Allan Jefferys

WEEKLY NEWSPAPER COLUMNS
COLUMNS IN THE PILOT, SOUTHERN PINES, NC
Every Sunday
By
Allan Jefferys

WHAT IS A CONSERVATIVE? 1/19/07

When the Pilot suggested I write some columns from the conservative end of the spectrum, my first thought was: Why me? Am I a conservative?
The word refers to people who tend to want things to remain as they have always been with change coming slowly and gradually. That sounds fine to me until I ponder the fate of Iraq. A “surge” as proposed by the White House is merely a continuation of past policy with a slow and gradual change. Conservative?
Most us think that won’t work. Maybe we need a bold, sweeping, dramatic plan. But, like the Democrats, I can’t come up with one. I only know that “cut and run” is not the answer. So I guess on this point, I don’t qualify as a conservative.
Does it help that I can’t stand Hillary or John Edwards or John Kerry or Rosie O’Donnell (I haven’t made up my mind about Donald Trump.) Am I a conservative because I believe in giving a full week’s work for a paycheck? Congress should not disappear on Thursday stay home until the following Tuesday. If we hire you as a congressman or senator you should show up for work. (Hear that John Edwards?)
We should accept responsibility for our mistakes. A five year sentence does not begin to compensate for strangling your wife and stuffing her body into the trunk of a car. I can’t understand why Mike Nifong has not been disbarred and tossed into the pokey. A second chance is one thing—letting someone slither through the gutter of dishonesty and foul deeds and get off scot free is unacceptable. If somebody does something that merits the death sentence, it should happen swiftly and cheaply. Forget about a dozen years of appeals. If you’re positive he did it, get on with the job. Despite the brouhaha about how Saddam Hussein was executed, he deserved it and hanging does not begin to cost what lethal injections do. Is hanging cruel and unusual? Try the guillotine. No lingering pain there. Chalk one up for conservative.
Another clue: I think Ted Kennedy should have been thrown out of the senate years ago. How about using Chappaquiddick for a time table.
Why are so many people amazed that young people shoot other young people? Where do young people learn right from wrong? When I was growing up, you learned at home from parents and at school from teachers quick with a ruler slap on the hand. Today? How can a sixteen year old single-parent know anything about discipline? How can a school teacher clamp down on troublemakers when the teacher knows a lawsuit waits in the wings. We have become a nation of victims with lawyers standing ready to pounce if anyone tries to teach the victim right from wrong. Are you still amazed?
Barbra Streisand should shut up and sing.
What is happening to our constitution—especially the Bill of Rights? Has any document been so abused? How many have twisted it to avoid telling the truth by taking the Fifth? Does anybody really believe the founding fathers thought the First Amendment gave people the right to spew obscenities into the airwaves? Does anyone really believe the filth spewed out on television and motion pictures does not influence the soft malleable youth who soak it in??
Whoopi Goldberg should shut up and act.
Censorship has, of course, long been condemned by the enlightened. But, just as we need speed limits to keep our cars under control, so we need somebody with power to say WHOA! Sure, some of it goes too far. I can remember working for a radio station that refused to allow Cole Porter’s “Love For Sale” to be played because of its prostitution theme. Another banned a version of “Paradise” for dirty humming. Yes, some censorship did get ludicrous, but it still had its place.
Is a conservative simply a backwards-thinking reactionary who balks at progress? Or is a conservative someone who stands firm in an attempt to stave off what sometimes seems inevitable: the decline and fall of still another democracy. Is there a definitive life-span for America? Are we doomed to follow the history of Rome and Greece and soar for a century or two before plummeting like Icarus because we strove to touch the sun? Can conservatives hold back destiny?
These are questions that go right along with “Am I a conservative?
At any rate, I welcome the platform the Pilot offers and accept. The Pilot is proving itself time and again to be more fair and balanced than Fox News claims to be.
Oh yes, I think rap bears no resemblance to music and rappers should be banished to desert islands.
Bottom line: I guess I have answered my own question. I am a conservative.

—30—

APPEASERS 1/26/2007

My previous column hop-scotched around things that bother us conservatives. This one zeroes in on a specific: those who believe you get more flies with honey than vinegar. I think you get more with a fly swatter.
Although human nature has not changed much since Cain slew Abel, the world is still permeated with appeasers, rehabilitators and advocates of minimal or no punishment for evil deeds. This flies in the face of empirical evidence that says none of that works.
Neville Chamberlain was perhaps the most famous of the appeasers. He took pride in working things out with Adolph Hitler in the late thirties. How did that work out? The answer was called World War II. So much for appeasement and the Munich Agreement.
Recently, a Vermont judge decided 60 days was enough punishment for a child molester. And, of course, we have our own local example of a wrist slap for someone who strangled his wife.
What ails these judges? Does the Vermont crackpot really think treatment is going to work for the molester? Can anyone cite an example of “treatment” protecting future child victims?
Or don’t children have any rights?
The Eighth Amendment to our Constitution prohibits “cruel and unusual punishments.” But who is to say what is cruel? My vote goes to Joe Arpaio. He’s that Arizona tough-guy sheriff who keeps prisoners in tents and makes them wear pink boxer shorts. When they complain, Joe points to soldiers in Iraq who are in even hotter tents wearing full battle gear. The sheriff’s suggestion to those prisoners who wail about their plight: “This isn’t the Ritz-Carlton. If you don’t like it, don’t come back.”
Let’s send all child molesters to Joe Arpaio.
Then there’s Australian Prime Minister John Howard’s caveat to Muslims living Down Under: "We want them to understand our history and our culture, the extent to which we believe in mateship and giving another person a fair go, and basically if people don't want to support and accept and adopt and teach Australian values then, they should clear off."
Isn’t it time we took a lesson from the sheriff and the prime minister? Isn’t it time we stopped molly-coddling the criminals? If the Australians are big on giving people a “fair go” so are we. Emma Lazarus described our feeling perfectly when she wrote, “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. . .” We have long opened the golden door to those tempest-tossed. And the immigrants did right by us. The Irish, the Jews, the Italians. . . people from all parts of the earth came to us and learned our language, learned our laws and contributed. They became Americans.
Why now must everyone be hyphenated? Why must we teach in their language? Why must we adopt their ways? What is happening to the American dream? Must it be torn down by appeasers and super-lenient liberals? When are we going to stand up and face the judges who think 60 day sentences for horrendous crimes are okay?
When are we going to demand that these judges get off the bench?
Of course it will take some fancy foot-work to get rid of those klutzes. After all, most people in government will do anything to hang on to their jobs. When the nation was in its infancy, people used to volunteer to serve their fellow citizens for a while and then go back to plowing the fields of the farm. No more. Now, the perks are too great and the rewards too high to give up. That’s why they don’t put in a full week’s work. They have to go home to raise money to run and win again. And that’s why those who want integrity and decency in government have such an uphill battle.
The obvious answer is to deep-six them at the polls. The last election points out the difficulty there. The trouble is all appeasing liberals have a vote. . . and they breed. So we need to educate them.
Maybe blogs are the answer. I don’t have one yet, but I’m told they’re easy to build. And they are increasingly powerful. . . as is forwarded email. Our goal should be to seek people in high office who follow the Teddy Roosevelt approach of speaking softly while carrying a big stick. If you have to, use that stick. . . on law-breakers and on governments with a nuclear bomb gleam in their eyes.
No more appeasement.

