Been Around the Block. Got Some Stories. These are Them.
She says it’s this —
Now you know.
A human tends to see what the human expects to see.
That’s it. It’s just the way we put things together in our minds. If there is a gray cat in your neighborhood named JoeBob and you see a gray cat, you’re extremely likely to think it is JoeBob, even it is some other cat altogether.
If your Aunt Mabelline always scowls when she sees you, when you visit and she opens the door — even if she has a perfectly blank expression because she’s having a deja vu about a long-forgotten lover, or maybe her underwear itches — you’ll probably see a scowl on her face.
Because you expected to see something, you ‘Interpreted’ your senses, and you saw it.
Once I had to give up a really cool business name because of this law.
Many years ago, in San Francisco, I decided to start a small business, a telephone answering business. Before the days of email, and even before answering machines, a business would wire an extension from their phone to the ‘telephone answering bureau’ where operators would answer and take messages when the business folks were out of the office.
I wasn’t sure how to name the business, so I invited 25-30 friends over one evening with a keg of beer, and we all sat around the room making up names, of which many were absurd. However, some were good.
I still wasn’t sure which to use, so that first year I used five different names and placed them all the telephone book yellow pages, to see what people would call. As it turned out, they called the most boring and blatant of the names, ie: “A Budget Answering Service” rather than the more fun and esoteric names (“Sundial”, “Western Eclectic”, “Network”, and “Xanadu.”
Now that name ‘Western Eclectic’ was of course a play on words for the US company ‘Western Electric’ which was well known since forever in this country. Once upon a time, Western Electric made every single one of the black telephones used by AT&T, when it was the (only) phone company. And the name ‘Western Electric’ was impressed into the plastic in every handset of every telephone in the USA.
I didn’t want to use this clever name — Western Eclectic — for the answering service, since nobody called its listing in the yellow pages, but since I had a couple of small businesses, I thought it might be cool to have a ‘parent’ company for our vast enterprises, and I liked ‘Western Eclectic.’ Yeah, man. Cool.
Now, at last, to the point …
Humans perceive what they expect. For example, when reading, the human doesn’t spell out the word. They glance at it, grasp its shape, and then since they ‘know’ it, they don’t examine it any further. And that automatic pattern recognition is why spammers can send something saying ‘Vi_8gra’, and all the humans can read it anyway.
But I had to give up the idea of using ‘Western Eclectic’. Here’s why —
When I registered it with City Hall for my business license, they registered the ‘Western Electric‘ company and issued them a business license to take phone calls and put up posters.
The city business-tax authority and the Internal Revenue Service sent tax bills to the Western Electric company, who I suppose they thought lived in my studio apartment in San Francisco.
Not long afterward, I had a very fancy brochure done, and my copyright notice on the brochure was printed as (c) Copyright 1976 Western Electric.
Just because I had written it correctly did not enable people to correctly read it. There was nothing wrong with the people. That’s how reading and pattern recognition works. (If it was different, we’d have to spell everything out like we were in the first grade.)
I realized that there was no alternative but to give up this business name, because it could not be read by humans.
Perhaps this is the reason that humor often works poorly for business names. Because if somebody doesn’t get the joke — and that happens with every joke — then they can’t understand what the business is, and that’s a loss of business right there.
So as you create communications for people, when you move along the tracks that they might expect to see, they’ll follow you well. Go strange on them, and you will lose them.
There. Knowing this valuable Rule-O-Thumb, go forth and prosper.
Today Mayor Smokey Barnable of Edgewood cut the ribbon on the new Mobius Factory, declaring August 15th to be ‘Megatar Day.’ The location of the new facility remains undisclosed, and numerous attempts to shadow Mobius workers have met with failure.
“We was trailin’ em,” said Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve III, chief houndsman, “And Ole Bessey was a holdin’ fast. And then a quick zig and a zag around a big tree, and all a-sudden the trail went over rocky ground … and it weren’t no use after that.”
