David K. Farkas
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the "david_k_farkas" journal:[<< Previous 20 entries]
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11:36 pm
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Getting Published
Illicit Entry
One of my former professors was an associate of Noam Chomsky, the linguist whose work revolutionized the field. This is the story he told about Chomsky’s early career and how Syntactic Structures was published.
Chomsky, a young instructor as MIT, had become deeply discouraged because his manuscript had been rejected many times, and so when a visiting Elsevier acquisitions editor asked to see the manuscript, Chomsky told him no. But the editor had heard that this was important work and, obtaining a key to Chomsky’s office, he read the manuscript while Chomsky was in class. When Chomsky got back to his office, he learned that he had a publisher.
Mute and Inglorious
Many years ago, in the heyday of the hypertext era, my graduate student, X, handed me the manuscript of her novel. It was designed as a hypertext novel, which is why she let me see it, but it could have been published in print. It was brilliant, very unusual in conception, and laugh-out-loud funny, page after page after page. The novel is set both in Pittsburgh and Africa, where one of the main characters is accidentally betrothed to a tribal prince.
I told her: “Everything I know about literature tells me it’s superb and that a mainstream publisher would take it. If you want it published as hypertext fiction, I can definitely help with that.”
My student did not like the direction of the conversation: “But I don’t want to publish it. In fact, I want you to return the copy I gave you.” The thought passed through my head that someone who would not publish such a manuscript might also choose to destroy it.
“No. I’m hanging onto the manuscript. I believe it is my property.”
“Then I forbid you to show it to anyone.”
I have honored that demand for these many years, and the three looseleaf binders remain a troubling presence on the shelves of my campus office. X seems to have disappeared, so I can’t re-open the conversation with her.
Perhaps some “unscrupulous” person will steal the manuscript and get it to a publisher. It’s not that hard to find, and when you start reading, you’ll know in a minute how good it is.
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05:01 am
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Conservative Black ministers should remember
Conservative Black ministers who oppose Gay marriage should remember. They should remember that not too long ago most Americans opposed interracial marriage and that a referendum to integrate restaurants and hotels would have been easily defeated. When Conservative Black ministers justify their views on religious grounds, they should remember when White Christians opened their Bibles and saw in the story of Ham the justification for slavery.
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12:47 pm
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Can you solve Dave’s Double Underpants Puzzle?
Dave, a very normal 62 year old, wakes up in the morning and discovers that he is wearing TWO pair of underpants.
Did he wake up in the middle of the night and decide his butt was cold?
Extremely unlikely.
Did his wife accidentally fold one pair inside the other when she was doing the laundry?
Jean says “No way.”
After a day or so, I figured it out. Can you? The answer, once you have it, is extremely simple.
ANSWER:
1. Dave decides to take a mid-day shower and, somewhat carelessly, pulls off his trousers and underpants in one motion.
2. Dave showers, dries himself, takes a fresh pair of underpants from his bureau, and slips them on.
3. Dave then pulls on his trousers, with the original underpants still inside. There you have it: double underpants.
ADDENDUM:
My friend Paul couldn't figure out the puzzle, but at least he offered his own underwear story:
"One time, I had the opposite problem. Went to sleep in one pair and woke up with none. In that case, though, the culprit was sleeping beside me, snoring sweetly, smiling smugly."
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11:08 pm
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Growing up with the radio
WABC
When I was old enough to care about teen culture and pop music, I started listening to WABC, the big Top 40 station in New York City. This was the era of Duane Eddy, Fabian, and Frankie Avalon. I saved up my paperboy money and bought a palm-size Japanese “six transistor radio.” This was the must-have teen technology. You could walk around while listening to music.
WNJR
When I got a little older, I alternated between WABC and the Newark Soul station, WNJR. The DJs on WNJR really liked the Righteous Brothers. In fact, this was the only white music you heard on WNJR. Apparently, the station didn’t want to mislead their listeners. Each and every time they played a Righteous Brothers song, the DJ explained that the next song was by two white guys but they were playing them anyway.
WNJR also gave Malcolm X a late night talk show years before he was well known. There were no guests; he didn’t take any calls. Malcom X would just talk. And how he talked! I listened, fascinated and excited.
