hear ye, hear ye

Did town criers really say "hear ye, hear ye"?

And did they ever weep, or did "cry" always refer to voice volume?

As for me?

Read all about it; or rather read all of it.

My latest book.

My ninth: Journey to the End of Love: In Search of Leonard Cohen -- and My Self.

bumps in the road

You drive along a city street, east or west, north or south; it doesn't matter. It might even be a suburban roadway, though not a country road or highway. The vehicle in front of you suddenly swerves to the right, or left, a reactionary maneuver. Is it to avoid hitting a pedestrian in the roadway? A squirrel daring to risk its squirrelly life by threading in, around, or through the moving onslaught of tires that would crush it and extinguish its life? Perhaps the driver in front of you and subsequently you are dodging a sharp object in the road, an object potentially injurious to your tires, and to you and your occupants. Maybe it's a squirrel or woodchuck or bird or rat or raccoon that did not make it to the other side of the roadway, entrails still steaming, flies not yet settling to feast on the corpse. Let's not omit the possibility that it's a human, injured or having reached his or her expiration date, in the busy roadway.

No.

It is none of these.

It's a bump in the road. More accurately, it's the opposite of a bump in the road, whatever that would be called.

The current trend is to dodge, swerve, steer, veer, zigzag, weave, or pivot a vehicle away from the depression of a utility or maintenance hole cover, also known as a manhole. Sometimes, though not as frequently, the cover is raised slightly above the surface. More often, it's below grade, causing unswerved tires to drive over a depression of, what?, 2 or 3 inches max.

Fortunately, the vehicle in front of you merely swerves, like an Olympic skater, rather than slams on the breaks and stops.

You wonder why this trend exists. You consider that each vehicle exercising this transportation mode might be transporting a sleeping child or two in a car seat, and that said child or children might awake, screaming, owing to the less-than-earthquake-intense disturbance. You also consider the notion that a teenager or teenagers riding in the vehicle, earbuds or headphones in place, might, as a result of driving over an indented maintenance hole cover exclaim, "Whatthefuck, Mom. I'm trying to do my English homework here!" 

Or you may not be remotely aware of The Veer at all.

You find it puzzling. It baffles you.

Is this vehicular maneuver limited to vehicles with tires apt to burst, thereby making it imperative for the driver to dodge the utility hole cover?

No, you find that cars sporting expensive, sturdy, resilient, top-of-the-line tires perform this aversion tactic as much as any vehicle with no-tread tires, with tires on their last rubbery legs. 

Is it limited to older cars with lousy shock absorbers?

Au contraire.

Vehicles featuring the latest shock-absorbing, quietening technologies known to humankind are as apt to perform the maneuver as anyone else.

You stop and think: how long has this been a common habit of drivers?

Is it limited to specific geographical regions, drivers with certain income levels, age, education, upbringing, class, religion, lack of religion, occupation, gender, or other defining characteristic?

None that you can discern.

Really: why does that driver in front of you execute The Swerve?

No one seems to know.

Vehicularis interruptus.

It could be a contagion, a broadened application of pothole avoidance.

It might be some vast conspiracy aimed at the local DPW.

Can any conclusion whatsoever be drawn from this ubiquitous (at least in my environs) custom?

Is there any broader lesson, metaphor, or moral that we can draw from this practice?

Is it a far cry, an absurd stretch, to suggest some sort of aversion to jostling, displeasure, or inconvenience?

Or does it posit no meaning whatsoever?

Inquiring minds want to know.

the notable sauvage

Does etymology determine destiny? 

I have taken a liking to the new fragrance Sauvage by Dior. I sampled it at Lord & Taylor, where I've gotten friendly with Gaylord, at the men's fragrance counter. After wearing (does one truly "wear" a fragrance? Or does it wear you? Isn't more like you unwear it, one molecule at a time?) sample spritzes, I received favorable responses from strangers and familiars alike, as in: "Oh. What is that you're wearing?" Or, "You smell nice." Or, "I like it. It's you." Admittedly, my coltish impatience sometimes takes the impolitic form of forwardly inquiring, "How do you like the way I smell?" which defeats the whole notion of pheromone subtlety or sophistication. Oh well. So be it. C'est moi. Noblesse oblige.  

