A large, green cartoon character is certainly not the norm outside the Department of Labor, so I couldn’t help but pull in for a chat.
But how to start? “Hi, I’m a stranger” doesn’t work, but then neither does the blatantly obvious and potentially embarrassing “So, what are you doing here?”
I did my best. “What am I supposed to do?” the Grinch asked.
OK, I thought his role was clearly defined, so as tactfully as possible, I pressed for details.
“I’m supposed to steal Christmas!” he exclaimed. That was my understanding too. “But how am I to do that when it’s already been stolen!” I glanced at my laptop, casually clicking the New York Times link for any breaking news. None. Again, I pressed for details.
“I just got there too late.” complained the Grinch. This is why I hate ambiguous pronouns.
“Got where?” I asked.
“To Christmas, to steal it! It was already gone!”
I stared blankly.
“How am I going to pay the rent with no job?!”
I still stared blankly.
“You’d think stealing Christmas would be a niche market,” he added, calming down a bit.
“You have competition?” I offered (blithely, I realize in retrospect).
“Competition?” He snorted loudly. “It was gone before I got there! I’m out of business!”
I waited until the clerk finished all his paperwork, then invited him for coffee. We went across the street, and after a warm blueberry muffin and some hazelnut coffee (assuring him I was buying), he related the whole story.
“It’s the Christians!” He looked glumly into the dregs of his coffee.
“They’re fighting you?” I prompted.
“NO!” He looked angry. “They’re beating me to it!”
I signaled the waitress to replenish our coffee, sat back and just let him talk.
“Talk about ‘Bah Humbug!’” he complained. “Scrooge was a prophet compared to these guys!”
I sipped a little coffee, and waited.
“Happy Holidays!” he exclaimed. “What the hell is wrong with that?”
“Um…nothing?” I ventured.
He had entered a rant. “A bunch of people decide that they’ll respect all beliefs and traditions. Sounds Christian, right? Nope! It’s ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Get Lost, Godless Pagan!’ That’s what Jesus was about anyway, right? Criticizing others? Shooting tax collectors out of trees? Advising Peter to draw his sword? Do these morons even OWN Bibles?”
I was back to staring blankly.
“And now movies? MOVIES! Do these ‘brain trusts’ understand fiction? FICTION! A movie portrays people’s psyches as visible animals, and this is someone anti-Christian? What happened to Psychology 101?”
I remembered reading something about that film, “The Golden Compass.”
“Maybe they were confused about the term ‘daimon.’” I offered. “After all, they DO believe in Guardian Angels—six of one, half a dozen of the other…”
He looked sad. “No,” he answered finally, looking sad. “They believe in self-righteousness, judgment, exclusion, hatred. They’re confused about the terms ‘love,’ ‘tolerance,’ ‘faith,’ ‘brotherhood.’” And after a long pause, he added, “After all—isn’t that way they killed the Prince of Peace?”
Writer
Showing posts with label film. Show all posts
Showing posts with label film. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
An Interview with General Discussion
I had always wanted to meet General Discussion. His mere presence was overwhelming—he’s on practically every Internet forum. At the same time, he has no profile on any of these sites—a mystery. So, when I was granted an interview with the General (I’m sorry, but conditions of the interview precluded sharing specifics), I was understandably elated.
I decided to lead by asking about his path to such influence.
“Well, I’ve been known by many names,” he began. “I started as Private Chat, the identity under which I took Corporeal Form. As Sergeant-at-Arms I was able to Captain-my-Views until I had achieved the rank of Major Misunderstanding. And with a Colonel-of-Truth, I ascended to General Discussion.”
I expressed my reservations about such a questionable rise to power.
“What you don’t understand,” he explained, “is that most people don’t care about reasoning. It’s all about speaking your mind, laboring under the delusion that other people care and will listen. No. You have to FAKE debate.”
“Surely that’s unfair,” I protested. “I regularly see people vociferously debating a host of issues!”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” he answered, implying via body language that you don’t get to be a General without good reason. “People don’t debate—they REACT.”
“I don’t think I can agree.” Frankly, I was quite taken aback.
