Lately, I’ve spent time in the company of what I can only call ‘corporate types.’ I call them that because they displayed so many of the characteristics of corporate life, and in fact, they all work in corporate environments. But it has so infected their behavior and way of life that their personalities are inseparable from it. I don’t know how this happens. I have worked in corporations but probably not at high enough levels, and at no time did I feel it necessary to subsume my personality to the corporate mindset. Which is probably why I am a writer right now. And yet, that is what essentially happened to these people. They traded their individuality for the corporate good—which somehow, became entangled with their own good. ‘One Mind—One Purpose.’
Isn’t that what happens to those who choose to climb the corporate ladder?
I feel I have to describe some of these behaviors and characteristics. First of all, there is the dedication to materialistic acquisition. There is no other way to demonstrate one’s success in the corporate environment. One has to wear the same outfits, yes-man one’s betters to the same degree, push the same papers, live by the same reports. In fact, one’s day is filled with conformity in corporate life, and looking out-of-place, saying something out-of-line, being a loose cannon in any way, is highly discouraged—daily—hourly—moment by moment. Those who cannot stomach this constant pounding into conformity usually leave and start their own businesses. Or they become artists or craftsmen. Or they become teachers or social workers or musicians or nurses. Something with some life to it, some creativity to it. This is the antidote to corporate mind.
Which brings me to my point—how this corporate mindset has infected our politics.
Think about it. The elevation of the corporate good as the ultimate goal. The diminishment of science, social programs, the arts. These are all antithetical to corporate mindset. These things produce too much independence, too much thought—and far too much innovation and even competition—which is a threat to the corporation. The maintenance of the old school corporate world is the ultimate goal, and everything else must give way to its pre-eminence. And so we get to one of my favorite subjects—manipulation. This is at the heart of corporate mindset. The corporate world is—is it not?—a civilized society where overt hostility is not allowed. Instead, a great deal of subtle manipulation is employed, along with a certain amount of withholding of approval, a large portion of insincerity and a fair dollop of backbiting is used to get one’s way and force people to do –or not do—what you want.
Do you see the parallels to the Republican political practices?
They have manipulated the public skillfully, using all these methods, from backbiting opponents relentlessly to an appalling amount of dishonestly about their true goals. All this stems from the corporate mindset—the corporations that must be protected—at the expense of everyone else.
Of course, they will not tell you this. They will never admit it, and that too, is part of the corporate mindset of manipulating people to do what you want them to do while convincing them it is good for them. Unfortunately, when the people discover they’ve been ‘gamed’ all along, the anger grows—and grows—and eventually the anger turns to a demand for redress.
Let’s see how long the gaming of the public goes on—and what form the demand for redress will take.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Mad Men, or White Guys Gone Wild
I’ve tried—I’ve really tried—to watch Mad Men and see what the buzz was about, if only to understand why the show has won so many awards and seems to be considered such great drama--
To coin a phrase—I don’t get it.
Yes, the setting is remarkably correct for the timeframe, and yes, the characters all seem the right degree of caricature to make the viewing entertaining.
That’s about it.
The chronic sexual hunting is slightly nauseating, the historical shuffling-aside of the women is horrifying and the closeting of the gay character is depressing. The “glacial” pace—yes, that is how it is described—“glacial”--makes me watch the clock. The lack of action makes me find other chores to fill the time.
In a word, I don’t like it.
I particularly don’t like the focus on the men—white men—who are self-indulgent and believe they can, and should, get away with anything. I dislike the grasping ambition. I dislike the cultural references to oppression of minorities, and the chronic boozing looks like a celebration of dysfunction. And the status-worshipping--that has never been a field of any interest to me, so that’s lost on me, too.
In a word, there’s no there there for me.
The demographic of Mad Men viewers is said to be white, under 50, and affluent. Poor people don’t get it. A lot of women don’t get it. It’s mainly a man’s show. A white man’s show, really. And a women-attached-to-successful-man show. It’s also a show for those who wish to look back at the early 60’s with rose-colored glasses. A time when white guys were king. A time when affluence was the perfect way to divert from inequity. A time where when something was good for the some, it was assumed to be good for everyone.
Perhaps too much cultural fantasy for me.
