The White Roller

Woody Allen was a screamingly funny stand-up comedian. His shtick was that of an unaffected loner who shrugged off the bullshit of the world around him.

As the years went on he became a successful filmmaker. And one wondered about his Garbo-esque vanting to be alone and free from celebrity scrutiny. As New York magazine once noted, how did that stance mesh with driving around New York City in a white Rolls-Royce? Or, as I observed to myself, with occupying a humongously-priced courtside seat at New York Knicks basketball games?

It became clear over the years—at least to me(1)—that he was far from unaffected and certainly a bullshitter. And he admits this in his new book:

“I have no insights, no lofty thoughts, no understanding of most poems that do not begin, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue,’” he writes. “What I do have, however, is a pair of black-rimmed glasses, and I propose that it is these specs, combined with a flair for appropriating snippets from erudite sources too deep for me to grasp but which can be utilized in my work to give the deceptive impression of knowing more than I do that keeps this fairy tale afloat.”(2)

That is something that I had always suspected; underneath the intellectual pose was no substance. What he was able to do was to attract an audience of similar poseurs, who pronounced shibboleth correctly and so were safe in the bosom of the church of Woody Allen.

*

Since the autobiography was unceremoniously slipped into the bookworld last week, there have been few reviews out so far (you could count them on one hand, less a finger or two). Talya Zax in the Forward is very astute in her review (for which clearsightedness, she gets blasted by Allenistas in the comments):

He’s the sole star of his own sympathies, describing his friends, family and enemies exclusively by how their actions and feelings impact him, and never trying to understand or empathize with them.(3)

I guess I appreciate her review because she echoes my observations in the previous blog post about Allen’s solipsistic self-centeredness.

*

Some other points I have gleaned from the reviews:

Allen engages in a screw-and-tell session, listing actresses and others he has bedded. The shlemiel as superstud seems to be the theme.Women are objectified, as Dwight Garner notes in the Times review:

Nearly every time a woman is mentioned, there’s a gratuitous pronouncement on her looks. Early on, he chases “delectable bohemian little kumquats” in New York City. While in London filming “Casino Royale” (1967), a James Bond spoof, he writes, “one could stroll on the Kings Road and pick up the most adorable birds in their miniskirts.” Birds? I kept waiting for him to sail to Australia to scoop up a basket of “Sheilas.”

Then there are the Mia-wars. I won’t attempt to place myself in the attic in Connecticut, where something or nothing happened between Allen and seven-year-old Dylan Farrow. However, Allen’s dealing with the Mia issues comes across as crazed as the hinged ravings of internet conspiracists. Again Garner:

[Allen] broaches the idea that Farrow may have slept with a state judge and a state attorney in order to try and influence their opinions during a custody battle. . . . Allen suggests that [their son] Ronan was groomed by Farrow to despise him. He alleges that Farrow had Ronan undergo cosmetic surgery to add a few inches to his height, which required the breaking and rebreaking of his legs.

*

Allen near the end of the book writes,

Not believing in a hereafter, I really can’t see any practical difference if people remember me as a film director or a pedophile or at all. All that I ask is my ashes be scattered close to a pharmacy.”

Not very funny(4)—as he once was as a stand-up comedian.

But then again, as his life has proven, he’s not a stand-up guy.

***

(1) I have written about Allen before: 

https://drnormalvision.blogspot.com/2018/02/the-church-of-woody-allen.html

(2) The first line of his autobiography reads in part, “Like Holden [Caulfield], I don’t feel like going into all that David Copperfield kind of crap. . . .” He can’t do better than to identify with a teenager? 

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/26/books/review-apropos-of-nothing-memoir-woody-allen.html?action=click&module=Well&pgtype=Homepage&section=Books

(3) https://forward.com/culture/books/442575/woody-allen-memoir-review-apropos-of-nothing/#article-comments

(4) I must admit that while early on I found Allen’s comedy act hilarious, I was disappointed with his writing, where he seemed believe that silly non sequiturs equaled funny.

The Anti-Christ

By some demonic trick, the Evangelical Christian movement became besotted with Donald Trump. Here were alleged followers of the principles of the Prince of Peace marching behind the banner of one of the greatest sinners of our time—one who has evidenced each of the seven deadly sins:

Anger—The list of his targets is too long to record here;

Gluttony—Hamburgers and Cokes, anyone?;

Sloth—How about mornings watching Fox TV?;

Envy—The green-eyed monster glaring at Putin’s dictatorial powers;

Greed—Need we detail the Trump family’s business practices?;

Lust—Multiple instances of adultery and fornication;

Pride—“Stable genius.” Do you need more examples?

