Announcing the solution to questionable electoral counts, Diebold Corporation will produce “pre-voted” ballots for every citizen. Corporate spokesman Eugene Finerman explained the advantages of the new system. “First, the convenience is obvious. You won’t have to go to the polls because Diebold has done it for you. Furthermore, each ballot is custom-designed to anticipate exactly how you would vote. Working with Comcast and AT&T, we know your political tendencies from your monitored phone calls and internet visits. For example, none of my YouTube selections is less than 40 years old and I only download heterosexual pornography, so Diebold has cast my vote for Mitt Romney.”

Voters will have a chance to read how they voted by going to Diebold’s website. It should be up within a week of the election. If a person is dissatisfied with his specific ballot, he can call customer service.

What made me a Jeopardy champion?  Was I an extraterrestrial or a mutant with super powers? Washington University–or at least its Psychology Department–wanted to know.  So I was invited to an all-expense paid interrogation to St. Louis.   Once I was assured that the tests would not require any surgery or involuntary breeding programs, I agreed to be a guinea pig.  Being the center of attention, how could a devout megalomaniac refuse.

My flight from Chicago was undramatic.  Despite being American Airlines, there were no unscheduled fires and the plane landed with no missing engines or passengers.  Awaiting me at the airport was a Hollywood moment.  You know the scene where a chauffeur is holding up a sign with the name of his passenger?  It happens to Richard Gere’s characters all the time, but now it was happening to me.  Let the pampering begin!   Of course, the Psych Department was also being practical.  It did not want me lost and wandering around the airport, accosting strangers with unsolicited lectures on the actual St. Louis.  “You know he actually was King Louis IX, and his sanctity far surpassed his competence....”  A chauffeur would still be cheaper than bail. 

My savior and chauffeur was a charming young staff member of the department.  (I should add that everyone was young compared to me.)   Of course, she was delighted to meet me.  Under most circumstances, I am an appealing alternate to grading freshmen’s papers or feeding lab rats.  I was driven to the campus, where I found the buildings to be a directory of Missouri philanthropists.  Danforth here, Olin there, and–need I add–Busch this and that.  I was staying at a guest center named for a publishing magnate. 

But I wouldn’t be eating there.  Reservations had already been made at some of St. Louis’ finest restaurants.  The grad students were eager to take me to lunch and dinner.  Was it my inordinate charm and the remnants of good looks?  No, the department was picking up the tabs, and my “hosts” could enjoy quail and wine instead of their usual post-grad diet of ramen noodles and Mountain Dew.  Being a conscientious guinea pig, I refrained from any alcohol.  To be honest, I am the type who would rather have two desserts than two cocktails.  And wine lists intimidate me; the sommelier hates my request for a wine most like soda pop.

So I probably was quite a dull guest.  My Saturday night hosts must have thought so.  The itinerary of these two lads took us past a number of St. Louis casinos and clubs.  Of course, they would never suggest that we venture into such dens of debauchery; but if I had suggested it, my hosts would have been too polite to refuse.  However disappointed, my guides did comply with my deviation:  to make a pilgrimage to Ted Drews, the legendary frozen custard stand of St. Louis.

Of course, you want to know about the tests.  Alas, because of research confidentiality I cannot tell you.  If it is any consolation, you are not missing much.   I don’t know if I helped advance mankind’s understanding of “cognitive functions”, and I certainly disabused them of the hope that I was a X-Man.  (Really, what would my Super Power be:  the ability to turn any situation into a drawing room comedy.)   But I certainly enjoyed being a guinea pig. If Washington U is willing to subsidize further audiences with me, it might want to test me for Asperger’s Syndrome.   Jeopardy champs could have it.

