All of us have our pet peeves when it comes to driving.  Some motorists are infuriated by tailgating, others cannot stand a slow car in the passing lane, and some object to the high speed at which their fellow drivers pass them.  I share these annoyances and many others, but for whatever reason, the traffic behaviors that irritate me the most seem to be related to left turns.  One of the practices that I dislike is absolutely against the law, another is of questionable legality, and a third is perfectly legal but nonetheless maddening to me. 

I commence my diatribe with the most grievous offense, a traffic violation so blatant that the first time I encountered it I was left slack-jawed in astonishment.  Picture an average intersection with traffic stopped along its north/south axis.  The drivers wait patiently for the light to change.  As you mentally survey the scene, keep your eyes on the southbound car in the left turn lane, which is poised to enter the intersection, wait for oncoming traffic to clear, and turn to the east.  This is the car that will soon do something aggressive, reckless and dangerous.  Let's refer to its driver as Joe Dingus, for the sake of clarity. 

Now let us leave our drivers waiting patiently for a few more moments while we consider this excerpt from the Digest of Ohio Motor Vehicle Laws:

The driver of a vehicle intending to turn left is required to yield the right-of-way to any vehicle approaching from the opposite direction. Prior to engaging a left-hand turn, the driver must wait for oncoming traffic to clear the intersection. One may advance into the intersection as a prelude to turning, provided that no other traffic control devices prohibit this action. 

Elementary, right?  It's one of the major tenets of safe driving, right up there with stopping at the red light in the first place.  However, not only will Joe Dingus soon ignore this law, he will willfully do so in an act of supreme chutzpah.

The light changes, and instantly Mr. Dingus makes a swift left turn before the first northbound car advances into the intersection.  Not only has he failed to yield the right-of-way to oncoming traffic, he has purposefully exploited the momentary pause that typically occurs after the light changes and before stopped cars start moving again.  That this highly aggressive tactic actually works may be counter-intuitive, but I have seen it executed successfully several times.  Of course, pulling off the dangerous move hinges on the likelihood that the first car in the oncoming lane is not also occupied by a similarly irresponsible nut who intends to peel out at the very instant the red light disappears.  Which, I think we would all agree, is precisely what drivers like Joe Dingus deserve.

What truly annoys me about the Deliberately Premature Left Turn is that it seems to have caught on among a cretinous segment of the driving population.  Were it to happen only once, I would dismiss it as an aberration, but its recurrences suggest to me the nefarious onset of societal breakdown.  One guy does something incredibly rude, stupid, and dangerous, and yet he profits from it.  Someone of similarly limited intelligence observes this and reasons, “Why not me?”  Other impressionable and dim minds follow.  And there we have the recipe for the decline and fall of our civilization.

It reminds me of the old joke in which a passenger in a speeding car is astonished when the driver zips through a series of red lights without so much as slowing down.  “What’s wrong with you?!” he demands, but the driver dismisses him with a wave of the hand and calmly explains, “I always drive this way.”  A moment later, however, the driver slams on the brakes and screeches to a stop at a green light.  “What are you doing?!” cries the exasperated passenger just before another car speeds through the red light along the crossing street.  “Well that,” says the driver, “was my brother.”

I shall move on now to a far more common practice involving the left turn, one that is controversial enough to spark heated debate on various Internet forums.  This is the question of Improper Use of the Center Turn Lane.  The center turn lane straddles the median of a road and is usually designated by solid yellow lines at its extreme width and a pair of dashed yellow lines just inside those.  It is used by cars traveling in both directions as a means to merge out of flowing traffic before making a left turn into some establishment on the other side of the road, thus keeping everyone from getting stuck behind any driver waiting to turn left.  This much is obvious.  However, there seems to be an increasing subset of drivers who believe that the center turn lane may also be used for merging into traffic.  They will turn left out of a business, for example, directly into the center turn lane when traffic is heavy enough to otherwise prohibit their turn.  Then, when they see a gap, they’ll merge into the moving lane.

My perusal of the Digest of Ohio Motor Vehicle Laws has revealed that the Buckeye State is mum on the issue, which might explain why I see this done so often.  A modest Internet search suggests that merging into the center turn lane when turning left onto a street is a hotly contested question nationwide.  Some maintain that it is illegal, while others insist that it is not.  Proponents of the habit claim that it is necessary in order to keep traffic flowing.  Opponents, including me, find the practice dangerous and say that if it is not actually illegal, it should be.  I am always annoyed when I’m driving down a road next to the center lane and someone does this anywhere near me.  There is enough to worry about when driving already; it only makes it worse to have to be concerned about what a turn lane occupant intends to do, and it isn’t always predictable.  Sometimes they’ll come to a complete stop and wait for an opening (some states apparently allow this), and sometimes they’ll travel in that lane for awhile, and sometimes they’ll abruptly pull in front of another driver.  Since the practice encourages drivers exiting businesses to turn left into the center lane while traffic is passing by, it is conceivable that an oncoming car might decide to merge into the turn lane at approximately the same spot and time, and it would be difficult for the two parties to discern each other’s intentions quickly.  I believe it’s an unacceptable risk, and that is why I am irritated whenever I encounter it.

Lastly, as we cruise along the spectrum of legality, I wish to rant for a moment about what I shall call Stupid Left Turns.  As an example, allow me to present the unfortunate situation at the end of my very own street, which intersects with a busy, five-lane road, on the other side of which is the entrance to a small retail strip.  There is no stoplight, and during peak hours, turning left from either our street or the retail lot is a dicey proposition.  I usually avoid it by going through our neighborhood to a street with a light.  However, I have seen many people attempting to leave the retail strip by turning left during the busiest times of day, despite the fact that a 30-second detour through the other side of the lot would bring them to a stoplight.  That, my friend, is a Stupid Left Turn.  It’s perfectly legal, but it’s still stupid.

Stupid Left Turns are especially annoying when you are behind someone who is attempting one where there is no left turn lane, and you only wish to turn right.  You look to your left and see a stoplight that Louie Left-Turn could easily have used for such a purpose, but no, that would have required a little side-trip through the parking lot, and now a whole line of cars is stuck behind obstinate Louie.  Stupid Left Turns also include people who decide to take the most difficult path out of a corner gas station.  Frequently they’ll inch up their cars to the edge of the street as if to plead, “Oh, who is going to be a decent human being and give me the space to pull out of here?”  Meanwhile I will silently berate them for not taking the easily attainable opposite exit followed by a left turn at the intersection, a move that would not inconvenience anyone else.

Really, that is all I ask of my fellow drivers:  be polite, wait your turn, and do not unnecessarily inconvenience anyone.  And should you be in the habit of driving recklessly, don’t be surprised if one day you meet your brother coming the other way.

HackingEthics

Oh, the many pleasant hours I spent plucking junk from its spring-loaded jaw!

We are in full summer mode here in the Hunt household, and perhaps there is no greater indication of our seasonal relaxation than the fact that we have just sacrificed four consecutive evenings to view the entire Jaws tetralogy.  This is what can happen when you have time on your hands and the ability to stream Netflix offerings on your TV.  It all started innocently enough on Sunday evening, the first of several nights that our eldest daughter was away at camp, thus reducing the number of family members needed for unanimous entertainment option agreement to three.  Somehow the availability of Jaws for streaming came up, and it struck each of us as a fun viewing choice for different reasons.  My wife remembered seeing it many years ago.  Our youngest daughter had heard about it and was intrigued.  And me?  I came within a shark's tooth of seeing Jaws at a drive-in in the summer of '77.

It is easy now to forget just how big a pop culture phenomenon Jaws became after its 1975 release.  The movie allegedly deterred impressionable viewers from enjoying the beach.  It was memorably lampooned in the famous "Landshark" sketches of Saturday Night Live, an effects-laden sendup called "Jowls" on The Carol Burnett Show, and a classic Mort Drucker/Larry Siegel movie parody in MAD magazine.  Among the merchandising tie-ins was an Ideal Jaws game that featured a G-rated version of the Freudian movie poster on its box (minus the naked woman swimming above the advancing shark).  I owned the game, which consisted of a hollow plastic shark with a hinged jaw, upon which an assorted of marine detritus was balanced.  Players used a small hook to retrieve the items, until at last the weight of the remaining pieces no longer counterbalanced the tensile strength of attached rubber bands, whereupon the jaws suddenly snapped shut.  I thought the game was great.

