Peter David's Blog, page 77

So: Today’s the Day

It’s all come down to this. Several years after Mitch McConnell declared that the GOP’s top priority was making Obama a one-term president, we now learn whether or not they’ve managed to accomplish this. We will be heading over to yet another polling place (the third in as many elections after twenty years of being in the same place) to cast our votes, and we encourage everyone else to do the same.

PAD

BID Mailbag: Sexual Harassment

Originally published April 10, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1273

Well, I anticipated that there would be some response to my column about sexual harassment. What I wasn’t expecting was the number of replies which basically said that they agreed.

First to ring in was the e-mail contingent. Bart G. stated:

I wanted to tell you that I think you’re on the mark with the sexual harassment piece. What was a good-intentioned, needed piece of legislation has morphed into something unusable, that has weakened women’s position in the workplace. The irony of it all, I think, is that the people who were meant to be protected by it aren’t being helped at all by it. It is suffering from the “cry wolf” problem–too many women are using it. I’m assuming you’ll get some, er, disagreement mail, so I thought I’d let you know someone agrees with you…

Well, actually, the next person to write in didn’t disagree at all. Jeff, a.k.a. “Nearmint,” opined:

Just read your BID about sexual harassment and couldn’t agree more with your thoughts on the subject. It would be nice if that particular article could reach more female eyes than I suspect the average issue of CBG does.

By this time, I must admit I was a bit surprised. I was waiting for the firestorm of controversy, and it wasn’t coming in. I was, I admit, almost disappointed. My column on the proposed Jewish controversy garnered few replies, and none of them hostile. My item on the proposed South Park notion with Jesus dancing it out with Michael Flatley over the title “Lord of the Dance” did inspire a hostile Usenet thread, but it seemed mostly the instigation of one rather thickheaded individual who didn’t seem to understand that it was a suggestion for an episode of South Park… and when it was explained to him in sufficient words of one syllable, still ranted for a while. That and one or two e-mails explaining that Jesus still loved me was the entirety of the reply.

Perhaps, in this day and age, people are just getting tougher to shock.

I was almost relieved when I received the following from “Rik 1964″…

I was a fan of PAD before this.

PAD and I are both Jewish, and I have heard these kind of sentiments echoed before, I would have thought he would have too. How would he deal with only a minor change directing this at Jews…

I think the entire concept of ANTI-SEMITISM & HATE CRIME has created a sensitivity to the subject which has become so pervasive that it has rotted away much of the underpinnings of FREEDOM OF SPEECH. Not only that, but it has intruded on precious freedoms of expression, and we are risking the creation of an entire generation of helpless, whining JEWS who are oversensitive, neurotic, and incapable of dealing with anything that offends their sensibilities without running to authorities (usually CHRISTIAN) and asking for protection.

Does PAD know what it was like for women prior to creation of sexual harassment laws? Does he care? As for false charges or over reactions, those are and always have been dealt with  individually, but to attack women in general because of sexual harassment laws, seems to me, to show a contempt for women in general.

Well, to a certain degree, Rik, if that’s the comparison you’d want to make, then I’d have to agree that, to a certain degree, your “revision” of my comments about sexual harassment into complaints about anti-Semitism are also true. It’s not exactly what you would call a pervasive trend, since over 50% of the population is female while only about 3% is Jewish. That means it’s not exactly as noticeable a trend.

But take, for instance, the Nazi march on Skokie, Illinois. The American Nazi Party targeted Skokie for a demonstration, particularly because of a high number of Holocaust survivors in residence there. There was major pressure applied to prevent the Nazis from exercising their right to demonstrate. The American Civil Liberties Union was called into the situation, and quite correctly sided with the Nazis and their right to march. The ACLU wound up taking a major hit from Jewish supporters, losing major donors (not to mention board members). This should not have happened. The ACLU simply followed its mandate, and any Jew–indeed, any person–who withdrew support at that point was showing open contempt and intolerance for the right to free speech that is, or should be, enjoyed by everyone in this country.

As for women… good lord, I have no contempt for women. At the risk of sounding cliché… some of my best friends are women. But it is these very women who are my friends–tough, independent, capable of giving as good as they get, and eminently able to handle a wide range of situations, including overt discrimination–who have shaped my attitudes in this matter. What I have contempt for is a situation of me-tooism, oversensitivity, and censorship.

Interestingly, I was only hearing from men on the matter. Fortunately, Ms. E.J. Barnes weighed in (a weight comment! Harassment!) with the following:

As a woman and a feminist, I agree with you wholeheartedly that outcry against sexual harassment has been applied far beyond the genuine wrongdoing it was reasonably intended to fix, while failing to address other forms of harassment in the workplace. Instead of being simply one facet of a general defense by employees against abuse of power, it has become the first refuge of prudes, crybabies and, yes, sexists.

I was pretty young when the late 20th century wave of feminism hit, in the 1960s and 70s, but I was acutely aware of the excuses that many men used to keep women out of their privileged workplaces, from unionized shop floors to boardrooms. Among these excuses was the claim that the ethos of the workplace, the old-boys’ camaraderie, would have to vanish in the presence of “ladies.” Now, a lot of that old-boys’ ethos should have died the death for a number of reasons having little to do with things you couldn’t do or say in “mixed company.” But I didn’t become an engineer expecting that the men who were my comrades would be afraid to say (four-letter-word-referring-to-copulation) in my presence. (Quite the contrary–I’ve had a few male old-timers who were quite uncomfortable hearing the same language that didn’t bother them coming from men, coming from women.)

As you noted, a lot of the problems have come out of university campuses–some of the same campuses, in the 60s and 70s, that were breeding young women who were boldly (some sourpusses said “stridently”) challenging the boundaries of sex roles, including women’s supposedly traditional role as arbiters of social propriety. In these neo-Victorian days, when a female professor of Gender Studies–the very sort of person whose job it is to help young people view critically the sources of our assumptions about sex, sexuality and sex roles–is muzzled because of female students’ complaints about allegedly offensive remarks, it’s become clear that “political correctness” and sexual harassment” have become Frankenstein’s monsters. Likewise, the nude Berkeley student last year, whose actions were intended to illustrate, among other things, the over-sexualization of nudity in our culture, made his point most significantly when it was female classmates who complained of feeling threatened by his presence.

We’ve entered a period characterized by an overall sexual witch-hunt–as should be obvious from some of the commentary coming out of the Clinton/Lewinsky flap. What should be a discussion about whether fraternizing with willing groupies is unprofessional conduct has become an arena to bash Clinton for his sexual appetites. To their credit, some wags have gasped in mock horror at the rumor that the President has actually had sex with his wife.