October 9, 1003: Leif Erikson Lands in North America and Earns a Holiday in Minnesota

The Vikings are notorious for their vices, but they apparently possessed one fatal virtue: hygiene. Whether it was their fondness for saunas or the antiseptic cold of Greenland, the Vikings’ cleanliness ruined their chance to colonize North America. Starting with Leif Erikson in 1003, the Norse attempted to settle “Vinland.” Of course, the original inhabitants objected but the Vikings were never shy about other people’s property. Beyond their extrovert personalities, the Norse also had the tactical advantages of iron and steel armaments. The native American arsenal was still in the stone age. Nonetheless, the sheer number of the natives (Skraeling was the Viking name for them) made the prospect of slaughtering them rather demoralizing. And the Vikings’ damn hygiene eliminated the most effective weapon for depopulation: disease.

The Norse had nothing to infect their opponents.  Even their livestock was healthy. The “Skraelings” would have had no resistance to European germs; measles would have been a fatal plague. The Vikings then could have had Vinland to themselves. Just imagine how history would have changed: North America could have been one vast Minnesota. But the Vikings were too clean to succeed.

The Skraelings had a 500-year reprieve before they were introduced to the Spanish, French, English and small pox.

According to the Jewish calendar, the world just had its birthday and is a sprightly 5773 years old.  Yes, God is lying about His age.  Of course, He might want to look younger than Sheldon Adelson.  But it is more than just vanity.  God hates admitting mistakes: His first attempts at Chosen People. 

The Trilobites proved to be such a disappointment; two hundred million years of just swimming.  The dinosaurs at least were entertaining–for the first 150 million years; but mutating into canaries was rather anticlimatic.  As for the Neanderthals, they just weren’t bright enough for 600 dietary laws–constantly mixing milk and mastodon. 

Finally, some 5700 years ago, God posted Himself on J-Date:  “Deity, with undeniable quirks, interested in monogamous relationship.  Can’t promise you Heaven but how about some sand dunes on the Eastern Mediterranean?”

And we have been going steady ever since.

A Faded Piece of Papyrus Refers to Jesus’ Wife

New York Times

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — A historian of early Christianity at Harvard Divinity School has identified a scrap of papyrus that she says was written in Coptic in the fourth century and contains a phrase never seen in any piece of Scripture: “Jesus said to them, ‘My wife …’ ”

Vision 1:

Last week I had a robocall tete-a-tete with Callista Gingrich.  Yesterday, Mike Huccabee shared his concerns with my poor, helpless answering machine.  I can’t understood how those two got my phone number.  They can’t be reading the same washroom walls.

Vision 2: 

Someone recently asked me, “What do you do for fun?”  Had this been a job interview, I might have replied, “Annual reports and newsletters.”  If confronted with a HR person, I might even have denied the existence of fun.  However the context of the question was purely social, so I was quite honest.  What do I do for fun?  I replied, “Be myself.”

Just yesterday my radio clock awoke me to the ghoulish chorus of “Carmina Burana.”  (That would have been a more appropriate start to a Monday.)  I had to wonder how often “Carmina Burana” was confused with Carmen Miranda.  Who is to say that a choir in fruit-salad head dresses, chanting “Chica Chica Boom Chic”, wouldn’t be apocalyptic, too? 

Hear for yourself:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNWpZ-Y_KvU but just add https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERYKzez97lA

It must be what Carl Orff really had in mind.

p.s.  And let’s not forget the historic significance of this day: https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/09/12/turban-decay/

Once again, the quixotic in me wouldn’t take the hint.  You would think that 12 years of rejections might have convinced me that I was not meant to be on “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?”  During the Regis days, when the contestants were selected through a phone competition, I would take the initial test. 

 “Using your phone key pad’s numbers one through four, chronically list the following Secretaries of Labor…”

After passing the initial test (and I did, perhaps 100 times), the contestant would wait to see if he was arbitrarily selected to take the second test.  Once only did I get that chance.  Yes, I passed it–and received automated instructions to wait by the phone at a specified time to see if I would be invited to play on the show.   Complying with the dictated schedule, I took up the vigil–and then the electricity in my neighborhood went out.  However, the telephone was still working.  So there I was, sitting in the dark and waiting for a call that never came.  If that isn’t a sign, what is? 