Inquiries should be directed to the Secret Megatar Laboratory, in care of Post Office Box 989, Mount Shasta, CA 96067.
“LAWYER, noun. One skilled in circumvention of the law.” — Ambrose Bierce
Mr. Kerry is a lawyer. Mr. Edwards is a lawyer. Is it a good idea to have our country run by lawyers? Bill and Hillary Clinton were lawyers. They were honest and truthful, right?
My personal view is that a lawyer is a person who spends a lifetime studying the rules, so that these rules can be stretched or broken, ensuring riches without honest labor. Toward this end, hapless “plaintiffs” are enslaved, and paid off with a portion of the booty, and hapless “defendants” … well, who cares about defendants? They can get lawyers of their own.
Back in the days of Lincoln, himself a lawyer, a murder trial averaged a day and a half, and cost a few weeks labor. Gee, I wonder why it got changed. And by whom.
Of course, Mr. Kerry did not make his fortune as a lawyer. No, he made it the old-fashioned way. He married somebody rich. Twice.
Mr. Edwards, however, did make his fortune as a proper lawyer. He took the money away from doctors and hospitals. Say, by the way, how’s the cost of your health insurance? My wife and I pay almost a thousand dollars each month, about the same as for our home. I wonder where the money goes.
Of course, that raises a question of philosophy in my mind. I wonder which is more important, a doctor or a lawyer. Let’s see, if you were dying and you thought it might be the fault of somebody else, and you could only call for help from one person, a doctor or a lawyer, which would you call?
Hmmm, that’s a poser!
If you hire a lawyer, you know of course that he will tell you what you want to hear. In that sense, he’ll be on your side. And he’ll probably encourage you to sue, because, let’s face facts, he will come out ahead no matter what happens to you. Of course, if you lose, he will be very sad for you and surely he will tell you so very sincerely. He’ll probably do what he can to help you by mailing his bills promptly and so forth.
If this sounds correct in your experience, then I suppose you’d imagine it likely that Mr. Kerry and Mr. Edwards, the attorneys, would be the kind of guys to tell us what we want to hear. Well, that’s good, isn’t it? To hear what we’d like to hear?
Of course it is!
It will be good for us to have leaders who will promise us that we’re not in a war but just in a little nuisance, like a traffic jam. And that we can remove our soldiers from nasty foreign countries, because we don’t want soldiers hurt of course. And we’ll have things we want at home, too. Like plenty of oil for the SUV, and lots of free healthcare, and our taxes will be lower, and the budget will be balanced, and our children won’t have to pay for Social Security, and it will just be wonderful.
Sure it will.
And if it didn’t turn out so good for us, it would still turn out swell for the two lawyers! And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?
Besides being well-paid, a lawyer’s work consists only of writing words and speaking words, but not necessarily true words, of course. Rest assured, your lawyer will twist any awkward truth or facts to fit your desired reality. If he succeeds, and tricks the other folks into believing your made-up reality, then you could win big! And surely winning big is much more important than being fussy about truth or facts. I hope your hired truth-twister is really good at lying for you, so you can win big!
And now that we remember that Mr. Kerry and Mr. Edwards are lawyers, does that cast new insight about their constant “complaints”? Their shrill cries that somebody else is to blame? Their impressive posture, and noble delivery of grand-sounding sentences? Their ongoing claim that “they have a plan,” without spelling out what the plan might be? Their ability to talk without actually answering certain questions? Of course! That’s how lawyers operate! That’s what they do!
Shall we listen to two lawyers?
Shall we believe the words coming out of the mouths of two professional truth-twisters?
With their words, their suits, their striking gestures, they tell you over and over that you should trust them.
After all, they’re lawyers.
Mill Valley, July 2 2005: Adrienne’s athletic daughter Layla is an attractive young woman, both strong and swift, and so she was quite alarmed early this morning when a wild rash broke out, arms and body glowing red suddenly.