Sauvage is described by its makers as "[a]t once refined yet untamed," along with a lush landscape of other-wordly flowers and forests and fauna (such as wolves in the night). As with wines or coffees or teas, fragrances embrace arcane and evocative vernaculars. As a copywriter, I would love the daunting challenge of bringing a fragrance to life by a marriage of word and image. Anyway, it's too late for that. The folks at Dior have already delivered a scintillating bouquet of sensual syllables and smoldering images.

Before I go any further, allow me this disclaimer: Dior didn't put me up to this. I'm not in the habit of crafting product endorsements. Dior isn't paying me. They've never heard of me. But it's my story. I needed and wanted something to write about, and this is what popped into my head via my personal olfactory highway.

Wearing the fragrance prompted me to look up the French word "sauvage" and to meander etymologically, which I like to do, as you know, if you've ever read anything at all here.

I discovered "sauvage" is employed in the wine business. But that's not what drew me to it. I further learned that adjectives such as wild, untamed, natural, earthy, unspoiled, fierce, ferocious, indomitable, valiant, sylvan, primitive, unauthorized, and savage emanate from this word's web of wonder and enchantment. You can imagine why the copywriters and perfume artisans might applaud the allure of these words as they adhere to and then float off of the printed page or webpage -- most importantly, if these words, and unnameable others, transmit pulsing hums of desire to anyone under their invisible halo.

Would knowing the etymology of sauvage all by itself lead me to it, even absent its aromas?

I don't know. I'm not out of the woods yet on that one. 

fine vs. not so fine

The recent suicides of celebrities Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain have spurred a discussion on mental health, or mental hygiene, if you prefer, which is good, right? Some people close to these poor unfortunates have expressed surprise at these suicides; some have not. 

We register surprise at these tragedies because of the mismatch between outer appearances and inner feelings.

Is an outward show of happiness an American trait? When I traveled to foreign countries or if I have engaged in conversation with foreign visitors here, more than once I have heard them mock our cheeriness, our brightness. One person pointedly criticized our chirpy "have a nice day" or "how are you." They were British.

We say we're fine, don't we?

The first reason people do that is out of a social convention. Rarely would someone reply to a co-worker in the hallway asking how you are with a literal sob story or anything more than a superficial declaration of fineness. The troubled person doesn't want to be unseemly or overly personal with another who is not much more than an acquaintance, even if the two work side by side eight hours a day five days a week.

By virtue of their training and their mission, sales representatives often exude an avalanche of bonhomie. It evidences the power of positive thinking, in the mold of Dale Carnegie, who wrote the transformative best-seller and whose legacy involves courses and practices.

These are understandable social norms. 

I couldn't tell you whether Americans are different from anyone else on these matters. 

But what if one is not fine?

What are the avenues to travel, the resources to tap? I don't mean help lines, though I suspect they offer measurable value and life-saving tools.

In rooms where people seek recovery from addiction and other malaises, some try to subvert the facade that masks unhappiness by saying f-i-n-e stands for "fucked-up [or frustrated] insecure needy enraged." Variations include  "... neurotic emotional," "needy egotistical," and assorted alternatives. 

And they say, "You're as sick as your secrets."

What's the solution?

Not being a mental health professional, I don't know. I doubt the answer is to be exceedingly frank, candid about secrets, and self-revealing at the drop of a hat. But I would say it's critical to talk to someone, anyone, especially a confidant, a trusted friend.

I recently watched the last several episodes of "Mad Men." If anyone ever needed help, it was Don Draper/Dick Whitman. Near the end, he was suicidal: gone, lost, wandering, meandering, searching, driving through America's heartland to save his own heart.

His escape, his flight, didn't work.

Not exactly.

Remember what did work?

Don/Dick witnesses another man in the same kind of grave pain he is in. In a therapy group, the man tells his story and then collapses into sobs. Don/Dick watches, moved to his core, and walks over and hugs the man for all he's worth, with all he has. Don/Dick is saved by a perfect (very imperfect) stranger, another wounded man just like him, a man who felt invisible to those around him. Don/Dick ferociously embraces the weeping man and also breaks down himself.

So it wasn't a matter of talking.

It was a matter of being there -- literally, being present.

And from what we could see, it saved Draper/Whitman, and presumably the Weeping Man as well.

Something happened.

