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WIT AND WOMANHOOD

5/30/2009

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The acerbic, brilliant, and clearly emotionally-stunted media provocateur Christopher Hitchens detonated a little cultural suicide bomb recently. He wrote an essay entitled: “Why Women Aren’t Funny.”

Now, he went off the rails when responding to the obvious response to such a statement. Namely, that there are, well, funny women around — including professional comedians. He answered, in effect: sure, there are, but they’re lesbians (he actually employed a different term) and Jews. Uh, case closed.

But the sturm und drang that inevitably accompanies such incendiary pronouncements, or the incendiary pronouncements would never be pronounced, cloud an interesting truth at the heart of the argument. An evolutionary truth.

The fact is, men are egregiously unattractive when compared to women. And it is only by some ingenious sleight of evolutionary hand that women aren’t compelled  en masse to become gay.

So, the point is not that women aren’t funny. The point is that they don’t need to be. To fulfill their role in the biological imperative, that is, be attractive, all they need to do is show up. It’s wonderful that they do much else. But they don’t need to do much else.

Men, on the other hand, are driven by necessity to become funny. It is often said comedians are insecure, unattractive people who develop wit to compensate for other lacks. Well, men as a species are insecure, unattractive people who must develop wit to compensate for other lacks.

Humor is clearly a form of sexual play, and what is laughter if not an orgasm in the mind? A laugh is a short, surprising, violent overthrow of the stasis and status quo, a momentary release from order and structure.

“But he made me laugh.” It is a common phrase uttered by women about men otherwise deficient. And a statement never, ever employed by men when speaking about women.

So women aren’t funny, or at least they don’t need to be.

But then along comes Dorothy Parker:

I like to have a Martini,
Two at the very most.
Three, I’m under the table.
Four I’m under my host.

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THE CEREAL KILLERS

5/13/2009

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“Let them eat promises.”
 
The man who said that just died.
 
It was the title of his book, intended to bring issues of malnutrition and fake nutrition to public scrutiny, eons before such issues were popular.
 
His name was R. B. Choate. He was born into a family of bluebloods, heavy on senators and ambassadors, and to some extent he continued the family tradition of public service. Except forty years ago, not even Marxism was as bizarre and revolutionary a topic of discussion as nutrition and the multi-national companies who purvey it.


In 1970, he went before a Senate subcommittee and took on “Snap Crackle and Pop” and “The Breakfast of Champions.” He said these products hardly deserved the name “food.”
 
He proclaimed to a nation subsisting on a vast mass-produced avalanche of empty calories that most breakfast cereals had no more nutritional content than candy bars and gin. And came laced with lethal megatons of sugar.
 
The Cereal Killers struck back. “He forgot to factor in the milk,” they harrumphed. “You need sugar to entice children to eat,” they pleaded.
 
“The taste for sugar is acquired,” Mr. Choate replied.
 
What he didn’t quite say, but would have probably agreed with, was that if sugar wasn’t a billion dollar business, it would be on the government’s list of controlled substances.
 
But I digress. This is a column about meaning and marketing, not meanies and supermarkets.
 
Mr. Choate went on to serve at the presidential level on commissions addressing nutrition, food and hunger, and he founded the Council on Children, Media and Merchandising.
 
He attacked advertising targeted at children. He called it a tug of war between 200-pound men and 60-pound youngsters.
 
It is one of life’s ironies that this man who devoted his life to sanity in nutrition died from a medical condition that prevented him from swallowing.
 
Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids.

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BRANDICIDE

5/4/2009

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Picture
The Native American died twice, first by genocide and then by brandicide.

Pontiac is gone. The sinking ship of General Motors threw the old Indian overboard, just weeks after their own Captain Ahab sailed off the deck and disappeared into the briny deep.

The noble savage who represented a purity corrupted by the Puritans was once a proud hood ornament. He cut through wind on America’s back roads and all up and down Eisenhower’s Interstate. On the 1951 Pontiac Chieftan, he actually lit up.

But the Indian was already gone from the hood when Pontiac reached its glory days. DeLorean’s team squeezed an oversized V8 into an undersized car, stole a name from Ferrari and turned Gran Turismo Omologato into GTO, and a rocket for the nuclear family was born.

The muscle car was the last time an emanation from Detroit actually reached the imagination. Wide track, dual exhaust, triple carburetor, it drank gas stations under the table and spoke of a brawny, horse-powered America until a failure of vision and a succession of government mandates sent the muscle car into muscle memory.

Pontiac meant excitement after that. But it was a Pontiac kind of excitement, which meant driving a hundred miles an hour through the trailer park.


There was not much brand left to die, when it finally died.


A brand is a story. Sometimes the brand ends and the story is over, and sometimes the story ends and the brand is over.

As poet Muriel Rukeyser said: “The universe is composed of stories, not atoms.”

Or as Ronny and the Daytonas sang: “C’mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO.”


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