Dr. Metablog

"Leonardo the Enlightened Lion" by Ralph Ganesha Jefferson

Once Leonardo defeated the old king and began to rule the pride, he evolved into a more modern lion -- more sensitive, more sharing, and more mindful. While he did not trim his mane or become less manly, he transitioned to a new kind of male.

First he decided no longer to bite the necks of the lionesses whom he mounted. Instead he wooed them gently with wine and flowers. He was a considerate mounter -- always taking care that the experience was sweet for his lionesses. He learned to roar more musically.

And soon after, he gave up the custom of breaking the backs of the kittens of the previous king. Instead, he nurtured the babies and brought them porridge and toys and stuffed animals. Nor did he drive the juvenile males into the bush. He taught them to dance and to draw and to meditate.

And finally Leonardo stopped treating other animals as prey. He became a gazelle guardian. Conscious of the environment, he encouraged all in his pride to eat organic fruits and vegetables and wholesome ancient grains.

Nowadays Leonardo the enlightened lion starts each day with a large bowl of gluten-free granola and yoghurt.

He's into wellness.

Representative Markwayne Mullin Back in the News

Four years ago, I listened to a radio interview with Markwayne Mullin, a new member of the House of Representatives from eastern Oklahoma, and was absolutely flabbergasted. Astonished and dismayed, I wrote a few paragraphs about him. Here''s what I said then: "It wasn't that he was inarticulate or stupid. It was that he was so utterly smug, so absolutely and entirely certain of himself. He has no doubts. He knows exactly what ails the country -- too much government -- and he knows how to fix it -- lower taxes, less regulation, more free untrammeled capitalism. He does not seem to be aware that the United States of America is a big, complicated, multi-faceted country. Markwayne Mullin possesses all the arrogance of ignorance, in spades."

And here he is, Representative Markwayne Mullin, smiling in front of the mandatory flag.  

I went on to report on Mullin's views, which were the usual list of utterly unoriginal, thoughtless, simplistic tea party talking points. I concluded by offering the hope (or might I say it) the prayer, which was "that Markwayne Mullin, who as he begins his congressional career is superficial to the very core of his being, will come to Washington, meet some folks from different parts of the country and from different ethnic backgrounds, learn a little about the world, come to an appreciation of the complexity of things, and grow up to be a useful broad-minded compassionate public servant. It's not impossible, but it's not going to happen until Mullin realizes that he doesn't know everything about everything, and that the practices that made Mullin Plumbing such a success may not be the same practices that will promote the general welfare over all of the US of A. I'm hopeful, but frankly, I'm not at all optimistic."

Well, the calendar has shed a few leaves, and it's come to pass as I feared. Representative Markwayne Mullin has no more brain than earwax. He's learned nothing.

He's back in the news: 

"An Oklahoma congressman is facing scrutiny after a video posted Monday showed him telling constituents at a town hall that they do not pay his salary.

“You say you pay for me to do this? That’s bull crap. I pay for myself,” Rep. Markwayne Mullin told constituents at a town hall in Jay, Oklahoma. "I paid enough taxes before I got here and continue to through my company to pay my own salary. This is a service. No one here pays me to go.”

“Pays you to go where?” a constituent objected.

“This is a service for me, not a career, and I thank God this is not how I make my living,” Mullin responded.

“Oh please, then don’t run,” a constituent said."

As I understand the exchange, Mr. Mullin believes that inasmuch as the taxes that he paid before he became a congressman exceeds the salary he now draws, that he has limited or no responsibility to his constituents. Not at all a persuasive argument, because like the rest of us, Mullin's taxes go to the defense department and to HEW with a few dribs and drabs left over for social programs and only a trickle for paying for the House of Representatives

But that's not the heart of the matter. The important question is this:  why the heck is Mullin in congress? Obviously, he hates the job and and even more obviously he hates his constituents. He has no respect for government.

Perhaps it's time for Mr. Mullin to reconsider his career. What everyone wants in a representative is someone who will inform himself, be sensible, broad-minded, be able to work with all parties, and be respectful of his constituents. Mr. Mullin fails on all counts. Let's assume he's a good plumber. Look, Oklahoma needs  good plumbers. Please, Mr. Mullin. Do the work you were called to. Markwayne, go back to where you came from, fix those pipes, and stay away from government. Please, don't run again. You've done your bit; let someone else take a crack at it.  

