Be a Good Boy and Drink Your Ovaltine...

or How Bono Wound Up a Role Model

A curious thought have I.

I started discussing this with my wife a few weeks ago (all my best thoughts seem to occur while discussing things with her) and it has been percolating since then. Thus, it earns the status of being bloggable, so here it is. Let's hope I can make some sense of this.

It seems to me that one of the major changes that has occured in American culture in the last several decades has been the emphasis placed on role models. I mean, duh, right? There has been loads of blabber on TV and the radio and in scads of books about the need for good role models, about the responsibility of the people who are, by default, role models, such as movie stars and pro athletes. People argue and debate about how to give our kids good role models (as if we had any ultimate say in that), about how to become a good role model yourself, about how the worship of certain high-profile people is evidence of the death of morality in our culture, etc, etc, etc, ad infinitum.

Lots of words have been spent on the subject. What I haven't seen is any discussion on why the role model topic has suddenly become such a hot button. Does anyone remember any editorials being written on the subject back in the forties and fifties? I may be mistaken, but it doesn't seem like there was much debate about role models back in the days when Orphan Annie was a radio show and vaudeville was still packin' 'em into theaters. If I am right in assuming this, then what changed? Why, in the age of the Internet and the 24-hour news cycle has the discussion about the worthiness (or lack thereof) of role models become such a big deal?

Here's my hypothesis: I think the subject of role models has become important because we have seen a drastic and very sudden shift in the types of people who qualify as such.

Before the days of mass media, I am guessing that the term "role model" was probably not even in use. Back then, the moral authority, the person who established the standard and goal of behaviour, was probably much more local. Back when my Dad was a kid, he read about baseball heroes, listened to the Shadow on the radio, and saw Buck Rogers at the movies, but those people were distant, occasional figures in his life, almost like myths and legends. I doubt it would have occured to him to emulate them in any meaningful way (apart from swinging a bat in the backyard and pretending to sock a home run at Ebbets field, or blast spacemen like good ol' Buck Rogers), mostly because there was nothing real to emulate. Dad didn't know how Babe Ruth treated waitresses in restaurants or how many DUIs Lon Chaney had. He had no concept whatsoever of how those people behaved in everyday life, so there was no practical way for him to make any of those people into true behavioural role models. The result was that, for better or worse, role models were by necessity found closer to home, in the form of parents, teachers, politicians, and ultimately, religious leaders. Kids then may not have liked what the role models were telling them, may have resisted actively for some time, but as the Borg on Star trek always said, resistance is futile. Whether they want to or not, kids eventually emulate role models the way metal filings follow a magnet. It's built into our nature. It's necessary.

Then came TV, and I am guessing the process of altering the names on the pedestals of role modelhood started to change very slowly. At first, culture probably didn't even mind. So the kids were starting to talk like John Wayne or Burl Ives. They were upstanding, all-american types, and most of the time even when they were being "themselves" they weren't much different than their scripted versions (as far as anyone knew). They were polite and patriotic and non-threatening (unless you were a jap or, later, a commie, but that was jest fine, thank-you-very-much). They were that most novel of new entities, the "good role model". Eat your vegetables, Tommy, so's you can grow up big and strong like the Lone Ranger. Glory hallelujah, world without end.

But then TV and movies began to change. I suspect that advertisers and media executives started to grasp the golden concept that there is far more money to be made selling to society's seedier nature than to any starchy mass morality. Rock and/or Roll (as the Simpsons' Principal Skinner calls it) appeared on the scene and suddenly media became scary and lewd, full or innuendo and a brand of psychedelic weirdness that few adults could understand. Role models stopped being "good", and America found itself facing the nasty reality of the "bad role model", who not only acknowledged being bad, but revelled in it. Parents seemed (or so it appears) shocked that pointing out the plain badness of their teens' role models didn't make the teens turn from them. In fact, it had the opposite effect. In yer face, ya squares. That'll teach ya's to let media define proper behaviour.

