter algorithm
By Charles E. Kraus

I am white.  Middle class.  And old enough to have reduced my civic/political activities to sending off emails, postcards and an occasional check.  Sitting home, sheltering in place as the past two months have required, has given me an opportunity to be in virtual touch with a lot of people.  And during this recent period of civil unrest and racial tension communicating with friends has me thinking that the explosive energy set off by the hideous murder of George Floyd is about to set off another, even broader, even more massive response.

The working theory of my virtual companions is that a combination of outrage about systemic racism, financial anxiety and pandemic isolation, along with the catalyst — torturing George Floyd to death, set in motion an ongoing series of protests across the country and around the world that has legs.

Outrage?  Financial anxiety?  Pandemic insecurity.? Civic concern?  George Floyd was one too many.  According to everyone I speak with, vote by mail or not, voting in the presidential election is going to be the next expression of outrage.   It will reach historic numbers. 

You get people angry enough and they become pigheaded.  Pandemic or not, long lines, bad weather, rightwing intimidation.  Bring 'em on.  Trump's actions, basically anything he does, are now part of the voter algorithm.  Every time the President opens his mouth, he creates another opposition vote.

Part of what I hear from my friends has to do with correcting course, and with acting in time to save democracy -- before Trump and his greedy cohorts sink the country.  But there is more.  One thing that comes up again and again is that once the guy is removed from office, he's going to jail.  A lot of people I know think that is sweet.   I'll bet prison is on his mind, too.

Yes, he may -- having witnessed Trump in action, I don't doubt this -- he may attempt to pardon himself. But so what?  The State of New York will act on the Country's behalf.  Mr. Trump can not dismiss those charges. Every time he blunders his way into a new corner, I'm wondering if he is simply running scared.  Twisting and turning like a criminal on the run.

Amazingly, none of my friends are cautious about their predictions.  They don't hope Trump will lose the election.  Nor are they concerned as to whether or not the Democrats will be able to find some way to keep it together, to turn out the vote, to win a particular state, to send extra poll watchers.  They know the Republicans will be swept out of office. 

Sadly, it's taken a pandemic and significant reaction to yet another act of racism and police brutality to bring voters to their senses and their feet.  Perhaps spending far too much time indoors in front of their computers and televisions has given people time and opportunity to pay attention to something other than their own locked in, insulated, bubbles.   

Where I Come From

• OPINION

Where I come from: A New Yorker yearns to return to the city hit by coronavirus

By CHARLES E. KRAUS

NEW YORK DAILY NEWS 

MAY 23, 2020 | 10:00 AM

Hometown.(Frank Franklin II/AP)

I was set for my next return visit to the city. Few days, some of the old dives, updates with aging friends. Find out if Tannen’s Magic Store had moved yet again. Major stop at the Strand.

But, of course, due to circumstances beyond the control of anyone charged with controlling things, I’ve been authorized to stay put in Seattle.

Every once in a while, between pandemics, I do get back to the city that set me in motion. Heading to the scene of the crime is an ongoing process. I mean, really ongoing. Fifty plus years of plane, train and bus rides, from schools, the military, homesteads in Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, Eugene, and for the last 30 years, Seattle.

Doesn’t seem to matter where I am, New York continues to be an urge. My spontaneous responses to life have a Bronx point of view that features Manhattan aspects and too much exposure to Jimmy Breslin.

As a reward for sailing through my first year of college, dad lent me his American Rambler so I could take a road trip to Chicago. Somewhere in Ohio, I started feeling homesick. Thought it might be nice to talk with my mother. I pulled into a rest stop.

Back then, there were structures called phone booths and occupations called telephone operators. Using the General American Regionalism I thought I’d acquired in freshman diction class, I informed the operator that I wanted to place a long-distance call and reverse the charges to my parents’ home.

  

"Where in New York is that?” she inquired.  Diction classes. Yeah, shore.

Each of my kids has taken a turn living in the city, so for a while I had free crash space. Later trips, I found oddball lofts, and from time to time sheltered in an East Village ashram that provided a mediative soundtrack, incense, complimentary fruit and outstanding bagels. Very Middle Eastern.

I am addicted to all the usual NYC stuff, the endless resources, cultural blending, the clear-eyed skepticism informed by a communal dose of sarcastic humor.

