yukking it up without television

I dislike television.  And I have disliked it enough not to have access to it for over twenty years.

As a result, I missed a few series that I may have enjoyed while they were being broadcast.  Frasier is a perfect example.

Netflix came to my rescue in Mexico.  I reserved some time for about three weeks to watch each of the episodes.  Eleven seasons of episodes.

Like most situation comedies, the best writing came in the early seasons.  And it reminded me how humor has changed over the years.  And what writers can expect of their audiences.

The first episode is devoted to introducing us to the characters and defining the tensions that will provide comic moments for us.  A recurring theme is Niles's professional disdain for his brother Frasier's psychiatric radio program.

At the end of the episode, they are reconciling in a coffee shop. 

Frasier: You're a good brother and a credit to the psychiatric profession.
Niles: You're a good brother too.

That is a classic humor devise.  The non-parallel response.  But I am not certain it would survive a current situation comedy.

Two years ago I was part of a live studio audience for the filming of a television comedy.  The hours-long process was fascinating. 

But I could not figure out why the production needed a live audience.  After all, laugh tracks easily let the dull know the appropriate places to laugh.

I had completely missed the audience's role.  We were there as a focus group.  To help the producers serve up buffet-style humor. 

The show was filmed joke by joke.  The first one was quite clever.  But it got very few laughs.

So, the director huddled with the writers and re-wrote the line.  A few more laughs because the joke was explained a bit more. 

By the time the process was done, the joke was fully explained and paroxysms of laughter convulsed the audience.  Even though the line lacked all humor.  Every bit of surprise had been sucked out of it.

That experience reminded me of a libertarian function I attended several years ago.  A long-time acquaintance, who ran for vice-president in 1972, asked me: "Steve, do you know how many libertarians it takes to change a light bulb?"

I responded: "No, Tonie.  How many?"

"None. The market will take care of it."

I chuckled. It was a good joke.

She then launched into a 5-minute explanation, beginning with: "You see, Steve, the joke is an example of the basic market principle that ... ."  And libertarians wonder why they are considered to be a bit humorless.
 
The first rule of humor is simple.  A joke explained is a joke strangled.

I recently re-enacted one of my favorite lines from MASH, written by the great Larry Gelbart.

Lt Col Blake has been transferred to Japan, leaving Major Frank Burns in command of the MASH unit.  As was his wont, Frank began issuing irrational orders. 

Radar: They aren't gonna like this.
Frank: I didn't come here to be liked.
Radar: You certainly came to the right place.

 The person listening to my story asked: "Why is that funny?"

Of course, I did not explain why.  What would be the point?

But I am convinced that television has had an adverse effect on the ability of Americans to appreciate humor.  Whether that is true of other nations, I do not know.  Even though some of the offerings from Britain and Australia is proof enough for me that the English-speaking world may be similarly handicapped.

Of course, I have the luxury of reading my humor.  Reading I can now do with the time I have save not watching television.

a picnic life

The primary purpose for this trip north was to assist in inducting my mother’s cousin into the Powers Hall of Fame.

My role was to read his biography and to add some of my own comments. Because this was a special moment for my mother and for her cousin’s son, David, I decided to share a few of my comments with you.

__________

Kenneth R. Rolfe, who we knew as the quintessential Powers resident, actually began life as a Canadian. Born on August 30, 1917 in Bow Island, Alberta. The youngest of four brothers (Durwood, Harry, and Lawrence) born to Allan and Eleanor (Nell) Rolfe.
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The family moved to Powers in 1924, where Ken and his brothers attended school. He graduated from high school in 1935 playing on both the high school basketball and baseball teams.

Ken then attended the University of Oregon. He worked his way through college in the student dining hall for 10 cents a day.

When he returned to Powers, he married Rachel Bones in 1941. They were to have two sons: David and Harry Allan.

They began their life together by operating the Powers Market – the place most residents got to know him.

But fate was not kind. As it did for many young men his age, the Second World War intruded. Ken served with an artillery division in the Army in the Aleutians.

When he returned home from the war, he returned to where he left off with the Powers Market, providing his neighbors with their daily bread in a newly-prosperous economy.

But he offered more than business acumen to the community. Ken had a long list of civil contributions:

• Mayor from 1955 through 1956
• Past Master of Shiners’ Bingham Lodge #168
• Charter member, Powers Lions Club
• Charter member, Powers Chamber of Commerce
• Member, Powers Alumni Association
• Member, Valley Camp #9330, Royal Neighbors of America· 
• Member, Veterans of World War Two

Throughout his life, Ken was a booster for the City of Powers and for the Powers schools. A role he continued until his death in 1971.

