Why I’m Voting

Why I’m Voting

By Charles E. Kraus

ctmagician@gmail.com

Mort Sahl used to say that when he died he wanted to be buried in Chicago so he could remain politically active.  Evidently, certain cemeteries have grave-side polling Mausoleums.

By my count, I’ve participated in 11 Presidential elections.  Some have turned out my way, others found the majority heading in a different direction.  Nixon and Bush II for example; I was opposed to those guys, and still am.  Eisenhower worked out better than my dad said he would.  At the time, I was too young to have my own opinion, so I had my dad’s.  We were wrong.  I’ve voted even when I knew my candidate was going to lose. Seemed like the right thing to do. Set an example for my kids. Gave me a sense of living up to the obligations an adult takes on.

There was a time when the associates of ward bosses “helped” transients get to the polls, told them who to vote for, then compensated the derelicts with a little whisky money for their trouble — or loyalty.  Take your pick.

When our country opened for business, only white property owners were allowed to vote.  Then most white adult males.  Later, black males - if they could withstand the harassment and skewed literacy tests.  Eventually, even women could vote!  By 1971 eighteen-year-olds were participating in the process.  If you were old enough to defend your country, you were old enough to help select its leaders.  

In 2008 and 2012, the Left brought voter roll disenfranchisement of minorities to our attention.  In 2016, the Alt-Right wants us to know that hoards of aliens have infiltrated the registration process to skew election results.  So we have it both ways.  Registered Hispanics are being dropped from voter rolls, and illegals are swamping the system.

In this year of turmoil, I still intend to submit a ballot.  Just not by email.

When you cast one, you are voting for candidates, initiatives, and for the system.  Showing up means you have faith in the process, that there are enough checks and balances built in to overcome any tampering.  There is value in continuity. I assume my vote counts just like I assume I can walk down the street and get to my destination.  It’s not a certainty, but an extremely strong probability.  

Voting is signaling. It’s a message to those with whom you disagree that a segment of the population rejects their assessments and game plans.   You are also signaling to those with whom you agree, letting them know there are like-minded individuals ready to organize for the next round.

The greater the turnout, the more likely the will of the people prevails.  

Of course, it would be nice to think that informed voters outnumber other participants.  A little effort, please, Dear Potential Voter. A vote is a message, and if you are sending a message, it's best to have something to say.

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Charles E. Kraus lives, writes and votes in Seattle.

Pro clown: Those creepy amateurs are bozos

Pro clown: Those creepy amateurs are bozos 

By Charles Kraus

    Recently published in The Oregonian and The Baltimore Sun 

Charles the Clown is a developmentally appropriate clown, meaning he puts his make-up on in front of children so he's less scary. The Seattle-area clown said he came up with the idea when he noticed some kids were uncomfortable when he entered in full costume. (Courtesy of Charles the Clown)

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By Guest Columnist 
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on September 30, 2016 at 6:56 PM, updated October 04, 2016 at 11:07 AM

By Charles Kraus

Might be a good idea to clear up the recent clown scares before Halloween.

I've been a clown for almost 50 years. Not a creepy one, not even a circus one. Nor a guy standing on the corner inviting customers to enter a store. I perform at children's parties, school shows, library programs, corporate events, festivals and fairs. As far as I know, the only person who thinks I'm creepy is my brother-in-law; he owes me money.

As a small boy, I was taken to the circus each year and got to watch Emmett Kelly, one of the world's great clowns. Not only wasn't he frightening; he wasn't even funny. He was sad, forlorn, and though ultimately amusing, mostly he touched heartstrings.

There are people who don clown costumes and suddenly go power mad. The outfit seems to give them license to cut loose. Most of these folks are amateurs who believe their exaggerated behavior is hysterically funny. They should be arrested for attempted impersonation of a clown.

It isn't really necessary to wear floppy shoes, colorful make-up and a rainbow wig to be a clown. Mr. Chaplin posed as a little tramp. Red Skelton simply put his hat on upside-down. As my stage show begins, I'm disguised as a relatively ordinary man. Except for the bright red pants.

