Nitwits, Maniacs and Pillowheads

Hello.

There was an interesting story in yesterday’s subscriber-only New York Times, presented, as always, with the newspaper’s patented flatness and with harrumphing cover-your-ass qualifiers. The headline is: Why Haley Is Rising Among the Rivals to Trump.

The sub-headline reads: “She has gained with educated and relatively moderate Republicans and independents, but that is also a big liability in today’s G.O.P.”

To translate into non-NYTimes-ese: The Republican Party has become the party of nitwits and maniacs.

Now, it is possible to not be educated and still be smart. Bill Gates, who dropped out of Harvard, comes to mind. I, too, for example! I don’t have a college degree, but here you are, reading my words as though I know what I am talking about, you fool.

But the meaning of this story is clear. Not surprising, but clear. The story calls Haley a “factional candidate,” meaning she appeals to a mere faction — a minor slice — of Republicans: the sane, intelligent ones. All the rest are the MyPillow guy. There are evidently many more of that second group.

A similar thing happened to Adlai Stevenson in 1952 and again in 1956. Under attack for being an “egghead,” Stevenson admitted to the charge and embraced it. He also revealed himself as having a sophisticated, self-deprecating sense of humor. He said “Eggheads, unite! You have nothing to lose but your yolks.” Waaay too smart and funny. He was a dead man walking from that point on.

His opponent, Dwight Eisenhower, wasn’t at all stupid, but he was smart enough to pretend to be. He trounced Stevenson, twice, riding a wave of Republican and independent stupids.

Anyhow, Haley is toast. Too smart. Obviously.

I’ve lately had some trouble sleeping, due to personal stress. It’s not the strength of stress that, say, Gazans are being subjected to, but it is not entirely negligible, either. Because I tend to be awake half the night, I have had much spare time at 2 a.m. to contemplate the nature of insomnia, and have some trenchant observations:

1. Resist the urge to try to get back to sleep by having a shot of booze. Pretty soon you are inhabiting the dirty joke about the hunter and the bear. It’s not about insomnia anymore, is it?

2. Resist the urge to try to lull yourself back to sleep by cruising the Web for a few minutes. You will begin by examining a list of the best second baseman in Yankees history (Tony Lazzeri is number one) but find yourself, two hours later, having chain-linked yourself to recipes for meatless borscht.

3. It does not help to count sheep. I count women. That doesn’t help me get to sleep, but it makes the insomnia a little better.

4. Do not ever take Ambien. I have not gone that route this time but I did it once before, after knee surgery was keeping me flip-flopping the night away in pain. One day, at night, I was IM-ing with Tom The Butcher, and suddenly — from one minute to the next, as the Ambien hit — I started communicating in gibberish. As in: “I feb Rebl*2. dran.” Tom asked, semi-seriously, “Do I need to summon the paramedics, with tranquilizer darts?”

5. You know those mild sleepy potions like melatonin or “Wondersleep Mushroom Gummies,” those genre of pills that use the body’s natural chemicals to gently rock you into the welcoming arms of Morpheus? They are every bit as effective as aspirin is to treat a burst aneurysm.

6. It’s not about the bed. Do not, in your desperation, go out and buy, say, this. (I did not. I am just saying it is a temptation.)

7. Relax. Self-delude about your worries. It tends to work.

Today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll:

Okay, good. We are barreling toward the real-time Question, Answer, and Observation portion of the Gene Pool. Today, many are responding to my call This Weekend for items of advice you might give to your 15-year-old self. If you are reading this in real time, please remember to keep refreshing your screen. Also, send your questions and observations, as always, on this or any other subject. Send to this usual orange button:

Q: After providing my 15-year-old self with a list of companies to invest in (including, as applicable, when to buy and when to sell), I'd provide him with a list of names of girls and women to avoid. But I seriously doubt that the horny little bastard would listen.

A: Thank you.  This made me laugh.

