Flashback: Monsoon Hasselhoff's "Looking for Freedom" Forecast
My good people...
In the description of this weblog, you have been promised "Forecasting, Minutae, Jibba-Jabba, and Hoffophilia." In the first two years of its existence, there has been a glut of the first three and a regrettable dearth of Hasselhovian content.
That is about to change.
In anticipation of a post currently in the works following the jouncing pecs of The Hoff's life and career, here is one of the first pieces in which I declared my strange love for Sir Chisel of Hairwicke. It's from April 25, 2005 and was disseminated via email, in the old-school fashion, years prior to this weblog's genesis. And it follows below, enhanced with weblinks.
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Monsoon Hasselhoff’s “Looking for Freedom” Forecast
Monday, 25 April 2005
The entertainment dynamo known simply as The Hoff was born David Michael Hasselhoff born July 17, 1952 in Baltimore, Maryland.
The Greatest Photo Ever Taken; foreground, L to R, Gary Coleman and David Hasselhoff; background, KITT
David Hasselhoff, of course, is a multifaceted, multitalented conquistador of stage, small screen, and song. His distinguished television career has been distinguished (so far) by three unforgettable roles: Dr. Snapper Foster on “The Young and the Restless” in the 1970s; Michael Knight (and a memorable turn as the goateed evil twin Garthe Knight) on “Knight Rider” in the 1980s; and Mitch Buchannon on “Baywatch” in the late 1980s to early 90s (Mitch was also spun off onto the underappreciated early-90s adventure drama “Baywatch Nights,” co-starring Gregalan Williams, Angie Harmon and Lou Rawls).
Hoff as Garthe Knight; Garthe once growled: “Michael Knight is a living, breathing insult to my existence.”
His theatre career has recently included roles in the American production of “Jekyll and Hyde” and a leading role in the London production of “Chicago.”
But it is The Hoff’s music career that truly sets him apart as a triple-threat and one of the seminal artists of our time. He busted onto the scene with 1985’s Night Rocker (“I am the night rocker; I wanna rock you in my song.”). He has since released more than a dozen albums in Germany, the only place his true greatness has been acknowledged. The David has achieved the popularity of a Michael Jackson or Tom Jones in Germany. Most recently he released David Hasselhoff Sings America in 2004 and The Night Before Christmas this past November.
From “Flying on the Wings of Tenderness”:
We’re flying on the wings of tenderness
Riding the rivers of gentleness
Into the garden of love we’ll flow and watch it grow together
We’ll build a castle out of honesty
Fill every room with the harmony
Seeing the world trough each other’s eyes
We’ll live our lives together…
In 1994 His Hoffness decided to make a run at the musical stardom that had so eluded him in his homeland. He released a self-titled American “debut” album and hooked up a sweet Pay-Per-View star-studded concert event.
Based on eyewitness accounts (and the opinion of the Hoff himself), he rocked. I mean—he rocked the house like the house had not theretofore been rocked. He left the stage, though, and members of his management team inexplicably wore long faces. “What gives? I rocked it hard,” intoned the breathless David, who had truly “left it all onstage.” It was then that he saw a television—tuned to the live O.J. Simpson white bronco chase. Alas, while the hirsute Hoffmeister was delivering a mind-blowing concert to signal his triumphant emergence onto the American music stage, America was watching a slow-speed chase that would kick off the “trial of the century”—and not his performance. Ach!
His Bemulleted Grace played “Looking for Freedom” at Berlin Wall, New Year’s Eve 1989, to celebrate its crumbling. Hasselhoff himself feels his popularity in Germany was instrumental in bringing down the Berlin Wall and ending the Cold War: “I find it a bit sad that there is no photo of my hanging on the walls in the Berlin Museum at Checkpoint Charlie.”
It was rumored that he was going to release a rap album with Ice-T, but these rumors, tantalizing though they were, proved to be false.
The Hoff once gushed about one of his wildly popular projects: “Beyond its entertainment value, ‘Baywatch’ has enriched and, in many cases, helped save lives. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to continue with a project which has had such a significance for so many.”
On a similar note, commenting on the monumental impact his worldwide stardom—nay, superstardom—has had on children: “There are many dying children out there whose last wish is to meet me.”
Regarding his cameo in the film Spongebob Squarepants: “I've gone from talking to a car to swimming with Pamela Anderson to starring with a sponge.” The David also had a cameo in the film Dodgeball as a German soccer coach.
And finally, in the following oft-repeated quote, The Buff One manages to cram an astounding four clichés into one statement: “Keep smiling! Believe in yourself and never give up; dreams will come true.” And indeed they have: In 1996, His Hairiness received a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.
One of Der Hoff’s most well-known and finely-crafted songs is the German language “Du”—a portion of which I have included (and translated) here for you all:
Du bist alles, was ich habe auf der welt,
Du bist alles, was ich will.
Du, du allein kannst mich versteh’n,
Du, du darfst nie mehr von mir geh’n.
Du, ich will dir etwas sagen
Was ich noch zu keinem anderen mädchen gesagt habe,
Ich hab’ dich lieb, ja ich hab’ dich lieb
Und ich will dich immer lieb haben
Immer, immer nur dich.
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You are all I have in this world,
You are all I want.
You! You alone can understand me,
You! You may never go away from me.
You…I will say something to you
That I have said to no other girl,
I love you; yes, I love you
And I will always love you
Always, always for only you.
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First Weather Forecast of the 2009-2010 School Year!
...but before we get to the weather, let me offer hearty and enthusiastic birthday wishes to Mallory King, who turns one tomorrow! As the Germans would say, "Alles Gute zum Geburtstag; auf dass den Hasselhoffskraft lächelen über Sie an!" which means, "Best wishes on your birthday; may the power of the Hasselhoff smile upon you!"
Now, onto the weather...