“All right,” he answered. He thought for a moment. “Consider your favorite Internet discussion boards.” I considered. “Can you identify a few people who consistently seem the best debaters?” I could.
“Well,” he continued, “Look at their patterns.” I was confused. “They don’t just jump in and respond to any comment.” Now I was really confused. The General looked at me, a combination of bemusement and exasperation, then continued. “They wait,” he explained. I stared at him blankly.
“They wait,” he repeated. “They let people make their points. Then, they respond to the group, addressing the sense and content of all those posts.” I still didn’t get it.
“Look,” he sighed (I could tell he was patronizing me). “Presenting a thoughtful view supported by careful argument is difficult.” I listened, waiting. “So, people don’t bother. They throw out their opinions.”
“But others would just counter with their own opinions,” I interjected.
“EXACTLY!” pounced the General. “So experienced ‘debaters’ wait for other users to post first, and then attack those views in lieu of constructing their own arguments.”
I looked at him, stunned.
“This isn’t something new with the Internet.” He was right, of course—public discourse existed long before online discussion boards, and the General’s career predated such electronic advances. “People avoid presenting specific arguments. Doing so would leave them vulnerable.”
“Consider politics,” he continued. “People continually complain that politicians only speak in generalities. Know why? Ever heard of James Buchanan?”
“The 15th U.S. President?”
“No, the Nobel Prize winning economist.” I settled in for the lecture.
“He proposed the Theory of Public Choice. Essentially, he noticed that if a candidate for office presented specifics, opponents would then attack the details of those plans. Hence, savvy politicians avoid divulging such policy, preserving their standings in the polls—and the electorate.”
“But wouldn’t such a generalist approach just mean that voters would dismiss the candidate as superficial?”
“Apparently not.”
I looked at the ground, thinking, my head spinning.
“Look at what happens even in the primaries,” offered the General. “What happens to the front runner? Shot at from every side—within the same party! Often, someone else becomes the eventual nominee.”
I thought for a long rime before replying. “It doesn’t seem right,” was all I could offer.
The General looked at me kindly. After a while, he asked, “Do you know the story of Lieutenant Kijé?”
As a musician, I knew Prokofiev’s suite from the 1934 Aleksandr Fajntsimmer film, along with the basic plot, but not the 1927 Yury Tynyanov novella, the basis for the movie. I listened.
“Contradicting the Tsar was a crime, so when Paul I of Russia misunderstood an incorrectly copied military report, misreading it as ‘Lieutenant Kijé,’ his officers simply created the fictitious officer. The deceit expanded to include Kijé’s courtship, marriage, regular promotion—and when the Tsar finally asked to meet this man, his death and funeral with full military honors.”
I didn’t yet see his point.
“Your country,” he continued, “is based on rule by the people, is it not?” I nodded. “Well, your leader, the people, doesn’t like to hear views other than its own. So, your subordinates tell what the leader wants to hear. Recognizing that is how I rose through the ranks so quickly.”
I stared at him blankly.
"I'm your Lieutenant Kijé," he explained.
The General had pressing business elsewhere, so that had to be the end of our discussion. However, I encourage my countrymen to support this man in his bid for higher office. He has a plan to help build our nation.
Writer
I decided to lead by asking about his path to such influence.
“Well, I’ve been known by many names,” he began. “I started as Private Chat, the identity under which I took Corporeal Form. As Sergeant-at-Arms I was able to Captain-my-Views until I had achieved the rank of Major Misunderstanding. And with a Colonel-of-Truth, I ascended to General Discussion.”
I expressed my reservations about such a questionable rise to power.
“What you don’t understand,” he explained, “is that most people don’t care about reasoning. It’s all about speaking your mind, laboring under the delusion that other people care and will listen. No. You have to FAKE debate.”
“Surely that’s unfair,” I protested. “I regularly see people vociferously debating a host of issues!”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” he answered, implying via body language that you don’t get to be a General without good reason. “People don’t debate—they REACT.”
“I don’t think I can agree.” Frankly, I was quite taken aback.