About half way through the program, I try to turn myself into a clown. Everything seems to go wrong. As I'm powdering my face, the puff ends up on top of my head where I can't find it. Of course, the kids see it and began shouting their observation, trying to be helpful. I'm tangled in the suspenders and find myself wearing the jacket as if it was a dress. This may not sound particularly amusing, but it's been making kids laugh for 50 years.

I'm assuming that grownups who are fearful of clowns developed their coulrophobia (I'm still amazed that there is a scientific name for it) when scared by one as a child. The fear can be pretty pronounced. You would not believe the amount of hate mail my website attracts. According to the authors of some of these love letters, I'm in cahoots with the devil. Many years ago, the Los Angeles Unified School District refused to use clowns for their after-school programs. There is a stigma. When I make the rounds at the children's hospital, teenagers won't have anything to do with me.I developed the "become-a-clown" routine because I noticed that a few children were uncomfortable when I walked into the part
in the complete outfit. Made sense to me. Imagine a small child being confronted — possibly overwhelmed — by a tall person with strange hair, size 97-and-a-half shoes, wearing an outrageous outfit, and displaying a face that looked much sillier on television than from 2 feet away in Mrs. Smith's living room.

Yet, clowns make kids giggle. They visit senior centers where elderly gentlemen stand on long lines waiting for entertainers like me to twist balloon animals they can take back to lady friends seated at tables.

Not all clowns have the skills of Emmett Kelly. Or the sensibilities of Marcel Marceau. But, as far as I'm concerned, most are well-meaning and fun to watch. One or two may be creepy.

But, then again, there are creeps of all kinds roving the world. Some are dressed in business suits. Some in uniform. Or in the traditional polka dots and silly hair.

Lately, I've seen a lot of silly hair on television.

OLD ENOUGH

Old Enough

By Charles Kraus

      Lately, life has gone from — where did I park the car, to did I drive here in my car?  I suppose, if I hang around long enough, the kids will ask me to hand over the car keys, and the questions will be moot. 

      I’ve been through a number of what you might call stages of the human condition — kids stuff, teen stuff, young adult, military, including a war, college, grad school, marriage, parenting, responsible son for aging parents, grand parenting.  There is more ahead, but you understand the progression.  

      Where young folks see two categories of senior -- old and decrepit, we of certain advanced generations, refine the far end of elderliness, transforming it into an expanded portfolio:

TRANSITIONAL - Am I actually getting old?

People begin opening doors for you and you resent it.

ADVANCED TRANSITIONAL

After a while, the resentment goes away.

CONFLICT

Next, particular people begin opening those doors.  First, young women.  Then frail older women.  Then folks who appear to be in need of your assistance manipulate their crutches and maneuver their wheelchairs so they can block the elevator door from closing, just in case you can’t make it through the entrance in a timely fashion.  You nod a thank you, but are upset by the implications.  Do you look like you need of this amount of help?

STRATEGIZING 

For a while, I portrayed a range of ages.  Young and spry to show my children they needn’t worry about poor old dad.  In the alternative, if I thought doing so might get me a quicker result while cavorting in the public arena, I’d give my impression of an “older” gent, engaging the world with a smidgen of unsteadiness and a touch of uncertainty  This technique can actually get you front of the line privileges, and is particularly helpful when waiting for a turn in the men’s room.

      Some people are deferential to seniors.  A subset are deferential but with a hint of insensitivity tainting their presentations.  “How you doing young man?,” the twenty-something drug store clerk says to me every time I stop by to purchase hearing aid batteries.  I try not to let him bother me — as long as I get my senior discount. 

      I’ve been know to act a bit feeble if a well meaning stranger treats me as if I’m just south of senile.  To avoid embarrassing the helpful person who has misjudged my needs. Suddenly looking alert, vigorous and facial — would be impolite — “Ha!  You thought I was some old fool.  Well, watch this, you nincompoop!”