As for the gender apartheid that may emerge from the new prudery–NOW, wisely, decided against supporting a Massachusetts all-female exercise club in a sex-discrimination suit brought by a man. NOW saw that, should an appeal succeed and exceptions be granted, supposedly for women’s protection, it could turn back many gains that women have made in entering formerly male-only establishments over the past 40 years.

I don’t believe that genuine cases of sexual harassment–those in which the aggrieved party’s career is threatened by pressure or retaliation by the harasser–can or should always be dealt with strictly between the involved parties. After all, not every dispute between male coworkers can, or should be resolved with a fist-fight, let alone something so subtle as an exchange of barbs or of pranks. This goes double for disputes between employees and bosses . But the 1970s women’s movement encourages women’s self-defense–including programs for physical self-defense. The spirit, if not the muscle of self-defense and self-reliance should be the first resort, whenever possible. (And yes, the muscle, if the offender is himself willing to use physical force. This has come in handy for me, as it has for your daughter.)

As you correctly saw, the current abuse of sexual harassment accusations is merely a playing-out in adulthood of the sex-role stereotyping that parents still nurture in childhood: Little girls are conditioned to run to Mommy or Daddy, and they’ll take care of it. A little boy gets told he has to learn to stand up to bullies on his own.

I think Ms. Barnes has summed it up rather well.

Any of you wussy guys have a problem with that?

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

Hulked Out

Originally published April 3, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1272

Well, this is going to be one of the harder columns to write…

When I first started on The Incredible Hulk, you have to understand… no one wanted to write it. The proof of that, more or less, was that I was writing it.

You see, back in those days, I was still regarded with fear and loathing by many editorial quarters at Marvel (which is not to say I’m not anymore, but it was new to me back then.) My hiring on Spider-Man caused a firestorm of debate and criticism among the editors because, back then, my “day job” was as manager of direct sales. The notion of someone in the sales department writing a comic book was considered foolish (“Why don’t we start letting the secretaries in subscriptions write books?” sniffed one editor) and dangerous (“It’s a conflict of interest; he’ll concentrate on selling his own books over those of others,” warned another). But I sold my first stories to Spider-Man, and shortly thereafter was assigned to the series, largely because then-editor Jim Owsley was something of a maverick who absolutely didn’t give a flying fig what anyone thought of him. In fact, I always kind of thought he put me on the title just to annoy people. And when, after a short stint on the book he fired me off it because of, according to him, pressure from above, I wasn’t entirely surprised. Spider-Man was a flagship title. You didn’t just get assigned the book out of nowhere; you had to work your way up to it by writing lower-end, lower-interest books.

So one day, Bob Harras came into my office–after 5 PM, which I always insisted upon, because I never discussed anything of an editorial nature while I was on the clock for sales–and asked if I was interested in writing The Incredible Hulk.

Immediately I knew that if Bob was coming to me, the bottom of the barrel was being scraped. Why deal with the mishugas and politically incorrect fallout of hiring the sales guy if there are any other options. And Bob more or less confirmed it. He indicated that he had one other option, another editor who would step into the writing chores if no one else would do it, but really, what kind of a ringing endorsement is that? If there was any other prospects on the horizon, I sure didn’t know about it. Hulk was regarded as a character of limited potential, and the sales–outside of the blip when John Byrne was handling the series–were pretty much flat.

I had no interest in writing the series at all. I had no idea what I’d do with it. The only thing that made it remotely intriguing to me was the notion that the Hulk had been turned gray and crafty by Al Milgrom, and that I could continue to use that incarnation of the character if I so desired.

I figured I would last on the book for maybe six months.

He also asked if I wouldn’t mind working with this artist they had on the book, Todd McFarlane. His art was seriously flawed, so much so that at least one other writer had refused to work with him, but Bob saw something there and felt he had potential. He was reluctant to take him off the book to make room for me. I don’t know for sure that Bob would have fired him off the book to accommodate me, but I didn’t want to take the chance of costing someone else his gig. I looked at McFarlane’s art pages for the last Al Milgrom-written issue, and it was kind of lousy, but I’d seen worse–hell, I’d worked with worse–and I agreed with Bob… there did seem to be potential there. So I shrugged and said, “Sure, I can work with him.”

Absolutely no one at Marvel cared what I was doing on the book. Incredible Hulk didn’t even register on anyone’s editorial scope. It was sufficiently low end, I guess, to avoid hassle I did what I could creatively to get the series noticed by the fans, and also did everything I could to accommodate the artist. Todd wanted to draw big machines and robots, so I kept putting in scenes that called for that. Todd wanted to draw Wolverine and I moved heaven and earth–including a good deal of negotiation with the X-office, who really didn’t want to loan him out–to use him for an issue (#340). Todd gave me the cover for that issue, the one piece of McFarlane art I own. Hangs in my office to this very day.

A year into my run on the series, Steve Saffel from Marvel’s promotions department said to me, “This is the book that’s going to make your name. This is the series the fans are going to know you for.” I thought he was out of his mind. Sales were not going anywhere in particular, aside from the sales spike in #340.

But slowly, slowly, fans started to notice. I blissfully continued to do whatever I wanted. Like the Hulk, I just wanted to be left alone, and by and large, I was. At one convention, Brent Anderson told me he liked my work and promised that, sooner or later, he’d do a cover for me.

Bob Harras left the book after a year or so, and turned me over to his then-assistant, Bobbie Chase. And we worked together for a lot of years, and the fans who crabbed because I hadn’t made him savage and green again went away to be replaced by fans who didn’t want him that way. Who liked where I was going with the series. Year piled upon year, and I always managed to come up with twists and turns somehow.

And now I look back on the body of work, and it’s been nearly twelve years. I’ve written more words about the Hulk than I have about any other character. Perhaps more words than anyone has written about him. The conventional wisdom is that there’s a turnover in comic book readership every four years. That would mean that I’ve been on the series for three generations of fans. Fans could have learned to read the comic in elementary school and now be in college, and I’m the only writer on the series they’d have ever known.

And now it’s over.

Every so often I’d run into Chris Claremont and Chris would say with good-natured worry how he was watching my run on the title extend year after year, and he was worried that I’d break his record on X-Men. I’d assure him that it could never happen because, if nothing else, his run was consecutive and I had two fill-in stories, so I couldn’t match his decade-and-a-half in any event. Still, there’s a degree of irony in it, I guess. Chris left X-Men under pressure-filled circumstances. Fans were complaining loudly on computer boards that he had nothing left to give the characters, and it was time for new blood. The Powers That Be wanted to take the characters in directions that Chris didn’t want to go, shepherded by that selfsame new blood. And so he left.

