What I learned at the Vent Convention

Darwin (Jay) and Dale (The) ..
make up your own story for
this photograph. 

I have a picture story, one with a moral and everything.  It's not a story of the picture on the left. Make up a story of your own for that one.  The story I am about to tell involves the picture at the end of this blog.  Here goes.

The setting of this story is my back yard at 3:32 pm on Sunday, July 17, 2016, So.California. I have the house to myself because Sandi is off at a family baby shower in Portland.  

There are two characters in this story, three if you include me. Although the cast might be recognizable from the photo, it is important to know the players.   

Bambu (Boo) is my dog. Dog owners will understand, when someone says "my dog" it implies a human canine relationship like no other.  I was gone four days, and Boo had been alone most of the day when I returned. She was very excited to see me.

The other character is a puppet from my show. It may look like a tennis ball and surely started out to be just that but with a little craftsmanship a tennis ball becomes my co-performer named Spaulding. Spaulding was created for "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only" and has been part of the company since. I remember spending hours trying to get the cut on a tennis ball just right so it would transform from sports equipment to stage performer.  No two tennis balls cut or bend the same, so when that perfect combination comes together, I tend to treat that tennis ball like is was a McElroy Figure.  The original Broadway Spaulding is enshrined at Vent Haven Museum.     So that said, here is the story.

I arrive home from the Vent Haven Convention on Sunday afternoon. 

Aside: If you have never been to a Ventriloquist Convention before I will try to explain. The Vent ConVention is a gathering of professional, semi-professional, dilettantes, hobbyist, puppet makers and evangelists for the Art of Ventriloquism.   Whatever your interest in  Ventriloquism you can find experts and fellow artisans of what you love about this art form at the ConVention. 

The idea is that we "older" performers help inspire and promote ventriloquism to a new generation of the ventriloquially smitten.  The truth is, it always inspires me more.  In fact I came home and immediately started to work on a puppet  character and act that I abandoned long ago for lack of inspiration.  I have plans of using the character in a performance on Saturday.  

A sidebar for those who may have attended the ConVention,  I did not borrow someone else's idea.  Although one of the lecturers suggested that ideas and intellectual property can not be legally protected and therefore these "ideas" are free to "borrow",  In my opinion that is not the proper "take away" from the ConVention. However, given the lecturer's success I decided to take him at his word. I began to "borrow" from everyone who attended. In fact I didn't just borrow it,  I flat out stole it. But it was not some other ventriloquists act,  puppet character, intellectual property or "idea" that I "borrowed".  What I stole was inspiration.  I disagree with the lecturer's thesis that ideas are not proprietary, but have no disagreement that inspiration is absolutely not.  What I stole from everyone was their passion, their sense joy and wonder for this unusual art form.

I  also stole some great memories.  Time spent in laughter with my friends and peers is a priceless possession. When you have so much in common, laughter is as natural as breathing.  I have evidently been inducted into something called the MFC which is an honor and a joy. Thank you to the secret committee who nominated me. 

My job at this ConVention was to lecture on the technique of the art as taught by The Great Lester; I was traveling as light as I could.  I brought only characters that would fit in my carry on case. Being the size of a tennis ball, Spaulding was the only character I had room for. 

Now back to the story: I arrive home from the Vent Haven Convention on Sunday afternoon.  My cheeks hurt from laughter and I have some strange desire for curly fries.  I am exhausted from the 4 hour flight but my creative juices are flowing.  I begin to unpack but get distracted by every scrap of paper and bit of swag I brought back. My suitcase looks like it has exploded in my bedroom.

  

All Boo wants to do is play. She brings me every toy from her chew basket but she can tell I am more than distracted.  I am taking things from the suit case back  to the office. I grow tired of stepping past the mess so I decide to finish unpacking first and then I can start creating. 

Spaulding and Boo

The suitcase is now empty and I realize something is missing. Spaulding is not there. I check in the office, around the dirty clothes, under the bed and retrace every step I made.  It might seem a little weird to be concerned to the point of panic over a cut up tennis ball, but like I said, it is one of my characters.  In my frantic search I notice Boo out by the pool playing with one of her toys, or so I thought until I realize what was going on.   She was, at that moment, nuzzling, chewing and drooling on Spaulding.   Boo had found Spaulding in my suitcase and decided it was a new toy I brought back for her. 

The minute I opened the patio door her tail started to wag, she grabbed Spaulding and took off.  For the next few minutes it was a game of keep away.  She would get close with Spaulding in her mouth and just as I thought she would drop it like I demanded, she sprinted away, very happy I decided to play with her.  Finally I was able to get her to drop it in anticipation that I would toss it.  I quickly snapped a picture. 

There is an object lesson to this picture story.  Boo "borrowed" something from me.  To her it was a tennis ball like so many others she plays with.  To me it was a puppet, a cherished part of my act.  As smart as dogs are they will never get the concept that borrowing, taking, or stealing something from someone else has consequences.  They don't know the difference between legal rights and ethical principles, and have no concept of ownership...  if they like something... they take it.  I am glad humans can operate on a higher level. 

As you were,

Jay

Donald Trump won't Read this: # seven will shock you.

Okay that title has nothing to do with this blog.  It was click bate... A mini-scam.  A title that made you stop and click to see what the blog said.  You will understand why I am thinking like that after you read this. Or is that statement just a hook to get you to read the rest?  You really can't be sure until you come to Section C-7.*

My birthday is only four days earlier than Sandi's birthday so about this time of year there is an uptick in the number of packages delivered to the Johnson house. But a couple of days ago when Sandi opened up a couple of boxes, we determined they were not gifts nor was it something either of us had ordered.  

The first one to arrive was from a cosmetics company.  A small jar and tube of something that must have been compounded with gold bullion because the invoice was for $324.  We determined that it was not a birthday gift from anyone so Sandi immediately called the company to say she had not ordered it.  They had Sandi's name and shipping information but the email and credit card number were not correct.  Although a card had been charged it was not one of ours.

A day later she gets another package from a different company but the same set up, her name and information with a credit card that was not ours. However, the last four digits of the card were not the same as the one charged for the cosmetics.  This time it was a box of health and vitamin supplements for around $300.  This time the company had more information about the transaction. It seems when this order was placed the person tried three different cards before one went through.  That put a flag on the shipment and they explained what experts think happened.

It was a phishing scam of sorts. Some how these crooks had Sandi's shipping information even down to the correct zip code and phone number. It seems they also had a bunch of stolen credit card numbers.  In order to determine which numbers were valid, they would place an order to see if the number worked. When one of the stolen numbers worked the order was complete and sent to Sandi.  That number would then be kited with a flood of other orders that couldn't be traced.  

