A Tedious Argument of Insidious Intent

Hello.

Baruchu es adonai hamvoruch. Baruch adonai hamvoroch layolam vo-ed. Baruch atta adonai, elohenu melech haoloam. A-sher bochar bonu mikol emes.   Baruch atta adonai.  Nosain ha toro-ah. 

Those are Hebrew words I adenoidally chanted at my bar mitzvah 60 years ago today. It is probably imprecise; I have written it here phonetically from memory alone. I do not know what it means. I did not know what it meant when I sang it 60 years ago, in a pathetic quavering falsetto in a decrepit synagogue in The Bronx. I was not “reading” these words, because unlike most male Jewish adolescents in my ethnic ghetto neighborhood, I never bothered to learn Hebrew, nor had elders encouraged me to try. I was taught the sounds and syllables by a rabbi whom my parents paid to teach me, in private covenant so I could have a bar mitzvah to which my father could invite his boss and his boss’s dowdy wife, demonstrating our family’s community status and apparent piety. The hypocrisy was thick and gooey. We were very bad Jews.

The point is, these words never meant anything to me, and yet they have been inanely popping into my head in the last few weeks.

So have the uniform numbers for the 1961 Yankees. I know just about all of those numbers, many more than I’d remembered I knew, even back then, before I hit puberty and was investing all my available passion in baseball. For some reason I have been recounting them to myself over the last few weeks. For example, Hal Reniff, a mediocre righty relief pitcher whose nickname was '“Porky,” was number 18.

Also I remember the names of all the presidents of the United States, in order, and the years they served. I have been going over them in my head. Also, I can recite The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock from beginning to end, all 1,069 words except for the ones in Italian, which Eliot pirated from Dante’s Inferno, which is a book about the Hell that awaits so many of us.

So, what’s up with me? Am I entering senescence? It is said that senility creeps backwards, yanking things from long ago into the present, and swirling the present into a dense soup of confusion, but that’s not it, exactly. I am not confused about the present. I know it quite well. Quite starkly. I am just terrified of it. I think that’s at the center of this.

I have a suspicion about what this means — and a suspicion that it, or some phenomenon like it, may be going on with you, too, which is why I am writing about it at the risk of seeming bonkers.

I believe that on some level my battered brain is searching for comfort, through recitation that amounts to mantras or a form of secular prayer — confirmation that there is some constancy in life, some sanity, that we are not all awaiting Hell in the person of one increasingly addled man, a bloated maniac who now, by most expert accounts, has a 50 percent shot of becoming the next president of the United States, even as he is clearly spiraling into spit-flying vindictive fascist rages, wildly xenophobic tirades, and threatening to jail or kill his enemies, and threatening to topple democracy and subvert the will of the people, a self-admitted wannabe tyrant who happily tells verifiable untruths so naked and extreme that it is clear he holds his “base” in contempt, a man who revels in his ignorance, and who not incidentally, compulsively and inexpertly trowels on so much face mud every morning that he literally looks like this, a reverse-kabuki madman.

If he were Grandpa, we would probably unhesitatingly institutionalize him.

Yesterday, Kamala Harris finally actually called Trump “unhinged,” and he responded, at a town-hall rally, by dancing clod-hoppily to bad music for nearly three quarters of an hour without taking a single question. In other recent news, he also abandoned hundreds of people at a rally in the desert at Coachella, with no shuttle- bus transportation back to their cars, as they sweltered and cursed. They found themselves wandering through the desert, like the Israelites. It has been speculated that Trump stiffed the bus company.

How the hell can this be happening in a world where third baseman Cletis Boyer was number 34 until he became number 6 in the mid-1961 season? I have confirmed that all those numbers right. My memory is intact. Yes. All might be well! The Roman Catholic Church believes in the psychologically salutary effects of rote or intercessional prayer as something of a balm to anxiety and madness in reaction to current-day stresses: The recitation of the familiar to counteract the deeply disturbing.

Have you recently experienced anything like this, to which you might attribute Trump anxiety?

The great political Substacker, Heather Cox Richardson, noted that at 1:12 in the morning on Monday, Donald Trump posted something weird on his social media site: “I believe it is very important that Kamala Harris pass a test on Cognitive Stamina and Agility,” Trump posted, baselessly claiming that “her actions have led many to believe that there could be something very wrong with her.”

“In the middle of the night,” Richardson wrote, “Trump felt obliged to write about Harris and a cognitive test “[a]s he refuses to release his medical records, sit with 60 Minutes, or debate her again—instead retreating solely to rambling rallies where he’s increasingly making no sense[.] Is he okay?” 

He is not okay. He is merely doing what he has always done, revealing himself and his shivering inner doubts through projection. Whenever Trump makes an accusation, he is trying, like a pre-adolescent playground child, to say “Me? No, you. ”

“Puppet? No puppet! You’re the puppet.”

And now:

“She’s stark raving mad!”

Anyway, all of that was just a thought. A really scary thought for which I apologize.