WWVA
Somehow I discovered WWVA, out of Wheeling, West Virginia. Back then, there was no country station in the New York metro area, and I could ony get WWVA via “skip”—in the evening if there was heavy cloud cover. And it was half music and half static.
I was fascinated by long ballad-like narratives, the rural accents, and the gritty and hard-luck lyrics that reflected ways of living I’d never seen. I especially loved the live shows on Saturday nights. This was down home stuff: “Now Ralph Jenkins is gonna play for y’all. Ralph, he just got out of prison. He been there two years and he’s had time to write some real fine songs.”
Little did I know that I’d spend five years in West Virginia and that West Virginia would sink deep into my heart and soul.
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06:51 am
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How to Sell Furniture: My Navy
When I was a young boy, my bath toy was a foot-long wooden boat. It had a black hull, a white deck, and a white pilot house trimmed in red. Emblazoned in white letters along the bow was its odd name, “The Cass.”
After many years, the wood got rotten and the pieces started coming loose, leaving exposed nails. My parents gave me the sad news. The Cass would soon be no more. I cried bitterly. I’d couldn’t remember before The Cass.
Al must have said something to one of the saw guys at Colony. I’m sure he just asked if he could put some kind of wooden boat together. But a few weeks later, Al had to make three or four trips back from his car. It was a whole navy, like no boy ever had before! Battleships, cruisers, destroyers and more, all detailed and beautifully painted in gray, white, red, and black. The gun turrets turned and everything. The guys must have gotten together and said, “You bet we’ll make something for Al’s kid.”
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05:08 am
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How to Sell Furniture: Giuseppe On the Loading Dock
The union was run by the Mafia, and Giuseppe was tight with the those guys. One day, over lunch, Al complained to Giuseppe about someone. Maybe he wished the fellow dead. In any case, his language must have been careless.
“Al, we can take care of that for you.”
“No, No, Giuseppe. Thanks, but that’s not what I meant.”
Decades after Al’s death, my mother still got a yearly Christmas card from Giuseppe. When the cards stopped, Sally knew that Giuseppe had died.
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10:10 am
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How to Sell Furniture: The Union Pension Fund
The union was controlled by the Mafia and there were definitely irregularities. Al was a director of the pension fund and discovered at one meeting that the fund had invested a significant portion of its reserves in Israeli bonds. This was the worse possible investment: the payout was low and, back then, the survival of the State of Israel was not at all certain.
Al was passionate about Israel and regularly bought Israeli bonds with his own money. But at the board meeting he protested angrily, “Our members aren’t Zionists. This is no investment for them.” Someone put his hand over Al’s. “ I understand what you’re saying, Al. I don’t disagree. But, trust me, this comes from the very top. There’s no stopping it. Don’t even think about it.”
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07:14 am
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How to Sell Furniture: Straight Commission
Al would correct you if you said that he “worked for” Colony Furniture. He was proud to be self-employed, a “straight commission” salesman. One of Al’s few vanities was his slight disdain for manufacturer’s reps who took a salary.
Because Al was neither a Colony employee nor a member of the union, he negotiated the labor contract every three years. He tried to get decent raises and workplace improvements out of Aaron. He told the union guys what was and what was not possible.
At one point Aaron offered to make Al a vice president, add a part-time salary to what he made in commissions, and put him on the company health plan. Al declined, “I sell the prime territory. That’s enough.”
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01:47 pm
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How to Sell Furniture
My father made a good living as a furniture salesman. He was a manufacturer’s rep, selling low-end bedroom sets for the Colony Furniture Company in New Jersey. When Aaron Newman hired Al just after World War II, he said, “Al, you’re never gonna leave this job. One way or another, I’ll make sure you’re making too much money to leave.” This turned out to be true, and Al visited his customers, mostly in northern New Jersey, for over 35 years.
Al did not consider the sales profession to be complicated. I’m sure he never bought a book on selling. He just showed his photographs and wood samples and told his customers honestly which pieces he thought they could sell.
