Category: Absurdity

The ancient Romans, and that is not new, Had lots of deities, quite a few. The beauty of Venus we still admire. Her husband was Vulcan, the god of fire.

 

 

 
That Vulcan was strong and according to myth
He worked under ground in his forge, as a smith.
But Venus, they said, had her eyes on another
Which Vulcan, of course, found distressing, rather.
He pumped on the bellows in anger so well,
The fire he blew at grew hotter than hell
And everything melted, rocks, iron, and all.
That magma then pushed up Vesuvius tall,
And Etna, Colima, and Mauna Loa,
Pelé and St. Helens and Krakatoa.
Way down in his cave, at the heavens’ back portal,
We think he’s still scheming, for gods are immortal!
Lest Vulcan and Venus restructure their nuptials
I fear we’ll have more of those frightful eruptials.

(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman

Picture credits: spaceplace.nasa.gov

She had had her eyes out for some time now, looking for a certain type of blouse or shirt, something she could wear on cooler days under something else, I forget which. If you know Portland, Oregon, you will agree that the place is better known for covered wagons than for fashion. There is a Nordstrom’s, though, but they had no such blouse or shirt. Which is no surprise if you consider her specifications:  cotton, long sleeves, a certain style of collar, form fit, not blousy or baggy. Oh, and it had to be white and show no small pictures of crocodiles or horses.

Let’s not worry, I suggested. We were scheduled to fly to London three weeks hence. London is full of world class stores. This will give us some fun shopping abroad. What excitement, I promised.

Well, we did get to London. The place is indeed full of Kleins, Armanis, Hermeses, La Costes, Bosses, Diores, Michael Korses, Pradas, Ralph Laurenses, Ferragamoses, Burberries, and Chanels. They all had everything but not what we needed. Sure, we found a blouse with sleeves. But it had the wrong collar. We did find one with the right collar but it was made of silk, not cotton. After three days of exhausting shopping, including Harrods, Selfridges, and Marks & Spencer, we still had no blouse (or shirt).

We had planned to fly home via Paris, anyway. It made sense, therefore, to postpone further shopping for clothes until we got to the capital of fashion. We thought. What a rude awakening it was when we found out that Paris was not full of high, or any, fashion. The market is dominated by the same hum-drum cookie cutter stores, the Kleins, Armanis, Hermeses, La Costes, Bosses, Diores, Michael Korses, Pradas, Ralph Laurenses, Ferragamoses, Burberries, and Chanels.

Some of the exciting mystery of traveling to foreign countries, the pleasure of shopping in a different market, died for us that day. The world, it appears, at least from the shopper’s point of view, has become a homogeneous blend of sameness. The cities of Europe, and presumably Asia as well, are but clones of each other. They are as predictable as outlet stores in the Mojave desert. Disappointed successors of Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad, we flew home. We stopped over in San Francisco where the rest of our dream died:  from Union Square to Fisherman’s Wharf, guess what? Same old, same old: Calvin Klein, Armani, Hermes, La Coste, Hugo Boss, Dior, Michael Kors, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Ferragamo, Burberry, and Chanel. And still no blouse.

To add insult to injury she found her blouse the next day at home in Portland, at T.J. Maxx on Washington Street. And it was on sale, too.

 

(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman

 

When I was a child growing up in Germany in the Thirties the highest paid entertainer in the world, they say, was Grock the clown. “The king of clowns” they called him. Everybody loved him but nobody, as far as I can remember, ever suggested to turn the government over to him. But then, of course, we already had a Reichskanzler.

I must talk to my physician. Could one of the medications he prescribed for me be causing those frightful hallucinations and nightmares I keep having?

I have seen TV programs that developed something like this: The Master of Ceremonies walks out on stage. The audience breaks out in wild shrieks.  The man has not said anything yet.

“Welcome to the show on this hot evening”, he now says. Again, the audience shrieks wildly.

It is indeed hot in the auditorium. Had he said ‘Welcome to this icebox’ that would have been ironic and thus funny and the shrieks would have been justified, proof that the audience “got” the joke. As it was in this hypothetical case there was no joke. So why did the audience shriek?

Next, the MC introduces a performer by name. The audience shrieks, of course, as they should because they all know the performer and show their eager anticipation.  At the end of the performance there are more shrieks, signifying applause, the reward for a good performance. So far, so good.

The MC comes on stage again. Wild shrieks.  He says “Our next performer…” The audience interrupts with wild shrieks. “Has broken his collar bone during rehearsals and …” The audience shrieks wildly. “And we have asked this young lady in the audience…” Wild shrieks. “To sing for us the Star Spangled Banner”. Wild shrieks from the audience.

