An Open Letter to Russ Feingold

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“We can have democracy in this country, or we can have great wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can’t have both.”–Louis D. Brandeis (Helped develop Americans’ “Right to Privacy.” Legal scholars cite him and his opinions on “Free Speech.” Went after the Wall Street fat cats and the crooked bankers in his book, Other People’s Money and How They Use It back in 1914.)

Here’s another one:

“The real difference between democracy and oligarchy is poverty and wealth. Wherever men rule by reason of their wealth, whether they be few of many, that is an oligarchy, and where the poor rule, that is democracy.” –Aristotle (Greek)

If you really want to rile a politician, call him “oligarch.” It confuses the hell out of them.

For the record: OH-lĭ-gark  n. A member of a small governing faction.

And yet we elect second-hand millionaires to represent us. We blame Washington for being “out of touch” with real America, but we never question our own decision to put them there.

Maybe we put our faith in millionaires because we hope to be like them someday, and if they know how to become millionaires, maybe if we vote for them, they’ll go to Washington D.C. and make us millionaires, too. But that never seems to happen. In fact, the opposite seems to be true.

Frankly, I think that, despite all the “American Dream” rhetoric, the millionaire die has already been cast. It’s likely that the only trickle down that you’ll see from a millionaire would be the result of the Estate Tax (I’m sorry) Death Tax.

When you and I become dead millionaires, we’ll be glad we fought against it.

Look, I know this sounds like sour grapes, but our collective memory lasted only 23 months? What are we, goldfish? 23 months of political capital? That’s it? If you told me to lose 10 pounds, I’d ask for 24 months.

I’m really proud that I participated in democracy yesterday (BTW:  I know that Americans technically live in a Republic and not a Democracy, but I’m using James Madison’s definition of “representative democracy”).

Anyway, I think we all feel a twinge of pride when we vote.

But what if that wasn’t what we were participating in? What if it was an Oligarchy? Would we be equally proud?

Thanks for being one of the good ones, Russ.

-Dylan

Costumes, Sporting Events, and That Guy

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When I saw Tom Petty last Summer, I wore a tour t-shirt from a previous tour. A friend of mine laughed at me:  “Oh my God! You were totally ‘That Guy.’”

“What guy?”

“The guy who wears a tour t-shirt to concert.”

I later ascertained that he stole that bit of wisdom from Jeremy Piven in the 1994 film, PCU:  Flunk ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

Now, maybe you agree that wearing a tour t-shirt from a previous tour to a concert by the same artist makes one “that guy,” but if your only research into the validity of your opinion is PCU:  Flunk ‘em if they can’t take a joke, well, that’s a flimsy footnote at best.

I’ll tell you what I think is weird:  People who wear t-shirts from other bands to a concert. Like someone at a Tom Petty Concert wearing a Steve Miller Band t-shirt (I’ve seen it).

What is he communicating with that t-shirt choice? Did he buy tickets to the wrong show? Is he suggesting to the rest of us that we would all be better off at a Steve Miller concert? Or is he trying to infuriate Tom Petty somehow? You know, like maybe Steve and Tom shared a girlfriend at some point, and by wearing a Steve Miller Band t-shirt, the guy’s trying to throw Tom Petty off his game.

That’s the guy I think is “that guy.”

Besides, nobody thinks you’re ”that guy” when you wear a Green Bay Packer jersey to Lambeau Field.

And especially at this time of year, Halloween, you should be very careful about wearing costumes to a sporting event. Yes, it’s Halloween and it’s a built-in excuse, but consider this:  Wearing a costume might assure that you get on national TV, but this is only cool when your team is winning.

If your team is losing, you are the depressed guy in the giant chicken costume. Is there anything more humiliating? And then, when you get on national TV, everyone at home will say:  “You think you’ve got it bad; at least you’re not “that guy.”

-Dylan

Me and Stan Freberg

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“The story of Little Blue Riding Hood is true. Only the color has been changed to prevent an investigation.” -Stan Freberg (1953)

They say that you should never meet your heroes. That’s probably because they would never live up to your expectations. Thankfully, that doesn’t pertain to portraying your heroes…at least in my case.

