START SOMEWHERE

In the 70's, breast feeding was taking off (again) in the U.S.  So Nestle, in need of new customers for their baby formula, sent non-medical hirelings in white jackets to developing countries, to convince new parents that Nestle's artificial product was better than breast milk.

Of course, the mothers they approached already possessed a safe, effective, versatile – miraculous really -- method of feeding newborns and young children.  But mother after mother converted to the belief that Nestle represented a big step toward modernity and a better life for her baby.

Without an easy means of heating, sterilizing, or buying more once they'd committed and gone off of breast milk, parents lost many children to death by clever advertising. It was so clever, that most of them never made the connection.

It took years of protests from religious, political and just plain citizen groups around the world, to get Nestle to stop -- and they did so only because a lot of profit-destroying boycotting of their many other products was going on. I've never forgiven them, never stopped boycotting their products, and now I see why. They're doing it again, to babies.

Nowadays, it would take a whole lot of boycotting to put a dent in the $90+ billion Nestle takes in worldwide, each year.  We'd better get started. 

F E E D B A C K

-->

I'm one of those folks who introduce letters of complaint with: "I never write letters like this, but..."

And that’s true. I -- well, OK -- seldom write to complain.

But maybe it's time for that to change. I got my new habit off to a rip roaring start with the missive below. Just sent regarding a report on NBC's weekly news magazine show, Rock Center (hosted by Brian Williams), it's most likely doomed to remain unread, and certainly unloved, at the MSNBC.com site.

_______________________

-->

Wow. It's the day after Rock Center's cheery rendition of FedEx perfection, and I'm feeling more upset by the minute. I must admit, in my search for "real" news, I've allowed Mr. Williams' seemingly serious and sincere delivery on NBC's evening news to convince me that I'm getting The Real Thing, getting it more than with the other two of the Big Three. But after last night's report at his new gig on NBC's weekly news mag, I suspect it's just cue card coaching that got him this far.

According to Wednesday evening’s lengthy "report" (read "Infomercial), FedEx is peachy in every way. The big boss is just a regular guy who, as he put it, doesn't want employees to fear telling him when his own package has gone astray, which, apparently, it once did, and he was a good guy about it. Couldn't he have just gone on "Undercover Boss" and subsidized a few employees' educations, and paid off a few of their massive debts?

What clearly came through to me was that FedEx's PR people were under pressure to counter the effects of a video gone viral of a monitor being delivered by a FedEx worker via a toss over a fence. Somehow, some way, they scored that "report" wherein NBC obligingly found absolutely nothing but immaculate workplaces, satisfied longtime employees, a spectacular delivery record and a boss out of a dream. And what did they urge us to see in their extended coverage online? The thrilling story of how NBC's photogs got those shots of flower deliveries from the viewpoint of the flowers!

Hey, I get it. Rock Center is no "60 Minutes" and isn't meant to be. But that doesn't forgive what must have been the result of a favor owed. (Or -- hmmm -- do the FedEx folks know something about somebody?)

Many evenings, I've been watching Mr. Williams, then going to PBS for The News Hour. (That's a real hour. No commercials.) From now on, I might check in at NBC occasionally, to see how that forthright delivery bit is doing. But for the most part, the bubble has burst. I'll have an extra half-hour for other things.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Although I indicated when prompted that this was a comment, NOT a story idea, I guess they have a tight budget over at MSNBC and can only afford one response for any and every email. Here's what I immediately received from them:

Thank you for contacting Rock Center with Brian Williams. We appreciate your feedback and story ideas. Due to the volume of emails we are only able to contact you if we are interested in pursuing your story pitch. Thank you again and have a great day.

P O S S I B I L I T I E S

I look both ways when I cross one-way streets. Today, when I caught myself doing it, I thought:

"Does this make me a walking illustration of the paranoid personality?"

But then, I thought again.