But that is not Ken’s biography.  It is merely a list of dates and activities.  What you would expect in an obituary.

It is not who Ken was.

But the list echoes his life principles.  The same principles that made Powers a great place to grow up in.  In Ken's life you hear the essence of 20th century America.

Where else could an immigrant boy come to a young lad and make a name for himself?  In Ken’s case, as a high school All Star in baseball?

But nothing comes easily.

He headed to college at the height of the depression – putting himself through school at a menial job earning pennies.

And just as he started his married life and a new business, World War Two intervened.  Putting his life and the life of a nation on hold.

If that was not bad enough, while he was in Alaska in the Army, a fire destroyed the grocery store.

With each setback, he responded with the style of a leader.  Doing what needed to be done.

To me, he was the grocer who always ensured a 6-year old boy got the best pomegranate out of the rare shipment.  Who helped when I took my wagon down the block to the store to shop for my mother.  Who gave me tips on carving my derby racer for a cub scout merit badge.

I have tried to find a few words to sum up Ken’s life.  "He got up, dusted himself off, and went on” had promise.

But life never seemed to knock Ken down.  It took swipes, be he stood his ground.

“He rolled with punches” is far more accurate.  And he did it with the style we admire in true community leaders.

It is the same style Powers has.  Rolling with the punches over the years.

That is why it is fitting for Ken Rolfe to be inducted into Powers’ Hall of Fame.  They have both -- rolled with the punches.

And we are better for it.

tiger blood memories

The whirlwind tour continues.

Yesterday my mother and I drove from Bend to Powers through Zane Grey country on the Umpqua River.  If all goes well, I will have some tales to tell of colliding rivers and the bloated egos of western writers.

But this post is something quite different.

We are in southern Oregon to honor my mother's cousin, Ken Rolfe, during his induction into the Powers Hall of Fame at a picnic Sunday afternoon.

This is my mother's home turf.  And I lived here long enough that memories tend to well up unbidden out of the very soil.

The photograph at the top is a perfect example.  The very place a boy could believe was troll central.  A steep gully with a stream at its base.

But the memory is a bit more prosaic.  My grandmother, who lived in Powers, knew I was very fond of one of her cats.  A yellow striped cat, who I imaginatively named Tiger.

We were in Powers visiting her, having just moved to the suburbs of Portland.  So, she boxed up the cat in what passed for a cat carrier in those days.  An Arm and Hammer cardboard box.

Into the car went Tiger inside his fancy new digs.  By his yowling on the 20 mile drive to Myrtle Point, it was evident he did not share my joy in the prospect of a new pet in northern Oregon.

For some reason, we stopped in Myrtle Point.  Whatever our reason, Tiger had his own agenda.  No sooner had the first car door opened than Tiger did his best Steve McQueen impression.  And high tailed it into the woods.  The above-pictured gully.

We looked and looked for Tiger.  But thousands of years of kitty evolution stood between our offered comforts and his immediate fear.  Off we drove with our box once filled with hope.

I cannot look at that gully on visits to Myrtle Point -- a gully that borders the back of our motel -- without wondering what became of that great yellow hope.

But reminiscing about cats is not why we came south.  On Saturday night, the Powers Alumni Association held a fundraiser dinner.  Not being an alumni, I attended solely to reconnect with some of the classmates I left behind upon completing the third grade.

And I did.  Here are three.

That is Doug on the left.  He was one of my best friends in the 1950s.  We have met several times in Salem.  Susan is in the center.  She was quiet in grade school.  But I had a great time hearing her stories of her life after Powers -- and some after her return to the area.

Linda is on the right.  She was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in my third grade class.  When we moved north, I lied and told my new fourth grade classmates she had been my girl friend.  Linda cringed a bit when I told her that.

I also  had the honor of meeting a reader from Brookings who follows this blog on Facebook.  It turns out our mothers are long-time friends.

It was a fun evening.  Even though I did not live long in Powers, it will always have a special place in my memory -- solely because of my friends there.

On our drive back to Powers, the sky reminded me that the Mexican beaches may have fantastic sunsets, but the Oregon mountains can put on a show almost as competitive.

small pleasures

Almost all of life's greatest joys show up unexpectedly.

Who would believe my nemesis, television, would be a major element in what will undoubtedly be one of my favorite memories of this trip north.

My brother is convalescing.  Really convalescing.  Last April, he had a kidney removed.  But that is not what has him laid up.  He recovered very well from that operation.

But there was more to come.  At our age, doctors see to find things that need to be replaced or refurbished.  Or just buffed up.

In Darrel's case, it was his left knee.  It needed to be replaced.

