Have you ever noticed that under the section “acknowledgments,” a novelist sometimes gives a long list of people who have evaluated and revised his manuscript—anyone from a family member to a board of editors? What gives? Why can’t a writer edit his own work? Take, for example, the last book I read, Advocate’s Devil , by the renowned lawyer Alan Dershowitz. He credits “family members, friends, and associates” in refashioning the final copy of his novel: “early drafts were read and critiqued—I mean really critiqued—by family members, especially by Carolyn, Elon, Jamin, Tully, Marilyn, Adam, Rana, Claire, Hedgy, Dutch, Mortie, Marvin, and Julie. {Why not Mork and Mindy as well?} Later drafts were read and improved upon by Mitch Kapour, Alex McDonald, Justin, Ken, and Jerry Sweeder, Jim Hamilton, Michael Schneider, Sue Levkof, Alan Stone, and Jerrold Rapaport. {Some more stowaways} Much appreciation for editorial assistance by Sandy Gelies-Cole, Larry Kirschbaum, Sona Vogel, and my agent Helen Rees.” Does it take a village to raise a novelist?

The Curse of Baking Soda

Wow! What a revelation! You just happened to wake up one day and realize that President Obama was the anti-Christ, or, as you earlier called him, the Marxist Messiah? The Age of Enlightenment Founding Fathers would have cringed at this miscegenation between politics and religion. You and your alarmist cronies are looney tunes gone wild
 

I hate it when a store lures you in with a sales brochure proclaiming “15% off qualifying purchases including regular, sale, and clearance items storewide all day at Macy’s.” Of course, the key word is qualifying. If you read the fine print, look what is not included: “everyday values, specials, super buys; designer shoes, handbags, and sportswear; cosmetics; fragrances, watches; all electrics and electronics; furniture; mattresses and area rugs; flatware.” And then, we are given a list of over 30 clothing brands that are also excluded. What the h*e*l*l is left to buy that is 15% off?

Father Dictate wants to run everything, but Grandpa Potentate also wants to be the boss. Uncle Rotate can't stand things the way they are. Sister Agitate stirs up plenty of trouble, with the help of her husband, Irritate. When something new is offered, Aunt Hesitate and her son, Vegetate, want to postpone it for a year. Cousin Imitate wants to be like everyone else. Her sister, Devastate, provides the voice of doom. Thank God for the steady hands of Brother Facilitate, Cousin Mediate, and Auntie Cogitate. Oh, I forgot to mention the black sheep of the family, Uncle Amputate, who has completely cut himself off from all of us.

My 2001Toyota Corolla is chronically flawed. Small parts of the engine break off and get caught in various filters. That build up causes the car to stall when it goes under 10 miles per hour—unless you can drive with one foot on the brake and the other foot on the pedal, a feat that eludes me.  When the car starts to choke, sputter, wheeze, and violently gasp for breath, I can’t focus on the road—I become traumatized, fearing to maneuver either into or out of traffic. I am so afraid of having an accident in heavily congested Honolulu that I no longer drive my car. My wife, who has had lots of experience taming recalcitrant farm vehicles, masterfully coaxes the Toyota back into life when it begins its death rattle. So she exclusively drives the car, and I have gotten used to being in the passenger seat.  Except for one thing: her antics on the road terrify me. Whenever my wife senses that I am getting too comfortable, she rapidly accelerates, whether we are confronting menacing potholes on a side street or dodging cars on the free-for-all interstate. But her most unnerving exploit is to speed up when we are approaching a red light. So far, we haven’t had an accident—although at times, I felt like I was going to have an accident in my pants. I wish the Toyota would self-destruct so I could get a different car—any other car would do, as long as it was drivable.  But my wife has a perverse fondness for our old geezer, so there is no adjudicating the matter: I simply need to trust my wife’s instincts. And there is a silver lining. When we get back to North Carolina, I do most of the driving while my wife rests and even sleeps—what trust that is! I have little sense of direction, and I have poor depth perception at night. If my wife can have so much faith in me at the wheel—clueless that I am—I  need to have faith in her ability to steer clear of calamity on the road.