We've been in a dry period of late, and it looks like high pressure will predominate for the foreseeable future here in the region: even when I'm forecasting rain over the next two weeks or so, it's just a sprinkle here and a shower there for the most part. Enjoy...
Mon 9/7 partly sunny, clouding up late; slight chance of a shower or two. High 76 / Low 56
Tue 9/8 more clouds than sun, breezy; perhaps a bit of drizzle or even a shower. High 79 / Low 58
Wed 9/9 breezy, clouds dominate; drizzle or a few showers in the evening or at night. High 74 / Low 62
Thu 9/10 partly to mostly sunny, breezy and cooler; isolated showers late. High 69 / Low 56
Fri 9/11 partly to mostly sunny and pleasant. High 75 / Low 58
Sat 9/12 mostly sunny with patchy clouds. High 78 / Low 60
Sun 9/13 sun mixed with clouds. High 79 / Low 61
Mon 9/14 increasingly cloudy. High 76 / Low 54
Tue 9/15 partly sunny, more humid and cloudy with a few showers in the evening. High 79 / Low 53
Wed 9/16 cloudy with periods of rain; clearing late. High 72 / Low 53
Thu 9/17 mostly clear and pleasant. High 68 / Low 50
Fri 9/18 cooler; sunny and pleasant. High 65 / Low 46
Sat 9/19 sunny, clear, and damn near perfect. High 70 / Low 48
Beyond high temperatures climbing through the 70s for a few days following the forecast period, then seasonably cooler as we head into autumn.
Monsoon Martin's Open Letter to White People re: Barack Obama
National polls conducted since the end of the Republican National Convention have shown John McCain with a lead over Barack Obama as high as four percentage points, but that’s not even the aspect of the poll I found most alarming. Recent polling indicates that “whites” support McCain over Obama at a rate of 55-60% to 35-40% consistently—nearly 20 percentage points in most polls.
Now, I don’t trust polls, particularly in this election that features millions of newly registered voters, comprised of Democrats over Republicans at a rate of 2 to 1; and in which (mostly) young voters who have only cell phones are not being reached by traditional polling methods. But the resurgence of the McCain campaign since adding the Barracuda to the ticket is undeniable—there are (overwhelmingly white) people across this land who have been taken in by Sarah Palin’s “jus’ folks” persona and plainspoken convictions. (I have spent more than a little time over the past two weeks dissecting and directing vitriol toward Alaska Governor and Vice-Presidential candidate Sarah Palin—some have commented that my visceral reaction to her ascendancy has been “obsessive” and even “worrisome”—so I won’t belabor that point. At least not right now. Just prior to the election, I will present my list of reasons why not to vote for John McCain, for the undecided or McCain-leaning voters in my audience.)
And finally, I’m getting a little hinked out about the potential for the so-called Wilder Effect. This refers to the 1989 gubernatorial election in Virginia in which Democrat Douglas Wilder (African American) ran against Republican Marshall Coleman (white): polling in the days before the election indicated that Wilder would win the office comfortably, by at least a 9% margin; he actually won by a half-percent, a result so close it had to be verified by recount. It seems—as the theory runs, supported by post-election polling and studies—some white folks had told pollsters they would vote for Wilder, had walked into the polling place intending to vote for Wilder, but once the curtain closed, they just could not bring themselves to pull the lever for a Black man.
The fact that racism still exists in this country in many forms is as undeniable as the fact that many white people supported and continue to support the candidacy of Barack Obama—not despite or because of his racial heritage, but with indifference to it. But consider this: while current national polling reveals 5% of whites admit they would not vote for Obama because he is Black, exit polling after the Democratic Pennsylvania primary indicated that more than one in six white voters who chose a candidate other than Obama did so because of his race.
All of these factors have me and some other progressives contemplating the unthinkable fewer than 50 days before the election: that John McCain could actually end up winning the goddamned thing. And so, I need to have a chat with the white people who will decide this election—Hispanics are supporting Obama at a rate of 66% or higher, while African-Americans are going for the Democratic ticket at greater than 90% in most polls. Yes, white folks, it wasn’t enough to colonize this land and control its inhabitants, its corporate holdings, its commerce, and its government, its judiciary, for 400 years; now you’re going to be the key factor in deciding whether this nation, whose past is so stained with the wretched heritage of bigotry, will elect its first Black president. Whites, Caucasians, ofays, crackers, honkys: I’m talking to you.
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Dear White People,
It has come to my attention that despite Barack Obama’s historic campaign, despite the millions of people from all walks of life who support him, and despite the fact that Republicans have sent this great country shimmying down the shitpipe over the past seven-plus years, a nearly two-to-one majority of you say you will not be voting for the Democratic ticket in November.
I know some of you are scared. You’ve been worked up into a lather by right-wing talk show hosts, pundits, email chains, and your screwy Uncle Jed, who have all told you of the horrors that will be visited upon the American populace if Barack Obama should be allowed to take the Oath of Office.
My melanin-challenged friends, I need you to take a long, brutally honest look inside yourselves—down “in places you don’t talk about at parties” (Col. Nathan Jessup, USMC, in A Few Good Men)—and figure out just what’s stopping you from supporting Senator Obama. I have strong doubts that it’s because you feel passionate about the candidacy of John McCain, one of the least-compelling candidates I can recall.
It’s OK. Your old pal Monsoon is here to help you deal with the fallout from this potentially unpleasant journey of soul-searching. The reason I’ve contacted you, White America, is to reassure you about some key points that may have found their way into your subconscious “Why I don’t want to vote for that Obama guy” litany—either through your email inbox, impromptu discussions at the grocery store, or even through years of internalized messages about race and racism in America.
