FinermanWorks

Whatever happened to Eugene?  The more imaginative among you presumed that I had finally worked my way back to sixth century Constantinople and was the comedy hit at the Hippodrome.  (No one does Monophysite schtick like me.)  In fact, I was among the Byzantines, at least one of their modern manifestions:  the American judicial system.  I was on jury duty.

Now, in fairness, our judicial system is only Byzantine in its benumbing convolutions.  You may be asked to sift semantic nuances and calibrate technicalities; so you could end up feeling like a 1200 year old eunuch, too.  (And eunuchs would make excellent jurors, with their enforced disinterest.)  Otherwise, our system is shamelessly democratic: you can sue anyone for any reason.  For instance, if you are appalled by your medical bills, you are entitled to sue the families of General Burgoyne and Lord Cornwallis for losing the Revolutionary War, thus depriving our country of a national healthcare system.  Be warned, however, that under British libel laws, you can be sued for tactlessness–and the word “losing” does have a pejorative tone.

Yet, I wanted to be a juror.  First, who could resist the incentives of $17.20 a day and free lunch?  For a Chicago writer, that is good pay.  But I really wanted the adventure: to witness the dueling lawyers, to participate in the drama of the deliberations, to be the arbiter of justice.  Besides, I wanted to see, when under duress,  if I would become Henry Fonda or Ed Begley Sr.

Of course, the world does not always accommodate my wishes; otherwise, I would also have a few Pulitzers, too.  I have been summoned to jury duty several times but I never before survived the auditions.  In one past case, I was dismissed because I knew someone who had a traffic accident; I imagine that jury finally was composed of Amish 12 year-olds.  A prospective juror must meet the highly subjective criteria of vying lawyers;  if one side likes you, the other shouldn’t.  They object and you are excused.  In this particular case, one side particularly dreaded doctors, MBAs and other latent Republicans.

The judge’s personality will also determine the likelihood of you getting on the jury.  Some judges would not excuse a prospect even if he was scheduled for chemotherapy the next day:  “You know that you are going to die, so why not do something useful in the meantime.”  Their juries are quickly filled, although the judges often include alternates in the event of escapes and suicides.  But on this day, I faced a judge who decided not to force a bride to cancel her wedding.  She also excused a juror who faced impending bankruptcy as well as the person who denounced our  judicial system.  (Once that excuse proved effective, several other people realized they shared the very same sentiment; they had to be excused as well.  Of course, they now are also on the Homeland Security’s watchlist.)

Despite the attrition, 10 jurors somehow were selected.  Guess who was asked to be the 11th?  But I first had to answer a few questions.  It is customary in job interviews to pass oneself off as a soulless drone to satisfy the criteria of Human Resources.  That is just not my custom.  I remember telling a HR inquisitor that I wrote satires; the information actually left her speechless.  (And, yes, I never worked for that firm.)  So here is a partial transcript of the lawyers’ interrogation of this prospective juror.

Lawyer:  Are you related to or do you personally know any doctors?

Eugene:  It is a demographic inevitability.  For example, my father-in-law is a psychiatrist.

Lawyer:  Would that relationship influence your judgement in this case?

Eugene:  I have no problem ignoring him.

Lawyer:  As a writer, would you be bringing any literary perspective or predispositions to this case?

Eugene:  Well, I am not yet working on the script.  I did just write a magazine article on the Salem Witch Trials but I don’t think that there will be an overlap here.

Apparently, both the Plaintiff and the Defense found me equally entertaining.  So did the Court Reporter, who gave me the brightest smile.  Now there was an 11th juror and a class clown.  A twelfth juror soon completed the cast.  We formed an ecletic but very congenial group.  The jury certainly reflected the cosmopolitan character of Cook County:  every race, several accents (Tagalog and Polish), and an age span of three generations.  I was the only juror who could speak with ethnic certainty that our complimentary morning bagels were terrible.

As you likely have surmised, we were dealing with a medical malpractice case.  I will spare you the details primarily because I don’t want to be sued by the losing lawyer.  Besides, the case was rather technical;  the jurors were obliged to memorize a patient’s hypertension readings to determine his doctor’s diligence.  Each side presented “experts” to testify.  There is an interesting etiquette when introducing the expert.  Aside from reciting his deifying credentials, the expert must confess how much he is charging for his assistance.  The going rate seems to be $500 an hour, what the juror would make in a month.  The plaintiff’s lawyer will accuse the defendant’s experts of being greedy bastards; of course, the plaintiff’s experts are selfless saints even if they charge the same rate.  Then the defendant’s lawyers will make the same accusations against the plaintiff’s experts.  Remarkably, everyone kept a straight face.  I doubt that Yale or Juilliard produces better actors than our law schools do.

In fact, while taking notes of the evidence, I also found myself writing drama reviews of the lawyers and the witnesses.  Several times during the trial, lawyers would use the rhetorical gambit of forcing a witness to answer a simple yes or no to a complicated question.  The tactic is supposed to incriminate the witness; however, it really only incriminates the lawyer as a devious bully.  One of the $500 a hour witnesses had a real expertise in offending the jurors.  There is something unbearably smug about a man who repeatedly strokes his tie.  The jury would remember him, specifically as a punchline.

On the fifth day of the trial, the lawyers gave their closing summations.  The plaintiff’s lawyer asked us to award his client some $5 million in damages and compensation, including $1.5 million for the loss of a sex life.  Even if the plaintiffs had been Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, I wouldn’t appraise their sex life for that kind of money.  And these people were more on the esthetic level of Zasu Pitts and Sidney Greenstreet.  The jury retired to lunch and its deliberations.  The verdict took barely longer than the meal.

If you ever had any doubts about the jury system, our panel would reassure you of the efficiency and conscientiousness of your fellow citizens.  Everyone had taken their responsibilities quite seriously, keeping meticulous notes of the evidence and giving cogent summations of their findings.  Any questions were addressed and resolved amiably.  The conduct of the jurors was really quite inspiring; of course, that is also because they agreed with me.  (Sorry, but I can’t go an entire paragraph without a quip.)  What was our verdict?  Let’s just say that the plaintiff had a bad day.

The judge thanked the jury and dismissed us.  As we left the courtroom, the lawyers (both sides!) also formed their own reception line to thank us.  I told them that I was available if they ever needed an expert witness in a history or rhetoric case.  Furthermore, they already knew my rate:  $17.20 a day, free lunch and-most important–a captive audience.

And, yes, I would serve on a jury again.  I recommend it!

Can you find the silver lining in a nuclear bomb cloud?  Do you view corruption and crime as alternate creativity?  And are you too lazy for journalism, not clever enough for advertising, and too uncoordinated for three-card Monte?  Then you should consider a career in Public Relations!

Do you have what it takes?  Just take this simple test.  Here is a quote that might be a bit awkward for a certain corporation.  All you have to do is improve the truth!

May 28, 1937:

Volkswagen is founded

On this day in 1937, the government of Germany–then under the control of Adolf Hitler of the National Socialist (Nazi) Party–forms a new state-owned automobile company, then known as Gesellschaft zur Vorbereitung des Deutschen Volkswagens mbH. Later that year, it was renamed simply Volkswagenwerk, or “The People’s Car Company.”

Originally operated by the German Labor Front, a Nazi organization, Volkswagen was headquartered in Wolfsburg, Germany. In addition to his ambitious campaign to build a network of autobahns and limited access highways across Germany, Hitler’s pet project was the development and mass production of an affordable yet still speedy vehicle that could sell for less than 1,000 Reich marks (about $140 at the time). To provide the design for this “people’s car,” Hitler called in the Austrian automotive engineer Ferdinand Porsche. In 1938, at a Nazi rally, the Fuhrer declared: “It is for the broad masses that this car has been built. Its purpose is to answer their transportation needs, and it is intended to give them joy.”

History.com

Goodness, what unpleasant details!  How can Public Relations enhance the story?  Here is an example….

Happy Birthday, You Adorable Beetle!

On this day in 1937, Germany thought of a car as cute as their Steiff stuffed animals. Introduced by a well-known vegetarian with a sweet-tooth (hint, he might be Charlie Chaplin!), the cuddly, affordable little vehicle was called the People’s Car.  And what could be friendlier than that!

So, Happy Birthday, you folksy Volksy!

Oprah’s Last Show

Some 500 motorists on Michigan Avenue were surprised this morning to have their cars confiscated, although most were delighted once told that their vehicles would be melted down to create a giant bust of Oprah.  Once completed, the masterpiece will be planted on the top of the Sears/Willis Tower.  The art critic who thought that the work would look like a giant Pez dispenser is now believed to be in the molten metal, but Oprah forgave him first.

And from the archives…

“OPRAH OPENS SCHOOL IN SOUTH AFRICA”

Following the precepts of its founder, patroness and deity, the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy offers a curriculum based on Oprah’s adaptation of the Socratic method. The instructor-known as the Oprahator– presents profound and probing questions, and then hugs the students–breaking their ribs. Preoccupied with their pain and trying to breathe, the students can’t get a word in edgewise.

The curriculum of West Point now includes a course on Oprah’s tactics, despite their obvious violation of the Geneva Convention. Of special interest to military historians was Oprah’s conquest of France. (Even the Germans are envious.) As you recall, the manager of Hermes refused to let Oprah in after the store had closed. Oprah then announced her intention to destroy France.

France immediately capitulated. Le President Chirac grovelled, “Heroic resistance to a demanding barbarian is completely out of French character. We will gladly change Hermes’ store hours to collaborate with Ms. Winfrey. We did the same for Hermann Goering, who by the way wore the same dress size as Oprah.”

In related atonement, the French government offered to move the Eiffel Tower to suit Oprah’s feng shui. France then gave Oprah carte blanche. Complying with her demand Napoleon’s Tomb was opened, so that she could give a little fellow a hug. Oprah, however, was disappointed with the accommodations of Notre Dame. The baptism font was too small for a bath and Oprah did not like the scent of the candles.

Hoping to make amends, the Catholic Church arranged to have Jesus as a guest on Oprah’s show….

Oprah: We have so much in common.
Jesus: Yes….
Oprah: I just love your Beatitudes. Let’s hear them.
Jesus: Blessed are the meek….
Oprah: Thank you. I bless you, too. Have you ever tried bathing with scented candles?
Jesus: No. The candles would keep slipping into the Jordan River.
Oprah: I understand you had issues with your father. We’ve all been there. If you feel like crying, I’ll hug you.
Jesus: Well….
Oprah: How many people heard your Sermon on the Mount?
Jesus: 300?
Oprah: Honey, I’ve got that twice that many TV stations. Did you like me better in “The Color Purple” or “Beloved”?

Television certainly knows how to recycle.  Just recently, one of the major networks decided to do its own version of Larry David’s masterpiece of misanthropy  “Curb Your Enthusiasm.”  Of course, in keeping with the network’s standards and practices, the reproduction was diluted, homogenized, sanitized and–shall we say–Unitarian.  The show was cancelled after two episodes. 

And I can barely wait to ignore a new production of “Charlie’s Angels.”  For those of you who are too young to remember the original or had better things to do, “Charlie’s Angels” was most teenage boys’ “therapy” as well as many middle-aged men’s fantasy of a second wife.  The show’s appeal was two-fold, and they were both on Farah Fawcett.  (Really, no one watched for Kate Jackson’s acting.)  There actually was no more than a hint–a clinging outline–but that literal titillation, unprecedented in American television, had millions of males trying to peek down the blouse of a cathode tube.   But that was the Seventies….By today’s standards, “Charlie’s Angels” could be on Nickelodeon.  On cable, even “Anne of Green Gables” is R-rated.  (Do Canadian cows really have silicon implants, and did their national healthcare cover that?)   How can this revived “Charlie’s Angels” compete with that?  Perhaps, it should try a different tact, and loot two Seventies series instead of one.  How is this:  each week, a trio of gorgeous detectives try to save the remnants of an unworthy mankind from annihilation by morally superior robots:  Charlie’s Battlestars!

And if that idea doesn’t earn a fortune, or at least a gift card for Musso & Franks, I have an even better “concept”.  Imagine a series that combines the complacent charm of the Eisenhower Fifties with provocative BBC quality from the Eighties.  And they are practically the same name!  In the 1950s, William Bendix played a blue-collar bumbler in “The Life of Riley”.  Three decades later, Sam Neill portrayed a ruthless British spy of the early 20th century in “Reilly, Ace of Spies.”   So, in “The Life of a Riley, Ace of Spies” we have a series about the world’s most brilliant, deadliest plumber.

Imagine this as the pilot episode.  Riley is assigned to steal the Russian defense plans for Manchuria.  Needing an excuse to get into the Winter Palace, Riley kills Tschaikovsky and uses the corpse’s beard to clog the pipes.  Then free to roam about the Palace, Riley seduces the Tsarina, for both the exercise and to use her to steal the secret plans.  The information ensures that the Japanese will win the Russo-Japanese War.  However, Riley still has to unclog the Palace pipes:  “Wat a revolting development dis is.”

