My History with Bad Air

Take a Deep Breath - my history with bad air

By Charles E. Kraus

Seattle --      

Excuse me while I step inside for a breath of fresh air.  That joke has been making the rounds.  So has the smoke.  From time to time throughout the day I become obsessed with checking the air quality.  Ironically, my computer screen defaults to accuweather.com and all I have to do to find out the current status of unbreathability is "refresh" the page.   Something ironic about that.

I live just north of Seattle in a place called Lake Forest Park.  The signs welcome you to “Tree City USA.”  I hope forest fires can’t read.   I’m old enough to have experienced four bouts of pneumonia plus an assortment of other respiratory ailments.   This is not the first time I’ve found it uncomfortable to inhale.  But it's been a while since I could trace such problems to proximate conditions in the wide wide world.  

The bad air of my distant past had "due in part to human irresponsibility" stamped on pockets of atmosphere so thick and polluted you could carve your initials in them.

A month or two after moving to 1970s Los Angeles, I looked out my kitchen window and was startled to see mountains.  They'd simply materialized.  Beautiful, majestic mountains.  It was as if Disney had assembled them in the middle of the night.  But, no.  The explanation turned out to be that the smog had lifted revealing natural beautiful generally hidden by the unintended consequences of a highly mobile industrialized society.   

My eyes are burning today.  Sadly, I’m out of Systane.  I’d go get a refill, but am not supposed to leave the house.  The dirty air would choke me.  And besides, I'm old, and adhere to pandemic restrictions that keep me from entering stores.  

My eyes know all about the pitfalls of corrosive air.  LA was not my only California address.  I am also a surviver of Pasadena air so foul that there was a constant sting awaiting your every breath. Your eyes burned and your skin itched.  Know that mountain I had trouble seeing from my Los Angeles kitchen window?  Now I was living on it, and I still couldn't see it.

Worse than any of this was the year I spent, part of my Vietnam Era Naval career, when I was assigned a desk three decks down in a converted storage space on the USS Fulton.  The room had no ventilation system.  By the end of each day, the eight sailors who worked there, seven smoking cigarettes plus me, could not look across the florescent lighting and actually locate the bulkhead.  Pulling my undershirt off in the evening as I prepared to shower, the fabric stank so badly that I developed a habit of holding my breath as I lifted it over my head.  

The Fulton was an ancient submarine tender that only left port twice during the year I spent onboard.  Twice and for very short durations.  Out to sea to dump nuclear waste.

Respect for the environment?  Not then.  Not yet.  Air today, air tomorrow.  I hope it's better by then.

Lingering Thoughts About the Virus

Lingering Thoughts About the Virus

By Charles E. Kraus

The conventions are over.  The virus continues.

Did I?  Should I?  If I.  An endless loop of pandemic thoughts play in my head.  

I'm wondering If during one of my few, essential outings, someone, somewhere -- by some fluke, by an alignment of circumstances, caused just enough airborne virus to penetrate my procedures, my protective gear, my good intentions.    I'm feeling fine.  Now.  But that lingering thought says -- How will today's activities effect me tomorrow?  Was I asymptomatic when the family came calling?   Were they?   Everybody is back home seemingly doing well.  Today.  But tomorrow?  Did I give them something?  Or receive pandemic particles bound for my already shaky old lungs?   

I'm constantly weighing odds and outcomes.  

My wife and I are seniors.  These days we conduct most of our lives over the internet.   Or call in our orders.  But, they never get it right.  Dumb substitutions.  Choices we wouldn't make if shopping on our own.  Didn't they see that I specified low fat?  My wife wants to go to Safeway in person, just this one time.  Or to Trader Joes during senior hours.  Maybe I should go? Maybe not.

I go.   I'm  cautious.   Am I foolish?

First time I've visited a grocery store in months.  I'm impressed with the glass panels between customers and cashiers.  And the very responsible cliental, everyone keeping their distance.  I take a squirt of sanitizer as I leave, and after rubbing it on my hands and the cart handle, I use the excess to coat the coins I've received at check out.  Pushing the cart through the parking lot, I am trying to decide when it's appropriate to remove my mask. 

Now comes the lingering after thought.  Did I catch anything?  Will I know tomorrow?  Next week?  When do I declare this a safe and successful outing?

Visit a store, see your kids, go to a doctor's appointment or just bring an Amazon package into your kitchen and wipe it down with alcohol.  The next thing you know, you are suffering from the thought, if not the virus.  Did some portion of now set in motion a catastrophic event?  Is something, anything I'm doing at the moment, going to become part of a process that leads to my becoming a Covid 19 statistic?  The prospect does cross my mind. 

Novel corona virus is stealth.  Until it isn't.  You seem to be OK.  You might be fine.  Probably that's the case.  But tomorrow, or next week might finding you forming a different conclusion.  Life takes place every day.  What you do tomorrow may have consequences further down the road.  What you do in two days, in four, at any point in the near future, could possibly prove deadly.  Before long.  Or not.

Like I said, an endless paranoid loop of pandemic maybe plays and plays in my head.  

Charles E. Kraus is the author of "You'll Never Work Again In Teaneck, NJ."

 

Empty Stadiums, Cheering Crowds

Empty Stadiums, Cheering Crowds

By Charles E. Kraus

I was sitting in an ABC-TV studio.  Jim McKay was behind the Wide Wide World of Sports desk sampling the day's events.  One of these was a middle-weight boxing championship coming out of Italy, or Spain.  It was a long time ago.  Howard Cosell had flown in, toupee and all, to provide local color.  Something was wrong with the feed, at least that was the director's first impression.  The match was taking place in a packed stadium, but there didn't seem to be any crowd reaction.