Sexual Dimorphism -- What's the point?

By all rights I should have been attending to the intricate areas of my face while shaving, but I lapsed into a reverie. My obsession of the moment--the beard. Why? Why in the world do human males grow hair on their faces? What's the point? The beard is completely valueless except to Gillette and Schick and now Harry. 

If the beard had a genuine function and if it honestly kept a person warm in winter, then for what reason would evolution deprive the gals of equivalent protection?  

Do bearded males garner a larger share of the nubile maidens than the shaved and beardless? Or a disproportionate share of the wealth? I know of no evidence that they do so. The fact that most men shave their beards argues that beards lack power or function. 

It's sexual dimorphism without purpose or logic. My guess--and it's only a guess--is that the beard-gene clung to a gene with a useful male purpose a couple of hundred thousand years ago and never let go. Accidental hirsuteness.

I suppose that there are times when sexual dimorphism can be useful. Those magnificent manes sported by the lions of the Serengeti certainly make a formidable statement--noli me tangere and by the way remember to keep your paws off the the ladies in my harem. I can see that--but then, the males of the enormous extinct European lion managed without a ruff, as do Bengal tigers. 

The gorgeous display of the male peacock is exuberant but inessential--more subtle birds manage to signal their gender and their availability without such a prodigious waste of resources. 

I should be relieved that it's only the beard that I have to worry about. Imagine if by some quirk of evolution, males of my species grew a big rack of antlers. Way more inconvenient than a mere beard. What a bother!! I can easily imagine myself lodged in a narrow doorway, or lying in bed trying to find a comfortable position while the antlers scratch the headboard, put holes in the pillow, or poke the eye of the beloved. 

Perhaps an advanced civilization would demand that we disbud the antlers at birth? Or we might go the other route and celebrate a magnificent set. We might have evolved into a society that decorated or colored or polished the antlers. "How are you wearing your antlers this winter?" "Natural brown, I think, this year, but with golden highlights." Chains of "Mr. Antler" or "Antler King" shops ("discount on sharpening this week only"). And for guys declined into the vale of years--prosthetic antlers. 

Better a beard than antlers. Definitely.

Deepfried Oreos

On the main street of Estes Park (Gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park), a sign outside the restaurant advertised "deepfried oreos." I was both flabbergasted and thunderstruck, not believing my eyes. But here's the evidence:

Just above ice cream and below "funnel cakes" (but that's another story). Is it a hoax, or can there be such a thing? Absolutely, there's many a google-entry on "deepfried oreos." Several different recipes, one more hideous than the next. A piece of cuisine americaine that had somehow escaped me all these many years. 

One of my waggish friends writes: "I should confess that the last time my wife and I were in Paris, we sampled the deep fried Oreos at a little café on the rue de Rivoli. The sommelier suggested a hearty Cabernet to take the edge off the sweetness of the dish and the wine worked beautifully with the cookie filling, an amalgam of flavors that made our senses tingle." I of course was skeptical of his story. No knowledgeable sommelier would recommend a red wine because it was well known that deepfried oreos were best served with champagne or gatorade.

Is it possible that deepfried oreos could become part of the cuisine of old Europe? Will it be the case that in every Italian village, just between the macelleria and the quaint pasticceria there will be an oreofritteria? A mom-and-pop oreofritteria using recipes that have been in the family for centuries -- but in danger of being taken over by the big American chain, a subsidiary of -- who knows what -- called Signor Oreofritto. A terrifying prospect all around.  

