Overblown

Tonight, we send our sincere wishes to our East Coast followers that Hurricane Irene turns out to be less like Katrina and more like Floyd.

(DIGRESSION: We also extend this hope for the sake of all those "Irenes" out there.  The name "Katrina" still hasn't recovered.  You never hear about parents naming girls "Katrina" any more.  Nor boys "9/11."  EOD)

Back in 1999, Hurricane Floyd walloped the Carolinas and churned its way north, prompting the kind of apocalyptic predictions we now hear coming out of New York as it braces for Irene.  At the time, the Solipsist worked at LaGuardia Community College, which, along with other schools, closed in advance of the storm.  The college, though, was designated a Red Cross shelter, and Your-Not-So-Humble-Correspondent was a certified Red Cross shelter operator (this being back in the days when we cared about our fellow man).   So we were there bright and early (well, overcast and early) to prepare for the influx of rain-drenched refugees.

For an aspiring megalomaniac, Red Cross shelter operator is actually a pretty good entry-level position.  While the college was largely deserted, what skeleton-crew staff remained had to answer to YNSHC and his boss, Steve, who were, by virtue of their training, completely in charge.  The security guards reported to us; the college president reported to us; the NYPD officer assigned to the college reported to us!  It was martial law, Baby!  It was Stalinist Russia!  And we were Stalin!

We set up our shelter in the college's gymnasium.  The Red Cross delivered dozens of cots and promised prompt deliveries of food.  We were in for the long haul.  We received our first guests, a young couple from Egypt, shortly before the rain was expected to start.  This was their first autumn in New York, and the desert-folk were understandably wary.  Next came a middle-aged homeless man.  We went into shelter-operator overdrive.  We had out clients sign in, showed them to their cots, and assured them that food was on its way.  As the rain began to fall in earnest, the shelter staff--the Solipsist, our boss, the policeman, and a handful of other volunteers--took a deep breath, collected ourselves, and looked grimly through the shelter doors, bracing ourselves for the crowds to come. . . .

Waiting. . . .

Waiting. . . .

Waiting. . . .

"Uh, Steve?  It's been an hour.  Can we unbrace ourselves?"

"Give it a few more minutes."

Waiting. . .

Waiting. . .

"Hey, Steve, when's the food going to get here?"

"That's a good question.  Hey!  We didn't say 'Unbrace'!"

"Sorry!"

After another hour or so, we began to worry about the food situation.  We had been told that a truckload of sandwiches was making its way Queensward.  We let out a small cheer when we saw a truck pull up outside, only to experience a letdown when we discovered that all it contained was more cots.  Contrary to what you may have heard, there is nothing even mildly erotic about a college gymnasium filled with some 75 cots.

As for the food situation, at our training, the Red Cross had told us that, in the event of an extended delay, the shelter manager could use his own discretion to try to wrangle up supplies from local businesses.  With our clients getting hungry, Steve took the initiative to contact a McDonald's a few blocks from the college.  He played the "Red Cross shelter operator" card.  Told the manager how the Red Cross would be truly appreciative.  The results were more impressive than you might imagine: The McDonald's manager let him talk for a good five minutes before saying, "No."

By this time, the rain had pretty much subsided.  The Egyptians decided to take their leave of our shelter, thus reducing our population by two-thirds.  The only person left was the homeless man.  We wanted to close the shelter but couldn't do that as long as there were still people sheltering there.  Steve didn't want to just kick the homeless man out onto the less-hurricane-filled-but-still-dangerous streets, so he asked our Red Cross superiors if they could help us locate a homeless shelter to relocate the man to.  But they were too busy overseeing the non-delivery of food to shelters like ours.  The policeman offered to get the man to a homeless shelter--but he couldn't leave until the Red Cross declared the shelter closed.  Which couldn't happen as long as this homeless man was still there.

Come to think of it, maybe this was when we stopped caring about our fellow man.

In the end, the events of the day were thoroughly--and thankfully--uneventful.  And while we suffered through the purgatory of boredom that dreary September day, we realize that things could have been ever-so-much worse.  We hope that Irene proves similarly disappointing.