A couple of weeks ago I got an email from "Apple" which was an invoice for an APP I bought on line.  I get one every time I buy a new APP, and it looked legit. However, since most of the stuff I buy are APPs costing a dollar or two and this was a invoice for $99.99, I knew it was a mistake. There was the usual link to click if you had questions or problems with the invoice.  Something told me that before I clicked I should make sure the link went back to Apple.com.  It did not, the IP address was not even a site in this country.  So, these hackers sent me an invoice, I was sure to question, with a link back to a site that was not Apple.  

And there was a voice message on the home phone yesterday saying the IRS has found a mistake in my taxes and they are starting legal proceedings.  I know the IRS does not call on the telephone. But here is my question to the universe, WTF? Do I look like I have "sucker" written on my forehead? What is with the sudden test of wits with invisible scammers? 

Perhaps this is an Internet algorithm testing my computer skills after having turned another year older.  It could be based upon the Meta data that Facebook has been gathering on all of us.  In layman's terms it would go something like this -   

Facebook Meta data:  "Look at all the crap that Johnson is liking.... He even put a smiley face emoticon on this shared meme about Donald Trump. What is he doing?  Well, he is in his 60's and just had a birthday,maybe he just suddenly lost it. We better see if he's still "got it".  Send him a bogus app phishing invoice.  If he doesn't go for that see if you can get him with the bogus IRS call."  

Jay to Facebook Meta data: "F-Off. I don't care what you do... I am never going to finish that profile now." 

*Section C-7 - the answer is affirmative, Donald Trump is just another scam artist.  

As you were,

Jay

Lucky Monday -

I am not really keen on numbers, except for purposes of superstition.  I have always thought that my birthday July 11-  or 7/11 was very lucky. Growing up I just assumed the numbers had blessed me and I was preordained to be lucky.  Looking back today on 67 years I would say I have absolutely been lucky, blessed and guided.  

Normally I would not give my actual age to anyone but a doctor. I would certainly not publish it in a blog. But thanks to this math based Internet, my age is easily available online.  So..I'm 67. There I said it again, So, let's move on. 

"Adrift" 

I don't put much importance in a number as the indicator of age. I'm not sure what "age" is if not a generalization or stereotype.  I know people who are young in their mid 80's and others who are old in their mid 50's.  In those cases the number attached to their existence is totally meaningless.  

However, my number of years on this Earth has taught me one thing for sure. It is the worst thing one can do at this point in life: talk about your age. No one wants to hear it. They no longer sell parts for the way things used to be. If it was so great back in those days, they would still be doing it that way. 

In my mind I'm still a twenty-five year old man, in my mirror I'm reminded that no one else sees it that way. I don't know how I am supposed to be or feel at this age of my life. I've never been this old before. I will be saying that every year for the rest of my life with no hope of ever finding the answer.  

Looking back, the thing I value most in my life is friendship. To laugh, and lounge with friends under most any circumstance is "golden time" to me.

"He deserves Paradise who makes his companions laugh." From the Koran

Thank you for all the birthday wishes. We will all celebrate when next we meet.  

As you were,

Jay 

You're not a writer...

You can't write. It wasn't told to me in those very words, but that was my take away in Junior High. I wasn't a good writer, I wasn't even a good student according to some of my teachers.  Somehow, I knew that my teachers were wrong about my potential, especially Miss Williams.

Sue Williams may still be around, if she is I hope she is reading this right now. She was my 7th grade English teacher in Abernathy, Texas.  It was her first year as a teacher and I hope, if she continued to teach, she learned how to be better at it.  It is a situation that can only happen in a small town like Abernathy and needs context to really explain.

Sue was the daughter of my favorite teacher Esther Williams.  Not the movie star swimmer but the Junior High Science teacher, beloved by everyone lucky enough to get into her class.  Being a small town Mrs. Williams lived three doors down from my parents on the opposite side of the street.  She was widowed from her husband and had one a daughter, who went off  to college when I was in elementary school. Mrs Williams was a loving person/neighbor/teacher who had the hint of a Swedish accent, I think the entire town loved her back.

As a kid I would see Sue around the neighborhood.  She was probably ten years older than me so we were not playmates. She was just the "older" girl who lived up the street.  I knew her well enough to  wave and call her Sue.  She was blonde, very attractive, and I admit to having a boyhood crush on her.

 
Then came the day I started the 7th grade. To my surprise Sue Williams is now a college graduate with teaching certificate and is the new Junior High English teacher.  I figured she would be the same kind of teacher as her Mom.  Add teenage hormones to a boyhood crush? I figured I was going to like this class.
The first day, however,  was a harbinger of things to come. She began that class by saying, "Some of you may know that I grew up here in Abernathy. And you know my Mom teaches Science here. Some of you may know me as Sue."
At that point she looked in my direction and said, "I am no longer Sue. I am Miss Williams, your teacher and you will refer to me in that way from now on." I got the point. From that moment on she seemed determined to destroy any self esteem I had developed the year before in her Mothers science class.  

Miss Williams knew I had trouble reading but seemed to delight in getting me in front of the class to read out loud. Perhaps she thought embarrassing me in front of the class would make me a better reader.  It didn't work. It only made me feel like a total loser. She harped on me as if my misspellings were an  insult to her teaching ability. My essays were never graded higher than a C. I couldn't work hard enough to get above a C+ average in her class.

I loathed English that year. It was not a fun learning experience like it was in her Mothers class.  She assigned a very heavy "reading and book report" assignment to the class.  Being a dyslexic I could barely finish one book a year, much less the five book reports a semester she assigned. My brother on the other hand was a voracious reader.  He read books one after the other.  I would occasionally ask him to tell me the story of a book he was reading which he could do in detail.  I would write the story he told me and turn it in as my book report.   I realized early on in Miss Williams class that it didn't matter if I had read the book or not... I still got a C.

There came a time when yet another book report was due.  My brother was reading some Mystery novel at the time and I asked him to tell me about it.  He went into great detail about this murder case the hero detective was trying to solve.  The book was entitled "The Deep".  It had great twists and turns, red herrings and lots of near misses.  When my brother got to the end, he said, "I'm not going to tell you how it ends, it would spoil it for you, when you read it."  I tried several ways to get him to tell all but he wouldn't budge.  The next day I turned in a detailed story report on "The Deep".  However, not knowing how it ended I used my brothers technique.  The last line of my bogus book report... ""I'm not going to tell you how it ends, it would spoil it for you, when you read it."  I got a C.

