Sages

By Charles Kraus

Sages:  Rachel is back.  Tucker is unvaccinated.  Jen Psaki is moving on.  Jeffrey Toobin is keeping his hands on the table.  Who guides us as we stumble forward trying to survive the cumulative effects of the past?

As newborns, we are handed a packet of assumptions that we spend our lives scrutinizing.   Our parent's beliefs, our community's norms, social and religious canons. It is assumed we will feel, think and live these hand me downs.  Find them to be accurate pictures of reality.  Rock solid doctrine.  

Some of us have doubts.

Though my father never explicitly stated so, his motto was, always believe everything you read as long as it supports your point of view.  I took a look at that when I was about twelve and thought I'd try another approach.  One thing I found was that seeking truth was an aspirational goal.

I tend to favor mainstream points of view, the established scientific and historical pronouncements.  Who am I to question the experts?   I sign on, but with a caveat, a realization that lending support to such opinions is like making purchases from Costco.  I can take things back or exchange them whenever I want to.  I am, after all, espousing other people’s educated guesses, tainted with unavoidable bias and the limits of knowledge in its current state.

Religious and political charlatans build careers and movements by working persuasion and emotion.   Genuine experts, on the other hand, are well versed in facts and context.  What they know didn't arrive on carts of ethereal revelation.  Knowledge is verifiable, accruing and interlocking.  Though, of course, I keep in mind that each side in a lawsuit calls experts to the witness stand, and we get second opinions from doctors because medical diagnosis and treatment plans are not always formulaic.  

These days, most movers and shakers have resumes.  Bona fides.  Certificates of graduation.   An informal biographical survey of contemporary authority brings up a handful of alma maters. Stanford, Yale, and Harvard seem to have influenced more critical thinking than the King James Bible.  Do the names Elon Musk, Larry Page, Bill Gates, ring a bell?  How about Hillary Clinton, George W.H.. Bush, Paul Krugman, John F. Kennedy, and Michael Bloomberg?  Once upon a time they were matriculated at these universities.  And just to complicate matters, I'll throw in Ron DeSantiss, Ted Cruz, and Peter Thiel, gradates from Harvard and Stanford. People show up at the library with a notion of the books they want to borrow.  We are not all working from the same syllabus. Perhaps there is a difference between profound wisdom and grade point average.

I pick and choose my sages by their well reasoned arguments, and the caliber of their endorsements.  Folks who resort to outrage, to rhetorical gamesmanship, name calling, denials of reality, who are more interested in rights than responsibilities, can leave the room by the back door, please.  I'm not interested in watching them conflate temper tantrums with persuasive arguments.  

My kids attended a school where the philosophy for conducting one's self boiled down to a motto:  Curtsy and Common Sense.  I wish I'd gone to that school.  I wish all of us had.

The Uncover Up

 The Uncover Up

By Charles E. Kraus

They gathered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  I thought about it.

I'm a rather average member of my community.  Not particularly well off. More self educated than formally educated.  Family man.  I like that last description best.  I vote.  Try to do my share.  Attempt to be empathetic.  But, I believe I'm running out of empathy.  The world is just too exasperating, and I'm overcome by displeasure.  The final straws are Covid related,  Not Covid itself.  If I can put my hand on any one culprit, I'd say it is Covid-ignorance. I'm thinking about those who react foolishly and selfishly to this contagious, sometimes deadly, disease.

So many people who I talk with are tired of excusing anti-vaxxers. Is it that difficult to be sensible?  Poor, confused, misled, undereducated, well meaning souls that have gone astray -- that’s one way to look at them.  In the alternative — uncaring, irresponsible, illogical, unneighborly folks, disinterested in reality and willing to gamble with their own lives and the lives of others on the erroneous theory that science is junk.  

Wearing a mask is too uncomfortable?  That uncomfortable?  Every three year old I see walking down the street with mom has managed to overcome the awkwardness.  Do you find using an NR95 so demeaning you'd rather reveal your nose than help protect mankind?  Let me tell you, I've seen your nose, and keeping it covered enhances your profile.  

Social Philosopher Eric Hoffer’s book, 'The True Believer,’ published in 1951, describes the psychological roots of fanatical groups. The benefits bestowed on membership include a sense of power that comes from being obsessed and disruptive.  True Believers don’t need facts, they need causes.  Facts are mundane, nuanced, boring.  Causes are exciting.  Putting a thumb in society’s eye can finally make life meaningful. 