I suppose it would have been the height of ego for me to think that I would have been entitled to treatment any different than that.

Because time marches on, and it’s gotten to a point where, lo and behold, Incredible Hulk is no longer a book that no one wants to touch with a ten meter cattle prod. It’s no longer a title that I can write to the satisfaction of the powers that be. More is expected from it, I guess. Maybe it’s because fans change, or maybe it’s because I raised expectations. Maybe the Hulk’s becoming a major cornerstone in Heroes Reborn and Heroes Return sparked the desire to make the Hulk a bigger and bigger part of the Marvel Universe (even though these tie-ins prompted complaints from long-time readers who were accustomed to reading Incredible Hulk without the onus of reading other titles.)

I don’t know.

Ultimately, it was up to me. Up to me to produce the mandated Hulk-centric major storylines that could spread throughout the entire Marvel Universe, so that more crossovers could be done. Up to me to produce a Hulk that was even darker, nastier and more savage (even mute, it was suggested) than was currently being written. And I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. Whatever. Makes no difference.

For comics is a transitory game, you see. Always has been. And the simple fact is that, despite all my work on the title, I’m the old game, not the new. And we must always have new, always. And ten years from now… hell, five years, maybe even two… fans of the book won’t care that I was on the series. Many won’t even know.

But how can that be, you say. I’m “Mr. Hulk” to many. You want proof? Fine.

My leaving the title was barely announced and already it sparked a discussion as to who should take over the book. Adam was leaving, too, so we’d need a writer and artist. Every writer you could think of who’s hot right now was suggested, and a few pencillers as well.

No one suggested Roy Thomas.

No one bandied about Len Wein.

No one floated Herb Trimpe. Or Sal Buscema. Or Steve Ditko.

These guys defined the Hulk for generations, just as I did. And they’re history… but that’s all they are. And now, when it comes to the Hulk, I am, too. I’m not upset about it. It’s just the Way It Is. It’s the reality of the comic book field, and I’ve always known it and knew that it’d catch up sooner or later.

So fine. I’ll step aside and see who they will get to devote the next twelve years of his life to the Hulk. But hey… the good news is… Brent finally got around to producing that Hulk cover. No book to go with it now… but a darned nice cover.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He can’t help but notice that the merest hint of Chris Claremont having a renewed association with the X-Men caused a burst of huzzahs among the fanbase… a fanbase which complained that the series hasn’t been the same since the departure of the man they complained about when he was still on the series. There’s something ironic about that. Or amusing. Or just a sad commentary. Take your pick.)

 

Riding Out the Hurricane

Somewhat blustery here so far, but otherwise we’re not doing anything especially different. Hope all is well where you all are.

PAD

Remembering Archie Goodwin

Originally published March 27, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1271

It was one of those things where, even though you knew it was coming, you weren’t entirely surprised.

Everyone in the industry knew that Archie Goodwin had been fighting the good fight against cancer for a decade now. He would have his ups and downs, and everyone had more or less realized that this was The Way It Was. I didn’t get a chance to see Archie all that much in recent years since I don’t get into the DC offices all that much, but whenever I did, I never quite knew what to expect from one time to the next.

Sometimes he would look wasted, gaunt and tired, and all I could be was depressed. Then I’d seen him some time later, and he would have his color back, and be looking more robust and healthy than before. It was a seesaw, and it always seemed that–to some degree–he was with us purely on borrowed time.

Well, the lender decided He wanted the time back. It was inevitable somehow.

And yet, with all that, writing about Archie Goodwin in the past tense seems unthinkable.

Archie was one of the first people that I met when I started working in the Marvel Comics sales department. At the time he was working in the Epic office… hell, he (along with then-assistant Jo Duffy) was the Epic office. For those of you who never met him (which I assume to be most of you) he was of moderate height, with sandy brown hair, glasses and an ever-present moustache. He had an amazing ubiquitous self-portrait caricature that he rendered for a variety of purposes, and what was most impressive about it was how, with a few simple lines, he was able to capture himself. Simple, clean lines that portrayed a whimsical attitude. That was Archie.

The thing that was the most memorable about him, and which you never forgot if you heard it, was his voice. Very soft spoken with an air of perpetual amusement about him, a voice that sounded faintly twangy and just a bit reedy, and he always paused a moment just before speaking as if making sure that he was going to choose just the right words.

He was part of what is easily a dying breed in this industry: A gentleman. He seemed to genuinely enjoy what he was doing at all times, even when he was overworked. At those times when his workload or deadlines made him impatient, he was even impatient in a polite manner, as if he regretted that he had to give you short shrift over something even as he was doing it. He reminded you of your favorite high school English teacher.

Some fans probably don’t even realize that Archie once worked at Marvel. They’re used to thinking of him as one of the greater editorial lights at DC, along with such other unique-to-DC editors as Mike Carlin and Denny O’Neil (wry sarcasm to be read into that). To me, though, Archie’s association with Marvel will always remain paramount to me, probably because that’s where he was when I first met him.

I regret that I never really had the chance to work with him. The closest I came was when I was pitching a property to the Epic line of comics about a couple of unlikely adventurers. Jo Duffy, as I recall, had brought it to Archie’s attention and she was a big supporter of it. One of the characters was J.J. Sachs, a chick clad in leather who had a sexual appetite for risk, the other was Ernie Schultz, a middle-aged war photographer with a penchant for killing things. The working title was “Sachs and Violence.” Archie had a lengthy flirtation with the notion of the characters launching as an Epic series, since they sure weren’t right for the regular Marvel Universe. Under his direction, I developed a couple of outlines and even the entire first plot. One of his suggestions wound up changing the title.

“Violence” was Ernie Schultz’s nickname, given him by soldiers during a stint in the Vietnam war. Archie mused, “You know, since he was and is a photographer, it might be more interesting to have his nickname key off his job as a cameraman. What if he were called Violens,’ instead?”

For one reason or another, the series didn’t get done while Archie was working for Marvel. Eventually, during one of its many relaunches, the series was brought to life under the auspices of new Epic editors Carl Potts and Marie Javins, and the title it carried was indeed Sachs and Violens.

