So I’d like to know where you got “the notion”

January 20th, 2009

We await the President’s Inaugural Address at noon. 

Today’s Washington Post has an article by the great Henry Allen examining the strengths of Barack Obama’s oratorical style.  Sunday’s edition included an article by Prof. Michael Eric Dyson tracing Obama’s techniques to the modes of African-American preachers

On a related note, I’ve been wondering what is the source for Obama’s routine use of the phrase, “The notion that … “.  Throughout the campaign he would use that formulation, rather than the more common and expected “The idea that …” or “The belief that …”, especially when he was about to explain an idea, belief or rumor that he wanted gently but firmly to rebut.  For example, “The notion that I should not mention President Reagan’s strengths because he was a Republican is something I reject.” 

What accounts for his instinctive preference for the word “notion” ?  Well, I don’t know for sure, but here is my speculation.  First, it is his personal debating and expository style to be calm in the set-up, gently laying the predicate, but then forceful in the follow-through, driving home the argument.   Now, to suggest that your opponent’s “ideas” are faulty (that her mind is weak), or your critic’s “beliefs” are suspect (that his morals are weak), does not show civility or good manners on the part of the speaker.  It leans toward a personal diversion (what, after all, is more personal than casting aspersions on the other person’s mind and morals?) inimical to consensus building.  Obama is nothing if not goal-oriented.  Better to wrap the other person’s views in the amorphous swaddling of a “notion” — something that then can be replaced, painlessly, with a stronger, reality-based idea or belief.  What survives this soft confrontation is a pragmatic solution. 

The second and less conscious reason Obama gravitates toward the word “notion” is, I believe, his liking of the word’s sound.  It’s been said that for every person the most beautiful sounding word is their own name.  If that’s true, then notice how the soft open vowels of bah-rahk-oh-bah-ma are shared with the word, noh-shahn.

P.S.  If you paused at the title of this post, because something about it resonated with you, and you’re not sure why, go to this video for instant relief.

To be or not to be

January 16th, 2009

“Hey, maybe I can room with someone who’s going to be a proofreader?”

to-be-or-not-to-be

Hitchens on Lincoln in Newsweek

January 16th, 2009

I’ve been reading Newsweek  regularly for over four decades.  Nowadays the magazine is a shadow of its best period, the 60’s and 70’s.  In recent years, its editors, when choosing cover subjects, grabbed at any excuse  to resurrect halcyon days.  Even now I half expect to see in the next few weeks a cover nostalgically featuring Twiggy, somehow linking the 60’s waif to our slim new President.  For long-time readers such as myself who prefer a true news weekly, the decline of Newsweek recalls John’s post-breakup put-down of Paul:  The only thing you done was yesterday. 

Did I mention the magazine is getting slimmer and slimmer?  It’s become a combination of poor quality and small portions.  This too is an echo of  what we first heard decades ago.

Sometimes the editors simply defy the weekly news wrapper and give us alternative fare of high readability.  An example is the January 19, 2009 issue, whose otherwise desultory pages contain a small gem of an essay by Christopher Hitchens, entitled, “The Man Who Made Us Whole“.  Whether the title was chosen by the author or a Newsweek editor I know not;  its rightness suggests it’s Hitchens’ design.  The piece is an admiring portrait of Abraham Lincoln, filled with wit, wordplay, and revelatory thinking typical of the author at his best.  When Hitchens pops up on television (usually on cable; the old networks are too cowardly) he ofttimes comes across as dyspeptic,  prone to mumbling, and of ramshackle demeanor.  But the mind, the words:  he remains a man who should be listened to.

As his followers know, Hitchens, in the last year or two, has been a pugnacious defender of  in-your-face atheism, railing against religious belief of any sort.  In all times and places belief in God has worked a baleful effect, and so let’s acknowledge God is Not Great  — such has been his non-stop refrain, and the title of a book he’s hawked.  So it was a bit of a surprise to encounter the following sentiments flowing from the closing paragraph of his Lincoln essay:

“I would myself love to claim Lincoln as an atheist ancestor, but I must confess myself beaten.  He was emphatically not a Christian — the name of Jesus never seems to have escaped his lips in spite of many beseeching requests that he accept the savior — but he referred too often to a supervising and presiding deity for one to be able to allege that he did so only to obtain votes or approval.  … [H]e could not imagine that mere mortals were the sole measure of all things.  We may chose to think that we know better.”