Perhaps you are one of those independent anti--vaxxers whose developed concerns about how Bill Gates plans to use the vaccine's secret infinitesimal microchips to send subliminal messages to your subconscious.  Conspiratorial little whispers. "Choose sanity."   That kind of thing.  It's a moot point.   Back off.  Gates has recently removed the chips from Pfizer and Moderna, and is now hiding them in Hershey chocolate bars.   You thought those were almonds?

To unmask the unmasks, I'll tell you their dirty little secret. They believe in post-covid medical intervention.  Why else would deniers head to the hospital AFTER they contract Covid? Evidently, deep down, they know and have known all along that science is their best bet. They're just parsing the particulars.  

People have to work hard to ignore natural survival instincts.   Spotting a runaway truck headed in your direction sends you into a fight or flight response (in this case, I'd suggest flight).    Spot a virus heading in your direction -- well, you know what you are supposed to do.  Take precautions.  Look over possible responses and choose those that seem to have the best odds.  Bravado is not one of them.

What you are not supposed to do is pretend your intuition outweighs reason.  

Decrepitude

Decrepitude

By Charles E. Kraus

I’ve been conducting age related research about how decrepitude might be affecting our democracy.  This is a hands-on investigation.  I’m 75,  younger than Joe, much younger than Nancy, Mitch and Justice Breyer.  Amazingly, The Donald and I hit New York a month apart in 1946.  None of us should be allowed to climb a stepladder to change a light bulb.  

Before renewing your driver's license, issuing authorities in Maine, New Hampshire, Illinois, Utah, Oregon, and North Carolina require you to get retested. Those states represent north, south, east and west.   Not as spry as you used to be when attempting to pull into that tight parking space?  The Department of Motor Vehicles wants to know. Of course, as far as the Department of Politics is concerned, your only required twisting skills involve an ability to manipulate the truth.  

The energy and stamina of numerous older politicians is inspiring.  Many project vitality and cognitive dexterity uncommon for their advanced years.  This mirrors the vibrant mindset I too can employ -- sparingly.  When company arrives and excitement and ego produce surges of adrenaline, causing my inner resources to perform at absolute peak.  The burdens of discomfort, of reduced functionality, those “senior moments,” sore joints, worn out limbs —are relegated to the back burner.  I am in the moment.  Ageless.  Completely alive!   This raging overdrive can be sustained for up to forty-five minutes, after which, I’m depleted for the rest of the week.  I imagine that if I were zooming with the Russian President, excitement would keep me on my toes (while I sat in a comfortable chair)  and see me through.  But later, my feet would ache, and my mind would feel abused.  Personally, I don't know how these weathered captains of government keep going.

In 2016, Trump accused Hillary of taking naps.   Whoever gets to run against the ex-president in 2024 might gain an edge by accusing him of insomnia.  Sleep deprivation may not be a crime, but it is no way to run a brain.  I consider myself in excellent condition — considering.  And part of my health conscious regime involves not being awake too long on any given day.  

The residue of human mileage is experience.  Seniors have perspective going back over decades.  They can call on personal history and acquired knowhow to counter any physical, age related deficits.  And, of course, our elected officials can deploy support personnel to fill in all the gaps brain fog places in the middle of sentences.  

My support team, mostly doctors, seems to be staffed by kids in their thirties.  Their life “experience” consists of the courses they’ve taken and the books they’ve read. The lumps and bumps of life are on their still-yet-to-do lists.   But, I suppose young people are useful.  Trump, it is said, listens to his children, especially to Ivanka.  Clinton has Chelsea. See what that's brought them.

In many ways, elders have adjusted to the onslaught of the decades with unique accommodations.  But in at least one way, all have taken a similar approach.  Check out the face lifts, hair transplants and hair dyes.  I am sure you will agree, none of them wants to look in the mirror and say, this is me, ladies and gentleman, the unvarnished, unadulterated, organic me.  

 

MORT SAHL REMEMBERED

 

Mort Sahl offended everyone and you were lucky if you could catch his act | 

Updated: Oct. 27, 2021, 4:29 p.m. | Published: Oct. 27, 2021, 4:29 p.m.

Mort Sahl on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour - 1969

102

shares

By Star-Ledger Guest Columnist

By Charles E. Kraus

Mort Sahl has died.

