Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Category: Uncategorized

• For Shame

  Posted at 3:25 am by kayewer, on November 13, 2016

  Have you ever watched an animal’s eyes when they are in full-blown predator mode? The look is primal, untamed and destructive. I’ve seen that look in the faces of people who bullied me in school, and I got to see it again this week after the elections were over.

  An animal that fights to survive and kills for its food gives into instinct and basic survival mindsets to hunt and bring down other animals which will attempt to run away and deprive it of its needs. In groups, they work together for a common cause. We, as human beings, normally only kill for our food if we decide to execute a lobster for dinner. Otherwise we tend to let experts kill and dress our food. To survive we strive, through craft and knowledge, to better others like us, and our groups are much more exclusive. In the wild there are no major deviations between lions or elephants; a lion is a lion and an elephant is an elephant. Humans, though, separate themselves and may choose divisive measures over working together for a common cause. Humans work together for the common cause of a few. That is where cliques are formed, races divided, education divvied out like a prize for the chosen few.

  Why else would we see such a shocking turn of events as watching a black person beating up a white person because of the results of an election? Why else would middle school students start chanting about a border wall, making their fellow Hispanic students cry?

  I have never understood why humans go into predator mode over nothing. We are all the same, basically. Just because we all don’t look like what we call a lion or an elephant, we tend to behave as if there are really some human beings who don’t matter. We all matter. When we start feeling desperate enough about being poor or ignored or disenfranchised that we vote as we did last Tuesday, nobody should be surprised by the outcome. It’s survival instinct which drives us all. If you’re going to kick a dog, don’t be surprised when the dog bites back. We have all brought these election results upon ourselves because we let our primal fears and instincts take over. Some of us are overreacting; some of us have no right to complain because we sat and did nothing.

  It doesn’t matter if you can put two and two together; you should look at yourself and ask yourself, “What kind of a human being am I, really?” “Who am I afraid of, and why?”

  If you’re not sure, that’s where we have the real problem.

   

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• It’s the Other Guy

  Posted at 2:03 am by kayewer, on November 6, 2016

  Being human is a curse and a blessing, in so many ways. Animals are lucky: with very few deviations lions look like lions and so on, but unless you’re a multiple birth person, nobody looks like you. This also gives rise to our constantly picking each other apart for unusual reasons. With the election and a controversy surrounding the new Marvel feature Dr. Strange, I realized how petty we are and how it all really doesn’t matter.

  The news was that Tibetans would be protesting the casting of actor Tilda Swinton as The Ancient One in the movie because she is scripted as a Celtic woman, and the story-line was originally based upon a Tibetan monk and, naturally, a man. The movie industry is being called out for not representing other races properly and skirting the issue by hiring white casts for principal roles and nominating them for awards over less non-white cast films. I recall a little movie called Slumdog Millionaire with a mostly non-white cast and which portrayed some aspects of India as, shall we say, less than developed, yet it won the Academy Award for Best Picture and seven other Oscars ™.  Yet there are still those who grumble that white people just aren’t getting it right.

  I beg to differ: we do. It’s just that you pick apart ours more than we pick apart non-white efforts to portray white people.  Nobody laughed louder than me when Eddie Murphy did comic portrayals of white people, because I could relate to exactly the type of people he was creating onstage. He even went so far as to get into a full body makeup as a white man and took to the streets, and didn’t get recognized. There are men out there who do a better job looking like a woman than many women. I don’t protest. I admire.

  Having seen Dr. Strange, I was impressed by Tilda Swinton. She looked rather nondescript as far as nationality was concerned. Sure the folks at Marvel could have gone with by-the-book casting, but in a world in which we are being led to believe that it is not the only one, who says what an “Ancient One” is supposed to be? If they had cast a kid in the part, and it was true to the ideals of the story, why pick on it? Why not just accept it?

  So what does this all have to do with the election? Well, the party lines are being blurred because many people don’t like either of our two major choices (we will put aside the independent candidates for now, especially since one seemed to have no awareness of what the situation in Aleppo is), and the political ads and stumping show how much we pick each other apart for being not what we want. One points out that somebody was “a Mexican,” and anticipates us filling in the blanks with whatever prejudices we have about people from Mexico. The other is reminding us that male candidates can be crude and think too highly of themselves to realize how horrible an attitude they have. Yeah, they’re human, just like us, full of prejudicial baggage that keeps a wonderful world at bay so we can try to group ourselves into convenient ideals of what is normal and refer to outliers as “the other guys.” Or the wrong guys.