What’s a day in Paradise (Hawaii) without some minor mishaps? Twice last week, I had trouble entering my condo. The first time, the key wouldn’t go in all the way. Then I looked up and saw 2209. Ah, no wonder! My condo is 2207. Another time (the next day), I couldn’t slide my key into the hole at all. Again, I looked up and saw that I was trying to get into room 2205. My luck wasn’t much better in the elevator. I wanted to go up to the 29^th floor recreation deck, so I pressed the button and nothing happened. I pressed and pressed again—still no movement. The button didn’t even light up. Finally, I figured it out. I was hitting the 22^nd floor button. If you press on the button for the floor you are on, you get nowhere. How about that! But the most painful—literally—miscue occurred while I was walking with my wife to the fitness center. I usually walk behind my wife because she frequently veers off course; it’s easier to follow her if I can see where she is going in advance. Yet last week one day, I decided to walk right next to her—no matter what.  Bad move. Just as I was feeling so good about keeping up with my wife, even if she erratically changed course, I got blindsided by a hydrant that smashed into my kneecap. I learned my lesson. I stayed behind my wife as normal, hobbling and humbled. I will continue to keep a slight distance behind my wife: it may not be too romantic, but it’s a lot safer that way.

Numerous essays and books have been written about the Baby Boomers ushering in the Age of Excess at the end of the 20^th century. Recently, I heard a remark that epitomizes—without judging—the Baby Boomer mentality. My wife and I had bought more furnishings than we needed for refurbishing our Waikiki condos. I was designated—as always—to return the extra stuff. When I got into the elevator on route to the parking garage, I saw a woman (probably in her 50’s) who asked me what I was doing. After I told her, she looked at me knowingly and said, “That’s the way we are.” How succinct—how true!

My wife and I frequently drive to a beach park near Waikiki. Parking is free, but if you stay any later than 10 p.m., the police will impound your car. We have always left the park no later than dusk. But Saturday was an expensive exception. Our usually reliable car would not start—no matter how much we first coaxed and then cursed it. It was getting dark, but I could still see enough to check under the hood. The battery cables looked secure enough, and there was no corrosion anywhere. Inside the car, the AC and the lights were working, so I figured that the battery itself was operable: the problem must have been elsewhere, some electrical foul up. Although it was unlikely any repair shops would be open after 5 p.m., at least we could call a 24-hour towing service if we had a phone book in the car. Trouble was, a couple of days earlier, we transferred the phone books to our condo. Instead of trying to find someone who had access to a phone book—the parking lot was pretty deserted—we called a cab, waited for it for a half hour, and eventually got back to the condo by 6 p.m., thirty dollars poorer. Our next move was to ask a friend in our condo building if we could drive his car back to the beach park once we got hold of a towing company. He said sure and added that there was still time to get our car fixed at a service station that stayed open until 8 p.m., and that repair shop had a reliable tow truck operator on hand. Oh, what a blessing if we could get our car repaired that night. Otherwise, we would have to wait at least until Monday: spending almost two full days cloistered in our 350 ft. studio didn’t appeal either to me or my wife. Such close quarters could begin to erode and even unravel even the best relationships. We desperately made some calls and left a message for the tower. By 6:30, he hadn’t called back, so we phoned another company that said it would send a tow truck right away to retrieve our car and bring it to the service station that we had originally contacted.  Driving very cautiously in our friend’s upscale car, we made it to the beach park before the tow truck arrived. It was now 7:00 p.m. We could still get our car fixed before 8:00 p.m., as long as help came soon.  And of course, there was still plenty of time before the ominous 10:00 p.m. deadline. Well, by 7:45 p.m., the tow truck still hadn’t arrived. So much for getting the car fixed over the weekend. It looked like my wife and I were going to have a lot of time to get to know (and perhaps claw at) one another up close and personal. Just as we stopped fretting, the tower came.  Right off, he opened the hood and grinned. Didn’t I see that there was a space between one cable and the battery terminal? He tightened the connection, and the car started up instantaneously. I felt stupid that I had not scrupulously inspected the battery connections earlier, but at least we would save some money on towing. Not quite. The bill for his driving to the beach park and using a wrench for half a minute cost us $130. I fumed for a while, but it could have been worse:  we got our car out of the lot by 10:00 p.m., avoiding a much higher bill. And my wife and I would not be banished to be confines of our condo, where we’d be bumping into each other so much that an unpleasant word might escape from our lips as we bruised our hips while trying to negotiate a turn.

The White House barrage against Fox News is futile, if not counterproductive. I bet that the Fox Newsies just love the attention they are getting—a wet dream come true if you are a true-blue, guttersnipe right-wing nest of vipers.

Intellectuals at Fox News? You must be kidding. I can think of more appropriate labels: yahoos, troglodytes, or Neanderthals. The Fox gang are intellectually impoverished rabble rousers and dumb and dumber demagogues.

Fox’s high ratings indicate that the public is fascinated by showmanship and brinkmanship more than fact finding and low-key but solidly reasoned opinions.