In spite of hating every minute of this class, the end of the year finally came.  Miss Williams passed out our final exam papers.  She said, "The final question is an essay. I have chosen specific individual questions for each of you to write about.  Write at least a page on the subject. It will be worth 40 percent of your grade."  I had long suspected that Miss Williams was on to my bogus book reports, but I was never sure. At least not until I saw my final question written in long hand on my mimeographed test.
"Explain in detail the ending and the solution to the mystery in the book 'The Deep'.  It won't spoil it for me... I have already read the book." Even then I understood the passive aggressive nature of this "personalize question".
The rest of the test was not that difficult.  By the time I got to the essay question I figured it out. Even if I got a perfect score on the rest of the test; without a good essay I could not get more than a failing grade on this final. Since I did not read the book, I had no idea what the ending was.  I sat there with my blank page and Bic pen feeling not only like a loser but like a failure as well.
There was not much to do but go for it.  If I was going to fail I was going out in flames, determined not to let a blank page or Miss Williams get the best of me.
I spent half the essay describing the plot points I remembered from what my brother told me. I vamped some more as creatively as I could for another quarter page. But now... it was time for that last paragraph, the solution to the mystery murder, the only thing that mattered to my grade or Miss Williams.
I thought and thought about the plot and the characters of the story.  I had no idea what the real ending was, I only knew that it had to be something completely different.  It had to be a character no one would expect to be the killer.  I watched the clock count down the minutes till we had to turn in the test.  As I racked my brain trying to write the last paragraph lost in the daze of crunching my brain cells I noticed Miss Williams looking over at me as if to say, "I got you this time."  My boyhood crush had turned into an absolute disgust toward this passive aggressive hag of a teacher.  

Suddenly that anger turned into an idea.  Who would be the most Unlikely killer in this story? Which character would be the most shocking when revealed as the murderer?  It suddenly came to me.  The Detective.  Justifying this imaginary plot twist took another half a page but it made total sense.  The detective kept throwing off the investigation, he was leading the others down the wrong path to solve it with suspects that could not have been the killer. Another detective discovers details of the killing in the lead detective's first report that only the murder would have known.  End of story, end of question, end of test, end of school, end of that class and most importantly end of my relationship with Miss Williams.

 
It was days before we got the tests back. I was not looking forward to a failing grade but didn't see there was any other chance in my future. As I slowly turned over the test papers that had been handed out, I saw, instead of failing, I got a B on the test.  I could not imagine how this had happened because the essay was worth 40% of the grade, since I was surely busted on my bogus book report the best I could hope for was a D.  But there it was one of my best grades of the class.  

The reality is, Miss Williams had NOT read the book. She was simply applying her passive aggressive nature to my final test, perhaps just to get me to admit the fact that I had not been keeping up with the assigned reading.  It backfired on her. The story report in my final essay explained a logical and surprising twist to a book that was believable.  If that was not the correct ending she would have to admit that she lied about having read the book.  I pulled a C+ for the course.  

Two years later we moved from the little town of Abernathy. I enrolled in Richardson Texas school that had three times the number of students in my class than the number of students in the entire Abernathy Public School system. In this environment it was much harder for a teacher to single out a student for personalized punishment and I actually flourished as a student. In that system there were educators who identified my problem as dyslexia. The idea that I might have a minor disability rather than just being lazy and/or stupid was a great boost to my self confidence.  

I never heard another word about Miss Williams. She would now be in her late 70's and probably not Miss Willams any more.  I assume if she continued to be a teacher either she got better, or was run out of some school on a rail.  But, I'm still a little pissed about the whole thing even after this many decades.

A writer is some one who can put ideas and words together in a structure that works for the intended purpose. I could always do that and got better with practice. Miss Williams never read my English assignments looking for raw ideas, she was grading me on my bad spelling, and juvenile grammar. To Miss Williams I would now say: computers now do most of that analysis for me, leaving me free to write better ideas and express them more fully. In reality then, my computer has made Miss Williams abilities obsolete.  

This week I received a residual check from a script I wrote for an animated film fifteen years ago. It was one of many sizable checks I have gotten for that work over the years. It made me think again of good ole Miss Williams. I often wonder what happened to the kids that "Aced" Miss Williams English class. I wonder if any of them are writers. My hope is that they found some other route to their self esteem than relying on the opinion of Miss Williams.  

As you were, 

Jay

The News Today, Oh Boy!

John Lennon said it best when he sang the line "I read the news today, oh boy." The fact that the line states he "read the news today" rather than "saw the news today"  or  "I tweeted the news today, oh boy." suggests a time when news was delivered differently.  I'm not sure the difference is a better way, what with fewer and fewer people getting the news from papers there is less time to gather the facts of the news. Today news is  not gathered, collected, researched or compiled, it is just regurgitated with no more background information than raw video from a Go Pro strapped to a daredevil.

I remember when Ted Turner first announced he was going to fund a television station that would be 24/7 news called CNN. At the time it seemed to me that one hour of news a day from the existing networks was more than sufficient.  It took  at least 24 hours to gather the relevant facts, check them out and report them during the next full broadcast.  Somewhere along the line the news reporters and broadcasts stopped reporting on the news and became participants.  Instead of a knowledgeable journalist analyzing a story that had been researched and dissected, the job was replaced by observers giving knee jerk reactions to a story still unfolding.

We have been lulled into the fact that when CNN cuts live to a Breaking Story, it is not very informative.  They are just showing the same video over and over repeating the same cursory information.  Until officials have a chance to investigate what happened there is no facts for the news.   But with a 24/7 news cycle you will never hear "details at 10:00".  The situation continues to play out live on the air, as details trickle in as they are received. There is no way to know in that moment if the detail is correct or merely a speculation.  In their rush to be the first to report some fact the 24/7 news cycle more times than not they broadcast opinion or at best a semi-intelligent guess.  The same can be said for all the other 24/7 new stations the only difference is the political slant that each station attaches to the occurrence.

With this philosophy for what passes as the news plays out we are more apt to get the wrong information. In the heat of the event rumor and speculation get disseminated. Later when that "fact" is repudiated the correction is buried.  If a person only hears the early stages of a crisis what they know of the situation is not complete.

By the time the correct information has been gathered the error, the speculation and the rumor are flying around social media repeated so often it begins to have a ring of truth.  It has been said that a fact becomes true to the believer when a story is repeated by three different sources. If you consider all your friends on Facebook to be a "different source" then you have hundreds of reinforcements with dozens of comments to boot.  I have seen posts stated as absolute fact when a quick check with Snopes.com would prove the opposite.  It has never been easier to find the truth, but you can not find it by just listening and accepting everything you read.