—30—


JUST THE FACTS, PLEASE(2/2/07)
Everybody seems to be jumping into the presidential race at an earlier date than usual. That’s scary, since most of us will have to sort out the candidates through what we can learn from biased media. At the risk of biting the hand that fed me for a long career, the worst bias and most influential will come from broadcasting. That is because everything that appears on radio and TV is Page One and because ratings and money count more than service to the public.
It was not always so.
I can recall talking to the head of ABC news many years ago when I was researching a book. He pointed out that the news division lost many thousands of dollars each year because of the need to have news bureaus all over the world and writers, correspondents, camera crews and engineers galore. News was a vital public service. Money came from Saturday cartoons. The twain did not meet even if the network had to borrow money to meet the weekly payroll.
CBS at that time was the Tiffany network which also took its news seriously. CBS newsmen did not do Commentary; they preferred Analysis. They reported the news and then gave us a background of explanation so we could figure it out ourselves. Even those of us working side by side with those giants did not always know where their sympathies lay. Only in the relaxed area of a lounge or newsroom did they let the barriers down. I thought Eric Sevareid was going to take a swing at me one night when I made a crack about Adlai Stevenson. Given the size of this Norwegian, I backed down quickly. To Sevareid, Adlai Stevenson was almost a god, yet he kept his feelings to himself. To this great newsman, news was also a god.
He was not alone. Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite, Bill Shadel, Bill Downs, Griffing Bancroft. . . the list goes on and on and they were all heroes to those of us just beginning to get our feet wet in this business. I feel privileged to have known them and worked with them. They were mentors to us tyros. We listened to them, watched them and learned from them.
They cared.
Top management cared, too. Frank Stanton, Leonard Goldenson, Robert Sarnoff all listened to their own broadcasts and were quick to pick up the phone if they heard something awry. They kept us on our toes. CBS retained a Columbia professor named Cabell Greet to monitor us and gently, courteously correct our on-air goofs. I still have a memo from him offering suggestions on the proper pronunciation of Saudi Arabia. Today, no one seems to care. Within the same newscast you can hear Sody, Sowdy, Sawdy and Saoody..
Most of what I know about speaking I learned, not from school, but by listening to the radio. Don’t try that today. There seem to be no standards. All that counts is opinion and slant Again, no one seems to know or care.
Why should we care? Because speaking is what broadcasters do and condoning poor speech is like Okaying a surgeon using a rusty scalpel. Doing it right comes with the territory.
One of the things I deplore about our language is the iffiness of it. Spanish, Italian and even French are pretty straightforward but we all know the old saw about pronouncing GHOTI. The trick answer is FISH, using the gh from tough, the o from women and the ti from munition. It’s no wonder that so many have so much trouble with it. But, again, learning to do it right comes with the territory, even if the territory varies.
I remember covering an off-Broadway opening of “Iphigenia at Aulis” during my years as a theatre critic and asking a newspaper critic if he knew how to pronounce it. “We don’t care how to pronounce it,” he replied. “All we care about is how to spell it.” That was his territory.
It might not matter how today’s broadcasters pronounce things if they could stick to straightforward reporting. There is room for bias. It’s called commentary or editorial and should be identified as such. Commentary is fine—editorials are fine. But let’s keep them separate from Page One.
As I said, most of us are going to need help to sort out all of these candidates, especially newcomers to the national scene. (Barack O-who?) We can’t rely on what they say (think Spin), so we have to use the media. Let’s keep the pressure on the media to keep the pressure off us.
Just the facts, please.



JEEEZ! You got any kids? 2/9/07

Hanoi Jane is up to her old shenanigans again. Jane Fonda never seems to learn. Despite being vilified and accused of treason for her antics during the Vietnam war and despite half-hearted apologies made a couple of decades later, she’s back at it again—this time protesting the war in Iraq. Under the First Amendment, of course, she has the right to protest and, unlike her Vietnam actions, she has not, to date, trod the treason line.
Yet.
I never met Jane Fonda but did know her father. Henry Fonda was a very urbane and sophisticated man who was as home in a dinner jacket in a fancy club as anyone in New York. This, despite his portrayals of farmers and cowboys on the screen. His work in movies like The Grapes of Wrath, The Oxbow Incident, The Tin Star and My Darling Clementine remain memorable to this day. Jane Fonda’s latest escapade jolted my memory back to the Jane and Henry Fonda of the 1960s.
I did several television and radio interviews with him at that time. One radio interview stands out to me because it was at the peak of his daughter’s bashing of her country. We taped the interview in his home.
As we walked up the steps to his elegant town house on the east side of New York, his press agent asked me to avoid any mention of either Jane or Peter.
“Come on,” I replied. “Jane was on page three of this morning’s Daily News.”
“I know,” she came back. “Hank is devastated about it and feels somewhat responsible. He’d really appreciate it if you steered clear of the children.”
“But. . . “
“He likes you and trusts you, “she continued. “Please.”
I gave in.
We talked of everything but Jane and Peter. We discussed movies and his friendship with Jimmy Stewart and his love for live theatre. I steered the conversation around to westerns. He laughed as he pointed out that, despite the fact that most of his movies were non-westerns, many people thought of him as a cowboy actor. He liked westerns, however, but admitted that it took a lot of gold to get him to climb up on a horse. He then admitted that he hated horses and thought they were out-and-out dumb.
“I’ve ridden across the prairie hundreds of times,” he told me, “Scared to death about what that horse had in mind. I could have been kilt (sic).”
I started to laugh and then realized he was serious.
He went on to describe a scene where ten men in a saloon form a posse and stride across the street to get on ten horses and ride off. The last time he did that, he told me, it took two days for that one shot “. . . because ten horses won’t stand still long enough for ten men to get up in the saddle. They mill around and you find yourself with one foot in a stirrup just before you wind up on the ground.”
In the midst of this twenty minute interview, his phone rang and he asked if I could turn off the recorder. He picked up the phone across the room and, at first, kept his voice low. Soon, however, it rose in frustration and exasperation and anger. It became obvious that he was talking with one of his children, although I never knew which one.
He rejoined me and I reached for the tape recorder. Before I could start it, he held up his hand and almost shouted, “JEEEZ! You got any kids?”
That was the only reference made that day to Peter and Jane Fonda.
Henry Fonda frequently stated that he was not a very good father, yet his actions on that day almost forty years ago belie that statement. He obviously cared.
Does Jane Fonda care? Does she care about her family or even her country? It is one thing to be against a war. We’re all against war. . . especially those of us who have been in one. But few of us are willing to jeopardize our servicemen or our nation’s honor and safety by giving aid and comfort to the enemy. I wonder if Jane Fonda, Tim Burton, Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon ever give that any thought. Aid and comfort to the enemy. According to Article III of our constitution, that constitutes treason.
—30—


Peer Pressure 2/16/07

A number of years ago, a friend responded to my question about what made him quit smoking by answering, “The same thing that made me start: Peer pressure.”
His remarks soon led to my quitting, too. Where health fears, hypnosis, martinis and tranquilizers had failed, my desire to be like my friends took over. Peer pressure is one of the most powerful forces we humans face. It is effective in kindergarten, high school, college, the workplace and retirement. Very few of us can dismiss it. Sometimes the pressure is for good. . . sometimes for evil but it cannot be denied.
There are, of course, other pressures. Authority Pressure used to be more powerful than it is today. This one is represented by parents, teachers, bosses and government. Regrettably, fear of litigation has pushed Authority Pressure into cowardly corners.
And then there is Icon Pressure or Idol Pressure. This is the pressure we get from movies, radio and TV. This may well be the strongest and most dangerous pressure on our children. This is where First Amendment abuse runs rampant. This is the pressure that calls for us to raise shields and do battle.
There was a time when Clark Gable’s utterance of the word “damn” in Gone with the Wind sent tongues a wagging all over the country. Compare that to what is heard in prime time on broadcast TV every night. And cable is even worse. Two episodes of HBO’s The Sopranos were enough for me to reach for the OFF button. The show was rampant with language that would make a Marine blush and had enough garroting, adultery and treachery for the sleaziest politician. Yet this program is almost universally acclaimed. That baffles me. Having spent a decade as a critic, I claim an educated opinion that says “The Sopranos” is no more than mediocre in writing, acting and direction. I suspect its greatest claim to excellence lies in its breakdown of barriers and destruction of family values.
However it is, at least, not shoveled through the transom of the children’s bedroom. Not so dozens of TV shows which appeal to prurient interest. Each year new programs strive to top (or bottom) the “pushing the envelope” shows that preceded them. These scum bag offerings are presented in prime time where they are hard to ignore.
Movies, of course, are even worse. What makes this smut a crime lies in the Idol Pressure that suggests to impressionable youth that this is the way we should all behave. If the sexual scenes and language say it is okay to sleep around, why are we concerned about the wide swath of divorce and teenage pregnancy that prevails? If we see enough gore and drive-by shooting on TV and film, why are we aghast when this happens in real life?
Pornography and obscenity have always been around and always will be. But there was a time when they were not dropped on our front doorstep in broad daylight. Is it hypocrisy to demand that it arrive in a brown paper wrapping? I don’t think so. Nor am I suggesting that all things be “Mary Poppins” and “Snow White,” although both of those G-rated films were big money-makers and audience pleasers.
I submit two of the sexiest scenes I ever saw in a movie were Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett up those stairs and Cary Grant and Grace Kelly moving closer and closer on a couch in To Catch a Thief while fireworks on the Riviera grew bigger and bigger in the background. What was about to happen did not require much imagination on our part. It was all there, thanks to fine writing, direction and acting.
Critics are immune to Icon pressure. We have seen and heard it all on stage and screen. And I confess I have written a steamy scene or two in novels. But novels must be sought out. . . either bought or borrowed. They do not arrive by suddenly materializing in front of a child.
There is an organization called Parents Television Council which has made a bailing-out-the-ocean-with-a-teaspoon effort to stop this swill. I send them a little money every year because they do a good job in the face of a gutless FCC and apathetic industry. But, we have a long way to go. We owe it to our children and to future generations to reverse sick trends. This is where Letters are effective. Letters to the Editor, Letters to the heads of Broadcasting and, most important, Letters to Sponsors saying we won’t buy their products if they keep supporting garbage. Let’s stop calling this stuff “adult.” Sophomoric is a better word. Let’s put a lid on this Icon Pressure.
Hit ‘em where it hurts. In the wallet.
—30—