Occasionally a customer would phone the house during dinner hour. Al didn’t like it, but he always took the call and talked genially. This gave us a little window into how he sold Colony Furniture:
"Yeah, Ben, I’ve heard that Winthrop makes good stuff."
"They sell it that cheap? Whaddya know."
"Well, Ben, if it’s better than Colony and it’s cheaper, you should buy from Winthop."
"Don’t feel bad, Ben. That’s just what I’d do. You’re in business to make money."
Al lost customers that way, but he’d often get the customer back six months later. There’d be a problem with Winthrop Furniture, usually slow shipping. Most furniture manufacturers were located in the Southern states and they shipped by rail. Colony, in New Jersey, sold locally and shipped in its own trucks. If Al spoke to Giuseppe on the loading dock, he could get an order to a customer in two or three days.
On Mondays, Al spent the entire day at the factory. He’d help Aaron and his three sons with whatever they were thinking about. He’d talk to the women in the office to hear what was going on with the business. He’d spend some time with Giuseppe and maybe take him to lunch. Al was popular with everyone at Colony, from the Southern whites who ran the saws and lathes to the black girls who shimmied to WNJR Soul Music as they wielded their pressure hoses in the spraying room (the only part of the factory where music was allowed).
Wandering up and down the floor, he’d listen to problems: “Al, the new liquid soap in the washroom is like water. We can’t get cleaned up properly before we go home.” Aaron Newman took a hard line against his workers and the union, and when the situation got nasty, Al would meet with the shop steward or the union rep to try to prevent a walk-out.
Al even sold some furniture on Mondays:
Aaron: “Al, we’re in trouble. We’ve got so much Number 3 Maple coming down the line,
there’s no place to put it. We’ve filled up the loading dock and Giuseppe’s going nuts.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Giuseppe, ship Ben Schwartz two truckloads of Number 3 Maple.
Tell the driver to tell Ben he’s getting 40% off.”
When he needed to, Al could ship furniture his customers hadn’t ordered.
Al rarely waited to see a store owner. When he came by, he was welcomed warmly as a friend and, in many cases, a trusted business advisor. When he retired, he was selling to the children of many of the original owners.
Working for a Jewish business
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03:01 pm
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The Power of Language
Porcelin bugs
My mother had the typical female revulsion toward insects—except when she declared them to be “porcelin bugs.” Then she’d let the bug crawl right up her arm. Ladybugs were obvious porcelin bugs—but there were others too. Even as a very young child I realized that a bug became a porcelin bug when my mother said so.
Encountering “The Other”
When I was old enough to read full-length children's books, I started reading about a boy growing up in Sweden. His name was "Jan," which to me was a girl's name. But that was OK—after all, lots of things must be different in Sweden. Then I got sick and stayed home from school for a few days. Because I was drowsy, my mother read to me. The boy’s name was “Yahn”! I could not enjoy one more minute of the book.
The Academy
I had little rubber Tom Corbett Space Cadet figures with some jeeps and rockets. There was also a record for my Victrola where a hearty male chorus sang this song:
From the rocket fields of the Academy
To the far-flung stars of outer space,
We're Space Cadets training to be
Ready for dangers we may face. . . .
I loved the first line, the way it brought me closer to Tom and his men. I knew there was something tricky or fake about the way the first line assumed my familiarity with the Space Academy, but it pleased me each time I listened to it.
Jean’s secret: The "resident" spider
I happened to notice a spider and its web in a deep, narrow recess in the landing of our staircase where the flooring does not quite join properly. I pointed downward and said, “I’ll use an envelope.” We never kill bugs in the Farkas household, it’s catch and release.
“No,” said Jean, “Leave him. He’s the resident spider. He’s been there for years.”
What! I was astonished. In our time together—over 40 years—Jean has always demanded that any bug be immediately removed from the house.
“He knows about the vacuum cleaner. When you vacuum, he goes deeper into the house. Then he makes another web.”
So, whaddya know: Jean has been secretly keeping watch over this spider.Not that I have any problem with spiders. She could have told me. I truly understand why this spider is different. Somehow this one got to be the “resident spider.” It’s like being a porcelin bug.