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We now enter the Real Time Segment of The Gene Pool, where I answer you questions and observations about real-time things in real time. Please send your Q’s and O’s to this orange button. So far, many of the Q’s and O’s are in response to my Weekend Gene Pool for personal confessions on Why You Suck.

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Also, if you found this post to be interesting or instructive, you might consider upgrading your subscription to “paid.” Also, if you found this post to be uninteresting or un-instructive, you might consider upgrading your subscription to “paid,” as a means of encouraging me to do better. In my experience, when people are being paid, their work habits improve!

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Q: You ask what’s wrong with me? I belch like a cave troll. I’m aware it’s rude and extremely off-putting, but I’m convinced it’s hilarious when *I* do it. Especially when I was a pretty petite little blonde thing in my 20s and 30s.

— Karla L Miller (yep, from WaPo Work Advice)

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A: Love your column, Karla. A key point that you did not address in your question: Is this appropriate behavior for the workplace??

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Q: Why have you ignored the growing phenomenon of AI companions? Yes, if you thought "fictosexuals" --- those (largely in Japan)  who seek no muss, no fuss unconditional relationships with fictional characters --- was the height of intimate fantasy, you need only know that Google reported something like a 2000+ % increase last year in searches for "AI girlfriends." There are now apps users where choose an avatar, select personality traits, and write a backstory for their virtual friend. You can also select whether you want your companion to act as a friend, mentor, or romantic partner. Most advanced models allow you to voice-call your companion and speak in real time, and even project avatars of them in the real world through augmented reality technology. Some AI companion apps will also produce selfies and photos with you and your companion together. Care to describe what you would be looking for in an AI companion?

A: My AI companion would be a man with far less sexual appeal than myself – not an easy pinnacle to achieve – to whom I could feel vastly superior, and patronize constantly. I would give him dating advice, for which he would be obsequiously grateful.

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Q:  I suck: I have poor taste in many things to do with the arts, at least when looking at them through the lens of today’s polite society. I cannot stand jazz, especially smooth jazz, for example. I cannot abide musicals. They’re dumb. People don’t go through life expressing themselves via singing and dancing. Opera - boring! The high sopranos grate! Ballet - meh! I also don’t see the point of most poetry. Also, modern art. I appreciate the creativity and hard work behind all this and I will always support things like public radio and public television. But I suck cause I just don’t get any of it and think it’s largely a waste of time. (I do like literature and some music, so it’s not a totally lost cause, but here we are.) 

A: This is quite an admission, and I applaud your honesty if not your Philistinism.   Alas, I agree with you about just about everything except musicals.   Good Lord, watch some Sondheim.   As for poetry, the vast majority of it sucks mightily, but a small minority can rank among humankind’s greatest achievements. Just read, um, Prufrock.

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TIMELY TIP: If you’re reading this on an email: Just click on the headline in the email and it will deliver you to the full column online. Keep refreshing the screen to see the new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post.

Here we go.

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Q: Gene, have you seen the trailer for A Complete Unknown, the new Bob Dylan biopic starring the very good looking Timothee Chamalet? Thoughts? And how do you pronounce “biopic”? Bio-pic or one word like myopic? Thank you.

A: I have seen the trailer.  I like Chamalet’s voice.  I did not like the emphasis the trailer puts on the romantic relationship.  It sounds they’re turning it into a romcom.  

By the way, it is BIO-pic, not bye-oppic. I want to say bye-oppic. It seems cooler.

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Q:  Why I suck: I HATE tallking on the phone. With a passion. When friends ask me when a good time to get in touch with me is, or want to find a time to talk, person to person, my barely-held-back response is, "Never. How about never. Would that work?" - Marni, VA

A:  This only makes sense to me, Marni, if you are a Millennial.  Are you?  Millennials hate the phone.  Also, were you named after the Hitchcock character?

Q: How I suck:  I have Dupuytren Contracture, a genetic disorder that makes the skin of your palms and fingers thicken and tighten. You have to be descended from Viking warriors to have this annoying deformity. Your fingers curl in, making glove wearing and applause difficult. Unsnapping a bra is impossible. That said., my golf grip and bowling grip are much improved.

My hands are claw-like, similar to the Asian villain in “ Get Smart”

A: I don’t think this involves suckage, inasmuch as it is a physical problem that is not your fault, or a sign of moral compromise, unless you can get Depuytren from masturbating. Or unhooking brassieres. 

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Q: Last week, I received the level 3A bulletproof body armor that I will be wearing as a GOP election judge in a few weeks. I'm in the exurbs of Chicago in a precinct that voted blue last election in a county that voted red. I hope I'm overprepared.

A: Me, too. Good luck. And thanks.

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Q: Gene, both you and I devoted at least part of Yom Kippur to making jokes.  We better repent.

– Ken Gallant

A: There is no need for repentance.   Jews are permitted to make jokes that are funny.  It is the borscht belt covenant between us and God.   It’s like the proscription against working on the Sabbath: If there is a life-or-death reason, it is Allowed.  The Jewish God is a practical person who is willing to shmooze and hondle a bit.