A couple summers later I was asked by a friend to accompany her family and some other kids to a drive-in showing of Jaws.  I was incensed when my mother firmly declined the invitation on the grounds that the movie was too disturbing for anyone my age.  Despite reminding her that I was very nearly nine years old and promising that Jaws would not instill in me a fear of the water, my repeated entreaties were unpersuasive.  It was a great letdown, and I thought my mother was being completely unreasonable.  In retrospect, however, and through the responsible lens of parenthood, I respect and admire the wisdom of her decision.  Short of seeing the film for herself , there was no way for her to know just how intense it was, and the hype at the time proclaimed that  Jaws was terrifying.  My wife and I have always been rather conservative about what we have endorsed for family viewing, and only recently, with our youngest at age 12, have we carefully expanded our collective entertainment to include more mature fare.

So at long last, as we settled into our living room furniture with ample food and drink, I was finally getting around to seeing Jaws.  I found the movie entertaining, though I cannot agree with its presence among our nation's top fifty films as recognized by the American Film Institute.  It was much more a cultural phenomenon than a great movie, although its storytelling is compelling and its technical execution holds up well in our digital age.  Not a bad movie by any means, but far short of a great one.  I was surprised by its tame depiction of shark-related violence, as I had expected a much more gory experience.  However, as my wife reminded me, the graphic scenes of Jaws were more noteworthy in 1975, when a fountain of blood erupting from the waves would have shocked an audience.  Ultimately, Jaws is a fun thriller, with interesting performances from its three principals offsetting a few dubious plot contrivances.

The next evening, still chewing over the previous night's entertainment, we began to wonder how such a film could ever spawn a respectable sequel.  Once again, our Netflix connection offered instant gratification to our curiosity.  Jaws 2, released in 1978, clocks in at just under two hours with a threadbare script that might have made a decent half hour of television.  Long stretches of the movie are simply tedious, and none of the characters nor their relationships are developed enough for anyone to care whether they are destined to be survivors or shark food.  Well, that's not entirely true, as one teenage cast member becomes so obnoxious with incessant screaming that we were begging for her to be eaten.  In any case, Jaws 2 is little more than a pointless assemblage of not terribly interesting action scenes interspersed with boring filler.  Remarkably, it cost more than three times to make than the original, and one wonders where the money went.  Certainly not to special effects.

Having digested the first Jaws sequel and finding the experience distasteful, there was some hesitation over whether we should bother to watch Jaws 3 (1983) the next night.  However, knowing that it was originally presented as a 3D film, I was thought that it might contain enough gratuitous effects shots to keep us entertained.  We were not disappointed.  Jaws 3 is a spectacularly bad movie, but very amusingly so.  It is a great flick to laugh at together, and as it rests at the bottom of the cinematic barrel, even serious filmgoers will have no qualms about maintaining a running commentary with fellow viewers.  There is so much about it that is abysmally awful, not the least of which is the cooperative participation of Sea World in the endeavor.  I mean, we're talking about a movie in which the chewed end of a severed limb floats lazily before the audience, and the brain trust behind Sea World somehow saw it as a sound promotional tool.  Not to mention the out-and-out disaster that occurs at their park under incompetent management.  Horrible as the association is for Sea World, Jaws 3 is never dull, and it is often laugh-out-loud funny, though the guffaws are never intentional.  Our favorite part of the film, which had us in higher hysterics than many a comedy, featured the great white shark baring its teeth like a dog and roaring like a lion.  I highly recommend it.

By Wednesday evening, we were nearly Jawed out, but having come this far, it seemed almost a shame not to complete the cycle.  Besides, according to Wikipedia, Jaws: The Revenge (1987) is notable for being critically distinguished as one of the worst films in the history of cinema.  So with great anticipation of really bad filmmaking, we hunkered down for the last chapter of the Jaws saga.  Though preposterous, Jaws: The Revenge is actually more engaging than Jaws 2, with developed characters interacting in evolving relationships.  The presence of Michael Caine as a romantic interest for Lorraine Gary, who played Roy Scheider's wife in Jaws and Jaws 2, livens things up, though how the esteemed Oscar winner for Hannah and Her Sisters wound up in this mess is nearly as incomprehensible as much of the Jaws saga.  Similarly, Mario Van Peebles' turn as a good-natured Jamaican oceanographer is fun, and we enjoyed dropping the occasional ya, mon as we watched.  If only it had not been a Jaws movie, the film might have worked, as the bits not involving the shark are not bad.

Thus we have joined what surely must be an exclusive circle:  that small group of people who have seen all four Jaws movies (and the even smaller number who have watched them on consecutive nights, like the lowbrow's Ring Cycle).  How we'll break the news to our eldest daughter upon her return I don't yet know, but perhaps we can make it up to her.  I see that Netflix also streams three-quarters of the Karate Kid tetralogy.

HackingEthics

Hot times on Beale Street, Memphis, 2006.  Note the pedestrians in long pants.

It's hot right now in the Midwest, though nowhere near as steamy as the triple-digit extremes that the unfortunate citizens of our Eastern Seaboard are experiencing.  Nevertheless, once the temperature tops 90° Fahrenheit and surpasses that benchmark on a daily basis, those of us with the luxury of air-conditioned homes and cars take a little longer to acclimate.  We even start to ponder how the world ever got along without air conditioning, ignoring the fact that much of it still does.  Once you're used to living in perpetually comfortable environs, it's easy to get so accustomed to it that the seasonal highs of the summer months seem almost like an affront from nature.

"When Mom and I were your age," I recently pontificated to our eldest daughter, "we grew up without air conditioning in our homes."

"What did you do?" she asked, never having known such discomfort.

"We just put up with it."

"How did you sleep at night?"

I recalled the ever-present drone of box fans propped in our bedroom windows, which made sweltering summer nights more bearable.  When temperatures approached record-breaking highs, there was some debate as to whether window fans should be reversed in order to draw hot air out of the house, but I always preferred to maintain a strong current of air through my room, no matter how hot.  Better a warm breeze than stagnant heat.

To a certain extent, I suppose one's heat tolerance is affected by whatever measure of discomfort seems normal.  I certainly made things worse for myself during all of my childhood summers due to my preference for full-length jeans instead of shorts, even on the hottest days.  Add to that the calf-length tube socks with multi-colored cuff stripes that no one seemed embarrassed to wear in the 70's, and I begin to get uncomfortably warm at the memory of such summer attire, even as I type this with bare legs extending from my laptop in my air-conditioned living room.  Then again, my old Acer does run rather hot sometimes, so perhaps it's not all in my mind.

I was reminded of my uncomplaining allegiance to jeans during a family visit to Memphis a few summers ago.  It was a wonderful vacation, yet it was remarkably hot when we were there.  We had a hotel near the end of the streetcar line, so our ventures into downtown were via trolley, and we were out on the streets much of the time.  Trudging up historic Beale Street after lunch one oppressively sticky afternoon, we were delighted to discover the small, air-conditioned lobby of the Visitor's and Convention Bureau.  We ducked in for a few minutes, if only to remember what it was like to breathe effortlessly.  That evening, the marquee at the Arby's where we enjoyed a round of milkshakes indicated that the temperature was still over 100°.  It was the one and only time that we ever bought a second round of shakes for the road.  Yet throughout that sweat-drenched day, we observed many a Memphisonian striding vigorously across the steaming asphalt wearing long, denim pants.  Do they save their shorts for the days when expanding mercury explodes their thermometers?

Perhaps the hottest day in my memory happened nearly thirty years ago during a cross-country trip with my parents.  We were parked in the enormous lot of Circus Circus, at the time the only casino in Las Vegas that admitted minors (this was shortly before the Strip's brief flirtation with being "family-friendly" and long before the descent into "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" depravity).  The temperature was well into triple digits as we passed the afternoon inside the cool and cavernous casino.  When we returned to the lot to leave, however, we were astonished by the superheated interior of our old Volare.  I had stupidly left a box of cassette tapes on the rear dash, resulting in some of them being melted beyond use.  Most remarkable, though, was our rear-view mirror.  It was no longer attached to the windshield, the industrial adhesive that had previously secured it there having failed in the heat.

My favorite instance of unexpected melting, however, occurred one spring afternoon many years later when my wife and I had taken our young family to a community Easter egg hunt.  While we were there, my brother paid a surprise visit to our home to deliver a festive hollow chocolate bunny to his niece.  Finding the house empty and not knowing our whereabouts, he left the tall, rectangular box on our porch, where it eventually encountered the strong rays of the sun.  When we got back home, we were mystified by the presence of an empty bunny box at our front door, at least until we peered through its cellophane window and discovered a pair of candy eyes floating atop a pool of brown goo.  Such is the peril of warmer temperatures.  Chocolate Santas never face such a fate.