A Letter to my Grandchildren

What was it like in the 1940s when I was your age?  Very different. Milk was delivered daily in bottles: a milk-wagon, drawn by a tired, plodding old horse, appeared on East 9th Street three times a week before we sat down to breakfast. There were also daily visits from a horse-drawn vegetable truck. An itinerant knife-sharpener came once every couple of months. And also a very old man with a large sack thrown over his back, singing out in the loudest voice I've ever heard, 'I cash clothes." There were squarish automobiles (Packards, DeSotos, Studebakers), but far fewer than today -- so few that kids would play punchball and stickball right in the middle of the street, just stepping to the side to let that occasional car whizz by. Kids also skated in the street, using clunky metal skates that attached to the shoe by turning a "skate key." There was no television, but everyone listened to the radio. "Portable" radios were as big as bread boxes. Some people had refrigerators (much smaller than modern ones), but most had "iceboxes." Every week, an ice delivery man would haul a block of ice (about a foot-and-a-half square if I remember correctly) with large tongs and set it in the icebox. Coal was delivered in barrels: men with heavy gloves would roll the barrels from the truck to the ground-level coal chute. All telephones were attached to the wall with wires. Long distance phone calls were expensive and only for emergencies. People did not communicate by e-mail or by texting, but by means of postcards and letters. A "letter" was a piece of paper on which whole paragraphs were written; it was inserted into an "envelope" and put in a "mail box" for delivery. Hard to believe, I know. There were no word processors. I learned to write using a "straight pen." There were no dvd's or cd's or streaming. Instead, we had "records," vinyl discs 12-inches in diameter which were placed on a rotating "turntable" on which rested a hand with a stylus, at first steel and then later diamond. It was primitive, I know, but it worked rather well. There were no credit cards. Some people had checking accounts, but 99% of commercial transactions were completed with "money." When I started at P. S. 217, in 1944, I wore "knickers" (pants that went to just below the knee and were held in place with elastic) and long socks. You can sometimes see knickers in old illustrated books or in clothes museums. Men always wore hats: fedoras or derbies or panamas or bowlers or pork-pies, usually made of felt. Women wore hats too, some with veils, most of them godawful ugly. Young folks "courted." In those days, before people became intimate, they would go through a period in which they would "date" and talk and get to know each other. This period could last for weeks or even months. Astonishing, I know, but trust me, it happened that way in the old days. "The past is another country; they do things differently there."      

Amnesia on Film: Love Letters (1945)

Here's another film in the sub-genre that might be called a "Did I Do It."  And still another case of "post-murder amnesia."

Singleton, who can't remember anything, even her own first name, is played by Jennifer Jones with a kind of distant unfocused look about her. She is seriously troubled; in addition to her amnesia, she's been the victim of a prank in which Alan Quinton (Joseph Cotten) wrote her Cyrano-like love letters under the name of the lout Roger Morland. She fell in love with the author of the letters, but alas, deceived, married the lout. Now the lout has been murdered and Singleton, blamed for it, is just out of the mental hospital where she was incarcerated. Did she do it?  Of course not. She may not have a clue, but Alan and we the audience suspect that she's too pretty and harmless to have done anything bad, let alone committed a murder. Eventually, the truth outs and the real murderer is revealed. Singleton regains her memory and gains the replacement husband (the eloquent Alan that she wanted all along). It's a mighty unbelievable story but whenever amnesia is involved, probability goes flying out the window.

Bosley Crowther, the New York Times film critic at the time, who never liked anything, called it "sentimental twaddle." I myself, once disbelief is not only suspended but obliterated, found it to be a quite an engaging mystery. 

World War II Memories

I was six years old when the war ended in 1945, so my memories are few and arise in no particular order. I remember hearing news reports on the radio that were datelined "Moscow"-- but I conflated Moscow with Bosco, a brand of chocolate syrup popular in the 1940s. I remember that the floor of our kitchen was disfigured with an infinite number of black marks -- rubber was in short supply and the substituted soles left nasty blotches. My mother said, "We'll wait until the war is over to replace the linoleum." Many commodities were in short supply: instead of butter there was a white oleomargerine into which a packet of orange food color was mashed to simulate a credible yellow. There were ration books and ration stamps for gasoline and sugar and coffee and greens. My mother was furious that Mr. Lerner, who owned the fruit and vegetable shop on 18th Avenue, sold black-market lettuces from the back of his store. A bus driver was rude to a passenger; my mother said: "all the decent young men are overseas." We saved our nickels and brought money to school to buy war bonds. Following government advice, my father dug up his carefully tended lawn and planted a "victory garden" of vegetables. There were frequent blackouts: my father's friend Jack Patent sported a white hard hat because he was a warden. My Uncle Dan, a major in the Army Air Corps, came home from the Burma border for a thirty-day furlough and showed me his captured German Luger. We received air mail letters from him and from other soldiers with details blacked out by military censors. I complained to my mother: "Mrs. Callery (my first grade teacher) isn't nice to me." My mother said, "You have to forgive her; she's lost four of her boys in the war." Lost?  Four of her boys? I did not understand. On a sunny spring day in 1945, we heard on the radio that President Roosevelt was dead; my mother sat on the stoop and cried. And in August of that same year, when our family was visiting someone on a lake somewhere, all of a sudden the adults who had motor boats were zooming back and forth and shouting and laughing. I asked what was happening and my father said, "the war is over." 