So here is my hope. Take it upon yourselves to know what is true and what is not.  Don't take the news reports at face value. The goal of 24/7 news is not to keep the public informed.  The goal of all news today is to sell product advertising.  Why tell the important facts about a story in 10 minutes when you can sell advertising all day by covering every moment waiting for the next piece of information to come.  With all forms of instant communication there is no way to miss the next important turn in the story, it will be plastered in notifications all over a smart phone the minute it happens.

The day after the Brexit vote Google was overtaken by British searchers trying to find out more about the EU. That was too late to be informed after the vote had been taken.  The very same information existed the day before the vote as it did after the vote.  Where were the reporters of old before the vote? Where were the reporters who tried to give all the researched facts about what this vote would mean?  They were around but were drowned out by emotional posts and trolling tweets that had none of the facts but plenty of the popular jingoism.

The difference in the vote for Britain to leave the EU and votes to stay was only 4% points.  In todays' world when gossip travels as fast as the news I would suggest that at least 4% of the voters in Britain were totally uninformed by the facts before they voted. To me that's a low number and the actual percentage of ignorant voters is probably much higher.  The point is, WE THE PEOPLE can not allow 4% of the "uninformed" to decided the future.  WE THE PEOPLE must be informed voters, not emotional voters, we must be long sighted and not myopic.

As you were,
Jay

Enough is Enough

Our political and social world seems to be upside down right now. Two great Religions at war with each other for centuries,  seem to find agreement on two things.  Their love of weapons and their hatred of LGBT people. This unresolvable issue is all that anyone is talking/tweeting/posting about right now.  Enough is Enough so this post is not about any of that.  Stop reading here if you are in need of having a hateful fire fanned.

I have blogged about it before but I was performing at a Comedy Club in Atlanta, Georgia when a middle act named Jeff Foxworthy asked me if I thought an idea of his was funny.  He opened a spiral notebook and recited "You might be a Redneck" jokes he had written.  It was hysterical.  Two of my favorites: "If your family tree does not fork... You might be a Redneck."  And "If your mother does not take the Malboro out of her mouth when she tells the Highway Patrol officer to kiss her ass... You might be a Redneck".  He went on stage later that night and killed (comedy term for performing very well).  It caught on and Jeff Foxworthy now owns Georgia, or so I am told.

Although I do not think of myself as one, I am PROBABLY a redneck.  But you decide, here goes.  

At the Johnson Estate we do not have a formal dining room/living room. That space was converted years ago into a pool room. The pool table once belonged to Harry Anderson. Stories associated with this pool table can entertain people for hours and you never have to rack a ball or chalk a cue.  

It was not a hard sell, getting Sandi to agree to put a pool table in the dining room. In fact she was all for it since that formal area was not used very much. And with the boys growing up, it would be great place for them and their friends to hang out.  Twenty years later I can not imagine living in a house that does not have a pool table. I love to play the game but there is more to it than that.
A pool table is the perfect place to do all kinds of things. When there is not a game going on, I put a cover over it and the pool table becomes a waist level, perfectly balanced 8' x 5' table with 40 square feet of flat surface to work on. I use it to lay out and work on props, sort through files, arrange pictures and stack the mail when we have been out of town. But I mostly use it packing up my act for a trip and, oh yes, folding laundry.  No other area, so useful to fulfill these tasks, exists in the house.

The laundry day usage came about when Sandi became tired of the boys leaving their laundry in the drier for longer than necessary or mostly to get them to empty their stuff out of the drier for our clothes.  To get them motivated one day Sandi put the dried laundry on the pool table so they would have to move it (by folding and removing it hopefully) before they could play a game of 9 ball, and a new function was born.  By now this domestic use of a game table has been well established in the Johnson house. 

Okay, by now you are wondering what any of this has to do with the mass shooting in Orlando or Jeff Foxworthy. The answer to the first question is "nothing".  Here is the answer to the second question. it actually happened to me yesterday and I have to phrase it as a Foxworthy redneck joke. 

"If you are playing 9 ball on the pool table, that's in your formal dining room, and you find a fabric softener dryer sheet and a sock in the corner pocket..... You might be a Redneck.."

Love more, Laugh more, hate less,

As you were, 

Jay

Ancient Alphabet

Is it BEER or ART?

In Lilly Tomlin's solo show, "The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe" her homeless shopping cart character, holds up a a can of Campbell's Soup and a painting of that same can on an Andy Warhol canvas.  As she looks back and worth at the two items she asks the audience, "Is it SOUP or ART?"  It is ultimately up to the audience to answer that question for themselves.  What is very clear is that her performance of this question is absolutely art.

If you know me you know that I am a big supporter of the arts.  I think art is the nourishment our soul needs to keep us from dying of reality. Art is the way our imagination speaks to the world.  Art is thought expressed in form.  To me any skill or craft that is taken to its ultimate expression becomes art.  Those who dedicate themselves to the achievement of this goal are artists.

There is something that happens when artists come together.  A synergy is created when people, who have dedicated so much of their time and passion to something as intangible as art, express themselves collectively.  The same passion is present whether the artist deals in oil, acrylic, music, dance, photography, sculpting and yes even ventriloquism. That very phenomonon is happening Saturday. 
The Art Walk and Night Market  happening Saturday, June 4, 2016 from 5pm to 10pm in Reseda is a place and time when artists of every discipline will assemble and share their talents. This time the walk includes beer artists as well.  There will be examples of this "new age old world art" at the Beer Garden during the Street Fair/ArtWalk on Sherman Way.  Beer has finally come of age with the introduction of "craft beers" and "micro brews". The pallets of new age beer drinkers have become as sophisticated as wine connoisseurs.  With the heightened  tastes of a new audience of consumers, the Beer Artist has appeared.

The idea behind this gathering of Artists is the brain child and production of 11:11 ACC.  11:11 A Creative Collective is a non- profit organization dedicated to the idea that art in LA is found in more places than just down town.  The  San Fernando Valley being much bigger in geography than down town, has its own squad of home grown artists. A Valley Boy like myself doesn't have to go "over the hill" to find a little food for my creative soul.  11:11ACC is making it as close as my own valley back yard.
In keeping with that mission the Beer Artist of The Art Walk and Night Market are all local SFV brewers. That's right... Art you can drink made right here in the artistic heart of Southern California.  So even if you do not understand why Andy Warhol thought a can of soup was art...you will probably understand why the beer from these valley Brew Artists is art.
Enjoy the art of the brew and browse art displays,  listen to music, buy your own original art from a local artist, have some food, watch some interactive performance art and see some of the antique commercial Art of the Valley from neon signs to classic cars. There will truly be something for every taste, artistically, emotionally and viscerally.
So, Saturday, come to the Reseda Art Walk. and Night Market.   Here is a map and list of the things going on:

So is it BEER or ART?  You tell me. I'll see you there, Saturday, June 4, 2016. 