Of course, there is always the long-running argument over which is the worse to endure, blistering heat or bitter cold.  The wonderful thing about living in Ohio is that we usually get an annual dose of each extreme.  Whenever you find yourself at either end of the spectrum, it's always fun to contemplate the opposite end.  For example, only six months ago, I was concerned about the undercarriage of my Civic as I repeatedly bottomed out against the deeply rutted ice that city plows had been unable to remove from our street.  This is amusing to me today, when I might easily cook breakfast by leaving a plate of raw eggs on my dashboard.  Yet the snowy days shall return, and we will have the advantage of leaving our groceries in our trunks for as long as we like.

All of these experiences come to mind on these muggy days, when napkins and coasters must be employed to absorb the condensation rings from our drinks, and asphalt driveways are too hot for bare feet.  I suppose there are those rare individuals who thrive in these conditions, but most of us seem inclined to pine for cooler times.  Sure enough, we will be craving the freedom of short sleeves and sandals come February.

HackingEthics

AT MY DESK, JULY 4, 2010

The disgruntled Declaration of an American Newspaper Subscriber

When in the Course of a newspaper subscription it becomes necessary for one reader to dissolve the commercial band that has connected him to the daily local and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal stations to which the Law of Supply and Demand and the Free Market entitles him, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that he should declare the causes which impel him to the separation.

I hold these truths to be self-evident, that all newspaper readers are created equal, that they are endowed by their literacy with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are the expectation of a decent Life section, Liberty from shameless and unwarranted self-promotion, and the pursuit of Happiness under a fair and reasonable home subscription rate.  --- That to secure these rights, Journalistic and Publishing Standards are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the Free Market, --- That whenever any Newspaper becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the Reader to alter or to abolish it, and to utilize Alternative Media Sources, choosing reputable outlets according to such principles and organizing his browser bookmarks in such form, as to him shall seem most likely to effect his Informed Opinion and Consumer Happiness.  Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Newspaper Subscriptions long established should not be canceled for light and transient causes;  and accordingly all experience hath shewn that a loyal readership is more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right itself by abolishing the daily delivery to which it is accustomed.  But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under an absolute Monopoly, it is his right, it is his duty, to throw off such Newspaper, and to provide new Guards for their future security. --- Such has been the patient sufferance of this Reader; and such is now the necessity which constrains him to alter his former Means of Gathering News.  The history of The Columbus Dispatch is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Commercial Tyranny over this Reader.  To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

The Columbus Dispatch has thinned over the years, offering less content than at the inception of my subscription.

The Columbus Dispatch rarely delivers an issue that is not marred by page-length creases that obscure text and poorly registered color photos that make everyone look like they’re wearing anti-reflection eye black, as preferred by football players.

The Columbus Dispatch did embarrassingly pepper one Sunday edition with icons designating exclusive content in a pathetic effort to show everyone just how much they would miss if they chose a Dispatch-free existence.

The Columbus Dispatch relies on an abundance of syndicated content, frequently running items that I read over a week ago in The New York Times online and truncating their length with unscrupulous editing decisions that make the original authors look like they have forgotten the basic rules of composition.  I mean, criminy, The Lima News, which serves my dinky hometown, does a better job in this area.

For sending me a letter indicating that as of my next monthly electronic billing deduction, I will be invoiced at a rate More Than 100% Greater than what I was paying one year ago.

For having the chutzpah to suggest in the same letter that the aforementioned exclusive content, award-winning reporting and valuable, money-saving coupons are what make The Dispatch a great value, even at the dramatically increased price.

For failing to provide the means by which I might cancel my subscription online, requiring instead that I call by phone and speak to a Customer Service Representative.

For requesting that I give a reason for my subscription cancellation, then responding by offering an Introductory New Subscriber rate guaranteed for six months representing a 65% Increase over what I was paying one year ago.

For failing to take seriously my suggestion to renew my subscription at its current rate guaranteed for one year.

For further suggesting that I simply reduce the number of days of the week that I take The Dispatch before finally relenting and allowing my subscription to lapse, with the last issue to be delivered, Appropriately Enough, on the Fourth of July.

For being blind to the stark fact that their model of doing business is to modern commerce what the Titanic was to icebergs, and unless they wish to fold as irreparably as one of those aforementioned, damn page seams, they’re going to have to jettison all the syndicated stuff and run only the aforementioned exclusive content.

The Columbus Dispatch has also inflicted upon its readers an undue amount of Bush-League Writing, particularly in the so-called Arts section, which would be fully acceptable in a student lab newspaper but is rather embarrassing coming from the sole daily paper in one of our state’s Major Metropolitan Areas.

The Columbus Dispatch persists in running a weekly wishy-washy column from its Editor in which the Vocation of Journalism and the Inability to Please All People is patronizingly explained.

In every stage of these Oppressions I have Grumbled Quietly in the most humble terms:  My repeated Grumbling has been answered only by repeated injury.  An Esteemed Daily Local, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a mediocre periodical of College Newspaper Quality and Grandfathered-In FCC-Monopoly-Legislation-Skirting-Ownership-Of-Multiple-Local-Media-Outlets, is unfit to be the paper of this free reader.

Nor have I been wanting in attentions to my subscribing brethren.  I have warned them from time to time of attempts by our paper to impose an unwarrantable title of Loyal Reader upon us.  I have reminded them of the circumstance of our initial subscription.  I have appealed to their consumer justice and magnanimity, and I have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our water cooler conversations over whatever travesty ran in The Dispatch on any particular morning.  They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and consanguinity.  I must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold The Columbus Dispatch, as I hold most publications, Unworthy Of My Subscription.

I, therefore, a Responsible and Productive member of society, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of my intentions, do, in my Name, and by the Authority of My Wife, solemnly publish and declare, That this Dispatch Reader is, and of Right ought to be a New York Times Reader, that I am Absolved from all Allegiance to The Columbus Dispatch, and that my 20-year subscription is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as a Free and Independent Reader, I have the full Power to Glean Free Content from the Dispatch website, to Scan the Paper at the library, to Take Possession of copies left behind at Starbucks, to Resort to the Atrocious Local Newscasts for information, to Look Up from reading the free community papers and Announce “Really, this is all I need to know right here”, to backslide whilst saving face by renewing with a far cheaper Electronic Subscription to The Dispatch, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent Readers may of right do. --- And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Consumer Law, I pledge my Life, my Fortune, and my sacred Honor.

Robert Gerard Hunt

HackingEthics

The Beatles:  indispensable leads, colorful supporting characters, and no extras?

Imagine the public outrage that would ensue if Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were to announce their intention to reunite and tour as The Beatles.  Though they would have no trouble selling tickets, a critical consensus would condemn the endeavor as false advertising, even though the deaths of John Lennon and George Harrison obviously would have prevented them from participating.  Yet there is no hue and cry over Roger Daltry and Pete Townsend appearing as The Who in spite of the unavailability of late bandmates Keith Moon and John Entwistle.  Why?  The answer rests in the peculiarities of rock group dynamics, by which the members of most bands can be subdivided into indispensable leads, colorful supporting characters, and extras.

Now let us entertain an alternative history in which Lennon and McCartney are today's surviving Fab  Two.  They hold a press conference under a giant Beatles logo and announce a reunion tour.  The world rejoices.  Everyone laments the losses of Harrison and Starr, but few seem to mind Lennon and McCartney hiring session players and billing themselves as The Beatles.  This is because within Beatle group dynamics, Lennon and McCartney were the indispensable leads.  You can't have The Beatles without either of them, but you conceivably could have The Beatles with both of them and some hired hands.

That is the nature of indispensable leads, whose presence is essential for any band to maintain its identity.  For example, one cannot have The Rolling Stones without Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.  But Ronnie Wood and Charlie Watts could join Bill Wyman in retirement, and no one would complain if the Glimmer Twins hit the road as The Rolling Stones.  Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons are the heart and soul of KISS, and only the die-hards are miffed that Eric Singer and Tommy Thayer are now wearing the makeup of Peter Criss and Ace Frehley.  That is why Daltrey and Townsend (who, judging by his ragged appearance at the last Super Bowl halftime extravaganza, clearly did not die before he got old) can get away with being The Who, because they have always been the indispensable leads.

Occasionally only a single member of a band is indispensable.  David Clayton-Thomas could tour with anyone he likes as Blood, Sweat and Tears, and few would be the wiser.  Carlos Santana is Santana, Mark Knopfler is Dire Straits, and Trent Reznor is Nine Inch Nails.  Roger Waters might like to believe he is Pink Floyd, but in fact he shares his indispensability with David Gilmour (though that never stopped Gilmour from going out with Rick Wright and Nick Mason as Pink Floyd).