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Q: Dog people have a better sense of humor:  I was riding in a car with several cat owners; I was the only dog owner.  Here in Portland, Orygun we have public transit vehicles that can lower their chassis way down to accommodate boarding riders with mobility issues.

Our driver approached from behind one such bus as it began to lower itself.  I Blurted out, "Stay Back! It's gonna' poop!"

All heads turned and eyes were fixed on me in total silence until the driver said, "This is why we don't take you out in public."

Dog people have a good sense of humor.

— OldZeb

A: We have to. We have dogs.

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 Q: I just spent approximately 45 minutes trying to put my duvet cover back on.  Despite being a whip-smart individual, I am inherently bad at 3-D visualization.  You do not want me trying to fit a sofa through a doorframe.  So not only is it physically difficult to get the corners in place and secure them, with all of the recommended turning inside out and what-not I really don't always get if I'm looking at the inside or outside of the cover.  It is my burden to bear.  – Inger Pettygrove 

A: This is a coincidence.  The other day, as the Yankees were playing their pivotal fourth game against the Royals, Rachel unwisely attempted to get me to replace a duvet cover on the bed.  Her instructions were indecipherable to me  inasmuch as 1) they were absurdly complex, and 2) there were runners at the corners and one out, and 3) I share your 3-D problem.   I wound up snapping at her, inexcusably, and declining to help.  We perhaps have never faced a greater threat to our relationship.  We’re still an item, somehow.

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Q: I’m the guy who hasn’t done recreational drugs ever. Though I have consumed

alcohol, I have never been drunk. I come to a complete stop at stop signs. I know people look down upon this behavior, but I don’t care what they think. That’s why I suck. 

A: I do not disrespect you for the abstinence.   I do disrespect you for the obnoxious driving.  In this regard, you are what is wrong with America. Prediction: This will be a controversial answer by me.  

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Q: I once got in trouble with one Marcus Bales (at that time a frequent contributor to "Style Invitational Devotees") for repeating a joke I first heard from a colleague of my father's.  It involved the All-Star pitcher E.C. "Preacher" Roe.  It seems an opposing manager was trying to decide on a pinch-hitter against him.  The weakest hitter on the bench told the manager "You gotta put me in!"  The manager asked "Why would I do that?"  The player responded "Capital N," which is the chemical symbol for "Avogadro's number."  Mr. Bales could not be dissuaded from his argument that substituting "Avogadro's" for "I've got Roe's" was somehow a slur against Italians.  My dad's colleague had his faults (and his strengths -- possibly the best punster I've ever known), but I'm reasonably sure anti-Italian bias was not one of them.  But just adding an "uh" syllable to "I've" seemed to be a slur in Mr. Bales's eyes.   I wonder what he thought / thinks of Leonard "Chico" Marx.

A: Wait till you see the new contest in Thursday’s Invitational!

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Q:  How I suck: I eat nutritious food, solid ingredients, balanced elements. Stay away from preservatives, additives, etc.  And then…I eat an entire bag of cookies or candy, a container of ice cream. It just hits me some days and I gotta have it. 

A: I have something similar.  I know I should not eat ice cream, and seldom keep it at home.  But when some of it weasels into my freezer, I will consume a pint in a single 11 pm sitting.  

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Q: My one-off story that after seven plus years of recess in the school yard of St. Francis of Assisi elementary, and seeing many instances of things being thrown onto the roof: I wondered just how much stuff was up there. This was 1968 and the school had been open since 1955, so not long enough to need roof repair so probably nobody had been up there.  It happened that the day I chose was one of the days my buddy, Wayne, was in trouble and had to stay close to Sister Miriam Angela as she patrolled the school yard during lunch recess. I entered the school on a side opposite the school yard and went out the window of the 2nd story nurses office and up onto the roof. I was right! Many schoolyard artifacts were there. Super balls, jump ropes, and more. I was the first to be up there, for sure. So I scooped up an armful of treasures and tossed them down to the surprised children below. Waiting just long enough to hear Wayne exclaim: "Look Sister! Jump ropes from heaven!"; I quickly climbed down, back through the nurses office down the back stairs and out the side door. Later Sister Miriam cornered me and asked where I had been. I innocently said: "I was home having lunch with my mother and I got back just as the bell was ringing.Why do you ask?" All she said was "Yeah, right."

A: Okay, this is weird. It reminds me of the story I told once before, about a prankster journalist who was covering a story about two mountain explorers who staged a press-event first-ever expedition of a butte, one that looked like this, that supposedly had never been scaled. The big mystery was what they might find atop, in that pristine place.

The night before, the journo paid a small-plane pilot to drive above it and dump old car parts — mufflers, tire rims, spark plugs, etc., onto it. The explorers canceled their press conference after they got down. Or never mentioned what they saw.

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This is Gene. I am calling this one down.

PLEASE keep sending in Questions and Observations here, on account of I need them:

Thanks. See you on Thursday.