The Misbegotten Right to be Forgotten

   
As many of you know, Google has begun removing certain links from its search results under a European court ruling establishing the so-called "Right to be Forgotten," which requires search engines to remove links that are shown to be outdated and irrelevant.   A very serious matter ....  and one which gives me a really great idea!      

"Hello, is this Google?"

"Yes, sir.  How may I help you?."

"Wow, I can't believe I got through!  I'm a big fan!  You may not believe it, but I use Google almost every day!"

"That's gratifying, sir."

"I want you to know I would never use Bing!  I never even liked Bing Crosby!  You're probably too young to know the name."

"I know it, sir.  Now what can I do for you?"

"I was reading about the Right to be Forgotten law.  There's some posts on my blog I'd like to be forgotten. Very forgotten."

"Well, you have to have a reason under the law, sir, to have search information removed."

"Oh, I do!  I do! I have a very good reason."

"Could you tell me your reason?"

"Sure.  I'm a humor writer and I want Google to stop searching for my blog posts that aren't  funny."

"Excuse me?" 

"I don't want Google to lead anyone to my posts that suck!  I have enough trouble getting readers as it is."

"Sir, you can't just ask us to remove links without justification.  The links must be outdated and irrelevant." 

"You want outdated?   I've got jokes about Tammy Faye Baker!"

"OMG!  What about irrelevant?"

"Irrelevant? What would you call a post that has Mitt Romney singing "Whatever It Is, I'm Against It" or the Lone Ranger hiring a Jewish sidekick named Hyman Silvers?"

"About as irrelevant as humility is to Ben Affleck!  And I agree, sir, every damn  bit as unfunny as you indicated!"

"So where do I file my Right to be Forgotten Petition?"

"You don't. That only applies in Europe, not the U.S."

"Crap!"  

"But, sir, why don't you just delete the unfunny posts?"

"Fraid I can't do that."

"Why?"

"If I only leave the good stuff, my blog will be shorter than Parade Magazine!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Editor, My Son

A Portrait of the Editor as a (Much) Young (er) Man

They say every good writer needs an editor. I don’t know if that’s also true for the bad and indifferent ones but --- whichever kind of writer I am --- an editor surely I’ve got.

And he’s 15 years old and I used to diaper him!This wouldn’t bother me if Brandon Block would approach my humor writing with a deft and gentle red pen. But he rips into my work like Ben Bradlee editing the latest tell-all book by Kitty Kelley!

“Dad, lose that entire concept!” snapped Brandon last week, peering over my shoulder at the locked-up Microsoft Word document pulsating on my PC screen. “It sucks!”

“Why, Brandon?” I asked. “The Lone Ranger needs a new companion and instead of a native American, he hires a Jewish man. Funny!”

“Not funny, Dad!”

“But, Brandon, instead of shouting a hearty ‘Hi - Yo, Silver!’ he shouts a hearty ‘Hymen Silvers!’ Funny!”

“Dad, totally lame.”

"Why???" I protested.

“Because nobody knows who the Lone Ranger is! That character hasn’t been on TV in my lifetime!”

Well, like I said: All writers need an editor and I’m fortunate to have one with his finger well positioned on the cultural pulse. But my own personal Perry White is also driving me mesuganah!

My professional relationship with my hard-boiled editor began when Brandon started to show an interest in the humor writing I’d done on and off for over 20 years and in earnest for the last year. Normally secretive, I usually don’t share my work-in-process with anyone short of receipt of a Congressional subpoena.

But Brandon thought it was cool that his dad was writing funny, so I began showing my nascent humor pieces to him.

And he’s been slicing, dicing, and frying them up in a pan ever since!

"Frankly, Dad, this piece wouldn’t be funny to anyone if you were tickling them!"

“Dad, this reference to the woman you dated as 'Ernest Borgnine with lipstick' is your third ‘Ernest Borgnine’ reference in the last month! Try 'Jonah Hill in high heels.' More current, more funny!"

"What are you trying to write here, Dad, the operator’s manual for your new toaster?”

It isn’t that Brandon means to be harsh or insulting. He realizes it’s tough out there in The World of Trying to Get Stuff Published, and he just wants me to put my best foot forward.

I told him in that case I was going to need a third foot.

He told me that line wasn’t funny!

This afternoon,  Brandon and I were reviewing my latest piece on the History of Life on Earth, which posits that very little true progress has taken place in the span of time between the emergence of the first uni-cellular creature far beneath the primordial seas and the granting of a late night talk show to Carson Daly.

"Dad," said Brandon wearily, "that comma should be a semi-colon, you've used the phrase "lame butt" three times in one paragraph .... and Carson Daly?

" What about Carson Daly?" I asked.

"That's a totally wrong name.  You might think he's a yutz, but a lot of people like him. Now here's the right spot for Ernest Borgnine!"

I could take it no longer.

"Brandon,” I shouted. "Don't you ever like anything?"

“Sure, Dad. I liked Joel Stein’s last piece in Time very much.”

“Joel Stein!” I sputtered. “Why that overrated ….!!!  Did Joel Stein ever diaper you?   

“Chill,” said Brandon, “it’s a joke.  And by the way, Dad ...