As you were,

Jay

Where is Beyond Brookledge?

It would be easier to give Dorothy directions to "somewhere over the Rainbow" than to tell someone how to find Beyond Brookledge.  And WHERE is a much easier question to answer than WHAT is Beyond Brookledge?  Those of us, who have been Beyond and come back to tell about it, find the event and/or experience extremely difficult to describe. The task is impossible if explaining to anyone who has not been as far as Brookledge before.

There are no adjectives to describe uniqueness.  To call something unique means there's nothing similar to it. Unique is without comparison or likeness so how do you explain it in words.
Perhaps there is a way to convey the concept of Beyond Brookledge in a more tactical way.  Instead of depicting a  unique moment in time and space let's describe it as a thing.
BB is a living breathing organism of immersive theatrics and a variety of artists entertaining selected guests and themselves with their talents.  Once a year this creature materializes at an old historic Mission in California. For two thousand eight hundred, eighty minutes the beast appears and disappears all over the rambling mission grounds. Each manifestation is a different mystery and emotion portrayed once only for those who know where to be and where to look in that moment.

You meet a lot of people who are with you on the journey. Sometimes you meet the same people more than once.  Performers morph into other characters and assume other roles.  It makes you wonder if anyone is really who they say they are the first time you see them.

Beyond Brookledge is the love and art child  of  BabyTattoo and Magic Castle, and has the characteristics of each its parents. There is magic of course and art of course, but they exist as a seamless package in this monster Beyond. The magician, singer, juggler, comic, clown, sword swallower, ventriloquist, game creator, illustrator, astrologer, sculptor, and comedy dare devil display their skills separately but in concert with each other to create an art project bigger than the sum of its pieces. Think of the blend as colors on a canvas, the notes of a symphony or the dancers in a ballet. 

For the 2800 plus minutes of Beyond Brookledge existence, everything you can imagine is happening and nothing is completely real.

For example, take the Beyond tour of the old Spanish Mission Hotel conducted by two docent guides. Claims that the clock tower is made of Styrofoam, the waiters - Disney animatronics, the Spanish tile floor -  overstocked Costco goods and information that the Mission was actually built in the late 1970's, does not seem to jibe with historic fact about the structure. 

Bob and Erika -
Beyond Brookledge Beast Wranglers

An 11 foot sculpture seems possessed with life as it appears anywhere there is to be a gathering in the Historic Mission Inn.  Considering the old Hotel is a maze of rooms that have no access but steep spiral stair cases, how the huge gothically inspired Monolith gets from place to place is only speculation. Although you occasionally see other performers in costume or with props walking the halls, the Monolith was never seen out and about but always in the next spot where there is to be a performance.
There are planned events, for those in the know, springing up in various areas of the old Mission at almost any time during the 2880 hours. There was a 9:30 AM illusion show performed "flawlessly hung over"  by performers in their pajamas using toasters, bagels, coffee and orange juice as their magic props. If you know the off beat act of Amazing Johnathan or have ever been to a Puddles Pity Party you understand what some of the scheduled shows are like.  But, after hours, in suites surrounding a moonlit roof top courtyard and sometimes in the courtyard itself, impromptu performances continue well into the night.  The Beyond Brookledge Beast never really sleeps.

Singing while escaping the rotunda and
straitjacket.  

As I left on Sunday after the Beast disappeared into hibernation for another 365 days, I questioned my own reality for a moment.  Having never before been to the the Old Mission Inn and Spa in Riverside, I drove only blocks away when I began to wonder if the place actually existed.  Maybe it was made of styrofoam like the guides said. Perhaps the Beast takes this lair with him when he goes. I was afraid to look back thinking I would surely be turned into a pillar of salt.

Preview of Pity Party. 

I plan to attend next year. (May 19 - 21, 2017)  It will be the fifth anniversary of the Beast's return to the Mission Inn.  I am already planning what I can feed the Beast for its birthday.  I'm not sure if I will be audience or performer next time but it doesn't really matter. I plan to become whatever the Beast needs me to be. At Beyond Brookledge fourth walls do not exist.   If you are lucky enough to attend,  you might or might not see me.  If you do you might or might not know me.
To answer the question "Where is Beyond Brookledge?"  with an enigma , you don't find Beyond Brookledge, it must find you.
As you were,
Jay

High in Hawaii

It was many sunsets before this one but it happened on Maui nonetheless. As I look out on the ocean this time, I remember another Maui day a decade or so ago, a day we decided to go Parasailing.

By "we" I mean me and Sandi, my personal manager Gregg, his wife and brother.  I can't say Parasailing was a bucket list event but it was certainly something to do on a day off.  

Now, I'm not good with heights, in fact walking the rim of the Grand Canyon caused me major psychological issues. The beauty of the landscape could not over come a dizzy feeling in my stomach at the site of the sheer cliffs. It felt like I was falling and just waiting to hit the ground. So I wouldn't normally choose to put myself in that position but peer pressure can sometimes cause you to "do things", and that was certainly the case when I decided to join the group in a Parasailing excursion.   I was also younger then and more highly insured. 

Now before anyone gets all judgmental and reminds me that parasailing is not the same as walking a tight wire across the Grand Canyon, I knew this excursion wouldn't be much more dangerous than a Ferris Wheel ride. Still being a hundred feet up in the air above the shark infested waters of the Maui coast line supported by nothing more than a sling under my butt and a bed sheet over my head was not "nothing" to me. Besides, I don't like Ferris Wheel rides either. 

Now here is the thing about Hawaiian history. When Captain Cook looked like he was going to stay in Hawaii longer than the locals wanted, they killed him and ate him.  Since then the locals have learned that they can make more money out of "Aloha-ing the shit" out of tourist instead of just eating them.  So everything costs tourist dollars and going out on a boat towing a parachute is just one way of commercializing Aloha. 

The parasailing deal was this: the boat ride alone was $25. (That was 1990's dollars I have no idea what it is today).  If you wanted to go up on the parachute, attached to a 100 feet of rope to have a look around for 15 minutes, it cost an additional $25.  Once you got up there and found that you really did enjoy this gull's eye view, the captain of the boat would reel out another 50 feet of rope to take you higher for another 10 minutes... For another $25.  All the captain needed was a signal to know if you wanted to extend your ride and height. Because you would be too high up in the air and too far from the boat to communicate verbally hand signals were established for communication.   

It was a beautifully calm day at sea and it was great to be on the water instead of working in a hotel Ballroom.  The captain sailed fairly far from the coastline, turned off the engine and gave us instructions on how to prepare for becoming a human kite. For those going up on the chute there was a signal for "go higher" (I'll spend another $25) and a signal for "high enough" (I will live to spend the extra $25 another day).  