I own all the records, even the very early At Sunset album famous for being the first Mort Sahl recording and because Fantasy Records increased the speed so they could fit the entire concert onto two sides of an LP (Fantasy Records Mono 7005 Red Vinyl Deep Groove), Mort sounds like a perceptive Mickey Mouse on Benzedrine.

My collection began in 1959. A few years later, I was a kid in a boarding school with the Verve and Reprise records in my closet. The rule was, doors open, hit the books each night from 7 until 9. Except, I had the records. My roommate and I would close our door and play them endlessly. You listened long enough and you started speaking like Mort. Took on his point of view. Did what he did, finding what you said funny and laughing at your own jokes.

Mr. Weinberger would come by. He was an old man with a drill sergeant’s voice, hired to enforce the rules. He’d open our door, step in, listen to Sahl for a while, then step back into the hall closing the door behind him. Mort Sahl was a kind of a hall pass.

Howard Liberman and I returned to the Village Gate nightclub over and over again trying to determine just how much of the routine was ad-lib, taken from the day’s newspapers and current events. That was the official story. What we discovered was that Sahl arranged and rearranged. Adjusted material. Added something, brought back an old comment in new pants. One of his talents was keeping track of what he’d used early in a set so it didn’t get repeated.

Once, a few years later, I attended a performance at the Alhambra Library in Southern California. He wasn’t working much, rumors had it he’d been blacklisted courtesy of the Kennedy clan once he’d begun doing jokes about Jack. The show took place in a basement community room. It was packed. Crammed with fans who’d been waiting for an opportunity to hear from the man. Sahl went on and on and on. Two hours, at least. More extemporaneous than not. When he was hot, the guy could really wing it. Nobody wanted to leave, not even Sahl.

My first job in broadcasting was in the script typing department at CBS’s Television City. We began in the late afternoon, once the writers had left the building, and stayed into the night, often into the early morning, typing, mimeographing, collating, and stapling scripts for All In The Family, The Carol Burnett Show and other programs produced in-house. Then our little unit would head up the street to Cantor’s Deli. Open all night, we’d arrive at 2 or 3 in the morning, and sometimes spot Mr. Sahl at a table reading the papers and taking notes.

We didn’t bother him. It would have been rude. But several years after that, Sahl and I crossed paths at a Denny’s in Sherman Oaks. I couldn’t stop myself. I have all your records, I have your book, I’ve seen you dozens of times, on Broadway, TV, in the clubs — New York, LA, Chicago, Vegas. I was just the kind of fan I knew Sahl hated; knew could upset him. But I’d picked a good moment. He shook my hand and thanked me. He wasn’t as tall as I’d imagined.

There were rough edges. He walked away from his role in Lorraine Hansberry’s play, “The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window.” Hosted, then left various radio and television programs under awkward circumstances. He wasn’t erratic, so much as subject to misunderstandings. That was part of the baggage and the mystique that he brought on stage if and when you were lucky enough to catch his act.

I’d played his records for my daughters, talked about him often, repeating favorite lines. “Not everything I say is true, but it’s accurate.” “The reporter said he’d never been told what to write. But he knew what to turn in.” “A conservative is someone who believes in reform. But not now.” “Liberals feel unworthy of their possessions. Conservatives feel they deserve everything they’ve stolen.”

At 77, he’d returned to New York. The Village Gate, his old stomping grounds, had become the Village Theater, and he was booked for a week. I had flown east with my kids to see a few shows. Someone else was doing a last stand in the city. Hal Holbrook presenting his Mark Twain.

Mort showed up with his blackboard routine, graphing the political stance of various members of our government. He’d updated things, switched from a blackboard to a whiteboard. Had some magnetic cutouts that he slid around. Two of his friends, Woody Allen and Dick Cavett sat directly in front of us. It was a modest crowd. But friendly and pleased with the familiar routines. Sahl wore his trademark sweater. Cavett had dandruff.

Over the years, particularly as Trump turned politician, I hoped that a Sahl comment, some bright new line, observation, insight, would surface. None materialized. But I could, I can, still hear him. “Are there any groups here I haven’t offended?”

No. And none that you haven’t entertained.

Charles E. Kraus is the author of “You’ll Never Work Again In Teaneck, NJ.”