(Casting recommendations for this and future episodes:  Shannon Tweed as Tsarina Alexandra, Lucy Lawless as Edith Wilson, and Kim Kardashian as Eleanor Roosevelt.)

p.s.  Let’s not forget the literary significance of this day: https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2010/05/25/the-edward-bulwer-lytton-anti-defamation-league-2/

President Obama was supposed to give an important speech on the Middle East; at least that is what CNN told me.  Since the alternative was the Bowery Boys Sunday morning feature on Turner Classic Movies, I decided to listen.  The President began talking at 10; the speech started five minutes later.  Those first five minutes were a litany of thanks, hellos, asides, and how abouts….This was a Jewish audience, so the President mentioned who’s son got into Brown, Buddy Sorrell’s bar mitzvah on “The Dick Van Dyke” show and  Abe Vigoda’s 90th birthday.  Perhaps the President hoped that the audience would be so gratified or numbed that it would cede the Palestinians the West Bank and the Hillcrest Country Club. 

We will have to wait and see.

However, I generally find those rambling prologues to be annoying if not subversive.  I suppose that it is good manners to mention everyone at the speaker’s table, but unless the topic of the speech is etiquette it is also stupefying irrelevant.  I presume that the President wanted me to think about the Middle East, but he distracted with some allusion to a “Rosey” Rosenberg playing basketball.  Who and huh?

You have to wonder if the great speeches of history all had these introductory meanderings?  Did Pericles, in his eulogy for the Athenian dead, first praise Nestor Junior High’s spear and flute corps for the evening’s entertainment?  Did Jesus began the Sermon on the Mount with a thanks to the Sigma Chi house at Caesarea Tech for raising 112 shekels with its chariot wash?  Did Lincoln feel obliged to mention that the Gettysburg County Republican chairman was great at horseshoes?  If they did, thank God for editing.

p.s.  Let’s not forget the historic significance of this day (and it will probably be an episode on the next season of The Borgias): https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/05/23/on-this-day-in-1498-2/

Audition Call: We need 300 “reenactors” for the anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. Yes, the Council opened on this day in 325. Any prospective reenactors should be in excellent health. The Council was literally a La Cross tournament, with the bishops wielding their crosiers as sticks. The Emperor Constantine was both host and referee.

It would be charming to include a descendant of Constantine in the celebrations. Unfortunately, there aren’t any. Constantine did have a large family, but they preoccupied themselves with killing each other off. The Emperor had six children, two grandchildren and no great-grandchildren. That is internecine efficiency. It is the same story for the Emperor’s nephews and nieces, just shorter, with Constantine killing a few himself.

Fortunately, there should be no lack of descendants of the attending bishops. In 325, many bishops and most priests were married. There were a few curmudgeons who advocated celibacy, but they were a distinct minority. The presiding bishop of the Council, Patriarch Alexander of Alexandria, actually encouraged priests to be married. If the Council never issued an official endorsement of married clergy, that was only because it was too obvious to be necessary.

The Church had more important–serious–issues to resolve. By A.D. 325, Christianity was out of the catacombs and in the establishment, the favorite theology of the Emperor Constantine. Unfortunately, religious tolerance gave Christians the freedom to persecute each other. It was not the spiritual monolith that Constantine had expected. The exasperated emperor summoned the bishops to Nicaea, ordering the fractious theologians to agree to a binding definition of the Holy Trinity.

Since the Trinity was now the doctrine of the Church, the Greek intellectuals could fight over the nature of the Trinity. That would be good for about five centuries of debates, denunciations and schisms.

And what is a religion without relics. Here is one of mine:

https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2006/10/27/lets-get-metaphysical/

Neil Jordan knows a good story, and he never lets the facts interfere.  I should be outraged by his travesty of history in “The Borgias” but his fabrications are actually quite entertaining.  For example, Jordan imagines the Borgias murdering an exiled Turkish prince for a bounty that will pay for Lucretia’s dowry.  There actually was a Turkish prince living in Rome, a pampered prisoner whose upkeep was paid by his surprisingly kindly brother the Sultan.  (The usual etiquette for superfluous Turkish princes was to have them strangled with a bowstring.)  However, this prince died–of natural causes– in 1495 but Lucretia’s first marriage was in 1493.  So much for that dowry plot, however clever.

Jordan also appreciates a great historical character and will include him in the series, even if it is wildly inaccurate.  Apparently Nicolo Machiavelli was prime minister of Florence in 1494, and the brains behind the Medici.  Well, Machiavelli was alive at the time but he didn’t enter the Florentine civil service until 1498.  And the Medici couldn’t stand him.  The Florentine bureaucrat was a committed republican and only had steady work when the Medici were out of power.  The fact that he would dedicate “The Prince” to an idiot scion of the family, vainly hoping for patronage, shows how desperate and destitute Machiavelli had become.