One of the most persistent and pervasive rumors—10% of respondents in most polls report that they believe this is true—is that Barack Hussein Obama is a radical Muslim who took his oath of office as Senator from Illinois on a Koran instead of a Bible. As President, his “geographical allegiance” would be to Mecca—where adherents of Islam direct their prayers—rather than to the country he has been elected to lead. In fact, the rumors suggest, he is only seeking the presidency in the hope of waging global jihad from inside the White House. (Pundits on Fox News and CNN have even referred to him as “Osama” in an unforgivably Freudian slip.) Not that it should really matter in a country that prides itself on being a “melting pot” of diversity, tolerance, and freedom of worship, but Barack Obama has repeatedly stated he’s a Christian, and there is no credible evidence that he attended an Indonesian madrassa (radical Muslim school) as a youth. Do any of you recall the shitstorm that rained down on him for the incendiary comments of his pastor and longtime spiritual mentor, Jeremiah Wright? I think that pretty much seals it.
Another tack in the “smearing” of Obama’s spiritual values goes something like this: Actually, he’s not a Muslim or a Christian; he’s an atheist who will infest the world with his godlessness and trample on the rights of Christians. Well, now this is damning, quite literally. In a country where 85%-90% of its citizens believe in God—and 60%-70% believe in angels—it is understandable that folks would want a President who shares their religious values. But it’s a crying shame, too, that Americans can’t look beyond this sort of thing and realize that a lack of religious conviction does not necessarily preclude an individual from exhibiting values like charity, empathy, and fairness. In fact, look at the example of born-again Christian George W. Bush, who has said repeatedly that God “speaks through” him and directs his decisions, particularly those that shore up U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East. Anyhoo, Barack Obama is an avowed Christian. End of story.
Barack Obama, according to some widely distributed email chains, is the antichrist. He is the “King of South” (referencing Daniel)—since he is “from” Kenya, which is south of Jerusalem—who shall “shall do as he pleases, exalting himself and making himself greater than any god; he shall utter dreadful blasphemies against the God of gods.” The antichrist is described in John as a man who will have incredible charisma, who will gain the backing of millions of followers through his promises of bringing peace and instilling hope, and who will ultimately establish dominion over the entire world, turning God’s creation into a reeking hell, according to the emails. The Book of Revelation describes the fact that the antichrist will be a Muslim man in his 40s who will rule for 42 months (almost a full Presidential term). He will come mounted on a white female horse (and Obama’s mother had six African husbands—nice misogynistic conflation of a female horse with Obama’s mama, Ann Dunham, who seems to have actually been married just twice, and only once to an African man). Obama “hails from” Chicago, whose zip code is 60606 (see those three sixes?). In point of fact, the book of Revelation does mention a beast, “[a]nd there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies; and power was given unto him to continue forty and two months.” But there’s nothing about the “beast” (no mention of antichrist in the New Testament) being and in his 40s of Muslim descent, and nothing about a horse. In addition—oh, screw it. If you truly believe that Barack Obama is the antichrist, then you need more help than I can give you, or indeed than the finest psychiatric facilities can provide. Besides, everyone knows that the real antichrist is the incomparable überstar of stage, screen, and song, David Hasselhoff.
Another popular argument insists that Barack Obama will favor Blacks over whites in his policy-making. (He’s even been “endorsed” by Louis Farrakhan, for god’s sakes.) If this were true, couldn’t it also be said that a white President, simply by virtue of his skin color, would ignore Black issues? (Kanye West’s observation that “George Bush doesn’t care about Black people” after the criminally negligent Katrina response notwithstanding, you see the point I’m trying to make.) In point of fact, Barack Obama has been assailed by many in his own community for failing to address issues like civil rights and poverty aggressively enough. The Rev. Jesse Jackson even commented into a “hot mike” that he’d like to “cut [Obama’s] nuts off” for making speeches insisting that Black fathers take responsibility for their children, a fairly conservative viewpoint. To be sure, Barack Obama’s diverse racial heritage makes him uniquely attuned to issues of race—his platform includes promises to strengthen civil rights laws and end racial profiling—but he’s not going to establish a D.C. (“Dark Country,” as Richard Pryor memorably fantasized about the District of Columbia) once elected. Barack Obama has been described as the first “postracial” candidate: he has garnered support for his policies and his abilities, not typically because of, or in spite of, his race. (Even his “race speech” in Philadelphia, perhaps his most famous address, focused on transcending rather than celebrating racial differences.) So: he’s not going to institute mandatory break-dancing lessons on the South Lawn or commission Ludacris to write a new hip-hop National Song "Starz and Stripez (Fo' Yo' Ass)" to replace “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Play dates, scrapbooking bees, and Mary Kay cosmetics demonstrations will continue unabated. Banana Republic will remain open for business and fully stocked with khaki. John Tesh concerts will, unfathomably, go on as scheduled. Your Netflix queue will not be disrupted. Take a deeeeeep breath. There.
In a related line of thinking, sky-is-falling types suggest that Michelle Obama hates her country, will wield too much power in influencing her husband, flaunts her support of terrorism by fist-bumping her husband, and will invite militant Black Power groups like the Panthers to stay in the Lincoln Bedroom. It has been alleged (in footnoted diatribes, increasing their apparent legitimacy) that in her Princeton thesis she wrote that America was founded on “crime and hatred” and that white people are “ineradicably racist.” But thorough checks of her thesis have revealed that neither of these phrases appear anywhere in the thesis. Some think that, like her husband, she will “elevate black over white,” but no evidence exists to suggest this would come to pass. Surely, as I said above, she will advocate for some of the issues—welfare reform, poverty, affordable housing, crime—that disproportionately affect the Black community. But as she would be the first African American First Lady, it would be a squandered opportunity not to address these problems. Finally, regarding Michelle Obama, there’s the matter of her comment in February that “For the first time in my adult life, I am proud of my country, because it feels like hope is making a comeback.” Okay, bad choice of words there, admittedly. But she was celebrating the fact that people of all races had come together behind her husband, a step many would have deemed highly unlikely prior to this historic election season.
