Late once again; sorry, sorry, sorry. But on the bright side, after three days of solid misery, and no little physical struggle on my part, our septic tank no longer is backing up into our home on an hourly basis, and we once again have electric power; be glad for us.
One of the things I notice as I climb past the half-century mark (and the half- dozen mark in these essays) is how profoundly ill-suited and ill-equipped I am to be a pundit. You probably didn't realize I was a pundit; you may not have even given the whole question of my credentials a second's thought. That is your right. I, however must consider such things, if only for my own self-respect; am I worthy of the vast responsibility which Silver Bullet Comics has put in my hand? I just don't know. I can influence the Zeitgeist (as we say in Dinkleville); I can do my bit to shape the impressionable young minds of tomorrow — I'm sure one or two of you are still shape-worthy. But I just can't convince myself that I am up to the commission. Let me explain...
Columnists, pundits, the hot air squad, the boob patrol, call us what you will — we all have a single governing factor in our lives; we have to fill up a certain number of column inches, or pile on an agreed on number of ascii characters, every week, or three times a week, or every day. That means we must have a topic, a subject we care deeply about; or at least care about enough that we can devout half an hour to writing it down. By the process of elimination then, pundits tend to be people who care, who even get angry about the state of things; as opposed to me. I care not. Oh, there are obviously things that I can work up an interest in, but as the years go by I am constantly amazed at the things columnists find to be irritated about.
Take Joe Queenan, for example. Joe is an "average guy" columnist; he writes things he believes the average citizen would write if he could, and if he were as wise and talented as Joe Queenan. If so, the average citizen must be in a constant state of rage. In Joe's latest book he invests entire chapters on the putrid state of contemporary music; he brilliantly piles invective upon aspersion, burying the various song styles and singers he detests; not much in contemporary music has much going for it, apparently, and no one has noticed but him.
One whole chapter — or maybe it only seems like a chapter — concerns the evil and venomous Kenny G, who is skewered by the subtle ironies and clever acidic asides that have made Joe's name a benchmark among cultural satirists. On and on goes the relentless Joe, showing Kenny G for the vapid, talentless poseur that he is; displaying Kenny's audience as brainless, sophomoric cattle. Through a titanic effort of razor-sharp prose and a flood of imagic near-poetry, he even makes the worshipful reader believe that any country that could allow the festering growth of such an abnormal disease as Kenny G must be suffering from some deeply invasive rot, and should be cleansed by the fire and sword of a vengeful Providence. And all because ... well, Joe doesn't like Kenny G's tunes.
This is why I can never be a first rate pundit; I have no real vision for things. I don't like Kenny G's music myself; at least I can't remember it after I hear it, which is probably the same thing. My response to that is not to listen to it; obviously I have no depth. My tastes in music run mostly to show tunes, Billy Joel and a few early Weavers concerts; I should be frothing in rage at the melodic abortions that most other people enjoy; and yet I don't seem to have the energy. Once I even found myself enjoying — and here I hang my head — the fact that other people were enjoying a concert of hard acid country rock, a genre I abhor. You see the problem? I have no standards; no values; no backbone.
And then there's Rush Limbaugh. Rush Limbaugh says — and I can personally attest to this because my next door neighbor puts Mr. Limbaugh on a boom box when he mows the lawn so that all the surrounding countryside can enjoy the dear sage’s mordant wit and keen reasoning — that all Liberals are motivated solely by guilt. (Actually, he means Progressives, not Liberals; but I forgive him.) Guilt, can you believe it? I never knew that; I thought we were motivated by fear, greed and lust, just like everybody else. Obviously, I don't have the proper insight.
The other night I was listening to Andy Rooney work himself over like a pit bull concerning labels on cottage cheese; at least I think that was it; I kind of fell asleep — I often embarrass myself like that; really high class people find Andy Rooney riveting. I weep for myself.
And if all this were not damning enough; consider Dan Rather. The other day I was listening to Mr. Rather's opinion column on the radio; I was enwrapped in the gravely vibrato he employs when he is speaking Truth — and I don't agree at all with the opinion that he sounds like a pompous goat; those thousands of nay-sayers are just jealous.
Anyway, he was defending Shakespeare. I would hate to misquote Mr. Rather, but his basic point was that the flood of Shakespearean projects that have appeared over the last couple of years, prove that modern audiences have no interest in Shakespeare. How is that? you ask. Because the movies have young, hot stars, special effects and other blockbuster accouterments; obviously the producers have no faith in the audience being able to follow Shakespeare; and, just as obviously, the producers are right. Further, he argues, the fact that modern audiences cannot decipher Shakespeare's language is a damning indictment that none of us read the Bible anymore; after all, both bodies of work were the product of the same Age; some say Shakespeare himself contributed to the Bible — what could be more reasonable? I hung my head in shame and guilt — thus exposing my Progressive tendencies for all to see. It was a brilliant screed; I admired it. I say so frankly. It had only the tiniest flaws, and the fact that they totally negated the premise says more about the damaged nature of reality than it does about the quality of Mr. Rather's argument, which is perfect, in its way.
The flaws are:
1. Shakespeare had one of the largest vocabularies of any writer; the Bible, aimed at the broadest possible audience, has one of the smallest. Thus one could be quite familiar with Biblical verse and fall far short of comprehending Shakespearean language.
2. Many, if not most Christians today read from a variety of modern translations of the Bible, saving King James for the poetry. I guess by Dan Rather's definition they must all be heathens.
3. It takes a mighty clever man to argue that because Shakespeare's plays and his life are the subject of multimillion dollar movies seen by millions, Shakespeare is thus by definition unknown and uncared for in by a modern age which finds him incomprehensible; I would never have the courage to make that argument. Thankfully for all of us, Dan Rather chose to.
However, if I did have the bravery to make an observation on this whole issue, which I do not, it would be this: Iran.
We all know that Iran is a small and barbarous country, controlled by a few religious fanatics; while we are a secular and civilized land, perhaps too secular for our own good, where tolerance and diversity rule — and yet ...
If the most powerful and influential Iranian news anchor were to go on the radio to blast his fellow citizens for not reading the Koran, we would just nod wisely and say it was another example of the over-powering religious extremism of Iran, of the way that faith poisons every act, even one as innocent as watching or not watching Shakespearean movies. We might even wonder how unbiased the reportage of such a journalist might be; especially one who is so driven to make his point that his logic sags under the weight of his ideals.
Fortunately, we don't ask ourselves such questions here, and I would certainly never raise a worry about Dan Rather; after all, only pundits get to make such facile and wide-ranging generalities, and — as I hope I have shown by now — I am certainly no pundit.