I was fairly certain that I would choose to go up but being a gentleman (and just a little bit pussy) I said I would go last. Gregg was first and said told the captain no signal would be necessary for him, send him to the 150 feet level for the full time.  This pattern was repeated by his wife and brother, no signals needed.  

Sandi (my darling Bride) is more practical and thrifty. She said she would give the signal to go higher after she evaluated from the 100 foot level if the extra expense was worth the thrill of another 50 feet. It was not long after she got to the first level that she extended both her arms above her head and pointed her fingers to the heavens.  This was the signal that she wanted to go the 150 feet as well. 

After what seemed to a great experience for her, the captain reeled her in and she floated to the deck like the last leaf of fall. 

It is now my turn.  There was a moment when I thought, WHY?  They had their turn, they had fun, they liked it, surely my involvement in the activity would not impact their enjoyment one way or another. That was not the case. They liked it so much, they all wanted me to have the great experience as well.  How could we have a conversation about the trip over cocktails later, if I had no frame of reference? Besides, they said, you only live once, capré diem, excite yourself... Bla Bla Bla... This is the peer pressure part I was referring to earlier. 

I said "why not," and strapped on the nylon contraption that was to be my only connection to the real world.  But using the logic that my wife had come up with, I said I would evaluate the experience once I was there. I would let the captain know if I wanted to extend my height.

At first the sensation is not like you are being lifted very high. It seems more like you are being abandoned at sea. You seem to be standing still as you watch the boat get smaller moving away from you reeling out the 100 foot rope.  This lack of excessive altitude gives me time to carefully consider my decision, so far this is not the terror I thought it might be. From where I sit the rope looks more like a string than a safe tow. I loose site of it before it connects to the boat below and start to rise at the end of this 100 foot thread. I can't recall in this moment who it was that compared this experience to flying a kite, but that is not a good image for me.  As a kid I remember perfectly how my kite would soar up into the air just like I was doing now and suddenly reverse directions and crash head first into the ground.  I held onto the lines that connected the canopy in the hopes they would stay aloft if I suddenly "kited" head first to the ground.  

It seems an eternity up there but it's still not enough time for me to relax and enjoy the view. The one thing I will not do is look down. Suddenly the boat slows and speeds again causing me to change altitude quickly.  It is the captain's way of getting my attention.  It works, I look at the boat hoping to catch one last glimpse of my beautiful wife down below.  It is time... Time for me to declare my intention. Do I stay at that altitude for the rest of the ride or go higher? It wasn't about the money, it wasn't about the peer pressure, it just wasn't going to happen.  I placed my right thumb under my right arm pit, and my left thumb under my left arm pit and flap my elbows, the sign of the chicken.  It was the signal that I did not want to go higher.  

Now I was told that hand signals were needed because verbal communication was not possible at this distance.  However, I distinctly remember hearing, quite clearly, four people, not including my wife, on the deck of a little motor boat making clucking chicken sounds like a barnyard coop.  

I'm no longer with that personal manager.  He and his wife divorced soon after and his brother is now a corporate producer in San Diego who has rarely hired me for work. 

I am, however, still married to Sandi and we just celebrated our 44th anniversary here in Maui last Saturday.  At no time did she even suggest that we go Parasailing this time.

As you were, 

Jay

The Maltese Falcon

The Maltese Falcon is the stuff that dreams (and movies) are made of.  According to the Dashiell Hammett story, in 1539 the Knights Templar of Malta paid tribute to Charles V of Spain, by sending him a solid gold Falcon statue encrusted with priceless jewels.  The statue was stolen in route to the King by pirates then painted with black paint to conceal its incredible value.  Since that time the path to gain possession of the treasure has been marked by murder and double cross.

Evolution of the Maltese Falcon..

The 1941 Warner Brothers movie "The Maltese Falcon" is a classic example of Film Noir and part of the equally iconic body of Humphrey Bogart's  work. Bogart holding the "bird" is a familiar image for film buffs.  
In the film the  Falcon statue ends up in the office of Sam Spade, of Spade and Archer private investigators, where it is discovered to be a fake.  At the end of the movie the thieves are off on another trail to find the real Falcon.  Although this is where the movie ends, this is where my Falcon story begins.

Harry Anderson is a major Dashiell Hammett fan.  He named his company Spade and Archer, Limited, and his son Dashiell.  The first time I was invited to Harry's Hollywood apartment decades ago, on his shelf was a replica of the "Maltese Falcon". Like all of the treasured collections of Harry Anderson it had a great story. He told me it was a replica cast from the original Warner Brothers movie prop and sold only at the Mystery Book Store of the Valley, now long gone. Over the years Harry and I have shared various office space together and the Falcon has always been displayed prominently. It is, and always will be integral to the con man image of his Harry the Hat character. 

Then came a television show called "Night Court" where Harry played an eccentric Judge named Harry Stone. The character in "Night Court" was drawn very closely from Harry's stage magician character.  To that degree the set designer wanted to make the Harry Stone office on stage look as close to the real Harry Anderson office as possible. 

I remember when the set designer came over to take pictures of the real Anderson office. There was no way to miss the Maltese Falcon on display. The designer asked if he could use some of Harry's memorabilia as eye wash for the set, the Falcon statue being one item of several requested. Of course Harry said yes.  Although the real office became a little more drab the set was very familiar.  

"Night Court" was a huge hit for NBC and stayed on for 11 years. The size and location of the Anderson office got bigger and better. The Falcon would be in the Anderson office for the summer hiatus and then it would go back to the set of Night Court for the season.  One year Harry decided that he missed having an "office Falcon" during the season so he told props to buy their own Falcon at the Mystery Book store.  That could have been the end of the story but like I said, most everything Harry owns has a great story attached to it.  

When Harry arrived for the beginning of the season that particular year, there was another Falcon statue where it had always been on the set.  But this Falcon was different. Not so much that you could notice on television but it was thinner, much more detailed and beautiful than the replica at the Anderson office. It became obvious to Harry that the one he owned was a casting of a casting of a casting of the original.  With each new casting the sculpting became less detailed and thicker in size.  It was similar but side by side the differences were startling.  

Harry asked if the prop man bought the new Falcon from the book store. The prop guy said, "No I got it from the Prop department here at Warner Brothers." It was a nexus that might have gotten lost.  Night Court was an NBC show shot at, and associated with Warner Brothers Studio, Burbank, CA. The 1941 Film Noir of "The Maltese Falcon" was a Warner Brothers production. You are probably way ahead of me but play along like you don't know what comes next.  