Next down the hierarchy of rock group dynamics is the colorful supporting character.  While not essential, this personality adds an extra dimension to the band that makes the group all the more enjoyable.  Take Bun E. Carlos, for example.  You absolutely cannot have Cheap Trick without Robin Zander and Rick Nielsen, yet you could get away with promoting a tour without Carlos.  But who would want to?  With his deliberately unglamorous appearance, the fish-out-of-water drummer has always looked like your friend's dad on drums, and that is very amusing.  Charlie Watts has much the same appeal.

J. Geils and Peter Wolf are the required basic elements of The J. Geils Band, but few would argue with the assertion that the flamboyant personality of electric harmonicist Magic Dick adds that little special something to the mix.  You can keep your band name without your colorful characters, but it's much better with them.  Of course, that's not always possible.  Keith Moon was so colorful it killed him.

That brings us to the lowest rung of rock group dynamics, a realm typically inhabited by bass players and drummers:  the extras.  John Entwistle was an extra -- he died just before a scheduled tour, and The Who only missed a couple shows before continuing with the remainder of their dates.  Bill Wyman was an extra -- he left the Stones, and hardly anyone noticed.  And can you name the bassist for Cheap Trick?  I'd hazard most people cannot, and anonymity is the surest ticket to being an extra.  Ditto for the rest of The J. Geils Band.

In order to escape being a mere extra, a band member must either be the lead singer on some well-known tunes, be the recognized songwriter behind a significant part of the group's repertoire, or have a quirky and memorable personality.  George Harrison scores on the first two counts, and Ringo Starr on the first and third, thus the two Lesser Beatles were no mere extras, which is part of why The Beatles were such an extraordinary band.  Verdine White, bassist for Earth, Wind and Fire, has avoided the role of extra due to his extraordinary energy during live performances, elevating him to colorful supporting character status.  Phil Collins, once an extra for Genesis, leapfrogged to indispensable lead after the departure of Peter Gabriel.  Even solo acts can be backed by longtime players who transcend being extras, as the great Davey Johnstone has done during his lengthy tenure with Elton John.

All of this can become an amusing parlor game among friends with nothing better to do.  Pick any band and classify its members.  You might need the assistance of Wikipedia to identify some of those extras.  Here are a few to get the arguments started:

LED ZEPPELIN

Indispensable leads:  Robert Plant, Jimmy Page

Colorful supporting character:  John Bonham

Extra:  John Paul Jones

THE MONKEES

Indispensable leads:  Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz

Colorful supporting character:  Mike Nesmith

Extra:  Peter Tork

DEVO

Indispensable leads:  Mark Mothersbaugh, Gerald Casale

Colorful supporting character:  Bob Mothersbaugh

Extras:  Bob Casale, Alan Myers

THE EAGLES

Indispensable leads:  Glenn Frey, Don Henley

Colorful supporting character:  Joe Walsh

Extra:  Timothy B. Schmit

QUEEN

Indispensable leads:  Freddie Mercury, Brian May

Colorful supporting character:  Roger Taylor

Extra:  John Deacon

U2

Indispensable leads:  Bono, The Edge

Colorful supporting character:  Adam Clayton

Extra:  Larry Mullen, Jr.

THE JACKSON 5

Indispensable lead:  Michael

Extras:  Jackie, Tito, Marlon, and Jermaine

Alright, let the arguing begin!

HackingEthics

No more pencils, no more books...

I've always heard that a school of piranha can skeletonize a cow in mere minutes, a trivial tidbit that came to mind as I watched the students in my classroom remove everything attached to the walls in preparation for summer break.  Dozens of educational elements, from large wall posters to tiny "word wall" words, were ravenously detached in a frenzy of activity.  What had taken me hours to put up was taken down in minutes, and my students stepped back and surveyed the bare bones of our room with sighs of satisfaction.

For the kids, there is an almost painfully sweet quality to the approaching end of a school year.  Each emptied desk and vacant bulletin board is a sure sign that freedom is tantalizingly near, yet the final dismissal seems ever-receding, like a desert mirage.  This frustrating combination of heightened anticipation and delayed gratification is largely responsible for the June madness that tries the souls of students and teachers alike.  You can't blame the children:  when you're only nine or ten years old, a summer off is one long vacation.

I remember the pure joy with which I greeted the arrival of every summer break as a child.  Leaving school on that last day was like emerging from a drab, sepia-tone existence into the bedazzling technicolor splendor of Oz.  The door slammed shut on yet another academic year, moving everyone closer toward magical adulthood and all of its unimaginable liberties.  In the meantime, a glorious stretch of warm weather and general irresponsibility beckoned.

Curiously, the sensation wasn't all that different at the conclusion of my first year of teaching.  I believe that most teachers would agree with me that one's rookie year is a trial by fire, when the stark realities of day-to-day teaching make it painfully obvious that there is far more to educating than writing wonderful lesson plans.  That first year is about survival, willing oneself to learn quickly from the inevitably numerous mistakes, and coming out on the other side of it with a contract for the following year is a great feeling of accomplishment.  My first summer off felt like a fantastic indulgence, though far from suffering any guilt over it, I truly felt that I had earned it.

Now, having taught for nearly a decade, I experience the end of a school year quite differently.  A little older and wiser, I have become attuned to the rhythm that runs from August to June, and by the time the last day arrives, it all seems to have gone by very quickly.  It's the annual repetition that does it.  When I think about particular lessons and projects from last fall, I realize that a good chunk of time has elapsed.  But each year has elements in common with its predecessors, making every subsequent year seem just a little shorter.

"It went by in a flash, didn't it?" I observed as a colleague and I walked the halls yesterday after our students had left for the summer.

"Oh, I know," he replied.  "It seems like we were doing the same thing only a couple months ago."

Returning to my empty classroom, I felt none of the exhilaration that I experienced after my first year of teaching.  In its place was a combination of subtler emotions.  There was the contentment that comes from having completed another academic year to the best of my ability.  A little voice in my head reminded me that just as every school year passes quicker than the last, so shall the forthcoming summer go by with unprecedented speed.  Better make the best of it.  Accompanying this was a sense of simple relief, the knowledge that I need not concern myself with the multitude of details involved in another day's teaching until August.

Overriding all of these thoughts was the constant hum of my mind as it considered the challenges that await in the next academic year.  How will I arrange all of the desks, materials, and technology to the best advantage in my new room assignment?  How might I streamline everything to become more efficient?  What parts of the curriculum warrant the most attention for planning?  What improvements should I make to beginning-of-year procedures?  How am I going to make it all work?  That hum will continue for the next couple weeks, sometimes surfacing even in my dreams, until I at last relax and enter summer mode.  It will start again when the first "Back to School Sale"  fliers appear near the end of July.

Above all, as this latest summer break begins, I am grateful for the downtime.  Not that it won't be busy enough in our household, what with our eldest daughter learning to drive and both of our girls needing to be chauffeured to daily athletic practices.  There will be various projects to tackle, enough to absorb my ample leisure time if I allow it.  But even if I were to fill every waking hour with productive labor, it would still be qualitatively different from the mentally and physically exhaustive work of educating children.  I will enjoy the break from being responsible for the academic progress and overall well-being of a group of young children.

And what will I enjoy the most about my freedom from such awesome responsibility?  Not talking.  Yes, I will enjoy not talking.  During the typical school day, I talk a lot.  Some of it is instruction, but the bulk of it is a never-ceasing stream of directions, corrections, interventions, questions, and conversations.  I talk so much in my occupation that it is physically taxing to my vocal apparatus every August, and I usually become hoarse or lose my voice in September as my body tries to adjust to the excessive vocalizing.  But in the summer, minutes and sometimes even hours go by during which I say...nothing!  As someone who appreciates the restorative powers of solitude, not having to talk so much is a welcome gift.

Yes, school's out -- for now.  Our students will be enjoying whatever freedoms are afforded to them over summer break.  I'll be doing quite a lot of silent reading, and I hope to have the discipline to engage in more writing than my school year schedule permits.  Come August, the kids will return, some lamenting the end of summer while others will be eager to come back.  As for me, I'll be ready to teach them again, knowing from day one that the new school year will fly by even faster than the last.

HackingEthics

The local supermarket where I often buy gas has apparently taken measures to rid their premises of Canada geese.  The rectangular retention pond that drains the parking lot and provides a buffer zone from an adjacent four-lane road is now criss-crossed with a matrix of fine netting.  From the perspective of a goose, the unsightly, white lattice must be one giant pain in the bill.

