WHOM TO BELIEVE

Recently, it seems as if I’m  living my life haircut to haircut and unbalanced checkbook to unbalanced checkbook—two predictable events I can always count on. However, these days it also seems as if the unpredictable has taken over the world.  

Machines are getting smarter and people are getting dumber, and the lines between fact and fiction have become more and more blurred.  For instance, when little green men finally arrived from outer space and enthusiastically shouted, “We have come in peace,” their ballon was shot down over Surfside Beach, South Carolina. Just ask any conspiracist.

Also, now people are wearing Dick Tracy watches that are so smart that those folks will never have to think for themselves again if they don’t want to do so. Those watches can check your pulse, check your blood pressure and let you know if you have died.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) is becoming more and more abundant. Who would have predicted that an oxymoron would someday rule the world of information. Soon enough machines will create soulless music, art and literature, and people won’t know the difference. Granted, children will have another resource for information. Perhaps, that will be a good thing, but will they learn to debate and discern which information is valid, and be smart enough to question the source of this information?  It’s much easier to say, “I believe what I read.  That’s why it’s true.”

Granted, much good can come from the technology and the sharing of valid information. For instance, physicians all over the world can contribute their knowledge to recognize an unrecognizable illness, and the sharing of valid information can further many scientific endeavors.  Computers will probably predict the arrival of another pandemic, but what good does that do when false information prevents people from saving their own lives?

I admit that some AI is frightening. I find it very scary that an image of a person can be put on a computer and it’s really not that person speaking, and people think what is being said is coming from a reliable source. A false image of the President of the  United States might  inform people that China is sending sailboats to Taiwan, and that tourists from Russia are enjoying picnics in Ukraine, and that guns don’t kill people..people kill people, and  that you can now get a good haircut for $1.95.  

If we are lucky, people will still recognize that there is something wrong and will start questioning the $1.95 haircut.

Esther Blumenfeld

WHAT TIME IS IT, ANYWAY?

Time stands still in Arizona.  Our clocks don’t fall back or spring forward. They just stay the same, which only makes sense to Arizonans and confuses the rest of the Country.  In the summer, when my telephone rings at 4 a.m., I know it’s a call from the East Coast.

However the three-hour time difference is a bonus when flying to New York City. People marvel that I can party until 1 a.m., but only I know that it’s just 10 p.m. back home. Of course the trip in reverse exacts nature’s revenge when I wake up at 3 a.m. after going to bed at 7 p.m.

Energy conservation is the rationale for daylight savings time, but when it’s 110 degrees in Arizona no one has any energy anyway, so we got an exemption. The desert does cool off at 9 p.m., and early morning is the time for hiking, biking and not complaining. Late sleepers just avoid getting out of bed until October, which gives new meaning to “killing time.”

It is true that the Navajo Nation does follow daylight savings, because it is easier to keep the whole reservation on one system, since their territory stretches across 4 States (Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah) and 3 out of 4 are good odds for not going completely loco.

The Hopi Reservation is totally surrounded by the Navajos, but they have joined Arizona in not enacting daylight savings time. My rationale for this decision is that perhaps an enterprising Hopi brave got a gross of digital clocks at a good price. How DO you change the time on those things anyway?

Sometimes religion makes people hesitate to fool around with time. “If God wanted us in an earlier time zone, God would have put us in an earlier time zone.” Surely, Moslems wouldn’t welcome having to fast later into the evening at Ramadan. The shopkeepers were already cranky in the late afternoon when I entered a marketplace in Israel. Their scowls weren’t very welcoming, which I thought wasn’t good for business, but I caught on when I heard in unison the sounds of stomach rumblings. No, another hour of fasting just wouldn’t do during Ramadan.

My Latino friends have a totally different concept of time. I learned early on that manana does not mean tomorrow. It really means, “just not today.”

Esther Blumenfeld (hasta luego)

WHOSE LITTLE GIRL ARE YOU?

When I reached my fourth birthday, my mother thought it would be safe to visit her parents for a few days and leave me with my absent-minded, scholarly father. As the train pulled away from the station, Father and I looked at each other and he said, “Ice cream?” I knew breakfast would be delicious.

After breakfast, we went to a department store. I had never seen an escalator before, and stood mesmerized at the bottom of the moving stairs, as I watched my father step on the escalator, ride to the top of the world and disappear. I promptly found the nearest sales lady and told her to look for a lost man with a worried look on his face. She found him.

When we returned home, he read me my favorite story; the fable of Medusa from Bulfinch’s Mythology. She was the creature with snakes in her hair that turned people to stone when they looked at her. Then Father suggested I go outside to play, since he needed to do some work in his study. On my way out, he told me that if I found a snake, I should not put it into my hair.

I ran around the yard, climbed the neighbor’s apple tree, killed several mosquitoes and swung on my wooden swing until I fell off and skinned my elbow. It started to rain, so I went inside and Father wrapped my arm with Mother’s best kitchen towel. Then I decided to give myself a haircut, so I could wear bangs on my forehead, but I ended up creating a bald spot. Father said it didn’t really look that bad and would make it much easier for outside knowledge to get in. “Have you learned anything?” he asked.  “Yes,” I answered, “No more haircuts.” He let me wear his fedora the rest of the day.