Some pundits and even ordinary folks like to paint Obama as an ivory-tower elitist because of his Harvard Education and the fact that his manner seems erudite and even aloof at times. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else, the argument goes, and he has trouble relating to ordinary folks. (Some of you call him “arrogant” or “uppity,” an observation that has its roots in a time of more overt and limiting racism when Blacks had to stay “in their place.” Surely his affect is not more arrogant than that of Bill Clinton, yet few people have dwelt on his “uppity” manner.) First, to address the elitism: one does not work successfully as a community organizer in the most impoverished sections of Chicago, as Obama did, by being an out-of-touch elitist. Second, Barack Obama will not make you feel stupid—unless you are. Has it occurred to you that our President should be smarter than we are? He’s faced with entrenched, complex problems in every area of his governance—foreign policy, the domestic economy, healthcare, environmental stewardship, and more—so I’d just as soon see a guy with an egghead in the White House. (Not to beat a lame duck, but we’ve just suffered through seven and a half years of being led by a guy who graduated Yale with a C average, with seemingly no natural curiosity, who has led more with his “gut” than with his brain. And look how well that’s turned out.) Finally: the very notion that John McCain, who owns nine houses (so many that he’s lost count) and whose wife, Cindy, is worth at least $100 million, would call Barack Obama an elitist is absurd on its face.
It has also been circulated that Obama refuses to say the Pledge of Allegiance and won’t wear a flag pin, and is therefore unpatriotic. He’s in the “blame America first” crowd and will not exhibit the love of country needed to govern correctly. Oh, here we go again with the slippery definitions. Specifically, what is patriotism? If wrapping yourself in the flag and a horrific national tragedy as you send thousands of inadequately equipped young people to die in (and mercilessly bomb) a sovereign nation, then cut veterans’ benefits, is patriotic, then President Bush surely is. If patriotism is standing by idly as more than 2,000 citizens on the Gulf Coast perish due to the ineptness of a grossly underfunded agency headed by one of your cronies, then let’s have a big “God Bless America” for W. again. If it’s patriotic to offer your buddies in big business tax breaks for outsourcing American jobs, moving plants abroad, and polluting the environment, then by all means, let’s hear it for G-Dub. I, on the other hand, prefer to define patriotism in the following way: a true patriot will be eternally vigilant in evaluating and criticizing his government; a true patriot loves his country too much to see it hijacked by the religious right and neo-conservative war-hawks. And finally: the pictures that purport to show Obama refusing to put his hand on his heart during the Pledge were actually snapped during the Anthem, and he’s singing. As for the flag pin, I can’t fathom a more trivial matter with which to concern ourselves during this dire time in America.
I have heard that his tax plan will raise taxes on all of us to pay for his social programs, driving us into a recession; his economic plan will harm American businesses, hamstring the free market, and cost American jobs. Hello? The economic climate now—under a Republican administration—is not looking too rosy. For a supposed “conservative,” G.W. Bush has played fast and loose with the national treasury in funding a war of aggression against a nation that posed no threat to the United States, subsidized companies doing business in Iraq, bailed out two mortgage giants and now the world’s largest insurer (AIG), etc. Obama’s tax plan would actually provide tax relief for 150 million working families and shift the burden onto the super-rich. He would also seek to hold companies accountable for unethical practices, tax windfall profits, protect workers’ rights to organize, raise the minimum wage, crack down on predatory lending (including credit cards), reform bankruptcy laws to favor consumers, and seek to maintain and create jobs in the U.S. by eliminating tax breaks for companies that shift their operations overseas or outsource. And he’d introduce much-needed regulatory controls to curb speculation in the market.
According to critics, Barack Obama is a peacenik who wants to talk to our enemies without preconditions and will be hesitant to use military force. First of all, listen to the man’s speeches: to my personal dismay, he has said that he actually wants to increase troop levels in Afghanistan while leaving Iraq; would attack Iran if necessary; and would consider any unilateral act of aggression against Israel an act against the United States, potentially answering that violence with military might. So while he’s certainly not in the category of a Richard Perle in terms of his hawkishness, he’s not nearly the effete, slow-to-act caricature that’s been painted in some quarters. And finally, just what in happy hell is wrong with talking to our “enemies”—I mean, really giving diplomacy a shot, unlike the charade that ensued in the first months of 2003 before the U.S. invasion of Iraq—before things get really out of hand? It’s not as if sitting and talking is going to make the U.S. look weak; it’s going to make us look prudent and deliberate, two qualities that have been sorely lacking in this country’s foreign policy.
On a related note, some folks are bothered by the fact that Barack Obama’s candidacy has been embraced by people of all backgrounds living around the world. If people in the Middle East and throughout Europe love him, the “thinking” goes, that means he is going to collude with them in taking down the American system and way of life. Oh, here’s a doozy. His popularity is now a liability? In a recent television ad, John McCain’s campaign even tried to link Obama’s popularity in the U.S. and abroad to “famous just for being famous” figures like Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. (How would McCain now explain the crowds who have been flocking to see—and have been forming a cult of personality around—his running mate, Sarah Palin?) You see, I thought it was good to be popular, as long as it’s for the right reasons. Barack Obama’s popularity stems, it seems to me, from a few key characteristics: his elocution, his relative youth, his promise of change, and the fact that his candidacy represents promise and possibility to those, here and abroad, who viewed America as hopelessly racist in its domestic policies and determinedly exceptionalist in its foreign policies.
Speaking of his youth, many worry that he lacks adequate experience to be Commander-in-Chief; he’s only worked as a community organizer, taught Constitutional Law at the University of Chicago law school, was elected state senator, and now U.S. Senator. Well—and forgive me from dwelling on the current administration, but I’ve got some emotional brush to clear in purging myself of accumulated anger—we had an experienced guy and he didn’t work out too well. George W. Bush skirted Vietnam, ran some oil companies and then a baseball team into the ground, helped his daddy get elected, spent about five years as Governor of Texas, and then was appointed President of the United States by the Supreme Court in 2000. And what “experience” can really prepare one to be President? It’s the qualities of judgment and wisdom and a sensible, far-sighted approach to governance we can use to ascertain if a person will make a good leader. Barack Obama, in my view, has these qualities.
