All right, Governor Romney, I'm going to give you some very much needed advice. It would not take you very long, Governor, to learn that I'm not in your camp. But I am an American citizen and do believe that both camps should have some standards. And I'm not writing about the negative advertising and speeches, which both sides are wallowing in. I'm talking about the way you present yourself. It's not only often embarrassing for you--and us-- it has also gotten you into unnecessary trouble.
I'm referring to your disastrous attempts to entertain. You tell jokes about as well as you can sing. The latest example of your humor falling flat is when you visited Michigan. where you and your wife were born. "No one has asked to see my birth certificate. They know that this is the place where we were born and raised," you told a crowd of supporters. This is of course a very bad joke; it is indecent to make an allusion to the racist birther movement. I might be wrong, but I don't think you meant this viciously. I think you were just trying to be witty, and, once again, failed miserably in the attempt.
Here is my advice: Please stop trying to be funny. You're not. I'm sure you cracked an occasional joke during board meetings at Bain Capital, but I'm fairly certain that those who laughed at your jokes were either trying to ingratiate themselves or, like you, had no sense of humor. Another piece of advice:: don't try to think on your feet; whenever you do, your feet take over. Going off script has gotten you into trouble; memorize what you have to say and try not to add another word.
I know what you're trying to do. You've never dealt much with regular people, that is, the poor and the middle class, and you're a bit nervous. You're trying to break the ice, as they say. Those who give business speeches and lectures often start with a joke to win over the audience. (My favorite opening joke before a lecture was given by my anatomy professor during freshman year at medical school. He was mentioning all the organs of the body, and ended with a question: why is the penis the lightest organ of the body? None of us said a word. Then came the one-liner: Because it only takes a thought to lift it! The professor recounted this with perfect timing. I shudder to think of how you, Governor Romney, would have delivered that joke.) Your jokes will not break the ice, never. Skip the humor and stick to the issues.
You'll never win over the American people by wearing those silly jeans, by laughing that silly laugh when you're asked a difficult question, or by trying to tell a joke. You have the timing of a photon, an elementary particle that doesn't experience time at all.
I have some good news for you, though. To get to the good news, I would like to briefly contrast your situation with that of two others, one of whom is my grandfather, the other one a character from a Sherwood Anderson short story. These two characters--my grandfather was indeed a character--and you share a common trait in spades: you both wish to entertain and fall flat as a map when you try.
MY GRANDFATHER
Walter Hammond was a working-class artisan who never even made it through grammar school. He did, however, have a small business which did, relative to our poor neighborhood's standards, quite well. He made lamps and objets d'art out of some often very valuable objects his largely upscale clients brought to him. I still have a beautiful decorative jade piece that he fashioned in the 1940s or early 1950s. He taught himself to play the guitar and would often participate in jam sessions with friends, during which he also sang. Nothing great, but everyone had fun. (I got my musical abilities, such as they are, from him.) He also was a bit of an egoist and thought he was a great entertainer. In fact, he thought he was so good that he was determined to get on television. His self-assurance landed him an interview for The Merv Griffin Show, a popular TV variety show at the time. Grandfather's shtick was reading verses and choruses of old songs. We had a lot of sheet music--I still have them--from the 1890s on. He would read the lyrics of his favorite songs as if they were as moving as a Shaespearean soliloquy performed by a great actor. He would practice reciting these texts before a mirror, thrilled with his own performance. I will never forget the verse of one song:
Tetrazini has a horse,
a horse that can't be beat;
Mildred Parker is a hit
because of her big feet;
but just to get one look at you
I'd swim across the Nile--
For you have something they don't have,
a million dollar smile--
Then came the chorus, which I have blisfully forgotten. (No, I did not make this up.) Gandfather had no talent, and worse, he thought he was a first-rate entertainer. His failures didn't bother him; to his way of thinking, it was the world's fault he failed, not his. I will close this section with an anecdote of one of his many aborted attempts at being a great entertainer. At a couple's fiftieth anniversary party, my grandfather walked up onto the stage and picked up the microphone. My mother, heading toward the exit in a hurry, was asked by a guest at the door, "Why are you leaving, Mabel, don't you know that your father is about to entertain us?" As she rushed out the room, my mother replied, "You'll find out why I'm leaving now!"