Q:  Re: the poll about one’s sense of humor, I believe that everyone thinks they have a great (or at least above-average) sense of humor. My theory is that because humor is a subjective experience for which there is no agreed-upon objective criteria, most people naturally conclude that they are among the discriminating elite. What's more, I have identified at least 3 other areas of life which are subject to the same phenomenon. In addition to having a great sense of humor, everyone thinks they are a superior driver, an amazing sex machine, and that they have not only wonderful but also highly unique and eclectic taste in music.

A: I don’t even know where to begin. No, humor is not subjective experience. It is objective, as judged by one person on Earth: Me. I have said this before and stick with it. I do not consider myself a sex machine or a music expert, but, yes, I am the world’s greatest driver. Rachel is second. We have both parallel parked in spots so tight that both bumpers are touching the cars front and rear.

TIMELY TIP: If you’re reading this right now, on an email:   Click here to get to my webpage, then click on the top headline (In this case, “Nitwits, Maniacs … ” for the full column, and comments, and real-time questions and answers. And you can refresh and see new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post from about noon to roughly 1 p.m. ET today.

Also, if you are so moved by the ineffable beauty and ennobling sensuality of what you are reading, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, by depressing this button and following brief instructions. The Gene Pool is about to hit the one-year mark, thanks exclusively to readers’ largesse. We still come cheap, a mere $4.15 a month, or 14 cents a day, or not even one-half of a penny per hour, or roughly one one-hundredth of a penny, in millage, per minute. It is the greatest financial deal on Earth, except possibly for the price of an egg \(18 cents).

Q:  To me at 15:   Learn to dance!  Just standing there, kind of wiggling but not really going anywhere, is  not dancing.  It is, however, pathetic.  And if you do ask a girl to dance, and she says yes, do not stare at your feet, to keep them going where you want them to go -- she'll think you're staring at her bosom, which is not abnormal, but not always appreciated.  And if you are looking at her bosom, and she notices (she will), DO NOT say something like 'Impressive!'  And if you get a stiffy from dancing so close, back up a little, and just pretend it didn't happen.

A: Honestly, I can’t identify with this.   To me, telling someone to learn to dance is like telling someone to learn to be funny, or to learn to like shellfish.   You either have an aptitude for dance, or a latent aptitude, or you do not.  I do not.  If I spent $5,000 on dance lessons, I still could not dance a lick.  I would look like Elaine Benes.   I would not be like these old guys. 

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Q:   Despite your "Haha", the Corvair was a great car! I won many autocross trophies with one. Might have kept it for a long time if it wasn't rear ended big time (other driver said "I thought the light was green). Hit so hard, the seat backs broke. (To be fair, it had the factory racing suspension, best $8 option ever.) — Robert

A:  You’re lucky you weren’t in a Ford Pinto, which tended to explode when hit from the rear.

Ralph Nader made a fortune and a career out of a book criticizing the Corvair.  This automotive website attempts to slightly defend the Corvair, but winds up damning it with the faintest of praise:    

Nader may have had a point when he discussed the Corvair’s issues, but he clearly had an agenda that was a disservice to car enthusiasts. Nader seemed to miss the point that the rear engine may have also been a contributing factor that led to many accidents. The rear engine placement in the Corvair caused a weight imbalance that resulted in poor handling. As a performance vehicle, many people enjoyed driving the Corvair at high speeds. When combined with poor handling, high speeds can lead to an accident when the driver attempts to correct a steering error. Another issue with the Corvair occurred after the initial accident. Due to the weak hinges that connected the hood to the frame of the car, the hood often became a dangerous projectile that caused many fatalities.

Q:  I consider myself agnostic; if there’s a divinity that’s greater than myself, by definition I can’t really know or understand it.  But for practical purposes I’m not that far from atheism; if there is a god, it’s clearly noninterventionist.