And thus we have come to today, where role models are now of utmost importance, where we live with the fact that our kids purposely use bad grammer and sport nasty attitudes and wear visible thong underwear and jeans around their butts, all because that is the behaviour they have seen from their mega-huge and mega-hyped role models. It is so, so easy to launch into hysterics about this, and frankly, doing so is not entirely unwarranted. But this is the world now. There is no way to get that cat back in that bag (barring moving to the wilderness of Montana and throwing away one's TV, computer and radio, and even then, your prospects aren't great). But there is an aspect of this new cultural reality that I find intriguing, one that I also have not heard discussed anywhere.

Back in the days of Ty Cobb and vaudeville (and probably for the whole of history prior to that), society looked up for its role models. It looked to Mom and Dad and the President and the pastors and priests and rabbis. It looked, ultimately, to "the good" (or some hopeful facsimile thereof) and emulated that. Now in our media saturated world, culture looks aside, to elements of itself. Culture has said, in the postmodern age, "screw morality and the good, I wanna be like Mike. I wanna be like the movie stars and the athletes and the music icons with the clothes and the cars and the babes and the bling"*. The funny thing is that, looking aside for models to emulate, to copy, seems to have created a sort of terminal feedback loop in the culture. It's like standing between mirrors, seeing one's own reflection marching away into grey-green obscurity, until it vanishes altogether. It's like a Xerox machine making copies of copies over and over until there is nothing left but a Rorschack blot that could be anything but is most likely nothing. But mostly, it is like royalty back in the time of kings, intermarrying over and over, inbreeding to the point of freakish idiocy.

The simple fact seems to be this: the point at which culture decides to look at itself for emulation seems to be the point at which that culture sets itself upon a descending spiral towards confused, helplessly blathering oblivion.

Back in the day, for instance, folks were shocked at Elvis and his crazy, crazy hips. Now we have Nickelback singing about a guy's girlfriend sucking him off as he speeds deliriously along in his car, later getting caught by her dad while they are switching positions in the back seat. And this is, frankly, pretty mild stuff by modern standards. In the movie Team America, I saw a puppet poop on another puppet in an elongated, completely preposterous sex scene (which was still, I hate to admit, kind of shockingly funny). Any remotely objective observer has absolutely no choice but to admit that, from a pop culture standpoint, things have continued to escalate, to get more and more sexual, shocking, offensive, preposterous, perverse, challenging, stupid, and just plain gross. And this is no surprise whatsoever! How could it not? In a society that looks to itself to define its own role, the same concepts have to be constantly reinvented. A self-emulating culture is doomed to having to outdo its own previous iteration, but in the same essential way as the previous iteration outdid the one before it!

We see this all around us, it seems to me. And the very interesting thing to me is that I think we have finally crossed over that fine line where each new iteration stops being capable of outdoing the one before. I think we are entering that point where there is no new and interesting way to make jokes about sex, or poop, or deformity. We are running swiftly out of ways to be kinkier, or more shocking, or more disgusting. How many times can one say "fuck" before it stops raising any eyebrows? Culture has pounded the same note on the same piano for so long, louder and louder, until society has stopped really hearing it, and the piano wire is about to snap. What was once challenging and inventive has become pretty common, and then a stereotype, and then a parody. And now we are finally entering the point that it becomes just plain insipid, like a mentally ill person repeating the same bad word over and over, helplessly and without any meaning whatsoever.

So what happens then? What a question that is. When society finally blinks and shakes its head and reaches over and clicks off the roaring white noise that this downward spiral has produced, what will it turn to? Role models are always essential. We choose them helplessly and thoughtlessly, as a mere byproduct of being human. Rather understandably, when society lost trust in science, religion and politics, it turned to itself via the media. So when we finally reach that inevitable critical implosion of cultural nonsense, when we lose trust in that set of role models, who will we put on the pedestal next?

The optimist in me says maybe we, as a society, will take a step backwards, take a new look at "the good", but with the sobering knowledge that that cannot be found in any human institution. The optimist in me hopes that we will seek a role model in an even higher ideal of the good; in something bigger than us and far more trustworthy.