Archie’s writing credits are far too extensive to go into here. I do know that my personal favorite was his work on Manhunter, an absolutely amazing and gripping back-up feature that he wrote with Walt Simonson doing the art. A bizarre combination of superhero comic, kung fu flick, and film noir, I personally think it was some of Archie’s best work… and Walt’s, for that matter, surpassed only by his work on Thor. I know that Manhunter was collected as a trade paperback, although as I recall it was in black and white for some reason. I have no idea if it’s still in print, but if it’s not then I personally think that DC should collect it and reissue it as a tribute to one of the great guys and great writers in the industry.

I heard a story once, and I’m hoping that I am remembering and attributing it correctly (with my luck it was Roger Stern or someone who was the centerpiece of this story and not Archie, but what the heck… it’s a fun story, so I’ll take a whack at it anyway.)

Nowadays the famed “bullpen” of Marvel, thanks to cutbacks and such, is something of a shadow of itself. But once upon a time, a million or so years ago, all the then-young Marvel guys worked–not in separate offices–but in one large bullpen area, a huge shared space.

(Sometimes I think Marvel should return to that. DC too, for that matter. The companies spend tons of money to put together getaways and think sessions to foster the kind of free flow of ideas that probably happened all too readily for free back when people could simply turn to the guy sitting next to them and say, “Hey, whattaya think if…?” But I digress…)

The story–the way I heard it–was that one evening pretty much everyone had gone home. Archie was still seated at his desk, finishing up some stuff and preparing to leave. And someone–I don’t remember who–who had already exited the bullpen area, clicked a switch on the wall and announced loudly to Archie, “The floor is now electrified.”

Without missing a beat, Archie gathered up his belongings, climbed on top of his desk… and proceeded to depart the bullpen via the furniture. Like a mountain goat, he clambered over desks, file cabinets, etc., working his way across. He only had one mishap: At one point he stepped on a thatched desk chair and his foot went right through the seat. But he recovered quickly, managed to extract his foot before it came in contact with the dreaded electrified floor, and continue his odyssey. Eventually he made it all the way to safety without once receiving an imaginary jolt from the imaginary current.

Next morning Jim Shooter could be heard calling loudly, “What the hell happened to my chair?!” Blank looks and shrugs were the only answer he got.

It’s not fair, y’know? I mean, it’s not up to we mere mortals to pick and choose and get to say who lives and who dies. But dammit, when you lose one of the good ones, you feel as if we’ve all taken a hit. Why is it, it seems, that people whom you feel should never have been sucking oxygen in the first place continue on their day-to-day existence, continuing blissfully on their way, and in the meantime–like the song says–the good die young. Archie had a decent run comparatively–it’s not like he was cut down in his forties, like Mark Gruenwald, or even (heaven help us) in his thirties like Carol Kalish–but the last ten years were not easy for him (to understate the matter) and he deserved better. He really did.

At least we have the legacy and the body of his work which–if you guys haven’t experienced it—you should be making an effort to do so. Yes, I think it definitely behooves DC, and maybe even Marvel, to release a Best of Archie Goodwin volume. It would make a fitting tribute, I think, and certainly what the soft-spoken, often-caricatured gentleman deserved. At the very least.

We will miss you, Archie.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705).

 

The Cartoon Laws of Physics, and More

Originally published March 20, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1270

More assorted things…

* * *

On Usenet, a fellow named Greg D. posted, “I’ve been searching, with no success, for a Kingdom Come Theme for Windows 95.”

I have no idea what this means. I’m sure that lots of other people do, but I don’t. However, anyone who reads this column on any sort of regular basis knows that lack of knowledge on a subject has never slowed me down before.

So, ever-eager to be helpful, I composed the following, which I dubbed, “The Theme To Kingdom Come.” Considering I wrote it online in about ten minutes, it’s not half-bad. Not half-good either, but not half-bad. I’m not even going to bother to tell you what super-hero-related tune it’s set to; it should be fairly obvious. Heck, if it’s not obvious, then telling you wouldn’t help.

THE THEME TO KINGDOM COME

 

Kingdom Come, Kingdom Come

Read it or you will feel dumb

Watch it, kids, duck your heads,

As it spawns a million threads

Look out

Here comes the Kingdom Come

 

Alex Ross painted art

And Mark Waid did the writing part

Issues it numbered four

Then there weren’t any more

Look out

There went the Kingdom Come

 

It had Superman and he looked pretty old

Didn’t matter though ’cause it still really sold

 

Kingdom Come, Kingdom Come

In trade paperback Kingdom Come

It will not be ignored

As it wins each award

Look out…

There’ll never be an equal

When can we have a sequel

Sequel to Kingdom Come!

 

Anyone else need a theme?

 * * *

I was chatting with a friend of mine who happens to be Irish Catholic, and somehow or other the subject of Michael Flatley came up. And she informed me that the term “Lord of the Dance” actually refers to Jesus. Apparently “the dance” is the dance of life, and for those who follow Jesus, he is termed the Lord of the Dance.

Wouldn’t that make a terrific segment of South Park?

I mean, I thought when a bunch of us did “Riverborg” that that was warped, but this could set new heights of glorious tastelessness. Jesus is a semi-regular on that series, after all, appearing in the opening credits. What if he decided to reclaim his title of “Lord of the Dance” from Michael Flatley?

Granted, the animation on the series is so aggressively minimalist that it would be tough to portray visually. On the other hand, Jesus could just zap him with the death rays from his eyes… but not before Flatley’s entire dance troupe stampeded over Kenny.

* * *

Speaking of cartoons, this was sent to me on AOL by Howard Margolin, who got it from who-knows-where…

 

THE CARTOON LAWS OF PHYSICS

Cartoon Law I: Any body suspended in space will remain in space until made aware of its situation. Daffy Duck steps off a cliff, expecting further pastureland. He loiters in midair, soliloquizing flippantly, until he chances to look down. At this point, the familiar principle of 32 feet per second per second takes over.

Cartoon Law II: Any body in motion will tend to remain in motion until solid matter intervenes suddenly. Whether shot from a cannon or in hot pursuit on foot, cartoon characters are so absolute in their momentum that only a telephone pole or an outsize boulder retards their forward motion absolutely. Sir Isaac Newton called this sudden termination of motion the stooge’s surcease.

Cartoon Law III: Any body passing through solid matter will leave a perforation conforming to its perimeter. Also called the silhouette of passage, this phenomenon is the speciality of victims of directed-pressure explosions and of reckless cowards who are so eager to escape that they exit directly through the wall of a house, leaving a cookie-cutout-perfect hole. The threat of skunks or matrimony often catalyzes this reaction.

Cartoon Law IV: The time required for an object to fall twenty stories is greater than or equal to the time it takes for whoever knocked it off the ledge to spiral down twenty flights to attempt to capture it unbroken. Such an object is inevitably priceless, the attempt to capture it inevitably unsuccessful.

