In high-rise office buildings all over America, the daily frustration of passing a coworker in the office corridors over and over again starts anew. Fred and Bill, who also carpool to the office, have already hashed over the morning news on their way to work. When they meet in the corridors on their way to a meeting, or the bathroom, or the break room; acknowledgment of each other’s presence must be made. These passing’s, which may occur 12 to 15 times a day, force Fred and Bill to entertain new ways to wave, wink, give a one finger salute; or try to avoid each other altogether, from nine til five. Other options include looking at the ceiling, the floor, their watch, or every office on their right or left, as they pass each other. On their way home, this endured ritual has fostered a bond of angst so severe, that they can’t wait to toss down that first drink. (Did I mention that they’re next-door neighbors?)
Remember high school; those puberty plus years from 13 to 18, where teens were introduced to the first caste system? It was comprised of three basic groups. First, the uglies, dorks, and fatties, who do not now, nor will they ever, fit in with the next two social groups. Through no fault of their own, they will be considered invisible, and therefore they shall be ignored. The second group is Joe and Jill lunch pail, whose zit free complexions, J C Penney wardrobes, and the ability to go along and get along, comprise the middle, (also the largest) of the student population. The final category have been physically gifted with good looks, perfect bodies, athletic prowess, and/or cheerleading talents, plus a silver spoon protruding from some secret orifice. They are also just as tall as they need to be. Groups one and two aspire to be like three. After graduation, they will soon learn that talent, ambition, and character will be the real factors that define their future; it will permit them to disregard the forecast of the caste system. Every time I encounter a poor soul, who lives under a bridge, and begs for money from motorists at a stoplight; I wonder what circumstances reduced them to that level of existence. At one time, their picture was probably in a year book, with a positive inscription; and a proud mom and dad standing by. They have now become the ignored and the invisible.
What does it mean to have a bird’s eye view? A soaring falcon can spot dinner on the ground from 2000 feet; that’s a hell of a view. The old Chinese proverb “one picture worth a thousand words” would seem to quantify the power of the eyeball. Consider examining and analyzing a Norman Rockwell illustration, knowing his attention to emotion and detail; one would be hard-pressed to use only a thousand words. After consuming large amounts of bourbon, one could apply the same emotion and detail test to a rendering by Jackson Pollock. Whoever said “the eyes are a window to the soul” captured the vulnerability of the human expression. The face can try to mask an emotion, but the eyes will betray the real feelings, with the unabashed honesty they were endowed with. Those experiencing emotional turmoil will avoid eye contact at all costs. A crowded dance hall is no obstacle to those who want to “hook up”. The eye locks on the target across the room, and with a blink, a wink, or a stare, insures that a rendezvous will be scheduled; this is silent communication at its highest level.
“Act your age!” We’ve heard this annoying adage all our lives from parents, friends, and other do-gooders, who perceive that we’ve lost track of how old we are. These well-meaning judges about lifestyle enjoy setting parameters for others, under the guise of helping them deal with the so-called real world. It begs the question; what is appropriate behavior for a 20, 30, 42, or 59 year old, or any other age in between? Its sparks defiance in those free-spirits who hear a different drummer (or base player), and simply wants to mow his lawn in a three-piece suit; or dye his gray hair blonde, and adopt a ponytail. He will protest that the spinach juice is invading his mashed potato space; or order a double latte in a biker bar. What’s wrong with wearing a bikini while you vacuum? How about an 80-year-old guy buying a vest to add to his casual wardrobe? These are responses to the Act Your Age patrol and their dogma of conformance. The messages are “I gotta be me!”, and “I’m only going around once, and I want to do it my way!”, and “I reserve the right to be different!” And finally “I retain possession of the owner’s manual for me”. To the best of my knowledge, I am the only me there is; and although I’m 80, I can still pass for 79.
We can forget the Age of Aquarius; we are now in the age of Beep, or a series of Beeps. Whether they are handheld, lap top, or wall mounted, they produce the sounds of the future. Everywhere one looks, humanity is staring at a screen that informs, entertains, and protects us from whatever hacker encroachment that may be trying to steal the very life force that sustains us all. Consider a foursome, out on the town in a fine restaurant. With handhelds in hand, the group texts, emails, listen to Howard Stern, while ordering the Chateaubriand and a salad, dressing on the side, please. Segue to a living room on Main Street, and we find the Beep overlords in full control. The domestic scene opens with some basic small talk, i.e. “How ‘bout those ‘Skins, Cowboys, Obama? “, and other such fluff. Then the important issues arise. “How many pixels on your 47 inch TV? Can you pick up channel 7 out of Argentina? Do you have cable or satellite? This is the new level of conversation that makes one yearn for a rousing discussion of religion or politics! At some point the visiting couple will depart, having neither contributed nor gained any insight from the people they went to see. An omen for the future; don’t let technology replace your friends!
Can you imagine Rembrandt doing a thumbnail sketch? What does by and large mean anyhow?