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09:44 am
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The Broken Wing Trick
Brit and two parent ducks
On various occasions I’ve seen birds employ the broken-wing trick to draw potential predators away from their young. Many years ago I was jogging with Brit, my canine companion, on a hot summer afternoon. Suddenly Brit veered off our usual route and darted toward a mama growse with her young brood. Brit was no killer, but he was certainly capable of grabbing a baby bird in his mouth and, very likely, killing or maiming it.
With a built-in strategy to project her young, the mama growse flew right over Brit’s head with a wing fluttering, as if she were struggling to stay aloft. Brit madly pursued the growse, who flew just a foot or two above the ground and just a few feet ahead of Brit. After leading Brit about 50 yards from the brood, she flew upward. But now the papa growse swooped down over Brit with his wing fluttering and he led Brit 50 yards farther. Then the mama returned for one more round.
By this time, the brood had found shelter in some bushes, but it hardly mattered. Brit was so exhausted, he could barely walk let alone bother baby birds. I was amused, and delighted at how well the parents had handled the threat.
“That’s a perfectly healthy duck”
I was paddling my canoe and moving fast up the the narrow Sammamish Slough (my usual workout route) on a hot summer day. I know to stay clear of ducks and their ducklings, but this time I got too close.
Mama mallard went into her broken-wing mode, fluttering and splashing just off my bow. I stopped paddling, but she kept at it. A power boat came up the slough and as it passed me, a woman glared at me from the back of the boat. Her meaning was plain: Bastard! Why would a man maim a duck with his canoe paddle?
I could have explained the situation better. What I said was, “That’s a perfectly healthy duck.”
The woman’s look of anger turned to disgust: Not just a sadist but a loathsome liar!
Straight jacket for a crazy duck
You may not believe this story. I can hardly believe it myself. On another of my workouts on the Slough I encountered a mama mallard and her brood, and she too started flapping and fluttering. I was surprised because I had not gotten within the range that would normally elicit this behavior. I brought my boat to a stop and sat still. The babies crossed the slough and were now reasonably safe in the vegetation along the bank, but mama mallard would not stop, and there was something especially frantic and extreme in her fluttering and splashing.
I backpaddled about 30 feet, but she still didn’t let up. Suddenly two male mallards dropped smoothly out of the sky, one landing tight to the left of mama mallard and the other tight to the right. Together they made a kind of duck straight jacket. Their message was “calm down now.” The crazy mother duck floated quietly in the water—she had little choice. Truly astonished, I paddled off.
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05:14 am
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Unbuttoned and Unzipped
Free enterprise in Espresso land
Seattle now has many drive-through espresso shacks where you’re served by a pretty, half-dressed barista. I tried this recently at "Best Friend Espresso," which is near my home. The young woman wore a little white nightie with little red hearts. She called me "honey" about three times and recommended that I have a “fun evening.” I gave her a dollar tip—somehow that seemed appropriate. She was doing a very good business—all men—but that’s a lot of people.
This new competition must drive Starbucks crazy. Recently they let their mermaid logo show her breasts (for certain products), but they must know that's no competition against a little white nightie with little hearts. What’s a big corporation to do? Should they hire thousands of sexy baristas? Should they consider a joint venture with Playboy?
A student’s story: Meeting Jimmy Carter
My graduate student, Joan, told me that 20 years ago former president Jimmy Carter, with a small entourage, visited Seattle’s premier talk radio station to promote his new book on fly fishing and the outdoor life. Joan, was the prep person for the interview, and she welcomed Jimmy Carter and explained how the interview would be conducted.
Joan was struck by how shy Mr. Carter seemed to be. This was a man who dealt with heads of state and who’d been interviewed a great many times on much more challenging topics than fly fishing. Beyond shy, Mr. Carter was stammering.
Only later did Joan discover that the zipper on her slacks had somehow come open and that she had been displaying her red panties.
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11:29 pm
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Generosity: How I make my living
Wilt Chamberlain
Henry Aiken, who lives in my neighborhood, is 6 ft. 11 inches and had a brief career in the NBA. He told me this story many years ago as we watched our young daughters play club soccer.