Mask Men - a meditation on masks

 Mask Men - a meditation on masks

By Charles E. Kraus

Seventy years ago --

I'm guessing most of you did not sit in front of the radio, later the television, listening to, then eventually getting to watch, the Lone Ranger pursue and ultimately capture a weekly quota of desperados. To refresh my memory, if not yours, this would have been in the mid 1950s.   I might add that none of the criminal element on either the radio or the television versions of the program, wore masks.  Only the good guy, the Lone Ranger, got to wear one.  His mask was a trademark.   It shielded him.  Not from health risks, but from detection.  He preferred an unlisted face.  

During the earliest run of the show, when Lone was merely a radio cowboy, it was difficult to convince the listening public to picture him wearing a facial covering.  Tonto, his Native American sidekick-companion-partner-administrative assistant,  addressed his chum as Kemosabe, but when discussing him with other characters in the script, uses the term Masked Man.  That moniker was repeated by as many cast members as possible.  The idea was to remind audiences that the show's namesake preferred to remain visually anonymous.  

This brings me to my mask.  Mine is not worn to hide my identity, unless of course, I decide I want to avoid getting Covid while robbing a hometown credit union.  I've merely taken a common sense approach to outlasting the pandemic.  Though I hate to admit it, I have trouble remembering to don mine; even after this extended pandemic, covering my face still feels counterintuitive.  I rush from my car hoping to purchase a quick 7-Eleven coffee before hitting the freeway, and wouldn't you know it, I've once again left my mask on the dashboard.  (I don't usually wear one while driving alone because I feel no need to protect myself from myself.  Too redundant.)

Shortly after the start of the pandemic, my wife and I acquired boxes and bags of the highest rated masks available on Amazon.  The ad copy indicated tight fits, superior filtering, an assortment of fabrics, patterns, and artwork.  Unfortunately, my facial structure is rather narrow, and most masks give me foggy-glasses-syndrome. Coming in from the cold, I find air escaping from the upper regions of my N95, flowing across my lenses and creating enough frost for my eyeballs to finger paint.

These days we are all old hands, or maybe old faces, when it comes to using masks.  Adjusting the ear straps, crimping the nose piece.  We know the protocol; how to fasten them, when to remove them.  We understand that they are a long term temporary inconvenience.   But, imagine being a toddler who believes for sure that before people leave the house, they get dressed, and that part of an outfit is the mask.  Someday, soon I hope, Dr. Fauci is going to stand barefaced in the middle of Times Square, and give us the all clear signal.  Most people will rip the masks from their faces and heave them asunder.  But not the very young.  Told to remove their facial covers, we may find tears, or at least resistance.  Whispers of never trust anyone over three.

As for the Lone Ranger,  no unmasking for him.  Asked why, he told the press he's allergic to sunblock.  

A home is not a house

A home is not a house

By Charles E. Kraus

At this point I am certain all of us, left, right, Trump, Biden, Bernie, Cruz, even really extreme outliers such as .... never mind.  This is not about that kind of crazy.  I'm talking crazy real estate.  Let me put it this way, I'm seated behind my desk.  Same house for about 30 years.  Same room.  Same chair.  Purchase price (the house, not the chair) was $135,000.  What's crazy is its current value.  Seattle has evidently run out of properties.  My daughter tells me our place is worth, oh, let's say a cool million, give or take enough spare change to buy a few Teslas and a tightly budgeted trip around the globe.  The real one, not the scaled down beach ball located in our storage room.  

Did I tell you, we have a storage room.  No garage.  Just a carport.  Actually, our no car garage reduces the asking price.  Cancel the trip around the real world.  I'll sell you this abode for a firm $973,250.23.

Some time ago, when my other daughter and her partner were house hunting in Oakland, the realtor suggested that along with their offer, which needed to be 10% above the asking price, they provide a nicely written letter explaining why they were best suited to become the next occupants.  How they loved the wallpaper, and would care for the garden, appreciated the time and effort the owners had put into creating a charming dinette.  This was so much more than just a house.  Versions of the letter went to a dozen sellers, and finally they landed a half million dollar 'fixer upper' that only needed a new roof, new pipes, new electric, water proof windows, and, dare I say, half a foundation.

When I was a kid, my dad bought us a two bedroom house in Bergenfield, New Jersey.  It came with a working foundation.  I believe it cost seventeen thousand.  I was pretty young, but recall the agent prompting hims to make an offer because someone else was interested.  It had to be accompanied by earnest money.  He didn't have any cash with him, borrowed some from me and ended up forking over fifty cents to the agent`.  One quarter, two dimes and a nickel, so my father used to tell it.  Amazingly, even for back then, we became the new owners.  Wonder how much earnest money you'd have to put down these days.  Seventeen thousands sounds about right.

