Smart is sexy, Dumb is just dangerous

It is a topic I have successfully and purposefully avoided. But now that former Alaska Governor and defeated Vice-President contender, Sarah Palin, has compared herself to Shakespeare, I have no choice, and must enter into this dreadful fray.

Not surprisingly, my inbox has been flooded with requests for my thoughts on and possible explanations for (is any possible?) for the cultural phenomenon that is ShakesPalin.

I only dare to throw caution to the wind, as I take comfort in the fact that were the She-Wolf in Moose’s Clothing (or any members of her virtual and frightful army) ever to come across my discourse, she/they would flounder at the word “phenomenon”, give up on the reading and move on to something else.

Needless to say, Sarah Palin and her followers frighten me. I am frightened by their zeal, their anger and their popularity. I am enraged by her arrogance and her glibness and her ‘holier-than-thou, cos I’m dumber-than-thou’ attitude.

Ignorance is not bliss, it’s dangerous.

I will not waste time here chronicling the minutiae of Palin’s gaffes, shortcomings and nasty tactics. No cautionary tales of how powerful, successful and perilous a “simple, folksy, home-spun, person of the people” can become. History is glaringly full of examples: Hitler, Mussolini, etc.

“Why do Americans love her so?”

This is a question with which I am repeated faced. The answer is, I think, neither straightforward nor simple. Another question that arises is: “Could Sarah Palin become President one day?” To that, and my heart withers at the thought of it, there is a simple reply: “Yes, she could.”

There seems to be an enduring appeal to some sectors of the American society for leaders who would make “good drinking (bingo/hunting/poker/what you will) buddies” or “coffee companions”.

“I like George Bush because he talks like me. He’s just an average guy like me,” these words were uttered by the father of a close friend of mine. He was, and still is, a wonderfully simple, decent, and caring man. A man whom I respect, and a man I respect far more than I ever could W.

Herein, as Shakespeare put it, lies the rub.

Simplicity.

In world that seems to be spinning out of control with endless war, debt, duplicity, crises and crashes, people long for simplicity. Directness. Fairness.

Palin and Co have seized upon this opportunity, and shaped the debate in their own image, and in their favour by drawing battling lines in the sand between the “Crafty, smarty-pants Elitists” vs. the “Down-to-Earth Dumbkins.” The message is, quite simply: “You can trust us, we’re as stupid as you!”

Sarah Palin wears her ignorance like a badge of honour. She’s proud of the fact that she doesn’t have wall full of degrees and certificates, she’s just a mom with a gun. Well, frankly, I feel that qualifies her to be just that: a mom with a gun.

This how we have lost our way, and before the General Election here, I feared Britain was headed in the same direction. The “everybody’s winner, because there are no losers” ethos. The “You-can-do-whatever-you-want-as-long-as-you’re-sassy-enough!” principle.

I blame Paris Hilton.

Success is not an equal opportunity, reality TV show; it must be earned. The American country singer Reba McEntire once put it beautifully: “Success is 10% talent, and 90% hard work.”

I believe this maxim to be true, and one that can be adapted for the leadership realm. A successful leader should be 10% personality/charisma, and 90% ‘hard work’ (i.e., knowledge, intelligence, skill, education, preparation, experience, etc.)

The bottom line for me is that I don’t want ‘the bloke next door’ to rule the world. (No offence to my wonderful neighbours!) I think world leaders are and should be special people. Ordinary people, yes, but ones with extraordinary gifts to match their extraordinary mission.

They should be well read. Full stop (Period). They should be educated. Education has become a dirty word thanks to Palin and Co. The ShakesPalin routinely and ruefully disdains the antics of “East coast college graduates.” However, education is about much more than if, and where, one went to school.

One of our most inspired and inspiring Presidents, Abraham Lincoln, was largely self-taught. I was staggered to find that this great man had only received about 18 months of formal education, but he was an avid and lifelong reader. He pushed himself to read any and all that he could.

The works of Shakespeare were a firm Lincoln favourite, as were the treatises of ancient and modern philosophers. The man was an incredible thinker, as well as a remarkable and eloquent do-er.

Potential leaders should be well informed. Having and regularly using a passport would also be a bonus. At the very least they should know the difference between countries and continents.

They should be able to communicate effectively, with grace and decorum across a spectrum of society --and without the need to make up their own words.

Imagine Sarah Palin meeting the Dalai Lama.