And if I needed a further hint, I merely had to consider how easy it was for others to at least be among the ten contestants in each game.  A Jeopardy acquaintance expressed his amazement that I never got on the show at all; he had been on twice.  A friend of my wife took the audition only once–and got on.  She would win $500,000 but she did have a brilliant phone-a-friend.  Yes, six contestants requested me as their telephone sage.  Always a bridesmaid, never a bride…

But I hope that you don’t think I was content to sulk by the phone.  No, I am an active masochist.  I go out of way to be tortured, even as far as New York City.  In 2004, I went there with no other purpose than to audition for Millionaire.  Yes, I passed the test, then interviewed by a production assistant who missed her true calling as a prison guard, and dismissed with the promise of a postcard notifying of my fate.  In fact, I didn’t have to wait for that card; going to the Millionaire website, I saw the studio’s response.  The game had changed its rules to exclude me. 

No, I am not joking.  The following rule was added after my audition:

In addition, any individuals acquainted with any persons who are or have been connected with the production, administration or judging of the Program or the Primetime Program (defined below) are not eligible, if in the Producer’s sole discretion, the individual’s participation could create the appearance of impropriety. All eligibility determinations shall be made by Producer in its sole discretion.

You see, I did know someone on the staff–before she was on the staff, but what does that matter?  I still was guilty of the appearance of impropriety.  In 1990, a Jeopardy viewer had written me a fan letter. Didn’t Joan Crawford respond to all her fan mail?  Could I be any less polite?  So I wrote my fan back.  A casual correspondence began.  No nude photos were exchanged.  Once a year I would learn of her latest exploits at the Stamford Crossword Puzzle Tournament, and I probably regaled her with my latest aggravations.  The predictability ended in 2oo1, however, when she wrote to inform me that she had been employed as the Senior Researcher on “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire.”  Her news also included this death knell:  “So I guess you can’t be on the show.” 

Thanks for the guilt-by-association!   I had all the stigma of a groupie scandal without any of the  smirking gratification.  But I wanted to be on the show; and that is what I wrote her, ending our correspondence.  I did wait three years before auditioning for Millionaire; but evidently that was insufficient incommunicado.  Either that, or when asked by the producers she claimed to be my common-law wife and mother of my six children.  As if the show’s Eugene Finerman Exclusion Rule wasn’t a sufficient hint, I also received the mass-produced rejection postcard; and my name was misspelled.

I tried again in 2006, and I was relieved to discover that I have no attitude for becoming a psychotic mass murderer.  Believe me, that audition would have more than justified it….

https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2007/08/03/what-i-did-last-summer/

Of course, I earned another dehumanizing postcard.  Perhaps if you collect twenty, you get a commemorative t-shirt.  If so, I just need another 17.  In 2012, I again auditioned…with the same frustrating results.  From reading the show’s closing credits, I knew my aspiring groupie was no longer an employee; but the stigma may still linger.  

Yet, I will persevere, and audition again and again.  Why? Vengeance, of course!  My rage far surpasses my interest in the money.  I find myself quoting a certain charismatic character from Paradise Lost…

What though the field be lost?
All is not lost–the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?

Eucifer

Call it a gruesome coincidence (is there any other kind?), but I was thinking of the film critic Judith Crist just before she became the late Judith Crist.  As part of its day-long tribute to Claude Rains, Turner Classic Movies broadcast the melodrama “Mr. Skeffington”.  Rains, in the title role, portrays a wealthy older man married to a demanding young beauty–Bette Davis.  The film defies description because any objective appraisal would make it sound like a joke.  Yet, the two stars are so charismatic that you have to watch.  Whether it is intended or not, Davis and Rains are in a duel.  She devours the scenery; hysterics would be idling speed.  He has the most marvelous subtlety, the most eloquent understatement.  I would guess that the detonating contrasts in this 1944 film must have given J. Robert Oppenheimer some ideas for a science project. 

But I digress–as usual.  Why did the film remind me of Judith Crist?  I remembered her wry reflections on her changing impressions of the film.  Seeing “Mr. Skeffington” when she was 22, Crist was horrified that a vivacious young socialite would be married to such a boring old man.  At a second viewing, several decades later, Crist was horrified that a charming, attractive man would be married to such an annoying young idiot.

I am in complete agreement with Crist’s second impression. 

But I also feel obliged to praise Miss Davis in a performance she gave in 1943.  The film was “Thank Your Lucky Stars” and she played an attractive if demanding woman named Bette Davis.  For once, alas, her demands are unmet.  It seems that she has an even more demanding rival named Uncle Sam–who was taking up all the attractive men.  Who was left to take Miss Davis out to dinner?  As she laments…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVAJTYMMO3M&feature=related

On this day in 1923, Grace Coolidge became First Lady. It probably was unavoidable that Calvin came along with her. Yet, she may have been his most redeeming feature. Why would such an attractive, charming woman have married the inanimate Calvin? There was no Coolidge fortune to justify such an apparent sacrifice. The man must have had some charm that successfully eluded the public.

How do I know of Grace Coolidge’s style and appeal? I don’t think that my mother would lie to me. My mother was eight years old when Mrs. Coolidge entered the White House, but even a child could see the contrast between the battleaxe Florence Harding and the lovely Grace Coolidge. And that first impression withstood the passing decades and my mother’s maturing judgment and her Democratic politics.

My mother lived from 1914 to 1992. She was too young to remember either Mrs. Wilson, and she shared the common dread of Flo Harding. You know that she liked Grace Coolidge. Although Louise Hoover was not a common topic of conversation, my mother had one consistent comment about her: “She was a very intelligent woman.” Louise Hoover was a Stanford graduate, fluent in Latin and Chinese, and a geologist by profession; she was in China during the Boxer Rebellion and 30 years later probably regarded that as one of the happier times of her life. (At least her husband hadn’t caused and exacerbated the Uprising.)

My mother revered Eleanor Roosevelt, seeing in her a great heart and the truest form of beauty. Even the charming Grace Coolidge couldn’t compete with Eleanor. Despite her political loyalties, my mother did not like Bess Truman. Did anyone–other than Harry? (Being married to that shrew may have been good practice for dealing with a World War, the Soviet Union, Korea and Joseph McCarthy.) My mother dismissed Mamie Eisenhower as a fatuous dolt; when hearing the rumors of Eisenhower’s infidelity, my mother didn’t blame him.

Would you guess that my mother thought of Jackie Kennedy as the Second Coming of Grace Coolidge? Then you are wrong. Jackie’s breathy voice always struck my mother as phony; no one with a college degree really sounds like that. My mother surmised that Jackie was a fortune hunter, and the Onassis marriage certainly did not refute my mother’s suspicions. But my mother did like Lady Bird Johnson, finding her a gracious lady. According to my mother, Pat Nixon was entitled to some pity; if she was Plastic Pat, being married to Tricky Dick would drain anyone’s soul. Neither Betty Ford nor Rosalind Carter made much of an impression on my mom; being nice and attractive are fairly rudimentary for political wives. However, Nancy Reagan certainly stood out in an ambivalent way. My mother dressed very well herself, and she had to admit that she liked Mrs. Reagan’s sense of style; on the other hand, Nancy was perceived as the evil influence on her husband, the succubus who turned an affable Democrat into a Republican. Unlike the media, my mother did not mistake Barbara’s haute callousness for humor or honesty; my mother–the librarian–had read enough Henry James to identify a WASP dragon. My mother did not live to see Hillary Clinton become First Lady but she might have regarded her as the modern Lou Hoover: “She is a very intelligent woman.”

By the way, in case you were wondering where I got my love of history and sense of humor….