[We may chose to think  we know better??] 

Then comes this tender denouement:

“[H]ow impossible it is to forget this craggy and wretched and haunted man, invoking  of all things our “better angels.”

Is this just Hitchens being respectful (if not sentimental) in the face of the savior-category accomplishments of a great man?  Or is there a shift of perspective, some beginning acceptance on his part that believers may indeed beneficially tread the earth, and do good not in spite of but because of their belief?

[Update: For an analysis of Newsweek and Time‘s current straits, check out this article.]

Just caught this guy hiding out at the CVS close to the White House

January 15th, 2009

And close by the cigarettes!

Bbama-at-cvs

Here are three reasons

January 11th, 2009

Imagine, if you will, a fleet of spacecraft from a distant galaxy hovering with menace over the earth.  Then suppose the space aliens’ commander broadcasts a curt demand: 

“Give us three reasons why earthlings deserve to escape total annihilation!”

Hmmm . . . (I’m thinking) . . .

One – this guy

Two – this woman

Three – this fellow

Charlie Rose, Charlie Rose, Dick Cavett, Camille Paglia

January 6th, 2009

No, they’re not assembling to play a doubles match.

Before 2008 is consigned to deep confinement (with instructions to double lock the door and throw away the keys, please), consider spending three minutes with two Charlie Roses in one of last year’s best YouTube videos, found here.

Have you ever noticed how even Charlie Rose sometimes fails to listen to, or at least fully process, his guest’s answers, because he’s formulating the next question or his own bon mot ?  Among the talk show host elite, the most watchable interviewers are the ones who consistently elicit memorable guest talk while sparingly injecting just the right measure of their own personal seasoning.  It’s a fiendishly difficult balancing act.  For my money, no one has done it better than Dick Cavett.  My favorite “wow” moment is available here

Ask me to draw up a list of Persons I Wouldn’t Mind Sitting Next To On A Coast-to-Coast Flight Even Though They Want To Talk The Entire Flight (PIWMSNTOACTCFETTWTTTEF for short), and Mr. Cavett’s on the list.  Although his public output is now sparse (occasional pieces in the NY Times), he recently reminded us of how easily his Nebraska wits win the day, this time hosing down a dust-up with a temporarily tone-deaf Camille Paglia (they were fighting over Sarah Palin). 

Reading and watching Ms. Paglia has been a guilty pleasure of mine ever since I sat slack-jawed for three uninterrupted hours a few years ago watching her energize an amazing Book TV (C-SPAN2) “In Depth”  interview.  That entire program is available online now, here.  My advice: take a bathroom break before  you launch into what’s best experienced as a non-stop roller coaster ride.  Unfortunately, I’m finding that her current crop of monthly Salon  columns is suffering from a temporary decline in quality.  Too often the ricocheting ideas she’s usually able to juggle into jazzy coherence lay inert instead.  Some arguments are recyclings and some new ones are goofily off-kilter.  Then again I may just be reacting adversely to some of her recent political likes and dislikes.  There’s no denying hers is a high-wire act not to be missed, so I’m not about to give up my seat.

Metaphorically speaking, America is . . .

January 6th, 2009

Are you looking forward to the onslaught of articles and books announcing that “America Is A Sinking Ship [or other metaphor of bloat and decline]” ?  

On Saturday the theme popped up in The Times (U.K), where British columnist Matthew Parris wrote that Barack Obama will be the first President to manage an empire in decline.  Emblematic of the decline, in Mr. Parris’ view, is the sorry condition of Detroit automakers. While most observers point to the Big Three’s recent mistakes, Parris claims the problem dates back to over half a century ago:

As a keen amateur car mechanic I have, since the age of 16, been puzzled by something about America. Here was a nation crazy about automobiles and held out to me as the last word in modernity, innovation, capitalist dynamism and go-ahead technology in all that it did. But its cars weren’t any good. I say “weren’t” – we’re talking 1965 here – because some commentary about the current woes of General Motors, Ford and Chrysler has suggested that it is in recent years that the US automotive industry has slipped behind; and it’s certainly only quite recently that they’ve started losing a lot of money.