Cartoon Law V: All principles of gravity are negated by fear. Psychic forces are sufficient in most bodies for a shock to propel them directly away from the earth’s surface. A spooky noise or an adversary’s signature sound will induce motion upward, usually to the cradle of a chandelier, a treetop, or the crest of a flagpole. The feet of a character who is running or the wheels of a speeding auto need never touch the ground, especially when in flight.

Cartoon Law VI: As speed increases, objects can be in several places at once. This is particularly true of tooth-and-claw fights, in which a character’s head may be glimpsed emerging from the cloud of altercation at several places simultaneously. This effect is common as well among bodies that are spinning or being throttled. A `wacky’ character has the option of self-replication only at manic high speeds and may ricochet off walls to achieve the velocity required.

Cartoon Law VII: Certain bodies can pass through solid walls painted to resemble tunnel entrances; others cannot.

This trompe l’oeil inconsistency has baffled generations, but at least it is known that whoever paints an entrance on a wall’s surface to trick an opponent will be unable to pursue him into this theoretical space. The painter is flattened against the wall when he attempts to follow into the painting. This is ultimately a problem of art, not of science.

Cartoon Law VIII: Any violent rearrangement of feline matter is impermanent. Cartoon cats possess even more deaths than the traditional nine lives might comfortably afford. They can be decimated, spliced, splayed, accordion-pleated, spindled, or disassembled, but they cannot be destroyed. After a few moments of blinking self pity, they reinflate, elongate, snap back, or solidify.

Corollary: A cat will assume the shape of its container.

Cartoon Law IX: Everything falls faster than an anvil.

Cartoon Law X: For every vengeance there is an equal and opposite revengeance. This is the one law of animated cartoon motion that also applies to the physical world at large. For that reason, we need the relief of watching it happen to a duck instead.

Cartoon Law XI: Any character can fly by holding two feathers and flapping their arms.

Corollary: Flight is temporary, lasting only long enough to bring the character over a large drop.

 

AMENDMENTS TO THE CARTOON LAWS OF PHYSICS

Cartoon Law Amendment A: A sharp object will always propel a character upward. When poked (usually in the buttocks) with a sharp object (usually a pin), a character will defy gravity by shooting straight up, with great velocity.

Cartoon Law Amendment B: The laws of object permanence are nullified for “cool” characters. Characters who are intended to be “cool” can make previously nonexistent objects appear from behind their backs at will. For instance, the Road Runner can materialize signs to express himself without speaking.

Cartoon Law Amendment C: Explosive weapons cannot cause fatal injuries. They merely turn characters temporarily black and smoky.

Cartoon Law Amendment D: Gravity is transmitted by slow-moving waves of large wavelengths. Their operation can be witnessed by observing the behavior of a canine suspended over a large vertical drop. Its feet will begin to fall first, causing its legs to stretch. As the wave reaches its torso, that part will begin to fall, causing the neck to stretch. As the head begins to fall, tension is released and the canine will resume its regular proportions until such time as it strikes the ground.

Cartoon Law Amendment E: Dynamite is spontaneously generated in “C-spaces” (spaces in which Cartoon laws hold). The process is analogous to steady-state theories of the universe which postulated that the tensions involved in maintaining a space would cause the creation of hydrogen from nothing. Dynamite quanta are quite large (stick-sized) and unstable (lit). Such quanta are attracted to psychic forces generated by feelings of distress in “cool” characters (see Amendment B, which may be a special case of this law), who are able to use said quanta to their advantage. One may imagine C-spaces where all matter and energy result from primal masses of dynamite exploding. A big bang indeed.

* * *

I have never had such an urge to fly out to a foreign country and punch someone.

So there was Michelle Kwan and Tara Lupinsky, sitting side by side some hours after the latter had won the Silver Medal in Women’s Figure skating while the latter had won the Gold. The interviewer proceeded to grill Kwan about the medal she didn’t win. “How did you feel about not winning the gold? Did you think you skated well enough to win the gold? Where were you when you found out you didn’t win the gold?” The girl handled the questioning well enough.

But I wanted to belt that sportscaster. Just hand his head to him. I personally considered his line of questioning an affront. He could have asked her what was the first thing she did after winning it. Or where she was going to hang it at home. Or her future plans. Anything. Instead he treated her like a loser rather than a winner. There was a poster on a billboard outside Atlanta during the Games there two years ago that read, “You don’t win silver. You lose gold.”

Bull. This young woman won a silver medal. An Olympic silver medal. Most of us will go through our entire lives without ever being close enough to even touch such a thing, and she gets to wear one around her neck. But when she stepped up onto the podium to receive it, if you watched carefully, you saw that she actually covered it with her hands as if she were embarrassed. And she even said at one point–half jokingly, but only half, I suspect–that she hoped that her friends and family “still loved” her.

I think it’s appalling. I know this country emphasizes “We’re Number One” above all else, but Kwan and Lupinsky were both on the same team. People have spoken endlessly about the quality of the Olympics, particularly the relentlessly terrific consideration from everyone in Nagano. That’s because the Japanese know how to operate as a team. We could follow that example.

It wasn’t a loss of any sort for Michelle Kwan. It was a win for her and for her country, and that is all that should be focused on.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Gold medals welcome.)

 

Live blogging the final debate

Yes, I’ll be there…well,here…to comment on the final debate in real time. Hope to see you here.

PAD

More Assorted Things…

Originally published March 13, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1269

* * *

It must really bite to be Leonardo DeCaprio right about now.

Fourteen nominations. Titanic picked up fourteen nominations, and he couldn’t score one for Best Actor despite the nominations of his co-star, the film itself, the director, and an assortment of other nods. The film is that rare combination of box office and artistic juggernaut, and with all that momentum going, he still didn’t get nominated. And the killer is, if he had gotten a best actor nomination, the film would have set a new record, beating out All About Eve (with which it is tied.)

I’m sure that on the one hand he wants to feel good about the success of all those connected with the film. On the other hand, it’s kind of like having everyone you know be invited to a party… and your name isn’t on the guest list.

Wonder if, when he was passed over, he got a sinking feeling.

* * *

Speaking of sinking feelings…

There are rumors floating all over the place that I’m leaving Aquaman. Unfortunately, in this case the rumors happen to be true.