But there is something else. It’s invisible. I mean, you can see the evidence, the influence, but it is actually one of those implied forces. People who live in New York don’t realize it exists unless they move away and suddenly notice that the rest of the world takes place in slow motion. Or unless they’ve been sheltering in place.

I’m talking about energy. Synergy. High voltage atmospherics. New York does it. Does it fast. Does it efficiently.

I am old. You may have guessed. But I’m older in Seattle than in New York. Here, I mosey along. In the city of my birth, my gait picks up speed. Falls in with the pace. Obtains an mph that would exhaust me if I employed it on Seattle sidewalks.

Manhattan supercharges me. I walk and walk and walk. I’m caught in a flow of vitality that carries me.

I swear what I’m about to write is true. You got my word as a son of the Bronx. On my last visit, I walked so long and so far and so fast that when I got to the shamble of a room I was renting in a loft the proprietors were calling a hotel, I removed my shoes and the bottoms of my feet were black. Not dirty; I launder  my socks. The soles of my feet had turned dark black.

Be well, New York. Here’s to better days. Stay-at-home goes away, I’m plotting my next visit. With better shoes.

Eye Contact

Eye Contact
By Charles E. Kraus

We live just north of Seattle.  An elderly couple feeling pretty lucky, under the circumstances.  No coughing.  No fevers.  But, of course, no contact with the outside world.  That's the hard one.  We were all set to fly down to see the kids and the grandkids when air travel became unadvisable.    We make the trip to the San Francisco area as often as we can.  But all plans are on hold.

Lila, the two and a half year old, begins most of our FaceTime conversations by says, "want to come to your house."  She likes it here.  Lots of toys, spaces to explore, and mostly, her grandmother.  Lila's trips are on hold, too.

The girls -- Lila and her big sister, six year old Alice -- video chat with us several times a day.  Such sessions have been taking place for the past few years, long before sheltered in place.  But they feel extra valuable right now.

Initially, our daughter handled the technical iPhone procedures, helping the girls sit where we could see them, guiding their fingers to the right buttons, suggesting topics of conversation and show and tell items they might want to present.  These chats were short and stilted.  McLuhan would have accurately described our interactions as the medium being the message.  It was the idea of interacting that filled most transmission time.

Before long the kids became old hands at picking up mom's phone and taking charge of their own video calls.  Lately, we've been getting their morning reports from the breakfast table.  Mid afternoon updates, and bedtime night nights.

When Alice was about four she began turning the camera on scenes and activities rather than focusing on her face.  We saw parks, her school, her friends, her favorite toys, her artwork.  We were given video tours of family outings.  The dentist, Trader Joes.

Now the world has contracted.  Instead of the park, transmissions originate from the side yard, or more often than not, from inside the modest sized apartment.  Alice has a sense of the restrictions that have been imposed.  These days, she is busy doing her school work at home.  Mom dials up a FaceTimes call then turns the phone over to Lila.  Little sister hasn't caught on to the new restrictions.  She will.

FaceTime.  We see the girl's paintings.  Are given glimpses of the latest reconfiguration of their room.  Alice knows how to spring into the picture, a surprise!  And how to continue the conversation while adding a lot of memes and odd ball hi tech facial distortions.

Linda reads books to Lila, and I do my little puppet shows for the girls.

There is a certain amount of faux eye contact that takes place during these long distance conversations.  People stare at one another.  By force of habit, or force of nature, we keep initiating eye-to-eye contact.  A frustrating effort when you find yourself peering into the eyes of the visual representation of those you love most dearly. 

The Costume Makes Me Ageless

The Costume Makes Me Ageless (Almost)

By Charles E. Kraus - 3rd Act Magazine winter 2020 issue

I ring the bell. A young mother answers, giving me a quick, discreet, but meaningful once-over. She’s just discovered she’s hired a children’s party entertainer who is in his 70s. I enter, the kids surround me, and I start to make coins and sponge balls appear from behind their ears. The children don’t notice or care about my age—and after watching me and seeing the reaction of the party guests, the mother relaxes.

Sixty years ago, when I started performing at children’s parties, moms would answer the door, realize they’d hired a 12-year-old, and I’d go through the same, behind-the-ears, enchant-the-children scenario.