Uncle Jack's tank was demolished by German cannon fire and he was the crew's only survivor. He lived with shrapnel in his brain until the age of ninety-one. Cousin Saul's older brother was killed in New Guinea, but Sarah, his mother, "knew" that he was alive and waited for the knock on the door or the telephone call until the end of her days. Meanwhile, the poor fellow's bones lay bleaching at Buna or some other long-forgotten field of battle. Before the war, my mother told me, we used to receive mail from the old country -- from the many members of the Chafetz and Tomaszewski and Middlebank and Hessel families who had stayed behind. "But after the war, nothing."

Can we, even now, bear to imagine what became of all those Malkas and Rifkas and Levs and Mendels?   

Amnesia on Film: Journal of a Crime (1934)

This pre-Code film deploys amnesia in a manner that is bizarre and possibly unique. Paul, a playwright, is conducting a no ambiguity, no euphemism affair with the actress Odette. His wife Francoise is jealous, so much so that she shoots and kills her rival. And gets away with it. However, she is overcome with guilt and falls into a profound depression, which the actress Ruth Chatterton portrays convincingly, perhaps because her face lacks expression even when she is jubilant. It appears for a while as though Francoise is going to succumb to guilt. However, she is seriously injured in an automobile accident. She is hospitalized but recovers, losing only her memory. But no memory, no guilt, and in the end Francoise has recovered her husband and her health and happily sips martinis on the Riviera. It's a rare case of therapeutic amnesia. Loss of memory doesn't create a problem; it solves it. And why is Paul content to re-unite with his wife the murderess? Because he is convinced that it is all God's will -- a mighty shallow expedient. So God too is complicit in the murder and its aftermath.

This was 1934; they couldn't have made it that way in 1935, when adultery and crime were required to be punished.

Here's Ruth Chatterton, famous in her day but now almost forgotten: 

 

Amnesia on Film: The Blue Gardenia (1953)

Just two days after we watched The Scarf (1951) along comes another case of not "whodunnit" but "dididoit" or better still, "doirememberdoing it."  Another case of amnesia, this one implicating Hollywood stalwarts Vera Caspary and Fritz Lang, who should have known better. This time it's Norah Larkin, a telephone operator well played by Anne Baxter, who picks up a poker and takes a crack at wolf/would-be-date-rapist/nasty-character Harry Prebble (Raymond Burr) and then blacks out. Another case of "stress amnesia," I suppose. After many twists it turns out that Norah may have struck Prebble but not hard enough to finish him off -- the real murderer was another of Prebble's victims, a seduced and abandoned ex-girlfriend.

 

I have to say, once again, that Norah's amnesia seems less like a medical condition than a very very tired plot gimmick. Memory is lost and regained o so conveniently.  But the larger implications of the relation of memory to sense of self are left unacknowledged and unexplored. 

 

Just as in The Scarf, Norah recovers her memory and gets the guy -- in this case Casey Mayo, the reliable Richard Conte, who plays a gossip columnist who has just enough brain to solve the mystery.   

 

The Blue Gardenia has been called "feminist," but if it is, its feminism is mild and unobtrusive. Is it that Norah's roommate Crystal Carpenter, played by wisecrack-heavy Ann Sothern, keeps her ex-husband and present-boyfriend around strictly for sexual purposes?  But that's all the film offers in the way of strong women; Norah herself, after her one moment of reflexive poker-wielding, becomes passive, emotional, incapable of taking action. Passive, she leaves it to others to clear her of guilt.