The show must inexorably march toward a more enlightened view of both the culture and humanity, in general. By that time, the writers will have been forced to add in more diverse and interesting characters. Till then, the show is like a diorama—frozen in time. The show’s fans like it that way, but like real life, the show must change because everything changes. Until that time, I will continue watch the show off-and-on, without much engagement, with one eye, and the plot just visible on the edge of my consciousness.
Wake me when something interesting happens.
To coin a phrase—I don’t get it.
Yes, the setting is remarkably correct for the timeframe, and yes, the characters all seem the right degree of caricature to make the viewing entertaining.
That’s about it.
The chronic sexual hunting is slightly nauseating, the historical shuffling-aside of the women is horrifying and the closeting of the gay character is depressing. The “glacial” pace—yes, that is how it is described—“glacial”--makes me watch the clock. The lack of action makes me find other chores to fill the time.
In a word, I don’t like it.
I particularly don’t like the focus on the men—white men—who are self-indulgent and believe they can, and should, get away with anything. I dislike the grasping ambition. I dislike the cultural references to oppression of minorities, and the chronic boozing looks like a celebration of dysfunction. And the status-worshipping--that has never been a field of any interest to me, so that’s lost on me, too.
In a word, there’s no there there for me.
The demographic of Mad Men viewers is said to be white, under 50, and affluent. Poor people don’t get it. A lot of women don’t get it. It’s mainly a man’s show. A white man’s show, really. And a women-attached-to-successful-man show. It’s also a show for those who wish to look back at the early 60’s with rose-colored glasses. A time when white guys were king. A time when affluence was the perfect way to divert from inequity. A time where when something was good for the some, it was assumed to be good for everyone.
Perhaps too much cultural fantasy for me.
The show must inexorably march toward a more enlightened view of both the culture and humanity, in general. By that time, the writers will have been forced to add in more diverse and interesting characters. Till then, the show is like a diorama—frozen in time. The show’s fans like it that way, but like real life, the show must change because everything changes. Until that time, I will continue watch the show off-and-on, without much engagement, with one eye, and the plot just visible on the edge of my consciousness.
Wake me when something interesting happens.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A Bad Brand - or 'What are Republicans Thinking?'
As if the misinformation that drove into a protracted war in Iraq wasn’t enough, the Republicans—and their doppleganger reflection, the Tea Partiers (Teabaggers)—have continued to misrepresent and often overtly lie about the health reform bill, the financial reform bill, and almost everything else President Obama does—or is.
It’s quite astounding to watch, for a party that once carefully groomed its image as the Family Values Party (that went to hell), the Fiscal Conservative Party (also, to hell), and the reasonable, restrained arbiters of American liberty (way, way gone to Hades). This appears to be a party thrashing around in the throes of some kind of madness, trussed up as they are by their own failure, incompetence, and inability to divert from their own ideology when it’s needed. They are a bad brand now, one that, in commercial venues, would have been thrown out and started over.
Instead, we watch the Republicans compound their public mistakes, doubling-down on the bad behavior in a childish tantrum, hoping to make all those who resist their policies give up indulgently—or perhaps, it’s that they hope to make it look so bizarre and powerful others can’t help but join in.
We’ve seen them follow patently unqualified candidates, accept the incendiary rhetoric of their talk show propagandists, and silently assent to the most politically improper language and behavior that can be imagined. But their worst sin—the thing that makes their brand toxic from here on in---is their lying to the public about facts that affect them profoundly. This is unforgiveable, un-American, and makes them unworthy of leadership in any capacity. Yet they seem to be unaware of people think of them—a sure sign of unhealthy thought processes. The worst of it is that the more moderate among them allow them to carry on anyway.
So, as we wave a fond farewell to the sane and sensible cloth-coat Republicans of the past, we get the feeling we should call in professionals to counsel current Republicans in their madness. Surely, something can be done. Some medication. Some talk sessions. Some peace and quiet on some well-landscaped estate.
Or, only if absolutely necessary, electroshock therapy.
It’s quite astounding to watch, for a party that once carefully groomed its image as the Family Values Party (that went to hell), the Fiscal Conservative Party (also, to hell), and the reasonable, restrained arbiters of American liberty (way, way gone to Hades). This appears to be a party thrashing around in the throes of some kind of madness, trussed up as they are by their own failure, incompetence, and inability to divert from their own ideology when it’s needed. They are a bad brand now, one that, in commercial venues, would have been thrown out and started over.
