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.