You’ve just got to develop a sense of humor!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Farewell to the Fifties

The Evolution of Annette

I owe it all, I’m afraid, to Jack Benny.

It was in discussion with a 30-something  that I learned that the 1950’s had officially died.

We were talking about comedy, and I mentioned my hero, the great skinflint, the perennial 39 year old, the “Oh, fella?” ~ “Yes-s-s-s-s-s” American institution and legend, Mr. Jack Benny. I expected smiles and nods and gushes of recognition, if not a personal homage in the form of her crossing arms, turning her head slowly aside, and exclaiming “W-e-e-l-l-l-!-!-!”

But what I got was “Yeah, I know who he is! That British comedian who was always doing those goofy chases!”

“Umm, Cheryl,” I choked, “that was …. Benny Hill. Comparing Benny Hill to Jack Benny is sort of like comparing Paris Hilton to Paris France!”

Though Jack Benny was active in show business for much of the 20th Century, on TV his heyday was the 1950’s. In that moment, I learned that Benny’s heyday had become a nayday. As a child of the 50’s, references and allusions from that period have tripped off my tongue “faster than a speeding bullet” and “like a fiery horse at the speed of light.”

But no more. As a source of reference, comparison, or commentary, I come to bury the 50’s…. and to praise them:

Taking leave, Leave it to Beaver! Growing up 50’s, Beaver, I measured my life against yours and consistently found it wanting. You got in and out of trouble in 30 minutes, learned well your parental lessons, and made life within the confines of a picket fence look copacetic and cool. But as I leave, Beav, please do me one favor: tell Ward and June to stop dressing for dinner,  for Pete's sake,  as if they’re headed out for a job interview with Halliburton!

Au revoir, Annette! As the Mickey Mousketeer with the prematurely developing bust line, Annette Funicello, you morphed into the most seismic force for male sexual awakening since the invention of masturbation. Though a millennial hearing your name would most likely presume you an Italian desert, I’ll always think of you as the main course to a fantasy that had me glued to a show which was supposed to be about a mouse.

Hasta la vista, Howdy! Though your creators should have learned the meaning of the term “no strings attached,” Howdy Doody, you introduced us to an endearing ensemble that foreshadowed the generations-later Sesame Street. Buffalo Bob, Mayor Bluster, the Flub-a-Dub, Princess Winterfall Summerspring, Clarabell, Chief Thunderthud, Heidi Doody, and more …. Hey, thank you, guys! The Peanut Gallery is closed.

Happy Trails, Roy! Happy trails to you, Roy Rogers, until we meet again.  Happy Trails to you, which will be never, my friend!

Our paths diverge, Davy! You may have been King of the Wild Frontier, Davy Crockett, but on the Web Frontier, you’re not even a pawn. With coonskin cap aloft and “Born on a Mountaintop” playing in the breeze, it’s time for you to once again go down swinging --- this time not by the hands of Santa Anna’s men but by the Santa Anna winds of time.

Adios, Adlai! You, Adlai Stevenson, were my first political memory. Going with my father to vote for you for President in 1956, we knew you had as much chance to win as to set off a national craze of male babies named “Adlai.” You were beloved by liberals and everyone we knew, but the country liked Ike. Would I get a quick resonating response to your name in 2010? Sadly, think I’d have to wait until hell freezes over. 

Gotta roam, Lone Ranger! With a "hearty hi-ho, Silver!" and Tonto by your side, you, Lone Ranger, were the oddest of heroes. You started off with a handicap of your own making. You had no secret identity, you needed no mask, and everywhere you went the greeting was the same: "Look, it's an outlaw, kill him!" Your mask was on the side of the law, but it didn't need to be on your face at all!

Ciao, Raleigh Coupons! In the 1950’s Cigarette commercials on the air were as prevalent as cigarette smoke in the office. But amongst them all, Raleigh Cigarettes, you puffed supreme. Why? Because of the golf clubs, toasters, and manifold marvels one could obtain “Free for Raleigh Coupons!” The trick, of course, was to stay alive long enough to collect the coupons to get any of them.

Cheerio, Cherrios Kid! Along with Annette, my Cheerios Kid, you fueled a childhood fantasy. When you’d eat those “O’s,” you'd acquire a bulging bicep, powered by a colossal Cheerio! I ate your wares diligently, eagerly awaiting the muscle and the mighty “O.” Finally one night in a dream, there emblazoned upon my still spindly arm was a Cheerio indeed --- actual size and soggy from milk.

Sayonara, Superman! Many others have played the role, George Reeves, but nobody else ever inhabited it as fully as every 50’s kid once inhabited your cape. The stories were stupid, the production values atrocious, but when you flew, we did too. Greasy hair notwithstanding, you were the Man of Steel. If only Kryptonite had been all that could harm you ….

So fare thee well, Fifties!  You shall live on in memory and history, if not in my metaphor and simile.

Now, I’m off to drop in on the Sixties.

There's a 32 year old I know who thinks The Monkees --- OMG! --- are in the Philadelphia Zoo ....

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I'm a bit nostalgic yet; it's the plight of the Boomer, I think.  So for one more time, here's  A Further Farewell to the Fifties.