The Perils of Apathy

 "Do you want to go see a movie?" Mr. Ginley asked yesterday.

I had a day off from work and had finished with my doctor appointment.

I thought about it, albeit briefly, and replied in the negative. The thought of sitting in a darkened theater with inconsiderate fellow theatergoers is just not my idea of a good time. 

Sure, the kids were in school, but movie-going asshats are not only from the younger set. We've sat through films with plenty of old folks who comment loudly on the movie, presumably because they're hard of hearing or their companion is. 

Then I opened my New York Times newsletter this morning, and the lede was about people who laugh at inappropriate times in suspenseful movies, like violent scenes that weren't meant to be funny. 

Just to clarify, I'm not talking about satirical movies that are trying to make a point but actual dramas that were made to be taken seriously.

The writer of that NYT piece concluded that you shouldn't be judgy about people's reaction to what's happening on the screen. That's just part of the experience of going out to see a movie rather than staying home and watching it on the telly.

But I saw something more disturbing in that. The shift in our society that is daily becoming less civil, more self-centered, and lacking almost entirely of empathy. 

Too many folks can laugh when someone else is getting stabbed. But why? Because they can't relate to the character on the screen? Or is it a relief because it's occurring to someone else.

I don't pretend to be a psychologist (I don't even play one on TV), but this mentality bugs me. I have a vision of myself, lying on the pavement bleeding, and passersby laughing and saying, "Sucks to be you."

Maybe this lack of community caring is why I don't feel the need to go out much anymore and co-mingle with fellow citizens. It's a frightful place out there. 

Another picture pops into my head. The Romans cheering as folks (Christians and others not favored by the government) were slaughtered in the Colosseum. 

If this notion seems irrelevant to modern times, take a look at who's running our particular circus – and consider that more than half the voters in our country voted for him and his menacing band of miscreants. 

Scary stuff, indeed.

Photo attribution: Pollice Verso (Thumbs Down), 1874, by Jean-Léon Gérôme

Flower, Rain

For twenty-one years, Harry Shapiro was my boss. When I heard this week that he'd passed away, I was shattered.

Harry in his (then) natural habitat.

I mean, sure we had our ups and downs. I was often too passionate about my job. Harry was forever telling me not to fall on my sword. And trying to rein in my clever plays on words. (Well, I thought they were clever.)

But honestly, when I thought back on my time with Mr. Shapiro (Sir), what came to mind were funny, happy times.

Like his first day at Sterling Jewelers. He hadn't arrived yet, but his prized BMW had. I had the honor of driving it – uber carefully, I might add – and parking it in his spot.

When he did show up, I was eager to impress the new guy. He was moving from Dallas, Texas to Akron, Ohio, and I knew he wouldn't know his way around. I told him I was going to Target and asked if he needed anything. I was thinking maybe he'd need cleaning supplies or some canned goods or something.

"I could use some deodorant," he said. Well, sure, I could do that. And I did.

Harry and I got on well from the start. I did my best to be indispensable, which must have worked, because he told me later that he was told he could fire me if he wanted to. 

That was the first time Harry saved my bacon.

Harry was the first and only person to ever call me Babs. I don't remember how that started, but it stuck. 

Our merry band of designers and me (later there would be more than one copywriter) would spend hours "brainstorming" in Harry's office. We would talk business, toss around copy and designs, and Harry would scribble headlines on napkins, a habit he picked up in his early copywriting days. Eventually, he'd share tales of his life in New York (when he had a full head of hair – he had pictures), his move to Dallas where he bonded with his inner cowboy, and working for JC Penney. 

There was the summer when he met Carly Simon. His encounter  in a restaurant in New York when he was caught staring at Woody Allen, and Mr. Allen returned the favor. And, of course, that time when Cindy Crawford mopped his brow when she saw he was schvitzing. 

That's something else I picked up from Harry. Where else would a shiksa from Parma, Ohio learn Yiddish? Imagine our mutual delight when we realized we both loved Alan Sherman and Tom Lehrer. Fun fact: He could sing all the verses to "Vatican Rag."

There's so much I owed to Harry. My promotion to Copy Manager. The Achievement of Excellence Award he insisted on nominating me for (several years in a row), until he wore down the powers that be and I won. And, of course, Harry made me a better writer. 

Not to mention, he let me be the trailblazer when the internet came along. (Granted, no one else wanted to deal with the new technology.) So there we were one Friday evening, hashing out how the pre-E-commerce site would function. Where you'd go when you clicked here, then there. 

Of course, Harry really came into his own when Ilene came along. When the two of them got together, it was clearly meant to be. Mr. Ginley and I were honored to witness their nuptials, along with so many of their friends and family. It was a night for the ages.

All this week, I've been remembering things that make me smile and tear up at the same time. Like when he unknowingly walked through wet cement at the entrance to our office building. His pricey kicks were immortalized, if not forever, then for the next 15 years or so, in the decorative concrete. 

But the one memory that really got me was Harry calling me into his office to perform some task and offhandedly remarking,"I need you," and me replying (from the song by America), "Like the flower needs the rain." From that day forward, he'd just point at himself, then me, and say, "flower, rain." And that was my cue.

And now there's only rain.

Rest well, my friend. We'll miss you.

Shrinking

The older you get, the smaller you become.

Day by day, this is more obvious to me. A grain of sand. Dust in the wind. Call it what you will, it's a smallness I feel in every bone in my body.

My world exists mostly within these four walls. I live, eat, and work here. Mr. Ginley is my constant companion. And Maggie, of course. She sleeps most of the time but makes it a habit to do so next to my work computer, so her presence is welcome.