BEWARE THE BLOG 2/25/07

A couple of columns ago, I suggested that broadcasting will have the greatest influence on the presidential elections for 2008. Now, I’m not so sure. On reflection, I believe the most dangerous and most powerful influence will come from the INTERNET.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the Web. When I think of what we used to go through to research a subject, I marvel at and cheer the Googles, Yahoos and Ask.coms that abound. In seconds you can find out hundreds of things about people, places, things and ideas.
E-Mail may be the best thing invented since the Gene Sarazen came up with the sand wedge. Before this instant communication tool arrived on the scene we sent paper letters to each other which called for full page replies. With E-Mail, you can simply hit REPLY and add “Amen” or “You said it.” Easier for you and easier for the recipient. I also like the idea of a couple of clicks which tell my bank to pay a bunch of bills. No need for stamps or checks. Saves time and money. You can download movies, music, pictures and computer applications in nothing flat. The Internet can take the place of a dictionary or thesaurus or an encyclopedia.
So what’s not to like—what’s to fear?
As more and more people get hooked up to E-Mail, more and more people will open their computers to extremely persuasive bald-faced lies. This is not to say print media and radio and TV are not equipped to lie, it’s just that they tend to be more subtle lest they get caught. But anybody can start a blog . This online journal of your personal thoughts does not cost very much and is easy to create.
The power of a blog lies in how easily it can be forwarded around the world. Like a chain letter, you can dream up some horrible scenario and send it out. Couch it in language that excites or incenses your readers and they’ll help by forwarding it to their friends. The next thing you know, you have created an urban legend.
An urban legend is just that: a legend that sounds true but isn’t. It may have a grain of truth in it, but it is basically an underbelly jab that can hurt or even destroy a reputation. No one is immune, be he liberal or conservative. These lies can be attempts at humor or downright malicious. As campaigning heats up you can expect more and more emailed smears intended to derail a candidate or merely influence your vote.
They will seem plausible. A couple of examples: A long essay supposedly aired on “60 Minutes” in which Andy Rooney explained his philosophy of life. In this diatribe, Andy comes across as a reactionary racist who states “. . . the money I make belongs to me and my family, not some governmental stooge with a bad comb-over who wants to give it away to crack addicts for squirting out babies. . .” It goes on from there.
Trouble is, Andy Rooney never wrote or said those things and George Carlin had nothing to do with the bit about being a “Bad American.”
Another one: the story about Lee Marvin calling Bob Keeshan (Captain Kangaroo) the bravest man he ever knew. Marvin did enlist in the Marines and saw action in the Pacific but he never saw Keeshan at Iwo Jima and Keeshan got in too late to see combat.
I confess I forwarded this one. Even pure fabrications sometimes sound like they should be true. Many of these stories are inspirational, others effective in maligning your opponents, some are downright funny. But most urban legends are neither urban nor legend. They are simply lies. Like spam, they are difficult to pin down and difficult to separate from truth.
So beware the blogs. And if you’d like to check out urban legends, perhaps the best place to search is a web site called www.snopes.com. Barbara and David Mikkelson (I’ve never met them) run this site, investigate, pursue and unearth the truth about much of the stuff that is forwarded around the world without any verification. They are to be commended for their zealous fact-finding. If you log on to their web site, you can have a ball wandering through all kinds of areas of myth, even if (like me) you’re embarrassed to discover you have fallen for some of these legends and forwarded them yourself.
Of course you don’t have to check up. For example, if you want the REAL scoop on Hillary, you’ve come to the right place. Just give me a couple of minutes to set up my blog.
—30—


ONE IN 300 MILLION 3/4/07

Now that we’ve reached a population of 300 million, it should be easy to find one person.. . just one who would make a great president. Why then, with more than two dozen running, does no one stand out? For that matter, when was the last time we voted FOR a candidate. More often than not we vote AGAINST the opponent.
One problem may be our habit of zeroing in on one particular flaw. One issue takes center stage in our thinking. Abortion, Gun Control, Religion, hawk or dove—each colors our judgment. If an Obama or Biden utters one gaffe, out they go. We pounce on Giuliani’s position on guns or worry that Romney is a Mormon and make our decision. We’re paying too much attention to the small branches and not enough to the tree. You can argue that we are entitled to a tree with perfect branches. But how often do we find such a tree?
Think of it! We’ve had just forty-three presidents since our country was founded. Forty-three! Yet how many of them do any of us consider to be great Americans, let alone great leaders? Gerald Ford was eulogized recently as being decent, honest, and truthful. Those qualities were hailed as unique. Does this mean that a majority of office holders treat truth lightly? Ford had no trouble with the truth. In fact he once said, “Truth is the glue that holds government together.”
If we get sick in a strange city, we can look in the yellow pages and find a doctor. He may not be our choice for a permanent family physician but at least we can be sure he went to medical school and is licensed. Yet all we insist on for a president is that he be thirty-five years old and born in this country.
What do we really want or need in a president? What qualifications should be mandatory?
He (or she) should be honest, trustworthy, experienced in governing, moral, and endowed with leadership qualities. He should be able to communicate with us and with his counterparts around the world. He should not be quick-on-the-trigger but should not hesitate to do what is necessary to preserve and protect our nation.
Admittedly, that list is oversimplified. Unfortunately, too many of us vote based on one issue. I am a life member of the NRA, yet I would not hesitate to vote for an anti-gun candidate if he excelled in all other factors. I am opposed to abortion, but I’m equally opposed to rusty coat hangers in back alleys.
What about charisma? A brilliant smile is certainly a big plus. There, John Edwards wins hands (or bicuspids) down. Add to that a carefully-coiffed hairdo and Mr. Edwards is the prettiest candidate in the pack (sorry Hillary.) Regrettably, that’s as far as he goes. Edwards offers not one other redeeming quality.
On the surface it would seem that a former governor or mayor is more experienced in governing than a senator. Governors are accustomed to dealing with three branches: legislative, executive and judicial. Yet a senator may be more experienced in foreign policy. Ideally, a vice-president should make a logical successor. A veep should have practice in all areas. No vice-president is running in 2008. Besides, a look back discloses few vice-presidents who became good presidents.
What about religion? Or Gender? Or race? Note that the above list of qualifications does not mention anything about those attributes. Nor should they.
Consider, too, those who have been presidents who fell short of the mark on morals. Yes, I know. . . some of our better presidents had more than a glop of clay around their feet. So does anyone of us dare to judge?
Since most of us are not experts in predicting how well a president will treat us, why not use the standards of our doctor in a strange town? Why not demand politicians be educated in government before they are allowed to run? Why not make them pass examinations and be licensed before they announce a candidacy?
And why not take money out of the equation? Too frequently, the candidate with the deepest pockets has too much of a head start. It used to be all candidates got equal time. But that created a problem when some kook you’ve never heard of got the same space afforded a John McCain. Let’s just remember we are voting for president; Paris Hilton and Britney need not apply.
So it isn’t going to be easy to decide who gets our vote. One scary thought: If (heaven forfend) Hillary should become president, does that mean the Clintons will bring back the stuff they took from the White House the first time around?