While we’re on the subject: some denigrate his speeches as too “smooth” and polished. My friends, I think we could stand a President who is thoughtful and articulate after seven and a half years of cringing at the non-sequiturs of a nannering ninny. We’ve had a President for two terms now who reminded us of a guy we’d like to go bowling with. Now we need somebody who can actually process thoughts into intelligible words and sentences—never mind that he can’t bowl to save his life (rolling a 37 in Altoona back in a March campaign stop). Heck, maybe he’ll even tear out the White House’s bowling alley and install a basketball court when he wins. (Oh—sorry, white folks. Didn’t mean to scare you there.)
To some, his lack of bowling prowess—his style was derided in some quarters as “dainty”—proves that he’s out of touch with the common man. Seriously? To me it just proves that he’s fallible. And do you really want a guy to be hitting the lanes for two, three hours each night to hone his skills? Shouldn’t he be reading, studying policy memos, deciding the fate of the free world—shit like that?
He’s not going to take your guns, as NRA alarmists posit—you’ll still be able to shoot animals and intruders to your heart’s content. But he may take steps that will eventually remove some handguns and assault weapons off the streets of our most dangerous cities and towns—and that’s incontestably a good thing.
He admitted to using cocaine, marijuana, and drinking alcohol to excess while in high school. Well, la-de-freakin-da. You just described more than half of teenagers nationwide, according to polls, at least with the weed and booze. And at least he admitted it. Jeez. And another thing: Barack Obama is a longtime smoker who has reportedly kicked the habit while on the campaign trail. Now that’s impressive self-discipline.
It is often alleged that Obama is the “most liberal congressman in the entire U.S. Senate” – according to a study done by the National Review – but (again, to my dismay) this is patently false. His support for the Bush wiretapping bill and his unequivocal support for Israel are just two of many examples that bear this out. And since his days as a community organizer and perhaps even before, Barack Obama has displayed an almost obsessive commitment to building consensus. Indeed, his campaign has drawn record numbers of independents and even Republicans to support him, and there is little reason to speculate that he’ll morph into the spineless, godless liberal bogeyman of Ann Coulter’s worst nightmares.
And finally, rest easy: Barack Obama will not use his gigantic lips to transport half of the citizens of Cuba to the United States to be granted political asylum. What—what??! Yes, my friends, according to an article in the Reading Eagle that was picked up by some national outlets, this was the brilliant statement made by Adam LaDuca, a senior at Kutztown University—ah, I fairly swell with pride that it’s in Berks County—on his weblog: he has “a pair of lips so large he could float half of Cuba to the shores of Miami (and probably would).” In his defense, LaDuca insulated himself from charges of bigotry with the following caveat: “And man, if sayin’ someone has large lips is a racial slur, then we’re ALL in trouble.” (As we all know, prefacing an utterance with a clarification of its intent is always the most effective way to deflect the truth, a la: “I don’t mean to be racist, but why do Black people talk so damned funny?” or “I’m not a sexist or anything, but why doesn’t Hillary Clinton just go home, put on an apron, and bake me some cookies?”) Anyhoo, LaDuca—who, by the way, in a delicious bit of synergy, was the executive director of the Pennsylvania Federation of College Republicans—was forced to resign his post. LaDuca, you may remember, held an “Affirmative Action Bake Sale” when he was president of the College Republicans at Kutztown—at which whites were charged more for cookies than Blacks. What. A. Guy.
Well, white people, I hope you’ve found this a worthwhile enterprise, and that I’ve succeeded in helping you purge some of the ugly misconceptions surrounding the candidacy of the next President of the United States, Barack Obama. (If you felt calm or even inspired when you read that last bit, or even peed a little with joy, then our exercise here has worked. If you felt panic or loathing, or even threw up a little in your mouth, then we’ve still got work to do.) Feel free to send this to your fellow Caucasians across the political spectrum if you think my message will help in their decision-making processes.
Please contact me if I can be of further assistance.
Sincerely,
Update
on 2008-09-22 03:18 by Monsoon Martin
An AP/Yahoo! poll suggests that Obama's ofay problem may be even more significant than I posited above. Though I disagree with the methodology of the study and therefore question both the reliability and validity of its findings, there are some potentially alarming indications here. One such finding was, "Statistical models derived from the poll suggest that Obama's support would be as much as 6 percentage points higher if there were no white racial prejudice," which could be a game-changer if the election is anywhere near as close as polls suggest.
The Many Jobs of Monsoon: Volume Five
Friends,
Here is the fifth and final installment in my Many Jobs series from 2006. I wanted to draw your attention to a new feature on the weblog: I've added a "widget" on the sidebar of each page that automatically archives all of my entries, sorted into categories. So if you want to access all five "Many Jobs" forecasts, look on the right side of the page under the "Powered by Squarespace" icon, and click on "Many Jobs of Monsoon." Cool, huh?
The Many Jobs of Monsoon Forecast: Volume Five
Monday, 20 November 2006
As I mentioned in my previous forecast, two “temp” jobs turned into “permanent” (though not entirely, since I eventually left them) employment. The first was at American International Group (AIG) in Philly, where I worked in the National Union division, which handled professional liability insurance policies. A few years back, in fact, there was a sprawling scandal regarding illegal business practices involving AIG’s many tentacles; one of the most egregious violations was that underwriters in National Union were binding policies that had not actually been purchased. In other words, they fabricated income for the company in order to meet fiscal goals. Around the time I worked there. Good stuff.
I worked there as an assistant underwriter—first as a temp, then as an actual employee of National Union—from early 1997 to the middle of 1998. The job itself was not notable in any way, involving fairly pedestrian data entry (though not at the breakneck speeds required at the collection agency), client contacts, filing, and so forth like that.