But the pessimist in me (and he's pretty noisy, I am unhappy to admit) says that that is an unrealistic pie-in-the-sky fantasy. The pessimist says that society will find something new and even more worrisome to aspire to. That the trend of societies from the dawn of time seems to have been to lower its sights, to descend, to give up hope and ideals and passion. The pessimist says that we may not choose to make evil into a role model, per se, because that isn't, from a practical perspective, any easier to achieve than good. The pessimist in me says we may just choose whatever's easiest. And that could be even worse. In fact, I don't think there's any "could" about it.

What a doom-and-gloomer, eh? But I am willing to be surprised. Who knows? Strictly speaking, moral history has always been more of a pendulum than a downhill ride. Over the ages, people just swing back and forth from the brink of evil to fanatical puritanism. It'd be nice if at some point we could just sort of land in the middle, but that is probably more abject wishful thinking on my part. So it could happen that society swings back the other way a bit, that we recognize the self-defeating mess that making role models of ourselves is and choose something higher (and less easy). I hope we do.

But what is most interesting to me is that, if my theory is right, the best thing most of us can do is to just sit and watch as culture sort of blasts over the brink of insipidity, like a pimped out Cadillac sailing over a cliff. Overreacting to the obvious descent of culture seems to be just a lot more of the same silliness, just more noise to throw into the already cacophanous maelstrom. There may have been a time for speaking out against it, back at the beginning of it all, when the momentum could have been slowed (although I doubt it), but now it just seems like wasted breath. All we can really do now is hug our kids close, try to teach them there is more to attain in life than just being sexy, famous and rich, and watch the big cultural role model machine begin to overheat, spin, shudder, and shoot sparks. I think we are watching the beginning of what is going to be a cultural train wreck of truly monumental proportions, and like any modern American, I am morbidly interested in seeing the final big crash.

It's what comes out of the silence that follows that I am a little worried about.

*and considering the history of failings of institutional morality, who can blame culture for finally losing some trust in those entities and looking elsewhere?

A Series of Unfortunate Events and Capital Punishment...

This is just a quick thought (or so I hope; everything I write seems to want to be an article in The Economist, although I suspect their editors would chase me out the door with a pitchfork).

I was reading a children's book recommended to me by a friend. This is one of the books in the well-known "Series of Unfortunate Events" books, from which the movie starring Jim Carey was made last year. In the opening few chapters, this statement is made:

"Since their first encounter with Count Olaf, the villain's wickedness and deception had run rampant all over the Baudelaire's lives, and it had become difficult for the children to keep from becoming villains themselves."

I read this sentence, then stopped and stared at it. I had to read it at least once more before I could go on. Something about it needled me. Having read one of the other books in this series, I knew that the three Baudelaire children were unfailingly good-hearted and quite morally high-minded. I knew, therefore, that at no point, while under the malevolent thumb of Count Olaf, did they say to one another, "You know, this life of wickedness and deception has a certain lure to it, doesn't it? Maybe we should consider it for ourselves, eh? What the heck! Let's turn villain!" Thus, I can only think that the author must mean something else entirely by the phrase "it had become difficult for the children to keep from becoming villains themselves." In short, the author must mean that, in their attempts to escape the dangerous hands of the Count, the children might have done something which, had it been done by Olaf, would have been considered villainous.

Thus, villainy is defined by the action, not by the motive.

Am I right in guessing that the author feels that it would be better in the grand scheme for the children to have simply allowed Olaf to succeed in his evil aims than for the children to have engaged in any action that could, on a purely superficial level, have been described as villainous? For instance, if escape meant lying to a villain, or taking a villain's car, or trapping a villain in a locked room, are we to accept that that would make the children villains themselves?

I mean, what??

I recognize this philosophy as the same that says that enforcing the death penalty on a murderer reduces society to his level, making murderers of us all. The philosophy sees only the act, and never the motive (unless the act is racially motivated, then God help you). Frankly, I find this philosophy so utterly bereft of even the most remote intelligence that it astonishes me that anyone adheres to it. And yet, adhere to it many do, and with passion. I have friends who believe this with a fervor, and I do not believe they are idiots.

And yet...!