Imagine trying to land in this once-familiar pond.  Skim the surface too closely and you're suddenly somersaulting into the drink.  Manage a graceful touchdown and you're floating upon an aquatic cell with an area of just several square yards.  Want to float around in the cell next door?  Time to fly again.  Thinking about taking the goslings for a swim?  Might as well forget it.  There's nothing dangerous about your former haven, but like rush-hour traffic, it sure is frustrating trying to get around.

I was disheartened to discover the nets during a recent fill-up, not due to any concerns over animal welfare, but simply because I love geese.  They are far and away my favorite bird. I find their appearance and behavior not only fascinating but also highly amusing, and prior to the installation of anti-fowl pond webbing, I was treated to a few minutes of goose antics every time I engaged in the otherwise mundane task of fueling my car.

I understand the plight of the goose-infested supermarket.  The one characteristic of geese that I find less than charming is their communal ability to produce copious amounts of remarkably substantial droppings.  One flock of geese can quickly give your lawn that "just aerated" look, only those aren't soil plugs you're stepping in.  No, I concede that geese are highly offensive in this regard.  To the supermarket's credit, I never observed many goose droppings around their gas station and parking lot, which means somebody was getting paid for a sustained cleaning effort.  From a financial standpoint, a permanent solution was obviously desirable.  One afternoon spent stringing nets across the pond could eliminate countless hours of poop detail (the cost of doing business, you might say).  Still, so long as I'm not responsible for cleaning up after them, I enjoy geese immensely, and it saddens me that this simple pleasure is disappearing from the little pocket of suburbia it once enlivened.

I admire geese because they are alternately majestic and silly.  To see them soaring above in a v-formation is arresting and beautiful, yet their incessant honking is surely one of the most ridiculous vocalizations made by any of Earth's creatures.  They are strikingly attractive animals, but the way they undulate their long necks while poking along with a deliberate gate almost subverts their elegance.  Geese are gorgeous and goofy, all in one package.

The thing that I like most about geese, however, is their utter disregard for the urgencies of human beings.  They couldn't care less about vehicular traffic being brought to a standstill whenever they insist on walking rather slowly from one side of a road to the other.  And they could fly if it mattered at all to them, which clearly it doesn't.  The goslings haven't yet mastered this splendid indifference and can be intimidated by an approaching car into picking up the pace.  Not so with ganders and hens;  there's just no hurrying a goose.  You have to admire such unyielding self-confidence, even if it occasionally is fatal.

I also appreciate the noble aggression of a mother goose whenever anyone ventures too close to her nest, as I once unwittingly did.  She made sure I knew she was there, thrusting that long neck toward me like an attacking snake and giving a hiss that was as threatening as a goose honk is silly.  I backed up in an slow yet steady fashion, thusly avoiding a serious pecking.  I have no doubt that had we tangled in a fair fight, she would have emerged victorious.

Even more impressive is the bravado of a papa goose that secures the perimeter around his nesting mate.  The vigilant male stands ready to take on all comers, no matter how lopsided the odds.  I observed this spectacle several times while pumping gas.  One of the small landscaping islands that define the boundaries of the gas station was inhabited by a goose sitting patiently on her nest.  The male would waddle around the asphalt surrounding the island, staring (even glaring, if such were possible) at every passing vehicle.  When one motorist attempted to leave using a lane that was a mere yard from the nest, the gander puffed up his chest, spread his wings, and stood defiantly before the car.  It was, as befits the dual nature of geese, gallant and comical.

One early morning when a cluster of cars was parked near the grocery and the rest of the expansive lot was vacant, single geese stood here and there among the empty spaces like sentinels on alert.  Casting long shadows by the rising sun, they held their ground with necks outstretched, as if waiting for a signal to assemble.  What was their purpose?  Why spread out across an expanse of blacktop when the comfort of grass was near?  The scene was at once mysterious, hauntingly beautiful, and absurd.

As endearingly humorous as I find geese to be, it doesn't look like their lives are a lighthearted existence.  There is the constant threat of predators, the perils of living among so much machinery and technology, the ongoing search for sustenance and shelter from the elements, and perhaps most discouraging of all, perpetual infighting.  I could stand by the gas pump with a grin as I watched one goose asserting his dominance over the other, a frenzy of exaggerated honking, flapping wings, and the cowering retreat of the humiliated challenger.  It all looks so silly, perhaps because it is the metaphoric reduction of human conflict to its most essential elements.  Who hasn't seen more or less the same thing among homo sapiens in the workplace?  So I laugh when I see squabbling geese, yet their noisy confrontations must be deadly serious to them.  Again, the delicious irony:  our gravest disputes are just as meaningless to geese.

Are they amused by us?  It seems highly unlikely.  But I bet they're honking mad about that retention pond.

HackingEthics

What was it about these trading cards that made them so irresistible?

I grew up calling them Monster Cards, although that is merely a generic description.  Collectors often refer to them as You'll Die Laughing cards.  That is also incorrect.  For many years, the proper name for this bizarre series eluded me, as I had discarded the colorful wax paper pack wrappers shortly after every purchase, and I was only five at the time.  In fact, the fabled Topps collectibles were marketed as Creature Feature in 1973 with an initial run of 62 trading cards, followed shortly thereafter with a second series of 66.  The images on those cards are still familiar to me all these years later.

The Creature Feature gimmick was as elementary as its target demographic.  Black and white stills from old Universal Pictures horror films were given ridiculous dialogue captions.  The reverse, printed in purple ink on gray card stock, featured a fanciful illustration of jovial monsters gathered around a tombstone, upon which was inscribed a terribly corny joke.  Despite the heading You'll Die Laughing, it's unlikely that the lame attempts at humor provoked so much as a mild snort, let alone a lethal guffaw.

Some examples:

1^st Monster:  “Where I work, you can hear a pin drop.”

2^nd Monster:  “Really?”

1^st Monster:  “Sure.  I work in a bowling alley.”

1^st Monster:  “Did you hear that my brother stepped in front of a train?”

2^nd Monster:  “Was he killed?” 

1^st Monster:  “Oh no.  The train was backing up at the time.”

1^st Monster:  “When you sold me this cat, you said he was splendid for rats.  But he wouldn’t touch them.”

2^nd Monster:  “So isn’t that splendid for rats?”

You can almost hear the rimshots, right?  But no matter.  If Topps had left the backs of the cards blank, it would have done little to diminish the winning formula they had applied to the front.  Firstly, an economy of design made the layout stand out from every other trading card series, sports-related or otherwise.  There were no splashy graphics, nor even a hint of color.  Each card was dominated by its movie still, which was framed by a thin, white border.  The designers wisely avoided marring the image with speech balloons, opting instead for captions printed in a slightly cheeky font just below each photograph.  Thus, the viewer was immediately hit with the full visceral impact of the photo, which was sometimes campy but just as often gruesome.  Then, a beat later, came a line of disarmingly silly dialogue.

Unlike the stale jokes on the reverse, the ridiculous captions juxtaposed with frightening images could definitely elicit a laugh.  For example, on card #19, a menacing mummy leans over an apparently dead woman stretched out upon the grass (NO SLEEPING IN A PUBLIC PARK, LADY!).  On card #8, Lon Chaney's eerily grinning Phantom of the Opera points offscreen as a damsel in distress cowers beside him (AND WE'LL PUT THE NEW CHAIR IN THAT CORNER!).  On card #31, Frankenstein's monster has the Wolfman in a stranglehold (WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY MOTHER HAS A MUSTACHE?).  And on card #62, a man discovers a rotted corpse in a bed (WAKE UP MISS, WE'VE RENTED YOUR ROOM!).

If you were the right age, this was a seductive combination.  What kid isn't fascinated by the iconography of horror films?  The images are strange and disturbing, but then so is much of the world to a young mind.  Overcoming one's fear of stereotypical horror imagery produces a sweet illusion of control amid the chaotic prospect of forthcoming adult life.  I'm not afraid of this! we boldly repeated to ourselves, and Creature Feature cards were there to ease the transition.  How scared can you be of a demonic skeletal lady holding court like a satanic queen when she appears to be thinking MY GIRDLE IS KILLING ME! ?

Unbeknownst to me at the time, the back cover art that framed the bad jokes was a vestige from a previous Topps series.  Funny Monsters debuted in 1959 with color illustrations by the legendary Jack Davis, whose work for EC Comics, MAD Magazine, and a host of advertising and marketing commissions would make his distinctive style a readily recognizable facet of American pop culture.  Only a few of the 1959 captions were recycled for 1973, but a side-by-side comparison reveals something interesting.  While Davis' humorous illustrations were wonderful, the joke works a little better when juxtaposed with a serious movie still.