My first boss there was a man named Frank Castro, the regional manager of our division, who was in his late twenties at most. If you have seen the movie Office Space and can recall the manner of Gary Cole’s character, Bill Lumbergh, bring that performance up a few registers and increase the speed from 33 to 45 rpm and you have an idea of the man. Frank Castro was from California and seemed rather laidback, but in point of fact was a desperately striving career insurance guy who would have killed (and cheated, it turns out) to make himself look good. He was the sort of corporate schmuck who would practice his golf swing (with no club) while you were standing there talking to him.
The most memorable aspect of Frank Castro’s tenure at AIG was his indiscriminate, almost savant-like use of management euphemisms. If he wanted us to adopt a new policy, it was to be done “on a go-forward basis.” If he wanted us to contact a client, we were to “touch base.” We were concerned with the “bottom line” and how our fiduciary health looked “at the end of the day.” When moving on to a new topic, he would “change gears” before “pulling the trigger” on his next deal. And so, friends, it would not be unusual to hear the following out of his mouth during a staff meeting: “Alright, people, I’ve been looking at some bottom line figures here and at the end of the day, we’re just not thinking outside the box. So on a go-forward basis I’m going to need you to go ahead and touch base with your brokers and pull the trigger on some new deals. Switching gears for a moment, someone’s taking pens again from the supply closet. And folks, that dog just won’t hunt. So on a go-forward basis, you’ll need to go ahead and go through Terri to get your office supplies, mmkay?”
That’s “Terri” as in Terri Flint, the Underwriting Assistant whose desk was just over a shared cubicle wall from mine during most of my tenure there. And Terri played her radio incessantly set to a soft-rock station whose playlist seemed to be drawn from a catalog of songs that would be guaranteed to make me drive letter openers into my earholes. Most memorably, though: Terri loved the Titanic theme, “My Heart Will Go On,” sung by Celine Dion, aka the Trilling Canadian She-Demon And Inflictor Of Auditory Pain Whose Oeuvre Is An Affront to Good Music Everywhere. And when that song, that #$*&%ing song, would come on…as soon as she heard those ethereal first few notes from some kind of Celtic flute…Terri would turn in up. I mean, she would crank it! “Every night in my dreams / I see you / I feeeeel you / That is how I know you go onnnnnnnn.” And on, and on, several times a day, ad nauseam, till we all puke.
There was, of course, a diverse cast of characters who worked at AIG, and among others (big ups to Tondra!) I found a kindred spirit in a guy named Eric Barnes. One day we were talking about the fact that I was collecting View-Master viewers and reels at the time, and he said he hadn’t seen them in a long while. So I brought in a couple of viewers and some reels, and at lunchtime, we went into the file room, pointed our viewers toward the fluorescent lights and transported ourselves back to our childhoods. At some point, Terri walked in and was greeted with this scene: two grown, bearded men in shirts and ties, lying flat on their backs, looking through View-Master viewers and gasping “Wow!” and “Oo!” like a couple of ten-year-old boys. Later I overheard her on the phone with a friend saying, “I mean, I can’t [bloody well] believe that these two [tossers] have time to sit in the [bleedin’] file room [buggering] around while I’m out here with a stack of work! [Bollocks]! They should be [bleedin’] [sacked]!” I’ve cleaned up Terri’s potty-mouthed, Northeast-Philly-inflected dialogue a bit by substituting some British profanity and slang, which somehow seem more genteel…
Perhaps the most unforgettable and haunting episode from my tenure at AIG involved my second boss (Frank Castro’s successor), Chris. He was both less intense and less overtly full-of-malarkey than Frank had been, but otherwise nothing much changed in the way we did our jobs. Soon we learned that he, too, was leaving; he would begin working in the Chicago office in a week. As a result, Chris was something of a lame duck, and I harbored the conviction that he was inappropriately heaping work upon the assistants to tie up loose ends before he left. Several days before his departure, he sent an email to Terri and me that included a litany of relatively small but annoying projects he wanted done ASAP, on top of the everyday responsibilities of our positions. I was unreservedly fed up, so I forwarded the email to Terri and said as much. My missive was an unbridled venting of my frustrations stemming from the fact that I felt Chris was taking advantage of us, and that he should do his own [bloody] work, and where does he get off heaping all this work on us at the last minute, yada, yada, yada.
A minute or two later, I bebopped over the Terri’s cubicle and said, “Didya get my email?” She said, “No.” I said, “Hmm,” and went over to my computer. Yep, there was my message, and it says it was sent, so I don’t understand OH MY GOD I HIT REPLY INSTEAD OF FORWARD OH MY GOD [BUGGER] [WANK] [BLOODY HELL]!!!!!
Friends, I had sent the email I described above right to the man whom I was maligning in it. I considered collapsing but wasn’t sure what that would accomplish. I tried to “recover” the email (cancel its delivery) but that seldom worked, and did not seem to in this case. I ran over and told Terri breathlessly what I had done. “Oh, no,” she said. For this was really so bad that it was beyond what could be alleviated by profanity. She had the idea to run into his office and delete the email from his computer, because she thought he was not there. I staggered into the bathroom and tried to figure out a way to become invisible. Perspiration, which is seldom in short supply on my body, began to issue forth is streams and rivulets beginning at my temples and ending in my shoes. I looked in the mirror and actually said, “This is all just a dream,” because one time when I was little, during a nightmare I shouted, “This is a dream!” and woke up straight away. But this time, I was still looking in the mirror at my hopeless visage, sweating profusely, trembling and wondering if I would soon be out of a job.
I mustered the resolve to return to my desk after what seemed like 15 minutes, but was probably only about two. “Glen?” came Chris’s voice from within his office. “Can you come in here?” My stomach did a somersault and I flushed a deeper crimson than the devil’s arsehole. I went in.