I look back with a combination of fondness and chagrin on my former self. Like a chrysalis, I've shed my ambitions, any dreams I had of the future, but I don't feel much like a butterfly. Except that I realize how brief life really is. It's become a day-at-a-time affair, no pretense that there will be a tomorrow.

So I take up amusements like puzzles, binge watching, and books. I scroll a bit on FB, but not too much, because the outside world is a fearsome place. I enjoy my homemade hot chocolate and having weird conversations with Mr. Ginley about our shared past, music, and just about anything else you could imagine (or couldn't).

We here have become like the man in the boat in Thomas Cole's Voyage of Life. Unlike the earlier depiction of the man's life, when he's in full control of the craft and his future lies in the calm of the river ahead, at this stage, the river is churning and the boat is taking him wherever it will go. There's no controlling it. 

We haven't reached the final panel yet, when the heavens open up and the angel comes for the old guy. I imagine that's when you reach the stage of acceptance. You know you can't control anything, the ride is coming to an end, and you give yourself over to it.

I suppose that's the real secret to aging with grace. The letting go. 

The Voyage of Life, By Thomas Cole - National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., online collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=182995

Battling the Blues

Did pioneer women get the blues?

I was musing about this the other day as I sipped my tea, read a book, and tried to dispel the ennui that's settled in over the past few weeks. 

Rather than dwell on my own emotional state, I began to think about those intrepid women who crossed the country in search of a better life. Huddled around a fire with their family in a drafty cabin. She had to feed everybody, be they human or livestock, tend to sick children, stitch up holey clothes, and no doubt put her own needs in last place.

Because that's been the role of women through the ages. Not that I'd want to be the one who had to grab a gun and start shooting stuff for dinner, although I'm sure plenty of women took on that task, too.

So, did pioneer women suffer from seasonal depression? Or did they find beauty in snowscapes and telling tales around a blazing fireplace? Did they look to the heavens with gratitude when the food was plentiful and everyone was healthy? 

All of this makes me realize how paltry my complaints are. Maybe I should just be thankful that at this moment, life is good. I'm in a warm house. I don't have to go anywhere today. I have plenty of food, water, toilet paper, and chocolate.

I just looked out the window and saw a little sparrow, who's probably freezing his tail feathers off. He looked me in the eye as if to say, "You think you've got it bad, sister?" Then he flew at the window and away.

Now seems like a good time to make some hot tea, grab a few animal crackers, and curl up on the couch.

And maybe count my blessings while I'm at it.

Photo attribution: Internet Archive Book Images, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons

Beam Me Down, Scotty

When I was hired, I was asked to fill out a short survey asking the usual things like did I have pets, what was my favorite food, and what my favorite saying was.

Photo attribution below

The one thing it asked that I didn't think much about at the time was, if you could have a superpower, what would it be?

I flippantly replied it would be time travel, so I could go back and get today's winning lottery numbers. Which would, of course, mean I wouldn't have to work ever again. 

Some people picked invisibility. A coworker once commented that you should never trust anyone who chose this, because they would likely use their superpower for evil. 

Upon further reflection, I think I'd choose teleportation. I'd love to turn up in Paris in springtime or London just about anytime. Ireland has been added to my list. And parts of Italy, particularly the countryside, appeal to me. 

I mean, wouldn't it be nice to escape the dreary, snowy, finger-numbing cold and pop over to Hawaii? Hang out on the beach, read a book, soak up the rays for a weekend here and there. 

Sure, I can travel along with Rick Steves on PBS, but you only get to see places, you don't get to experience them.  I want to taste that local delicacy, sip a brew in that cozy cafe, chat with the locals, and marvel at ancient wonders in person. 

Ah, well, not likely to happen anytime soon.

I'll just have to play the lottery the old-fashioned way, hope for the best, lose, and head back to my writing desk.

And remind myself that there are only sixty-nine days until the first day of spring.

Photo attribution: Jin Zan, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Meanderings

"That's called a portmanteau," Mr. Ginley said. You know what that is, right?

photo attribution below

I rolled my eyes. Who's the head word nerd in this house?

"Yes, it's a combination of two words, like spoon+fork=spork."

"It always makes me think of the song, Kathmandu. It was one of the first songs I liked." 

Really? That song by Bob Seger was released in 1975, and it's one of the first songs you liked? I let that go, but I did call him out on the pronunciation. "Okay, but "portmanteau" doesn't rhyme with "Kathmandu," which ends in "due" not "oh."

Mr. Ginley's musings headed in another direction. "Kathmandu is in Nepal, did you know that? Didn't the Beatles go there?"

"The Beatles went to India," I corrected.

"That's where they saw the Yogi guy," he continued.

"Maharishi Mahesh Yogi," I clarified.

"My favorite Yogi is Berra," he went on.

"Was Yogi Bear named for him?" I said, picking up the thread.

"There was a lawsuit over it. Yogi Berra lost. Yogi Bear got to go on pilfering picnic baskets in Jellystone Park."

"Yogi Bear wasn't exactly a likable character," I mused. "He stole a lot of picnic baskets."

"Ya, but there's probably some sort of bear union rule, it was his job. It's what bears do, they get into food people leave sitting around. But he didn't win 10 World Series rings like Yogi Berra. Of course, neither did the Maharishi."

"Well, Yogi Bear probably didn't care because he has paws. He couldn't wear a ring anyhow," I countered. But I acknowledged the possibility that the Maharishi could have harbored a little jealousy over Berra's bling.

"Yogi Berra picked up three more World Series rings as a coach," Mr. continued. Just to keep the record straight. "So Maharishi and the Bear went 0 for 13."

As it turns out, nine of Berra's World Series rings were stolen and melted down. 

You don't suppose the Bear had anything to do with it?

Photo attribution: Algorhythms, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons