Actions & Laurels
Joaquin Phoenix, star of the much buzzed about Joker, bailed on a recent interview when asked if the film might inspire violence. Was it an unfair question? I don’t think so. After all, many believe uplifting art inspires people to do good. If so, wouldn’t it be true that downbeat fare might do the opposite? This is something artists who explore the dark side, myself included, must face. In my efforts to portray humanity honestly, am I encouraging the most troubled to shrug at certain behavior or, in the worst case scenario, indulge in it? Then again, long ago I came to believe that responsibility reverts to the individual. Case in point in two of today’s headlines, the first at nypost.com: “High school psychologist arrested for having sex with boy inside classroom.” And this one from foxnews.com about something far worse: “Pastor tells girl demons inside her provoked him to try to rape her.” Each can blame the sexual revolution, which allows individuals to rationalize what were once taboos, or they can say that we’ve become “one nation under porn” or that a woman at her peak is susceptible to bad judgment, but all that is bunk. No one is at fault but the individual. Hundreds of thousands of educators and religious leaders worldwide face such temptation and don’t act on it. In these two cases I’m much more forgiving of the woman. Should she have done it? No, but I doubt the teen has been damaged. Should she be fired? Yes. Should she be prosecuted? No. Losing her job would be penalty enough. As for the pastor, he should be defrocked.
There are so many good people who quietly contribute to society. They take a back seat to the reprobates the media loves. Anthony Mancinelli of Newburgh NY died last week. 108, he was still working as a barber, which he’d been doing since he was 12. Guinness World Records credited him with being the oldest at his profession. Awesome, goombah. Here he is cutting his son’s hair in 2017:
Here’s a snippet from an article at nypost.com about a new diet study: “There are no negative effects of gluten if you don’t have any symptoms of celiac.” Why am I not surprised?
For the twelfth straight season a record has been set for strikeouts in MLB. For those keeping score at home, the magic number was 41,208, and the season is still a few days from being finished.
Chrissy Teigen recently engaged in a silly tweet battle with the president. I didn’t pay attention to it because I’d always found her a sunny media presence and didn’t want to spoil that image. Here’s a pic from FN of her at her sunniest:
My thanks to Tatiana, Lynn, Ira, Marty, Joan and everyone else who bought books on this glorious autumn day; and to the woman who is always humming merrily to herself, who donated a number of books in Russia; and to Dave and Candy who donated two novels and two works of non-fiction; and to Frank, the super of the huge complex that spans from E. 13th to Homecrest Av., who led me to a huge cache of what were mostly cook books. I rescued his daughter’s junior high and high school yearbooks from the stack, which he appreciated. I took two hardcover novels as well. One brought back fond memories. I tended bar at Hedges in Staten Island for about eight months in 1980. I was 30. Laura, a busty 18-year-old waitress with big dreams, was reading Domina by Barbara Wood, and gushed about how much she admired the main character. Actually her name was Laural. She simply presumed people would call her Laura. She often spouted desires aloud that she should have been discreet about. I didn’t love her the way I’ve loved the major loves of my life, but I’ll always remember her. We went out once, went to my apartment, but didn’t have sex. I wouldn’t force her. She had a three-date rule. I should have played along, but I was young and certain other opportunities would come along. “Stupid is as stupid does,” as Forrest’s mom said. Laural saw the encounter differently and wrote me a three page letter berating me for grinding. I did — briefly. She even told her mom, who stopped at the bar one day and sort of scolded me. I wonder if she was as surprised by my appearance as I was by hers. I’d envisioned refinement. She had the look of a tough inner city woman and the voice of a heavy smoker. I still have that letter. Several years later while I was living in Bay Ridge I met Laural during the morning commute. She was studying hotel management and her plan was to own several. We reminisced about our time at the restaurant. She told me how pissed she was when she learned I’d been fired. She got the ax soon herself and told me — out loud in the stopped subway car at 95th St. — that she offered to perform a certain act if pretty boy Eddie let her keep the job. I laughed out loud. Bless her heart, she was oblivious of the faux pas. She’d spoken as if we’d been alone. The people in that car had a story to tell friends. I envy the men in Laural’s life. They must have ridden the whirlwind. I never saw or heard of her again. How I would love to learn of her life, if she ever had kids, who she said she hated.
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