“All right,” he answered. He thought for a moment. “Consider your favorite Internet discussion boards.” I considered. “Can you identify a few people who consistently seem the best debaters?” I could.
“Well,” he continued, “Look at their patterns.” I was confused. “They don’t just jump in and respond to any comment.” Now I was really confused. The General looked at me, a combination of bemusement and exasperation, then continued. “They wait,” he explained. I stared at him blankly.
“They wait,” he repeated. “They let people make their points. Then, they respond to the group, addressing the sense and content of all those posts.” I still didn’t get it.
“Look,” he sighed (I could tell he was patronizing me). “Presenting a thoughtful view supported by careful argument is difficult.” I listened, waiting. “So, people don’t bother. They throw out their opinions.”
“But others would just counter with their own opinions,” I interjected.
“EXACTLY!” pounced the General. “So experienced ‘debaters’ wait for other users to post first, and then attack those views in lieu of constructing their own arguments.”
I looked at him, stunned.
“This isn’t something new with the Internet.” He was right, of course—public discourse existed long before online discussion boards, and the General’s career predated such electronic advances. “People avoid presenting specific arguments. Doing so would leave them vulnerable.”
“Consider politics,” he continued. “People continually complain that politicians only speak in generalities. Know why? Ever heard of James Buchanan?”
“The 15th U.S. President?”
“No, the Nobel Prize winning economist.” I settled in for the lecture.
“He proposed the Theory of Public Choice. Essentially, he noticed that if a candidate for office presented specifics, opponents would then attack the details of those plans. Hence, savvy politicians avoid divulging such policy, preserving their standings in the polls—and the electorate.”
“But wouldn’t such a generalist approach just mean that voters would dismiss the candidate as superficial?”
“Apparently not.”
I looked at the ground, thinking, my head spinning.
“Look at what happens even in the primaries,” offered the General. “What happens to the front runner? Shot at from every side—within the same party! Often, someone else becomes the eventual nominee.”
I thought for a long rime before replying. “It doesn’t seem right,” was all I could offer.
The General looked at me kindly. After a while, he asked, “Do you know the story of Lieutenant Kijé?”
As a musician, I knew Prokofiev’s suite from the 1934 Aleksandr Fajntsimmer film, along with the basic plot, but not the 1927 Yury Tynyanov novella, the basis for the movie. I listened.
“Contradicting the Tsar was a crime, so when Paul I of Russia misunderstood an incorrectly copied military report, misreading it as ‘Lieutenant Kijé,’ his officers simply created the fictitious officer. The deceit expanded to include Kijé’s courtship, marriage, regular promotion—and when the Tsar finally asked to meet this man, his death and funeral with full military honors.”
I didn’t yet see his point.
“Your country,” he continued, “is based on rule by the people, is it not?” I nodded. “Well, your leader, the people, doesn’t like to hear views other than its own. So, your subordinates tell what the leader wants to hear. Recognizing that is how I rose through the ranks so quickly.”
I stared at him blankly.
"I'm your Lieutenant Kijé," he explained.
The General had pressing business elsewhere, so that had to be the end of our discussion. However, I encourage my countrymen to support this man in his bid for higher office. He has a plan to help build our nation.
Writer
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Chess
My Dad taught me to play chess. He had joined a local chess group and brought the hobby home. I was enticed—such an interesting and complex game far outshone any of the Parker Brothers game boxes on the top shelf of the closet (even Monopoly, Clue, and—my favorite, Risk). He taught me fun tricks like Fool’s Mate (winning in just four moves), but also more important concepts, like playing for position, controlling the center of the board, not trapping my own pieces, and so forth.
I lost all the games, but I loved chess, and pestered Dad to play as often as possible. I started reading about chess—various opening strategies, gambits, defenses and such. I played the game with friends. I joined the school chess club (not a strong organization, unfortunately). Dad drifted away from his chess group. I started winning games. We didn’t play as often—then hardly ever.
My many bike rides around our neighborhood streets introduced me to a lot of regular porch sitters, including one man, late twenties or early thirties I’d guess (although I’m relying on childhood memory and perspective here), an avid chess player. I don’t know why he was at leisure to sit at home daily (I was too young to think to wonder or ask), but our conversations led to him inviting me in for a game.