I learned this when I was recently cast as pioneer of radio and television, Stan Freberg as part of PBS’s aptly-named Pioneers of Television series. This particular volume (Season 2) is due to be released in January of 2011.

First of all, it was PBS, so it paid for crap; a tote bag and an Antiques Roadshow coin purse, but I would’ve done it for free. Thankfully, they didn’t ask me to.

You may not have heard of Stan Freberg, but I guarantee you’ve heard him. If you’re a fan of Mad Men, you heard Peggy and Joey performing Freberg’s “John and Marsha” from 1951, a send-up of the acting style of the day’s soap operas.

If you’re a fan of Warner Bros. cartoons, he was the voices of Tosh the Gopher, Pete Puma and Beaky Buzzard.

On radio, The Stan Freberg Show replaced Jack Benny in 1957, which featured sketches such as Elderly Man River and Puffed Grass, the latter a satirical commercial that foreshadowed Stan Freberg’s impact in the world of television and advertising.

Stan Freberg, arguably (although I don’t know who you would find to argue it), is the father of the funny commercial. Before him, television commercials were very serious, informative, and focused solely on the product. Freberg posited that a funny commercial was the way to go, with the product as a character or a simple reference. Here’s one of Freberg’s commercials for Cheerios. And another for Sunsweet Pitted Prunes, also starring his friend Ray Bradbury.

Sure, if it wasn’t Stan Freberg, I’m sure somebody would have hit upon the idea of a funny commercial, but it just so happens that he did…to the tune of 21 Clio Awards (the award for advertising).

Anyway, it seems that Stan Freberg and I share a resemblance. Judge for yourself:

And while the producers could not have known it, the similarities didn’t stop there. I won’t bore you with my résumé, but with every category therein, I owe something to Stan Freberg; my writing, my radio work, my whole sense of humor was the result of listening to those old comedy albums featuring those old radio shows.

And in January, 2011, I’ll have Stan Freberg as an acting credit.

-Dylan

97% Of You Won’t Read This

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However, I wish you would.

The preceding title is intended to be provocative; it is intended to stir you to action. It is also phrase that is often seen in Facebook status updates as in:

“God has provided this glorious day. 97% of you will NOT repost this.” 

While I’m encouraged by the first sentence, the second sentence always leaves a sour taste in my mouth. As a result, I recently responded with the following status update of my own: 

“My name is Dylan. Unfortunately, most of you WON’T repost this. By writing that, I am attempting to manipulate you by implying that if you DON’T repost this, you are like most people; in other words, ordinary. Ironically, by re-posting this, you are, in fact, joining a group that, if taken to its intended conclusion, will consist of most people. Or maybe you won’t repost this because your name isn’t Dylan.”

I thought it was funny. I mean, why on earth would anyone repost it?

Well, some people agreed that it was funny, and went so far as to repost it, despite the confusion it may create in people reading their profiles. But, based on some private responses from people whom I consider friends, some were NOT amused. For that reason, I decided to explain in a forum that wasn’t limited to 230 characters. (BTW, there’s no character limit in the “comments” section either, so feel free to express your opinion at whatever length with which you’re comfortable).

Personally, I find the phrase “97% of you will NOT repost this” and its cousin “Unfortunately, most of you WON’T repost this” to be passive-aggressive and snarky for the reasons I illustrated in my status post. In addition, it implies that I was expected to repost your sentiment, and my failure to do so indicates some sort of deficiency/laziness/insensitivity on my part. In my opinion, it employs the psychology of exclusivity (97% of you don’t get it) while at the same time manufacturing value with implied scarcity (the remaining 3% of you are cool). All with CTRL+C, CTRL+V.

That’s a long-winded, academic explanation.

Long story short, by saying:  “97% of you will NOT repost this,” you are placing me in one of those two camps which makes me, the reader, feel judged by you, the writer (or the copier and paster). I’m either with you, or I’m less than you, and there’s no need to do that.