 One thing really bugs me about proponents of intelligent design.  Do these people really not believe that their omnipotent, omniscient deity would be capable of metaphorically snapping its fingers to usher in the Big Bang, intentionally creating a universe in which existed the conditions for evolution to occur?  And that evolution did so, according to plan, to form all the life that has lived, is living and will (perhaps) live in the future?  Is their big guy so limited he had to sit down at a drawing table and construct organisms one by one in a process similar to one their human minds could understand?  Then they sure talk about him a lot, but have very little real faith; he can only do things they allow him to do, in ways that they can comprehend.

A: You are preaching to the choir, obviously.   As it were.   This is one of my favorite columns, ever, my letter to the Kansas Board of Education, from God.

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Reminder: Keep sending in your real-time questions and observations to here:

Q: A quick update from the December 3 episode of “What’s Going On With the Wordle Editors?” — Unacceptable word: “nappy.” Acceptable word: “anally.”

A: Okay, that is funny.   Online word games associated with the NYT banish completely normal words that MIGHT be used in a racist/derogatory fashion.   Two I can think of are “spook” and “spade.”   I haven’t checked in a while, but that was true about a year ago. 

Q: I’d tell my 15-year-old girl self to finish college! However, it’s an honor to learn that you are also among the non-degreed. Anecdote: After several decades of employment as an editor and writer, a few years ago I decided to see if I could go back and finish it quickly. Favorite quote from the college counselor: “I know you could TEACH this course [English Composition part 2], but you’d still have to TAKE this course.” Do you have any favorite ironies of that sort?

A: Yes, I once tried to teach a course at a college, and met with the dean. The course would have been in journalism. The dean said I first needed to get a degree in pedagogy. I said, I know writing better than, like, 99.9 people IN journalism. He agreed I had a fine resume but I NEEDED A DEGREE IN PEDAGOGY. I said that sort of training would destroy all writing ability. That did not go over well.

Q: Are you able to parallel park on the left side of a one-way street? Tom Logan - Sterling, VA

A: Yes, but it requires extraordinary concentration. I do usually nail it in one, though. It’s like trying to write with your left hand, if you are a righty. Good question.

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Q:  Advice to a 15-year-old me. (1) Understand there is more to sexual knowledge (and know-how) than what is passed on grudgingly by a gym teacher of questionable confidence himself and grainy black & white films in a series of classes euphemistically called "Health Education." (2) Try to gain that real life knowledge before applying it to an attempt to encourage someone rendered just as ignorant by her "Health Education" classes, to enter into a sexual relationship. (3) Brush up on your small talk in case the attempt fails as spectacularly as it did. Also have a spare bottom bed sheet available.

A: I confess to not understanding the last sentence, but assuming the reference is funny and gettable and possibly dirty.. Anyone, including the writer, want to explain? 

Q:  I would strongly advise my fifteen year old self to not wear light colored chinos when taking Judy Brouse to the Ninth Grade Christmas Dance. After several slow dances, the large and growing wet spot in the frontal area of my slacks mandated an accidental lap-spilling of a Pepsi Cola. Goofy chuckles all around, some quick paper towelling and a minor and manageable humiliation had precluded a much larger embarassment. But not really. My friend Roland Dorsey who was sitting at our table with his date, Darcy, made a point of pointing to my dampened crotch after every dance as the Pepsi stain dried. Interesting fact of applied chemistry is that Pepsi dries quickly in the brushed cotton of chinos while adolescent pre-secretions dries more slowly and leaves a different shade and footprint than a Pepsi stain. By the time my old man returned to drive us home, my embarrassment had metastasized into stage 4 mortification. Before long, Roland Dorsey started dating Judy Brouse and they married right after high school. I did take a run at Darcy but she shot me down like Pope Benedict with an ack-ack gun. It’s been dark chinos ever since.

A: “Like  Pope Benedict with an ack-ack gun”?   

Q: Advice to my 15-year old self:  You will not make a living as a poet.  Learn to play the guitar.  You probably won’t make it there, either, but you might at least have a one in a thousand chance of making a few bucks.  

A:  Yeah, and I coulda been Dylan if I had only learned the guitar.  I already play the harmonica badly, so I had a leg up, along with a bad voice.   Then I would have had  to spend a couple of years starving, making the rounds of shitty folk clubs in New York and playing for free.   Also, I would have needed more talent than I have, and a far better voice.  But it would have been WITHIN REACH.  