How could anyone truly not recognize the importance of motive in an act? The mugger in the garbage-choked alley cuts with a knife, but so does the surgeon in the operating room. We don't arrest the surgeon for assault or attempted murder, because we understand that it is not the action itself which constitutes the crime, but the motive and the goal (although the action must occur; no one goes to jail for simply having a motive, fortunately). It astounds and shocks me that some people claim there is no moral difference between the murder of an innocent woman at the hands of a rapist and the officially sanctioned death of that serial rapist for the protection of society. It absolutely floors me that some people would choose to do nothing to stop dangerous people (because it might require actions that dangerous people have utilized to cause harm and death to the innocent) and then do not feel responsible when dangerous people continue to cause harm and death to the innocent.

It seems to me that this is the fatal flaw in any attempt at morality divorced from God, morality on a strictly human level. If (as this philosophy seems to say) morality is not based on any universal code of right and wrong that originates, by necessity, in the heart and soul of man, then it must by necessity be defined merely by the action alone. According to this philosophy, it isn't wrong to kill a person because it is wrong to value her purse or her sex more than her life. It is simply wrong because it results in a willful death. Motive is utterly irrelevent and shouldn't even be considered or addressed. We shouldn't attempt to train our thoughts to value people and life, or to respect property, or to prefer truth and justice. These are apparently utterly irrelevent constructs of a religious worldview. Thus, a death enforced by the state for the protection of its citizenry is no different on a moral level than the death of an eight-year-old girl at the hands of her abductor.

And this is apparently perfectly legitimate to many people.

I truly want to understand this position, if I can. Surely I am missing something extremely lucid and poignant about it, am I not? I know that all the good-hearted and apparently intelligent people I know who believe this cannot simply be cold-hearted dummies. I am trusting in that confidence, because I do not want to believe they are cold-hearted dummies. And yet, if this is all there is to it, that the action alone defines the crime, and not the motive and the goal, then I am afraid I have no choice.

Maybe I should ask the Baudelaire children if they'd rather be knocked-off by Count Olaf than, maybe, steal his car and make a break of it. I wonder what they'd say?

the Boast of Christmas Past...

It's finally over. The presents are unwrapped, my son's new toy car has one of its doors merrily broken off (not that he cares in the least), the tree, while not taken down yet, is getting dried up and crotchety. If it could talk it'd have a rheumy, cracked voice and it would say things like "Back in MY day, I'd get new water every morning. People stuck colorful boxes under me. There was this little monster that kept knocking ornaments off me. These days hardly anybody even remembers to turn my lights on in the morning. Nobody notices the old tree. Nobody comes and visits. It's gettin drafty in here. I'm losing my needles. Throw another tree skirt around my stump, would'ja?"

I'm not going to wax nostalgic about Christmas this year. It was pretty good. We didn't travel to see any family (who live several states away) and that was, frankly, the best gift of all. We stayed home, my wife and I, with our three-year-old and his baby sister, and we just chilled out. We turned on the old gas fireplace (does that qualify as an oxymoron?) and at four o'clock that afternoon, for lack of anything better to do, we packed everybody in the car and went to the park. It was bitingly cold. Zane ran around like a little wildebeest. My wife ran after him delightedly and I carried my daughter all bundled in my coat, her little round face the only thing visible, like an indian poking her head out of a teepee. It was great. It was so peaceful and pleasant that it was, to be honest, a little surreal.

I don't deserve this much happiness, do I?

I feel out of place in today's America. Am I wrong or does it seem like people are taking a strange, perverse, mirthless pride in being stressed out and miserable? A few years ago, my wife, who was then working in the corporate world, told me about a conversation she observed between several of her coworkers. They were all comparing escalating stories of how rushed and overwhelming their weekend schedules were. If I remember it, they went something like this:

"Ugh. Saturday was hell for me. I was on the road by eight with nothing but a coffee and a danish and a carload of kids. I had to coordinate four kids with two games, one rehearsal, and two practices between them. I didn't get home until ten!"

"Yeah, that's tough. Me, I was in the car at six because my son's soccer tournament was forty minutes away. The twins' piano recital was twenty minutes later across town. I got a speeding ticket, had a fender bender in the parking lot of the junior high, and got into a three-way fight with the umpire and another parent at my daughter's softball game."