The story goes that Bogart dropped the Falcon statue and broke it in the early days of shooting so they made several back-up Falcons just in case.  Nobody knows how many Falcon statues they used or needed for the film, nor how many the studio kept, but it became obvious to Harry that Warner Brothers still had at least one. The Falcon sitting on the set of the "Night Court" offices was THE prop of the real Maltese Falcon. 

In less than a few days Harry switched the bird on the set with the one at the office to see if anyone would notice.  They didn't. The one currently on the set was the same one that had been there since the start so only the prop man knew for sure. Harry admitted the switch and the prop man who said it would be their secret.  Harry was now in possession of the Real Maltese Falcon.  

It was really beautiful sitting on a shelf of prominence in the Spade and Archer, Limited offices. I used to marvel at it like I was Golum with the ring. I remember the day that Harry returned from the studio to find that I had wiped the dust and smudges off the Falcon to make it shine. Instead of seeing the beauty of my actions, he reminded me that the smudges might have been the finger prints of Bogart and the dust was from Warner Brothers prop storage.  Indeed in my attempt to make it shine I had wiped it clean of any forensic trace evidence of legendary actors. Although my friendship with Harry survived that event, I agreed never to straighten up the office again. However, soon after that the Maltese Falcon got its own pedestal stand with a glass dome keeping the likes of me at a distance.

There came a time when Harry's friend Mel Tormé invited the two of us to Movie night at the Playboy Mansion. Mel wanted Harry to bring the Falcon to show Heff.  During dinner, Mel took the lead on telling Hugh the story of how Harry got the Falcon which was dramatically placed on the table in front of Heffner. He listened intently, dismissed himself from the table and left without a word.  In a few minutes he returned with a Maltese Falcon of his own. He set his on the table next to Harry's and the group of 10 dinner guests carefully examined the two black birds.  There were differences, not many but enough to see they were not exact duplicates. Without the DNA evidence that I had wiped clean the actual authenticity of neither bird could be satisfied that night. 

Cut to the present day...

For Christmas Harry got a 3-D printer.  He has become obsessed with it as much as any toy he has ever owned.  It was only a matter of time before he would scan the original Falcon and print a scale model of it.  There is a picture of one here on the left.  Better than a casting, it is an exact digital copy of the original. But isn't the Falcon all about fraudulent copies.  How would some one really know?

Pedigree and provenance is always difficult to prove with an object of art, especially one originally created as a prop for a movie. What it needs is independent verification from a person whom themselves can be verified as knowledgable and truthful.  In this case the Anderson Falcon tops all others.  During an appearance on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, Harry told the story of how he was in possession of the real Maltese Falcon.  It was a great story to tell at the Carson couch.  However, Johnny was not persuaded since he had seen the Hugh Heffner statue as well.  It was far from an endorsement of Harry's statue as the actual Falcon.  But it does not end there.

The next night on the Tonight Show as Johnny is signing off for the evening he says, "We have a correction to make. Last night I doubted that Harry Anderson had in his possession the real Maltese Falcon.  Today we got a phone call from the prop man at Warner Brothers Studio who said he had indeed given Harry the original Maltese Falcon. So there you have it. Harry we stand corrected."  

Johnny Carson becomes part of the mystery and the best independent source that Harry has the original Maltese Falcon. These 3-D prints are as close to the original as one can get. 

I have in my possession what we call the "fat Falcon" that was the actual Falcon on the Night Court set. It became famous with its own television history.

As you were,

Jay

 

The Piper

It is here I find myself waiting for more hours than I want to count, to catch an airplane to my next destination.  It is a Bar/Restuaurant/Motel minutes away from the Anchorage Airport. It is called "The Piper". Based upon the proximity to the airport I assume the name refers to the ubiquitous Piper Cub Air Craft seen all over the area. They have a free shuttle to and from the Airport, so rather than sit at the terminal I can pretend I am here for other reasons than just to catch a plane. The men at the bar are joined by the female bartender watching a televised poker game like it was the Super Bowl.

"Go ahead... Do it... Do it" they yell to a woman on screen who is hesitant about going all in on a Texas Hold em' game. In my mind I have made the comparison of this scene to the television show Northern Exposure so many times it is no longer relevant. 

In a gender bending version of "Cheers" a lady walks in and everyone at the bar yells "Dawn". I am assuming that's her name but I am so bored, tired and fuzzy from travel it could be the time of day. Alaska is beautiful but still under the overcast blanket of winter, at least that is the weather today.  The conversation buzzes with the notion that things are changing. They talk about tourist season coming soon. That must be what they call clear weather up here. A man who seems to be in charge talks about opening the patio to "The Piper" in a couple of weeks.  I can see through fog coated windows there is an outside area to this establishment. I have a heavy sweater on and I am comfortable inside, but I am trying to imagine what it would be like dining here "al fresco". There are 15 video screens surrounding The Piper, and all are tuned to a different sports activity. 

At this point a native enters the bar. Indian, Eskimo, Inuit, Yupick I am not sure which is politically correct but she carries a display box  of jewelry for sale.  I ask her if this is her artwork and she says yes. 

"The Earings" she says, "I make when my kids are asleep at night." I ask her how many kids she has and she tells me, two boys.  I have two sons myself, I say. This turns into a story of her life.  It is a great story of wanting girls and having boys, but assured that it is ordained by the powers that control the universe and all in it.  She is blessed with two boys, but her sister had a boy and a girl. Some how that is a source of wonder for her as her sister only wanted boys.   I buy a pair of Earings from her as a royalty payment for someday using this beautiful story she has told.  She is gone and the bar begins to fill with locals.

I do not hear talk of politics.  The patrons of The Piper seem unaware that a primary has even taken place today.  No one is talking of the death of Prince or the settlement of his estate.  I hear conversations about the arrival of "Sherry", the "late shift" bartender who is very popular with the men at the bar.  There is talk of how a prize halibut was ruined when someone tried to prepare it Cajun style.  There are 35 people in the bar and I realize there must be an exponential number of stories involving these people to a multiple power.  I am a strange fish in a strange sea but simple passing through. The bar is beginning to get crowded with locals who fall into a pattern that I am not a part of. The longer I stay the more I realize that like Dorothy said, "I am not in Kansas anymore."

I ask for my check. I pay my bill and I swim back into the more familiar stream of the airport. 

My flight seems to be moving backward and time is creeping by. 

As you were,

Jay

For the Betterment of the Order...

I think it was Buddy Hackett who said the only book he read was the dictionary, because it contained the words of all the other books. I don't know why that would come to me this morning, but like all comedy that statement is complex in its simplicity. Since I am in the middle of the ocean on a Sunday with no sense of time, day or location I have the luxury to ponder such riddles. So if you will indulge me for a paragraph or two I am going to explore that thought. Or in the words of Edward Albee, "I write to know what I am thinking about." 