  If I were casting a movie, how would I have enough of an understanding to write a part for a Tibetan monk unless I had a Tibetan monk write the script? Then how do I find a good Tibetan actor who would appeal to a world audience? Any place that hated Tibet would not want to see the movie. Also I should point out that Dr. Strange’s assistant, Wong, appears in the film as a rather dour (but kick-ass) scholarly librarian, and is played by Benedict Wong, an Englishman born to parents from Hong Kong. So there was international casting going on. Just not what some folks wanted.

  So I would recommend voting and seeing Dr. Strange. And stop picking on your fellow man.

   

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• Scatterbrain Well Met

  Posted at 9:25 pm by kayewer, on November 1, 2016

  I can say I was at the Metropolitan Opera for some wonderful productions. This year they are celebrating 50 years at Lincoln Center, and they have enjoyed success there. Sometimes, though, I am witness to some strange goings-on, like this past Saturday.

  I went to see the matinee performance of Guillaume (William) Tell, a new production and one which hasn’t been done in decades. The music is well-known to the average person, even if they don’t like opera: the performance starts with immediately recognizable movements such as the storm music often used as a meme in cartoons (Tom and Jerry comes to mind), and a passage probably best referred to as the background music to the comedic short “Bambi Meets Godzilla.” The famous overture is known as the theme for the original TV “Lone Ranger,” and probably one of the most frequently mis-hummed tunes known.* But this is not where the strange things went on. That didn’t happen until the second intermission.

  After a walk to stretch my legs, I returned to my seat and dutifully went onto social media to say I was at the Met, put everything away and waited with the rest of the audience–who were also securing their social media gear–for the final act to start. Nothing happened. The orchestra had not even returned to the pit.

  Somebody finally appeared onstage to announce that there was a delay  and the program should resume shortly.  Then they returned about twenty minutes before the production was scheduled to end, to say that circumstances had forced them to cancel the rest of the performance. An obviously enraged patron sharing my portion of the house started shouting rudely, “I want my money back!” and ignored repeated urging from the rest of us to shut up. We did file calmly out of the opera house. I assume the fellow stormed the box office in a snit. Perhaps the staff took the famous prop apple (which Tell shot off his son’s head) and shoved it into his mouth.

  I found out later, via the New York Times, that an audience member has come to the Met with the ashes of his music mentor in a bag, and told anybody who would listen that he intended to scatter the fellow’s cremated remains into the orchestra pit. Apparently those who took this in simply replied, “That’s nice,” and didn’t give it a second thought. He did the deed at the intermission, causing the clearance of the orchestra pit and calling police and other law enforcement officials to investigate.

  Isn’t the fault really as much with those who didn’t think about reporting the guy’s intentions to the staff at the Met, as it is for this schmuck who didn’t really think through what would happen if he threw a potential biohazard into the air where hundreds of people would be breathing? If he had asked beforehand, some accommodation could have been made to honor his mentor. As a result of his rather rash idea, the orchestra could not claim their instruments, a handful of people were treated by paramedics for handing the unknown stuff, the performance was left incomplete (and the evening performance was also cancelled) and hundreds of paying patrons–not a few of whom travelled some distance or were visiting from overseas to see the Saturday scheduled performances–were cheated of their experience. The man is known to the staff and apparently left without seeing the final act himself and, so far, is still being sought for questioning.

  So I won’t get to see the end of the opera (I could ask for another performance, but the remaining dates are not good for me), and I won’t fault the Met or ask for my money back. I would, however, like to meet this fellow who ruined my day and pull a Dr. Phil on him and just ask, “What were you thinking?”

   

  *(Most people hum the tune with all the “dadadum’s” one note until the “dum dum dum,” but if you listen you’ll find the next line does have a change of note. Don’t sweat it: it’s just good to know you have a little culture, and be proud of it.)

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• There Will Be a Slight Delay

  Posted at 12:33 am by kayewer, on October 31, 2016

  Retooling my schedule can be a tax on the brain. So can a less-than-pleasurable trip to New York City, which I will discuss when I post later on this week. The normal Saturday schedule will resume on November 5.

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• Mr. Pompous

  Posted at 2:02 am by kayewer, on October 23, 2016

  When you work in customer service, you will regularly come across a person with a bad attitude they are anxious to pass on to you. I just had one, and for the purposes of this post, I will call him Mr. Pompous. He sent us an email to express his overwhelming discontent with us. We don’t like people to be unhappy with us, but notes such as his are more worthy of a laugh than concern. We are concerned anyway.

  From the content of his complaint, it was obvious right away that Mr. Pompous is well read and possesses considerable intelligence. Customers such as he can, therefore, be stubborn when they encounter a problem, sometimes they see themselves as overly worthy of VIP attention. He had received a piece of correspondence and, upon looking at the signature and title of the signer, envisioned some corporate hall of grandeur which he had to infiltrate to get to the source of the problem: in other words, whoever wrote the letter deserved a piece of his mind.  In person.