—30—

THE LEAST COMMON DENOMINATOR 3/11/07

One of the terrifying thoughts about a total takeover by the Far Left is the goal of equalizing everybody. Now, it’s one thing to want to give someone a boost—a leg up on life. Raising the tide to lift all boats is admirable, but that’s not what the Left does. The Left sucks the water out of the pond until all the boats wind up stuck in the mud.
More and more we see evidence of dumbing down. . . lowering the standards so that striving, studying, working and achieving is frowned on. Are we an overweight nation, headed for diabetes? Don’t diet—change what we call normal weight. Are too many children threatened with being held back and forced to repeat a grade? Change the curve so everybody graduates with high honors. Yesterday’s D becomes today’s B.
Are we kidding ourselves? What’s wrong with that?
Admittedly, luck, timing, networking and God-given talent enter into success. But so does hard work, practice and dedication. And those attributes deserve our highest applause. If a Michael Dell can start building computers in a dormitory that turns into a huge corporation, more power to him. If a Bill Gates becomes a billionaire, cheer him on. (It would help, of course, if that blasted Windows program worked better, but that’s another column.) If we can find a talented youngster and pull him up the mountain called success, good for us. But let’s make sure we’re pulling him up—not pulling down the youngster above him.
I have been given a helping hand by more people than I can count. I remember a civilian flight instructor in the old Army Air Corps who stayed with me long after he needed to. Despite my near-failing ability, he kept encouraging and guiding until I finally soloed. No matter that I barely squeaked by my first army check, my instructor was determined that I was going to be a superior pilot. While others in his class learned chandelles, lazy-8s and spins, I was relegated to simple exercises. I was convinced I was going to wash-out; he had other plans. At first, I was the worst cadet in the squadron. But at the end, I zoomed by all of them. . . all thanks to this instructor.
We met in a Bakersfield, California bar after I moved from Primary to Basic and I asked him why he stuck with me.
He laughed. “Now that you’ve become my best student, I can ‘fess up. I really thought you were hopeless, but I’d long had a theory that grinding away with simple stick and rudder exercises until they became second nature was a great way to turn a mediocre student into a super pilot. I had nothing to lose with you so I tried it. And it worked.”
It sure did. Without him, I might not have made it. Note that he made no effort to reduce the other students down to my level.
A good teacher can sometimes do wonders, but not always. Richard Rodgers was certainly one of the true giants of music. . . composing hundreds of some of the greatest songs ever written and forty Broadway musicals like Oklahoma!, Carousel, and The Sound of Music. I came to know him during my own theatre career and one day, only partly in jest, asked him if he could teach me to write a song.
“Sure,” he replied. “I can teach you to write a song. But I can’t teach you to write a GOOD song.”
Aye, there’s the rub. A good song by his standards was beyond my ability to write. Lower his concept of a “good” song so I could qualify and he would lower all music. Which is what I think we are doing today.
Given our tendency to pretend everyone is a champion, I’m surprised we haven’t let people like me into major golf tournaments. Can’t you just see it? Here is Donald Duffer at the Masters. He gets two strokes per hole thanks to his handicap and three mulligans at the Amen corner.
Excellence is tough to achieve, but it is mandatory if we are to survive as a nation. We must constantly raise the bar. . . demand the best and reward those who are the best. Help, guide and, like my old flying instructor, instill confidence where it is needed. But never, never, never accept mediocrity and call it good. If that means more discipline in schools and jobs, so be it. Until recently, we have been hailed as the greatest nation. Let us regain that acclaim. Let us banish the least common denominator.
—30—

OF THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE (3/18/2007)

Making the internet rounds these days is a quiz that asks us to decide whether the NBA or the NFL houses members guilty of the following: 36 have been accused of spousal abuse, 7 have been arrested for fraud, 19 accused of writing bad checks, 117 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least two businesses,3 have done time for assault, 71 cannot get a credit card because of bad credit, 14 have been arrested on drug-related charges, 8 have been arrested for shoplifting, 21 are currently defendants in lawsuits and 84 have been arrested for drunk driving.
All of this in the last year. So which is it? NFL or NBA.
Neither. It’s the 535 members of the United States Congress.
I guess a salary of more than $165,000 per year is not enough, even though a lot of other freebies and perks go with it. It’s natural, then, that a little shoplifting is called for to supplement this near poverty stipend.
Before we continue, a bit of disclosure: I made a cursory search to see if the above accusations were part of a myth—urban legend. I found nothing to dispute the numbers but did not pursue it fully. No matter. We do know that malfeasance exists. We have alleged evidence close to home with mayors and state legislators accused and, in some cases, pleading guilty. We suspect others are just plain getting away with it. No wonder winning reelection is so desirable. For too many, being elected is a license to steal. And even if they are caught and dumped, fat pensions keep thick shells on the nest eggs. And don’t forget. . . the incumbent has the edge with ammunition galore to hold off invasion from newcomers.
Many years ago James Madison said: "In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the government to control the governed, and next oblige it to control itself."
Therein lies the problem. The only way to cure ethical evils is to pass laws with enough teeth to force our representatives to honor them. Who passes these laws? The legislators, themselves.
Talk about foxes protecting hen houses. Oh sure, every once in a while our stalwart representatives enact chest-pumping ethics laws designed to keep us citizens from checking up on the foxes. Somehow, nothing changes. The goody bags are still within reach; the lobbyists can still get their messages across, even if it takes a little quid pro quid.
The logical correction is to elect some firebrand who will rush up to Washington with saber drawn and oust these miscreants. The trouble is, as soon as our white knight gets there, he or she is tossed into a windowless garret and told to not speak until he gets some seniority. In the meantime, our constantly reelected incumbents wind up chairing committees that control things for no other reason than seniority.
It is an endless circle—a study in perpetual motion of incompetence and pocket-lining. I don’t know about you but I don’t want my North Carolina congressman brushed aside by some pork barrel politician from West Virginia or Massachusetts. I have lived in and voted in New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, Maryland and Virginia. Each state is a little different and demands a representative who can pinpoint parochial problems. No state should be held hostage by a graybeard with seniority.
Somehow, we must break this seniority cycle. I believe the original intent was for people to go to Washington more or less as a volunteer. It was a civic duty to take time out of your career to help run the government. When you had done your bit, you’d head home, pick up your plow and put the farm in order. No one thought of this as a lifetime career. But then the rewards were far below where they stand today. Today, the only thing that counts is getting reelected.
Thomas Jefferson once said:” I think we have more machinery of government than is necessary, too many parasites living on the labor of the industrious."
He should see what we have now.
Why not demand that anyone running for office sign a binding pledge that, once elected, he or she will sponsor bills to eliminate seniority power, take away the power of congress to raise its own pay and pension, banish all lobbyists from personal contacts, eliminate salaries and pensions from any legislator convicted of a crime. Until we can scale back excessive government, let us at least remind it that this is a government OF the people, BY the people and FOR the people. People. Not congressmen.
—30—

MORE DUMBING DOWN 3/25/07

The famous theatre restaurant Sardi’s used to have a sign over their little bar which read:
“An Evening In The Theatre Is A Lifetime Of Memories.”
It used to be true. I still remember fondly shows I saw when I was but a child. Today, however, I am not so sure. Has theatre started to dumb down,too?
Back in the 60s New York’s Lincoln Center had a summer festival which offered twenty year-old Broadway musicals featuring stars of the original productions. Thus, you could see Ethel Merman repeat her performance in “Annie Get Your Gun” and John Raitt reprise “Carousel.”
I had seen the Carousel shortly after it opened in 1945 and it had become (and remains) one of my all-time favorite shows. Therefore, it was with some trepidation that I faced seeing it again, this time as a critic. Would this be like the house you grew up in but had not seen in many years? You know how that is; the house always seems to shrink. Would Carousel shrink?
Not to worry. It was every bit as superb as I remembered it and John Raitt sang, if anything, better than he did twenty years earlier. Nor was mine the only rave review. All of the critics tossed hats in the air over this gem. There was only one flaw: it was slated for a mere six week run. I wrote Richard Rodgers (who headed the festival) and begged him to move it down town—to a Broadway theatre where it could run forever.
He wrote back that they would like to extend the run but Lincoln Center was booked. As for a Broadway theatre, he added, that would not work. Everyone knew that revivals never made it on Broadway.
What would he think today? At least a dozen shows currently on Broadway are retreads. Has the audience changed? I doubt it. I don’t think they have any choice. There used to be some seventy brand new shows opening each year. There used to be Richard Rodgers, Jerome Kern, Cole Porter, Harold Arlen, Irving Berlin, Jule Styne and George Gershwin to write the music and Lorenz Hart, Oscar Hammerstein, Ira Gershwin, Alan Jay Lerner and Dorothy Fields to write the words. Now, they are all gone and if young replacements are waiting in the wings, they are well hidden. Also well hidden is the American musical. For decades, the musical was our domain. England could export drawing room comedy and drama but America owned the musical. No more. What is left is dumbing down. (Quick, name me two songs from any Andrew Lloyd Weber musical.) Crashing chandeliers, whirling helicopters and monumental elevators taking cats to heaven have taken over. Just as computer-generated graphics and soft porn have taken over movies, special effects have replaced creative talent in theatre. Maybe it’s an outgrowth of rock and roll concerts. Since it only takes three chords and a beat for a rock song, the sameness of it all is masked with fireworks and flashing lights.
Two of the best shows I ever saw were “I Do, I Do” and “The Fantasticks” The first was a musical based on “The Fourposter.” One set, cast of two and sheer magic. The Fantasticks was almost childlike—yet it has enchanted more than one generation. Both, incidentally, were written by Harvey Schmidt and Tom Jones. No fireworks—just talent.
That “lifetime of memories” began with the overture. First the house lights dimmed, then the conductor stepped into the orchestra pit, bowed to the audience, raised his baton and, in the hush that followed, gave the down beat. What a tingling moment to hear twenty-six live musicians send glorious sound into the second balcony. If you’d like to hear one of the best of all overtures, listen to “Gypsy.”
Today, the overture which set the mood is dumbed down as some of the musicians are in rooms in the basement, forcing the conductor to hear them over a headset. In the balcony, a technician sits before a large audio console and mixes all sounds. Later, singers and actors wearing hidden microphones enter and mumble their lines. I’m told even the Met has succumbed to microphones. Mumbling is in. Dumbing down is in.
It need not be. Some things have improved: Dancing and dancers. Dancers are far superior to those in Agnes de Mille’s day. Ice skaters are equally superb. Watch Sonja Henie (the world champion of her day) in an old movie and compare her running and spinning with the current crop of figure skaters and you’ll wonder how Sonja ever won a medal.
Change is normal, dumbing down is not. Let’s encourage neophyte composers and lyricists. Let’s open the door to new George Gershwins.