*

President Donald Trump announced on Fox News on Tuesday that he's aiming to scale back social distancing guidelines to fight the coronavirus by Easter because he wants to see "packed churches all over our country." 
When asked by Fox News' Bill Hemmer why he chose April 12 as the day to reopen the economy, Trump said Easter is a "very special day for me." 
"Wouldn't it be great to have all of the churches full? You know the churches aren't allowed, essentially, to have much of a congregation there," Trump said. "You'll have packed churches all over our country. I think it would be a beautiful time.”*

What looks like a great gift to the Christians is in reality part of the demonic plan to eradicate the religion. Pack the churches with Christians during a pandemic of a highly contagious disease and . . . .

*

William Butler Yeats, imaging the Second Coming in his poem of the same name,** foresaw not a return of Christ, but a 

rough beast, its hour come round at last,   
Slouch[ing] towards Bethlehem to be born. 

Poets don’t always get things right; Yeats had his coordinates off. The “rocking cradle” of the poem turned out not to be in Bethlehem but in Queens, NY. 

***

• https://www.businessinsider.com/trump-wants-reopen-economy-on-easter-to-have-packed-churches-2020-3

       **The Second Coming 

           

           By William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Soliloquy at the Taj Mahal

What the hell am I doing here?

Standing stiff as a board staring at a pile of old stones. Taj Mahal. MY Taj was better. Neon. With my name on it. Would make a nice golf clubhouse, though. Do they even have golf courses in this country? 

Standing stiff as a board with my back to the cameras. Whose idea was that? Is that a custom here?

Strange place. They invite the leader of  the greatest country in the whole world. Throw him a dinner and I look at my plate and it’s all covered in green. Grass. They served me grass. What am I a cow? 

Cows. They say they’re sacred here. That means no criticism. It wouldn’t be bad to be a sacred cow. No CNN or New York Times saying those mean things. 

Strange place. That Modi also has a problem with the Moslems. Told him to build a wall. He kept saying cashmere. I’m saying wall; he’s saying cashmere. What does fashion have to do with it? As if he knows about fashion. Dresses like a teenage girl. Miniskirt and leggings. 

Someone said something about a new germ going around. Coronado virus or something. Germophobic. I’ll get some else to deal with it. Pence. What the hell does he do all day? I’ll make him an emperor or czar of the virus. He’ll feel big. We’ll deduct his credit card for the mask.

Enough already! Standing with my back to the cameras.

My underwear is feeling tight.

I need to find a hamburger.

Rain

"For the rain it raineth every day."

Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

I don’t exactly wear out my television set. Except for NHL hockey games and English Premier League football, practically the only time I turn the set on is to watch Hockey Central, a Sportsnet Canada talk show broadcast in the US on the NHL Network. One of the hosts of the show, Jeff Marek, likes to proclaim that “the good is the enemy of the great.”*

Now, Marek is not wrong; when one is content with what is good enough, one stops striving for what is the best or ultimate or ideal or perfect.

But the reverse is also true; the great is the enemy of the good. Here is a letter of mine that was published in Science News (July24, 1999): 

Better early than never

I have two comments to add to the fine article about making decisions based upon less-than-total knowledge, "Simple minds, smart choices" (SN: 5/29/99, p. 348). It quite aptly starts off citing former big leaguer and current baseball analyst Tim McCarver on the need to go with one's first instinct. I wish to add McCarver's famous dictum: "Think long, think wrong."

The second comment I would like to cite is an old military adage about making choices under pressure and time constraints: "A good plan now is better than a perfect plan later."

Harold Gotthelf Jersey City, N.J.

Think about being part of a military unit trapped by your enemy. You are going to try to formulate a plan of escape. After considering the alternatives, are you willing to reject a good plan in hope that the perfect plan will fall into place later? You might be wiped out before that opportunity arises. 

Gregers Werle in Ibsen’s The Wild Duck makes it his life’s mission to advocate for “the claim of the ideal.” In doing so, he destroys the satisfactory middling life of the bumbling Hialmar Ekdal, and, more importantly, causes the death of his daughter. 

Beware of the peddlers of the Ideal. They may just be selling death.

                                                          *                

Annie may sing that 

The sun'll come out

Tomorrow.

But Annie is a child. Adults know that life is filled with obstacles and compromises, and that even by exerting all one’s effort in an attempt to achieve greatness one will not reach the ideal or the perfect. 

Thus adults sing,

Well, the sun went down

And tomorrow brought us rain.

(Count Basie & Jimmy Rushing)

*

Jeff Marek also often quotes John Maynard Keynes:

When my information changes, I alter my conclusions. What do you do, sir?

