The Oregonian prefers not to publish letters from the same person within too close of a time frame. So it was that this one, sent on the heels of one they did publish, didn’t make the cut. So I’m publishing it here. * * * I BEG The Oregonian to cease carrying the People’s Pharmacy column. This, based on my understanding that newspapers have an obligation to bring reliable information to readers.
In today’s column, “Bathroom staple may help ease redness of rosacea,” a reader claims that a homeopathic product was effective for her husband. Homeopathy is the notion that diluting a harmful substance to an average of less than one molecule per dose produces the opposite of its usual harmful effect. It’s like saying you can turn the entirety of Crater Lake into a sleeping potion by stirring in a drop of coffee. Yet rather than respond with medically responsible information—namely, that homeopathy has been repeatedly demonstrated to have no effect—People’s Pharmacy replied, “Others may find that your husband’s regimen is also helpful for them.” Not to be overlooked was the headline, referenced above, suggesting the same. This is not the first time People’s Pharmacy has misled. Not long ago, the column argued that testimonials constitute sound medical evidence. Nonsense. Humans routinely fool themselves. It's called the placebo response, and it’s the reason that quality medical research incorporates controlled, triple-blind studies. (But it worked for me! some readers will surely protest. No, it didn't. Re-read the preceding paragraph.) Misinformation is not harmless. Encouraging people to opt for quackery over real medicine puts health, sometimes lives, at risk. In the interest of not helping spread quackery, please dump People’s Pharmacy post-haste.
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“I have all this wisdom,” my dad actually moaned aloud. “I can see what people should do, but they just won’t ask me! It’s so frustrating!”
There you have it. I come from a long line of men who excel at screwing up their own lives while somehow “knowing” what everyone else should do with theirs. (Advice columnists remind of them. Just once, I’d like to see an advice columnist write, “How the hell should I know what you should do?”) I once dated a woman who continually tried to get me to make life decisions for her. I didn’t and don’t fault her. Just as I’d been raised to be a fount of wisdom, she had been raised to defer to men. Trouble is, I had long since realized that I am no expert in other people’s affairs, and that deciding what they should do is their job, not mine.* So, I would usually say something along the line of, “After you think it through, I’ll be eager to hear what you’ve decided. But don’t ask me to decide for you. I don’t know what you should do.” She once snapped back, “You’re the only man I ever met who doesn’t.” Exactly. —————————-- *You cannot imagine the needless burden the realization lifts. I recommend giving it a try. It’s fitting to refer to “psychics” claiming to speak to the dead as “grief vampires.” Another variety of grief vampire is the death industry itself. I’m talking about the industry, not necessarily individual employees. At least, not all of them.
Nearly 29 years have passed since the death of my wife, Paula. Breast cancer, should you wish to know. Though we knew the day would come, it arrived sooner than either of us had expected or prepared for. So it was that the next day found me at a mortuary, without a clue as to how to pick out a casket. There were no price tags on the floor models, so I chose one in a color that was one of Paula’s favorites. As it turned out, it was one of the least costly. I asked what made the more expensive ones more expensive. The mortician explained, as he had certainly done countless times before, that more expensive models had longer lasting exterior finishes and better seals for longer lasting inside cushioning. In short, I could spend thousands more to keep an already costly, nice-looking box—one that I was going to bury and leave buried—looking nice inside and out for a few extra years. (As far as I’d know. It would have been rather difficult to verify.) Still in shock from my wife’s death and therefore utterly filterless, I said, “I’m not going to dig it up and play with it that often.” That rather abruptly ended the conversation. Mind you, the mortician wasn’t out of line. After all, I had asked. Neither was he pushy. But then, morticians needn’t push. Grief tends to be a time of not thinking straight. It is the maker of easy marks. Mourners, many burdened with “I wish had done more,” need little to no prodding to guilt themselves into giving a departed loved one “the very best.” Even though the loved one will in no way see, much less appreciate, the gesture. Even if, unlike me, you believe in an afterlife, it’s doubtful that your late loved one will go storming about heaven, hell, or wherever, complaining that you didn’t spend more on a casket. Any departed relatives or friends that petty wouldn’t really deserve the gesture anyway. Note to my kids: When my time comes, the cheaper the better. For all I care, you can scatter my ashes in a cat litter box. One fine, very rare day, my CPA dropped the ball. When I pointed out the error, he said, “I am so sorry. The reason this happened is that I’m an idiot.” He then set about bending over backward making it right.
Thirty years and my move to another state later, he is still my CPA. I refer him every chance I get. (Call Shane at Grant Strickland CPAs.) I’m well aware that anyone can screw up. Hell, it’s entirely possible that even I have done so once or twice. It is the manner in which one takes responsibility that speaks worlds. “We deeply regret any offense anyone may have taken …” is no apology. It’s a “we are sooo misjudged.” “We always strive to blah blah blah … our very best blah blah blah … highest standard of excellence blah blah blah …” is no apology, either. It’s boasting and an attempted defense. How refreshing — and rare — it is to hear, “We blew it, we’re sorry, no excuses. Here’s what we’re doing to make amends and ensure it never happens again.” The best PR practice isn’t deflection, obfuscation, or minimization. The best PR practice is owning responsibility. Monty Python alumnus John Cleese recently complained that the “literal-minded” don’t get his comedy: "So whenever you're doing comedy, you're up against the literal-minded. And the literal-minded don't understand irony, so that means if you take them seriously, you get rid of a lot of comedy, because the literal-minded don't understand metaphor, irony, comic exaggeration. Now, that’s arrogance. Cleese may as well have said, “If they don’t laugh, it’s because I’m too smart for them.”
Art, including comedy, is a product like any other. The public is under no more obligation to embrace Cleese’s or anyone else’s product than they were to embrace New Coke. You may recall that the Coca-Cola Company didn’t waste time whining about unsophisticated palates. They retooled and retried. Likewise, honest comedians admit when their aim is off and re-calibrate. By all means, produce art as a means of self-expression if you wish. But if it’s a commercial flop, it’s you, not the audience, who failed to connect. |
Welcome to Cunoblog... where I share thoughts about writing. I don’t consider myself a writing authority, but that doesn’t keep me from presuming to blog like one. Oh, and I reserve the right to digress when I feel like it. |