But the product, though always flashy, has been technologically inferior since the end of Second World War. While European carmakers were pioneering front-wheel drive, independent suspension, small diesel engines and efficient automatic gearboxes, the Americans kept churning out big, thirsty, fast-rusting, primitively engineered behemoths. Partly this was because fuel was cheap, but the oversprung American limo, loose-handling and imprecise, was always a pig to drive, too. At root the problem was lack of competition.

Yes, lack of competition allowed the problem to fester, but also to blame is a consuming public who accepted flash and preferred big over small.   I remember, during the sixties and seventies, how Detroit responsibly, if grudgingly, introduced a batch of compact car designs, but buyers treated each new model as a child they couldn’t wait to fatten up.  After the first year’s introduction as a genuine small and relatively efficient vehicle, the car would grow in length, breadth and weight, and most importantly in strength (greater horse power!).  A good example is the Chevy Nova.  And talk about fast-rusting: my brother’s Nova rusted so thoroughly you could see the road beneath your driving feet. 

Creeping giganticism is characteristic of our national culture.  We see it in carsMcMansions, language (the neologism “ginormous” is now in the Meriam-Webster dictionary), our bodies and body parts.  Is there any wonder why American kids have an enduring love of T-Rex and her pals?  

All of which leads to the question, so is America a Giganotosaurus?

No, I’m not ready to embrace the coming doom and gloom scenarios.  I would rather steer the subject back home, and note that it is a shame book titles are not copyrightable, because I’d like to lay claim to this one:

“America and the Failure of Undercoating.”

“West Side Story” – Sober thoughts on the new Broadway-bound production

January 1st, 2009

Last Saturday I attended a performance of West Side Story  at the National Theatre in Washington, DC.   This is a new production slated to reach Broadway in February.   By no means am I a student of the theater or even much of a maven, so my observations may appear trite or sentimental to a sophisticate.  Let me say, in few words:  This is a terrific production of a lasting work.

The show is just a few weeks into its tryout period, with the official tryout  “opening night” scheduled for next week.  I’ve not seen any MSM reviews, and a Google search of news and blogs found only a a few bloggers who’ve posted their reactions (examples are here, here (also describing a fire alarm evacuation at one performance) and here (also describing an unfriendly lyricist in attendance) .  The dearth of commentary is somewhat puzzling.  Does theater tradition impose a code of silence during the initial tryout period?

Arthur Laurents, one the four giants who birthed West Side Story  a half-century ago, is hearty at 90, and for this revival, directs the proceedings after first modestly revising the book he originated.  Leonard Bernstein (music) and Jerome Robbins (choreography, original direction) have passed on, while Stephen Sondheim (lyrics) is playing an observer role this go-round (Washington Post gossips spied him taking in a recent performance).  In the 1950s, when the show was gestating, Bernstein kept a diary.   He called the running account of the show’s progress a “log.”  (If he were alive today he’d probably be keeping a joyous blog.)  The log is full of insights, including this prediction:

“Obviously this show can’t depend on stars, being about kids; and so it will have to live or die by the success of its collaborations.”  

The new production is Laurents’ baby, and he ably serves as trustee of the celebrated WSS collaboration.  His interpretation is so respectful of the team’s intentions — and so effective — that I think it will be a bulwark against any future disorderings of the work.   There is something tender about this Theatre Work (as Bernstein labeled it) deserving protection against radical re-interpretation by others.  I don’t fully know why this is so, or why, in other spheres of creative endeauor, I generally accept the notion that a writer or painter, for example, ought to relinquish control once a novel is published or a painting leaves the studio.  The book and painting then belong to the world, and the world may interpret and re-interpret it as it will.   But with West Side Story, I’m glad one pair of surviving creator’s hands is reshaping, fine-tuning, the material one last time.

This production proves Laurents to be an ideal custodian of the quartet’s creative intentions.  His direction keeps the pace swift, the lines clear, and the beauty transparent.  He introduces a select few Pinteresque pauses in the music and/or dialog — caesuras that get you to thinking, why is this happening?  If my memory is correct, the first surprising pause comes after the very first three-note rising musical motif (the orchestral “call”) is heard.  Silence, instead of the expected immediate three-note “response,” follows.  This allows Jet leader Riff to make his presence felt.  After the pause the orchestra re-enters with the three-note response.  The “why” of this and later gaps — their dramatic purpose — may be fully understood only on repeated experiences of the piece.  I think this ought to be accepted in a dense and rich work of art. 