THE TRIMPH OF THE EGG
This is a wonderful story by Sherwood Anderson which was published in 1921. It tells the tale of a small-town failure. His son, who became--what else? a depressive writer--begins by telling the story of his father's and mother's unsucessful attempt at chicken farming. They sell the farm and move to the nearby small town and open a coffee shop. The father has taken along his collection of deformed chickens, preserved in alcohol, in the belief that showing these freaks to clients will help make his business a success. If they worked hard, they might have eked out a living, but the father had a fatal flaw: he wanted to become popular by entertaining his guests. One night, a young man was stuck at the coffee shop for three hours, because the train he was waiting for was running late. Here. at last, was the opportunity to launch his entertainment career! He tells him an incoherent story about Christopher Columbus and eggs; he tells it with the timing and entertainment skills of, well, you, Governor Romney. The customer is shown the collection of deformed chickens, which nauseates him. The narrator's father tries to make an egg stand on its end, by rubbing it with his hands, thus giving the egg "a new center of gravity." After about a half hour, he succeeds--the egg stands on its end a few seconds before tipping over. But the customer, who has understandably lost interest, wasn't looking. Now the narrator's father goes into high gear. The young man by this time thinks he is insane. The father will now make an egg slip though the neck of a bottle by heating it in vinegar, thus softening the shell. He is unable to do it, all the while talking in a manner the customer deems to be that of a madman. After an hour, an egg begins to slip though the bottle neck, but only halfway. By this time the train is about to arrive; the man gets up to leave. The father starts screaming, picks up the egg, which breaks in his hand, and throws it at the young man, just missing him as he escapes through the door. Then comes the most moving part of the story: the narrtor's father goes up to the bedroom, kneels before his wife and cries like a baby. He knows now that he will always be a failure. The egg has triumphed, not him.
I mentioned that I would have good news for you, Governor, and here it is. You are not like my grandfather was, a semi-literate working-class man with no connections to the powerful. He really wanted to entertain; the only reason you wish to entertain is your belief that it would help you satisfy your ambition to get the job of the most powerful man in the world. You are also certainly not like the poor, desperate shlepp in Anderson's story. Yours is an outstanding American success story. You obviously connect very well with your own kind, the superrich. (You do indeed have a--political--need to reach out to the rest of us; attempts to do this through humor, as you should know by now, will only make things worse.) You have no desire to entertain per se, so give it up. Once again my advice: when you think of doing stand-up, please sit down.
I will end with a postscript:: when asked by a reporter about what you meant with your birther joke, you replied, "We were having fun about us, coming home." This is neither English nor Chinese; it sounds like a little bit of both. So if you lose the election, I have another suggestion: return to vulture capitalism. Buy up several Chinatowns across the country. As you said in one of your spontaneous asides, "I love to fire people!" In order ta make the Chinese restaurants more profitable, you would undoubtedly have the opportunity to indulge this love by terminating many employees. Why not give them personalized fortune cookies in tribute to their years of grueling work? Your reply to the reporter indicates that you would make a great writer of fortune cookie messages, such as, say, "Trees and you in Michigan just right size."
You're certainly not funny, but I don't think you're a bad man. You have, however, compromized yourself far too much in order to become the nominee of what has become an extremist party. I could never vote for a man for whom people like my grandfather count for absolutely nothing. You could (and would) do worse than being a writer of fortune cookies. If that's the way you end up, I, along with millions of other ordinary Americans, would feel pleased--and relieved..
Thomas Dorsett's blogs:
thomasdorsett.blogspot.com
bachlittlepreludesandfugues.blogspot.com
dorsetttranslation.blogspot.com
I'm referring to your disastrous attempts to entertain. You tell jokes about as well as you can sing. The latest example of your humor falling flat is when you visited Michigan. where you and your wife were born. "No one has asked to see my birth certificate. They know that this is the place where we were born and raised," you told a crowd of supporters. This is of course a very bad joke; it is indecent to make an allusion to the racist birther movement. I might be wrong, but I don't think you meant this viciously. I think you were just trying to be witty, and, once again, failed miserably in the attempt.
Here is my advice: Please stop trying to be funny. You're not. I'm sure you cracked an occasional joke during board meetings at Bain Capital, but I'm fairly certain that those who laughed at your jokes were either trying to ingratiate themselves or, like you, had no sense of humor. Another piece of advice:: don't try to think on your feet; whenever you do, your feet take over. Going off script has gotten you into trouble; memorize what you have to say and try not to add another word.
I know what you're trying to do. You've never dealt much with regular people, that is, the poor and the middle class, and you're a bit nervous. You're trying to break the ice, as they say. Those who give business speeches and lectures often start with a joke to win over the audience. (My favorite opening joke before a lecture was given by my anatomy professor during freshman year at medical school. He was mentioning all the organs of the body, and ended with a question: why is the penis the lightest organ of the body? None of us said a word. Then came the one-liner: Because it only takes a thought to lift it! The professor recounted this with perfect timing. I shudder to think of how you, Governor Romney, would have delivered that joke.) Your jokes will not break the ice, never. Skip the humor and stick to the issues.
You'll never win over the American people by wearing those silly jeans, by laughing that silly laugh when you're asked a difficult question, or by trying to tell a joke. You have the timing of a photon, an elementary particle that doesn't experience time at all.
I have some good news for you, though. To get to the good news, I would like to briefly contrast your situation with that of two others, one of whom is my grandfather, the other one a character from a Sherwood Anderson short story. These two characters--my grandfather was indeed a character--and you share a common trait in spades: you both wish to entertain and fall flat as a map when you try.
