I HAD NOT fathomed that holocaust deniers existed until L sat me down for a history lesson. I was 23. L was in his early 50s.
“Hitler was a great man,” he lectured. “He never sent any Jews to their death. That was all propaganda to create sympathy for Jews.” But there are films and photos, I protested. “Hollywood fakery and special effects. The Jews control Hollywood, you know.” There are eyewitness accounts! “All liars or paid off by the Jews.” The Diary of Anne Frank! “A forgery.” Incredulous, I kept rebutting until L abruptly ended the conversation. “Just shut up!” he exploded, storming from the room. Over time, I noted the many “newsletters” that L took. Some claimed to reveal what really went on in government. Others offered sure-fire ways not to pay taxes. There were whackadoodle cures. There was an endless parade of get–rich–quick schemes. He fell for them all. Mind you, he was a good guy. Loving, generous. Just a bit lacking in the critical thinking department. At least, I reassured myself more than once, people who believe this kind of crap are scattered, relatively few, and relatively harmless. Little did I know that, only a few years hence, we would have social media, which in turn would allow nutty thinkers to find one another, grow their numbers, and spread their influence. And here we are. We can blame the social media to an extent. More so, the blame lies with how people think. Or, rather, fail to think.
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One day I wisecracked about baldness to my then–biggest client. He was a chrome–dome, but then, permit me to direct your attention to the above photo of my own chrome dome, snapped but minutes ago. I figured if anyone had a right to wisecrack about baldness, I did.
But then, not all chrome–domes appreciate the use of their pates for comic material, and from the manner of his prompt frown I immediately gathered that he numbered among said not all chrome–domes. That night I couldn’t sleep. Not for fear of losing his business—he wasn’t petty—but for fear that I had been thoughtless. The moment I arrived at work the next morning, I phoned him. “I feel terrible,” I said. “I shouldn’t have made that baldness wisecrack. I was out of line.” He replied, “Sorry to disappoint you, Cuno old boy, but I’ve been desensitized for decades. Once I asked my barber why he charges me the same amount he charges customers with a full head of hair. He said he gives me a discount, and the rest is a finder’s fee.” I slept better that night. YOU PROBABLY know that about half of house fires start in the kitchen. Well, I recently held up my end by setting ablaze the countertop of my kitchen island.
How, you ask, how? I’ll tell you. Sheer stupidity. I wish to take this opportunity to disabuse you of mistaking me for someone smart enough to have kept an extinguisher on hand. This, despite having made a mental note to obtain one after listening to Episode 228 of the delightful Built to Go podcast, wherein host Jeff Wagg addresses the topic. Before continuing with my present-day kitchen saga, permit me to back up a little over 60 years to a time when I, a friend, and my older brother Pete were walking through the pine forests of Lake Luzerne, a quaint, upstate New York resort town where my grandparents had a summer cabin. My friend and I were eight-ish years old, so Pete would have been 11-ish. Finding ajar the front door of a nearby, long unoccupied summer home, we decided to enter and explore. The home had no power, so Pete rummaged about the kitchen, where he found a candle and matches, and, unfortunately, a small can of lighter fluid. Having difficulty lighting the candle, he deployed the lighter fluid upon it and, in the process, upon the kitchen counter. Then he struck a match, and the counter went up in flames. My friend and I grabbed brooms and hurried outside. Pete hurled burning objects out to us, which we beat with the brooms. This tactic was not the smartest. It was, after all, a pine forest. Its floor was a carpet of dry pine needles. As we toiled away, visions of racing for our lives through a forest engulfed in flames—and knowing we were the cause of it—terrorized me. Then inspiration struck. Pete grabbed a mat from the kitchen floor and used it to smother the flames. Disaster had been averted. Eight-year-old I stood—and present-day I remain—amazed at the young lad’s resourcefulness. (I wish I could tell you we tucked our tails between our legs and left. Nope. Pete relit the candle and we explored the house. I never said we were smart kids.) Now, back to the present day and my kitchen. “Thanks” to that childhood experience, I had an idea. I happened to be wearing a bathrobe over sweats. I whipped off the robe and used it to smother the flames. The realization that some six decades ago we could have been responsible for burning down that vast, lovely forest haunts me to this day. Now I add to that the harrowing realization that, had I not happened to have been wearing a bathrobe and happened to have had that childhood experience, I could have burned down my home, quite possibly my neighbors’ homes, and a good many magnificent Oregon trees. Later that day, I bought fire extinguishers. 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. “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. Eastern history was largely omitted from my grade school education. To be sure, we learned all about those brave (note: sarcasm) Europeans. As for Asia, the Middle East, and Africa? For my classmates and me, they may as well not have existed.
