Leadership (Or Not)

 Seek the best rulers;

People do know that they exist.

They love and they praise;

Next they fear,

Or, for many, soon to be reviled.

When they do not command the people’s faith,

Some will lose what little faith they had in them forever.

They resort to oaths!

But, of the best when their task is accomplished, their work done,

The people all remark, “We have done it ourselves.”

The people are those who lead the people.

A true leader is heard to say, “There go the people, I must follow.”

        

He made the city no greater than when he took it, the greatest and richest of all cities, and grew to be superior in power to kings and tyrants. Some of these, actually appointed him guardian of their sons – but he did not make his estate a single drachma greater than it was when his Father left it to him.

Does it matter where or when? What matters is socially and politically acceptable as of now, and now only. The value of a drachma or a dollar has no true meaning. What matters to most of us is the so-called level playing field. If it is God’s will, we come on to this earth, planet, hemisphere – what have you – with an unequivocal set of equal rights: breathing in and out -- the two that are obviously the most important.

Joe Disciple, upon entering his neighborhood with a seemingly larger than ordinary set of lungs, set his rights to work immediately. His cries for equal justice began at birth.  At first, the masses applauded his screams, then his first words, and then, within a short period of time, his innate ability to get others to bend to his will by making promises of equal amounts of drachmas for all men, women, and children -- no matter their color or their beliefs. He promised endlessly, have me as your leader and you will have as many drachmas as your neighbor who lived on the hill above you.

        

One day, a group of people from his village asked Joe Disciple a question.

“Where will you get the drachmas to deliver all that you promise? Your Father left you none noticeable by us.”

“I will borrow them,” Joe responded. “If you make me your leader, I will borrow from those who have and give you what I get. It will help level the playing field.”

“But won’t those who have still remain on the higher ground above us?” They asked. 

“Ultimately, they will be seen waving to you as they pass on their way down to a level beneath you.”

“What then will happen to their homes on the hills above us?”

“They will lose them, just as you have lost yours.”

“But sir, if they lose all, as you have planned, and they have no more to give, where then will our drachmas come from; where will we live and what level will our playing field be at?”

“You will all be at ‘C’ level – average -- middleclass. The level will be equal for those of you who continue to follow my beliefs, as opposed to my predecessor. Soon, I will be long gone (in less than four short years) and there will be vast areas for you to move into; places like Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Los Angeles -- all empty now, and awaiting the return of the people.”

“But Sir, isn’t that where most of us have come from?”

“You must never question me. Look what happened to the people who used to live up there on the hill.”

“Used to? They still live up there.”

“Not if I have my way. Besides, look how great things have become for all of you during the last four years. You must continue to believe. Everything is shoveled and ready. Forgive me now, but it’s once again time for me to make another speech in the far away land of California.

And, if you like, I’ve left some signed copies of the latest biography spelling out my essence.”

***

In his own mind, the guy was a living-breathing brute.  Way back when in law school, he came down with a terrible case of sore throat. He called upon his unbelievable brain, hand to eye coordination, and pain tolerance in order to remove his own tonsils without an anesthetic of any kind. Only with the aid of Lawrence Welk’s polkas playing in the background as a diversion, the operation was a huge success.

That night, he studied until dawn, slept for twenty minutes, and proceeded to ace his final exam. He went on to graduate Magna Cum Laude while carrying the unbelievable load of being a triple major which explains why, in later life, people referred to him as doctor, doctor, and doctor. Some of the women even managed a breathy sigh after the second doctor reference; rumor had it, there were some who couldn’t help but do doctor, doctor, oh doctor and then a noticeable groan.

But, this guy was so cool. He had his goals and wasn’t about to succumb to the inherent dangers of the flesh. He was, after all, a man on a mission. He was destined to save the world, one country at a time; of course he began with his own.

***

This looks like such a great place for me to begin my life’s journey. I’ll mingle my way into the crowd, wait for someone to say something profound, and then begin getting signatures from all of them.

Now, let’s see -- what will I have them sign an testament to?

I know; I’ve got it!

They’re going to love this: free transportation tickets to be able to ride anywhere around the city and the campus.