Joint replacements are usually a simple operation with a steady recovery these days.  Not so for Darrel.  He has had a tough time recovering.

As a result, he is spending his days on the couch or in bed tethered to either an ice therapy machine or a mechanical knee exerciser.  Neither one is conducive for the two Cotton boys to be out and about in Bend.

Instead, we are doing something I am not certain we have ever done with one another.  Watching sports on television.  The Olympics.

During a Federer tennis match, we started discussing the effect of allowing professional athletes to compete in the Olympics.  And, as it always does, to an attempt to define the distinction between amateurs and professionals.  And whether athletes should compete solely as individuals without reference to nationality.

Of course, we added nothing to the debate that people have not been discussing since Baron de Coubertin convinced the Kaiser and the French president to kiss and make up.

But Darrel reminded me of an incident in our family involving the same issues.

He was a very good high school wrestler.  Good enough that Oregon State University gave him a wrestling scholarship.  But not before questions of whether he was a professional wrestler had been resolved.

In addition to being a wrestler, Darrel had raced motorcycles since he was 13.  (By the way, if you guessed there may be a connection between wrestling and motorcycle racing and his recent knee replacement, you are entitled to pick a prize off of the top shelf.)

In the beginning, he raced for trophies.  Our house was filled with our combined wares.  But he then went on to win cash prizes.  Not Kentucky Derby purses, mind you.  But he was paid for racing.  Thus the professional conundrum.

All came out well.  In the Aristotlean logic of college sports, the powers-that-were concluded he had accepted money, but that motorcycle racing was not a sport.

This was in pre-ESPN days.  Before the day of christening paint-drying events as sport.

If he had not been laid up and if we had not been watching the dreaded television, this is another of those tales that would have floated into the ether.

Now, it will float into the ether after making its way through my blog sieve.

for whom the taco bell tolls

I am in the land of Taco Bell.  And I mean that as a compliment.

When we were young, my mother would take my brother and me to every new Mexican restaurant in Portland.

She loved Mexican food.  Still does.  And Darrel and I learned from her that Mexican food was great cuisine.

Now, those of you who are convinced that I am about to label what is served at Taco Bell as Mexican food, you can calm down.  You may have guessed -- all of that was mere foreplay to one of my tales.

About ten years ago, I was standing in line at a Taco Bell in Salem.  I was the sixth person in line.  The five young men in front of me were Mexican.

I am a fan of visual disparity.  But this was irony writ large.  And I could not let the moment go unremarked.

So, I asked the young man in front of me: "I'm just curious.  What is it you like about Taco Bell?"

His response could have been written by O. Henry: "I love American food."

He was correct.  Taco Bell may make a nodding reference to south-of-the-border cuisine, but it is certainly not Mexican food.  A fact that was underscored by our second tale.

My brother helped me drive to Mexico in early 2009.  He then stayed for a month while I got settled into my new life.

We frequented a restaurant that served a traditional offering of tacos.  (Because there was a sign in front of the place advertising "ricos tacos,"  Darrel insisted on calling it "Rico's Tacos."  Where he gets that sense of humor, I have no idea.)

I will confess I was a bit surprised at how the tacos were served on that first visit.  The plate arrived with grilled meat topping three small (little more than dollar-sized) tortillas.  The rest of the toppings were in a lazy susan.  It struck me as a very good way to serve tacos.  Build your own.

About a month after Darrel flew back to Oregon, I stopped by the same restaurant for supper.  I had just sat down when a Canadian woman I had met earlier in town showed up with her husband and two young children.

This was their first visit to Melaque.  In fact, their first visit to Mexico.  And it was evident things were not going well.  All four of them looked as if they were in round 4 of family feud.

I greeted them as they sat down, and got a perfunctory nod for my efforts.  The waitress, who did not speak English, came over and explained the meats available on the tacos.  The lack of a printed menu irritated the woman, but they managed to order by agreeing that they all wanted pollo.

While they were waiting, I could tell something was wrong.  She finally said, to her family: "Where are the tortilla chips?  They should have brought us tortilla chips by now.  And salsa."

And then much louder to the waitress standing by the kitchen: "Where are our tortilla chips?"

The waitress looked a bit perplexed.  But she smiled, pick up a lazy susan of condiments, and brought it to the table.

The woman responded: "Well, at least she brought us salsa."

That surprised me because the tray contained little compartments of onion, cilantro, beans, tomato, limes, and some very spicy habanero-based salsa.  But not much that most tourists would classify as "salsa."

The woman was just about to ask for chips again, when the taco plates arrived.  I thought she would be pleased.  I was wrong.