However, I truly marvel at the series’ depiction of the French King Charles VIII.  We see an old, ugly, shrewd, remorseless cynic, the type of horrible person who makes an excellent king.  But the real Charles VIII was a young, attractive, vacuous jock–and the series already has one of those:  Juan Borgia.  So who was the inspiration of this horrible but fascinating character?  We actually are seeing a portrayal of Louis XI, the father of the dumb jock.  Unfortunately, the repellent but brilliant Louis inconvenienced Neil Jordan by dying in 1483, nine years before the story begins.  But, as we certainly know, historical accuracy is expendable–especially when it interferes with the story.  The Spider King–as the crafty Louis was known–was too interesting to exclude from the series.  Neil Jordan simply grafted Louis’ character onto the dumb jock.  France should have been so lucky.

Showtime has commissioned a second season of “The Borgias”, so expect Jordan to arrange guest appearances by Thomas More, Erasmus and Michelangelo.  (Leonardo actually worked for the Borgias, so for lack of a creative challenge Jordan may skip him.)  And I imagine this scene.  Cardinal Cesare Borgia, after smoking hashish with the Ottoman ambassador, wolfs down an entire platter of consecrated wafers.  This occurs in front of a young German theology major who had hoped to take communion.  Between us, I bet that young German keeps a grudge.

p.s.  Let’s not forget the romantic significance of this day:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2010/05/12/wedding-announcements-2/

May 8, 1945 : V-E Day is celebrated in American and Britain On this day in 1945,German troops throughout Europe finally laid down their arms.  Both Great Britain and the United States celebrate Victory in Europe Day. Cities in both nations, as well as formerly occupied cities in Western Europe, put out flags and banners, rejoicing in the defeat of the Nazi war machine.

Of course, the German terms of surrender required a few first drafts….

1. How many umlauts in Oops?
2. Thanks for an exciting match.  How about three out of five?
3. But, all in all, this was great product placement for Daimler-Benz.
4. I don’t suppose that you’ll believe that we are just a troop of Swiss boy scouts….

p.s.  Let’s not forget the historic significance of this day:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2010/05/08/knuckles-lavoisier-2/

Let’s not forget the sentimental significance of this day:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2010/05/09/happy-mothers-day-2/

The most interesting spam of the day:

We are looking for gifted psychics, mediums, and intuitives to join our employment and standards network. Join us at….

A gifted psychic, medium or intuitive would have known my reaction to this:  ridicule!

However, I actually do possess an unique gift of prophecy. In fact, I surpass Cassandra.  She correctly prophesized but no one ever believed her.  I correctly prophesize and don’t believe it myself.   I call it “propathy.”  Of course, you don’t believe me either but I predicted that. 

However, let me give you some examples of my propathetic powers.  In 1987, back when I was still an undefeated God of Jeopardy and awaiting its Tournament of Champions, I thought “Maybe I should study up on football and aviation.”  But I didn’t.  And guess what categories appear in the final games.  And guess who blew a “daily double” on aviation, and guess who was a veritable deaf-mute on the football questions, and guess who ended up in third place.  The clairvoyants among you already know.

What else?  I am a connoisseur of idiots:  stock brokers, certain in-laws, Dartmouth graduates.  Following their advice–and doing the opposite–I could have made fortunes.  I knew a stockbroker who was always wrong.  I merely had to short every company he recommended.  But rather than hurt his feelings, I twice made investments with him; and both companies went bankrupt.  Apparently, I prefer to be polite than rich: the curse of propathy!

Then, there is the Dartmouth rule of investment.  Keep in mind that Dartmouth prides itself on being the role model for “Animal House.”  At least in Hanover, New Hampshire,  blue blood is a symptom of cirrhosis.  In my adventures, I have met a number of Dartmouth graduates, and people who call themselves Kit, Duke and Bobo can be fairly endearing.  I might tag along with themselves to parties, but I would insist on driving; and I know better than to invest with them.  So when I heard that Jack Welch was retiring, and the next chairman of GE was an alumnus of you-know-where, I really was tempted to short the stock.  I could have been rich.  If stock prices were measured in terms of alcoholic content, GE went from whiskey to beer.  (It now is back to the level of sherry.)  Of course, being propathetic, I didn’t short the stock.  I didn’t even sell my shares.  Oh well, I wasn’t that eager to retire. 

Now that you revere me as an oracle, I should warn you that I never have sports premonitions.  (My favorite Chicago team is the Capone gang.)  And my stock market forebodings are not regularly scheduled.  Even when they do occur, I probably will be too skeptical and doubt-ridden to mention them.  But look on the bright side.  If I made you rich, your grandchildren might end up at Dartmouth.