By the way, Dylan had a great voice.  Every single person out there is wrong about this. I have been re-listening to his early albums on vinyl. 

Q:  Advice to me at 15: Mom will die suddenly.  Go find her right now and tell her you love her.  But also tell her why, so she knows it is real.   I’d prompt you what to say but it won’t sound sincere; work it out yourself.   Do it now.   She’s probably in the kitchen, making kreplach for you.   

I won’t reveal whether I just lied about her dying suddenly.   Just do the other thing.   You won’t regret it. 

A: This kinda choked me up. 

Q: Stupid Things That Seemed Smart: I have a very rational fear of spiders (you have to be an fool not to be afraid of them). When I was about 15, I was camping with a group of people, and I observed a surfeit of those eight legged demons. We had a bunch of mosquito netting which I wisely hung between two trees and fixed to the ground with numerous rocks. I settled into my sleeping bag and soon discovered that not only had I kept spiders out, but I kept many in. I am an idiot.

A: I once reached for a glass of water next to my bed, when I woke up in Miami.  It was in mid drink when I discovered something active in my mouth.  It was a Palmetto Bug, which is a cockroach the size of a puppy hamster.  

Q:  Me to my 15-year-old self: "Look, I'm you from the future, I don't have a lot of time, so here are a list of things that are going to become big that you should invest in as soon as possible." 15-year-old me: "What's Netflix?" Me: "It doesn't exist yet. It's a service that lets you watch movies on the Internet." 15M: "What's the Internet?" Me: "Oh, right ... Look, technology changes a lot in the next 30+ years and I don't have time to explain it all to you, so I'm going to need you to just take a lot of this on faith?" 15M: "Okay ... What's this thing called Bitcoin, though?" Me (deep sigh): "Honestly, nobody knows what Bitcoin is."

A: Yeah, I literally have no idea, or why “mining” it is an environmental disaster.  Not a clue about any of it.  Nor do I want to know.  

Q:  Okay, kid, please get this: the things you think are funny, most other people don't. I'm not saying you're wrong to find them funny. I'm just saying you're in a small minority. Cool it with the attempts at humor. On the other hand, don't be so scared to show a little feeling. The other kids are so worried about what people are thinking of them that they don't have the attention to spare for judging you, unless, you know, you try to be funny and it falls really flat. The only people who find dead-baby jokes funny are males under the age of 17, and not all of them. Just trust me on this.

A: I disagree with you on dead-baby jokes.  I think they CAN be funny, for the simple reason that they are not real.  No one should hear a dead baby joke and think “they’re joking about infant mortality!”  They are joking subversively about outrageous humor, in the same sense that the roo-roo joke is not about rape.   Here is my favorite dead baby joke: Please avert your eyes if you are easily offended.     

What is the difference between a truckload of bowling balls and a truckload of dead babies?   You can’t unload the bowling balls with a pitchfork.   

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Q:  Came across this quote from one of Anaïs Nin's diaries: "“Life shrinks or expands according to one’s courage.” Anything you can point to in your life (or another's) as an example ?

A: The “or” is ambiguous.  It would not necessarily be a refutation of the statement that courage on the battlefield might well shrink one’s life.  I have very little physical courage, but a great deal of intellectual courage, which, in my case, made an entire newspaper career, and then ended it.  That Nin gal was a piece of work. 

This is Gene. I am calling us down, but not until I share something great. It’s about humor. Have you ever watched any of the (mostly) lame Friars Club roasts. It turns out a truly funny person can transcend even that. This is a video of Groucho Marx, roasting Johnny Carson. I am assuming he wrote his own speech, but even if he didn’t, his delivery is great. Compare it to Alan King, the lame-o comedian who introduces him.

Here it is.

Please keep sending in your observations, questions. I’ll answer them on Thursday.

And again, for 14 cents a day: