Jamie Beckett's Open Salon Blog

60 Minutes fulfills its promise

Sun, 23 Sep 2012 23:09:10 -0400

60 Minutes is a venerable television news magazine that like its New York comedy foil, SNL, has enjoyed highs and lows over the years. They have broken ground, and stumbled badly. But tonight (Sunday) they redemmed themselves with a full episode dedicated to the Democrative and Republican presidential candidates.

For the first time in many years the interviewers were tough on both men. The questions were pointed, the answers were serious, and the follow-through was excellent. There was context to both interviews, and parity.

I was particularly struck by the final series of questions for each candidate. While their specific phrasing differed slightly, the interviewers (Scott Pelley with Obama, Steve Kroft with Romney) asked identical questions of the candidates.

This was perhaps the most balanced and thorough coverage of two opposing candidates I have seen on television, anywhere. There were no pointless polls, no pontification on the part of the interviewer, and no attempts at muck-raking or name calling. Both interviews were respectful, specific, and well worth watching.

If we could get a bit more of this sort of coverage, I would go back to watching CBS News a bit more frequently. Excellent work, CBS. Outstanding programming, 60 Minutes. You gave me hope for a real campaign, with real decisions to be made by voters on substantive issues they actually heard the candidates speak about.

I'm encouraged!

Two guys walk into a bar...

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 11:09:48 -0400

It's a classic setup to a joke. Some doofus walks up to you at a party, or at work, or taps you on the shoulder while you're waiting in line at the bank. The doofus says, "Two guys walk into a bar..."

It's not funny. It doesn't pretend to be profound, or insightful, or even interesting. It's just a setup. A starting point. Without it there's no joke. But without the punchline, there's no point to the setup.

They are two sides to the same coin. One side is not much more than window dressing. It's the other side were the real value is found - if there is in fact any value to be had.

Now, imagine you were to accept that concept, but transposed it from the world of the comic to the world of politics.

A candidate stands up in front of a crowd and says, "When I'm elected I'm going to ...."

Can they do what they're promising to do? More often than not, they can't. Whether it's the local sheriff or the president, most offices come with staggering bureacracy, a regimented method of making any changes, and a shockingly time intensive process for initiating and implementing anything that isn't status quo.

I'll take the position that it would be more encouraging if we heard candidates get up on the stump and say, "Let me tell you what I believe in." Because politics is largely about philosophy being imposed over the long haul, not a specific event or initiative that requires immediate action.

Perhaps we could be more civil with each other, if that were the case. Perhaps we would find better candidates, more genuine men and women who are motivated more by a desire to serve than a desire to be powerful.

I'm thinking that a dose of true leadership would be helpful right about now, and that goes for all people, everywhere. Given that simple change, I think it's just possible we'd have fewer doofuses in office, and more participation at the polls.

But if you don't like that line of thinking, there are these two guys who walked into a bar...

Davy Jones, Andrew Breitbart, and the Rest of Us

Fri, 2 Mar 2012 09:03:33 -0500

I suspect there were few news readers, or television viewers, who didn't experience a pang of real regret when the news broke that Davy Jones had died. With a career that spanned more than half a century, Jones was known to virtually every American and most Europeans of a certain age. He is ever-young in our imaginations, but oh so human in reality. His death comes as a small shock, and a significant wake up call. Sixty-six seems very young to boomers who are in the same age bracket and every bit as susceptible to the inevitable.

Andrew Brietbart was very nearly the polar opposite of Davy Jones. A citizen journalist on a mission, Brietbart was never considered to be cuddly, cute, or harmless. He was a man with an opinion and he wasn't the least bit afraid to walk into the lion's den to deliver his perspective, even if his take was entirely unappreciated by the audience gathered before him.

While both men died of heart related issues, Jones had to power to break the hearts or raise the spirits of his audience with a nothing more than a wink and a smile. Brietbart on the other hand was seen by a considerable number of his countrymen as not having a heart to begin with. And while I suspect nobody is cheering his death, millions who opposed his ideas feel no inner need to shed a tear at his passing either.

I've got a different perspective. Admittedly I never met either Davy Jones or Andrew Breitbart, however the media attention they garnered over the course of their lives allowed me to know both of them better than I most of the people I work with. They were open books, both of them. And they lived their lives right out in the open, embracing the attention that was showered on them. That's the story, as I see it. The conversation should not be about their deaths, it should be focused on their lives.

Davy Jones and Andrew Breitbart, lived their lives fully, openly, and with remarkable zest. The fact that they died is immaterial. You and I will die one day, too. But will we live as fully as these two did? For most of the unfortunate answer to that simple question is; probably not.

Now there is no need to get down in the dirt with the memory of either man. We don't have to battle over whether one was a truly talented enough singer to be taken seriously, or whether the other espoused views that were contrary to our own beliefs. Those arguments are subjective, largely pointless, and miss the message of their lives entirely. Davy and Andrew lived. They worked at something that mattered to them. They brought their best game every time they played. Sometimes they won, sometimes they lost, but they kept playing to the best of their ability – and they became champions in their own right as a result.

You don't have to own a single Davy Jones record, or have subscribed to Andrew Brietbarts political views to respect either man. They earned the lives they got, and they lived them bigger, louder, more colorfully, and with greater zeal than most of us get out of our best day.

Rather than bemoaning the passing of men most of us never knew personally, we would do well to adjust our own lives to emulate the level of Davy and Andrew we include in our own daily existence. Like them, we will expire one day, too. Unlike them, it's entirely likely that very few will notice when we're gone. Nor should they. Because it's what we do with our lives that defines us, not the age we've attained when our light finally blinks out.

Three Reasons E-Books Rock

Wed, 8 Jun 2011 10:06:08 -0400

Sunday was gorgeous here in central Florida. Not too hot, not too humid, it was just about right. To celebrate yet another in a long line of spectacularly wonderful days, I took the opportunity to meet a friend for lunch at our favorite local restaurant.

The restaurant is in a building that offers free WiFi. Even in the hinterlands of this sandbar to the south, free WiFi is becoming common. Just like our neighbors to the north, we're becoming an online society that can barely get through a chilled beverage without having to check a stock, read an e-mail, or look up the latest news about Anthony Weiner's dick.

It occurs to me that he should get his package its own representation. If Oprah's show was still on I'm sure it could score a guest shot. Maybe Letterman would let Weiner's wiener read a Top Ten List one night.

That's all beside the point. Forgive my transgression. I strayed from my point.

After parking my trusty motorcycle in my usual space, I sauntered in my best Floridian casual style to the doorway where air-conditioning lives. In the process, I noticed three people, a man and two women, were clustered together near a bench in the shade of the entryway. The women were older and standing. The man was younger, and seated on the bench. He held something in his hand that was clearly the topic of conversation.

It was only when I drew close that I realized these three were engaged in a vigorous discussion about books, technology, and the Kindle. The object in the man's hand was the latest and greatest version of that mighty e-reading device. He explained to the women, who were well into their 70s, that they could carry an entire library of books on this one, compact device.

They were interested.

He got up and stepped into the sunshine to show his audience that it was indeed possible to read even in direct sunlight. And he made significant points when he demonstrated how easily a reader could shop, select a title, and either purchase it, or grab a sample, right from the bench outside the restaurant.

He clearly wasn't a salesman, even though he was selling. He was just a consumer, a reader, who was truly impressed and enthused about his newest techno-toy.

Nothing sells like true enthusiasm.

The women were getting excited. They chattered like busy little birds. They asked questions. They poked at the Kindle and asked more questions. They were getting hooked.

As a writer who has two titles available for Kindle, and another in the pipeline, I found this chance encounter to be encouraging. I stumbled, entirely by accident, on three random people who were tremendously excited about, of all things, reading!

Technology has given us a new way to light the fire of imagination in kids and adults, alike.