Hey everybody, let’s all join arms together!

(The chant begins)

“We want a free ride! We want a free ride! We want a free ride!”

He’s got them going now. It’s frenzy time for one and all.

But then, without warning, another group comes into sight and sound – they are about the same number of people and they’re all chanting: “No more free rides! No more free rides! No more free rides!”

The mold is set. His future is cast. He joins both groups. The noise, and now the smells, are over powering.

Barking Dogs

Before joining in and barking with the rest of the dogs, why not find out if any of them really believe or even know or understand what in the name of hell they're barking about. 

Preemptive Strike

We had a kid at P.S.233 in Brooklyn, New York who was our confirmed hero and leader. His name (for short) was Newtie. Newtie was big for his age and had the courage in his soul to match his God-given size.

When you’re eight, or ten, an eleven year old is for sure one of the confirmed big guys.  Newtie – was definitely a big guy! He was the kind of kid we all looked up to. Although Newtie had graduated from P.S.233, he still hung out at our school playground. That’s not to say he was a buddy of mine, it’s just that we were all aware of each other – who belonged and who didn’t.

We had a great school playground, every inch occupied by our closely-knit clan of kids. We played every second of every day up until dark. We played basketball, softball, touch football, and of course a wide variety of stickball games were played dependent on whether or not there happened to be enough broom handles available.

Note: Today there are special stickball bats manufactured for teams that participate in stickball leagues.

Enter the Bully

Bullies come and go. Ours, the kid who most frequented our home grounds, was cut from a particularly nasty cloth.

Before depicting what transpired on the infamous day the despot bully entered our playground domain, a moment must be taken to talk about one of the great bully beaters of all time – my Father’s younger brother and my Uncle – Jack. 

Jack resembled a well-muscled fireplug; he stood all of five feet three inches tall. Of my Father’s nine brothers and sisters, Jack was the first to be born in the United States. He was the kid in the family who entered this world ready to fight for his family and country. When my uncle Jack was around, everyone felt safe.

While I never was privy to any of his physical tactics, I heard about his heroic feats of accomplishment from my older cousins. In retrospect, there’s the acknowledgement he couldn’t possibly have done all they described him as doing. But, if only a small portion of the stories were true, it would still make him one of the better neighborhood gladiators.

One day, after a ball game I had been playing in, Uncle Jack came by to offer his congratulations on the way I performed in the game. I thanked him and was about to walk away, when Jack took my arm and said he had some really important advice to offer me. I was all ears; my Uncle always talked to me as if I were an adult.

“If ever you’re being challenged by a bully, there’s only one way to handle it. Make sure you get in the first punch. And, if there’s more than one bully with him, you pick out the biggest one in their crowd, and punch the bastard in the mouth before he has a chance to think about it. Then, turn to his closest buddy and move in his direction.”

“What if he comes at me?” I asked.

Without hesitation my Uncle responded, “If you knock the biggest bully down, the rest of them will take off running.”

And, there without warning, he moved across our schoolyard towards us. Marching up to the kid at bat (stick), he grabbed the stick from his hand and announced that he needed it for the game he was going to be starting up the next day. Then, he announced with a variety of four letter words, how he would be using the schoolyard for his own friends. And, if any of us were to show up while his game was going on, he and his friends would beat the piss out of us.

The kid at bat questioned him, “Why don’t you play with guys your own size?”

The bully threw his arm around the kid in a tight headlock. It hurt enough to make him scream in pain. The bully released his hold and again warned all of us not to be there tomorrow or he and his friends would show us what pain was all about.

What the bully didn’t allow for was the fact that one of the kids was brother to our own true blue big guy, Newtie.

The next day, when the Bully and his three teammates showed up to take possession of our schoolyard they found all of us deeply involved in another stickball game. Somehow unnoticed, and waiting in the wings, was our big guy Newtie.

The same kid the Bully had placed in a headlock on the preceding day happened to be up at bat. The Bully instantly relished the sight as he moved towards the batter with grandiose thoughts of applying another headlock to his much smaller prey. With a barrage of taunts, his three teammates vociferously encouraged him.