My act, whether performed at children’s parties, schools, libraries, festivals, or hospitals, often finds me becoming a clown in front of the audience. I arrive looking pretty much like somebody’s grandfather. About halfway through the show, I begin the transformation. Once I apply make-up and pull the costume over my ordinary clothing right in front of the audience, both kids and parents find me ageless. So do I.

There’s a surge of energy and well-being—a feeling of being suspended in the moment—that comes with performing. I didn’t have to wait decades to learn about this. As a teen magic trick student, I studied with Jack Miller, a prominent East Coast magician. The guy was “ancient,” that is, almost as old as I happen to be right now. He looked sickly and suffered from multiple health conditions including arthritis. My first thought was: What could he possibly teach me? But as Jack moved from his role as teacher to performer, his posture lifted, the joints in his fingers became supple, and he manipulated cards and coins with the grace and skill of a prime-time professional. Watching him on stage, I marveled at the real magic taking place. Not the mind-bending illusions, rather the actual morphing of an aging human into an ageless magician.

Over the years, especially if I’ve been suffering from a cold, headache, or even a more serious ailment, I’ve jokingly called out to my wife, Linda, the woman who has booked my act since 1972, “Get me a show!” I’ve requested this because performing cures, or at least temporarily relieves, just about any ailment. I’ve entertained immediately before heading to the hospital for surgery, and shortly after getting stitched up. Within the limits of the doctor’s guidance, doing a show is often more effective than pharmaceutical pain control.

In all honesty, Linda does not generally stress my age when booking an appearance. “Experience”—that’s what she calls all the years and thousands of bookings that I’ve had. “Hire him and you don’t get someone who is locked into a set routine,” she might say. “Kids need flexibility, and because of Charles’ extensive experience, he can put together a program that will be just right for your particular guests.”

Unfortunately, if you look me up on Google, you may see my age. My age! How did that get there? I’ve tried to have that piece of information removed, believing lots of young parents take note and never bother to call. So far, Google refuses to cooperate.

Recently I’ve acquired a pacemaker. It comes with certain restrictions: Stay away from microwave ovens, hold your cell phone at least six inches from the device, and so on. Concerned that my cordless microphone might be on the do-not-use list, I consulted the internet. Turns out there was only one possible problem regarding pacemakers and wireless mics. The wireless manufacturer, Shure, noted that pacemakers might reduce the sound quality of their microphones! I guess not everything is a medical consideration.

I do make one reference to my age during the show. Biscuit, my dog puppet, gets ready to perform a magic trick. He tells the kids he can guess the age of anyone in the room. Then he looks at me and says, “except him … I don’t count that high.” Everybody laughs.

All the News That's Fit

All The News That's Fit
Getting the Actual News
By Charles E. Kraus

Back in the early 1970s, Blacks rarely made it into the papers. If "they" did, it was because "they" had been accused of committing a crime or hitting a home run. Likewise, New York City's vibrant Puerto Rican community was a no show in the mainstream press. Basically, "minorities" were not considered news worthy. Environmental alarmists rated a few inches of copy towards the back of the paper. Gays didn't exist.

What was news worthy? At the time, my journalism professor told us it was whatever the editor declared affected the day.

Advance about fifty years.

Breaking news. Just in.

If you watch the cable versions of current events, you are familiar with these or similar enticers. "Hold on, this just in from the The Wall Street Journal or The Washington Post," the anchor tells us. What he's about to say is obviously monumental. Or not. Generally not. We interrupt our regularly scheduled newscast to bring you the news. One of the requisite skills for modern newscasting is the ability to hyperventilate on cue.

In the early days of television news, broadcasters such as Murrow, Sevareid, and Cronkite, were serious men relaying serious information. They didn't emote. David Brinkley could be droll, but he was off-set by his co-anchor, Chet Huntley, a guy so somber you assumed his funny bone had been removed by highly component surgeons.

This was long before the internet, or even cable television. If your antenna was properly aligned, your television could pick up invisible high frequency signals and convert them into TV programs. Phones were used exclusively to move conversations from point A to point B and back via wires strung up there on the poles, with more lines branching off toward your house, into the walls, and ultimately directly to your telephone. Prior to the internet, when you employed the term "screen" you were generally referring to the mesh window protectors that kept bugs from visiting your apartment.

