THE MORE THINGS CHANGE...
Driven inside by a cold winter storm, I picked up a magazine last week and began to thumb idly through it. The stories seemed so familiar; the lead editorial tackled "The Palestine Problem" and began with this sentiment: "During last Thanksgiving week Americans felt they had something to be thankful for which now turns out to be illusory. It was the news that the U.N. had ‘solved’ the Palestinian problem." But the editorialist warned that the solution could be costly. "Responsible enforcement takes force, and so does responsible revision. Either entails bloodshed....We have exhausted the possibilities of a policy which wills an end but not a means."
In the letters section, a reader complained about a recent swimsuit pictorial that showed more breast than he was willing to tolerate. "It will be snow in Hades," Eric Simpson wrote from Blacksburg, Virginia, "before any date of mine wears one of those bare-breasted affairs."
Ah yes, those "moral issues."
And there was more. Another story complained about the excess of explicit violence being portrayed in prime time dramas. One program, "growls with menace," the critic explained, "as a mad doctor kills a woman, hides her corpse in a closet and then prepares to operate on a girl, just for the fun of it. He runs upstairs, tosses a man out the window, then later decides to jump himself." The total number of dead for the evening’s programming? "At least a dozen violent deaths with the victims being stabbed, poisoned, shot, blown up and thrown out windows, plus one exceptionally messy suicide."
Another photo spread highlighted the latest "movie lingerie," a five page feature that more than satisfied my need to gawk at long leggy super-models with lots of cleavage.
And of course, the magazine was brimming and overflowing with advertisements for everything from the "form-fit Life Bra" to cigarettes, "good to taste, good to smoke." To Ritz crackers, "nothing tastes like a Ritz."
Yes, the same old news and gossip and titillating sex and violence—how we long for the ‘good old days’ when we could get away from all that bad news and shameful behavior.
Except...
Except...what I just described were the ‘Good ol’ Days.’ I had been reading from an issue of LIFE magazine....the February 16, 1948 issue.
Since that edition of LIFE went to press, more than 55 years ago, the world has changed dramatically and hasn’t moved an inch. All the themes for hate and violence and intolerance and banality were there in 1948—we’ve simply ratcheted up the level of intensity a few notches. The media "violence" was coming from radio, of course. Television was only being seen in a few hundred thousand homes on the U.S. east coast by early 1948. So the graphic violence was relayed via the images the sounds of radio could conjure in the listener’s mind. And of course, the mind is a frightening place to be at times, so who can say if today’s graphic "CSI" and "Law & Order" visual images are any worse than what one might have imagined in 1948? (Although I doubt if in ‘48, anyone could create such gruesome detail as today’s crime dramas bombard us with.)
The bare-breast complaint, in light of last year’s Super Bowl "wardrobe malfunction" and all the fury that followed was particularly "revealing." How can a woman’s breast be such an enduring point of contention in American Culture? Here is, under the right conditions, one of the loveliest forms ever to grace the planet. Artists since the beginning of Time have paid tribute to the breast. Nothing can distract most men and some women like the female breast. A woman’s breasts make us happy. For all of us, it was the first thing in the World that we saw close up. We clung to it for months before we were torn away from it and somebody stuck a rubber nipple in our mouths. Breasts are a good thing. And yet there are always people out there trying to take all the fun out of Life. May women always be proud of their breasts and may we always be allowed to appreciate and admire and adore them.
As for the ads, nothing much has changed there. You might think 21st Century marketing techniques have improved–become more sophisticated and clever–but they haven’t. Not really. They’re still mostly dull-witted and transparently solicitous, still trying to appeal to our vanity and egos. And they continue to succeed as our credit card society continues to spend money it doesn’t have on practically anything and everything it wants, whether or not it has a penny to pay for it.
And that might mark a significant change since 1948. Fifty six years ago, American Society was still trying to live within its means.
Perhaps most heartbreaking to read is the Palestinian editorial and the realization that virtually nothing has improved in the Middle East in more than half a century. The LIFE essay from February 1948 specifically outlined the merits and shortcomings of a United Nations proposal to end the violence between Israel and the Arabs. "The UN had decided," reported LIFE, "that all Palestine should be divided into three equal parts—a Jewish state, an Arab state and an internationalized Jerusalem."
It was called "Partition," it was rejected by the Arab world, war ensued and the two sides have been fighting almost continuously ever since. Millions of Arabs and Jews have perished in one bloody encounter after another. The violence is so consistent that the story of another suicide car bomb or an Israeli missile strike that kills civilians rarely raises an iota of indignation among any of us. It’s just a part of the daily news now— except for the most recent victims.
