The Nation Mourns

I joined Facebook in April 2009.  Shortly thereafter, I joined a group called "Writer's Dock Party," thinking my creation and maintenance of this blog qualified me for membership.  Another WDP-er contacted me and asked what kind of stuff I wrote.  I explained that I wasn't really a "writer," per se: just a writing teacher with a blog that I had started as an effort to "practice what I preached."  She asked for the link, I provided it, and, after reading a few of the posts, wrote back with a resounding "Wow."  I think she became my first non-relative follower (FOS doesn't count; he's family).  A friendship was born.  Today, however, came news that Janet Woodard Rollstin ("JWR" to as she signed her comments) has passed away.

It's odd to mourn someone you've never actually met. Such is the nature of friendship, though, in the era of Facebook.  No longer constrained by geography, we can now form relationships over vast distances based on affinity--and appreciation for another's support.  Indeed, when JWR--a fine writer in her own right--told me she liked what I wrote, it came as welcome validation--even if it did nothing to cure my occasionally inflated sense of self-regard.  The sadness one feels at the passing of a virtual friend is a small price to pay for the sense of connection with a kindred spirit.

To Janet's family and friends (both physical and virtual), I extend my condolences.  The flag of Solipsist Nation flies at half-mast for one of our first followers and most faithful readers.  Godspeed, JWR.

He Did Good

Ask a five-year-old who the President is, and, since she has not yet suffered much the indignities of the American educational system, she will most likely answer "Barack Obama."  Moreover, if you ask who will be President next year and the year after and the year after that--and into thescarcely imaginable future--she may well say "Barack Obama."  To this child, the very concept of "President" may always, for better or worse, be "Barack Obama."  Why wouldn't it be?  What other reference point does she have?  And so it was for me and my generation of New Yorkers, for whom the mayor was and would always be Edward I. Koch, who died early this morning at the age of 88.

Obviously, the toughest job in American politics is President, but New York City Mayor must be a close second.  After all, New York's population (approximately eight million) is larger than that of 38 of 50 states.  The city is the financial and cultural capital of the nation (oh, Los Angeles, you wish!), and with its wide-ranging ethnic and socio-economic diversity, the city is a fair microcosm of America as a whole.  Second toughest job?  Heck, New York Mayors deal with the same tsuris as American Presidents, but they get nowhere near the perks: No Secret Service.  No Air Force One. No droit du seigneur with their choice of Nebraska farmgirls.  (Oh, you KNOW it's true!)  You need to be a special kind of crazy to occupy Gracie Mansion.

Koch, with his tradmark greeting of "How'm I doing?," certainly had his idiosyncrasies.  How many New York mayors inspire Broadway musicals?  Okay, two (Koch and Fiorello LaGuardia)--which should give you some idea of how wacky the position really is!  I once flipped through a book of the "wit and wisdom of Ed Koch" (the title of which was not--unlike a similarly titled book about George W. Bush--meant ironically).  Once, during a debate, after his opponent delivered a lengthy opening statement, Koch looked up and said, "Y'know what?  You're right."  A wise man knows how not to waste time.

I admit, my impression of Koch lacks sophistication.  He served as mayor from 1978 through the end of 1989, spanning the bulk of my childhood, most of which was spent in blissful ignorance of matters political.  I'm sure folks like MOS could provide a more nuanced view of Hizzoner's strengths and weaknesses.  His tenure was not without its share of problems and controversies.  Crime, racial unrest, the crack epidemic--all part of the background noise of life in New York City in the late 70's and 80's.  Still, that was my childhood, so forgive me my nostalgia.

In American elections, we hear frequently that voters yearn for candidates who have character.  In New York City, though, the electorate demands a mayor who IS a character.  In that respect, Ed Koch exemplified the position.  He cast a new mold for New York's chief executive.  Everyone since has only tried, with greater or lesser degrees of success, to fill it.



NOTE: This post has been corrected to reflect the correct dates of Koch's mayoralty.  He was NOT, in fact, mayor during the 1820's.

WWJT

The whole point of a tip is that a customer does not have to leave one: Tips--at least in the classical sense--are small bonuses given in recognition of superior service.  It's a little known fact that the practice, such as it was, originated accidentally with eccentric nobleman Wilfred Spoonscot.  Spoonscot wished to express his appreciation to a waiter who had, in accordance with his (Spoonscot's) wishes, hand-fed him an entire plate of wild rice, grain by individual grain.  Spoonscot had forgotten that he had placed his changepurse under his hat--a habit he had developed while on a Madagascaran safari in order to prevent the purse from being snatched by lemurs. Thus, when he "tipped" his hat to thank the waiter, several coins fell into the waiter's hand (and on his head--he was quite short), and Spoonscot was too embarrassed to ask for them back.  Other diners saw Spoonscot's act of magnanimity, and not wishing to be outshone by a lemurphobic rice nibbler, quickly adopted the practice as well.

That's how I like to imagine it happened, anyway.

We've come a long way from the original concept of "tip as reward."  Indeed, tips have become such a routine part of the restaurant experience that we only truly wrestle with the idea when we consider NOT tipping.  And it probably takes truly horrendous service to merit such action.

From what I've read and seen, Alois Bell, a pastor in the St. Louis area, did NOT receive horrendous service when she took some friends to a local Applebee's.  She did, however, have more than eight people in her party, which led to an automatic 18% tip being added to her bill.  Now, I understand the annoyance of such a surcharge.  In a sense, it's insulting: It almost accuses the customer of planning to stiff the server.  Moreover, my understanding has always been that a "standard" tip is 15%--where does Applebee's get off arbitrarily slapping on an additional three percent?  But I also see Applebee's point: After all, if a large party (however one defines "large") comes in, a server may have to work a bit harder, and the restaurant may want to take steps to ensure that the server is NOT stiffed.  At any rate, if this is the restaurant's policy, one should really complain to the management and not target one's wrath at the poor waitress.