Instead, we watch the Republicans compound their public mistakes, doubling-down on the bad behavior in a childish tantrum, hoping to make all those who resist their policies give up indulgently—or perhaps, it’s that they hope to make it look so bizarre and powerful others can’t help but join in.
We’ve seen them follow patently unqualified candidates, accept the incendiary rhetoric of their talk show propagandists, and silently assent to the most politically improper language and behavior that can be imagined. But their worst sin—the thing that makes their brand toxic from here on in---is their lying to the public about facts that affect them profoundly. This is unforgiveable, un-American, and makes them unworthy of leadership in any capacity. Yet they seem to be unaware of people think of them—a sure sign of unhealthy thought processes. The worst of it is that the more moderate among them allow them to carry on anyway.
So, as we wave a fond farewell to the sane and sensible cloth-coat Republicans of the past, we get the feeling we should call in professionals to counsel current Republicans in their madness. Surely, something can be done. Some medication. Some talk sessions. Some peace and quiet on some well-landscaped estate.
Or, only if absolutely necessary, electroshock therapy.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
When People Had Paychecks
Outside of the obvious dichotomy of some people having jobs and other people NOT having them, lies another issue that is changing the mindset of Americans across the country. We are no longer able to count on paychecks coming in, and even dividends from investments may be reduced or completely removed from the annual income. Add to that a generation whose has seen their dreams of retirement go up in smoke. What does that do to the American psyche?
Retailers are noticing a bump in sales for the past 4 months over the course of the current recession, but this is mainly for “necessary” items—kids needing clothes they have outgrown, or people needing to look recent at work, or people buying clothes in hopes of finding new jobs. This is not the “discretionary spending” we’ve seen in the past. It may be the our consumer economy will be re-calibrated permanently, with more money going to personal debt reduction—or saving for retirement—or for cash outlays for things we previously put on credit. It will not be for that riotous spending we have done in the past—if we were lucky enough to engage in riotous spending.
So far, this has not resulted in widespread lower pricing, and certainly gas prices are not helping matters, with more money going to energy so that less can be spent on everything else. As a result, restaurants, entertainment, and tourism may be depressed for many years to come.
So where is the American economy going? Right now, it seems at a standstill, with movement apparently going in a retrograde motion to undo past mistakes. That is going to be a difficult prospect for many Americans. No more will there be automatic reliance on that next paycheck coming in as sure as the night follows the day. It is likely jobs will continue to be shaky as long as that retrograde action continues. And it may be true that America seems a kind of Lost Decade that Japan experienced a short time ago.
Until the corrections within the American economy are completed, we will all endure a kind of consumer “suspended animation.” Pent-up demand might take on a different character. Maybe it will make consumption more thoughtful in the future.
Maybe we’ll even become less materialistic—as we so often speak of, but so seldom actually do.
Retailers are noticing a bump in sales for the past 4 months over the course of the current recession, but this is mainly for “necessary” items—kids needing clothes they have outgrown, or people needing to look recent at work, or people buying clothes in hopes of finding new jobs. This is not the “discretionary spending” we’ve seen in the past. It may be the our consumer economy will be re-calibrated permanently, with more money going to personal debt reduction—or saving for retirement—or for cash outlays for things we previously put on credit. It will not be for that riotous spending we have done in the past—if we were lucky enough to engage in riotous spending.
So far, this has not resulted in widespread lower pricing, and certainly gas prices are not helping matters, with more money going to energy so that less can be spent on everything else. As a result, restaurants, entertainment, and tourism may be depressed for many years to come.
So where is the American economy going? Right now, it seems at a standstill, with movement apparently going in a retrograde motion to undo past mistakes. That is going to be a difficult prospect for many Americans. No more will there be automatic reliance on that next paycheck coming in as sure as the night follows the day. It is likely jobs will continue to be shaky as long as that retrograde action continues. And it may be true that America seems a kind of Lost Decade that Japan experienced a short time ago.
Until the corrections within the American economy are completed, we will all endure a kind of consumer “suspended animation.” Pent-up demand might take on a different character. Maybe it will make consumption more thoughtful in the future.