REALLY Waiting for Superman

The 12-year-old was doomed.  In the chaos, as smoke and tear gas filled the street, he had made a wrong turn.  By the time he realized he had headed down a blind alley, the soldier had caught up to him, cutting off his only escape route.  As the soldier raised his rifle, the boy saw past him people running by the mouth of the alley.  In the noise and confusion, though, no one would hear him if he screamed for help.  No one could have done anything anyway.  The boy closed his eyes and waited, praying it wouldn't hurt.  Then he heard the gunshot.

He heard the gunshot?  Was that even possible?  Could you actually hear the gunshot that killed you?  And how could he still be here, alive, wondering about the possibility of hearing the gunshot that killed you?  The boy opened his eyes and saw red.  Not blood.  Not rage.  Literal, simple red, waving in his face, blocking his view.  A cape.  A cape worn by a man.  A man who now walked forward, unharmed by the panicked shooting of the stunned soldier, until he could reach out, grab the gun, and crush it with one hand.  The soldier ran off.  The man in the cape turned and looked at the boy.  He smiled and then, amazingly, he flew away.

Always satisfying when this sort of thing happens.  We cheer when Superman (or, lately, Iron Man, Captain America, or any other costumed righter-of-wrongs) swoops in to save the day.  As Americans, we take a special pleasure in watching foreign dictators or their minions receive their comeuppance.  Superman, after all, fought not only for truth and justice, but also the American way.  He was our proxy.  No wonder, then, that, when Americans read about governmental militiamen gunning down innocent protesters in Syria or genocidal activities in Africa, we desperately want someone to do something.  We want Superman to swoop in and save the day.

Or if not Superman, then the next best thing: America's armed forces.  As Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright once argued with then-Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin Powell about his reluctance to intervene in the Balkans conflicts, saying something to the effect of, "What's the point of having this wonderful military if we never use it?"

Sounds kind of awful when you think about it, the American military as soon-to-expire gift-card: Better use it or lose it, whether we need a new flatscreen TV (or democratic regime in the Middle East) or not.

Superman had the advantage of being an individual (and fictional, but that's something else altogether).  He could act purely on principle and do what he thought was right, needing no congressional approval or public-opinion research.  Of course, if he had polled his constituents, he would undoubtedly have found overwhelming approval for actions like the one descirbed above.  "Go get him, Supe!"  At the same time, most Americans are understandably leery about committing our own real-life troops and treasure in similar activities, even though the US military, when compared to those of most other nations, is in a comparatively Kryptonian position.

The US (and all countries) acts in its own national interests, and one can argue that the mere overthrow of distasteful leaders does not automatically meet those criteria.  We wonder, though, what  negative effect it has on a nation's collective psyche, when its citizens yearn emotionally to do the right thing, and understand that the power to do the right thing exists, but must come to grips with the fact that the right thing, for any number of realpolitik reasons, simply cannot be done.

By Way of Explanation. . .

. . . In case you're wondering why our recent posts have been somewhat subpar, we present this little interchange.

Today, our co-worker came into our office, wanting to know if we had paper for the staff copier.  The exchange went something like this:

Co-Worker: Um. . . You have. . .uh, y'know. . .do you have. . .  uh. . . . stacks?  You know, um, stacks of. . .for the staff?  The staff. . .uh, what do you call it. . . . Oh, you know what I mean.

Solipsist:  (Giggling uncontrollably).  No. . . .No we really don't!

It's been that kind of week.

More Musings

"Dr. Who" fans make "Star Trek" fans look like football fans.


(And, yeah, we're looking forward to the new "Dr. Who," too.)

Solipsistic Update

One year ago today, the Solipsist lamented his unfulfilled longing for additional episodes of Lars Von Trier's epic haunted-hospital drama, The Kingdom ("Kingdom Come Back," 8/23/10).  We thought we'd update you on our progress.