It’s not an action that I take lightly. In a career going on–geez, thirteen, fourteen years now, something like that–I have only resigned off a title twice before. The first was X-Factor, and I cited chapter and verse at the time over all my reasons for departing the series. Partly I felt the need to do so because I’d been on the series for such a relatively short time that I felt I owed an explanation to the fans, but mostly I did it because I felt like whining about it to someone. The second was Spider-Man 2099 to protest the firing of Joey Cavalieri, and since the entire line was cancelled two months later, that’s almost a case of, “You can’t quit, you’re fired.”

Since the X-Factor contretemps, I’ve gotten older, and maybe wiser–or maybe not–and, in any event, less inclined to indulge in fingerpointing. I now consider it to be a counterproductive act, immature and unprofessional. I decided to leave because I felt I couldn’t stay. The decision was ultimately mine and mine alone. I don’t see any real advantage to pulling the fans into the morass of difficulties encompassed in the simple term, “Creative differences” (the term favored in Hollywood to cover a dazzling array of problems.) So I think I’m going to leave it at that.

I do apologize for the abruptness of my decision. Although some of the main storylines are tied off, there’s any number of dangling plotlines I wasn’t able to finish. Sorry I couldn’t make it a neat and tidy departure; if I could, I certainly would have.

And of course, as if the rumor mill couldn’t be satisfied with being right for once, it had to be bandied about that I’m leaving Supergirl as well. No, not true. I have no particular interest in departing the Angel of Steel for the foreseeable future.

Then again, I’ve heard tell that I’m quitting the Hulk for the last eight years or so now. Guess I’m just incredibly undependable.

* * *

Okay. Last week I said I was going to rag on sexual harassment, and so I shall.

I think that the entire concept of sexual harassment has created a sensitivity to the subject which has become so pervasive that it has rotted away much of the underpinnings of feminism. Not only that, but it has intruded on precious freedoms of expression, and we are risking the creation of an entire generation of helpless, whining females who are oversensitive, neurotic and incapable of dealing with anything that offends their sensibilities without running to authorities (usually male) and asking for protection.

(And yes, I know, when one speaks in sweeping generalizations it’s impossible to get specific. Obviously not all females would fall into the above description. But the fact that an environment is being created where any would is what I find disheartening.)

Follow–

Once upon a time, sexual harassment meant something very specific. You were a woman, working in a position subordinate to a man, and the man endeavored to force you into providing sexual favors, with firing being the penalty for refusing his advances. This is obviously a Very Bad Thing.

But why did we have to go and give it its very own term? Slot it into its own category? It’s not like “rape,” the violative nature of which requires that it be distinguished from “assault” or “assault and battery” so that the degree of the injury is made clear for the purpose of prosecution. Why couldn’t it simply be called “harassment.” Or even better: Extortion. Or even better than that: Attempted rape.

I’m a mere layman in these matters, but if try to force a woman to have sex against her will isn’t the definition of rape, then I missed something.

The problem is, once it was categorized with such an inflammatory term–”sexual harassment”– it led to a rash of “me-too-ism.” People love a new term because they want to see if it applies to them.

And suddenly a genuine problem–a superior using his power in an oppressive and/or intimidating fashion–was diluted into pointlessness. “Sexual harassment” has now devolved to mean, basically, anything which causes a woman or women to be upset. There used to be another term for that: “Men.”

And once a woman is harassed, the very nature of this “crime” requires that complaints be filed and actions be taken… usually by running to (sorry, but it’s true) male superiors. I’m as aware as anyone that feminism doesn’t speak with one monolithic voice. Why should it? How could it? There’s millions of women in this country. We couldn’t even get Image to speak with one voice, and there was only half a dozen of them. Nonetheless, the problem is that mixed messages wind up getting sent out. I am Woman, hear me roar… to the company, to the courts, to the authorities, demanding protection because I’m so damned helpless.

I know it was only fiction, but there was a TV movie a few weeks back featuring Linda Hamilton as a plainclothes detective entering an all-male squad room where she was immediately subjected to all sorts of pranks and harassment. She withstood this for a couple of days, then baked a large pan of Ex-Lax brownies, stuck them in her drawer at work with a big sign that said, “Do not eat,” and left them there. Naturally the cops devoured the brownies and spent the rest of the day in the bathroom. Contrite, they came to her, said, “Truce,” and they all went out drinking afterwards.

As noted, fiction. But there was something to be said for that. Something to be said for a woman not going to her superiors and complaining that her co-workers are pulling humiliating stunts, but rather a woman who handles the situation and gives as good as she gets.

Everybody harasses everybody, particularly in the workplace. It just takes different forms. But the cry of “sexual harassment” makes it sound as if women can’t take poor treatment but instead require special dispensation, and I’m certain this isn’t so.

If a man in a workplace makes a crude joke to a woman, that’s not sexual harassment. That’s boorishness. It’s no different than guys being obnoxious in the hallways at high school. You remember high school: The time in life where females can cut a guy to ribbons with just a few words, with even a glance. Somewhere around college, women are losing that cutting edge that enables them to handle dumb, loudmouthed jocks with aplomb.

One shouldn’t be surprised. Throughout college campuses, insanely strict codes of conduct, of behavior, of word and speech and thought, are becoming pervasive. Rules regarding what can and can’t be said in a class, in a dorm, even on a date, are becoming so restrictive that it’s amazing that anyone socializes anymore. The repression of boorish speech does not cure it; it merely drives it down deep where it festers and spills over in later years. The far better way to handle chowder-headed behavior is to counter it, either with kindness or–if necessary–fighting fire with fire. By creating increasingly insane and restrictive codes of speech, females basically send a message that says, “We can’t handle bad words ourselves. We can’t handle boorish behavior ourselves. We need to be protected. We need to have a series of rules and regulations in which we can wrap ourselves.” How is this mind set supposed to teach equality? It doesn’t. Instead it teaches male students that women require special handling and rules which they, the men, do not require. Rather than learning to respect women as equals, instead they see females as creatures with “fragile” and “handle with care” stamped all over them. And you wonder why men then consider women somehow subordinate once they hit the workplace? No wonder at all: They’ve had it drummed into them.

I’m not saying that chivalry is dead. No man should hesitate to hold a door open for a woman, for instance. The difference is that it’s a little thing, a small thing, a courtesy…a token, if you will, of respect. A way, perhaps, of winning a smile from a woman, which is always enough to gratify the insatiable male ego ever so slightly.