It was early in his rookie season, and he was matched up against Wilt Chamberlain. Wilt was eating Henry alive. The first quarter wasn’t over, and Wilt had already blocked two of Henry’s shots. “Man, this is tough on a rookie,” Henry said to Wilt.
“I’ll tell you what,” Wilt answered. “Special one-time deal. I make my living in the lanes. I’ll give you every long shot you wanna take.”
As it happened, Henry had hot hands that night and sank a lot of long baskets. Wilt gave Henry his shot each time.
American Tourists in Amsterdam
The three older couples from a cruise ship were strolling through the city on a warm summer day. On the steps of a museum, a worn-out looking Dutch fellow, long-haired and bare-chested, was singing Dylan’s “Masters of War” and strumming a beat-up guitar. There was just a little interest from passers-by and just a little money in his hat.
Don knew the words to a lot of Dylan songs, and he could sing—even harmony. He’d been in bands back in high school and college. To the total surprise of his wife and friends, Don skipped lightly up the steps and finished the song with the Dutchman. They laughed together and did another Dylan song. The crowd actually grew, amused at the novelty of the situation.
After the third song, the Dutchman s picked up his hat and moved into the crowd to hustle up some tips. Before he’d gotten too far, Don took the hat. “Let me do some of this.” When Don got to his buddy, he said, “Put 20 Euros in the hat. Don’t argue with me. I’m good for it.” His friend complied. He got another 20 Euros from his other friend, who said something about him being crazy. When Don turned to his wife, she already had the money out. She understood and she was grinning.
Don climbed back up the steps. “I think we did pretty good.” The Dutchman, scooping up the Euros, was confident where the money was going, but he still glanced at Don's face. “You’re in the music business," said Don. "I make my living in real estate.”
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08:31 pm
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Aunt Anne
Anne Schneider, who died this week at age 102, was my spunky aunt. About 15 years ago, when my cousin Tammy, her husband Si, their kids, and some grandkids visited Israel, they did not leave Anne, Tammy’s mother, behind.
Anne wanted to see the Israeli occupation of the West Bank, but Tammy was horrified at the idea. So Anne snuck away, found herself an Arab cab driver, and engaged him for a long afternoon of seeing everything she wanted to see. Tammy was frightened at her mother's unexplained disappearance--and then furious. But maybe you get a bit of leeway when you reach your 80s.
With Anne’s death, the last of the Silberman sisters is gone. Aunt Anne, you were quite a lady. You will be missed.
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11:40 pm
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Eva's Pathetic Plant
Eva, about 8 years old, saw the plant sticking out a dumpster. It was a sad looking indoor plant—some kind of palm—very long and stringy, with no leaves except a small, sickly cluster at the top. Although Eva was hardly a kid much concerned with plant life, this discarded thing struck a chord with her. “Get it for me, Daddy.” From the very beginning it had a name, “Eva’s Pathetic Plant.”
Because Eva’s Pathetic Plant couldn’t hold itself up, we leaned it in the corner of the landing where the steps from our basement rec room lead up to the entry-way on the main floor of our house. About 6 feet all, the plant nearly reached the bottom of the glass wall that frames our front door. If it could grow just another foot, those yellowish leaves would find some steady sunlight.
And it did grow to reach the bottom of the glass wall and then, exhausted or satisfied, it never grew another inch. For 25 years those few leaves—now a reasonable green—have been basking in that light. Still ugly and stringy, still a good candidate for a garbage can, Eva’s Pathetic Plant occupies its place on the landing and in our family life.
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10:25 pm
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A Raccoon('s) Story
The man and the woman were talking intently. This would be easy. Silently he climbed onto the picnic table and edged up close to steal the wedge of cheese.
But the woman saw him, and her startled reaction was to swat his snout with the back of her hand. He was surprised and pissed off. What? Did she think he was her cat? He considered biting her finger, but saw no need. So he just snatched the cheese and made his way back into the undergrowth.
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11:22 pm
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Spike, the Rabbit
Spike, whom I will presume to be male, was the pet of Eva’s 3rd grade class in Lake Forest Park Elementary School. He lived in some kind of cage, but was never left in the classroom over the weekend. Maybe Spike needed fresh food and water; maybe he just got lonely. Anyway, each kid took a turn bringing Spike home, and before long Eva got her turn.