Right now I am gawking at a keyboard full of square buttons in an electronic framework. These buttons have various symbols and letters to identify them.  Individually they don't represent much by themselves.  Together in this keyboard arrangement they don't spell any words or communicate anything other than an order that is not even alphabetical.  However, if I press these buttons in a specific pattern they spell words that communicate ideas.  This process is happening at this exact moment in my life. You are decoding this pattern of letters at this exact moment in your life. We have come together in the abstract moment of now.  Simple enough so far but... 

In college I had an English professor named Mr. Roundtree. He pointed out that writing was all about the order of things.  It started with the order of letters.  Take the letters T-A-S-R, the order you chose to place those letters creates a word. The word is determined by how you use these letters.  If the order is Rats it means a group of rodents.  If the order is Tars it communicates a gooey substance of black.  If the order is Star it is a celestial body in the universe.  His point was: the order of these simple letters is ultimately the difference between communication or confusion.  

That was only the beginning of his thesis. The next step is a sentence, which is nothing more than the arrangement of words in a specific order to communicate an idea.  The order in which these words appear in a sentence is just as important as the correct order of the letters in a word.  The incorrect order of words in a sentence can be the difference between a Rat and a Star

Next comes the order of the sentences in a paragraph. Again, the correct placement of sentences in the structure of the paragraph is imperative, as is the order of paragraphs in a chapter, and ultimately the order of the chapters to communicate the story you wish to tell. So writing, he said, was the creative arrangement of letters, these individual symbols that by themselves mean very little but in a specific group order, communicate infinite ideas.

The skillful way a writer arranges his or her letters becomes a style that is as recognizable as the brush strokes of a painter or the notes in a song and the difference between artist and craftsman. As interesting as I thought Mr. Roundtree's analogy was, since I had no intention of becoming a writer It was necessary to me only long enough to pass his class. But, of all the things I DON'T remember from my college experience, this is one idea that has stayed with me.  

Here on this cruise we have added an hour to the clock each night for the last week, and we crossed the international date line and repeated a Thursday. So time for us is a very fluid and ethereal series in the moments of NOW.  In fact I would say that's what life is, only a series of present moment unfettered by time. We eventually gather enough of these life moments to assemble a story that becomes His Story or Her story much like a novel we are writing about ourselves.  Perhaps like the individual letters in a book the order of these moments determine our history.  Order becomes as important in a successful life as it is in successful writing.  

There are times we can affect the order of our lives by the decisions we make, and there are times we can not.  But there is no doubt that each moment in that specific order, in relation to all the other moments, makes us who we are. To look back with regret and wish this moment would have happened before that moment, or wish a certain moment had never happened in our life, is fantasy.  The order in which things happen in your life makes you the person you are. To change even a letter in one sentence of one paragraph of your life would make your life story different. You would not be the same person looking back on this past but a different person looking back on a different past. Our star can be come rats with very slight changes.

Our life, like a novel, is all about the order of small things building to larger ideas. Unlike a novel, however, our life has no determined ending. The future is only a series of now moments yet to be experienced.  We do our best to arrange the things we can change, knowing there will be plot twists we don't see coming.  But as long as we have the highest concept of the kind of character we want to be in this life, all things build correctly to that outcome.  

Edward Albee is absolutely correct, but I obviously have more writing to do.

As you were,

Jay 

They're All a Bunch of.....

As I waited in line for a flight from Tokyo to Sapporo, Japan it dawned on me there is a very different sense of personal space between my culture and the Asian culture.  I was standing in the midst of a group of Chinese tourist who were on holiday.  There was plenty of room to wait in the boarding area but they chose to bunch together like they were being packed for shipment. I was being pressed on all sides of my body, but was not claustrophobic.  The reason? At the average American height of 5'8" I was head and shoulders above the mass.  Like a human periscope I could see the entire mass of humans I was drowning in. I felt like a giant for the moment.

Wow, I thought, Asians are small people then wondered if that was a racist thought. If so, why? And if not why?  The fact that I am not considered a tall man in America yet towered above this group was fact not stereotype, yet it felt wrong to even think that way.

This is the blurry line of Political Correctness, I am just never sure how to react anymore to what I observe. I was raised by parents who demanded respect and politeness from their kids especially toward others. In fact I was taught that everyone else's rights should be considered before my own. This passive interpretation of the Jesus ethic is a swing too far in the opposite direction of egotism.  I have learned to my own understanding that we are all equal and to think that my equality waits on the wants of others is no more correct than thinking mine are superior. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" is a statement of equality not deference to another.  

Political correctness is on my mind because of a conversation I had a few days back.  A lady began to talk to me and eventually it lead to the fact that I was one of the ship entertainers. We were having a lively exchange and I invited her to come and see my show in the theatre in a couple of nights. 

"Are you a comic?" She said with enthusiasm.

"Sort of," I replied, "I am a ventriloquist."

Her demeanor changed. "Oh, I have a problem with ventriloquists," she said.

I was prepared to open the discussion of ventrilo-phobia which I encounter a lot and am well rehearsed in answering, but I was not prepared for this "problem."

"Why?" I said.

"Because ventriloquists are racist." 

She went on to explain that she had seen a video of a ventriloquist who performed with a character that was offensive to Muslims, some sort of dead terrorist. Then once on a ship she saw a ventriloquist perform with a character that was offensive to Chinese named "Wing Tip Shoe". 

She would not be coming to see my show. 

I know both of these ventriloquists and told her so, but my opinion of their acts was not important to her.  I could not sway her belief. 

She seemed to have no more interest in continuing our conversation. My final statement was, "Well, we ventriloquist are like singers. We all sing different songs. Different people like different music. I hope you will come and listen to mine."  

"I doubt that I will." She said. 

I was upset by this exchange.  To be judged by any actions other than my own is frustrating and to be labeled a racist by occupation was in my opinion short sighted.  As I had time to think about the exchange it dawned on me... SHE was being racist. By assuming that all ventriloquist are the same  is stereotyping, which is the root of racism.  

I thought back to the Tokyo airport and had my answer. It's racism to say, "All Asians are short" and "Chinese have no sense of personal space".  That is certainly not true and is stereotyping.  The fact is: at the Tokyo Airport I was surrounded by a group of people pressing to get onto the plane and most everyone was shorter than me.  And the ship is not full of rich snobs who can't get the stick out of their asses to enjoy a comedy act, there is just one lady who assumed the self-righteous role of moral compass to group of lovely individuals. 

As you were,

Jay