The women I chanced upon were born in the 1940s, more or less. The man with the Kindle was roughly half their age, I would guess. Yet when I got home and began relating the events of the day to my wife, our youngest daughter announced from the safety of her bedroom down the hall, “I still want a Kindle for my birthday, you know.”

She's twelve years old, and she's suddenly placed herself on an even playing field with the adults I ran into – at least technologically, and as a reader.

There is hope for writers after all. For Kindle, Nook, and whatever else comes down the pike – reading is reading.

I'm feeling pretty good about that. Oh, and the three reasons that e-books rock; those would be the man with the Kindle, and the two women who were so taken with it.

My daughter is just a bonus point that I get to enjoy on so many different levels.

Keep reading, my OS friends. Keep reading!

Yvonne Griswold's Light Blinks Out

Sat, 28 May 2011 13:05:36 -0400

Last night, while most of us were sleeping, Yvonne Griswold's light blinked out. That momentous occurrence has shaken my family this morning. Although the event itself was entirely predictable, expected, and a very long time in coming.

Yvonne was born in 1908, before the Titanic took to the sea, before Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand's assassination launched the great war, and before electricity was common in the American home. Wyatt Earp and Mark Twain were still alive and kicking when Yvonne came into the world. Radio and movies were both true rarities during her early years. Yet she lived to see astronauts walk on the moon, Christiaan Barnard successfully transplant the first heart, and inexpensive intercontinental travel become a reality.

My wife's grandmother saw nearly the entire sweep of the 20^th Century roll by before her eyes. She noticed quite a lot of that activity, too. She had stories to tell, and she told them well.

She was in her 90s the last time she visited us. Gigi, as we called her (the nick-name stood for Great Grandma) was a world traveler. She'd been all over the U.S., traveled Europe, and even strayed as far as New Zealand on her jaunts about the planet. A side-trip from her home in Connecticut to ours in Florida was nothing but a hop, skip, and a jump for her.

We were sitting at the table after dinner one night when I asked if anyone wanted ice cream. There were the usual complaints from the adults gathered together about waistlines, cholesterol, sugar, and such – and then the question made it's way to Gigi. “Never say no to ice cream,” she said with a smirk.

The lesson was a good one. It was hard earned and well taken. Her point was simple - embrace the fleeting joys of life. When you're gathered with loved ones you rarely see, sharing time, and smiles, and memories – don't waste the opportunity by worrying about long-term issues that have little place in the moment. Have some ice cream. Share your life with your friends and family. Live.

Yvonne Griswold certainly did live. For 102 years she wrung the last bit of juice out of this life, before moving on to whatever comes next.

On the night after the ice cream incident I popped a DVD in the player that I'd found at WalMart. How this particular title got in their collection I'll never guess. But I sat the family down to watch Buster Keaton's “The General,” without much commentary.

My daughters were small then. No doubt they thought the movie was a bit odd, since the frame of the film was square, not rectangular as is the custom today – and it was black and white to boot. Even stranger was the fact that it is a silent movie. Not one word of dialogue is uttered throughout the entire feature.

Gigi had no questions, however. She sat upright on the edge of the couch, absolutely enthralled. It was obvious that she was in her tenth decade of life, stooped, wrinkled, and suffering all the maladies of age that come with putting so many miles on the frame of any machine, whether biological or mechanical. But her smile and the twinkle in her eye betrayed the subtle charms of the 18 year old girl she was when The General was a new release – as new and exciting as the cinema that was showing the film.

Gigi was in her element. Her tired old ears didn't miss a word, because there weren't any to miss. Her faded sight was still sharp enough to take in the images of Buster riding the rails, taking a beating, and rising up from mishap after mishap, as deadpan and able as ever.

She laughed out loud. Truly, deeply, and with real joy.

Yvonne Griswold died last night. I will miss her forever. But I will forever remember the simple lessons I learned from an old woman who loved my wife so much. Never say no to ice cream, and be sure to take the time to enjoy the wonders of your lifetime – even if you encounter them in the oddest places, many years after you thought they were long gone – forever.

Good night, Gigi. Good night, and God bless you.