MY GRANDFATHER
Walter Hammond was a working-class artisan who never even made it through grammar school. He did, however, have a small business which did, relative to our poor neighborhood's standards, quite well. He made lamps and objets d'art out of some often very valuable objects his largely upscale clients brought to him. I still have a beautiful decorative jade piece that he fashioned in the 1940s or early 1950s. He taught himself to play the guitar and would often participate in jam sessions with friends, during which he also sang. Nothing great, but everyone had fun. (I got my musical abilities, such as they are, from him.) He also was a bit of an egoist and thought he was a great entertainer. In fact, he thought he was so good that he was determined to get on television. His self-assurance landed him an interview for The Merv Griffin Show, a popular TV variety show at the time. Grandfather's shtick was reading verses and choruses of old songs. We had a lot of sheet music--I still have them--from the 1890s on. He would read the lyrics of his favorite songs as if they were as moving as a Shaespearean soliloquy performed by a great actor. He would practice reciting these texts before a mirror, thrilled with his own performance. I will never forget the verse of one song:
Tetrazini has a horse,
a horse that can't be beat;
Mildred Parker is a hit
because of her big feet;
but just to get one look at you
I'd swim across the Nile--
For you have something they don't have,
a million dollar smile--
Then came the chorus, which I have blisfully forgotten. (No, I did not make this up.) Gandfather had no talent, and worse, he thought he was a first-rate entertainer. His failures didn't bother him; to his way of thinking, it was the world's fault he failed, not his. I will close this section with an anecdote of one of his many aborted attempts at being a great entertainer. At a couple's fiftieth anniversary party, my grandfather walked up onto the stage and picked up the microphone. My mother, heading toward the exit in a hurry, was asked by a guest at the door, "Why are you leaving, Mabel, don't you know that your father is about to entertain us?" As she rushed out the room, my mother replied, "You'll find out why I'm leaving now!"
THE TRIMPH OF THE EGG
This is a wonderful story by Sherwood Anderson which was published in 1921. It tells the tale of a small-town failure. His son, who became--what else? a depressive writer--begins by telling the story of his father's and mother's unsucessful attempt at chicken farming. They sell the farm and move to the nearby small town and open a coffee shop. The father has taken along his collection of deformed chickens, preserved in alcohol, in the belief that showing these freaks to clients will help make his business a success. If they worked hard, they might have eked out a living, but the father had a fatal flaw: he wanted to become popular by entertaining his guests. One night, a young man was stuck at the coffee shop for three hours, because the train he was waiting for was running late. Here. at last, was the opportunity to launch his entertainment career! He tells him an incoherent story about Christopher Columbus and eggs; he tells it with the timing and entertainment skills of, well, you, Governor Romney. The customer is shown the collection of deformed chickens, which nauseates him. The narrator's father tries to make an egg stand on its end, by rubbing it with his hands, thus giving the egg "a new center of gravity." After about a half hour, he succeeds--the egg stands on its end a few seconds before tipping over. But the customer, who has understandably lost interest, wasn't looking. Now the narrator's father goes into high gear. The young man by this time thinks he is insane. The father will now make an egg slip though the neck of a bottle by heating it in vinegar, thus softening the shell. He is unable to do it, all the while talking in a manner the customer deems to be that of a madman. After an hour, an egg begins to slip though the bottle neck, but only halfway. By this time the train is about to arrive; the man gets up to leave. The father starts screaming, picks up the egg, which breaks in his hand, and throws it at the young man, just missing him as he escapes through the door. Then comes the most moving part of the story: the narrtor's father goes up to the bedroom, kneels before his wife and cries like a baby. He knows now that he will always be a failure. The egg has triumphed, not him.
I mentioned that I would have good news for you, Governor, and here it is. You are not like my grandfather was, a semi-literate working-class man with no connections to the powerful. He really wanted to entertain; the only reason you wish to entertain is your belief that it would help you satisfy your ambition to get the job of the most powerful man in the world. You are also certainly not like the poor, desperate shlepp in Anderson's story. Yours is an outstanding American success story. You obviously connect very well with your own kind, the superrich. (You do indeed have a--political--need to reach out to the rest of us; attempts to do this through humor, as you should know by now, will only make things worse.) You have no desire to entertain per se, so give it up. Once again my advice: when you think of doing stand-up, please sit down.
I will end with a postscript:: when asked by a reporter about what you meant with your birther joke, you replied, "We were having fun about us, coming home." This is neither English nor Chinese; it sounds like a little bit of both. So if you lose the election, I have another suggestion: return to vulture capitalism. Buy up several Chinatowns across the country. As you said in one of your spontaneous asides, "I love to fire people!" In order ta make the Chinese restaurants more profitable, you would undoubtedly have the opportunity to indulge this love by terminating many employees. Why not give them personalized fortune cookies in tribute to their years of grueling work? Your reply to the reporter indicates that you would make a great writer of fortune cookie messages, such as, say, "Trees and you in Michigan just right size."
You're certainly not funny, but I don't think you're a bad man. You have, however, compromized yourself far too much in order to become the nominee of what has become an extremist party. I could never vote for a man for whom people like my grandfather count for absolutely nothing. You could (and would) do worse than being a writer of fortune cookies. If that's the way you end up, I, along with millions of other ordinary Americans, would feel pleased--and relieved..
Thomas Dorsett's blogs:
thomasdorsett.blogspot.com
bachlittlepreludesandfugues.blogspot.com
dorsetttranslation.blogspot.com
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