After quizzing her minders, “Hey, who’s that dude in the sheet? Is he going to jihad me or what?” Without skipping a beat, she would no doubt burst into song: “Well, Hello Dalai!”

And the folks back home would just love it: “Oh, that Sarah, what a character!”

I recall a recent news clip wherein the BBC interviewed some of Palin’s supporters outside one of her book signings. “I just love her!” a woman squealed into the camera.

When asked which of Palin’s policies she found most significant, the woman paused, stared about her wildly, then turned to her fellow Palinites and pleaded: “Y’all are gonna to have to help me with that one, I don’t know!”

Like leader, like follower.

I long for the days when “character” actually meant something. When a leader was someone you admired, looked up to, and even revered in some way -- even if you disagreed with his/her principles and policies.

The Roosevelts. Churchill. Gandhi. Kennedy. Golda Meir. Mrs. Thatcher. The list could go on and on.

I rarely, if ever, agreed with former President George H. W. Bush (Bush 1.0) in terms of politics and policy, but the man was undeniably a statesman, a scholar and a gentleman.

I recall seeing him in an interview wherein he was asked to name writers/commentators whom he enjoyed reading. Of course he listed several Republican/conservative stalwarts, but he also added, with a smile, “Lightening may strike me, but I really enjoy Maureen Dowd. She’s an excellent writer.”

Maureen Dowd, a featured New York Times columnist (and a hero of mine) was the bane of Bush 1.0’s existence. She dogged his steps at every turn, filling pages and pages with adroitly woven and beautifully written critical analyses.

What a wonder, that the former President not only read her work, but appreciated her skill and ability, even as she used them to criticise him.

By contrast, Sarah Palin, who is clearly unable (she would say ‘inable’) to read in the first instance, would merely have made minced-meat of such as adversary, by calling into question their patriotism and morals. She would then swiftly and dexterously lead the charge in an attack against “the East coast, liberal, elitist, feminist media that has tore this place apart!” [Sic]

And indeed, all very sick.

'The New York Times' is having a Bake Sale

Yesterday, I finally felt like a writer.

Although I’m the author of three works of scholarly non-fiction – for which I occasionally receive royalty cheques/checks in sums that might possibly allow me to purchase a book of postage stamps. (Well, that it is until Royal Mail puts up stamp prices next week!)

I am always somewhat dim-wittedly surprised when these cheques arrive in the post. I open the letters, and say aloud, almost yawning, “Oh, yeah. I wrote that.” 

My nonplussed attitude stems from the fact that these three tomes, although sources of great pride, have -- due to their status as scholarly works (and their exorbitant price-tags) – remained largely unread and unknown.

In fact, it is quite soul-destroying whenever I walk through the Bookstalls in The Courtyard Theatre at the Royal Shakespeare Company and NEVER, EVER see a copy of my book, Studio Shakespeare on their shelves.

My book is the definite history of the RSC’s studio theatre, The Other Place, and biography of its first artist director, Mary Ann “Buzz” Goodbody. I had the honour of being distinguished as the “Buzz Goodbody scholar,” at a memorial event for her in 2006; where I shared the stage on a panel with Patrick Stewart.

I toiled for eight years to produce that work, to commemorate that place and time in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s history. I am told, whenever I pursue the topic with them, that everyone in the Company admires the work, thinks it’s great and invaluable, &etc. – it is their history after all – but regrettably, the book is too expensive for them to keep in stock.

Sad, isn’t it, how things always seem to come down to money at the end of the day?

So, the way I have chosen to cope is to just try and forget about it, and to remain indifferent when it appears that another copy has actually been sold, somewhere in the world.

What a different feeling then, to be a “Columnist” with a regular column in a magazine that people actually read!

And yesterday, said-magazine hosted a fabulous spring luncheon at the Alveston Manor in Stratford-upon-Avon, to celebrate its on-going success, and congratulate its staff and contributors.

When I received my invitation, I danced about the house with glee. I was more excited receiving the invite to the magazine’s posh lunch, than I was about receiving my pay slip!

I jumped into the car, and rushed over to Warwick to see my friend Ella at her fantastic vintage shop, Corina Corina to find something fabulous to wear. Ella kitted me out with a splendid pair of delicious Dolce & Gabana knickerbockers.  (A steal at £55.00)  They made me feel every inch a diva!

I sauntered into yesterday’s lunch feeling fabulous, but also more than a little bit nervous, as I feared I wouldn’t know anyone. I needn’t have worried, as I soon felt right at home, when our wonderful, wonderful Editorix-in-Chief, Jane Sullivan made a beeline to me, to say ‘hello’. (She’s mega.)