      At first, I was surprised and offended to find the world ready, even anxious, to assistant me.  Later, I accepted the help as a form of entitlement.  Then, of necessity.  My mind went from, ‘can’t you see I don’t need your pity,” to “thank you, that’s appreciated,” and then on to, “can’t you see I need you to open the damn door!”  

DONALD TRUMP CHANNELS ARCHIE BUNKER

http://www.cleveland.com/opinion/index.ssf/2016/06/donald_trump_channels_archie_i.html#comments

DONALD TRUMP CHANNELS ARCHIE BUNKER

Guest Columnist/cleveland.com By Charles E. Kraus

[From Cleveland Plain Dealer 6/26/16  web and printed versions]

Predictions had it that once Donald Trump secured the nomination, he'd move to the middle. Instead, he's moved to 704 Hauser Street. That's Archie Bunker's old address — the neighborhood is now upscale, pricey enough for ... well, how about Trump Astoria?

Trump goes there, in his mind, when he wishes to mingle with the common folks. You know, "that black guy over there ... great guy. Nice. I love him."  

Don and Arch use the same limited vocabulary, sounding like 14-year-olds experiencing a transformation process that will help them reach a level of sophistication often associated with 15-year-olds.

Arch didn't have much in the way of formal education. He was blue collar, a victim of his time and place in society.  He worked on the loading docks after serving overseas in World War II, earning a Purple Heart for taking shrapnel in the rear end.

Trump was born into golden diapers. He was prep-schooled at the New York Military Academy. (Although receiving four draft deferments and never serving in the actual military, Trump claims attending this boarding school gave him lots of insight into being a soldier.) He then attended Fordham University and the University of Pennsylvania. 

Somehow, Trump never encountered a thesaurus. Members of his team are Great.  Terrific. Fantastic. The Best. Foes are Bad Bad people. Sluts. Ugly.

Trump overflows with tired, hackneyed, stock phraseology. "Meathead," Archie's favorite epithet, out-trumps Trump.  

Trump overflows with tired, hackneyed, stock phraseology.

Expand your lexicon, expand your mind. Identifying and examining issues requires noticing and categorizing. Words identify concepts. But nuance is for middle management. If you are truly wealthy, you don't have to learn gradations or complex, critical thinking. You just tell staff, "Get me the best."

Fans of "All In the Family" may protest my comparing Archie and Donald. The show's creator, Norman Lear, gave his television character some endearing qualities. I haven't noticed similar attributes in Mr. Trump.

The New York guys do share a few tendencies. Archie was a bigot, suspicious of blacks, Hispanics and anyone practicing a religion that wasn't spelled WASP. Like Don, he believed every conspiracy theory, every superficial, unexamined, simplistic explanation for the multifaceted challenges faced by society and planet Earth.

But Archie wasn't out to trick anyone. The guy wasn't a schemer. His opinions were genuine, sincerely held, if misguided, beliefs. They didn't require clarifications, convoluted explanations or denials. It is Trump, or his ghost writers, who wrote a book filled with tips about manipulating people.

There is another difference between these characters, perhaps the most important of all. Archie is made-up. He's fiction. When the CBS Television studio lights were dimmed, he turned into Carroll O'Connor, a levelheaded actor.

Trump didn't spring from someone's imagination. Sadly, he's for real.

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The closest that Charles E. Kraus got to the late actor Carroll O'Connor was when he worked in CBS-TV's Music Rights Department and shared a wall with O'Connor's office. Kraus now lives in Seattle.

as of 6/27/16   683 comments

Veteran

Veteran

By Charles E. Kraus

You can be a veteran of various branches of the armed services, front line, support personnel, an enlisted person, officer, serving during peacetime or while the country is at war.  The record reflecting most of my four-year hitch in the Navy has me down almost exclusively as performing 'sea duty' (as opposed to serving on land), but that was only because being attached to a Construction Battalion in Vietnam, wearing fatigues and totting an M16, counted as Sea Duty even though it took place in and around DaNang.   