  Naturally customer letters are not really royal decrees, and any company worth their weight in salt empowers their service associates to answer any questions about paperwork going into customers’ hands, but Mr. Pompous was not having any of it. He complained instead that we served as a circle of bodyguards to protect our superiors and were shoving spears in his face to prevent his access.

  He didn’t tell us what the problem was, so we sent a general response offering him help for the most common situations we encounter from our customers. He wrote back and thanked us for what he termed, in so many words, a “duh” moment, since he did obviously need help, but he still did not specify the problem. All that was in the email was line after line of well-crafted pompous prose with verbiage worthy of a PhD. It told us absolutely nothing.

  I wrote back and offered help again, stressing that we needed to know what letter he received and what questions he had.  I hit “Send” and waited for what I expected to be another pompous reply.

  He did not disappoint.  By the end of the day, he replied and said that we were beating around the bush, and that if we emailed him again it would go into his unwanted email file of shame.  What a pity, since he would never get his answers, because he never gave us his question.

  I mentioned Mr. Pompous to a co-worker who is experienced in looking into the finer details of a customer record, and we figured out that Mr. Pompous had simply forgotten to pay his bill, and apparently a letter inviting him to get back on track irked him for reasons unknown. So the corporate guru in the hall of grandeur and we will never know what was on the mind of poor Mr. Pompous.

  Folks, don’t be Mr. Pompous. If you have a question or concern from a business that serves you, call and ask your questions in a focused and polite manner. We will help you. And we promise not to laugh.

   

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• Dad Shirt

  Posted at 1:41 am by kayewer, on October 16, 2016

  Sometimes when I have to tinker or do some messy work, I put on one of my father’s old work shirts. It’s roomy, it breathes and is sturdy and, just like my father did, it protects me. Of course he has been gone for a long time, but I keep it as a memento. I wonder what he would think about how some fathers’ daughters are being treated during this political campaign.

  Sometimes it seems Donald Trump forgets that he has a daughter. I would be remiss to not mention his marriages as well, but it is about fathers I’m talking. So here is Mr. Trump, a father, discussing prowess with somebody while a live microphone picks up on it. He probably forgot the first rule of being a celebrity: live your life as if there is a live mic nearby. Otherwise why would he say something his own daughter might hear?

  The influence of the opposite sex parent on a child is one of the most pivotal in the developmental years. As children we idolize our parents, then we reach the pivotal point at which we discover their true good points and flaws and we start to branch out and become who we will be in adult life. We also develop our own good points and flaws, but we should all try to nurture the former and hold back on the latter. We forget at times, and Trump’s banter with Billy Bush of Access Hollywood is certainly proof of how extremely vulgar one can get when dropping the filter we’re supposed to take on as grownups.

  He made references to a woman’s recent breast enhancements. Isn’t it strange that men seem to like to see large-chested women, but condemn them in the same breath. This type of genderist hypocrisy (yes, I just invented that word) is what ruins both genders at the same time. We are dependent upon each other for the survival of the human race, yet we are always at odds just because of a few chromosomes and body parts which differentiate us. Trump apparently thought it was okay to also talk about grabbing women in private areas. I can’t recall once in my lifetime talking about a man like that around other women.

  Back to the shirt. It’s a pedestrian plaid that I’m sure many men wear at some time in their lives. When I wear it, I remember the values my father taught me.  I think about his good points and forgive his flaws, and I remember that I will always be his daughter.

  I think it would be a great idea if every daughter out there broke out one of their father’s shirts and put it on. Take a selfie. Post to Facebook and Twitter with the hashtag DadShirt. Show that we hold them to task to be good human beings first and men second. Let’s remember that fathers have a responsibility to protect their daughters, and it starts with keeping that filter tightly over our slipping lips in the locker room and everyplace else.

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• Super Duper Market

  Posted at 3:14 am by kayewer, on October 9, 2016

  We have plenty of markets in our area, yet not enough in the right places. Another one near me is shutting down, which means its location has been home to at least three department stores (including Clover), a Super Fresh and now a Thriftway.

  So much for a recovering economy.

  I found out by accident, because I had been on the way to get a hoagie, which their deli made fresh daily. I saw a chalkboard sign out front: “Store Closing: 50% Off.” Inside, the deli and bakery had already shut down, and the strains of old 50s and 60s music were warbling sadly to empty shelves and few patrons.