But this whole harassment thing… it’s out of control. On college campuses, males have been excoriated for behavior that’s relatively trivial. College professors have had the most off-hand of remarks turned into disciplinary hearings. To say nothing of how its spread to all other aspects of campus life. At one college, a student posted a satirical commentary about an upcoming “gay pride” function. It wasn’t particularly funny, but it was well within the rights provided by the First Amendment. You remember the First Amendment: That aspect of the Bill of Rights which boils down to, “I disagree with everything you have to say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.” Not on college campuses. Instead this particular student was damned near expelled from the school simply for speaking his mind. There is a world of difference between courtesy and a chilling effect… or maybe not so much of a difference at that.

In the creation of these rules and fostering of this mind set, women are undoing whatever advances have been achieved in the last forty years and instead are re-creating themselves as creatures around whom we must walk ever so tentatively, lest we fray their nerves.

Bull. What kind of nonsense is that? I know quite a few women who, through strength of character and personal responsibility, don’t remotely fit that description. Are they to be considered in the minority? If so, why? If they’re in the majority, on the other hand, then why are we teaching young people not to be capable of standing up for themselves?

It’s incredibly ironic that we read the comic book adventures of tough, strong capable women who take no crap from nobody… but in reality a tissue of separate handling has to be created that is, in itself, I think, the single most degrading attitude which can be applied to females.

I remember some years back, one of my daughters–in elementary school at the time– was being physically harassed on the school bus. A boy who was bigger than she was, taller, stronger, was grabbing her. She came home, distraught, not knowing what to do.

I could have called the principal, I suppose. Filed a complaint. Gone the sexual harassment route. After all, we live in a society where a six year old boy is condemned for the hideous act of kissing a little girl. I suppose I could have started instructing her early in the fine art of running to the system whenever some guy engages in physically abusive behavior.

Instead I said, “Next time he tries to grab you, kick him in the crotch.”

She said, “What?”, surprised that I would advocate violence.

I’m not exactly a black belt, but even I know how to do a front snap kick. I showed her how to do it and told her exactly where she should kick him. “Don’t hesitate,” I told her. “Do it hard, do it fast, he’ll drop like a rock, and he’ll leave you alone.”

The next day she came dashing off the bus, almost giddy with excitement. “I did it!” she told me. The execution hadn’t been 100% perfect: She’d slightly missed the target, but she’d come close enough that he’d been hurt, startled, and gotten the message. And he left her alone after that.

Am I saying that if, in the workplace, a man tries to grope a female co-worker, she should kick him in the family jewels?

Well… yeah. Yeah, why not. It’s quick, it’s easy, it takes a lot less paperwork, and the odds are spectacular he won’t do it again.

Men are capable of learning, you see. It’s just that the simple lessons are often the best.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

Column X

Originally published March 6, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1268

Assorted thoughts…

* * *

Two television series noted for unanswered questions, Byzantine plot structures and wheels-within-wheels have finally overlapped each other. Consider the following bizarre coincidence:

In the recent episode of The X-Files penned by Stephen King and Chris Carter, a town in Maine is menaced by an evil doll… indicating why King is the master of suspense, since it must’ve taken a whole twenty seconds to haul out that hoary device. Even the eminently credulous Mulder, upon learning of Scully’s suspicions as to the toy’s animus, asks skeptically, “You mean… like Chucky?” Although on this series one shouldn’t rule out the possibility that we’d have a flashback to Lee Harvey Oswald with one of those dolls next to him on the Grassy Knoll saying in that little voice, “Let’s have fun!”

In any event, the slight wrinkle introduced is that the doll’s killer tune-of-choice is an endless rendition of the “Hokey Pokey.” Having been to sufficient Bar Mitzvah parties in my life, the notion that the playing of the “Hokey Pokey” could drive one to self-mutilation and/or suicide is not as far-fetched as it sounds. The “Alley Cat” has already reached that status with some, and the “Electric Slide” is not that far behind. However, personal loathing aside, there is never an explanation (or, if you will, an X-planation) given anywhere in the episode as to why this song in particular is the tune from hell.

Maybe King or Carter hate the song, but in theory, that shouldn’t be enough. Why the “Hokey Pokey?” There’s no personal significance to it within the context of the story; it’s not like, in childhood, one of the protagonists was beaten up while the song was playing thereby establishing a personal reason for nasty associations (as one might have with “Singing in the Rain” if one were a character in A Clockwork Orange.) There’s nothing behind it, no substance. It’s just an oddity, it seems, Yet Another Mystery in a show that’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in confusion.

Ah, but think about this–several centuries later, in “real” time as it were, Ambassador Londo Mollari will become obsessed with the “Hokey Pokey.” No reason will be given on Babylon 5 as to why that particular ditty will capture the attention of the Centauri Ambassador during the show’s first season.

He will study it for endless hours, he will try to search out the profound significance, and he will be driven to irrational fits of anger upon being able to decipher any deep, hidden meaning to it. But this is B5, after all, the series that thrives on hidden meanings. The most casual throwaway comment in season one can turn out to have unexpected hidden meanings four years later (although I’m somewhat despairing of learning what the damned raven on Ivanova’s shoulder during the dream sequence has to do with anything, unless it refers to Claudia Christian flipping them the bird for the fifth season.)

Here, then, is Londo Mollari, unarguably touched by darkness, obsessed with an apparently innocuous song that was tied in to dark and fearsome killings centuries before. To say nothing of the fact that Mulder’s sister was ostensibly kidnapped by aliens… aliens who might very well be connected to Babylon 5.

Coincidence? Or is it something… more sinister?

You decide. Perhaps the truth isn’t just out there. It’s way, way, way out there.

* * *

You couldn’t pay me enough to be a teacher of current events these days. Frankly, I’m still rather fuzzy on how a mandate to investigate a failed real estate deal in Arkansas four years ago has somehow morphed into a probe into Clinton’s sexual activities regarding a White House intern.

More and more it’s coming across as if Kenneth “The Unreachable” Starr is just so fed up that he’s determined to nail Clinton some way, any way. The only problem is, the American public knew Clinton was a hound when we elected him. We chose to give as much of a damn about it as we do about Bill Gates’ sex life in terms of how it impacts on Windows 95, i.e., as long our computer doesn’t go down, we don’t care what else does. One’s concern about this whole business tends to be defined by how concerned one is over the notion that the president may have been willing to lie about his sexual exploits and so anxious to cover them up that he tried to get someone else to lie as well.

Is it possible? Sure it’s possible. Does it bother me? Not especially. I mean, I’m sorry, maybe it should. Maybe I should be morally outraged because the presidency should stand for something greater. But c’mon, who doesn’t lie about sex? Perhaps it’s arbitrary and hypocritical, but it’s not as if Clinton were a cat burglar on the side and he was trying to cover his butt on that score. Or, as in Wag the Dog, it’s not as if he made sexual overtures to a Campfire Girl.