And why for those two, and not the two mentioned at the top, is a mystery.

thank you for not sharing

In January 2017, Dammit Dave and I hit the road north. On a Saturday morning, we threaded our way through the needle's eye of potential lake-effect whiteouts, landing in Kingston, Ontario, for lunch. Why not? On the night before, I floated the concept as a small clutch of friends yucked it up. I liked the notion for its brazen spontaneity, shock value, and merry foolishness. Dammit Dave was up for it. So was I. On the ride up, we talked ceaselessly about our personal histories, buffered with a few cross-currents of editorial comment. I wouldn't say we delved into our fears; after all, we're men.

We had lunch at Curry Original. Very fine food with a view of Lake Ontario outside our window.

For dessert, we repaired to Balzac's Kingston on Princess Street. Coffee and pastries.

A sign said: "Table sharing is kindly encouraged. #makeanewfriend #communaltables"

Dammit Dave and I found a spot near the back, a table to ourselves. I was tired. I was ready to head back to Syracuse. If the coffee did its job, we'd be alert enough for driving back.

Table sharing.

It depends.

I wasn't in the mood for it, though often I don't mind. Many coffee shops depend on such a code of occupancy; they need to keep the place filled. They need to sell products. Otherwise, there'd be no business, no tables to share, no seats to sit on.

There's a time and a place for communal space.

This wasn't it for me, not quite, though, being a social animal, I traded remarks here and there with Canadian strangers, if only to ask about the location of the restrooms.

When I worked in New York in the Eighties, it was not uncommon for me, or intimates of mine, to engage in deeply personal conversations over lunch, at a restaurant, a cafe, a cafeteria, a food court, or a pocket park. New York conferred an automatic shield of anonymity and resulting privacy. It was like the cone of silence on "Get Smart." The people at the nearby table (sometimes at a shared table) could be talking about bestiality or beatific visions. No matter. Zone it out. Not my business.

That was then. Perhaps in a "hear something, say something" world, things have changed.

I've observed that privacy protection via anonymity is harder to come by in a small town or a modest-sized city. They listen in, pause before the fork hits the mouth. Or maybe that's my bias untested by the evidence of ample experience.

And cultural factors are at play, too.

Dammit Dave and I swapped no secrets, revealed no scandals that Saturday....unless he reads this and corrects my subjectively skewed memory.

Honoré de Balzac would have been disappointed in our conversational blandness as blank and small as a finished espresso.

on wheelchairs and treadmills

I noticed him because he was ostensibly reading The New Yorker as he sat in his wheelchair at my "home office" coffee shop. It was The New Yorker that caught my eye, not the wheelchair. No, it was the combination of the two. For no rational reason, I felt it was an odd mix. That betrays a bias I had not recognized in me, the notion that someone so incapacitated is incapacitated in more ways than the obvious physical ways. In the back of my mind had I consigned him to only reading the Daily News? (I enjoy both periodicals.) "Incapacitated" seems like the wrong word, too harsh, too confining. Maybe paracapacitated or quasicapacitated.  

I began to notice he was a regular, always reading, almost always smiling, conversing with other denizens of the hangout. 

One day, I walked up to him and said, "I see you're a New Yorker reader, too. It's my breakfast companion."

"Isn't it great?"

"It is."

I referred to a recent issue that grabbed me, one of those epic examples that you want to save, even in a digital world. I can't remember for sure why I felt that or what issue it was or what was in it. It may have been the Rachel Kushner profile. He later told me he read her latest novel.

The next time I introduced myself by name and got his name. 

Rupe. 

We got talking, easily. I sat beside him.

He has a doctorate in education from Columbia. Taught science. He suffered a bicycle accident in Central Park last year. He has amnesia of the tragedy. It was a hit and run. Cameras couldn't make out the license plate number. Millions of dollars in medical expenses. He is from Guyana. Up here in Syracuse to be with his family, or them with him. Compression fractures in his upper spine. Might possibly walk some day. Can't do any more physical therapy this year because he reached his limit of twenty visits, and it's just June.

"But you're always smiling. You seem genuinely happy."

"What are you going to do? What can I do?"

"I could understand if you were bitter."

He explained how he indulged in bitterness at first and sometimes now, but determined it hurt no one but himself and those around him. He said he has to make the best of it and might as well do so without adding the burden of mental and spiritual misery.

I'm paraphrasing. 