Spike was clearly an experienced house guest. He was relaxed, affable, and ate whatever we offered him. He also set about methodically learning how to get around in our house. Treating the kitchen as “home base,” he made multiple excursions in all directions until he understood the entire floor plan (minus the stairs).
Later we learned his secret vice: he chewed the insulation right off several power cords, leaving bare copper wire. We threw away one or two extension cords and had to get a living room lamp re-wired. But at least Spike didn’t electrocute himself during his stay with the Farkases.
It was about 2:00 am, and I was working intently at my computer. Suddenly, I experienced a wonderful sensory pleasure as a soft, delicate, warmth settled over my toes. Spike had come by to pay me a late night visit. “Hello, Spike,” I said.
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04:09 pm
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Grove Street: Ben’s Gulf Station and Mary’s Store
At the corner of Chittenden and Grove was Ben’s Gulf Station and Mary’s Store. That’s just how the signs read. They’d been there for decades. Mary sold a little of this and a little of that. Us kids pulled up on our bicyles to buy soda, popsickles, and Hostess Cupcakes. Ben and Mary’s living quarters were in the back of the store. Ben had two gas pumps and a simple shack for tools and parts and to stay warm in. There was a trench for working under cars.
At one point, a modern gas station opened just two blocks further west on Grove, but my father’s loyalty was fixed. For nearly twenty years Ben gassed the Farkas family’s two cars and did the less complex repairs. For some reason Al held the strong conviction that there was no reason to change the oil in an automobile, but Ben, on occasion, did it anyway.
As it happened, the DeCamp commuter bus to Manhattan stopped right in front of Mary’s Store. Every day Mary and Ben watched well-dressed men and women get swooped up by the morning busses and let off in the late afternoon. Al once asked Ben what he thought of New York City. “Only been there once,” said Ben. “It was just tall buildings.”
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07:17 am
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Grove Street Then and Now
Many years ago Grove Street was a long thoroughfare winding through a section of Clifton that consisted largely of farmland. In the decades after World War II, the farms were replaced by housing developments, comfortable split-level tract homes. My parents bought at “Rolling Hills” in 1956.
Gregory Johnson was from the old Clifton. His house was on Grove Street, a few blocks east of my street, Chittenden Road. His house was taller than ours, a full three stories. But it was narrower and older and shabby.
Gregory had sallow skin and a hollow chest. He should have had orthodonture: his front teeth pushed forward at a bad angle. He couldn’t compete in school with us college-bound suburban kids. We looked down on him; he hated us. But I talked with Gregory sometimes. I knew, for example, that he hunted deer each fall with his father and uncle. In my world there was no hunting or fishing.
“My house was built by Sears in 1927. It’s solid stone, and it will be standing when all your houses are gone.”
I didn’t reply. I had never thought about stone vs. frame construction, and this wasn’t an issue I needed to contest with him.
I have no idea what happened to Gregory Johnson, but I hope he’s been back to Grove Street. His old home is now a meticulously restored showpiece, more stylish and more expensive than the tract homes in Rolling Hills, Clifton Estates, and the other suburban developments.
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09:24 pm
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Al and the American Flag
Al, my father, took the flag very seriously. He stood proudly and saluted at ball games, and you didn’t talk while the national anthem was playing. He remembered during World War I when his mother and the other mothers were given the flags that had draped the coffins of their sons. He remembered the islands in the South Pacific when they played taps for guys who hadn’t returned that day.
Al loved the flag like he loved the Statue of Liberty. Like he loved the Constitution. Like he loved Abraham Lincoln, whose writings he knew well. Al had no concept of the American flag as a partisan symbol, the redneck’s “Love it or leave it.”
When I see all the faded, badly frayed flags that (mostly) hard-core Republicans hang in their front yards, I think of my father. He’d be surprised and dismayed. If you want to show the flag, you raise it and you lower it each day. When you lower it, you fold it carefully. No protester has desecrated an American flag in recent decades, but patriotic homeowners desecrate it through lazy neglect all the time. George Bush never desecrated a flag, but he desecrated much of what my father’s American flag stood for.
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