This weekend, her fiance Greg had just finished a big job after a couple of exhausting weeks of early, early mornings, long drives, long days, and late, late nights. Perhaps he was not at his best, and was looking forward to a quiet weekend for recovery.
Layla called Adrienne. “What should I do? What should I do?”
Adrienne told her to get herself to the hospital stat!
Layla hung up, and still holding her phone, called out to Greg, “Would you look up the number for Marin General?”
“Sure,” he said, speaking over his shoulder as he shambled over to dig out the phone book. “Did you want the gift shop?”
Oh, Greg. That was terridly rash.
Seattle, Summer 1961: My friend Lefevre and I looked up at the towering building and gawked like hicks. Eighteen years old I was, just graduated from high school.
“Gawrsh,” I said.
It was a grand adventure. The best one yet.
In study hall, while studying Life magazine, I’d seen the photographs of the Seattle World’s Fair. Photographs of the towering, unique ‘Space Needle’. It was far from Henrietta, Texas. It was on the West Coast, way north of fabled California, where I was born but really didn’t remember
Jerry was three years older. He’d graduated earlier, an artist, and he was working at a ritzy department store in Wichita Falls, arranging their windows, and I found him in a back room, standing over an empty Coca-Cola bottle, holding an unlit cigarette four feet above the bottle.
“You see,” he said, pointing to the shadow on the floor, which showed him, the bottle, and the unlit cigarette in his hand, “if you get the shadow lined up right, you can drop the cigarette into the bottle.” He let go of the cigarette.
It fell four feet, and slithered into the coke bottle. As always, I was impressed. But I had bigger game on my mind.
“Do you want to go to the Seattle World’s Fair this summer?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll camp out, and take v8 juice and lettuce. Just the ticket.”
And so we made our plans.
We’d work through the summer — me as a laborer on a construction job, and him at the department store. We’d save our money. Then we’d pack my gray Dodge Lancer with camping gear. And we’d go.
We would drive diagonally across the country from Texas to the Northwest. We’d stay for 3-4 days. Then we’d drive down the coast and see San Francisco, and also some girl he knew in Los Angeles. I think he had a plan for that girl, but that’s the one part that didn’t happen.
At the end of summer, Jerry made a sign on the department store’s printer that said ‘Seattle or Bust.’ We taped it to the back of the Dodge Lancer, where it covered ‘The Spook’ which I’d had painted on the car, and of which Jerry did not approve, as it just wasn’t cool. We loaded the trunk with borrowed camping gear, a coleman stove and lantern, and a box with salami, instant coffee, beer, white bread, and other nutritious foods. And we went.
The second day out we arrived in Creed, Colorado, where we met up with the family of my high school sweetheart. This got us a free dinner. Having no money for hotels, we then went to find a camping spot. We’d arrived late, and had to settle for casting about for a vacant field which we found. There Jerry, rather drunk from beer, and enraged when I chided him for some disparaging remark he made about a Mexican, attempted to strangle me for a while.
It didn’t seem like the best beginning, but we were very tired, and after the attempted murder we grew sleepy, and fell into drunken slumber on the seats of the car.
In the morning, we awoke to discover that we’d parked in the middle of a field belonging to a racing stable, and the jockeys were exercising horses all around us. Eschewing coffee in favor of a quick get-away, we were back on the road, and drove for several more days, to find a campground not far from the World’s Fair. They had a shower. That was a good thing at this point.
At the Fair, we marveled at exhibits of blonde Danish furniture, astounding cars of the Future, and sandwiches billed as ‘Mongolian Beef.’ (I wondered how they got the beef here from Mongolia, and how the guys who cooked them had learned such good English.) And the next day for lunch we rode the amazing elevator to the top of the Space Needle, where a round restaurant proudly served us menus with prices to stop a young cowboy’s heart. We settled on the cheapest item, a corned-beef sandwich for a resounding $4.50, stiffed the waiter, and watched the scenery.