However, this day was not destined to be the same.

The batter stood his ground not showing any noticeable display of pending danger. There they stood, three big mouth soldiers following our Bully’s lead. They stood motionless for 30 seconds before the Bully moved forward. Effortlessly, Newtie slid between the Bully and his target for the day and without a word, slapped the Bully across the side of his face, making contact at ear level and bringing his open hand down with the full force of his body weight behind the blow.

Newtie, without missing a beat, turned to the Bully’s three teammates and smiled as he slowly stepped forward. The three took off running in opposite directions as their leader sat on the concrete listening to his ears ringing.

Newtie took the bat in his hands and turned to what might formally be referred to as a Bully, and asked him if he’d like to have another try.

The Bully wasn’t able to run; it was more of a scamper, of sorts.

Uncle Jack would have been so proud. I marvel at how closely Newtie’s actions matched Uncle Jack’s rudiments for the successful upheaval of a neighborhood Bully.

When I happily explained to my Father and Uncle what had taken place in the schoolyard, they both cheered for Newtie as if he was on a ball field and they were spectators. They both agreed that Newtie had done the right thing for the right reasons.

“Do you ever try to talk a Bully out beating you up?” I asked.

Uncle Jack was quick to reply. “Talking won’t do anything but provide more enjoyment for the Bully. If he says he’s going to beat you, hurt you, strangle you, or whatever – take it as a guarantee. Bullies rarely stand down, they always get knocked down.”

Through the years I’ve found my Father and his younger brother to always be right on with their aggressive assumptions. Whether on the playground as a student, or as an adult out there in society raising children of your own, bullies seem to find a way of inflicting themselves upon others.

           

The other day, I found myself listening to a man promising to blow up my country with a preemptive strike. His stature was small and his brainpower came across the tube as remedial at best. Yet, there he stood holding court with a band of soldiers around him, hanging on his every word.

They sure did remind me of our schoolyard Bully. Uncle Jack would have eliminated any chance of this little clown-like Bully preempting anything. Newtie would have slapped the little bastard across the face, and then turned on the group of medal-wearing sociopaths to scamper along to other venues more suitable than a country whose only claim to fame would be bullying their own people.

You and Yours

Proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that people are capable, and will ask an almost stranger almost anything – this one is for you, baby.

I was asked, by an inquisitive and incredibly self-needy person of the opposite sex, (I assume) one of the more innocuous questions ever to be heard or to even have an answer considered in this, our western civilization.

“How come you haven’t written about or included me as an important personage in any of your past blog(s)?”

“You’re on my list,” I replied, “just as soon as I run out of folks to ridicule.”

        

She began to laugh uncontrollably, with a wild verve she reserved for herself and used on the rare occasion anyone may have been interested in her welfare, or even what she had to say. The fact I had responded, led to her misconstruing my lack of interest as me succumbing to the wiles of a misguided, and perhaps depraved, actress. As is my constant want, my transparency was forthright and emotionless; sort of like a politician answering an interviewer’s questions. 

“What could I possibly say about you that would be of interest to any of my readers?” I asked.

She responded, “I can’t answer that one because I find your blog uninteresting.”

Suddenly, a new and fresh idea was upon me; she would become the center of interest whenever, if ever, da harv (he’s the guy in charge of thought provocations) ran short, or found himself needy of a person, place, or thing to ridicule – almost an impossibility! 

In case you’re having difficulty understanding what I’m saying, let me bring you up to date.

This woman or man, actress or actor, asks a question when, in actuality, they really couldn’t care less about having their question answered. I guess my assertion applies to men and women in all strata of life, as we know it to exist.

Some of you might even understand my apparent gripe, if I used my wife’s cat (noun) as an example. He will answer or ignore any name you (meaning me) choose to call him. “Simba,” his baptized nom de plume, serves as a supposed recognition-drawing device, but I usually call him “Bert” (“Burt”). In any event, like I said before, he comes when he feels like it. Make no mistake, when he does arrive it’s never because he’s being attentive. There are two reasons “Bert” comes in when you call him: either he’s hungry, or the weather is inclement.