Oh yeah? Well me and my kids slept in the car on Friday night to save time in the morning. We peeled out of the driveway at five til dawn and had to cut through eleven backyards to make the starter's pistol at the track meet! I had forty-three stops, made dinner in the trunk with a hibachi grill and a can of sterno while the car was idling at an intersection strategically positioned between Joey's tuba lesson and Tiffany's ballet tumbling class and STILL squeezed in a workout, two hours of research on this morning's report, five minutes' quality time with my wife, an oil change and a three-quarters of a lawn mowing."

Or something like that.

And that's the misery and stress some people actually choose. I look at the news and it would seem that the world is simply chock full of pain, loss, tragedy, death, destruction, want, greed, hate and overall, plain-and-simple bad mojo. A good chunk of the people I know are unhappy. A lot of them have crappy marriages. Most of them dislike their work. More than a few have experienced great personal losses of the size and scope that I cannot even wrap my brain around.

And here I am, in the center (my center, at least) of this great big stewing cesspool of yuck, and I'm happy. I feel guilty about it! I'm happy, damn it! I have unbelievably awesome kids (granted, they are 3 and 7 months, so they haven't had much chance yet to turn really awful), a career that pays pretty durn well, and that I would continue working at even if I stopped being paid, a gorgeous, delightful wife, good health, great teeth, a decent bowling average, and a mother-in-law whose company I actually enjoy.

Wow.

So what's the deal? I don't know, and to be truly honest, I don't care that much. This new American arms-race of stress and misery is one rat-race I am very happy to bow out of. I lose. Darn.

So anyway, this was just one big long ramble. I am gonna go have dinner now and do some work. Merry post-Christmas to you all, and for those of you intent on outdoing everybody else in the stress department, may you have a horrid and miserable new year, full of anxiety, noise, and breathless rushing.

That was sarcasm, by the way. (grin!)

Things my Kids Will Never Experience (Part Two)

This one was suggested by my friend Deb: rotary telephones. Remember those?

My parents had a rotary phone until I was nineteen. For you kids who never experienced one, here's how it worked: forget buttons. The only buttons on a rotary phone were the line cutoffs, which were generally two little plastic pegs about the size of pencil erasors that stuck up through two holes in the center of the cradle for the headset. When you hung the headset on its cradle, it pushed the pegs down and they operated a secret gizmo that broke the connection. Thus the term "hung up", as in, "that mean, insensitive girl whose phone number I got off the bathroom wall hung up on me!" So named because the act of hanging up the headset ended the call. Had telephone evolution skipped the rotary-dial/manual-cutoff days and jumped straight to cell phones, the term for ending a call would be something different, like "He powered-off on me!" or "That jerk gave me the click!" Which sounds vaguely dirty and sexual, so maybe it wouldn't have been that one, but you get the point.

Anyway, no buttons on a rotary phone. Instead, you called someone by sticking your index finger (or if you were cool and talented, any other finger, or a pencil or pen, etc.) into one of nine holes ringed around the circumference of a plastic dial. Each hole had a number- one through nine, then zero- imprinted on the phone beneath the dial. Using your finger (or the implement of your choice if you were cool and talented) inside the little hole, you turned the dial clockwise with a tiny clockwork ratcheting sound as something in the mechanism of the phone measured the length of the turn. When your finger (or cool implement) met the little metal hook that stopped the turn, you let go and the released dial would ratchet quickly and more noisily back to its starting point. You did this for each digit in the phone number you were dialling (another anachronistic term, "dialling"; since no phones actually have dials anymore, it would be more accurate to say that one punched up a number or buttoned a number).