The 1973 Creature Feature cards are a comedic improvement over the 1959 Funny Monsters simply because the images were never intended to be enjoyed for laughs, and that adds a delicious element of subversion to the endeavor. It's basic comedy arithmetic:  Amusing illustration + amusing caption = funny.  However,  frightening image + amusing caption = funnier.

In the end, though, the funniest thing about Creature Feature cards may be a subtle touch that went unnoticed by consumers.  According to Kurt Kuersteiner in an article for The Wrapper Magazine, Topps edited many of the stills, replacing the faces of actors with those of Topps employees.  Monster faces were left unaltered.  Somewhere inside that strange decision must have lurked a stark financial and legal reality.

True story?  Take a look at these close-ups and judge for yourself:

As this was quite a few years before doing a Photoshop head swap became a teenage rite of passage, it's unlikely that the image manipulation was apparent to young Creature Feature collectors.  I certainly never noticed it.  However, there was always something about those images that was subtly surreal, though I could not articulate it.  Now I think I understand it at last.  What's stranger than horror movie stills with goofy captions?  The anachronistic appearance of 70's hairstyles within scenes that were shot decades earlier. 

Ergo,  frightening image + amusing caption + fashion anachronism = funniest.

Creature Feature cards are comforting nostalgia to me today, and I suppose their retro look provided me with something of the same sensation even when I was five.  To put them in their proper context, they were marketed during a far less jaded era, before the advent of graphic slasher films and glamorized violence in video games.  It was a time when most kids never saw an R-rated movie unless they dared to sneak into the theater.  Just before the ubiquity of cable television and home video, and long before Internet access to truly horrific images.

Would kids go for them today?  I think so.  If I benefited from the illusion of control amid chaos as a young lad in the comparatively innocent year of 1973, consider the measure of reassurance craved by the children of 2010.  It's a crazy world.  We could use a few funny monsters.

HackingEthics

105?  There must be some significance to that combination...

It's been ten years since I left the business world for a career in education.  A decade is an apt interval for reflection, for that is precisely how long I spent in the private sector.  As a fresh college graduate in the spring of 1990, I turned my part-time job with a small records management company into a sustaining occupation.  Eventually I was given a salary and entrusted with running the micrographics department.  If the notion of storing data on microfilm seems quaint today, the inevitability of a digital future was obvious even then.  By the end of the nineties, it was long past due to move on.

Although few mementos remain from that period of my life, I recently exhumed the most substantial relic of my business days:  a briefcase.  It was resting in the corner of my basement underneath a six-disc CD player, a pair of plastic aquariums, a slim wooden case containing a decorative carving knife, and an assortment of small items that accumulated there during the latest attempt at organization.  After carefully removing the precariously balanced upper archaeological layer, I was able to retrieve this artifact from my past in order to examine it closely.

My old briefcase is of the classic model:  black, hardshell, with gold-finish latches and a hefty, swiveling handle.  In other words, it's a completely impractical piece of luggage for most purposes.  Foremost among its detriments is its considerable weight, even when empty.  With no shoulder strap to help bear the load, the average professional is likely to experience carpal tunnel onset just lugging the thing from the parking lot to the office.  Heaven forbid it should be filled with documents.

The bulky carrying device, far heavier than its potential contents, is a throwback to a time of macho corporate suffering when ergonomics was for sissies.  Look around today as people scurry to their office jobs and conferences, and you'll see plenty of shoulder bags, leather portfolios tucked under wing, and rolling cases pulled by telescoping handles.  The traditional, hardshell briefcase offers only two advantages:  it provides a secure and nearly indestructible portable home for vital documents, and it makes its carrier look important.  Hey, that guy must be somebody - he's carrying a briefcase!

As I beheld my briefcase for the first time in years, a mild anxiety crept up on me.  Each of the two latches was secured to a three-digit combination lock.  Not only had I forgotten the method by which the custom combinations were set, but also I could not remember what numbers I had chosen.  My childhood street address sprang to mind as a possibility, and I was just about to dial it up when it occurred to me that perhaps the current configuration was, in fact, the secret code.  Why would I have bothered to advance the numbers if I was merely putting my briefcase away at home?  Yet the displayed digits - 105 on the left latch and 107 on the right - had no significance for me at all.  Still, better to give it a try.  I pushed my thumbs against the release mechanisms, and thwack!  The latches popped open.  It would be a full day later before my brain would recover the cryptic meaning of 105 and 107 :  the simulcast FM frequencies of a long-gone local radio station.

To my surprise, the briefcase would not open.  I gripped the handle with my left hand and tried to use the fingernails of my right hand to pry the lid loose along the seam, but it was as if the latches had never been released.  After several unsuccessful attempts, I looked furtively around the basement for something I might be able to force into the tiny seam and use as a lever.  Coming up with nothing, I made one final, desperate effort, and finally the seal was broken and the briefcase flew open.

The contents were as disappointing as Al Capone's vault.  The central compartment was empty, and a trio of cheap ballpoints was stuck in the pen holder.  Reaching down into the pockets, I discovered the business card of an old client, plus the last stash of my own business cards.  That was it - no amusing memos, no meeting notes with creative doodling in the margins, no forgotten currency.  I stared at the vacant interior and wondered why I had ever wanted a briefcase in the first place.

I suppose I thought I needed one, just as I felt it necessary to wear a suit and tie when I was made to go on sales calls.  It seemed much more professional to arrive at the office of a potential client with my proposal secure within a briefcase rather than showing up carrying a cheap manila folder.  A briefcase afforded one the opportunity of ritual:  the careful placement of the briefcase upon a boardroom table, the satisfyingly aggressive percussion of opening latches, the subtle whiff of leather, the procurement of anticipated documents from a mysterious vessel that might contain the portfolios of several dozen much more important prospects.  It was all smoke and mirrors, as I found much of the business world to be.

I took the briefcase as my carry-on luggage on the rare occasions when my employer flew me off somewhere in the name of keeping up with the latest industry trends and networking with promising partners and suppliers.  I had it with me in Deerfield Beach, Florida, where a comparatively large micrographics firm was hosting a small convention for like-minded businesses.  The host company went all-out to impress everyone by chauffeuring us by limousine from the hotel to a tour of their facility, followed by dinner, drinks, steel-band music, and general schmoozing aboard a yacht cruising the Intracoastal Waterway.

I had never been in a limousine before, and the experience was odd.  Sitting next to the window, I was clearly the youngest and most inexperienced, a mere proxy of my employer among a group of confident small-business owners.  They laughed easily and were cordial toward me, but I felt like an alien.  They were all about growing their businesses and making more money.  I was thinking about how unrewarding I was finding my occupation.  I certainly wasn't making a great deal of money, and the best I could say about the service I provided was that I indirectly helped other companies in their quest to be profitable by allowing them to efficiently archive records.  It seemed rather pointless.  It absolutely was dull.

As our limo glided to a stop at a busy intersection, I gazed out the window and saw a rusted landscaping truck pull up in the adjacent lane.  A crew of dark-skinned day laborers crowded the open bed, their tattered clothes as dirty as the shovels they carried.  They stared at our limousine and laughed as they pointed toward us, perhaps speculating what VIP might be beyond the black-tinted windows.  I stared back at them, knowing I could not be seen.  They appeared to be on the way back from a long day's work.  I was headed for a business dinner on a yacht.  The light changed and we moved on, but I was haunted by what I had seen.  No one else in the limousine seemed to notice.

The next afternoon, I dutifully stuffed my briefcase with convention literature before flying home.  Snapping the latches shut, I pondered how much longer I would be making a living in the business world.  Maybe one day I would have the chance to do something meaningful.

HackingEthics

If at first you don't succeed...

Fans of Keith Emerson and Greg Lake can be forgiven for being a little nervous this past Wednesday when an announced 7:30 showtime came and went with no sight of the famous prog rockers.  Sure, it's not unusual at all for rock concerts to start quite late, but those of us squirming restlessly in our seats had been through this once before.  As previously documented, the Emerson/Lake tour had been set to debut in Cleveland on April 1, but the show was abruptly called off at the last second to the consternation of a stunned audience.  The next two dates were canceled as well, and sheepish statements were issued from the boys that vaguely attributed the mishap to unresolved technical issues.  When at last the tour started with a successful date in Annapolis, the next evening's show in Alexandria was canceled due to laryngitis.  Finally the ball got rolling, and our heroes managed to pull of a dozen consecutive performances without incident.  Ticketholders from previously canceled shows were assuaged with rescheduled dates.  Then, on what would have been the duo's thirteenth concert in a row on April 28, Lake's illness forced a cancellation at Colorado Springs.  Before returning to Cleveland, the Emerson/Lake tour continued with a trio of Texas shows.  So, given the tour's 79% success rate, we weren't about to get too excited until we saw the whites of their English eyes.