I mentioned to Rupe, roughly and approximately, what Daniel Gilbert said in "Stumbling on Happiness." Gilbert cited a 1978 study that said, pretty much, a paraplegic and a lottery winner were equally, though not quite, as happy or unhappy, a year after the life-changing event. He spoke of this in a TED talk in 2004 and then made some corrections ten years later.  

"So, are you happy?"

Rupe smiled. A genuinely bright and infectious smile.

I felt foolish asking the question and slightly ashamed for not being, well, happier myself.

"Is it simply a gift you are open to?" I persisted.

Rupe repeated the "what are you going to do" theory, and talked about his family.

Or else I don't recall how else he explained his happiness. I'm remembering this poorly, skewed by time and the prejudice of my own perspectives.

After that encounter, I went back to see if I accurately remembered the Daniel Gilbert thing about a year after someone won the lottery or lost the use of limbs. Pretty much remembered correctly.

Then, the internet being what it is, along with my discursive mind, I wandered off into such matters as "hedonic adaptation" and the "hedonic treadmill."

Hedonic treadmill. The rat race, right? Scientists study prisoners, widows, married or divorced people, and, yes, those with severe spinal injuries.

We're never satisfied. We get more and then want more. 

Ancient concepts. In 1621, in "Anatomy of Melancholy," Robert Burton wrote, "Desire hath no rest, is infinite in itself, endless, and as one calls it, a perpetual rack, or horse-mill.^"

Abundance denial. A since-deceased mentor of mine would often say, "If I have enough, I have abundance."

I love these terms.

Great book or poem titles. Or band names.

I too tread my own treadmill, sometimes I trudge it. Only rarely do I jump off it. Maybe it's going too fast and I wonder where it will fling me.

What would Rupe do?

WWRD.

round 'em up! . . . or down!

Some countries force buyers and sellers to round their commercial transactions up or down. There are lots of ways to implement cash rounding, depending on the local custom and the level of currency involved. For example, cash rounding might eliminate all coins or only designated fractions of a currency. Thus, $3.61 could be rounded up to $4.00 or it might be rounded down to $3.60. This technique, also known as Swedish rounding owing to its 1972 introduction in that Scandinavian nation, makes for simplicity and ease of use. I imagine it all sort of evens out in terms of income gained or lost. It must. After all, when an American taxpayer fills out the tax forms in April or earlier, the IRS does not require coin amounts, allowing those who file to round up or down. Tax software typically employs rounding.

Before going any further, let me say I love the Swedish word for "öre rounding": öresavrundning, though I'm not sure how to pronounce it. But I can hear its melodic lilt. Think of the öre as a penny in the United States, except that unlike the miserly penny it was discontinued in 2010. 

Now, as I am wont to do, let's jump to other roundingness situations.

Once upon a time, I went on a trip with two friends, one of them an engineer. We all decided to share expenses such as car rental, hotel, tolls, and gas. At the trip's conclusion, the engineer announced how much each person owed IN DOLLARS AND CENTS. Spare me! Or should I say, don't spare-change me! I objected then, and would now, that among friends we need not break it down into fractions of a dollar. What would one call this: Midwestern Reader's Digest Pecuniary Persnicketiness? I say that, although I confess to similar attributes as a fussy editor. But this is different. To me, it resonates with a moral exactitude rooted in the notion of a Fastidious Bookkeeper Omnipotent Being. 


What sort of person is ruled by such calculations? Does their viewpoint block any vision of the Incalculable? Or am I employing some sort of reverse superiority?

I am tempted to posit that select cultures foster such fastidiousness in daily affairs, not just regarding financial obligations. But that would invite the most prosaic and banal of stereotypes.

I hereby declare Round 'Em Up! 

Teachers and professors, round up the grades of your subjects.

Parents, round up the praises of your kids' accomplishments.

Police officers, round up the numbers on those Breathalyzer tests!

Law officers, round up the mph of cars whizzing by you! (I threw those last two in there for all those who figured I was going all soft and snowflaky on you.) 

Employers, round up the hourly wage of every minion mining profits for you.

For that matter, round down, too.

Dear Father Confessors, round down the sins and peccadilloes of your penitents.

Umpires, round down the strikes of the whiff artists at the plate.

Finally to all cable news pundits, analysts, consultants, moderators, anchors, and co-anchors: round down the decibels. 

Round down to zero. (Perfect for nihilists.)