—30—




LOCK THE DOOR BEHIND YOU (4/1/07)

Whether we moved here six months ago or (as we did) twenty years ago, we all say the same thing. “Now that I’m here, close the gates. No more people. This is Shangri-La and it’s full up. Lock the door.”
We discovered the Sandhills almost thirty years ago when a colleague and I answered an ad that promised two nights at the Pinehurst Hotel, three days of meals and all the golf you care to play. Total cost for both you and your wife was $250, including airfare and limo from RDU. The catch? We had to give them an hour or so to look at some land. Fine with us, we said. We’re not going to buy.
We both bought. A day after arriving here we picked out our lots and joined the Pinehurst Country Club.
The following year, we each brought another couple down. See the pattern? Now we were eight. For almost ten years, this octet made at least one annual golf safari to this hallowed area, soaking up the legendary auras created by the Hogans, Sneads, Nicklauses et.al. and challenging the golf gods to do us in. Usually, the gods obliged.
We learned later that during the Diamondhead and bank days, golf course maintenance consisted of little more than band aids. Everything was green on top but, beneath the surface, even the venerable Number 2 course was in disrepair. However, those of us accustomed to cow pasture golf, thought all was pristine perfection. We couldn’t wait to become permanent Tar Heelers.
It took ten years but finally we were all here, determined to become scratch golfers. Okay, so that didn’t work but there were other pluses: No traffic; nothing was over eight minutes from wherever we were. The population was only 2500; Spring tip-toed into your yard a good six weeks ahead of Connecticut and winter was never onerous.
What a contrast to my commute to and from New York City. My work and the hours I kept made rail commuting impossible. I wound up driving in all kinds of weather at all times of the day— a 108 miles daily round trip. At first it was fine. I’d go through the Greenwich (Conn) toll and scoot up the beautiful Merritt Parkway, seeing only a half dozen cars. However, traffic cannot abide a void. Just before we left, I recall a ride where both lanes were bumper to bumper. The impatient car inches behind me was flashing his lights, ordering me to get out of his way. I wondered how he expected me to do that—chandelle up? Like an airplane? I glanced at my speedometer. We were all doing 73 miles per hour. I vowed right then and there to stop this nonsense as soon as I could.
Moving here did end that nonsense. Of course we could not keep this good fortune a secret so each year more people joined us. And, in spite of our euphoria, there were minuses. Really good restaurants were hard to come by and supermarkets tended to be unimaginative, offering little of what we were used to. Upscale shopping meant a trip to Raleigh. . . much more than eight minutes away. But the local people were friendly and even taught us some good manners. The cost of living was easy to handle, too, so we spread the word some more.
Thanks to our proselytizing, some towns have quadrupled in population and traffic sometimes looks like a New York street. You no longer recognize everyone on the avenue. But it’s a good mix. Youth has integrated with a graying populace and lent excitement to the area. We have some fine restaurants, shopping is increasingly good and our right-next-door hospital is one of the best in the nation. Our golf courses are now world-renown and we have state-of-the-art Croquet courts, Lawn Bowling and superior tennis facilities.
But.
We now have traffic. Sometimes we get stuck at a light through two or three cycles. We’ve had to hire experts to tell us how to manage this growth.
One suggestion is a roundabout.
The conservative in me was initially opposed, but when you really analyze everything, it makes perfect sense. Admittedly, George Marshall Park will be changed but, looking back at pictures I took thirty years ago, I can see that it has always been changing. Knowing how marvelous a job Pinehurst Resort does in sprucing up (remember what they did with brick walks and planting during the US Opens,) I suspect it will even be even better.
So welcome, newcomer. Enjoy life here as we have, but don’t brag too much about our paradise. And as soon as you’re settled in, lock the door behind you.

—30—

SIDE EFFECTS (4/8/2007)

The recent problems caused by prescription sleeping aids should be a wake-up call for the drug industry. Apparently some people who have taken these medications have found themselves behind the wheel of a car with no recollection of how they got there. That is scary, dangerous and irresponsible. The makers of the guilty prescriptions are asleep without a prescription.
It is not my call to suggest they rework the formulas for these drugs. That’s between the manufacturers and the FDA. But there is one thing they should do: Stop advertising them on television. Oh sure, they rattle off disclaimers, warning us about potential side effects, but how often do we really hear or heed those warnings. We are told to ask our doctor about such and such. But are we really asking our doctor. . . or are we pressuring him for a prescription?
There was a time—not too long ago—when there were no broadcasting ads for prescription drugs, doctors, lawyers or medical procedures. Ethics was the reason given for these prohibitions. Now, it seems, those once banned ads make up the bulk of commercial interruptions. Once again, ethics is shoved aside in favor of the bottom line. As one who believes in conservative capitalism, and as a shareholder in one of the big pharmaceuticals, I should probably hail the rewards of this advertising. However, Ethics raises its accusing finger and Integrity demands to be heard.
There is also the matter of good taste (no pun intended.) Some of the subject matter of these ads makes many of us squirm. Must we be bedazzled by all the intimate aches and ills of the opposite sex? Let the lady keep her bladder control difficulties to herself. Must children be bombarded with mini-soap operas about erectile dysfunction? And just how do you explain to a nine year old daughter what ED is anyway? Must we raise the curtain on all mystery?
The big objection to all of this lies not in the embarrassment most of the ads create but in the dangers posed by promising panaceas that your doctor would never dare suggest. There is a risk with all medications and medical procedures. We must weigh risk versus gain and consider each very carefully. That is why prescriptions must be written by a medical professional and not just tossed to the pharmacist by us laymen.
It is patently irresponsible to place us in the forefront of decision-making. This is not to suggest we be kept in the dark. Most physicians prefer educated patients. The internet makes it easy to search out virtually everything pertaining to our health and prescriptions come with documentation that explains side effects. Unfortunately, the TV commercials gloss over the negatives and lead us to think all products are safe. Even if our doctor hesitates, we assume we know better, thanks to the wisdom we think the commercials impart.
For the most part, we have a superior health system in this country. Certainly most people would agree it is superior to those nations with socialized medicine. A majority of those who live in Canada or Great Britain would far prefer to be treated here where you don’t have to wait months for a test. And there is no question that we are living longer and healthier than our forefathers did. Much of that is due to improved procedures and medicines.
But it is not perfect and not even as good as it could be. The proof of this lies in the number of patients who die unnecessarily in hospitals. . . in many cases because people did not take that extra step to wash their hands. And it is not perfect when pharmaceutical companies drive for the bottom line at all costs.
Our health costs are rising at an alarming rate. . . far in excess of cost of living increases. Drug companies argue (with some justification) that huge profits are necessary to allow research for new medicines. But let the profits go for research. . . not for bigger ad budgets. Broadcasters and a toothless FCC must accept the blame for the irresponsibility of prescription drug advertising. Cable lacks the traditional legal restraints that major networks face so it is not totally the fault of the FCC. There is also the immense competition for audience time and sponsor revenue. Nonetheless, I remember an unspoken rule that competing products could not be heard within three minutes of each other. Recently, I counted five separate and competing automobile commercials one after another. Greed and unethical behavior are taking over.
It need not be. The airwaves are owned by the public. Licenses are in the picture and ethics should be mandatory. Let us return to ethics and let us begin by banishing prescription drug commercials.