The morning Mother was due to return, I adjusted the kitchen towel, put on my best dress (backwards, because it looked so much better that way) and clamped Father’s hat snugly on my head. When we reached the station and I spied my mother disembarking the train, I ran down the platform shouting, “Mama, Mama, never leave us again.” Everyone within earshot glared at the monstrous woman who had abandoned her befuddled husband and her pitiful waif.

When we got home, Mother tossed the dishtowel into the trash and gingerly removed Father’s hat from my head. “What happened to your hair?” she gasped.
“A snake ate it,” I replied. “Don’t look at my head. It can turn you into stone.”

One more time, she gave me the “weird child” look. Who could blame her? Other little girls sported pigtails. I thought I wore snakes.

Esther Blumenfeld (acting normal)

ICONIC, IRONIC AND ALL THAT STUFF

Every state in The Union has symbols chosen as meaningful by their citizens. For instance, some state flowers have been honored for their beauty, fragrance, and forthcoming crops, such as the apple blossoms of Michigan or the peach blossoms of Delaware. People can pick bouquets of bluebonnets in Texas, sunflowers in Kansas or peonies in Indiana.

I live in Arizona where we honor the beautiful but impossible to reach white flower that blooms at the top of the 43-foot-tall-2000-pounds-full-of-water-covered-with-sharp-spines saguaro cactus. There are other beautiful flowers in Arizona, but characteristically those Arizonans who made the decision wanted something out of touch.

We also have a state fossil. It is not the Arizona State Legislature, but it is petrified wood, which is similar in makeup. The Arizona green tree frog is the state amphibian elected by school children in 1985. Kermit declined the honor, and the green tree frog (usually found in the mountains) won out over 3 toads. The children knew that if you kiss a frog, you might get a prince, but if you kiss a toad you’ll likely end up with warts. Those children are now registered voters.
Our state bird is the cactus wren, which has a white stripe behind each eye. It is the largest wren in the United States.

The Fossil State Legislature decided that Arizona should have an official firearm, and passed a bill declaring the Colt single-action Army revolver to be the state gun. Now that the Governor has signed this legislation, Arizona is the first state with a symbolic gun, so Sierra Club members are applying black eye makeup on cactus wrens. Utah is considering following suite. I don’t know why those clean-cut missionaries need a state gun, but when they ring your doorbell, it will give new meaning to the term, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Arizona’s official neckwear is the bola tie that is really not a tie, but a noose. The palo verde is the official tree. Palo verde means “green stick,” so Arizona has a green stick as it’s official tree. Arizona’s mammal is the ringtail, an animal no one has ever seen. It has 5 toes on each foot, equipped with sharp curved, non-retractile claws. Bigfoot was not available.

And finally, the state reptile is the Arizona ridge-nosed rattlesnake. I don’t know why they couldn’t have picked one with a regular nose, but this one is a coward who slithers away from people, emits weak venom, and has never had a reported human death on record. I’ll bet the state gun will do better than that!

Esther Blumenfeld (humming the official Arizona March Song)

MUST THE SHOW GO ON?

My friend, Jean enjoys avant-garde theatre and has dragged me to some rather strange productions. When she told me that she had tickets for a one-man show at a performance art studio, I agreed to join her, because I like her and figured how bad could one guy be?

The studio was located near some railroad tracks, and the small building looked as if it had been well shaken for many years. As we stepped inside, we were greeted with a view of assorted paraphernalia hanging from the walls and ceiling, that I assumed a performing artist might need from time to time. There were ropes, musical instruments, bicycles, whips, swords, balloons, masks, clown costumes, and a collection of extremely large paper Mache figures, which looked as if they had fallen off a Mardi gras parade float. Everything was extremely dusty.

Our seats were in the front row, because it was the only row, and I sat smack dab in the middle, facing a large, white enamel toilet that was plopped in the middle of the performance area. A recorded dirge began to play, but abruptly stopped, as the room became ablaze with light. The actor came forth, sat on the toilet and began to moan. At first I thought perhaps he was constipated, but then he began a conversation with an imaginary friend about his life. I wondered why he would be talking with a friend while sitting on the toilet.

On occasion, as his conversation became more animated, he would stomp his feet sending a cloud of dust my way. Consequently, my eyes began to water, and tears began to run down my face. Seeing my reaction, he surmised that I was inordinately taken by his performance. When I blew my nose, he, too, began to cry. That actor sat on that toilet for one hour, extremely moved by his own acting skills while delivering his lines directly to me. All I wanted to do was to jump up, flush that damned thing and get rid of him.

When the show mercifully ended, I tried to sneak out, but it was impossible, because the actor stood at the door gathering accolades. As I reached the blocked exit, he looked at me with a grateful smile. I blew my nose one more time, and blurted out, “Wow! That was really something,” as I escaped, gasping for air.

On the way home, Jean told me that she and her husband were going to take dance lessons. I called her a few days later and asked, “How did the lessons turn out?” “Not so good,” she replied. “My husband suffers from motion sickness, and the dancing made him nauseous, so we had to get our money back.” To know her is to love her.

Esther Blumenfeld (That’s show biz)