Her children just stared at their plates.  She scowled, looked up at the waitress, and demanded: "What is this?"

The waitress understood, and responded: "Tacos."

"No.  These are not tacos.  That's it."

She gathered her brood with a "We're out of here."

As they walked out of the front of the restaurant she fired off a parting shot: "Haven't you people ever heard of Taco Bell?"

Well, I have.  "Rico's Tacos" are better.  Well, at least, they are better real tacos.

In the 1970s my favorite Taco Bell menu item was a Bell Burger.  A hamburger bun with taco meat filling.  Apparently, the Bell Burger died before the arrival of disco.

And that is just as well.  The current "think outside the bun" slogan would not bode well for it.

Even though, as we have learned, Taco Bell serves American food.

writers' workshop on wheels

Buses are gold mines for writers.

Whenever  I take the shuttle bus between Salem and Bend, my pan always finds several shiny nuggets.  And Wednesday was no exception.

There are two bus drivers on the route.  For my purposes, the driver I have named Mr. Grumpypants (After all, this isn't Tolstoy) is my favorite.  If you were to combine Yosemite Sam with Bedford Falls' Mr. Potter, you would have the prototype.  For him, life is a series of opportunities to share his pain.

And he was in fine form on this trip.

When we boarded the bus, he asked all of the passengers who were getting off at Sisters -- the first stop -- to sit up front.  And the Bend passengers to sit up front right behind them.

Of course, we scattered like mercury from a broken thermometer.  When he got on board, he immediately grumped:  "What did I just say?  I want all of you to move up front."

One guy moved up.

He stared at the rest of us and said:  "Fine.  Have it your way.  My PA is broken, but if you don't want to hear me, it's not my loss."

He then started his lecture about rest stops, road conditions, the time we could expect to arrive, and his choice of assorted observations.  All in a voice that could easily be heard in Newport -- let alone the back of the bus.  The fact that the PA system did not work was not particularly relevant.

But the two young men behind me were simply ignoring his lecture. 

"Hey.  You two.  Listen up this is important."

They weren't talking with one another, but it was obvious they were not listening to him.

"Hey.  Pay attention.  I am only going to tell you this stuff once."

The young men didn't even look at him.

"What are you?  Deaf?"

And then I noticed why they were not paying attention.  They were "talking."  In American sign language.

Yup, Mr. Grumpypants.  They were deaf.

And I took a bit of pleasure in wading in the shadenfreude pool when I pointed it out to him.

And then there was the very attractive young lady who was rather confused when the man across the aisle announced that he was from Vancouver, British Columbia -- in Canada.  She thought British Columbia was an eastern state -- over by New York.

She turned to me and asked what the name of the state was. 

How do you respond to a question like that?  I thought for a moment, and asked: "Are you possibly thinking of New England?"

"Yes.  That's the name of the state.  Now, just where is it?"

"It's actually not a state.  It's a region.  Vermont.  New Hampshire.  Maine.  Rhode Island.  Connecticut.  Massachusetts."

"Oh.  Right.  Right.  And, of course, British Columbia is in Canada.  We just drove through there a month ago on a trip from Alaska.  I just get New England and British Columbia mixed up.  All the time."

The Canadian's eyes rolled back so far he looked liked a slot machine that was not going to see a payout for quite some time.

This is the type of material that writes itself.

And it makes we wish I could speak Spanish better.  I suspect these nuggets surround me every time I ride the bus in Mexico.

I just don't know it.

feeling presidential

I am on my way to Bend on the shuttle bus.

It is a convenient way to get across the Cascades.  Especially, because I no longer have a car in Oregon.

Sitting in the bus gives me time to do things -- other than concentrating on driving.  For some reason, I started thinking about doing the yard chores around the house during the past two days in Salem.

It certainly cut into my socializing time.  But I thoroughly enjoyed it.  There is something about taking on Mother Nature with your bare hands -- and a few handy tools.

I am not certain what need it meets.  But I always enjoyed spending time in the yard tidying up when I lived in the Salem house.

I definitely do not qualify for either anal retentive or obsessive compulsive awards.  Professor Jiggs cured me of those tendencies.  There is something about a giant shedding golden retriever that puts you face to face with the absurdities of home hygiene.

Maybe yard work is a substitute for battle.  I am well past the age of strapping on an airplane and meeting the enemy in noble combat.  Tearing into the Boston Ivy is a substitute for downing Soviet fighters.

Whatever it is, I felt downright presidential while clearing the brush on what passes for a ranch in the prissy city limits of Salem.

It almost made up for the lunches and dinners I should have been sharing with friends.