—30—

HAPPY TAX TIME 4/15/2007

Tax time is here and most of us have filed. Wasn’t that fun? I hope you are getting a big refund; I’m not. In fact, I had to pay them, worse luck. I am not sure why. I have gone over the forms diligently and can’t find any errors. I’m sure you did the same thing. After all, the tax code is only 16,895 pages long. The bible, in case you are interested, comes in at a little less than 1300 pages.
I recall doing my taxes when we lived in Washington, D.C. I bought one of those books that tell you how to do it and wound up owing the government $87.00. A colleague recommended a particular CPA. He came up with a refund of 700 dollars. I was sure we were doing something devious and asked, “How can that be? I bought a book. Won’t I go to prison?”
The CPA laughed and pointed to a wall of folders. “That’s the tax code. A bit longer than you’re paperback book, isn’t it?” He gestured toward a window and added, “As for prison, see that building? That’s where the IRS lives. I wouldn’t dare play games with that crowd.”
Obviously, that tax preparer had read the tax code. But not all tax preparers do and not all can understand this bloated bunch of rules, anyway. We can do it ourselves, hire someone or use one of several software programs designed for do-it-yourself types. The problem with all of it is that every year congress changes rules. Nobody can keep up with it.
A bigger problem looms: If Nancy Pelosi and her cronies get their claws on the code, she’ll be taking more of what you worked for and passing it out to those who don’t work but do vote. The logical solution is to keep Congress away from this tax code. That won’t be easy since Congress looks upon taxes as a way to gain votes, skew money sources and pay back donors. Taxes are power tools for those in power who want to remain in power. The best way to remove that power is to simplify taxes so we don’t need an ever-changing multi-thousand page document. I note that Rudy Giuliani has recently endorsed Forbes’ Flat Tax. Years ago, when I read about that I thought it was the answer. However, I am neither an economist nor an accountant and some of them have pointed out flaws in a flat tax.
Recently, a friend loaned me a book called The FairTax Book by Neal Boortz and John Linder. At first, I was skeptical, but the more I read, the more sense this made. There may be pitfalls I have not discovered or flaws hidden but I have yet to find them. This FairTax abolishes the IRS, ensures Social Security and Medicare funding, enables retirees to keep their entire pension and enables workers to keep their entire paycheck.
It abolishes all federal personal and corporate income taxes, gift, estate, capital gains, alternative minimum, Social Security, Medicare, and self-employment taxes and replaces them with one simple, visible, federal retail sales tax administered primarily by existing state sales tax authorities. To avoid discrimination against the poor, people will be refunded any sales tax up to the poverty level. It would thus seem to be a win-win-win approach.
It would eliminate any need for off-shore tax shelters in places like the Cayman Islands. It would reduce, if not eliminate, cheating. Of course, a lot of lawyers, accountants and that vast army of the IRS would be out of work, but I’m sure we can find something for them to do. Perhaps something constructive for a change. The proposed federal retail sales tax is estimated to be 23%, which may sound like more than your current bracket. However, since the seller of goods or services will not be paying any tax, the price of these goods can be reduced far below that 23%. Most important, it will take away the power of the Congress to play cat-and-mouse games with us. Just think what we could have done with the hours spent this year alone preparing our taxes. Of course we’d have missed all that fun but. . .
Sound too good to be true? Maybe it is. I can’t find anything wrong with it compared to the tangled and snarled web we crawl through every year. But maybe you can. The book is relatively inexpensive and available from local libraries. If you Google FairTax, you can unearth the full particulars of the plan. If you like it as much as I do, maybe we can stir something up.

—30—

LAWLESSNESS FLAUNTED (4/22/2007)

What makes high profile people think they can flout the law and then flaunt it and then get away with it?
More and more we see more and more prominent leaders skirting and violating ethics and laws. A couple of examples:
Imus. Surely he should have known better and recognized that he was flirting with disaster. Oh sure, he was known to be a shock jock and had gotten away with slurs and slams for decades. But the issue that brought him down was clearly a case of choosing an innocent and undeserving target. (Personally, I mourn the loss of this year’s peach crop far more than I care about Imus.)District Attorney Nifong. From the beginning, this arrogant meanie was out to get the Duke Lacrosse players and, seemingly, did not care how he did it. Since the role of a DA is to seek justice as opposed to simply winning, how did he dare go as far as he did; how did he dare withhold evidence to feather his own nest? Will he be disbarred? I care more about the peach crop than I do about Nifong.
Nancy Pelosi. She is to all intents and purposes guilt of violating the Logan Act. That is a felony punishable by prison. The Logan Act is a federal law that forbids unauthorized citizens from negotiating with foreign governments. It is short and to the point. It was passed in 1799 and last amended in 1994. It seems quite clear that Pelosi’s visit to Syria clearly falls under that act. Not only was she not authorized by her government to talk with President Hafez al-Assad, she was specifically requested by the president of our country not to do it. Will she be charged?
The scary part of Pelosi is that she is second in line to become president of the United States. Should something happen to George Bush and Dick Cheney “Hail to The Chief” would be played at Nancy Pelosi’s entrance. It is a far easier path than Hillary faces and totally unearned. Here I part company with the peach crop. I care more about the fate of this country and, with Nancy Pelosi running loose, I worry about it.
I could cite dozens more. . . like Jim Black and Paul Wolfowitz and Bill Clinton’s buddy Sandy Berger but you get the idea. Could it be the punishment doesn’t fit the crime? Martha Stewart didn’t look like prison was a big deal.
A number of years ago I did an all-night radio program in New York. I avoided garages and muggers by parking right underneath a NO PARKING sign in front of the radio station. Of course, I got the occasional ticket but it was worth it. The ticket cost $5.00 which meant I could get twenty of them in a year (about the average in those days) at a cost of $100. . . much less than the cost of a garage. Then one day, the City of New York raised the price. Now, a ticket cost $25.00. I became an instant law-abiding citizen.
Is there a message here? If our above mentioned miscreants and felons were sent to my favorite prison in Arizona where they would be kept in pink underwear and tents, would they treat the law so cavalierly? I know, I know. I’ve convicted them without a trial but then isn’t that what Nifong did?
White collar crimes abound and country club prisons exist to give wrist slaps. What about applying the Rudy Giuliani approach: nail them for stealing hub caps and they’ll be less likely to steal the whole car the next time out. Of course the A.C.L.U. would have conniptions over that approach. Aren’t all wrongdoers victims?
Why do people cheer lawbreakers and pay homage to crooks? Is it the Robin Hood syndrome? Personally, I don’t think Robin Hood gave anything to the poor. I think Robin squandered all his loot on Maid Marian.
Many people think all that is needed to escape punishment is a heart-felt apology. Think of the Imuses of the world who have become experts at mea culpa. It droppeth off their lips like the gentle rain. And too often it works. . . so they do it again and get away with it again and send a message to the Paris Hiltons of this earth that anything goes if you can afford it.
Sometimes no apology is even offered. For years, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton turned deaf ears to the vulgarities of hip hop. Listen ( if you can stomach it) to the average rap star and hear the same garbage that brought Imus down spewed forth in million-dollar-income-producing-lyrics filled with denigration and hate.
What ever happened to Star Dust?

—30—

QUESTIONS BUT NO ANSWERS (4/29/2007)

This is a column with lots of questions but no answers. I apologize for that but the only solution I offer is for you to come up with the answers. I have tried and failed.
The horrible events at Virginia Tech pose questions that have been asked before but bear repeating.
Isn’t this a perfect example for the need for gun control? It would seem so. If all guns were confiscated, no one could shoot anybody, right? Wrong. And not just because of the Second Amendment. The plain truth is that, with at least two hundred million guns parked in every nook and crevice in America, there is just no way we can ever confiscate them all. Even if we could, it is too easy to make a gun capable of killing someone. Making a precision fire arm dedicated to competitive shooting takes great skill—but making a killing weapon is easy. And, no, I’m not going to tell how to do it. Admittedly, it is not quite as easy as making a bomb. All that takes is some fertilizer and crank case oil and. . . no, I’m not going to tell you how to do that, either.
If there were no gun-free zones, the Virginia Tech killer would have been brought down earlier, so why not arm everyone? Good theory. . . bad practice. More and more of today’s killers are suicidal, whether in Baghdad or Virginia. Hence, they are not going to be deterred by the threat of being shot. You have to shoot them. But, how do you know which one to shoot? And if you wait until they start shooting, it may be too late for you.
If we can diagnose a mental illness, why can’t we prevent the sick person from carrying out his tragic plot? Why not separate him from the innocent people he would harm? Why not expel him from school or ban him from society? Why not lock him up? Why not cure him?
Why not, indeed? Cure, of course is the ideal. Yet, so far, cures have eluded us. Freudian approaches have, at best, merely postponed inevitable misdeeds. Surgical cures work no better today than they did in the dark ages. Medication holds evil at bay but no one can force the mentally ill to take them. Expelling, banishment and locking up are forbidden by law.
It would seem that “rights” prevail for all but the innocent victims.
Surely someone must have noticed by now certain clues: If school officials are fearful of lawsuits, much time is going to be wasted seeking to protect flanks and rears. Discipline is meted out so sparingly that is seems it is never administered at all. Why, when lawyers lie in wait, ready to pounce and take their third of a pound of flesh, should a teacher or principal or dean step into a sticky situation? Why is it forbidden to report an errant student to his parents?
Must we always wait until the horse is stolen to lock the barn door?
Should the media have fallen prey to the killer’s need for notoriety? Should NBC have offered him a soap box or pulpit for his depraved ranting? Doesn’t the airing of the killer’s video play right into the hands of all copycats? Are ratings and commercial income more important than the lives of students?
The horror of the Virginia Tech murders will never be forgotten but the instant reactions have now subsided. What persists is analysis. Experts and non-experts alike are weighing in daily to analyze the killer, analyze the school’s response, and analyze the analysts. What caused this massacre? What can be done to avoid a repeat? Does our persistent broadcast of every aspect of it fan burning coals that can burst into

Speech to Weber State Univ.

On being a Critic

By Allan Jefferys




Thank you for inviting me to your class, today. My only regret is that I cannot be here in person. I’d like to meet you, I’d like to see you face to face and it’s been too long since I have been in beautiful Utah.