"No, no," it was explained.  Audience's watched silently.  Or maybe they weren't miked. Either way, there was nothing to hear.

That was not going to work for American viewers so a sound effects person arrived with his sweetener.  This was a device generally used to enhance audience reaction -- you know, to goose up laugher if the comedian hadn't actually earned the chuckles, spice applause for a singer who hadn't generated a rousing response.  What did this technician have to juice up a boxing match?  

Soon, crowd sounds improved reality and the boxing match took on a whole new level of excitement.   (There was one other problem.   Evidently pictures were being generated by feeds from the US and Europe.  America's shots had the clock super imposed, counting down the minutes.  Europe also super imposed a clock.  Not a count down, but rather a count up.  Made for an interesting afternoon).

This summer, refreshment stands and fans excluded, stadiums plan to open.  The loudest sounds you'll be hearing when watching these events won't be cheers or boos.  If you listen carefully, you'll pick out a few grunts and some colorful language.  That's assuming the shotgun microphones follow athletes on their appointed rounds.

There is talk of adding recordings of crowd reaction from previous games.  In the Cosell days networks were willing to settle for generic audio, a general sense of people attending a sporting event.  Adding meaningful, reactive sound in real time is much more difficult.  What you hear has to match what you see.

Back when, I was involved with a number of CBS variety programs.  Sitcoms used laugh tracks.  Variety shows employed sweeteners on an as needed basis.  Certain programs created audio reaction out of whole cloth.  The Sonny and Cher Show only pretended to have audiences.  The program was actually recorded bit bit.  Sometimes a small segment would be shot endlessly, "Take 14, roll tape."  Finally, somehow, everyone got their lines right.  The keeper would be added to other keepers unit an entire show was assembled. Then the sweetener guy would rush in and replicate appropriate audience responses.  

How do I think sound should be added today's sports events?  During this pandemic situation?  Simple.  Air the event live.  Stadiums empty.  Zoom the show to a few hundred open mike homes.  Families, couples, guys who've been sitting in the same chair since March.  Blend their audio reactions and add this mix to the broadcast.  It will be authentic.  Not canned.  Not sweetened.   There may be a few extraneous sounds.  But ... did you ever go to a sports event, a real live event, that didn't have a few extraneous sounds? 

OK to begin?

OK to begin?

By Charles E. Kraus

I’m back for another Zoom show.  Hi everyone.  Everyone -- that would be about 30 four and five year-olds and their parents, generally moms, seated, standing or walking around in front of computer screens. I’m looking at the gallery view of my audience,

Tim, the school director who organizes these programs has promised to monitor the audio.  My preference is to hear the viewers and for kids to hear one another.  I want laughter to build so stay-at-homers feel like they’ve become an audience.  But Tim is right.  Sometimes children need to tell parents they want more popcorn, or a bathroom break.  Mute that, please.

Back in pre-Corvid19 days, I made thousands of live, actual, in-person magician-clown-puppeteer appearances in schools, libraries, recreation centers, hospitals, fairs and private parties.  I’m not so sure how things will shake out when the world reaches the new normal.  At the moment, I’m dealing with the current normal.  Like many children’s entertainers, I’ve taken to virtual gigging.

I have to keep it short because Zoom allows 40 minutes, and Tim uses some of that time to go over a few organizational elements with the families.  Then … it’s me.  Thirty minutes of show.  In this case, I’m doing a virtual version of my become-a-clown routine.

Tim’s school is in Los Angeles.  I’m in Seattle. Lots of rain here, but I see many of my Zoomers seated by swimming pools, others indoors, a variety of homes, modest and luxurious.  Mothers holding babies, children running in and out of frame.

Just before starting I hear one of the kids.  “It’s Charles!   Another episode!"

My backdrop frame is behind me.  It holds an eight foot long seven foot high curtain.  But it’s not very far behind me because like many people, I’m working from home.  In my case, the rooms are small and you can only move furniture so far.  I’ve been left with a narrow corridor in which to perform.  By remaining exactly here, my computer camera will capture enough of me.  If I hold out my hand, bringing it closer to the camera, my fingers appear to quadruple in size. 

The audience sees me as I am, but when I view myself on screen, I’m looking at a reverse image.  I only realize this Zoom anomaly once the show begins.  Attempting to use the screen as my mirror, I explain — “This is how I put on my clown face,” Things immediately go awry.  I’m trying to draw the blue heart on my cheek, but discover that I’m working with my opposite self.  My hands are confused and I end up looking like a Stephen King book jacket.

Zooming a performance is similar to entertaining a stadium crowd.  I’ve done that at the Olympic Arts Festival and in venues such as Pasadena’s KidSpace.  The canvas is filled with indistinguishable pixels of people.  I talk, it responds.

I’m big on sharing smiles with kids.  But that concept is pre-pandemic.  Kids sitting on the floor a few feet away.  My puppet saying something funny, me looking into the eyes of a child so we can laugh together.  Try that over the internet.

These days, no one can join me on stage to assist as I twist up a giant balloon animal.  The routine was written as a comedy piece.  Cross out those jokes.

I can’t ask children to raise their hands if they want to help me identify a color or a shape, and I can't facilitate a conversation between a youngster and Biscuit The Dog Puppet.  It's extremely difficult to select someone from the audience.  The kid over there, I mean there, the one holding the …. I can barely see people framed by their small zoom screens, more or less indicate who I have in mind.  Solution, I ask Tim to do the picking.  

Childrens entertaining is always a learning experience.  Especially these days.  I'm combining a new skill set with well honed technique.  My goal --to present a virtual program, maybe in the next episode, where meaningful interactions take place.  A show that’s an engaging dialogue between the children and the performer.

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.