Maybe we’ll even become less materialistic—as we so often speak of, but so seldom actually do.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
People Who Love Chicago
I live in Florida, and have for the past ten years. It can be said I have not adapted well to the heat. This winter, like in many places around the country, my town has seen record cold temperatures.
Something happened one day—a Saturday, when I had time to notice—when the temperatures dipped into the thirties and forties. I ran out to the Target to pick up a few things. On the way back to my car, I noticed that a light, chilly rain was falling. I looked up into the sky. It was a low, overcast, pale-gray. The wind had a bite, and a cold rain began to chill me in a familiar way. I had bundled up in heavy socks and shoes and a toasty-warm fleece jacket--because that’s what Floridians do when the temperature dips down from its normal 80 degrees--so I was thoroughly prepared for the cold. Something about the feel of it all made my heart leap up in joy.
It was Chicago. Just like Chicago. In early November.
I recognized it immediately and instinctively. It was as if I were transported back to my old neighborhood on the near-South Side. In my mind, I was trekking down State Street, looking in the store windows. I was strolling down Lake Shore Drive gazing at the deep, cold, forbidding waters of Lake Michigan. I was waiting for a bus on a windy corner on Halstead Street.
I was there.
This cold, and chill, and rain made me feel incredibly alive. I had to get out and walk around in it. So I drove home, and leashed up my little Papillon, Markie, and started walking. We walked all around the neighborhood, even though there was a light, icy rain falling. No one else was walking, and in fact, I saw people in cars that went by, looking at me like I must be a little mad. “Yes, I’m a little mad—but I’m from Chicago,” I replied in my mind. As if that were an excuse they would understand perfectly. As if that explained everything about me. And in many ways, it does.
That’s the thing about Chicagoans, they are a strangely sentimental group. All that bad weather that scares other people off, horrifies them, in fact—that is the stuff we are made of. The grayness, and the biting, go-right-through-you, wind, and the icy rain, and the snow and the sleet and black ice—it’s all a backdrop to all our experiences, both good and bad. We have kissed lovers in the icy rain. We have slid across black ice on the way to holiday gatherings. We have stood at gravesites in drifting snow and below zero temperatures. It’s a part of us. We can’t separate it from us. It makes us passionately love the city and all that happens there.
As the cold temperature frosted my hips and thighs, it seemed to conform that I was not built for the heat of Florida, but I was perfectly adapted to the inhospitable chill of Chicago. I recognized that I could stay out in this weather for hours. I was almost tempted to find out how many hours, but I had my dog with me, and though he is well covered in fluffy, black-and-white fur, I’m not sure how his footpads will hold up on the cold cement. He was raised in Florida, and I’m not sure to what degree he’s adapted. So, I took him home.
My hips and thighs stayed cold for hours and hours afterward—yet I didn’t mind it at all. I have the insulation of Chicago, it seems, reinforced by generations of Chicago ancestors, and even before that, people who were adapted to the cold Warsaw winters.
I realized one thing. Even though I now live in comfy place like Florida, I will return to the frozen North many times. I will have to—it’s in my blood.
Even in the dead of winter.
Something happened one day—a Saturday, when I had time to notice—when the temperatures dipped into the thirties and forties. I ran out to the Target to pick up a few things. On the way back to my car, I noticed that a light, chilly rain was falling. I looked up into the sky. It was a low, overcast, pale-gray. The wind had a bite, and a cold rain began to chill me in a familiar way. I had bundled up in heavy socks and shoes and a toasty-warm fleece jacket--because that’s what Floridians do when the temperature dips down from its normal 80 degrees--so I was thoroughly prepared for the cold. Something about the feel of it all made my heart leap up in joy.
It was Chicago. Just like Chicago. In early November.
I recognized it immediately and instinctively. It was as if I were transported back to my old neighborhood on the near-South Side. In my mind, I was trekking down State Street, looking in the store windows. I was strolling down Lake Shore Drive gazing at the deep, cold, forbidding waters of Lake Michigan. I was waiting for a bus on a windy corner on Halstead Street.
I was there.