Please know that my feeling about those two phrases is in no way intended to diminish the spirit of your status update. For the record, I, too, believe that “God has provided this glorious day.” I also believe that cancer is horrible, strong women are good, and that domestic violence is wrong.

In the spirit of compromise, may I suggest the following: 

“God has provided this glorious day. 97% of you will NOT repost this.”

Like, like, like.

I’m sorry if I hurt anybody’s feelings, and I’d like to thank the 3% of you that read this to the end.

-Dylan

You Gotta Have Faith

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So I was watching CNN this morning, and they did a segment on Faith Healing because, as you know, CNN is the world-wide leader in news.

In short, this gospel singer from Buffalo, New York (who looks strangely like Hoda Kotb from the Today Show) had been in a wheelchair for 25 years, until, one day, she was faith healed.

The scene on CNN was this woman stepping out of a big, black limo and walking up the steps to her mother’s porch. She moved slowly and a little unsteadily but, to be fair, it could have been the six-inch Stiletto heels. I mean, come on, lady. Sure, you’re healed, but to go from 25 years in a wheelchair straight to hooker shoes; that’s tough to pull off, even for God.

Perhaps a comfortable pair of orthopedic shoes or maybe a modest pump would have been more appropriate. But I guess all things are possible with God.

But then I got to thinking:  If God did this, if God healed her, you’d think God would want to make a show of it. You know, put His best foot forward (pun very much intended).

I mean, I could see her walking like this after, say, months of hard work and physical therapy; the kind of therapy that has been painstakingly developed by doctors and scientists. But if this was some sort of miracle by the hand of God, you’d think He’d go ahead and give her the Platinum Package. You know, send her bounding up those steps like a love-struck teenager.

Now, she never mentioned the nature of her paralysis, and there are some skeptics out there saying things like:  “It’s possible that she could walk the whole time, but chose not to.” I assume it’s only a matter of time until God smites these skeptics with the full force of his wrath.

I, for one, am thrilled that faith-based healing is making a comeback because, let me tell you, science is hard. You know what it takes to become a doctor these days? Who has that kind of time? Besides, given the choice between a quiet evening mapping the lateral antebrachial cutaneous nerve and Dancing with the Stars, well, it’s literally a no-brainer.

Sure, American kids are internationally ranked 21st in science and 25th in math, but they’re #1 in faith, baby.

Audrina Patridge and Tony Dovolani all the way! Sure it’s a long shot, but you gotta have faith.

-Dylan

The Drunken WHAAA?

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Yesterday, my wife and I and the rest of her family and in-laws drove to Fox Lake, Wisconsin to get family portraits taken. If you’re wondering where Fox Lake, Wisconsin is, I drove there, and I still don’t know. After trying to smile naturally for 30 minutes and at least managing a toothy grimace, the family went to a traditional Wisconsin supper club afterwards.

Across the parking lot was a bar called “The Drunken Clam,” and on it was this sign:

I’m sure you found the error on the poster and the attempt to repair it.

So many things went wrong before this sign was hung.

First, at the printer:  “Really? They really want it to say that? Well, okay.”

Then at the bar:  “Sure, it’s a mistake, but we can fix it.”

After attempting to alter it with a black Sharpie:  “Perfect.”

I think what disturbs me is that the proprietors weren’t disturbed enough to get it re-printed.

If you’re looking to attend, Fox Lake, Wisconsin is actually in Mississippi.

-Dylan

Waste is a Terrible Thing to Waste

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I did a radio bit this morning at Veolia Environmental Services. (You can listen to it here.) On radio remotes like this, I like to research the company and tailor the segment to them. Generally, you never know who is listening, but when you’re doing a remote, your audience is right there in front of you. I rationalize my pandering and glowing review of the company by knowing that the jokes are more entertaining to all present when they’re “inside.”