Laurents makes a host of other adjustments, successfully in my view.  In an effort to balance the Jets vs. Sharks conflict, he augments the size of the latter gang.  Notably, he’s had some dialog and lyrics translated into Spanish, bringing authenticity and balancing sympathies, not to mention mercifully masking the icky-poo lyrics of “I Feel Pretty.”  (But not everyone is responding well to this bilingualism: check out the chauvinistic and hateful comments posted here.)  The Second Act’s “Gee, Officer Krupke” number is usually staged in high school productions, and was done in the 1961 movie, as a way-too-cute, prop-driven, mood-disrupting Vaudeville routine.  In contrast, here Laurents’ sure hand makes us believe we’re watching shell-shocked kids who’ve seen for the first time the faces of the dead.  For a broader explanation of all the subtle alterations, in Laurents’ own words, see here.  For insights from Jamie Bernstein, the composer’s daughter, see here.)

As the composer predicted, this is a show that does not depend on stars, although all of the young principals in the new cast are obviously in love with the piece and acquit themselves well.  The performance I saw substituted a standby for Tony (the starring performer had been injured during a performance a few days before, as recounted by this blogger eye-witness); but his good musical voice was no match for the opera-trained Josephina Scaglione, playing Maria.  The audience favorite, and deservedly so, was Karen Olivo.  She acted and sang Anita with warmth and spirit , and in Act Two, Scene 4 (the Drugstore) literally towered over the Jets.

If this production of West Side Story  had one revelation for me it was how much tragedy attaches to a world where the victims are children.  The adults on stage are minor figures, caricatures or stock characters.  They may just as well be consigned to the wings, like Maria’s father’s voice.  I was reminded of the generational divide apparent in the 1950’s fiction of J.D. Salinger (who’s also now 90 years old), or the less anguished neighborhood conjured up in Charles Shultz’  “Peanuts” cartoon (conceived in the 1950s) which, as later animated in TV specials, featured off-screen unintelligable adults whose voices were replaced with the wah-wahhing sound of a muted trombone.  In WSS, the juvenile Jets, we learn from their self-defining first sung number, still play in a tree-house/play fort world, hung with a sign saying “Visiters Prohibited!”  We know that made-up world will not survive the first act.    

The sad, inescapable message of West Side Story — conveyed through deft direction of dance, music, and words — is that once hate enters the heart, only tragedy can follow. 

It is a message this now freshly-minted New Year must do better to heed.

 

Update 1.  Another blogger review is found here.

Update 2 (01-09-2009).  The MSM reviews are arriving, and are very positive overall.  Here’s the Baltimore Sun, DC ExaminerWashington Times, and Washington Post .

Two additional views on what blogs can/should be

January 1st, 2009

This morning the Washington Post  rejects the “initial report” style of blogging (see my first post immediately below) and instead blesses something called “slow blogging” — labeling it the “in” mode for the new year.  This judgment appears in the Post’s  “What’s In, What’s Out” feature, the newspaper’s annual throw-away piece destined to be forgotten in about, oh, 24 hours.

For a more durable take on blog writing, check out “Why I Blog” by Andrew Sullivan, writing in the Atlantic,  here.

This is my initial blog entry . . .

January 1st, 2009

. . . and it may just as well begin with a caveat, in the form a story I heard years ago:

One workday morning a fellow submits a report to his boss.  Later that day he’s called into his boss’s office where he’s asked, “Is this the best you can do?”  Chastened, the fellow returns to his cubicle and spends the next hours scrubbing through the document, making what he hopes are improvements.  He hands in the revision.  The next morning he finds the report  on his chair seat, along with a short note: “Is this the best you can do?”  Now near panic, he pulls an all-nighter, revising the text from start to finish, double-checking references, and in the morning places it on his boss’s desk.  That afternoon, back in his cubicle, he sees his boss approaching fast, waving the report.  The boss barks, “I’m serious now.  Is THIS the best you can do?”  The poor fellow sighs and lets out a quiet “Yes.”  His boss pauses a moment and responds, “Okay then, now I’ll read it.”

And so this blogger humbly entreats you to consider any item read here to be . . . an initial report.