Should he have lied about any possible affairs, particularly under oath? Of course not. Do I want to boot him out of office over it? Not really. If I thought his possible sex addiction was remotely relevant to his job, I wouldn’t have voted for him in the first place. If he were the president of France, he’d be elected for life by now. Besides the choice was always between Bill Clinton and George Bush, or Bill Clinton and Bob Dole. No matter who you voted for, you were going to get a stiff of some kind or other in the White House.

I mean, heck, I still think it’s Dickensian that his name is Clinton. Long time comic fans know that “Clint” is one of those names you never use in comics (Hawkeye’s ID the rare exception) because the L and I can run together to create a whole new word. Same with “flick.” It’s a rule that I used to think was silly until I was present when the powers at be at Marvel got an irate letter from a woman over a then-recent issue of Power Man/Iron Fist (I think it was) wherein a villain threatened, “I will flick you like a fly!” and the letter writer misread it.

All of the foregoing is, as noted, derived from the concern over how a teacher handles social studies these days. Even Garry Trudeau is commenting on it in a sequence that’s just beginning to run. The irony of it is that even in anything-goes cities such as New York, Newsday (and elsewhere, for all I know) pulled the strip off the comics page this week and are running it in the editorial section due to the explicit nature of the jokes. The mere presentation of the problem serves to simultaneously underscore it. When I was a kid, teachers assigned us to clip out stories that were of interest and bring them in for class discussion. Considering what most teenagers are preoccupied with under normal circumstances, I wonder if teachers even bother to hand out that assignment nowadays for fear of what they’ll be faced with.

* * *

 

I have not joined the enemy… but I’m chagrined to admit that I hedged my bets.

My laserdisc player died, so I bought a new unit that plays not only lasers, but… yes, God help me… DVDs. I haven’t purchased any of the hated little things yet… but, depressingly, I know I’m going to. How do I know? Because they’re going to be releasing a new edition of Little Shop of Horrors (the Frank Oz version, not the original Roger Corman version) that’s going to feature, among other things, the original filmed ending in which a gigantic and out-of-control Audrey II attacks New York a la Godzilla. And it’s only going to be on DVD. When I heard this, it was with the same sinking feeling as when I learned years ago that they were reissuing 1776 with forty minutes of footage cut back in, including the entirety of “Cool, Considerate Men.” That sense that said, “You have no free will. You will join us. Resistance is futile.”

Speaking of being assimilated…

* * *

Let’s see how many people I can really annoy, because I haven’t accomplished that in a while:

I love being Jewish and everything, but I’m getting sick of reading articles where various Jewish pundits shake their heads and say the Jewish peoples totter on the brink of extinction due to assimilation, intermarriage, etc. How it’s necessary for Jews to close ranks, as it were, if we intend to survive as a people.

I was thinking about this, thinking, let’s consider the history of the Jews:

First off, people keep trying to kill us in large numbers, when they’re not busy taking away our property or enslaving us. Clearly we already have a serious PR problem.

And how have we dwelt with the diminishment of our numbers? Well, let’s see:

We encourage marriage only within our dwindling population, thereby guaranteeing the kind of limited gene pool which leaves Jews vulnerable, either exclusively or in large percentage, to such genetic diseases as Tay-Sachs, Gaucher Disease, Familial dysautonomia, Bloom’s Syndrome, Pemphigus Vulgaris, and a rather nasty mutation of cystic fibrosis.

We don’t have a central religious figure telling us not to use birth control. As a matter of fact, family planning–particularly in times of limited resources–goes all the way back to the actions of Joseph in Genesis 41:50-52 who practiced birth control during the famine in Egypt. This resulted in Talmud tractate Ta’aanit 11a which observes, “We learn that a man must practice abstinence during years of famine” (although, to be fair, even the most flexible definitions of family planning still feel that a Jewish male is constrained to produce two children in line with the admonition to be fruitful and multiply.)

We have a strict prohibition against proselytizing. “Jews for Jesus” aren’t really, by definition, Jews anymore since they have publicly embraced another religion. Not only are Jews not supposed to encourage others to become Jews, but converts are actively discouraged.

With all that… for heaven’s sake, do the math.

Part of the reason that Jews are called “the chosen people” is because the fact that we’re still here when so many people have tried to annihilate us would seem to suggest that nothing short of divine intervention can explain it. But God helps those who help themselves.

Might be time for a change. Might be time to rethink things.

Might be time for a recruitment drive.

Go for a double barreled approach. First, you have a series of ads which feature high-profile, popular Jews. Dress them really sharply, with a nicely flattering Star of David pendant conspicuously featured, and sporting a milk moustache–or, even better, a full milk beard. And the slogan can be, “Got Milechdik?”, a slogan so bizarre that people will feel constrained to read the rest of the copy which sings the praises of how great it is being Jewish (you immediately get premiere status in the entertainment industry, and a free copy of The Joys of Yiddish upon joining up.) Join now, and we’ll even waive the circumcision requirements.

Then you have a second series of ads featuring such annoying people as Newt Gingrich with the copyline, “Not Jewish.” The message is clear: Don’t blame us. We didn’t have anything to do with it.

Based on the relatively minuscule Jewish population of this country, the prospect of repulsive people being Jewish is rather slim. In one stroke, Americans can distance themselves in a concrete way from individuals that they’d rather not even share a relationship to as a species, much less on a religious basis.

I mean, granted, there might be counter advertising (Jeffrey Dahmer remains something of a sore point… and I’m not sure, but with our luck the Unabomber’s Jewish) but we can handle that. I mean, hell, the entire Ferengi race is one big Jewish parody, and we’ve withstood that okay.

And it sure beats sitting around wringing our hands while carrying with us the same kind of population-limiting rules that put an end to the Shakers (a religious order that advocated celibacy for its members, and wasn’t that a bright move.)

Wow. I’m on a roll. Next week I think I’ll talk about how the entire consciousness of sexual harassment and what that’s spawned is the worst thing that’s ever happened to women. See how many more people I can irritate.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. It’s a perversity of his that he always gets a notion to write his most inflammatory columns right around the time that the CBG ballots go out, as if hacking people off around voting time is a bright thing to do.)

 

Live blogging the Presidential debate will begin here

My long-term prediction: Election day will launch a lengthy legal battle and on December 21 the Supreme Court decides in favor of Romney…thereby fulfilling the Mayan calendar end-of-the-world-date.

That said, I will endeavor to be even handed in my commenting on the debate. See you shortly.

PAD