  This means the nearest place for me to get fresh radishes is about 12 miles away, my favorite margarine is no longer to be found anywhere, and the shopping center is again going to be like a doughnut with a side eaten away. One leg of the two-sided center has two stores open on its right and three open on its left. A tanning salon closed recently, and a JoAnn Fabrics, Game Stop and a party store moved away over the past three years. We still have one Acme nearby, but one must endure the highways to get to ShopRite, Wegman’s or WalMart.

  If the improvement of our neighborhoods means no neighborhood markets, it will be a truly lifeless environment. I’ll miss that store.

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• Gosh Dung It

  Posted at 1:54 am by kayewer, on October 2, 2016

  This morning I saw a program segment featuring dung beetles. It immediately reminded me of the typical office environment. Of course, in the office we don’t carry up to 250 times our own weight in dung, though psychologically it may feel like that at times. The guide for the clip, along with the voice of trusted zoo expert Jack Hanna, told us that dung beetles roll their own round spheres of dung from a pile of poop, then roll it to their destination. They appear to do this with their hind legs, backwards, head down.

  If you’ve gone through a work day like that, you can relate.

  The beetles will usually follow a straight line, even through obstacles. That’s like an office action plan.

  By burying the dung, the soil gets fertilized. A dung beetle couple will mate and have their young inside the dung. I just made a poem, and a bell has rung.

  Sorry, it was just getting kind of silly.

  After a particularly busy week, I was running around like a headless chicken preparing to go out, when the wildlife program came on just after the morning news, to tell us about dung beetles. Thinking about it, they have a purpose to fulfill, like the typical office worker. We roll along with a singular purpose, and it does some good.

  So be proud, even if you are a dung beetle.

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• My Candy Crush Saga

  Posted at 2:10 am by kayewer, on September 25, 2016

  When I was in elementary school, I won a candy counting contest. Back then, it was a big deal, but it also holds bittersweet memories for me. Especially now, because I just did it again.

  The school had a display case with a large jug inside holding a variety of small wrapped sugary delights, and we were invited to estimate how many were in the jar for a chance to win it. I wasn’t much of a candy person growing up, which made Easter and Christmas more about presents than risks to my dental health. Also, I was the prize winner of most deserving to be bullied, not only by my peers, but by the faculty as well. In first grade my teacher grumbled at my mother because she allowed me to read ahead in my textbooks, making me a non-conformist. I also had the handicap of being a victim of New Math, but at the time that didn’t matter. I was still optimistic and decided I had an equal chance to win as anybody. I looked at the jar carefully, counted, estimated and wrote a number down, putting my guess in the pool with my fellow students.

  Sometime later at our assembly for the oldest students, our student council president announced that he would read the winners of the contest. Before the first place winner was announced, he did something unexpected. He said that audience members were to conduct themselves properly and not boo.

  That was how I knew I had won, seconds before my name was announced.

  That was nearly 40 years ago, but sometimes I still hear his voice in my head, announcing that I was the winner, “And remember, no boos.” I don’t fault him for what happened: I know the faculty had put him up to it. They were trying hard not to hurt me. It still did.

  This past week our company held what we call our “town meeting,” in which our senior officers reach out in person and by video to review our status and focus for the coming year. On the way into the meeting the staff had arranged a few fun games, including a candy counting contest. I mentioned that I had won a similar contest in elementary school as I looked at the jar carefully, counted, estimated and wrote a number down, again adding my guess to the others.

  The first time, I was two away from the correct number of candies. This time I was spot on. They were as amazed as I. Unlike last time, I got congratulations. That felt much better.

  I still have the original candy jug. Now it has company.

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• The Hidden News

  Posted at 1:38 am by kayewer, on September 18, 2016

  My local newspapers have been playing a frustrating game of “Hide the Comics.” One paper has been hiding them behind the classifieds. Unfortunately they are not labelled “Wanted: Comics Section.” The other puts them in the sports section. Maybe I should be happy, since they appear to consider comics and puzzles sports.

  Every day I read nearly all the comics (never touch “Doonesbury” for some reason). Then I look for “Dear Abby,” which has also been hiding lately. Then I tackle the Sudoku, cryptograms and the occasional crossword. The challenge is to figure out where, among four sections of articles, advertisements and statistical scoreboards full of manly mind-numbing trivia, the lighter stuff can be found.

  And let’s face it: with all the political and world turmoil, we all need some light stuff.

  Sure it’s a bit nerdy, I guess, to enjoy the old standards like the adventures of Blondie and Charlie Brown and Beetle Bailey, along with the modern antics of Curtis and Heart. But after hours of the world’s negativity, relaxation seems to come at a premium these days. Finding a few minutes to engage the brain in something else is hard to do. Many nights I get home with fried grey matter and the ooze of corporate drudgery pouring from my sweat glands, but I still manage to get in my comics.

  Once I find them.

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