Then you held the headset, which was a heavy plastic thing shaped like a bent dumbbell with a set of super-mod salt and pepper shakers molded onto the ends, to your ear and waited for the call to connect. The headset was always attached to the phone by a spiral plastic cord. Cords came in a variety of lengths, from not-quite-long-enough-to-reach-the-fridge to just-short-enough-to-keep-you-from-sitting-on-the-floor. The spiral of the cord was designed to allow it a degree of stretch, but the result was that strange tangles and snarls were always getting lodged in them, making weird alien shapes which had a perverse life of their own. For instance:

Imagine you were on a rotary phone with the need to jot down an address. The pen and paper were always on the other side of the kitchen or office, so you clutched the headset between your shoulder and ear and, igor-like, lurched across the room, stretching the spiral cord as far as you'd think it could reach, pulling it so painfully taut that it looked like a vibrating tightrope connecting your ear to the wall. You'd crane your arm as far as you could until you'd barely, barely, get the pad of one finger on the notepad and hook it to you. Success! It never occured to you, in that moment, to take the pad and pen back to the phone base. Instead, you'd stand there at the furthest desperate length of the cord, pen and paper in hand, and say something like, "OK, I'm ready, what's the address again?" And that's when the little tangle in the phone cord would suddenly spring loose, adding another six inches to its length, and making the headset pop smartly off your shoulder. Always, always, this resulted in a desperate and deceptively slow comic ballet as you bobbled the headset in your hands, trying not to drop the pad or the pen, getting your wrists tangled in the cord, yelling for the person on the phone to hold on, hold on, I dropped the phone, ah crap, and of course, inevitably dropping the phone on the floor.

The only good news was that you could retrieve it without bending over, since the cord was still tangled around your wrist; you simply reeled it back in shaking your head and cursing under your breath.

Mothers were expert at rotary telephone ergonomics. My Mom could cook an entire meal in the kitchen with the phone clutched between her ear and shoulder. It was like watching some retro robot that had to be plugged in to operate. Dads had no patience for it. Watching Dad on the phone was a study in verbal economics. A typical phone call would go like this:

RING! RING!

Mom: Hello? Oh hi. Hold on. (yelling) Hon! It's Wally!

Dad: Hi.

Dad: Yeah.

Dad: The green one.

Dad: When?

Dad: Bye.

Mom (twenty seconds later): What did he want?

Dad (from the living room): Who?

Books and Covers...

I have a judgemental nature. I know, I know, admitting something like that in the current social climate is akin to admitting one is a direct-line descendent of Adolph Hitler, or that one target shoots at kittens for fun. That's a topic for another day, though. For now let's just attend to the idea that I am admittedly pretty quick to pass judgements about people based on generally pretty flimsy and circumstantial evidence. I want to be better about that, but I need some help. I'd appreciate suggestions. Here is the trouble:

When I was attending college for that one bemused semester at Liberty University (just one of my various college experiences), my best friend Matt and I had a nasty little habit (based, I am sure, on our own insecurities about suddenly being in a somewhat intimidating social environment) of giving certain kinds of people labels. These labels were never positive, and they were always based on totally superficial judgements. There was, to be specific, the Long-Coated Kid with the Hat. So named because no matter where he went, no matter what the weather, he wore a long duster-type coat and a cowboy hat. His label was pretty definitive, and not particularly mean. It was simply evident to us that he felt that that combination of apparel defined him in some meaningful way he was proud of, and we simply took it to its logical, rather absurd conclusion, defining him by absolutely nothing else. Then there was the Red-Haired Kid with Glasses. Again, not a mean label on the surface, but the unstated code about him was pretty plain between us. The Red-Haired Kid with Glasses was mean and nasty, a spiritual hyper-prude intent on pulverizing fun wherever he went. We didn't know this by experience. We'd never spoken to him. Somehow, it was just on his face, in his expression, the way he dressed and walked most everywhere alone with that purposeful, stiff, crane-like gait. But it got worse. There was Stupid One and Stupid Two. Both were weightlifter types who wore their baseball caps backwards and held their arms perpetually, slightly out from their sides, as if the sheer mass of their hypertrophied physiques made it impossible for them to reach their belts (I always wondered how they got into their pockets to pull out their IDs when they went to the cafeteria to bulk up on protein shakes). We didn't label them "stupid" because they were muscleheads. We decided, on quick observation, that they were arrogant, thoughtless, mean-spirited bastards with nothing but pride where their souls should be. We didn't need evidence. We weren't convicting these people in a court of law, or even a court of public opinion (apart from the public that occurred between Matt and me), we were just taking what seemed evident based on first inpressions and... extrapolating.