The minutes passed by, dry ice swirled under the lighting rig, a bottle of water was set in place for Mr. Lake -- all of the things that had happened last time at the Lakewood Civic Auditorium.  As I began to experience an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu and reassured myself that they surely would not cancel a second time, the noticeably thinner audience was getting restless.  My front-row seat at center stage was flanked by three empty seats to my left and three empty seats to my right.  Even some of the people in the VIP orchestra pit seating had apparently taken refunds rather than return.  Someone called out from behind me, "We've waited a month!"  Then, just a couple minutes shy of eight o'clock, Keith Emerson and Greg Lake took the stage, and all was forgiven.

"Better late than never," quipped the rotund and bespectacled Lake as he settled onto his stool.  "Let's hope we play well for you tonight."

Thus began a solid evening's entertainment, albeit musically brief and marred by technical glitches.  In their attempt to present themselves as a duo, Emerson and Lake hatched the rather clever idea of building Manticore Hall, a set resembling a recording studio complete with control booth.  Appearing at a series of intimate venues, the show would allow audiences to feel as though they were in the studio with E and L, if not P.  Ah, but there's the rub - no P.  What to do about the absence of Carl Palmer?  There were only four options, really.  One:  hire a different live drummer.  Two:  play with no percussion.  Three:  Play along with prerecorded "live" drumming.  Four:  Play along to a programmed drum machine.  I would have preferred any of the first three choices, but unfortunately Emerson and Lake opted for the fourth.

Using a drum machine is a wee bit embarrassing, evoking as it does the hilariously seedy image of Bill Murray's Nick the Lounge Singer giving a solo spot to the small box that provided his electronic accompaniment ("The Univox SL-120, ladies and gentlemen!").  To the extent that the drums were thoughtfully programmed for this show with satisfying fills and cymbal crashes, the technique worked surprisingly well at times, adding a pulse-racing layer of excitement that otherwise would have been missing.  Sometimes, however, the robo-percussion was unnecessary and intrusive, especially when it was merely keeping a mechanical beat with just a tinny hi-hat sample.  There I was, enjoying an otherwise beautiful arrangement, yet I could not avoid being distracted by that damn tick, tick, tick, tick.

The show opened with From the Beginning, Emerson leading off with an intro of piano and string pads before triggering a tasteful mambo rhythm.  Lake joined in on acoustic guitar and vocals, and it was immediately apparent that the great singer's voice has only grown richer with age.  Much has been made of Lake's increasing girth in recent years, yet it may be that the added weight has actually provided him with unprecedented depth and resonance.  I am reminded of the opposite effect in artists as diverse as Ian Anderson and Bill Champlin, both of whom sounded wonderfully soulful when they had a few extra pounds but lost that power when they trimmed down.  So eat, drink, and be merry, Greg, because you've never sounded better.

Lake added a guitar solo in the middle section of From the Beginning, a welcome change from its usual concert arrangement.  Interestingly, his arpeggiated strumming continued under the solo, and this along with some phantom bass licks later in the show made one wonder just how much of the performance had been prerecorded.  Only their sound engineer knows for sure.

A blast from the pre-ELP past followed with what might be the highlight number of the tour, a lovely take on King Crimson's I Talk to the Wind.  Releasing a live recording of this to I-Tunes would be a great promotional device for the tour.

Storytelling had been billed as part of the performance, and Emerson took a few moments to discuss those early days before he and Lake began working together.  Recalling an American tour with The Nice, he noted having come through northeast Ohio with Lee Jackson and Brian Davison.  "Cleveland is a very important place for us," he noted to predictable applause.  "If you made it in Cleveland, it would just stretch out."

Stretching out is precisely what Emerson and Lake did next with an engaging rendition of Bitches Crystal.  Of all the numbers one might think demanded percussion, this one was performed sans drums, yet it did not suffer.  Frenetic strobe lighting enhanced the ostinato figure, and Lake's fat bass lines were a joy to hear.  The Emerson/Lake rendition was so good, they might consider asking Carl Palmer to sit this one out at the next reunion.

Speaking of C.P., Emerson prefaced the next song by noting their drummer's passion for Bartok and the inspiration this provided to take on the composer's Allegro Barbero.  "It's a catchy little tune which you might find yourself whistling on the way home," he joked, "or not."  The audience laughed appreciatively.  "If it grew on me, I'd chop it off."  The Barbarian was performed to a heavily programmed drum track, complete with all the attacks and fills that one would want.  On this number, the drum machine really works.

It wasn't long into Lake's next introduction that the crowd recognized what was coming next.  He told a tale of looking for songwriting inspiration, remembering how he had taken his dog for an early morning walk as mist was coming off the water.  "Such a beautiful sight," he recalled, "I looked for ages."  Yet, the songwriting muse remained elusive, at least until Lake tossed a stone into the water and watched the ripples radiate endlessly across the surface.  "The things you do reverberate through life," he observed, and so it was that Take a Pebble was born.  Emerson and Lake performed it beautifully without accompaniment.

Near the end of the song, Emerson played a transition that became the beginning of the epic Tarkus.  "Eruption" was played as a piano solo, Lake resting his hands on his bass and smiling with his eyes closed liked a contented Buddha.  He was reanimated for "Stones of Years", during which Emerson contributed an almost whimsical, slow stride-piano solo.  It was back to solo piano for the restatement of the "Eruption" motif in "Iconoclast", and then onward to "Mass", which featured the first Hammond tones of the evening.  The beginning of "Battlefield" drew applause, as it was clear that we were going to hear Tarkus to the end.  The best came last, with the evening's most effective use of programmed percussion as martial drums and a cracking snare breathed life into a stunning version of "Aquatarkus".  Emo fans were in for a treat, with gloriously bubbling and gurgling synth lines on the Korg followed by a turn on the massive modular Moog.  Even the famous ribbon controller saw a little action, though there were no pyrotechnics shooting out its end this time.

Having brought their fans to these heights in just fifty minutes of showtime, an intermission was announced.  "We'll take a 15-minute break and see you in about 25 minutes," remarked the witty Emerson.  True to his word, it was just over half an hour before the duo reappeared for the second half.

Veteran fans knew what was coming next, as a beret-wearing roadie approached stage right with an accordion.  "Oh, Pierre," Emerson greeted his keyboard tech before stretching out his arms to accept the instrument.  "He loves to strap me in."

Although an introduction was hardly necessary, Lake mentioned his love of Paris and recounted his desire to write a French song.  He expressed his delight upon learning that the fruit of his labor, C'est La Vie, was covered for a number-one hit in France by Johnny Hallyday, whom Lake called "the French Elvis Presley."  The Emerson/Lake rendition was as agreeable as ever, though the poorly amplified accordion made Emerson's Parisian solo difficult to hear.  "I did try busking the accordion on the London Underground," remarked Emerson at the conclusion of the song.  "They threw me up."

Emerson then took a rare turn at center stage for a pair of piano solos from his recent solo album.  Prelude to Hope was well received, as was his take on Alberto Ginastera's "Estancia Suite" called Malambo, which included winking quotations of Canario from Love Beach and We're Off to See the Wizard from The Wizard of Oz.  Curiously, Lake remained on stage during these numbers, maintaining his attitude of silent bliss just outside of the spotlight.

The most striking theatrics of the night were saved for Pirates, which began with blinding white flashes to the accompaniment of thundering cannon fire.  As Emerson held a dissonant chord on the Hammond, Lake spoke the first verse in sonorous tones that rivaled the dramatic oratory of Orson Welles.  It was a deliciously tense introduction that would have been so satisfyingly resolved by the first synthesizer notes that begin the song proper...if only Emerson's main keyboard had not failed to respond.  He plunked at it a few times before the carefully crafted melodrama evaporated from the auditorium.  "Dead one here," he called out to his stranded vocalist.

"Wake him up quick," responded Lake, "before I die."  The audience took it all in good humor, even when a frustrated Lake noted that it wasn't worth playing if it couldn't be done right and politely announced a break until the problem could be resolved.  Emerson remained onstage, consulting with technicians as wags in the audience called out suggestions.  Would this be the end of the evening?  "Alright," Emerson soon told the audience, "they're rebooting the system."  Thankfully, the delay was short, and Lake returned to his stool while it was still warm.