Are these screams the applause, the reward for a performance well done?  But she has not sung yet.  That cannot be it, then.  My guess and fervent hope is that none of this hilarity has anything to do with the broken bone. Apparently these are just emotional outbursts in anticipation of a performance, any performance. They express the fun of being there, the thrill of being on TV, and thus of being part of the medium.

Perhaps that is what Professor Marshall McLuhan of Toronto was driving at, years ago, when he coined the phrase “The Medium is the Message”. The shrieks and screams are an essential part of the show, a part of the medium. The performance, the speech, the joke, the song, whatever, are meant to be the message but it really does not matter. There needn’t even be a message as long as there is an audience prepared to make a lot of noise. It is at this point, I think, that we become aware that medium and message have in deed become the same thing, that applause, namely the reward for a performance, is actually the performance!

Had McLuhan been an Ashkenazi he could have said it even simpler:  A shriek is a Shrek!

(c) 2017  by Herbert H. Hoffman

Picture credits: Printapattern Blog

 

 

You must hand it to the Bard: he always finds the right words. Here is an excerpt from Act III of Midsummer-Night’s Dream, slightly brought up to date. Quince is the speaker:

“Then there is another thing: we must have a wall … Some man or other must present Wall: and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some roughcut about him. And let him hold his fingers thus (just so) for Pyramus to whisper through that cranny and tell those on the other side how much they owe”.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman
Picture credits: Shrek franchise (Paramount Pictures and Dreamworks Animation)

What is so holy about holy? Just asking the question is an absurdity. Dictionaries don’t help. “Holy” with a capital “h” is the sacred, pertaining to divine things or beings.  While “holy” can also be merely a word used in expressions of surprise, as in “Holy cow!” And then there is Hollywood where there are neither hollies, nor anything holy or even surprising.

Be that as it may, where I am at home December is the Christmas season. An educated extra-terrestrian visiting for the first time would assume that this holiday season has something to do with Christ, a prophet or a divine being venerated by some earthlings, depending on whom you ask. If the extra-terrestrian were to ask me I would have to admit that the season is probably more about entertainment. At my local Seniors’ Center, for example, you are, if you are old enough, invited to a lunch where you will enjoy “a rocking Elvis Christmas”.  Can’t you just see it, a pelvic Saint Elvis strumming a voluntary to “Rock of Ages”?

Here is an interesting aside: the above-mentioned invitation to the Christmas lunch came before Thanksgiving. That old Pilgrims’ holiday is in danger of getting lost in the shuffle for Christmas. Maybe it needs a distinctive possessive modifier. Staying with the entertainment theme I would propose “Reality Thanksgiving”, at least this year.

Lest you fear that this trend toward secularization of holy days signals a nationwide decrease in religious fervor let me assure you that, while some churches may have lost a few members, the attendance at the Cathedral of St. Market was phenomenal, last time I visited the Mall.

Thinking of minor holidays, there is one that certainly does not need a modifier, and that is Mothers’ Day. But even then, you might get a few more rsvp’s if you invited the neighbors to a “Martha Stewart’s Mothers’ Day” party. But it would probably be too cynical to call attention to June 18 as “Folsom Fathers’ Day”. So, scratch that one. Saint Valentine’s Day needs no help, nor does Saint Nicholas’ Day, although even lifelong Christians might be surprised to learn that Father Christmas, Grandfather Frost, Santa Claus, and Saint Nicholas of Myra are one and the same person whose feast day is December 6, not the 25th.

Another less holy “holiday” with an obvious name is Black Friday although I have no idea which Friday that was, or is. And then there is “the Fourth”. It used to be an almost holy national celebration of liberty but in many neighborhoods it is now often celebrated for the freedom of lighting illegal fireworks under the nose of the police. Gradually, I suspect, the Fourth of July will be seen as nothing more than the forerunner of Christmas. You doubt this? Do not underestimate the power of St. Market!

Food-oriented people have their days, too, I should add.. People often refer to Thanksgiving as “Turkey Day”. I have not heard anyone call Halloween the “Candy Day”, but that would be a possibility, although not very likely because everybody is getting more and more health conscious. Come the week before next “Easter Bunny Day”, might we now run into “Lean Tuesday”?  Fat chance, I reckon.

(c) 2016 by Herbert H. Hoffman

 

 

This is the title of an article that elucidates the mysteries of retail shopping in a wholesale environment. It was published in the magazine Culturecult. You will find the article by googling for ‘herbert h hoffman culture cult magazine’.