Last September, we traveled to Denmark to meet with Mr. Von Trier.  Upon arriving at his house, Mrs. Von Trier (his mom) told us that Lars was busy doing homework and couldn't come out to play with us. We explained that we represented a major American blog and wanted not to play with Lars but to interview him about his laxness in completing additional episodes of "The Kingdom."  In that case, she told us, Lars was busy doing homework and couldn't come out to play with us.

Sigh.

We waited outside for several hours, catching a nasty case of rubella, which we had always thought was a kind of cake.  Finally, Lars came out, dressed in a tuxedo, as he was about to accept an award from some international film collective.  When we introduced ourselves, though, Lars quickly ripped off his tuxedo jacket and invited us out for a waffle dinner.  Over waffles, we discussed "The Kingdom."

"Lars," we began.

"Please, call me Mr. Von Trier."

"Oh.  OK.  So. . ..hey, is it 'Von TRY-er' or 'Von TREER'?"

"It's 'Von Trier.'"

"Uh, look, this is a transcript, so people can't hear you, so could you speak as if you were typing?"

"Oh, certainly, it's 'Von TREER.'"

"Great.  So, Lars, what's up with 'The Kingdom'?  Why don't you make more episodes?"

"Are you kidding?  I made that as a joke.  I'm far too busy doing important, blockbuster films like 'Dogville.'"

"We didn't see that one."

"No kidding."

"Look, we have, uh. . .  thirty-seven shiny American dollars.  Would THAT convince you to make additional episiodes?"

Eventually, we appealed to Lars' competitive instincts, and challenged him to a game of chess.  If we won, he would make more episodes of "The Kingdom."  If he won, he would get to kick us in the throat--once--and make fun of our shoes.  We were doing great in the game, until we tried to jump his horse with our pointy guy, which is when we realized that we had been thinking of checkers.

Our Adam's Apple has recently grown back, and we still don't think our shoes look that bad.  Sad to say, though, we will not see any new episodes of "The Kingdom" any time soon.

More Musings

There are those that look at things the way they are and ask "Why?"  The Solipsist dreams of things that never were and asks "What in the name of all that's holy is that?!?"

Anachronism Watch

Last night, we watched the first episode of the new BBC America drama "The Hour."  Seems promising.  Set in 1956, the show revolves around a fictional a BBC precursor of "60 Minutes" called, surprisingly, "The Hour."  Dominic West (of "The Wire) stars as Hector Madden, the "face" of the new program.  Romola Garai and Ben Whishaw play the other two main characters: Bel Rowley, the producer of the newsprogram, and Freddie Lyon, an idealistic journalist who aspires to make television news more relevant.  Lest you think this is simply a backstage drama at a news show, the program also follows Freddie's investigation of a murder that shadowy political figures in mid-50's England apparently do not want solved.  In short, "The Hour" is "Broadcast News" meets "24."

We'll certainly keep watching, but we have one nagging problem with the show--or at least with this first episode.  At the beginning, we learn that Freddie and Bel have worked together for some time, and they teasingly refer to each other as "Moneypenny" and "James."  Now, we realize that the first James Bond book, Casino Royale, was published in 1953, followed by 3 more novels by 1956.  It is therefore possible that these two youngish friends could have read the books and adopted the nicknames for each other.  But since the first Bond movie ("Dr. No") didn't appear until 1962, it seems odd that these two would already have adopted a mannerism associated primarily with films.

To put it another way, the writers of "The Hour" surely expected that the audience would recognize the "James" and "Moneypenny" references.  Moreover (in a Dathonian English sort of way), the writers would count on the fact that, when the viewers recognize the reference, they would also quickly gain some understanding of the relationship between Bel and Freddie: the easy familiarity of longtime "comrades in arms" with a hint of sexual tension bubbling underneath.  But, again, this understanding arises from the viewers' familiarity with the Bond films rather than with Ian Fleming's books.

As lapses go, this is certainly forgivable.  We assume the writers knew what they were doing and chose to introduce a minor anachronism in the interest of providing crisp exposition.  We're putting the writers on notice, though: If Freddie ever refers to Bel as "Hermione," we're outta here!