We knew it was unfair. Sort of. We at least knew that there was always the possibility that our judgements were incorrect. We chided ourselves on it sometimes. But in time, something simultaneously disheartening and meanly smug happened.

We began to discover that pretty much without exception, we were right.

I'd like to be able to say (like some story from a Chicken Soup for the Judgemental Dork's Soul book) that one day we hung out with the Red-Haired Kid with Glasses and found out he was just a lonely, misunderstood guy with no friends and a heart of gold under that unfortunately severe exterior. That would certainly make a better story. What actually happened, though, was that we inevitably learned that he was, in fact, a whiny, prudish little tattle and provocateur, always looking for ways to muckrake others into trouble. What actually happened was that I went to an art class with Stupid One's girlfriend, who ended up dumping him because he was ("when you got to know him" ) a mean, arrogant, selfish prick. What actually happened was that, despite the fact that we'd chided ourselves about the potential that we could be wrong in our judgements about these people, statistically without fail they all proceeded to be pretty much exactly what we'd assumed they were on first sight.

Now one of three things is true. Either (1) Matt and I are clairvoyant, (2) it is a lot easier to judge significant things about people based on attitude, dress and expression, even in a remarkably short time, or (3) Matt and I are magical beings, sculpting the world we see in realtime with our own expectations and beliefs.

For the most part, I chose to believe number 2. Although number 3 sometimes feels like it'd be more fun.

So as I have grown up, I have attempted to fight this intrinsic tendency to pass snap-judgements on people. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt.

For instance:

There is a man I see regularly at the local Einstein Bagel joint. I go in for breakfast and coffee and to sit with my laptop and do some idle work whilst people-watching, and he is pretty much always there, sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall chatting people up and nursing his own coffee (maybe) or herbal tea (more likely). He wears glasses and carries a meaningful-looking notebook, as if he constantly has to journal* sudden blinding flashes of the infinite, which strike him at random moments. He is a white guy that wears a multi-ethnic, multi-colored little hat that looks like a cross between a yamulca and those little pillbox-sorta hats that some African leaders wear. He is obviouly quite enlightened. I heard him speaking to a young girl once as she sat with her family having breakfast. She was probably about seven, and she was smiling at him with a mixture of shyness and attraction that was endearing and a little heartbreaking. He was saying something like this:

"You know what it is this weekend? It's Easter! You know about Easter don't you? That's when Jesus comes up out of his tomb to see if he can find his shadow. If he sees his shadow, he pops back into his tomb again and we have six more weeks of winter. I hope he doesn't get scared by his shadow this year so we can have spring, don't you? Oh, no. No, wait a minute. I'm getting Jesus confused with somebody else, aren't I?"

Secretly, I was (I'll be frank) enraged by this. Not because there isn't a little humor in what he was saying, albeit borderline blasphemous humor, depending on your beliefs about God and Jesus. I don't mind that, though. He obviously doesn't believe, and why should I expect him to revere something he doesn't personally believe in? What enraged me was the fact that he was purposefully, deliberately, planting a seed in the mind of this young girl, a kernel of an idea that Jesus is a nice thing for a kid to believe in, just like Groundhog Day and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, but not something one would seriously carry into adulthood. Others may believe what silliness they may, if it makes them feel better, his little smile and wink and multi-ethnic little hat said to that little girl, but you and I are wise and enlightened little doggies and we know a rubber bone when we see one, don't we?

How dare he manipulate her little Tabula Rasa mind that way? How dare he snatch away that simple childlike belief (or at least potential belief) that some of us adults struggle so hard to regain? I sat and raged at him, and of course, being the opinionated but ultimately silent man that I generally am in those situations, I didn't say anything. Even now, I don't know what I could have said, although I wish I did.

But here's the point. My wife told me I was most likely over-reacting to him. I have a tendency to do that, she reminded me gently, and she is right. So I tried to cut the guy some slack. So he's got a thing against Christianity. It's understandable considering how obnoxious some Christians can be. Maybe he's just on an anti-Christian bender and he thinks its more palatable if he coats it with what he probably thinks of as gentle humor. Fine. I'll let it go.