Today I have dear friends from Vietnam, Tibet, China, Thailand, and Lesotho, Africa. I also have dear friends who grew up in the U.S. but whose ancestors did not hie from Europe, which is my tactful way of saying they’re not White and may or may not be Christian. Troubling to hear all of the above’s stories, learn of their traditions, understand their history and challenges, and see their courage, has opened my eyes. Funny, what that can do. As the press recalls the tsunami that devastated southern Thailand 20 years ago, I care in a way I would not have a few years ago. A “Free Tibet” bumper sticker I would have once ignored now hits me hard. I view Tiananmen Square through a new lens. Likewise the Vietnam War. I bristle when people villainize “wokeness” as if it were some sort of subversive plot. Our educational system could do a better job of broadening horizons. In the meantime, the wider one’s variety of friends, and the more one listens, the greater one’s capacity for empathy. A different take on Utah and gendered bathroomsI wrote this for the Salt Lake Tribune, which has published me in the past. There had been a changing of the opinion editors, however, and the new one politely declined it. There were two stated reasons. First, they have published much on this topic. Second, they prefer pieces by local authors, which I no longer am. The latter stung a little. I moved away but four years ago and still care quite a bit about what for 43 years was my home. This article will attain much less reach here that it would have in the Tribune; so, should you feel inclined, please share. I am not eager to write, much less publish, this piece. Discussing my gastrointestinal issues before readers is not my idea of a good time. Speaking of which, trigger warning: I’m going to open by discussing my gastrointestinal issues.
I have lived with said issues, the result of a surgical mishap, for 20 years. I have tested diet, meds, probiotics, special undergarments, positive thinking, sacrificing a pumpkin spice latte on an altar, and more, all to no avail. The upshot? Let’s just say that sometimes my innards give me minutes if I’m lucky, seconds if I’m not, to take a seat in a restroom. I shall leave to your imagination the inconvenience and humiliation that I have, on occasion, endured when none was at hand. Last week I found myself in a large public building, making a beeline in the direction of a mercifully easy-to-spot restroom sign. Alas, it turned out to be the women’s room. No men’s room was in sight, and on this occasion my innards had no intention of affording me time to hunt for one. I later learned that the men’s room was one floor down. I would not have made it. So it was that, not for the first time, I slipped into a women’s room. Mind you, not even the most casual observer would mistake me for female. I’m six feet tall, 220 pounds, bald, and bearded. I have a baritone voice. No wonder the woman reading a magazine in the lounge area looked up with surprise. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I have a condition and I can’t find the men’s—” “Don’t worry about it,” the woman interrupted, motioning toward the doorway to the stalls, “go ahead.” By the time I reemerged a few minutes later, a second woman had joined the first in the lounge. Again I began an apology. “No problem,” the newcomer said. I thanked them both, hurried out, and disappeared down the hallway as fast I could. This little adventure took place in a city where people tend not to be uptight about such things. Had it taken place in Utah, my home for 43 years, there’s no telling what kind of hubbub might have ensued. Or maybe not. Even when I lived in Utah, my condition tended to win understanding to my side. Moreover, I think you’ll agree that no harm was done. After all, if you have ever visited a women’s restroom, you know that the stalls tend to provide privacy. But … suppose I’d been in Utah … and suppose I were a transgender woman. In that case, I might be writing about my adventure from a cell instead of my office. Which, when you think about it, is absurd. Condition or no condition, if a straight male does no harm using a women’s room, neither does a transgender woman using a women’s room, nor a transgender man using a men’s room. If you think transgender people are de facto predatory, you’re just plain uninformed. If you think a restroom is a sexual predator’s preferred hunting ground, let’s hope you’re uninformed and not projecting. The overwhelming majority of people who enter a restroom are there to go potty. Let them. As I said, I don’t enjoy sharing personal medical matters. But if it might nudge one or two self-appointed morality police an iota closer to basic humanity, I’m willing. |
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. Archives
May 2025
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