At any rate, Veolia is a waste management company, so for the last three days, I’ve been researching waste as defined by “the stuff we throw away.” If I didn’t have to research the topic, like you, I probably wouldn’t. I’d do any of a number of other things that my life requires. For the most part, I was trying to find facts that I could fold into jokes, but a larger, kind of macro view of society began to emerge.

It started with this recycling fact:  80% of what we throw away is recyclable, yet America’s recycling rate is 30%.

That led to the question:  Why? And the answer is simple:  Because we don’t care enough to do it. Despite what we say, if we really cared, we’d act.

Then I read this:  Recycling creates 4 times as many jobs as landfilling. Every other commercial you see or hear from now until November 2nd will feature a guy in rolled-up shirt sleeves, running for government office, crowing about the jobs his opponent lost and/or the jobs he will create. And here we, you and me, with no need for a government mandate, can create jobs simply with our behavior. We are free to do that. And yet…

Also in those campaign commercials, the guy in the rolled-up shirt sleeves will promise change because that’s exactly what we tell them we want. And yet they never do, do they? Why do you think that is?

Well, politicians are kind of like teenagers:  They’ll run off to their room and try to get away with whatever they can. They’ll do just enough to not get in trouble. They’ll turn up the music so we can’t hear what they’re really doing. Politicians are kind of the same way:  They run off to Washington D.C. and try to do whatever they want. The minute they walk into their new office, they spend most of their time and energy trying to keep it. And they’re music is the words and political platitudes that they know we want to hear. They can’t help it; it’s their nature.

Telling them we want change isn’t working and isn’t going to work. Politicians don’t listen to what we say, but they do pay attention to what we do. They also follow our dollar like cats stalking the dot from a laser pointer. What politicians truly pay attention to is where we spend our money; that all-American concept known as the Free Market.

Politicians talk about the Free Market as if it’s either good or bad; capitalism at it purest, or the destroyer of worlds; the greatest thing since watermelon-flavored heroin or the worst thing since, well, watermelon-flavored heroin.

I prefer not to judge; the Free Market is both a sword and a shield depending on who is wielding it. But, nevertheless, it has power. And the Free Market will reveal our hypocrisy with blinding light.

Nod when the guy in the rolled-up shirt sleeves says we need American jobs and then shop at a megastore featuring 500,000 square feet of stuff made in Sri-Lanka, Taiwan and Honduras? The Free Market has made its judgment before you can take out your credit card.

Want to help the environment but prefer individually wrapped chicken breasts? The Free Market will decide how you really feel.

Government is who we elect with our votes, and the Free Market is what we elect with our dollars, and make no mistake, our government will bow to the Free Market every time.

And either we use the Free Market, or the Free Market uses us. It can’t help it; that’s its nature.

There’s an awful lot of impotent rage in America today; you don’t have to look hard to see it. We feel trapped and lost and angry, and we’re looking for something to hit. The good news is we do have some power. Essentially, we can vote with our actions; with our behavior and our pocket books. And, as for an American Idol contestant, you can vote as many times as you want.

I promise, the next blog post will be funnier.

-Dylan

Happy Columbus Day!

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I’m a huge advocate of celebrating holidays in the spirit in which they were intended. Here’s how I celebrate Columbus Day:

I wander over to a neighbor’s house, tell him I’m lost, give him some blankets infected with small pox, offer to buy his house with a handful of driveway gravel, and, send him out to play Three Card Monte with the neighbor kids.

-Dylan

Farm Aid and the Entitlement Culture

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The 25th Anniversary Farm Aid concert was one that I was really looking forward to. I grew up on a farm in Indiana and, before that, my parents had a small hippie farm consisting of a garden and a chicken coop.

Each morning, it was my job to collect the eggs that would be eaten for breakfast and used for the day’s baked goods. On television, collecting eggs is a pastoral activity with a smiling farmer and generous chickens. My experience was far from that.

I dreaded the chicken coop because it contained the primary antagonist of my childhood; a cranky rooster that my father called Cogburn. Later, I learned that the name had something to do with John Wayne, but the wittiness was completely lost on me.