Hopefully, I told myself, it's a display of the actor's, fiction writer's, scientist's or mathematician's mind at work. Such minds wade through millions -- trillions -- of possibilities, as they make their personal sense of a character, theorem or other riddle. During that prep time, no possibility is out of the running.

When my children were little, if we were driving somewhere and someone swerved in front of us, I'd attempt to steer clear of road rage, and instead, put this question to the kids: Why would a driver do that?

I might start the ball rolling with something like: Somebody may have really scared him just now, and he thinks he's running for his life," or: "Maybe something very, very sad happened, and she isn't thinking straight." As for the kids, it's amazing what their unADULTerated minds could come up with.

Today, I realized that what I'd been thinking, right before I looked left and right, had gone something like this:

Couldn't there be an occasion when, driving, I might turn a corner, my thoughts ablaze, and then, horrified, realize that on a street I know so well, I had just turned the wrong way? I might then notice a woman strolling 2 inches from my bumper, a woman who had just looked only the other way.

Come to think of it, by a wide margin it's friends in the arts and sciences who report that they do not own a single TV set, in fact, never heard of a tenth of the shows that are into multiple years of being hits.

(I, on the other hand, have heard of them plenty -- studied up on them, in fact, then chosen a few. I use TV as the poor woman's theatre trip. Right from home, I can watch stage productions in their entirety on PBS, or, on the major networks, one venerable stage actor after another who has transished to a series on the small screen.)

But I think I understand those TV-free friends. They're entertained enough.

Maybe what many TV viewers are searching for during their off hours, in all those sitcoms, hospital dramas, police procedurals and reality series, is a version of the extravaganza that goes on in some minds, whether those minds are on or off duty.

CRASH! BAM!

I was walkin' along

Mindin' my business

When out of an orange-colored sky

Crash! Bam! Alakazam . . . *

Those who know that song (and by now, is there anyone but me?) remember that it has to do with love at first sight. But it also pretty well describes what happens when the pieces of some play, novel, short story, whatever I've been writing suddenly rearrange themselves and whammo, the illusive key to a character, event or entire plot is slammed into my hand. If I'm writing an article or some other piece of nonfiction, then the way to approach it, or the order that the jumble of pieces should go in, suddenly becomes crystal clear.

I'm sure many of you in the same racket have experienced this. I wonder if you've also found that this almost always happens when you weren't even thinking about that piece of writing, or probably about any writing at all. It's exciting, feels magical.

What caused me to bring it up is that today, for the very first time, while I was walking home from a long, inspiring Shabbos lunch, not thinking about writing, it occurred to me that the sensation is not comfortable That had never crossed my mind before.
I'm not suggesting its comparable to childbirth, which people often describe as worth the experience because of the result. Unlike childbirth, we're talking a nanosecond of discomfort. Maybe it's more like getting struck by lightening, and then, the next split second, there you are in full possession of your superb discovery, and with none of the ill effects associated with your brief accident.

I suppose that's why I thought of the lyrics to that song today for the first time in a whole lot of years. Crash, Bam, indeed. But not for long.

_________________________________

* "Orange Colored Sky" by Milton DeLugg and Willie Stein, has been recorded since the 50's by some of the most popular entertainers of each succeeding generation. Nat King Cole, Danny Kaye and Doris Day each recorded it. Then, so did Burt Ward (TV's Batman) -- the latter version produced by Frank Zappa. It was also sung by Lynda Carter (Wonder Woman) with the help of several Muppets, on "The Muppet Show".

Creating

How long ago was it? It can scare you when you try to estimate how many years have gone by. Maybe 20. No. Maybe more. Toni Morrison was teaching a course at Bard College, traveling the two-and-a-half hours once or twice a week from NYC. I drove the 45 minutes from my town located on the other side of the Hudson, because Ms. Morrison was going to end the semester by reading from her work and talking a bit, and the public was invited.

Aha. It must have been more than 20 years ago, because they actually thought it reasonable to hold the event in a smallish classroom. Students and visitors filled that room so tightly that I found myself inches from her left cheek, watching her profile as she spoke.