I don’t know if there is any lesson in all this. At John Kennedy’s funeral, Chief Justice Earl Warren lamented, "The only thing we learn from history is that we do not learn." And his warning continues to be borne out by the facts of each day’s events. Sometimes there doesn’t seem to be much hope for this wretched species of ours, but to give up Hope altogether is perhaps the most inhuman gesture of all.
I think I’ll go out and take a hike and think about lovely breasts for a while.
WHERE IS THE ‘LONE RANGER?’
I woke up aching and groggy on the morning of November 3rd. I rubbed my eyes, flipped on the tv to confirm what had seemed inevitable the night before (it was), and muttered to myself, "Where’s the damn Lone Ranger when we really need him?"
As the morning light filled my room, I was fairly certain that I had lost my bid for the Presidency as a Nihilist. I had not received congratulatory calls from any of the major candidates, so I assumed that I would be staying in Utah, and continuing for an indeterminate time into the future, to edit America’s most beloved and reviled alternative bi-monthly.
As for the Lone Ranger, it became clear that, to 51% of the American Voters, the Masked Rider of the Plains is alive and well and will continue to stable his horse at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for another four years. To the other 49%, some were inconsolable, others angry and bitter, a handful insisted that the election was rigged.. And there were a few like myself who believed we got exactly what we deserved.
Like it or not, George W Bush is America in the early 21st Century.
I don’t really enjoy the political post-mortem game, I’m not a pundit and find it excruciating trying to play it over in my mind...I don’t want to analyze this election. I want to hop a plane to the Island of Funafuti and dig my toes into a white sandy beach and drink large quantities of Cuba libres. (And I’m still thinking about swaying breasts by the way.)
But it’s hard to ignore the fact that the world seems to have been turned upside down and stomped on with a vengeance. I’m not expressing an opinion that is new or different here; I’m simply adding my voice to the chorus. But my rock-solid notions about ‘right vs wrong,’ and ‘good vs bad’ have been savagely attacked by a majority of my countrymen. And while their odd opinions have done nothing to disturb my own values, it does make me wonder if this country has lost its mind.
I keep coming back to the issue of breasts. How is this possible? Is it really true that my moral values are wrong because I like sex and hate killing?
I’m a bad person because I think a president who sends young Americans to die in a useless war is worse than a former president playing with a cigar in the Oval Office bathroom with an intern?
I’m a son of the devil because I think gay couples should have the same rights and benefits as any two people in love with each other?
I’m not supportive of our troops because I actually wish they could just stay home and learn a skill instead of being shipped to another part of the world so they can be blown to pieces by a roadside car bomb?
I DON’T care about the troops because I DON’T want them to be killed??? Am I missing something?
And yes...am I a Godforsaken heathen because I wish Janet Jackson had experienced a double wardrobe malfunction?
I turned to my friend Judge Paisley in Kentucky after the election for wisdom and clarification. I asked him what it all meant. He confirmed my greatest fears, "Sex...It’s about sex," he said. ‘Moral values’ means sex and its related applications and nothing else. Poverty, child abuse, military murder, greed..none of that is a concern." All the issues that Jesus Christ spoke of so eloquently in his Sermon on the Mount are somehow missing in James Dobson’s world.
Otherwise how can Pro-Life supporters condone death threats to Pro-Choice activists. We catch the irony but do they?
How can they call abortion murder and then turn a blind eye to the 100,000 Iraqi civilians that have died since March 2003? Even if they could somehow rationalize the killings of most of them, what about the pregnant women who have perished? I heard a Catholic nun say it better than most recently. She said, "These people aren’t Pro-Life; they’re Pro-Birth." After birth, the caring and concern stops cold.
On the other hand, the Opposition offered next to nothing. I still pity poor Kerry who I think is a better man than he was a candidate. He never felt free to condemn the War with the ferocity he wanted to. No candidate but Bobby Kennedy could have run as a true Anti-War candidate and hope to win. And we all know what happened to Bobby in ‘68 when he almost did.
But I also believe that there is a smug arrogance that surrounds most liberals in America today. It’s a mean-spirited condescension that thwarts any possibility of dialogue with "the other side." I have to believe that most conservatives are NOT as extreme or hypocritical as John Ashcroft and James Dobson and their ilk. But liberal Democrats don’t give those people an alternative. And if they continue to be as judgemental as the people they condemn, they can only hope to marginalize their voice even more in the years to come.
These are strange and awful times. September 11 sent us in a direction we never dreamed possible just a few hours before the first plane struck the North Tower. It’s going to require newfound courage and strength and resolve to change this frightening course of events. When good people come together with a common purpose, Great Things can be accomplished. I never doubt that. It’s the ‘coming together’ part that always worries me.
MY ROBERT REDFORD STORY...
We need a silly segue about now. Lest you think once again that this column is about nothing but gloom and doom, let me try to lighten the tone here by exposing one of the most humiliating moments of my life.
