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MuseLetter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Nov. 2004-2018
Remainder of the site under reconstruction
Quote of the Month
Word of the Month
nugatory
nu·ga·to·ry | \ ˈnü-gə-ˌtȯr-ē , ˈnyü- \
adjective
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Trivial, trifling or of little importance. quotations
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Ineffective, invalid or futile. quotations
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(law) Having no force, inoperative, ineffectual.
Used in a sentence
As defined or imagined, purgatory is a nugatory place.
Answering to a Higher Power
The cell phone. A misnomer if ever there was. Far beyond serving us in that basic function, it has long since become our master. It is a higher power to which we supplicate.
More accurately defined, it is a mobile operating system. Or as labeled by Apple in self-promoting shorthand, an iOS. And through the 1st Quarter of this year, the iPhone, in its 14th iteration, accounts for 55% of the “smart phone” market. The 15th version is scheduled to arrive in the Fall. I think the lines are already forming outside the Apple store on 59th and Fifth. But I’ve given up “cult buying,” with its blatant built-in obsolescence. I shun Apple the way others shun a vaccination or a mask.
In my case, horrors, I have a mere Samsung Galaxy. Which has half as many users as iPhone. But whatever the device, there is hardly an aspect of our daily lives which isn’t governed by them. That’s hardly news. Faces perpetually buried in phones has become a cliché. But now with the QR (Quick Response) code becoming ubiquitous, the utility of these mobile operating systems, like the universe, keeps expanding.
A QR, of course, is that little square abstraction that keeps popping up wherever we turn. If blown up to canvas size, could hold its own in any museum alongside the masters.
Imagining the code at maximum capacity, well, then we’re talking Jackson Pollack territory.
(Inventor of QR, 1994)
Going to a Yankee game, I now have to show my “ticket” in QR code. No more paper tickets, or what I still affectionally call hard copy, are allowed. (Except at the box office on the premises, by which time all the good seats have been sold).
I find this whole process stressful. I’ve had trouble at times accessing my ticket quickly at the gate. Where is it? Did I absent-mindedly delete it? Or is the phone deleting me? And if there’s a problem, how do I get a real live person to resolve it? From an outfit called Stub Hub? Who, with a Mafia-like business model (anofferyoucantrefuse.com?), has moved in to take a healthy cut of any form of entertainment, for anything, anywhere, any time.
Yes, I know, blame it on aging. But it’s not as if I’m a Luddite. I mean, I do get Netflix. (Even looking into Hulu. A name taken by an American company from the Mandarin Chinese dialect for some reason).
The phone was also needed to access info, when I went for my vaccine shots. There was that little QR square again, glaring at me from a screen. And didn’t allow me to scan it. Which I learn, could only be accessed by an iPhone! What? Luckily the humanoids working at this center were able to work around my irresponsibility in having the wrong phone, or I might not have gotten the shots at that time. I could have become another Covid statistic.
Soon we’ll be using our phones here in New York to access the subway. An underground experience akin to Dante’s Inferno, to begin with. And now, increasingly, this device even infringes on dining out. Restaurants are are thrilled with themselves for providing their menu by way of a QR code. Which sits like an oracle in plexiglass, as though it has a rightful place at “my” table.
Of course, I can never seem to scan it in on a first or second try (“You’re holding it too close”). At which point, I’ll ask for a “real menu.” And I just know that the waiter or waitress or wait person (younger than a house plant), must be rolling his, hers, (or other gender) eyes as they go in search of one. (And we really do need another pronoun, at least. What with all the complexities of self-identification these days, don’t we?).
To all of this, add the anxiety of remembering to charge the phone before leaving home. Or what if it crashes? And did you back it up?! (And how do you do that again?).
But now there’s another outlet available in the scanning game that is starting to become recognized. Which I think to be the height of absurdity. Or in this case, the six-feet depth of absurdity? You can buy headstones in cemeteries with embedded QR codes. Which links to an obituary!
To what purpose I wonder? If it’s for the benefit of family members, they don’t need to get obits of loved ones at the cemetery. And if you don’t know the deceased well enough that you have to scan them in, why are you at the gravesite in the first place? So is it for other curious
mourners and strangers, who’ve gotten bored with their own dear-
ly departed? And want to snoop around to see who else might lie in the neighborhood?
you’ve taken. The contacts, you never got around to contacting. Those
Your whole life (and death) is not in your wallet or purse. You could lose them (many have), and while a hassle… replaceable. No, existentially, we’ve have fallen into a black hole, that is our phone. Lose THAT, and there goes the 1,200 pictures
Other the other hand, a QR code on the likes of that tomb of Alexander Hamilton in the Trinity Church graveyard, could be cool. A few highlights from the Broadway musical, with special ticket offers? (Through Stub Hub of course). There really is no end to this, in a manner of speaking. And of course, even here, I’d bet you’d be asked to respond to a questionnaire on “How did we do?” To which I’d reply: “Not too well. He’s still dead!”
nifty shorthand texts (all those OMG’s!!! lost.) The apps, including games at which you were nearing your highest score (but now can never prove). What about the personal and sensitive data for your eyes only? I can’t imagine what might be lost in Jeffrey Toobin’s phone.
Yes, I’m old school. Little-red-school-house old, if you want to take it that far. But as I go through life, silly, I know, but I still get a charge out of using my five senses. Not dependent upon a virtual reality, in a world increasingly losing touch with real reality.
I think of that opening line from a Wordsworth poem:
The world is too much with us; late and soon.
I can’t help substituting The world, with The phone.
September 2021 Hiatus
Biting the Hand That Fed Me?
I was once in the advertising business. I tend to mention this from time to time. Like that time in… the first piece of this MuseLetter. So I’ve sat in some lengthy meetings where there was much anguishing and rending of garments over a single word in ad copy, or a nuance within an illustration to be used in an ad. Or something that has gone askew with the product itself. The worst possible situation. When that happens, you're askewed.
We, on one side of the table, The Client on the other. None too pleased with anything we show them. Seemingly none too pleased with life itself. Especially when in crisis mode. So I can only imagine what must be going on with all this product name changing, necessitated by now unflattering and outmoded icons, etc.
First they came for Aunt Jemima, and I did not speak out—
Because I liked pancakes.
Then they came for Uncle Ben, and I did not speak out—
Because I liked rice.
Then they came for Mrs. Butterworth, and I did not speak out—
Because I liked maple syrup.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
So I retired.
So imagine my reaction when I awoke on July 27, 2021, to this CNN headline.
Campbell’s soup cans get first redesign in 50 years
Wait a minute. Technically, that isn’t true. What about those cans of real tomato soup based on Warhol paintings and sanctioned by his estate? Albeit in limited edition? I owned a set myself.
As to where are they now? The answer lies within this tercet of nine syllables.
In the course
of divorce
things get lost.
Cup of coffee in hand, I began to read the news release.
New York (CNN Business) The labels on Campbell's soup cans are getting their first redesign in about 50 years.
Eagled-eyed customers will notice that the famed red and white design remains, but the Campbell's logo is receiving a "modernized logo scripture," which includes eliminating the shadow and a slightly changed font that is based on founder Joseph Campbell's original signature. Other changes include the word "soup" printed in a new font, along with a slanted "O" as a nod to the brand's original label from 1898. Also, the "C" from the redesigned Campbell's signature is used in the fleur de lis next to the word soup. The redesigned cans are currently rolling out to store shelves.
Earth shattering for sure. Though they make no mention of the addition, of what I suppose is a noodle, but looks more like something a gastroenterologist might come across in the midst of a colonoscopy. A visual I suppose, someone argued passionately for, to substantiate what is being claimed to be in the can. Consumers have become very questioning these days. You can't be too precise.
But here comes the kicker in pure "marketspeak."
The changes "still evokes the same sense of comfort, goodness and Americana" as its predecessor, Campbell Soup Company (CPB) said in a statement. The soup maker said it's hoping to "reimagine" the brand for a new generation of customers that are increasingly cooking at home because of the pandemic.
“Reimagine?” New generation? Who will do more home cooking now? Owing to the pandemic? And tweaking the label will somehow contribute to this lofty corporate aspiration? How’s the weather down there folks?