My dad's Merchant Marine cruises during the Second World War, traveling dangerous sea routes on a ship so ill equipped that instead of actual guns, it had wooden decoys designed, from a distance, to fool enemy patrols into thinking the vessel could return fire, weren’t even considered military activities, though they were more dangerous than any I performed during my enlistment.

There are common threads to being a vet.  You have to leave home and move into the military world.  It’s kind of fraternal.  A bunch of strangers are required to train together, people from an assortment of backgrounds, ethnicities, sections of the country, with a variety of regional accents and preferences, suddenly turned into a unit forced to perform as designated by a higher power -- a company commander or a drill instructor.  These troops are asked to move from comfort zone to war zone, to stow prejudices and act with equanimity.  They learn to inform every thought with a context that asks if what they are about to do is good for the cohort.  Also, to “appreciate” or at least yield to authority — to understand the consequences of uncooperative behavior.

Eventually an authentic bonding occurs within rank.  It is said that familiarity breeds contempt.  It can also breed respect and acceptance.  When you eat, sleep and work together, you discovery that the winners and losers aren’t determined by stereotype. Turns out, the people you depend upon come from ghettos, from upscale white parts of town, from a variety of religious and secular backgrounds.  They have all kinds of accents, odd (by your own standards) assumptions and belief systems, codes of honor, even different ways to broach a subject or walk down the street. 

You march together, working in a manner that is proscribed.  You wear the same outfits, and though a smidgen of attitude can be expressed in the tilt of a hat, by and large, you and those with whom you service begin to mirror one another.

While serving, you become a veteran of more than potential danger, more than the often rude awakening brought on by separation from home, from challenges to your assumed wisdoms and preconceptions.  You become a recipient, a veteran if you will, of an expanded, more inclusive, perspective. 

Vets are many things. Perhaps a little more macho than the rest of the population.  Perhaps more inclined to see the world through a government issued point of view.  More than this, most are apt to judge people by the individual talents, skills, and deportment they bring to the scene. 

Tax Man

Tax Man

By Charles E. Kraus

My father was an IRS investigator.   In 1930 he graduated from the City College of New York, passed his CPA exam, then applied for a Treasury Department assignment.

A ton of years later, Dad happened to be issued a license plate with an alphanumeric sequence beginning HH.  His wife said it stood for Honest Harold.  He was honest, more or less.  That is the impression I gathered from the stories he told about his life as a tax man.

Dad kept a shelf of code binders in our den.  Unlike my school binders  --   his were more substantial.  Inches wide.  Dignified, or at least very official looking.  Fitted with hardware designed to withstand abuse.  Snapping the rings shut after replacing pages of out-of-date regulations required agile fingering.  The rings slammed into place instantaneously.  

I got the impression that what with civil service hours and the need to be 'in the field' most of the time, the work load was quite flexible.  As, apparently were the rules.  When I was about ten, my father pointed to his binders and playfully explained, "using those books, I can prove or disprove anything."

His beat was corporate compliance.  But that did not discourage relatives from stopping by for an annual early April dinner served with tax preparation for anyone who just happened to bring along the appropriate forms and a shoebox of financial history.  After the meal, Aunts and Uncles sat around the table organizing and reorganizing documents.  They whispered to one another in tones appropriate for a doctor's waiting room.  As dad completed a return and delivered the verdict, the rest of us could hear responses from the other side of the den wall -- sounds of relief, regret, or occasional disbelief.  Protests, even accusations.  Harold didn't understand, was unfamiliar with personal tax law.  Pleas for a little more flexibility -- after all, Uncle Morty pointed out, this was family.

One year -- taxes completed, as mom served cake and coffee, I wandered into my room and found Morty seated at the desk erasing numbers dad had entered on his tax papers. 