As you probably know, the round restaurant at the top of Seattle’s Space Needle has windows all around, and the entire restaurant slowly revolves, once per hour. Which means that the scenery you’re looking at changes during dinner. However, I must report that it doesn’t move very fast, and it doesn’t take very long to eat a sandwich. So I didn’t really see the scenery changing that much. I don’t know why they can’t just have it whirl around much faster, more like a carnival ride. Afterward, the part of the view we remembered the most was the $4.50 price for the sandwich. And it wasn’t even Mongolian Beef!
In Seattle, other attractions found us. Errol Garner was playing, at the museum if I recall correctly, and I heard how he groans the melody out loud while he plays the piano. At the museum, we saw many famous and wonderful painting which I had never heard of. We also ran into a married couple that we knew slightly from Henrietta, Texas. Jerry seemed to brush them off, and we had to go do something else. Once away from them I turned.
“Why didn’t you want to talk with them?” I asked. He grimaced.
“We didn’t really visit with them back in Henrietta,” he said, “so why should we want to stand around here?”
I had no answer for that. It seemed to me that we should have talked to them, though I don’t know what we’d have said, other than exclaiming how we were both there in the Seattle museum, though obviously that part was evident immediately when we saw them. It just seems polite to say hello to people you know when you meet them 2,000 miles away from home. I’m still not quite decided on this point of etiquette.
Finally, Space Needle and sandwiches and museums exhausted, we packed our camping gear and headed down the coast. We’d brought an oversized book which claimed to show all the camping grounds in the USA, and so we were able to drive from campground to campground. And in the book we spotted a likely campground just north of San Francisco. It was called ‘Bootjack Camp’ and to our Texas accents it appeared to be located on Mount Tamalpish.
Arriving tired, and very late at night, and not just a little woozy from some more beer along the way, we drove up an eternally winding narrow road with a huge precipice falling away on the left. We found Bootjack Camp, but no camp sites that were actually flat, and slept on an angle in our sleeping bags beneath the trees, to awake with squirrels running noisily about and birds chirping dementedly. We brewed coffee, packed, and drove back down the road, appalled at the drop-off beside the road, falling down almost forever.
The sun was bright as we drove across the Golden Gate bridge. (It’s actually red-colored, rather than gold, as I’d expected.) We speculated about the story that the engineers tried to prevent a dog or cat from walking across the suspension bridge, on the theory that the animal’s regular footfalls would cause a sympathetic vibration to set up, shaking the cables loose and causing the bridge and all the cars to plummet into the sea. I thought it likely. Jerry thought not. Having thought it over since 1961, I’m inclined to believe he may have been right.
We drove from the bridge to the Marina Green, where some very fancy homes look across the tiny park into the blue of the San Francisco Bay, with Alcatraz a tiny rock far out from the shore. We looked at the ritzy houses, assuming that the houses in San Francisco were probably generally like these houses. They sure were close together, but …
“Gee,” Jerry said, “The houses in San Francisco are really nice.”
We spotted a weird building nearby, and struggling to navigate through a labyrinth of narrow streets, we arrived before it. No sign. No open entrance. Just a huge, round-domed building of a sandstone color, with elaborate two-story columns and each column with an equally tall statue of a woman in Grecian dress leaning upon the column. Before a round portico a lovely pond with swans. Not a soul in sight.
What was it? Like finding a Greek Temple in downtown Dallas. What was it’s purpose? We drove around it. Something caught my eye.
“Stop the car!” I called. He did, and I popped out to run over to the building. There, at the base of the building in the bushes, I’d spotted something irregular. I ran back to the car.
“It’s chicken-wire!” I said. “The whole building’s a fake! It’s made of paper mache or something on chicken wire! It’s not a real building!”
How could such a thing be? Years later, living in San Francisco, I found out. But at the time we were stumped. It was crazy. impossible. Such a thing of beauty. Unused. Unexplained. Unreal.