This cold, and chill, and rain made me feel incredibly alive. I had to get out and walk around in it. So I drove home, and leashed up my little Papillon, Markie, and started walking. We walked all around the neighborhood, even though there was a light, icy rain falling. No one else was walking, and in fact, I saw people in cars that went by, looking at me like I must be a little mad. “Yes, I’m a little mad—but I’m from Chicago,” I replied in my mind. As if that were an excuse they would understand perfectly. As if that explained everything about me. And in many ways, it does.
That’s the thing about Chicagoans, they are a strangely sentimental group. All that bad weather that scares other people off, horrifies them, in fact—that is the stuff we are made of. The grayness, and the biting, go-right-through-you, wind, and the icy rain, and the snow and the sleet and black ice—it’s all a backdrop to all our experiences, both good and bad. We have kissed lovers in the icy rain. We have slid across black ice on the way to holiday gatherings. We have stood at gravesites in drifting snow and below zero temperatures. It’s a part of us. We can’t separate it from us. It makes us passionately love the city and all that happens there.
As the cold temperature frosted my hips and thighs, it seemed to conform that I was not built for the heat of Florida, but I was perfectly adapted to the inhospitable chill of Chicago. I recognized that I could stay out in this weather for hours. I was almost tempted to find out how many hours, but I had my dog with me, and though he is well covered in fluffy, black-and-white fur, I’m not sure how his footpads will hold up on the cold cement. He was raised in Florida, and I’m not sure to what degree he’s adapted. So, I took him home.
My hips and thighs stayed cold for hours and hours afterward—yet I didn’t mind it at all. I have the insulation of Chicago, it seems, reinforced by generations of Chicago ancestors, and even before that, people who were adapted to the cold Warsaw winters.
I realized one thing. Even though I now live in comfy place like Florida, I will return to the frozen North many times. I will have to—it’s in my blood.
Even in the dead of winter.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
On Belly Dancing
I came to belly dancing through my satellite service. Seriously. There’s a show on the fitness channel that teaches belly dancing. Coming from cable, I was first intrigued by the show and the moves it taught, then tried following along. Now, I’m hooked.
Let me tell you, this is a little late in life to become a belly dancer. However--it’s great exercise, uses a lot of the muscles that need using at this age, and makes you feel sensuous and flexible—which is great at any age.
What is the greatest thing about belly dancing is its mysterious history. Sure, the very name conjures up exotic lands and mysterious rituals, but the fact is, no one knows exactly where belly dancing came from. It’s connected with the Middle East and Northern Africa and, in truth, there are Egyptian styles and Turkish styles—each with their own signature moves and dress—and in one’s mind you seem to travel to these exotic s with their strange cultures when you are involved in the dance. It’s a great escape as well as a great exercise.
Even the name ‘belly dancing’ is not its true name. It’s really ethnic dancing (in Arabic, raqs sharqi or raqs baladi) from that area of the world, and that came to the western world via the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, where it caused a great sensation. And of course, it features the belly with great emphasis—scandalous at that time in history—hence, the ‘belly’ nomenclature. Since then, this native dance has been adopted by many western nations—America, Canada, Australia—and these countries have added moves with their own cultural interpretation.
The spouse was curiously eager to tell people I’ve been learning to belly dance. I don’t know what this is about, as I don’t go about dancing FOR him, so much as he catches me in the middle of televised class—or I break in a move spontaneously to practice a hip-isolation move or master a tricky step. I would have to say he likes the whole idea.
The down side of learning to belly dance is that you can’t properly do it anywhere outside a classroom. You would certainly get some odd looks—and possibly some interesting propositions—if you were to start belly dancing in the middle of a bar or club. Nonetheless, the urge to belly dance strikes at odd moments. You can hear a suitable beat in the overhead music of a supermarket and find yourself longing to break into a hip pop in the checkout line. You don’t, of course—but the urge is strong and unremitting.
All in all, belly dancing has added many fun dimensions to life—which is probably why it became so popular in the first place.
Let me tell you, this is a little late in life to become a belly dancer. However--it’s great exercise, uses a lot of the muscles that need using at this age, and makes you feel sensuous and flexible—which is great at any age.