Television news had pretty much replaced radio news, and though many cities had one or two papers (New York City had seven), it was obvious that if you wanted the most up-to-the-minute information, less details than print media could provide, but more immediacy, you found it on the idiot box.

Should you wish to see the news but happen to be away from home, residing in a college dorm, participating in the military experience, or just out and about, you gathered around a set that had been supplied for public viewing. In a television lounge, a bar, student union or convenient cafe. You sat next to colleagues, friends or strangers, watching one of the three major six p.m. newscasts. These wised you up to the events of the day. There were no 'all news all the time' sources. On especially big news days, a paper might publish several editions with updated information about important stories. Momentous events like a moon landing, JFK's abrupt demise, Watergate -- meant the television remained on offering viewers extended reports. Watergate was the first time that many folks watched public broadcasting. It provided gavel to gavel impeachment coverage.

Comes now. Not three main news feeds. Not broadcasting. Narrowcasting. Rightwing TV, leftwing TV, religious slants, regional slants, Spanish, subtitled, superficial and/or in-depth analysis. Facebook, Apple News, Yahoo News, Google News, RT, One America, to name a few available feeds.

I repeat my question: What is the news?

Answer: It's still whatever the editor declared relevant.

Only difference is, now you are the editor.

Beyond Abundance

Beyond Abundance
By Charles E. Kraus

Lately I've noticed a new look to the old neighborhood.  Actually, I'm talking about many stable, middle class, even upper middle class neighborhoods.   Well kept lawns and late model cars in the driveways.   What's new?  The discards sitting at the curb with their hand-written little signs resting on top of the piles.  Free, they says.  Take it.  Please take it.  Furniture, appliances, portable basketball hoops, boxes of books, artwork, bicycles, ski racks  -- expensive artifacts from the preceding decade.

We've obviously gone beyond the saturation point, crossed the too much stuff line.  We the enthusiastic consumers have passed the demarcation for manageable levels of abundance. 
Abundance has become a burden.  Poor little us.

I've personally put a few goodies out there just beyond our lawn:  An ancient (can something be ancient if it's 10 years old?) desktop computer, a television, remember televisions? DVDs, two obsolete intercoms, a little staticky, but functional.  Record albums, remember LPs? Johnny Mathis, Johnny Cash and Johnny Rivers. Johnny was once a very popular name.   Hey, these things cost me a fortune, and I'm offering them to you for absolutely nothing!

I was going to place my discards on Craigslist.  A few bucks for this or that.  But a moments calculation convinced me it wasn't worth my time.   You have to figure out Craig's procedures, then, of course, it is best to take photographs of what you're offering and transfer the pictures from "saved photos" to .... it's involved.  After the listing goes "live," you end up counseling people who want directions to your house.  Some of the callers sound, well ... not exactly stable.  I think I'm done with Craigslist.

Another approach is/was to cart castoffs to the Goodwill.  Load the Kia, drive a few miles.  Not so bad, except these days a line of cars seems permanently backed up along the street waiting for a chance to pull in and have donations scrutinized.  Goodwill doesn't take everything, you know.  I didn't know, and last time, after waiting for about twenty minute, I reached the unload your castoffs area only to discover pillows weren't accepted.  Also, the pristine, thick to the point of ludicrous, glass shelves that used to be on the bookcase that we are repurposing.  It is now sort of a desk.  They were rejected.  I tried to figure out a way to hide the toilet set under some carpeting, but neither was green lighted.  Strangely, Goodwill takes used underwear.

The trash collection people are reasonably tolerant of whatever fits into the pail.  But not entirely.  They have their eyes out for hazardous waste.  I have a dozen perfectly useable fluorescent light tubes that are on Republic Services' no-way list.   They are destine for the Household Hazardous Waste Facility.  Some day.

Discards.  For me, the word used to conjure up dilapidated abandoned vehicles left on the side of the highway.  They were rusty.  Various components had been removed by people in need of various components.  Times have changed for the consumer generation(s) .  We have so many perfectly good but no longer wanted treasures, we are encumbered by our good fortune.