We live in what they used to call a bedroom community, about ten miles north of Seattle.   Despite Covid and working from home and the decentralization of employees, the freeway is congested, come rush hour.  Our original plan had been to find a house in the City.  Quite honestly, in 1990, we couldn't afford one.  We expanded our search, looking further and further north until we reached a financial comfort zone.  Nice homes offered at reasonable prices.  Same dwellings are now going for eight hundred thousand and up.  Mostly up.  If you are attempting to use our technique, moving north and then some, until you find a home you can afford. I'd like to welcome you to British Columbia.

During our years in Los Angeles, we were friends with a screen writer who hit it big.  At one point, he was trying to decide whether or not to purchase a multi acea property in Rustic Canyon, complete with an appropriately splendid house set back into the palisades.  It boasted a two story guest cottage where he could set up his typewriter, as well as a high end maintenance shed that looked suspiciously like the home in which we lived.  I believe the asking price was something like $260,000.   That was in 1973.  I'm curious how the property is valued today.

What do people do?  I mean now.  I mean twenty somethings, thirty somethings.  How do they save enough for a down payment?  Come up with their monthly installments?  For those wishing to become house owners, it is no longer a two income economy.  A three, perhaps four, income economy sounds about right.  Most "new" buyers have been priced out of the market.  For them, a home is not a house.

Today that modest place my father bought back in Bergenfield costs more than the three homes we've owned during our 50 year marriage.  Fortunately, the next place I move to does not require a letter expressing my enthusiasm, nor a credit check.  Not even fifty cents of earnest money.  Comes with free heat.  Lots of it.  Hell of a good deal.

The Newest Reader

THE NEWEST READER

By Charles E. Kraus

Discovering that you can read is one of those monumental aha moments.  A life changer.  A right of passage.  The door swings wide and you are suddenly looking out at a panorama of limitless possibilities.  Millions of concepts, stories, characters, explanations, laughs, tears, places, enchantments, just sitting there waiting for someone to turn the page.

I'm a parent, a grandparent, the husband of a teacher, and I'm a reader.   There are lots of readers in our family.  The latest is eight-year-old Alice, who is suddenly reading everything.  

During her yet-to-be-born phase, you know, when her mom reported feeling some movement, a kick, a turn, as the fledgling was transforming from a potential person into the real thing, Alice's dad began reading to her.  The nightly ritual continued through infancy and beyond.  Reading was assumed.  Anticipated.  These days, of course, Alice reads to her father, or just goes off into a corner, perhaps in the yard, under that tree, and reads to herself.

A variety of methods purport to teach children the essential skill of translating symbols into language.   Maybe some work better than others, depending on the child.   But self taught or formally instructed, it seems to me rather natural for people to find themselves reading -- just as soon as doing so becomes desirable.  

Paul Goodman, the 1960's maverick intellectual and author of books such as, Growing Up Absurd  and Compulsory Miseducation, recalled teaching illiterate army recruits to read within the span of a few weeks.  What method did he use?  Very simply, he said, "we told them they had to read to get out of bootcamp."  That was a motivator!   My own children attended a school where formal reading was introduced pretty late in the curriculum.  The delay upset the kids, who demanded to be taught sooner.  The skill was seen as advantageous.  A right.  Nowadays, students, well or poorly educated can be found not only talking on their smartphones, but texting on them.  

Recently, Alice reported that her little sister had come to her in the middle of the night, frightened by a nightmare.    

"I told her I'd wrap her in a monster protector," Alice reported.  She tucked the sheet completely around Lila and proclaimed the four-year-old safe from harm.   Where'd you get that idea, mom wanted to know.   She'd read about it while thumbing a parenting book left on the table. The takeaway was more than learning how to stave off bogeymen, it was that solutions are often just waiting to be read.

A few weeks ago, Alice and her family came for a visit.  Her dad brought along a tent complete with a bag of aluminum tubes that, once assembled, would form a complex superstructure.  My granddaughter and I made several ill-fated attempts to put the contraption together.  I was running out of patiences.  Looking up, I spotted Alice on the iPhone.    

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Googling the instructions," she explained.

Of course she was.  Somebody had to do it.