According to our oversized book, there are no campgrounds in the city of San Francisco, so we had to find a hotel cheap enough, which we finally did. The Hotel Wurlitzer, just outside the Stockton tunnel which links downtown with Chinatown. After some rest, in the afternoon we walked through the tunnel to Chinatown, where we marveled at shop windows containing dried ducks and weird vegetables. Jerry spotted a woman standing at a bus stop across the way.
“There’s a whore!” he whispered. “I’m going to find out how much.” I tugged at his sleeve.
“How do you know?” I asked. He looked affronted.
“I can tell ’em,” he said. And off he went. From my vantage point I watched. He walked up to the woman, and spoke to her. She said something and he went off around the block, arriving from the opposite direction. I looked puzzled at him.
“She told me to ask a cab-driver,” he said.
He got some beer and we drank in the hotel room. I grew sleepy, and he grew adventurous and went out. In the early dawn, he returned and fell into his bed. There was a long and garbled story about his meeting up with an ex-prizefighter named Frankie and their adventures together in bars, and getting thrown off a cablecar. And then Frankie had said he knew where some prostitutes were, but they wound up in a deserted area near the wharf and Lefevre grew afraid that Frankie planned to roll him, and so Lefevre ran away, leaving Frankie standing in the empty street, calling “Jerry! Jerry!”
Unfortunately, Lefevre couldn’t remember the name of our hotel. He knew it was some name like a manufacturer of cornets — Jerry had played cornet in the school band some years before — and so he spent some hours, out of cash and walking, tracking down the Hotel Conn and Hotel Selwin, and other such names.
That day, gawking in amaze at the narrow streets and steep hills and tall houses with no space between them, we drove slowly out of town and started down the coast. We ate cracked crab on a beach. We tried Buffalo Burgers at a shack along the way. We had popcorn and V8 for lunch, which is still a favorite of mine after all these years. We came in time to Los Angeles where Jerry visited the girl, but apparently his plan for her didn’t work out. Just as well by me.
I was ready to go home.
Mount Shasta, Sunday March 11: Daylight Savings Time changed today, which is earlier than in years past. But not at our house!
That is to say, the last several days have been very confusing, because Adrienne didn’t want to get caught by the weird feeling we always get when we change the clocks. Therefore she decided to get the jump on the whole thing. Kind of an activist approach to Daylight Savings.
So, three days ago, she began changing our clocks, and I’ve spent the last three days in a kind of time warp as I walked from room to room. In the kitchen, the stove and microwave and kitchen clock might claim 4pm, but the coffeepot disagrees. The clock in my room agrees with the majority in the kitchen, but my computer held out (until today of course). In my office I operated in a different time zone until yesterday, and the car is still running on some time zone that’s out in the Pacific Ocean. It’s a wonder we don’t arrive before we set out.
Our voicemail is lying to us about when those messages came in. But I’m not fooled.
Oh, well. My Adrienne is just a woman ahead of her time.
Can you explain jazz? I can’t, but I will. 90% of all jazz is half improvisation. The other half is the part people play while others are playing something they never played with anyone who played that part. So if you play the wrong part, its right. If you play the right part, it might be right if you play it wrong enough. But if you play it too right, it’s wrong.
I don’t understand. Anyone who understands jazz knows that you can’t understand it. It’s too complicated. That’s whats so simple about it.
Do you understand it? No. That’s why I can explain it. If I understood it, I wouldnt know anything about it.
Are there any great jazz players alive today? No. All the great jazz players alive today are dead. Except for the ones that are still alive. But so many of them are dead, that the ones that are still alive are dying to be like the ones that are dead. Some would kill for it.
What is syncopation? That’s when the note that you should hear now happens either before or after you hear it. In jazz, you don’t hear notes when they happen because that would be some other type of music. Other types of music can be jazz, but only if they’re the same as something different from those other kinds.
Now I really don’t understand. I haven’t taught you enough for you to not understand jazz that well.
[Thank you, AllAboutJazz.com!]