Chris, to his credit, was calm in his approach. “If you have a problem with the way I’m doing my job, you need to come to me directly about it,” and so on. He evidently had deduced that he was not the intended recipient of my smart-alecky email. “Yes, you’re right. That shouldn’t have happened,” I said. Now, folks, Monsoon don’t scare. And it’s not often that Monsoon will back down from a challenge or disagreement. But shucks, I just plum had no excuse. My actions were inappropriate, ill-advised, and though unintentional, they were ultimately indefensible. I left his office relieved at having made it through the meeting with my job—if not my dignity—intact.
[ 1700 Market Street , home of AIG toward the end of my tenure.]
Not long after the email debacle, Mrs. Monsoon and I decided to relocate to Lancaster County to pursue more meaningful career opportunities and enjoy a more tranquil lifestyle. As I noted earlier, I spent a bit of time pinballing around from one short-term temp job to another. In late 1998, however, I got my big break. I was called to Precision Medical Products in Denver to be trained as a replacement for Mary, their receptionist, who was just weeks away from delivering a child and beginning her maternity leave. Precision Medical was a fairly new company when I came to work there, having been formed in 1997 after a break with Reading’s Arrow International. To their credit, the executives at this smallish medical supplies manufacturer were more open-minded than Alpha Boss at the pretzel factory, and were persuaded that everything would be just fine with (in all likelihood) the only male receptionist in Lancaster County.
Mary left, and gave birth, and never came back. The job was mine until I left in early 2000 to pursue my teaching certification.
What can I say about this experience? It was one of the more pleasant work environments of which I’ve ever been a part. I sometimes worked back in the shipping and receiving department with one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, Steve Nelson. Lou Menga, the materials manager, was (and still is) a musician who puts out a Christmas album every year. My boss, Tom Kubacki (“TK”) was hands-down the best boss I have ever had—laidback, fun to chat with, and seriously kind. Of course, there were the interminable PowerPoint presentations in the meeting room about meeting ISO 9000 certification standards. But over all—divine. And by all accounts, I made a perfectly lovely receptionist (“Good morning, Precision Medical!”).
Incidentally, PMP is the “birthplace” of Monsoon Martin, so to speak. In my position at the front desk I had a clear view of the outside world, while many of the company’s workers—particularly those at interior cubicles and the hourly workers in the plant—could not see outside. When it rained, therefore, I felt it was appropriate to make an announcement over the “page all” function; after all, as the receptionist, I lorded over the company’s entire telecommunications system. “This is your receptionist. It is raining. Those of you who left your windows down this morning may want to sprint out and roll them up. Thank you.” Since this was the beginning of Glenn “Hurricane” Schwartz’s heyday (he began at NBC-10 in 1995) and my interest in the field of meteorology was piquing, a co-worker bestowed upon me the name "Monsoon Martin." Damned if it hasn't stuck.
[The approach of an actual monsoon, in southern Asia]
[Wrestling Legend Robert Otto “Gorilla Monsoon” Marella]
After a whirlwind tour of the joys of education, I was awarded a secondary English teaching certificate by the state of Pennsylvania in December 2000. By the beginning of January 2001, I landed a position as a long-term substitute at a Berks County middle school that shall remain nameless. By the end of January, I had nearly lost my ever-loving mind and abandoned the profession altogether.
On my first day, the principal had the look of a man who had bad news to impart—but was trying to project an optimistic attitude—as he described the job to me. For medical reasons, the school’s half-time art teacher would be unable to return to work for at least another month. Since I was not (am not, could not possibly become) art certified, I would only be able to serve in this capacity for roughly four weeks. In the mornings I would teach art; in the afternoons I would cover whatever classes needed to be covered in the rest of the school. This is going to be interesting, I thought, but manageable.
Having apparently glimpsed the look of cautious but optimistic confidence on my face, the principal led me upstairs to a small supply closet. When he opened the door, I swear he fixed on my expression with an almost morbid anticipation—the sort of thrill you feel when you’ve handed your rancid sandwich to your friend with the words, “Taste this; it’s horrible,” and he’s about to take a bite.
In the closet, my good people, was a Frankenstinian monstrosity that sends chills down my spine, lo these nearly six years later. It was a green, three-tiered utility cart piled impossibly with what appeared to be a metric ton of art paraphernalia, the summit of which was well above my head. Slack-jawed, I took it all in for a moment: bins of colored pencils, markers, and paints; scissors, rulers, glue, brushes, paper and Styrofoam plates, and small plastic bowls; handouts, folders, library books, mat boards, manila file folders, composition paper, construction paper, and art paper of varying sizes; charcoal pencils, erasers, clay, unidentified ceramics projects (and fragments thereof). All was stacked precariously in once-piles on crooked, collapsing shelves.
[Since I couldn’t find a picture that would do justice to the Frankencart with which I was faced, I need you to join me in a little visualization. Imagine that everything you see in the art supply store above was blown off the shelves by a tornado measuring F2 on the Fujita scale. Then imagine that it was picked up by a monkey on crack and put onto a cart somewhat taller than the one below. And there you have it.]
I saw what looked to be a lesson plan among the arty detritus and pulled it off the cart, causing a minor avalanche of paint tubes, worksheets and rulers. I looked at the principal. He looked away—I’d like to think because he was feeling badly about what he was getting me into, but quite honestly he could have been stifling a laugh. Since the reality of the situation was just beginning to set in, I was not yet in the proper frame of mind to be able to find the humor in this nascent fiasco.
When I asked where I would be teaching, the principal looked positively forlorn, but—more determined than ever to present this as if it was all very reasonable and normal—he led me down a long hallway and into the cafeteria. Before I could fully comprehend what he was telling me, he said that each morning I would wheel the aforementioned cart into the cafeteria, teach art in there, and then scoot out prior to the beginning of lunch. It was, in short, “art on a cart.” In a flash he was gone—perhaps in an effort to thwart any second thoughts I might have in accepting this post. I recall having the impulse to run, not because of something I’d done wrong (as in the AIG email ignominy), but because of a wrong that was about to be done to me.