Everyone was very enthusiastic about my column; at one point the Publications Director grabbed the forth-coming April issue, and through pales of laughter, started reading out bits of my column to others around the table.

Needless to say, I was flattered beyond belief!

There is a book (on our newly assembled IKEA bookshelves) by George Orwell called “Why I Write”.  I bought that book for the title, and the way it prompted me to contemplate why I write. People write for lots of reasons: for profit, for pleasure, for fame, for fun, and so on.

I will say it was such a great, great pleasure to witness people actively enjoying something that I’d written. Quite a wonderful feeling.

I left that lunch walking on air. As I drove home on the windy road through the tiny hamlet of Loxley, I thought about the funny journey I have had as a writer.  I was giddy, and despite the light splattering of rain, I lowered the windows of the car, and shouted ‘Helllooooo, hellooo!’ to the sheep grazing, not so peacefully, in the lush, green fields beside the road.

I laughed at myself. And recalled an episode from my high school (secondary school) journalism days. I was a staff writer for the school paper, and every year we were given the chance to apply for the various leading, editorial posts on the paper. For years, I’d coveted being Features Editor.

Our newspaper teacher, Mrs. M., was a stickler for precision and organization, she was hard to please to say the least.  The day before she was to make her final decision for editorial posts for the coming year, she scheduled a fundraising “Bake Sale” for the paper. We were all meant to contribute to sale and put in the time selling the edible wares.

Every girl knew this was the last chance to shine before Mrs. M. – to show your undying commitment and dedication to the paper and its survival.

Alas, dear Reader, I am sure you have already guessed my predicament: I forgot. I arrived at school blithely, and brownie-less, as if it were any other day. I was devastated.

My best friend, Noël, found me beside myself in tears, in the restroom.  “C’mon Al,” she cajoled. “I can’t believe you’re seriously upset over the fact that you forgot a stupid bake sale.”

“You don’t understand,” I cried. “I want to be a writer, and I’ve just blown my chances with Mrs. M., I’ll never be more than a staff writer now.”

“Look,” Noël said defiantly. “If she doesn’t pick you for Features editor because you didn’t stay up all night making chocolate chip cookies, than she’s crazy. What’s that got to do with writing anyway? Oh, yeah, I can just see it now, ‘The New York Times is having a Bake Sale.’”

That conversation cheered me immensely, and I still laugh heartily when I think on it now. In the end, I wasn’t selected for Features Editor (absence of brownies aside, it was most likely because I’ve never met a comma that I didn’t like).

However, my ever-defiant friend set me to a task that pushed my writing far more than that editorial position ever would have. Daring me to ‘just write,’ Noël set us both to the challenge of writing a daily short story. 

We’d meet at our lockers, blurry eyed, at 7:55 AM and exchange massive, handwritten bundles.  “You’re going love this one, I was up till 3 AM writing it!” Noël said, shouting back at me, over her shoulder, from the midst of a sea of navy-blue uniforms, as the bell for homeroom rang…

Brilliant, wonderful, writer-ly times.

 

 

 

  

Tomato, To-mah-to

Apparently, the entire world is having problems with tomatoes this year. It is selfish and pathetic, but all I can say is, thank God it's not just me! I was beginning to seriously doubt myself, and had started to have sleepless nights, and vexing, vegetable-centred, bad dreams...

Until I came across this article in The New York Times: "For Tomatoes, Green is the New Red" (28 August 2009).

So, I can with pride share a picture of my beautifully under-ripe gems in all their green glory...

So, The D.E.B. and I tried our hand at a bit of "Grow Your Own" and we are only now seeing the fruits of our labours. (Pun intended.) 

At last...one, single red tomato...

We spent our Bank Holiday afternoon yesterday celebrating our one, bright, red tomato! And did a pre-autumn tidy up of the garden, and planted some winter pansies in pots and our window boxes. We have had more success with our flowers this year than our veg. But, of course there is always next year.

Autumn pansies for a bit of colour this Winter

Lucy overseeing the garden tidy up

 "Pansies, that's for thoughts." - Ophelia

"We all love the Sexist Alpha Male"?

“Be honest: we all love the sexist alpha male.” – India Knight, Sunday Times, 28 Sept 2008

Finding myself newspaper-less in Barford, (I used to get The New York Times delivered to my apartment every weekend…sniff, sniff.)  I started flirting with The Times (same name, different paper). In it I discovered a very intriguing weekly column by India Knight. 