I discovered as she read from her novels that I could recite whole passages with her, under my breath. I'd read each book only once, but I knew whole sections by heart. The phrasing was so lovely, how else could the wording go?

In between readings, she spoke. I have no memory of what she talked about that night, except for one thing. She said that the line between fiction and nonfiction was a false boundary. Both could be creative, which placed them in the same camp. Of course! Once you hear it, you know it's true.

It's a wonderful concept, because it gives permission in both directions. It allows writers to tackle anything, labeling and limiting themselves less. And to those who want to stick with just one of the two genres, say nonfiction, it gives permission to write poetically and uniquely nevertheless, instead of thinking they're not allowed to go there.

I don't remember my ride home, but I'd like to think I sang a Toni Morrison book all the way, and maybe I did.

SAVING DAYLIGHT

Every year, I stop earlier than I want to. Yes, I surrender and join those who have turned their clocks back. I give in only because my absence from the bandwagon is driving family and friends nuts. Somehow, they don't appreciate living in my parallel universe. Even then, though, only the kitchen's time has to go. My bedroom and my wrist are my business.

Well, actually, my watch has now succumbed. Too many people were growing frantic if their eyes fell on my watch when I was out in the world. So a mere few weeks after the kitchen clock backflipped, so did my watch. But as I write this, we've passed the two-month mark, and I'm still saving daylight -- if only in my bedroom.

I already had that clock 20 minutes ahead. So now we're talking a hefty chunk of time between my bedroom hour and everybody else's. As a result, I'm not fooled much. With the exception of the occasional split second before my brain swerves into gear, I am always aware that my bedroom hour is a good distance from Everyone-Else-Around-Here Standard Time.

Most years, it gets old, and I join the throng. One year, I never reached that point. In that case, come April, when everyone else had to put their clocks ahead an hour, mine just stayed put.

At least for the time being, my private clock bestows upon me a unique outlook. Make that two outlooks -- because when I check the time in the bedroom, I have one of two reactions.

Some days I think: Wow. It could be after 10:00, but actually, it's not even 9:00. I am wealthy with time!

On other days, however, my thoughts go something like this:

Hmm. It may not be true, but my clock says a quarter after ten. And that reminds me that 10 o'clock and beyond await me not that far ahead.

To wit, is time half full, or is it heading toward empty?

DEFINING ART

At my Jewish day school, our principal was British and preferred being called "headmaster". Occasionally, he'd visit our 8th grade classroom during the half of the day reserved for secular studies. He would knock and politely ask the teacher if he might interrupt for a moment. Then, with that dignified but musical accent, he’d read us a bit of literature – poetry, perhaps, or part of a play. Or he’d lead us on a journey into the unknown by presenting us with an algebraic problem or two.

The 15 of us in the class had moved as a group through the grades, gaining or losing one or two along the way. So I probably could have predicted who’d surreptitiously groan at this interruption (usually a boy).

I, on the other hand, adored every moment of every visit. Later, when I enjoyed all of high school algebra and geometry, chances are there was a connection. Even today, a long time later, I keep on my book shelf a plane geometry review book I once came across at a yard sale. Some day, I hope to find the time to relearn all those theorems. They can take me from a problem’s skimpy offering of givens to the seemingly impossible proof, if I just discover the necessary connecting steps and take them.

At college, I majored in English and spent a lot of my extracurricular time with the university's theatre groups. Math courses were not among my requirements. Besides, without really thinking about it, I had begun to divide the world in certain ways. Scientists and mathematicians were other people. I was in the arts.

But what makes something an art?

I don’t know if Mr. Plotnick, our headmaster, pondered such matters when, before a visit, he'd contemplate what to bring to our classroom that day. Literature? Math? Did it matter? Did he realize on a conscious level what he was teaching us? A Shakespeare play and a well-solved math challenge are more the same than different. They are both poetry.