[Not the actual scene of my art-ventures, but a close enough representation, except that my venue had poorer lighting.]
Reader, to say that I did not thrive under such circumstances would be an appalling understatement. You see, I am an orderly person. Some might say I am an obsessively neat person. Some may say anal retentive. Some may refuse to mince words and insist that I am an incurable fussypants. But yes—I like a clean environment in which to live and work. Filth gives me the sweats; askew piles give me hives. When I have work or grading to do, I would much rather do it right away than have it sit on my desk, looming as items on a “to do” list in my head, or sometimes, written down. When I watch “Monk” on USA, I am not only amused by him; I understand him. I feel what makes him tick.
So: wheeling an unstable cart filled with utterly disorganized art materials into a cafeteria each morning, then having middle schoolers create art—under my tutelage!—and then having to clean it up and load up the cart and swing it back down the hall and into the closet…too much.
I soon learned that even under ideal circumstances, I was not cut out to teach middle schoolers. I had several sections of rammy (and unimaginably tiny!) sixth graders; a section of utterly delinquent seventh graders; and a couple of classes of eighth graders who were, by and large, really quite nice. Among the class notes I took as I tried to manage this three-ring circus:
“Sydney and Nicholas have a penchant for hoarding colored pencils.”
“Note: come up with projects that do not involve paint or excessive messes.”
“Dwayne sent to ISS at beginning of period for hitting other students, trying to vandalize pencil sharpener, belligerence, throwing book and pencils. … I can scarcely overstate the level of misbehavior in this class.”
The first project I undertook with my sixth grade students was to have them use 11x14 oak tag paper and acrylic paints to produce “fishy color wheels.” I handed out paintbrushes and paints; Styrofoam plates on which students could mix colors; small dishes to wash out their brushes; and sheets of oak tag so that they could make color wheels that formed the body of great, rotund fishes. When they finished painting each other and the cafeteria tables (and sometimes the actual paper), they had to take their plates and dishes to the bathroom—on the other side of the cafeteria—and wash them out.
To use an intentional pun, allow me to paint a picture of the end of a typical one of these classes. Students were dismissed one table at a time to the bathrooms to begin cleanup. Other groups would scour and scrub their tables and immediate areas. I would hear bangs and shouts from the lavatories and have to dash over there to quell an inevitable disturbance. Finally the closing bell would ring and they would adjourn from my presence. In a sort of shell-shocked catatonia, I’d scan the lunch room as if surveying the destruction wrought by some unmerciful, uncontainable, and frenzied force of nature. The paint on the cafeteria tables was smeared, rather than cleaned off. The floor in the area where we held class, and leading to the bathrooms, was dotted with paint droppings of all conceivable hues.
Oh, the hues! The hues. When I recall this experience, I still shudder involuntarily when I think about the paint drippings, and the rainbow of droplets that were to be found everywhere after a class. I’m feeling a tad dizzy. Allow me to pause for a moment and visit my happy place…
Under my artless tutelage, the “fishy color wheels” were a disaster. The kids hated it, I hated them, and the janitors and cafeteria workers hated me for the mess that was left. From then on, I undertook only projects that used tidier materials—using charcoal and colored pencils to draw value scales, for example; or an overly ambitious, ill-advised (and far too abstract for sixth graders) project I called “Draw the Poem.”
The experience had a bit of a silver lining: I gained a new and profound appreciation for the work Mrs. Monsoon does each day as an art teacher. Hers is a world of constant cries for assistance, perpetually not-quite-completed projects, stained smocks, sticky hands, exploding plaster, yarn off its spool, beads spilling all over the place, paint and clay and ceramic dust and art supplies scattered hither and yon. It’s far more than I could ever cope with, and she does it with aplomb.
All in all, I learned a lot about myself and my career propensities as a result of my many jobs:
Hot dogs cooked on rollers are repugnant, as are baking, soon-to-be pretzels
The wrong song (Paula Abdul’s “Will You Marry Me?”; Montell Jordan’s “This is How We Do It”; Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On; etc.) can ruin an otherwise pleasant work experience, or intensify an unpleasant environment beyond what a reasonably sentient being can be expected to endure
Journalism is not a growth industry
I need to work with (or for) people who say amusing things like “We just can’t have people pissin’ on desks”
I should not be in a job that requires me to open boxes that might contain foreign insects (or really, insects of any kind)
I have a “problem with assholes” and in general, do not suffer fools gladly
I need a job in which I am free to write strongly-worded letters with impunity
I like things neat and orderly; chaos is contrary to every natural instinct I possess
I cannot be held to unreasonably lofty performance standards in my job
To be extremely busy is to be unhappy
Before sending an email, I need to quadruple-check the “To” field to make sure it’s not inadvertently going to someone who shouldn’t be seeing it (and I still do, every single time)
Temporary employment agencies vary widely in their dedication to finding jobs for the workers who have registered with them
Unethical ideals, sweatshop conditions, and uninvited solicitations are not business practices of which I want any part
It is more difficult than it might seem to perch atop a commode
UNION YES!
I cannot work in an environment that is dominated by foul smells or loud noises
I cannot work with or for alpha male jackasses
Middle-school-age children are far too loud, and have far too much restless and kinetic energy; I should not ever be forced to deal with them
I would not, could not, and shall not ever be an art teacher because in this job, one must exist in a state of what appears to be barely-contained pandemonium—or what my wife likes to call “controlled chaos”
And so—friends, family, colleagues—I have landed at Governor Mifflin High School, where I have taught for five years. With a few outstanding exceptions, this line of work conforms to the career prerequisites I have laid out above after watching myself bumble, loaf, shuffle, argue, flounder, protest, fritter, try, and fail (and, on rare occasions, succeed) my way through more than a decade of labor experiences.
Thank you for accompanying me on my journey…