But everytime I go to Einstein's, I notice a car in the parking lot. The car is a late-nineties Mercedes with bumper-stickers plastered all over the rear. "Coexist" says one bumper sticker, using symbols of several major religions to form the letters. This is the theme of all the stickers, all the typically trite little bumper-sticker slogans. Let's all get along, all us different religious types. Let's ignore differences and respect one another. Let's stop the petty bickering and name-calling. Christian, Jewish, Muslim, everybody. Respect. Peace. Brotherhood. And everytime I pass that car, I say to myself two things. The first is: that's his car, the dopey, smug idiot who equated Jesus to a magic groundhog, the hypocritical little putz. The second is: that's an unfair judgement and you know it. Let it go. Most likely that car belongs to an employee, since it is so frequently here in this spot. Stop trying to build your case against that guy. Stop trying to pigeon-hole him. You don't know him. You don't KNOW him.

And I gotta be honest and tell you I have done a pretty good job. I had the twin-thoughts pretty much worked out as a litany. They happened so fast this morning, as I walked past that car on my way in for a coffee and a bagel, that I was hardly even aware of them.

Feeling pretty good, I nodded as somebody walked across the parking lot ahead of me and got into the front seat of the bumper-sticker laden Mercedes, setting his coffee (or herbal tea) momentarily on the roof to unlock the door. He was wearing his perpetual multi-colored, multi-ethnic hat.

So maybe, I mean just maybe, I do know him. Maybe he is just the self-righteous, hypocritical little putz I thought he was, the little putz who says "Everybody respect everybody else's beliefs, now, and be good. Except me. I'm exempt. I can mock whatever and whoever's beliefs I want. I'm special. I'm fuckin' enlightened, you stupid, superstitious little neanderthals."

So what do I do, people? What do we ALL do? How do we avoid making those snap judgements that, let's face it, are so often right spang on the money? Do we rely on the few occasions when we are wrong to prove to us that, against all statistical probability, a snap judgement might be unfair? Is that all there is to it? Am I the only one that wrestles with this issue? Because when I bring it up, everybody just seems to say (with helplessly prissy disdain, and in my mind, a hint of a lisp) well, you just shouldn't do it. Being judgemental is ba-a-a-ad. You shouldn't judge a book by it's cover.

But people, we ALL judge books by their covers, quite literally! The metaphor itself is false! That's why books have covers! That's how you know a sticky novel of romantic improbability from a Stephen King horror-fest. The covers are meant to tell us things about what's inside them. Who's ever heard of a generic "book"? Isn't it more accurate to say, as an analogy for life, a metaphor for relationships, that you can judge a book by its cover? Isn't that really what the Bible means when it says a tree is known by its fruit? Isn't that what Forrest Gump's Mama actually meant when she said "stupid is as stupid does"?

Please understand this: I am not saying that it is legitimate to make value judgements about people this way. It isn't fair to judge that this person is less worthwhile to the world, or to God, or to me personally because of how they look or dress or act or speak. That is not the sort of judgement I am debating. I mean simply to say that if a person tends to get drunk, start fights, and wear tee-shirts with slogans like "white revolution" or "Let's get nekkid" you might legitimately choose not to let him babysit your twelve year old daughter. I mean that if someone claims to represent peace, brotherhood and respect between all religions, and then tells insulting and mocking stories to children about one of those religion's deities, maybe he is not to be trusted or quite believed.

I mean, at the base of our hearts, under all the posing and moralistic posturing, don't we all make those kind of judgements everyday? Aren't they, frankly, absolutely necessary?

So again, I ask. What do I do? How do I stop being so judgemental? Is there in fact a healthy and an unhealthy aspect to those judgements? How do I seperate those halves? This is a very, very ticklish subject that I think is very unfairly treated by those who just say "judging people ith wrong and you jutht thouldn't do it!"

And as usual, I have no answers about this. Just more questions. And the sense that I may, in fact, be the only person who has this problem, based on the evidence of how the rest of the world seems to handle it.

I wonder what the Long Coated Kid with the Hat would think?

*see the blog entry "Always Sticking my Ego in my Mouth..." for more thoughts on journaling.