Gig at Governor's
From 1783 to 1966, Governor's Island was a United States Army post, serving mainly as a training ground for troops, and also as a strategic defense point during wartime. It would later serve as a major United States Coast Guard installation until 1996. It lay dormant for ten years, when in 2006, it was open to the public as a park, and for various organizations to create art installations and cultural
events. One such being the annual New York City Poetry Festival. Under the auspice
of the Italian American Writer's Association (IAWA), a perennial participant, I was one of the featured poets this year, as I had been in 2018. I read six poems around a theme of my having been born and raised "across the water" in Lower Manhattan. No one booed. And I didn't see any gapping-hole yawns. Which made my day.
finito
A Poem within Walking Distance of...The Twilight Zone
August, in particular, brings out the wistfulness in me. Another birthday looms large just up ahead, at a time often referred to pejoratively as "the dog days" of summer. What with its cotton air and often insufferable heat. Yet, I have always maintained that there is no season more transformative, nor more etched in memory than that of summer. A season of child’s play, a young person’s game, a coming of age. When was the last time you heard someone harken back to the springs or autumns of their youth? “Boy do I miss those chilly April days when we’d all go out in the rain and get soaked.” Or... “I couldn't wait for September to arrive so I could get back to school and start hitting the books again.” And who gets all misty-eyed over Groundhog Day?
Years ago I wrote a poem which tried to capture the essence of one man's summer sentiment. I've since tweaked it by taking out a few lines that seemed extemporaneous, and added an epigraph extracted from Joni Mitchell's, The Circle Game. Most apropos to the poem, though not an inspiration— unless subliminally?—for my writing
of...
As I prepared this poem for posting here, memory of a Twilight Zone episode came in on me in a rush. One I hadn't thought about in years, entitled "Walking Distance." It first aired in 1959 starring the handsome debonair (and ultimately tragic) Gig Young, a perennial supporting actor who finally won an Oscar in that category in 1970, for They Shoot Horse Don't They?
Despite having viewed "Walking Distance" maybe two or three times throughout the decades, the details in the opening narration by Rod Serling introducing Young's character, had never really sunk in till last month's viewing. It mirrors a significant part of my own life bio: "Martin Sloan, age thirty-six. Occupation: vice-president, ad agency, in charge of media." Which is the exact title and job description that I would one day come to hold. Though at age thirty-nine at that point in my career, three years older than the fictional Mr. Sloan (and nowhere near as good-looking as Gig Young). And as a sidebar, whenever an ad agency executive is portrayed in a storyline, it's never favorable (excepting, Darrin on "Bewitched"). He (never she) is always on the edge of burning out, at the very least, or being exceedingly disingenuous at the worst. "Mad Man" ran the full gamut in this regard. Anyway, in this case we're talking burnout.
While this is one of the lesser known Twilight Zone episodes—with its plot device (spoiler alert) being a form of time travel absent any fantastical sci-fi machinery—it is arguably one of the best that Rod Serling had ever written or adapted for the series. In all, he tallied 92 of the total 156 Twilight Zones that aired over the course of the program's five year run. He of course, was the unique voice in the opening and closing narrations for all episodes. Which he vocalized as if his upper lip was stuck to his top row of teeth. This is how he concludes "Walking Distance."
man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he'll smile then too, because he'll know that it is just an errant wish, some wisp of memory not too important really, some laughing ghosts that cross a man's mind, that are a part of...
Martin Sloan, age thirty-six, vice-president in charge of media. Successful in most things but not in the one effort that all men try at some time in their lives— trying to go home again. And also, like all men perhaps, they'll be an occasion, maybe a summer night sometime, when he'll look up from what he's doing and listen to the distant music of a calliope, and hear voices and the laughter of the people and the places of his past. And perhaps, across his mind they'll flit a little errant wish, that a
Here is that merry-go-round again. And as in my epigraphic reference to Joni Mitchell's song, I did not consciously use this episode for inspiration in writing my poem. But again, subliminally? And like Mitchell and Serling— dare I insert myself between two em dashes in their company—we all realize we can't return to the past. Which Carl Sandburg called "a bucket of ashes." Thanks for the upbeat sentiment Carl.
At the closing of "Walking Distance," Sloan's father tells him (which can be accessed via this uplink)... "Martin, you have to leave here. Maybe there's only one summer to a customer," which is what I surmised might be the case in the opening lines of my poem. And he concludes: "You've been looking behind you Martin. Try looking ahead." Which aligns with Joni Mitchell's lament.
And how is your summer going?
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