That, however, is just what Bell did.  On her bill, in a space where she could have added an "additional tip" (beyond the 18%), Bell wrote: "I give God 10% why do you get 18."  Chelsea Welch, a colleague of Bell's waitress, took a picture of the bill and posted it online, where the photo quickly went viral.  Yesterday, after the pastor complained to managers over the "embarrassment" this photo had caused, Applebee's fired Welch.

I guess I understand why Applebee's fired the waitress--what she did was probably against some kind of corporate rules.  At the same time, though, I can't help but wonder about Alois Bell.  Here's a woman--a "good Christian," right?--offended that another woman--a woman who presumably makes little more than the minimum wage (and may well make less); a woman whose corporate overlords have threatened layoffs if forced to comply with the Affordable Care Act--should receive an 18% tip (which looks like it amounted to all of $6.00 and change).  Bell was so offended by this that she felt the need to engage in a bit of petty snark.  She then complained to Applebee's managers NOT about their tipping policy, but rather about the fact that she was embarrassed by the fact that her own snark went public--despite the fact that the actual picture (from what I can see) does not show her name.  ("Yes!  That was MY bill!  Me!  Alois Bell!  And I'm embarrassed that people saw it!  I, Alois Bell, am embarrassed!")  And this has led to the firing of another waitress, who probably needed the subsistence wages a lot more than God needs 10% of Bell's salary.

Look, far be it from little ol' Jewish me to presume to understand Jesus Christ better than the Right Reverend Alois Bell, but didn't the J-man say something about "turning the other cheek"?  I can't help but think he would have been a good tipper, too.

Previews of Coming Attractions

It's not that I have nothing to talk about.  There are any number of things that have caught my attention over the last few days.  Hasidic modesty squads.  Incipient alcoholism among college faculty.  Extortionary cable television policies  Psychopathic cats.  Many if not all of these topics will be discussed in the days ahead, as soon as I can snap out of this semi-comatose state brought about by repetitive presentation syndrome.  Stay with me, Nation!

Would You Drink This?

Saw a commercial last night for "Joint Juice" that starred Joe Montana.  I guess now that the 49'ers are back in the Super Bowl, Montana can emerge from the semi-obscurity he fell into sometime over the last ten years.  Long gone are the days when we could scarcely turn on the TV without seeing Joe endorse everything from soda to feminine hygiene products (or so it seemed).  Now, though, the Hall of Famer is reduced to hawking "Joint Juice"--which is not AS depressing as Jamie Lee Curtis shilling for laxative yogurt but close.

I'm not sure I could bring myself to willingly--even eagerly--imbibe something called "joint juice": I can't shake this image of a massive factory floor lined with vats of synovial fluid all ready for bottling and shipment.  One improperly pasteurized batch'll probably lead to a massive outbreak of kuru.  And then the commercial goes on to talk about how "Joint Juice" is chock-full of glucosamine and chondroitin--like that's supposed to make it more appetizing.  I'll continue to maintain my joints the natural way, thank you very much: Massive steroid injections behind the kneecap.

Publication Notice

This week, I have to conduct orientations for about two-dozen classes.  This means I have to do the same spiel over and over, several times a day, from now through Friday.  It's like being in a Broadway show, only without the money, fame, or enjoyment.  I think "mind-numbing" sums it up best.  So I may not post much this week.  With any luck, I'll come up with a few good one-liners.  Thank you in advance for your forebearance.

Prometheus II

Much to my chagrin, I watched "Prometheus" again the other night.  WOS hadn't seen it, and she was reluctant to take my word for it.  The movie does not improve upon additional viewing; if anything, closer examination only raises more questions and further diminishes claims to the film's coherence, either as an art-object unto itself or as a prelude to the "Alien" franchise.  For today, though, I have but two questions:

First [SPOILER ALERT], I have a problem with the "big, heroic gesture" at the end of the film.  You will recall that, at the end, our "ancestor alien forefather" is setting off on a mission, presumably to return to Earth and wipe out the human population for some not-quite-understood reason. Idris Elba as Captain I-Can't-Be-Bothered-to-Look-Up-the-Character's-Name gives his life to prevent the alien's departure, by crashing his spaceship, the Prometheus, into the alien craft.

Now, I GUESS I'm willing to accept the idea that the Prometheus had no photon torpedos or other weaponry--it was a scientific vessel.  Similarly, NASA "never" placed laser cannons on space shuttles (wink-wink).  But wouldn't you think that, if the Weyland Corporation could build a ship that could travel however-many gazillion light years, they would ALSO have equipped that ship with some way to, I don't know, COMMUNICATE with the folks back home?  So that, instead of having to kamikaze into the alien spacecraft, Elba could just have sent a message warning Earth that this craft was coming and to blow it into a million pieces as soon as it showed up?  Obviously, the alien ship didn't have any great defensive capabilities.

My second question, though, is even more perplexing.  Arguably the one interesting character in the movie is David (Michael Fassbender), an android, the latest in the long line of synthetics to appear in an "Alien" film.  Remember, though, that "Prometheus" takes place decades BEFORE "Alien," the first movie in the series.  David is, in fact, the ORIGINAL synthetic, the first of his kind. 
So, here's my question: In a movie that deals with, among other themes, evolutionary progress, how do you explain that androids started out looking like this:

Developed into this:

And finally evolved into THIS:

Can anyone accept the idea that Lance Henriksen represents a higher form of "life" than EITHER Michael Fassbender or Ian Holm?  (Don't even get me started on Winona Ryder.)