This issue is partly about Westerns and great lines from cowboy movies. I was hard-pressed not to include "Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid," but it seemed too predictable a choice. However, Robert Redford still maintains a place of glory in my list of favorite Westerns, via the classic Sydney Pollack film, "Jeremiah Johnson." On page 13 you can read an expanded account of my obsession with that movie, but it did influence me to the point that I grew a beard and started eating more beef jerky.
Just out of college, more years ago than I care to remember, I was wandering about the State of Utah with my dog Muckluk, in my barely operational Volkswagen bus, searching for Home. On this particular morning, Hanksville, Utah was home. I’d camped out on the desert that night, just a few miles from town, and now I’d sought out some civilization at a place that was then called, "Jim n’ Elle’s Cafe."
I was sitting inside, drinking coffee, when this guy walks in. He looked vaguely familiar. Although he was dressed in typical cowboy garb, there was something unusual about the man. Something regal. (I can still recall with precision, his outfit—beat up straw hat, red snap-front shirt, faded Levis, pointy-toed engraved cowboy boots.)
He asked the waitress a question then turned and strutted out the door.
It couldn’t be, I wondered. Then I saw the waitress swooning and clutching her heart and slowly descending to the floor. I jumped up to catch her but she had already settled onto the carpet. I looked down at her...
"Was that Robert Redford?" I asked.
She nodded as she continued fanning herself with a menu.
I stepped outside and there was all kinds of activity going on. Several of Redford’s associates were scurrying about. I have no idea what their purpose or function was but they all seemed to be in a state of agitation.
Redford was talking on a pay phone, just 50 feet or so beyond my VW. Muckluk was asleep beneath the rear wheel, unmoved by anything but the cool morning air and the bright desert light. I decided to check my oil.
I had barely pulled out the dipstick when I heard Redford say, "OK...see you in a few days," and I saw him hang up the phone. For the love of God he was coming my way. I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding as the Great Actor approached. I hesitated...
He walked by, on his way back to the diner. I knew this was it. Perhaps my only chance in a lifetime to converse with Robert Redford. Maybe he’d be impressed by my knowledge of environmental issues threatening SE Utah. Maybe he’d invite me back to Sundance for the weekend. Perhaps he might see a certain je ne sais quois quality in me that made me perfect for a supporting role in his next film! This is the kind of seminal moment that can change a young man’s life!
"Excuse me! I blurted. I saw him hesitate.
"...but aren’t you Robert Redford?"
He stopped dead in his tracks, spun ever so gracefully in a 180 degree arc on his Justin boots, crouched slightly as he addressed me head-on and said, "I sure am."
There he was...Robert Redford. He smiled at me slightly, but it felt menacing. As if he was calling a bluff in a gunfight.
Ok...buddy...you got my attention. NOW what are you going to do?
It felt like hours that I stood there flat-footed and in deep fear but it was probably only a matter of seconds. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot, racking my brain for the one line that might turn this improbable moment into my Hour of Destiny. I cleared my throat, put my hands on my hips and said with great authority and conviction:
"Next to ‘The Wizard of Oz,’ ‘Jeremiah Johnson’ is my favorite movie."
I knew I was finished. I thought of trying to crawl through the dipstick hole on my VW but it was too late to hide. I saw Redford’s smile tighten and disappear, even before I’d spit out all the words. He just stood there with an _expression that combined the best aspects of disgust and boredom. He looked at the ground.
But maybe there was time for recovery. "So what brings you to Hanksville? I asked.
"I like it here," he replied curtly. It seemed to me, he was turning a bit taciturn.
Meanwhile Muckluk had stirred from beneath the VW. She crawled out from the shade and walked toward Redford. Muckluk was a magnificent looking animal–half Husky, half Shepherd–with knowing eyes and a certain insouciance that belongs usually to cats. Redford seemed interested; perhaps my dog will save the day. By now Muck was standing directly in front of Redford but facing me. Redford said, "Nice looking dog you’ve got."
He bent over and reached out to stroke Muckluk’s back. But before he could ever touch hand to fur, Muck simply walked away from him.
THAT GODDAMN INSOUCIANCE AGAIN!
He was left stroking air and that was enough for Robert Redford. He couldn’t even bear to look at me again and he said, "See ya," to the sidewalk as he turned and disappeared inside the café.’
I got in my car and drove away, toward Capitol Reef, crushed. Muck assumed her position in the passenger seat, her head hanging from the window, her long tongue flapping in the hot wind. I scolded her for ruining my chances for stardom. She acted like she didn’t hear me, but the truth is, the damn dog just didn’t care.
ANOTHER UTNE NOMINATION...
I recently received word that The Zephyr has been nominated for another "Utne Independent Press Award" in the "Local/Regional Coverage" category. This is The Z’s third consecutive nomination and I’m extremely grateful for the recognition.