*

Grab the good when it comes. 

For another Keynes saying is:

In the long run we are all dead.

***

* I know that I discussed this in an earlier blog, but for the life of me, I can’t locate it.

Bumper Stuck

I remember having only two bumper stickers ever on my cars. One was 

IF YOU CAN READ THIS,

THANK A TEACHER.

The other was

POETIC LICENSE.

*

The second best bumper sticker I ever saw was

NEVER RE-ELECT ANYBODY.

I have always relished that bit of political advice. It seems to be the cure for sclerotic government—new ideas entering the public arena with each election. However, I have been unable to act on this advice. It has been that the opponents to the incumbents in my neck of the woods are worse than useless, troglodytes who have barely made it out of their caves. 

*

The other day I saw the stupidest ever bumper sticker on an SUV in the parking lot of my bank. (Actually, to be completely accurate, it wasn’t on the bumper but on the tailgate of the vehicle—making it even stupider because it will mar the paint.) It read:

EQUAL RIGHTS FOR BABIES IN THE WOMB.

Now, of course, the geniuses behind the sticker are still chortling over their stealing  the equal rights slogan from the supporters of the Equal Rights Amendment, who, I guess, will not be inviting the bumper stickerers to any party soon. 

On January 27th, Virginia became the 38th state to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment, which thereby has achieved the necessary ratification by three-fourths of the states.

Advocates say the amendment would provide an explicit guarantee of protection against discrimination on the basis of sex that is as strong as the protections that exist against discrimination based on race or national origin.*

Outlawed would be discrimination in hiring, promotion, compensation, lending, housing, voting, etc.

The proposal on the bumper sticker has led me to wonder how fetuses** would avail themselves of their new rights. (Oh, and at what age—minutes, days, weeks, months—would they be eligible?) I can’t imagine them applying for any jobs (what credentials do they have?). Housing is not a problem for them; it’s already provided. It’s equal access to the ballot box I wonder about. Would there be enough certified electoral obstetricians to provide the fetuses with voting machines?

So until that last problem is overcome, I will continue to believe that that was the stupidest bumper sticker I’ve ever seen. 

*

Oh, the best bumper sticker I have seen seen?

PASS WITH CARE

DRIVER CHEWS TOBACCO.

Something for the fetuses to remember, when they get their driver’s licenses.

***

• https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2020/01/15/virginia-passes-era-38th-state-amendment-women/4477813002/

      ** I don’t recognize a baby as a baby until it’s born.

Safe--or Sorry?

Today we have a thought experiment:

Imagine a community of any size you want—town, city, state, whatever. There is no poison—no arsenic, no cyanide, etc.— within its boundaries. 

One day, a single vial of poison is introduced into the community. 

Would you say that the community was as safe as it was before? Or more safe? Or less safe?

Shortly thereafter a second vial of poison enters the community. 

Again I ask: As safe? More safe? Less safe?

What if a hundred vials of poison appear? Or a thousand?

As safe? More safe? Less safe?

*

Let’s begin again. You have your community, but this is a community with no swords within its boundaries.

A sword is introduced. 

Is your community as safe as before? Or more safe? Or less safe?

Then a second sword appears.

Are you as safe as before? More safe? Less safe?

OK. Let’s up the number of swords to ten or a hundred or a thousand.

The question again: As safe? More safe? Less safe?

*

Of course, this isn’t really about poison or swords but about guns.

I invite you to work out the analogy yourself.

Rudy the Rebbe

We are in a rather parlous state. Nothing seems certain anymore. Why, last night Santa passed by my house without delivering either a stocking filled with coal or a new Mercedes. Obviously, even he can’t tell nowadays who’s naughty or nice. 

There is one hope for us, however. There is Rudolph Giuliani. There is a man who knows black from white, up from down, and, more importantly, Jew from Goy. “[George] Soros is hardly a Jew. I'm more of a Jew than Soros is,” Rudy proclaimed last week in an interview in New York magazine, probably just before heading off to the mall to purchase a new menorah. 

As most news articles pointed out, Giuliani was raised a Catholic. Now working on his third divorce, does Rudy offer the same certainty to the Pope about who the true Catholics might be? 

New York magazine ran a stock photograph of Rudy to accompany its interview with him.

As you can see, the once-ballyhooed “America’s Mayor” is wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and flaunting a Yankee World Series championship ring.

Giuliani’s expertise in religious matters was as hard earned as his baseball loot. How many innings of shutout ball did he pitch?

William Butler Yeats in his poem “Among School Children” famously asked, “How can we know the dancer from the dance?”

About Giuliani, we need ask, “How can we know the screwball from the screwball?”