I have been asked to speak with you about being a theatre critic. Let’s start with what a critic is and how powerful an influence he or she commands.
Mark Twain called being a critic the most degraded of all trades. John Mason Brown said it was like trying to tattoo soap bubbles. Those who have felt the sting of adverse criticism would choose even tougher words. Some claim never to listen to the critic; others contend critics don’t bother them. Maybe not. But it doesn’t take a thin skin to cringe when something you have worked hard to perfect meets with less than approval. I have been on the receiving end of poor reviews and readily admit it hurts. One I remember occurred during a run of The Merchant of Venice with the late John Carradine as Shylock. I was playing the part of Lorenzo. When the reviews came out, one critic commented favorably on all the actors until he got to me. All he said about me was: Allan Jefferys spoke very distinctly. It could have been worse, but being damned with faint praise still makes me wince.

Can a critic destroy a career? No. Those with determination and talent will always bounce back and, sometimes, are so angered by stinging words that they go to even greater heights than they might otherwise scale.

Can a critic destroy a Broadway show? Yes. Especially if that critic writes for the New York Times and his opinion is shared by a few other critics. There have been occasions when the Times was alone in a bad review and the total opinion of other critics outweighed the giant. But that is rare.

Can a critic create a hit? No. Critics can create a line at the box office for a few days but, ultimately, the only thing that creates a smash success is word of mouth. Not advertising, not press agent hoopla, not appearing on Letterman or Leno, but word of mouth. You see a show and tell your friends and they tell theirs.

What qualifies anyone to call himself a critic? Good question. Maybe I was thinking of that when the major producers of Broadway decided to check out the qualifications of those of us who broadcast our reviews. In the beginning, there were seven important New York newspapers but they began to drop off until only three that counted were still around. Suddenly the TV based theatre critic was developing some stature.

The theatre invited us all to be on a Broadway stage in front of a full house of theatre professionals. The producers sat up stage. When it was my turn, I walked down stage and said, “I’m flattered that after seven years of doing this, you have decided to ask me if I know what I’m doing. Well, here are my qualifications: I was not a very good actor, wrote one play which wasn’t worth producing, I’m nearsighted and slightly hard of hearing. If you don’t think those are the qualities of a critic, just ask the producers seated behind me.” That broke up the house and ended any more questions.

I was a critic for almost nine years—writing close to a thousand reviews of Broadway shows, Off-Broadway shows plus an occasional movie. It was fun, frustrating and challenging. In those days you always attended opening nights. The critics sat on the aisle so they could make a mad dash to the exit when the final curtain fell…hailing the nearest taxicab and racing back to the newsroom of the newspaper or broadcast station to face a deadline of less than an hour to come up with an opinion phrased in some semblance of coherent prose.

How do you become a critic? Most of us fall into it. The editor turns to a reporter and says, “There’s a show opening tomorrow night. Go cover it.” Sometimes that opens the door for a giant like Brooks Atkinson or Walter Kerr. Sometimes the result is a disservice to playwrights, actors and directors. The editor then finds somebody else, but it’s too late for the play that suffered from an inept reviewer.

In my case, I was asked by a brand new network radio program called “Flair” to review Broadway musicals. They picked me because I was doing a two-hour per night program centering on music of Broadway and Hollywood. I tried to get on the opening night list for musicals only. No dice, said the Shuberts (who controlled the opening night list.) Either you cover everything or nothing. So I began to attend all opening nights. Nobody paid a lot of attention until a newspaper strike brought critics for broadcasting front and center. All of a sudden I was for real.

After I had done it for several years for radio, television beckoned But the offer came with a couple of strings attached: I would wear a tuxedo to every opening and deliver the review into a waiting motion picture camera just as the audience filed out of the theatre. I protested vehemently. Tuxedos are okay, I explained for big musicals, but I’ll look like an idiot at some drab off-Broadway house where rats running up and down the aisle are not uncommon. As for delivering a review minutes after the curtain came down, no one can do that.

“Do you want the job or not?” the powers-that-be asked.

I wanted it and took it. I learned to wait until the final moments of the play. Then, in the glow of stage lighting, I would begin to scribble into a page of a stenographer’s notebook. A full page in long hand, took about a minute to read. People used to ask how I could do it and still pay attention to the show. I explained that it was like kids doing homework in front of the TV set. One eye and ear on the show and one eye and ear on the homework. It never got easier but it could be done.

There were some hazards: As soon as the theatre crowd discovered what I was up to, they would gather around the camera and glower. It was hard to call a show a turkey when you could see the person who wrote it staring at you with hope in his eyes. One woman producer told me she came close to slugging me with her purse. But when the rest of the reviews came in she admitted that I was only the first to pan the show.

This was before video tape. The crew filmed the review and passed the magazine of film to a motorcycle courier who sped it to the studio lab. It took only nine minutes to develop a negative. On air, the technicians reversed polarity and the negative became a positive. When TV went to color, that technique ended. Color took an hour to develop and I was allowed back in the studio to do the review live. The extra forty minutes of thinking time seemed like a luxury.

This was the Sixties—a good decade for New York theatre. We were offered seventy or eighty NEW shows a year. Not so in this millennium. They tell me critics don’t even go to opening nights —preferring to attend previews. If true, they miss the exhilaration of watching sophisticated grownups stand up and cheer and they miss that joyous moment when you realize you’re sitting in on the beginning a true classic. We made it a point not to listen to any rumors about the upcoming show and it was an unwritten rule that theatre critics never discussed the show they were covering that night. So when Carol Channing stepped down those stairs in Hello Dolly, it was a brand new surprise to all of us and most of us forgot about trying to look wise and unemotional. We stood up and cheered with the rest of the audience. We did the same thing when Angela Lansbury opened a new window in Mame. Why Hollywood did not use those two stars in the movie version is beyond me. Audiences missed out on seeing the performance theatre audiences cheered. Don’t say box office. The film versions flopped.

Hello Dolly, Mame, Man of La Mancha, Fiddler on the Roof, She Loves Me. The list goes on and on of the musicals in those years. Was this the Golden Age of Broadway? In retrospect, I’d have to say no, not quite. That honor has to go to the Forties and Fifties…the era of Oklahoma! South Pacific, Carousel, My Fair Lady and West Side Story. The Twenties and Thirties had great music with the Gershwins, Harold Arlen, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern but the shows of that period lacked the tight integration of dance, music and book that developed in the Forties.
What about today? A quick glance at the list of shows running will disclose as many as eight or nine revivals. The Music Man, Chicago, Kiss Me Kate, Annie Get Your Gun. All shows from years gone by. It always strikes me as a little silly when they give a TONY award to a show that almost came pre-packaged. Even so, I believe in revivals. People who weren’t born when South Pacific was first presented deserve a chance to rejoice as we did in the Forties.

There was a time when revivals did not turn up on Broadway. Stock, regional theatre and festivals were the milieus for old shows. A case in point: Each summer for several years New York’s Lincoln Center ran an eight week festival featuring a twenty year old musical . When it was Carousel’s turn, I attended opening night with some trepidation. Carousel was one of my long time favorites. I had seen it shortly after it opened. What now? Would it be like visiting a childhood home only to discover the house had shrunk from what you remembered? Not to worry. Carousel (with its original star, John Raitt) proved every bit as captivating to me in 1965 as in 1945. And it also captivated my son and daughter who saw it for the first time. All the critics gave the show rave notices. I wrote Richard Rodgers a note begging him to take it downtown to an established Broadway house and extend the run. He wrote back that revivals never made it. What has changed to make them acceptable now? Possibly because the Rodgers and Hammersteins, Irving Berlins and Cole Porters have not been replaced.

The first Broadway musical I ever saw was a road company production of Rio Rita. I was five years old and I was hooked. Theatre became an all-consuming addiction—a habit that lasted well over a half century. I did not see a New York production until after World War II but, as a pilot during that war, I could eagerly pursue my love in London, Paris, Sydney and on Air Force bases around the globe. To a naïve youngster these were heady experiences. I have seen many Hamlets (and even been in one production) but nothing has ever equaled the wondrous performance of John Gielgud in wartime London’s West End.

When the war ended, returning GI’s were welcomed with open helping hands. If Broadway was the goal, the USO and the American Theatre Wing went out of their way to teach and open doors. New York was a busy bustling city— a hurry-up city filled with hurry-up youth racing after life’s brass ring.

I was one of them. When the war ended, I packed my silver wings away and headed for New York to pursue the dream. The first show I saw was Oklahoma! — followed quickly by Carousel. I never met Stephen Sondheim but might have had I accepted the offer to join the singing chorus of Allegro. I opted instead to go into summer stock as an actor.