He had a small, special enclosed back porch set up especially for chess, including a small table in the center of the room, two chairs, a few plants—and a chess clock. I had never seen one, the concept of timing moves new to me. Still, I was enticed, and I visited quite frequently, looking for a game. He always won, of course, but he was also an excellent teacher. I was most stunned and impressed by a practice begun at the end of our first game—he reset the pieces and reviewed the game from memory, move by move, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of my approaches. Aside from my amazement what I saw as an almost magical talent, I started to see chess as strategy, not an ongoing battle of moves, and games as thought patterns, not mere diversions.
I played chess with a few college friends here and there, but I found that not a lot of people play this game, so I didn’t get to play often. I run across people who respond to my interest in silly ways: "Oh, teach me--I bet I could beat you," for example, usually out of pure ego. I smile and look for ways to change the subject.
Twenty years ago, when I moved to my current home in the country, I met a bass player at a symphony gig who lived just a few miles from me—John Teeple (featured in the award winning documentary “Brothers Keeper,” a film I got to watch as it was made). John was much older than I, but we became close friends with many shared interests, from trees to gardens to home building to music to writing (he was working on a comprehensive time line of global history)--including regular chess games. I was the stronger player, but the time spent was well worth the while—not to mention the free ranging conversation.
These days my infrequent chess-playing is relegated to taking on my computer. In the early days of chess programs, I could sometimes beat the computer—although it would never admit it, opting to crash instead—but now playing is just an exercise in flagging mistakes. This is worthwhile for development, of course, but it’s just not the same as facing a person, analyzing the opposing tactics, choosing a strategy—and connecting in a meaningful, thoughtful way with a real, caring person.
Writer
I lost all the games, but I loved chess, and pestered Dad to play as often as possible. I started reading about chess—various opening strategies, gambits, defenses and such. I played the game with friends. I joined the school chess club (not a strong organization, unfortunately). Dad drifted away from his chess group. I started winning games. We didn’t play as often—then hardly ever.
My many bike rides around our neighborhood streets introduced me to a lot of regular porch sitters, including one man, late twenties or early thirties I’d guess (although I’m relying on childhood memory and perspective here), an avid chess player. I don’t know why he was at leisure to sit at home daily (I was too young to think to wonder or ask), but our conversations led to him inviting me in for a game.
He had a small, special enclosed back porch set up especially for chess, including a small table in the center of the room, two chairs, a few plants—and a chess clock. I had never seen one, the concept of timing moves new to me. Still, I was enticed, and I visited quite frequently, looking for a game. He always won, of course, but he was also an excellent teacher. I was most stunned and impressed by a practice begun at the end of our first game—he reset the pieces and reviewed the game from memory, move by move, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of my approaches. Aside from my amazement what I saw as an almost magical talent, I started to see chess as strategy, not an ongoing battle of moves, and games as thought patterns, not mere diversions.
I played chess with a few college friends here and there, but I found that not a lot of people play this game, so I didn’t get to play often. I run across people who respond to my interest in silly ways: "Oh, teach me--I bet I could beat you," for example, usually out of pure ego. I smile and look for ways to change the subject.
Twenty years ago, when I moved to my current home in the country, I met a bass player at a symphony gig who lived just a few miles from me—John Teeple (featured in the award winning documentary “Brothers Keeper,” a film I got to watch as it was made). John was much older than I, but we became close friends with many shared interests, from trees to gardens to home building to music to writing (he was working on a comprehensive time line of global history)--including regular chess games. I was the stronger player, but the time spent was well worth the while—not to mention the free ranging conversation.
These days my infrequent chess-playing is relegated to taking on my computer. In the early days of chess programs, I could sometimes beat the computer—although it would never admit it, opting to crash instead—but now playing is just an exercise in flagging mistakes. This is worthwhile for development, of course, but it’s just not the same as facing a person, analyzing the opposing tactics, choosing a strategy—and connecting in a meaningful, thoughtful way with a real, caring person.
Writer
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