In real life, the coop doesn’t welcome the little boy who comes and harvests the babies. In real life, the poultry fights back. Each morning, in a cacophony of clucking and crowing, the hens pecked at my hands as Cogburn raked my flesh with his talons.

It was an epic rivalry; sometimes Cogburn would win. At other times, he wouldn’t win by as much.

One day, I saw my father remove Cogburn from the coop, take him to a stained stump and cut off his head with an axe. As his severed head squawked in the dirt, his body ran blindly in my direction as if in a final act of defiance, and collapsed at my feet.

We later ate my vanquished foe, and made a wish while we snapped his clavicle. Even a human child is at the top of the food chain. As such, we can use our power for good or for evil.

Farm Aid is a cause for the former.

It is the champion of the little guy; the family farmers toiling in their modest patches of soil. Let’s just say there are no Monsanto t-shirts and booths giving away Archer Daniels Midland key chains at Farm Aid.

I, too, believe in the family farm. Which is why I was so excited to attend.

My wife surprised me when she came home from work and said that, not only would we be going, but we would be watching the concert from one of Miller Park’s Luxury Suites. Poorly versed in the ways of luxury and the suites that accommodate them, I was woefully unprepared for the company I was to keep.

The demographic was late 20’s to early 40’s, men and women. I don’t know if they were wealthy or not, but I’m pretty sure that they all got cars on their 16th birthdays. Whenever the conversation came around to what I did for a living and I said “comedian,” it was like I had just told them that I was a chimpanzee. In their faces, I saw every thing from fear to amusement to pity.

Oh well, at least we got free beer. As it flowed, the tongues loosened. After earning the trust of one man, he confided in me how the stupid liberals were bringing down the country. I played along.

“Bastards,” I said.

“Right?” he said, and hit my arm a little more enthusiastically than was comfortable. “Damn Libs and their entitlements.”

“But,” I said, “The current administration has done a lot for veterans in this country.”

He eyed me suspiciously and went to get another beer.

Farm Aid was in full swing on the other side of the plexiglass, and, inside the luxury suite, the natives were skittish; nervous that a laborer had somehow infiltrated their ranks.

After the bar had been restocked a second time (3 total), the suite had the electricity of a hot fraternity party before a fight breaks out. There were a lot of sleepy, bloodshot eyes, raspy throats and bro hugs that were more about status than affection. The women were making their spine-shattering, interminable “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO’s” with greater frequency.

Tavis Smiley introduced John Mellencamp, and when they pumped their fists in the air during “Pink Houses,” they created enough irony to power an entire neighborhood of pink houses for a month.

When the beer ran out, the mood got uglier. My partner from the earlier conversation said “Hey! Where’s the beer?! What kind of luxury suite is this?” And he spit on the floor.

He. Spit. On. The. Floor.

So here he was, free $100 ticket to Farm Aid, free booze and free food, private bathroom and yet somehow he had been cheated.

I guess he was right; I guess we do live in an entitlement culture.

-Dylan

Zoosk

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I need someone to explain something to me; preferably the people behind the popular Zoosk commercial.

First of all, if you’re not familiar, Zoosk is an on-line dating site. In fact, according to its website, Zoosk is the “world’s largest social dating community.” Finally, an end to anti-social dating.

But if you’ve seen the commercial, anti-social seems to be the perfect description.

Zoosk Commercial

In the main character’s fantasy, she hooks up with a hunky guy for some romance but, unfortunately, everything goes wrong. They butt heads, she kicks the candles off the dresser, his back goes out, etc.

Then, we return to reality where the main character and her friends stare, horrified, at the laptop screen. Then, with the support of her friends, she opts instead for some simpler cyber-flirting.

My question is this:  Were her friends present in her fantasy? And how did she manage to bring them with her? Was having her friends act as voyeurs a part of her fantasy? Or did Zoosk provide a video of her hypothetical, sexual exploits? And if that’s the case, is Zoosk some kind of god?

Just wondering.

-Dylan