New York in the Forties was the Mecca for all aspiring artists, writers, actors, singers and dancers. It was a giant magnet that pulled and tugged the young men and women who wanted to conquer and dared to risk being slapped down. This is where it happened; the giants youth challenged were the best of the best. Four decades later a song would tell the world that if you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere. This was true. It was a city created by Merlin—filled with romance, excitement, challenge, and hope. New York had it all, including a heart that belied its mask of cynicism.

The sidewalks of the city were meant for more than walking— they were meant for skipping. A stroll down side streets west of Central Park offered a smorgasbord of talented sounds drifting from open windows: Violins and sopranos, baritones and flutes, pianos and horns all exercising, all practicing scales, all pointed toward Carnegie Hall—all pointed toward Broadway.

When broadcasting doors opened wider than Shubert Alley’s portals, I left the city…Gordon Jenkins Manhattan Tower ringing in my ears with its promise that I would return.

Stints in Atlantic City and Washington, D.C. still offered theatre and trips to Broadway were not all that infrequent. I could still get my theatre “fixes.” In time, I did return to my towers of Manhattan. And finally, as a critic in the Sixties, got deeply involved with my love.

The critics of that period were a diverse group. Some were aging writers who still remembered covering shows in the Twenties. One critic’s wife never tired of teasing her husband for panning the original 1927 production of SHOW BOAT. Some were neophytes. Some wrote for the seven major newspapers…some did time-constrained reviews for TV.

We seldom disagreed about clear-cut flops or hits but the vast number of “in-between” productions brought forth different points of view. I recall a good friend and fine critic, Richard Watts, who wrote for the New York Herald Tribune and later the New York Post. Dick told me one night that it was amazing how he and I used the same “peg” to review a play—how we spotted the same talented ingénue in the background and came to almost identical conclusions. Then he added, “That’s for a straight play. When it comes to a musical, you and I write like we were in different theatres or even different cities.”

I had to admit that I was an easy mark for most musicals. I simply liked them. A few critics, (like some news anchor people of today) considered themselves experts in every field. I parted company with them. I described the plot and theme but did not comment on theme . . . preferring to dwell on how well the show was written , directed and acted. In one season, you were offered plays centering on Catholicism, Judaism, Martin Luther, the holocaust, gay themes, broken families, adultery and murder. Who can pretend to be knowledgeable about each of those subjects?

There was a red flag or two even then. Each year brought fewer openings to Broadway. Were these clues to an increasing decline to oblivion? There were always rumblings but the “invalid” got up an walked so often that most of us thought the Cassandras were simply crying wolf The theatre would always be there. Broadway would always be king. But “always” is not always always.

Robert Anderson is a superb playwright who has given us I Never Sang for My Father, Tea and Sympathy for the theatre plus screenplays for the Sand Pebbles and the Nun’s Story. He once wrote: you can make a killing in the theatre but not a living. True. But you can make a life in the theatre, even if it means driving a taxi or going into TV. I have never met anyone who insisted on staying with this elusive mistress who regretted it.

The late author and playwright, Howard Teichmann and I once sat in an empty theatre, watching actors audition for a new play of his. The brick firewall and work light appeared to be out of a scene from Stage Door. Teichmann stared at it for a moment and then turned to me to say, “It gets you doesn’t it?” I agreed. He chuckled and added, “ The theatre can be a cruel and tough adversary. It’s almost impossible to break through its guard dogs. Which is good. Otherwise everyone would be in it, because is so much fun.”

It gets tougher each year. The St. James theatre in New York hold the same 1600 seats it held in 1943 when Oklahoma! opened. That show cost $75,000 to produce and the best seats sold for under five dollars. Today that show would probably cost forty times that much which means the seats should sell for $200. Tickets are higher but not that high. The bottom line, of course, is that fewer people are willing to take a chance on new talent.

Where are the new plays and comedies and musicals? In an era of computer generated graphics, is it necessary to have the stage play host to helicopters and falling chandeliers and cats going to heaven on mechanical elevators? Consider the joy of I Do, I Do. Two people, one four-poster bed and a bunch of props (hidden carefully under the bed.) All it took for a fabulous evening in the theatre. Of course it did not hurt that the two people were Mary Martin and Robert Preston.

Where are the producers? I don’t mean that cast of thousands who run onto the stage to share a Tony. I mean the one-man entrepreneur with the courage to do it all. I mean the David Merricks and Alexander Cohens and Hal Princes and all of the others who loved theatre enough to take an all out risk. Why must it cost so much to mount a play? Actors and stagehands and musicians are not getting rich.

Much of what is done today is feast or famine. Blockbuster or nothing seems to be the cry. There is no room, no time for nurturing, guiding, encouraging or growing. Bring on the roller rink, the doomed steamship, the juggernaut say the money people. Forget small comedies and, above all, let us not produce drama. Drama is for the Greeks, for yesteryear. I know one of America’s great playwrights who has written me that he cannot get a play read, let alone produced.

Is it really an impossible dream to wish for a renaissance of young, feisty creative writers, composers and lyricists? Revivals are necessary to introduce new generations to great works. But the revivals belong in regional theatre, City Center or Lincoln Center festivals or community theatre. Revivals should be produced at affordable prices for retired theatre buffs and young students. Revivals should offer an opportunity for performers to play parts they could never get the chance to play on Broadway. Revivals have their place but not as the core of Broadway.

I mentioned Harold Prince a moment ago. It is encouraging to read that he and his children are trying to save the new American musical. They are committing time, money and (most of all) great expertise to nurture Theatre’s new composers. This does not surprise me. I remember Harold Prince to be, not only a creative genius as a director, but as a caring human being.

I remain convinced that the talent is out there. Lyricists exist who don’t subsist on rap; Composers are available who can blend harmony and melody into a memorable score. Playwrights, actors, directors, singers, dancers, choreographers are waiting, not in the wings, but just outside the stage door. I pray that somebody lets them in. Thank you for inviting me.

Copyright© 2000 Allan Jefferys All Rights Reserved

Interviews
They range from a president of the United States to some of the most creative writers, actors, composers, lyricists, directors and producers the world has ever known. Some were fleeting acquaintances...others became good friends. Here are some pictures of just a small sample

Brush with Fame
BRUSH WITH FAME
By
Allan Jefferys



The tall officer standing near the door leading to the taxi strip looked familiar. I eased my way closer and stopped cold as I realized he was more than familiar. He was an idol.

Did I dare approach him?. He was a major and I was a very young and shy 1st Lieutenant. I saluted smartly. He gave a friendly nod and then Major Glenn Miller returned the salute. Glenn Miller had given my generation music to dance to—music to romance to: Moonlight Serenade, Serenade in Blue, Moonlight Cocktail, In The Mood, String of Pearls…the list could go on and on. I had never heard the band in person but, like most of American youth, had worn out records of this incomparable orchestra.

Now, I was face to face with its leader. I stammered a few complimentary remarks about how much we appreciated the Army Air Force band and the regular broadcasts. This was especially true now as we were only ten days short of our first Christmas overseas. He thanked me for listening and added that he, too, appreciated the efforts of pilots like me who had flown paratroopers in on D-Day. A few moments more and he was gone. I watched him board the C-64 Norseman. The plane taxied to the runway and took off, headed for Paris.

It never got there.

I flew that same route that same day with no problems. In subsequent flights I thought of the loss of Miller each time I crossed the English Channel. I would look down and wonder. It was not all that wide: less than thirty miles from Dover to Calais. On occasion the water churned and roiled, but more often than not it was a placid gray. What had happened?

To this day, no one has the answer.

One of the first things I did after the war was a series of dance band remotes for CBS radio. Since I had never heard the Miller band live, I looked forward to a broadcast with Ray McKinley fronting the group.

I stood in front of microphone and announced, “From the Hotel Statler in New York, it’s the music of the Glenn Miller orchestra.”

Five feet behind me "Moonlight Serenade" surged forth. No recording this but the real thing. The emotional impact was so powerful I choked up and barely finished the intro. What followed was a musical dream come true.

As time went on, my career gave me the opportunity to interview more than two thousand celebrities ranging from a President of the United States to some of the most creative geniuses this world has ever known. It was a fun time that left me with many memories. Some of the people were awe-inspiring—some became friends. But none of the interviews surpassed those few minutes at a London airport, standing in front of greatness—standing in front of Glenn Miller.
© 2002 All Rights Reserved

A News Story
It is set in that time period when TV news crossed the line between a money-losing medium standing apart from commercialism and the highly successful cash cow that it has become. The book makes no effort to judge the merits of the TV news we know today. I have drawn on my own experiences while working in that industry, but it is not a roman à clef, even if some of the characters may be recognizable.

Two news directors: one dedicated to truth and integrity; the other dedicated to power and greed vie for top dog status. One of them uses a private film crew to document the sexual exploits of VIP’s for blackmail purposes. The other is forced to commit a felony to expose evil. Which one survives? Both of them. Which one wins? Neither. Thus, some of the good people remain good, some of the bad people remain bad. The good do not always win and the bad do not always lose. But then you know that.