What is the greatest thing about belly dancing is its mysterious history. Sure, the very name conjures up exotic lands and mysterious rituals, but the fact is, no one knows exactly where belly dancing came from. It’s connected with the Middle East and Northern Africa and, in truth, there are Egyptian styles and Turkish styles—each with their own signature moves and dress—and in one’s mind you seem to travel to these exotic s with their strange cultures when you are involved in the dance. It’s a great escape as well as a great exercise.
Even the name ‘belly dancing’ is not its true name. It’s really ethnic dancing (in Arabic, raqs sharqi or raqs baladi) from that area of the world, and that came to the western world via the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, where it caused a great sensation. And of course, it features the belly with great emphasis—scandalous at that time in history—hence, the ‘belly’ nomenclature. Since then, this native dance has been adopted by many western nations—America, Canada, Australia—and these countries have added moves with their own cultural interpretation.
The spouse was curiously eager to tell people I’ve been learning to belly dance. I don’t know what this is about, as I don’t go about dancing FOR him, so much as he catches me in the middle of televised class—or I break in a move spontaneously to practice a hip-isolation move or master a tricky step. I would have to say he likes the whole idea.
The down side of learning to belly dance is that you can’t properly do it anywhere outside a classroom. You would certainly get some odd looks—and possibly some interesting propositions—if you were to start belly dancing in the middle of a bar or club. Nonetheless, the urge to belly dance strikes at odd moments. You can hear a suitable beat in the overhead music of a supermarket and find yourself longing to break into a hip pop in the checkout line. You don’t, of course—but the urge is strong and unremitting.
All in all, belly dancing has added many fun dimensions to life—which is probably why it became so popular in the first place.
Monday, December 14, 2009
On Tiger
This was one that got under my skin, for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’ve been married for a long time, and have invested a great deal of time and attention to this relationship. Maybe it’s because my little grandson admired Tiger Woods since he was old enough to watch TV and hold a golf club at the miniature golf course. But I found myself deeply disappointed in Tiger’s behavior. Also, disappointed in having been duped by his PR people into thinking Tiger was all things good and hard-working and focused and disciplined—when the very opposite was the case.
The uproar about Tiger is now reaching almost operatic proportions. Internet games are turning up, in which Elin Woods chases Tiger in his car. Youtube has enactments of the Tiger Woods family drama. And I expect soon someone will put the whole thing to music, in a kind of rock-opera form, with maybe a few hip-hop elements.
Mostly, I’m upset at Tiger—and at all cheating men, really—because of what they bring home. And I’m talking about STD’s, though that’s a possibility that can’t be overlooked, as well. What they bring home is utter disruption. They bring home suspicion—and distrust—and a complete lack of faith in the marriage/family institution. They bring home destruction and despair, and for that, they can’t be forgiven. These breaches leave wounds that children in that home will carry with them for the rest of their lives, regardless of whether the marriage is patched or not. Regardless of whether the children are consciously aware of what has occurred. That’s how large the transgression is—that’s how huge the repercussions.
I hope men remember that when they carry on in very adolescent ways outside of their marriage vows. It’s not just about YOU anymore. It’s not even just about your wife. It’s about the concepts and feelings you bring home for your children to experience and carry with them all their lives. They have no choice in this.
Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. Not if there are children nearby to bear the cost.
The uproar about Tiger is now reaching almost operatic proportions. Internet games are turning up, in which Elin Woods chases Tiger in his car. Youtube has enactments of the Tiger Woods family drama. And I expect soon someone will put the whole thing to music, in a kind of rock-opera form, with maybe a few hip-hop elements.
Mostly, I’m upset at Tiger—and at all cheating men, really—because of what they bring home. And I’m talking about STD’s, though that’s a possibility that can’t be overlooked, as well. What they bring home is utter disruption. They bring home suspicion—and distrust—and a complete lack of faith in the marriage/family institution. They bring home destruction and despair, and for that, they can’t be forgiven. These breaches leave wounds that children in that home will carry with them for the rest of their lives, regardless of whether the marriage is patched or not. Regardless of whether the children are consciously aware of what has occurred. That’s how large the transgression is—that’s how huge the repercussions.
I hope men remember that when they carry on in very adolescent ways outside of their marriage vows. It’s not just about YOU anymore. It’s not even just about your wife. It’s about the concepts and feelings you bring home for your children to experience and carry with them all their lives. They have no choice in this.
Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. Not if there are children nearby to bear the cost.
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