Interesting...

Far be it from me to deny anyone the right to have their opinion; and be it even farther from me to agree with one such as this. Oh, India, India, India. How wrong you are!

There is no way that India Knight has formed her conclusions based on personal experience. If she were, surely, her brutish Alpha Male would have her chained so tightly to her cooker, it would be impossible for her to produce her engaging weekly column. 

No, India must be dreaming. Fantasizing about someone dragging you by hair into a cave is one thing – living with a Caveman is quite another. Take from me, India, love in “Neanderthal Land” is not all that it is cracked up to be!

Reading this piece, I began to wonder how my opinion could differ so markedly from India’s. We are roughly the same age, have similar education and life backgrounds (Thank you, Wikipedia – how did we live before Google?), so we are generationally, educationally and socially similar. 

Could this be yet another US-UK cultural difference? Quite possibly. I don’t mean to suggest that the US holds exclusive rights on the Neanderthal man – certainly bone-headed oafs come in all national varieties.  What I mean is, well, the grass is always greener, and we often hold in disdain things with which we are most familiar.

An example. My junior year of college, I had an English friend, Meggie, who grew up in what she described as a “very English” household. Every morning, her father would get up, and make cups of tea for everyone: Meggie, her brother, her mum and himself. 

He would then take tea to each person’s room, and leave it for them on their bedside table. What a lovely way to start the day! I was so fascinated by this ritual. So tender, loving and domestic. 

Then, I will never forget, I spent the weekend at Meggie’s parents’ house. Early each morning there was a light knock on my door, and after I answered, Meg’s dad came in, and brought me a cup of tea. He placed it gently on my bedside table and whispered softly, “Good morning.” 

What’s not to love about that?! That was a pivotal moment for me. I have no doubt that that experience shaped my attitude about men, and Englishmen in particular, and although I had no intentions towards Meg’s dad (!!!) I knew that he was the kind of man I wanted to eventually find.

By contrast, though she loved him dearly, Meg viewed her father, and men like him, as “wet,” and avoided them like the plague. She preferred what she called “the rough, tough, silent types,” and thus began her countless tales of “love-'em-and-leave-'em” woe. Maybe it’s a matter of what you are used to, what you grow up with, &etc.

“Mister Rogers." That is where my love of the Beta Male began. (PBS has a lot to answer for.) He was neat, caring, tidy (always took off his outdoor shoes, hung his coat up neatly on the hook, and put on a fresh cashmere sweater/jumper every time he came into the house). 

He shared. He was loving, and personified gentleness: “Won’t you be my neighbo(u)r?” Brainwashed at the age of 5. Mister Rogers and cashmere. My life would never be the same.

After years in the wilderness, I have finally found this sort of man in real life, and now that I have, I could never, ever be without him! 

But, it is more than the fact that he wakes me each and every morning with a kiss, and a cup of tea on my bedside table. Or, that he brings me flowers when I’m feeling “poorly” or ‘just because’; or, that he still thinks I’m sexy, even when I’m wearing Vick’s Vapor Rub instead of Victoria’s Secret; or, that he confidently wears pastel colo(u)rs and makes them look masculine (and hot); or, that he cuddles me, as I cry during the sappy part of the chick flick I’ve chosen for us to watch; or, he when I knows that I have waited until the very last possible minute to meet a project deadline, he rushes home from work, cooks dinner, walks the dog, and does the washing-up, so I can type my way through the night – it is all these things, and more. Much more.

No, India, no! We shall honor and celebrate the Beta Male! That sterling gentleman, with his heart of solid gold. We shall crown him King, and revere him as our lord and master! And I know I am not alone in thinking this way. I’m not the only woman out here who spent a better part of the 1990s with Ralph Tresvant’s “Sensitivity” on continual play loop, as I cried into my beer, doubting that my Prince Charming would ever come along.

Poor India, you have no idea what you are missing! Incredible passion comes from great sensitivity. The Beta Male, that you coldly dismiss as a dear soul who quote, “sympathises when you have period cramps and offers to make you a nice cup of camomile,” but, whom you’d overlook “when picking a boyfriend rather than a friend,” in favo(u)r of a more primitive primate, has so much more to offer. 

And besides, a nice cup of c(h)amomile is just thing one needs -- after one has been playfully dragged into a very tidy cave.