NOTE: In the event “Bert” doesn’t answer to a specified food call, dawn or dusk, it isn’t because he’s sick, or in love (he’s been fixed – sexual meanderings are an impossibility), but it is most likely that a bird has had a heart attack and dropped dead directly in front of him. Unlike his Mother, who was an athletic animal, “Bert” has rarely been seen running.

When a cat calls out (heavy duty meowing), they are for certain listening to or for a response, not necessarily preparing their next – and less than purposeful – question. The meowing will not subside until they get what they want. On the other hand, when an actor or actress keeps up a non-listener type of needy, or needless perfunctory assault on my failing sanity, I have no choice but to take a page from “Bert’s” book. I quickly remedy a thespian’s meowing by simply turning down the sound control pot. I continue looking at them from behind my well-secured double glass enclosure, all the time physically keeping any form of my internal delight disguised by what appears to be attentiveness.

Thank you “Bert.” Without knowing it, I have the benefit of my own mentor within the confines of our “villa on da hilla.”

Meow.

Bruiser's Prayer

Following the completion of my nightly chat with a higher power, and unexpectedly as my eyes began to close – pending sleep was no more than a minute or two away…

Some nights are different. This night was different than most.

Stepping towards me, she displayed a special look always reserved for anguish. It wasn’t her norm; through the many years of our professional acquaintance we had grown to respect one another. Until then, I had never seen this lady with anything other than an uplifting countenance. 

Late in the day, following a pleasant audition, our conversation became a personal one.  In less than a few short moments, she conveyed the troubles of a Mother concerned over the welfare of her child. She anguished over the pending report of the serious medical tests her daughter had recently undergone.

I wonder if there is any word more harrowing than cancer, especially when it is attached to the possibility of invading a family’s solitude. For once the ominous word is spoken, retraction of what may occur will be with you forever, whether cured or not.

But long before incidents came to me with the truest of meanings, I played with a 16 year old’s vicarious portions – of life not yet fostering any wounds deep or severe enough to mar my reckless exuberances.

Some folks hide from any form of stimuli, as they pray for sleep to come quickly using a variety of quirky psychological tricks. I was no more than 16 when our family moved into an older Spanish style home in the Beverly-Wood area of West Los Angeles. I had the wonderment of a full bathroom attached to the room I slept in; for me, it seemed like a hotel suite all to myself. But there was one little problem – the bathroom sink had a slow and relentless dripping faucet.

Under normal circumstances, a constant dripping of water would be tantamount to torture. For me, it became how many drips could I count before falling asleep. My life has always been a game of challenges.         

It was before my nightly prayer ritual was installed, and my first feeling of my own personal mortality was still three years away. I do remember feeling myself smile on many nights just before sleep arrived – always-joyous thoughts of our team winning an important baseball game. Like I said, I had not yet felt my mortality. The names of common human maladies were not a real part or place in my life, as yet. At 16, I listened to the drip and fell fast asleep, not a worry in the world about me or anyone else.

Its nice to be 16, for many of us it was fun and games.

In the Army, without any form of graciousness this 19 year old was unceremoniously introduced to the vacuous graying of human skin brought on by the human assumptions of fear. Mortality became real for me before the subsiding of my 19^th year.

And, as I pronounced my thankfulness on this different evening of my life, thoughts of this Mother – with the gray look she shared as the story of her daughter was told – dominated until another man’s words were recalled.

A soldier friend of mine had just returned from taking communion in a special tent the Chaplain had set up for services of all denominations. Fear has no religious preferences, I guess. 

We called him “Bruiser,” and the name was as apropos as you could get. Jokingly, I said to Bruiser when he returned from his evening Mass, “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

He had a very serious expression when he answered me.

Bruiser’s words ended my evening prayer as my thoughts of that afternoon, when this Lady with the vacuous gray look shared her fear for her daughter’s welfare with me, returned.

Bruiser’s words became my wishes for the woman and her daughter as my eyes became heavy, “Lord, may they feel your presence.”

Note: Ultimately, the news was good.