"Let's roll back," called the engineer from behind the "control room" glass.  "This is take 2."  The cannons fired again, Emerson held his dissonant Hammond chord, and Lake indicated that he had no intention of repeating his Orson Welles imitation by suggesting to Emerson that he pick up from where they had left off.  Take 2 began impressively, a projected skull and crossbones transforming the black backdrop beyond the set into a jolly roger.  Those blinding white flashes went off with every percussive simulation of cannon fire.  Emerson and Lake went for it with gusto, and a great arrangement it was.  Halfway through the song, however, the programmed drums petered out, leaving the hapless duo no recourse but to soldier on valiantly.  This they did, and though it was a shame that things didn't work out as they had planned, it was soon obvious that they have the chops to pull it off without drums.  The audience responded enthusiastically.

"Thank you," acknowledged Lake.  "That was a hard ride."

Half a dozen audience members were given the opportunity to ask questions during a brief  Q & A session (a transcript of which follows the conclusion of this review) before the regular set was closed out with a medley of America and Rondo.  Carl Palmer was sorely missed on these numbers, which really benefit from the spontaneity of a live drummer.  Emerson's parlor trick of playing Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor backwards, quite a treat when accomplished from underneath a battered Hammond or whilst standing upon the lid of baby grand, has been tamed by the great keyboardist merely standing on the other side of his rig with all the enthusiasm of a bloke buttering some bread for tomorrow's lunch.  The throwing knives were wisely left at home.

Two minutes of hooting and whistling love from Cleveland brought E & L back for their encore.  "When I was twelve, my mother, God bless her, bought me a guitar," said Lake.  "And I'd heard this song by Duane Eddy."  He played the opening bars of Peter Gunn to a cheering reception.  Alas, we were not in for an unexpected treat, as Lake was merely noting the song's simplicity as a way to introduce Lucky Man.  The story of the genesis of that song is as familiar to ELP fans as any well-worn anecdote that your grandfather has forgotten he's already told you a few dozen times.  Still, it was amusing to hear Lake describe Emerson's initial reaction to a number that would become their biggest hit.  "I played it, and I could watch his face, and he really wanted to like it."

As many times as fans have heard Lucky Man, there was something new this time around.  Emerson began with a solo that took everyone to modular Moog heaven, beginning with the world's most dangerous synth's famous bottom end, a skull-vibrating note that surely must test the structural integrity of every venue.  He used the portamento to swoop upward and play a few notes of his original solo, which was then repeated as a sequence, to which he added more and more layers.  A wave of sweet Emersonian Moog sounds washed over the spellbound audience.  Then, after a pretty piano and string pad intro, Lake joined him for a standard concert arrangement of the song, ending with, of course, that immortal Moog solo.

By 10:20, it was all over.  Figuring in the late start, intermission, storytelling and Q & A, that amounted to perhaps 90 minutes of music.  Not lengthy, by any means, and not without its technical problems, but overall a rewarding evening that should satisfy many ELP fans.  Kudos to Keith Emerson and Greg Lake for taking such a risk at a time when they could just as easily retire from it all.  And...welcome back, my friends.

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For all the die-hards out there who care about this sort of thing (and that would probably included everyone who bothered to return for the make-up show), here is a transcript of the Q&A session:

FAN #1:  Keith, I'm a friend of Karen McCarthy [daughter of stage effects expert Bob McCarthy, who designed the flying piano for ELP].

EMERSON:  Oh yeah, great, yes.

FAN #1:  Great kid.

EMERSON:  Yeah.

 FAN #1:  Speaking of Karen, are you gonna be building a new spinning piano for  [the upcoming] High Voltage [ELP reunion on July 25]?

EMERSON:  (laughs) Everybody's asking that one.  Uh, I don't know...but the last time I did it, I had such a mournful number of accidents.  They decided to make it a nine-foot Steinway with fireworks on it, and spun me very fast - greater knots.  And, of course, when you're spinning around very, very, very fast, it sounds a bit like the doppler system on the Leslie [rotating speakers], you know, and I thought I was saying, "Stop!" and it was coming out "Sto-o-o-o-p!" [flutters hand in front of mouth for effect].  And eventually, I think the people operating the spinning device got the idea and said, "I think we should stop."  And, of course, there was smoke from the fireworks in my face, and when you're leaning back against centrifugal force and it suddenly comes to a stop, it was like [bangs hand on microphone] "Ouch."  And then I broke my nose.  So, that was it, really.  I don't know, I think Karen is going to get the specs...but we'll just have to look at that, really.  But thanks a lot for the question.

FAN #2:  Greg, did you write The Great Gates of Kiev for the two witnesses of Revelations Chapter 11?  [This was greeted with surprised laughter from the audience, and though Greg looked amused, he was polite and courteous in his response.]

LAKE:  I have to say that I didn't, no.  [More audience laughter]

FAN #2:  Because I thought you did, and I'm all out.

LAKE:  Well, there you go.  Um, it was...I wrote the piece, really, because I was inspired by the music of Mussorgsky.  It was so panoramic, and sort of all-encompassing, that I really was just looking for a lyric that felt like that, you know, all-wordly.  Um...whether I succeeded or not, I don't know.  But thank you for the question.

FAN #3:  Greg, I was wondering what you thought of the King Crimson anniversary reissues.

LAKE:  It's very nice.  I always like to hear new things from the King Crimson.  They sent me - um, what is interesting, on 5.1, because you have quadraphonic in each corner, and you have the vocal split separately in the front, and I could hear my vocal without any accompaniment whatsoever.  It's terrifying, [big audience laugh] you know?  But luckily, I sang in tune for this one.  But it was great...it was lovely to hear.  Thank you very much for the question.

FAN #4:  Hello, my name is John.  I'm from Minneapolis.

LAKE:  Hi, John.

FAN #4:  My question for you is, are there any concepts that you and Keith and Carl wanted to do for an album for an extended piece but never got to do?

EMERSON:  Hmm...um... [looks at Lake] were there?  [audience laughter]

LAKE:  It's a hard question to answer, because of course, we've been together for so many years.  There must have been things that we sort of toyed with doing and then thought, "Maybe not."  Generally speaking, when we decide to do something, we get on with it and do it.  If it works, of course.  We've done things that we just didn't feel worked out, and we've moved on, but I don't think anything - I can't think of anything we've sort of got, but we've never created--

EMERSON:  No, you've come up with some very interesting ideas.  I think, "The Rubicon," or something, wasn't it?

LAKE:  Oh, yeah, I forget.

EMERSON:  [with the subtlest hint of dry humor] Do you like...you like Rome and the Romans.

LAKE:  Yeah, I mean, there's, uh...you know, various ideas for the concept, but unless they come to fruition, they're not really what you would...I don't think that's the question you really had in mind, but thank you anyway.  It was interesting.

FAN #5:  I was just wondering if you guys are going to film this tour.

LAKE:  I hope we will at some point, uh...when we get it working properly. [audience laughter]  But yes, I would like to.  It is a strange thing.  It's something that appeals to both Keith and myself, because, of course, this is how we experienced the material originally.  And so, it's kind of a novel thing for us to go back like that, peeling off all those layers of production and finishing.  So, there's a sort of charm there.  But also, I mean, dare I say this now, but it's all a bit experimental, you know?  And so, that's another thing that tickled us, is trying to see if it's possible to recreate some of these things just with two people, and sort of work within - to a sort of finished thing, in a way, like that.  So there was a sort of challenge in that as well - as you can see!  [audience laughter]

EMERSON:  I think the concert [at]the Nokia in New York was filmed, wasn't it?

LAKE:  I believe a couple of them were filmed, actually.

EMERSON:  Yeah, we've not had a chance to sort of review it, but...  [An audience member shouts, "We want it!"]

FAN #6:  Hi, Keith and Greg.  I wanted to know how you guys look back on the Emerson, Lake and Powell album and era.  [audience applauds]

EMERSON:  Well, that was really -- it was terrific.  I think Cozy Powell added a new dimension to the back catalog of ELP, and also was very inspirational in the making of that one album that we did get to make.  It was rather funny when Cozy first arrived to-- well, actually, let me explain, because actually Greg and I, when we first -- the intention was to do a duo album, at that point, but the record company, Polygram, said, "Well, no, you've got to go out and tour with it."  We both knew Cozy Powell, it was my idea, and it wasn't until we got situated playing that we suddenly realized that he had the same initials, C.P., as Carl Palmer.

LAKE:  Nobody ever believes it.  Nobody ever believes that we chose Cozy, you know, without that consideration, but in fact it never occurred to us that it was going to end in a 'P', until eventually, you know, we decided that he was the right guy just because he played right.  And then it all fit together, and it was really a funny thing, but of course, in retrospect, nobody would ever believe us, and it was strange.

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