During the Christmas season, unusual presents arrived at the house.  Cases of scotch. Theater tickets.  Perhaps guidelines about giving gifts to IRS agents were more relaxed in the 1950s.  I like to believe these friendly gestures were not factored into ongoing audits.  HH -- Honest Harold.

Dad didn't talk all that much about his work.  I recall two stories.

My father and his team had been set to report  tax fraud allegedly committed by a famous crooner, someone known for his talent and his underworld connections.  Moments before the charges were to be filed, 'word came down' that the investigation was closing.  Done.  Through.  Gone.  

Each time he spoke about the incident, or about the accused perpetrator, my father turned purple with rage. I wasn't allowed to purchase or play records by the singer.  If a radio or television station happened to feature the guy, we adjusted the dial, tuning to a program that offered a more congenial, law abiding entertainer.

How could that happen, I asked, how could a case just shutdown?

Dad didn't offer details.  Instead, he told a companion story.

Another agent was working on an equally explosive investigation.  One Saturday morning, the guy’s home phone rang.  A pleasant sounding stranger said, Hi Agent ___.  I just want you to be aware that we know where you live.  We know the route your son takes to school ... the park your daughter visits when she heads to the playground.  She's seven.  He's ten.  Nice kids.  

That's all he said.  Perhaps it was enough.

Every once in a while, I wonder if a caller knew where I parked my bicycle when I visited the library.

National Park Service

National Park Service 

By Charles E. Kraus

      Last night I dreamed I’d died, been handed a GPS preset with coordinates to Heaven, arrived, 

and found myself unable to locate a parking space. There were a few vacant spots but these were 

reserved for Angels. 

      

      I grew up in New York City back in the days when street parking was sanctioned. Also back in 

the days prior to power steering. My father’s two fisted manipulation of the wheel as he coxed our 

Hudson Commodore Custom into a modest opening, a mere six inches longer than our car, 

combined Jujutsu, Boatswain knowhow and Balanchiean precision. 

      Street parking in Manhattan is now a corporal offense. In other cities — San Francisco and 

Seattle for example, dealing with high-tech-low-bid parking meters often requires the deciphering of 

obscurely displayed but essential information such as how many minutes registered when you kept 

pushing that ‘add time’ button. You force your credit card into the gummy slot then pry it out using 

two hands and your teeth. Eventually, if the meter connects with your bank and they agree on a fee, 

a sticker is issued. This gets affixed to the windshield or the passenger window, placed on the 

dashboard, or Velcroed to your ear. 

      Upon returning timely to your car, you are as likely as not to find that the bumper of the vehicle 

now parked in front of you is just about but not quite touching your license plate. And behind? 

Where you’d left yourself a few feet of maneuvering room? The previous tenant, a Mini-Cooper, has 

been replaced by a commodiously cabined Land Cruiser. The super-sized transport is docked so 

close to yours that the only way you could pass a credit card between the two vehicles would be if 

you didn’t have very much credit.

      Sadly, my wife is the proud owner of an officially sanctioned Disability placard. The permission 

slip gives her the chance to park in certain otherwise restricted zones. I say “chance” because in 

most cases, handicapped parking is just as overbooked as the rest of curbside. Signage denoting 

such spots should more accurately read: Reserved for the Handicapped & Lucky.

      Has someone counseled, “leave the car over there, they never give tickets.” Have you been 

offered an event-specific permit allowing you to ignore the posted regulations? Were you 

contemplating a protective order personally signed by Judge Judy, only to be handed a scribbled 

note saying, “Board Meeting, don’t ticket. Thanks, Harvey.” Do not fall for these attempts to 

outsmart the meter-readers. 

      Such schemes only work for other people.

      There are red curbs, yellow curbs, green curbs, white curbs and just plain curb curbs. There is 

alternate-side-of-the-street parking, parallel parking, angled parking, between certain hours parking, 

three minute loading zone parking, and Restricted Parking Zone parking. After circling the block for 

hours, I’ve concluded that all of these options are theoretical. The real world offers only one kind of 

parking space, and it’s occupied.