Artificial Intelligence as Literary Critic

26 Dec

By Lanny Morgnanesi

Artificial Intelligence recently gave me an opinion of my writing. It was more than flattering. The assessment, by the learning machine ChatGPT, made me seem almost brilliant. While I know I am not brilliant, I initially was quite proud of what it said about the unusual piece I had written. Then I became frightened. Then skeptical. Ultimately, I was confused.

My encounter with AI involved a short story that will soon appear in an anthology of mine. The story focuses on something ridiculous – a sweater that was vomited upon at a college party — but later, in contrast, asks deep philosophical questions and even doubts the nature and structure of contemporary fiction.

The story is called Sweater in a Jar. I believe it is entertaining, but I have no false hope that people will grasp what I was trying to accomplish. Last week a friend agreed to read it. Unsure of what he was reading, he ran it through ChaptGPT to get a better understanding of what it was.  Then he sent me this non-human literary review. I was stunned that the machine was able to comprehend, accurately and precisely, my intentions for the piece

Here are its comments:

The sweater’s fate serves as a metaphor for the elusive and fragmented nature of truth and memory, mirroring the way human experience is shaped by perception rather than objective reality. The story juxtaposes absurdity with profound existential questions, pondering whether art and life can ever reveal an “ultimate truth” or if their power lies in crafting meaningful illusions. Through the narrator’s musings on genetics and storytelling, the piece suggests that while science may define human potential, art provides the emotional and metaphorical lens through which we interpret and transcend that reality. It’s a meditation on how small, seemingly trivial events can carry profound, lasting impacts on identity and meaning.”

I’m a genius, right?

So, what’s with ChatGPT? How did it know? I decided to look deeper.

Taking very little time, I wrote a 500-word story with absolutely no literary merit. Then I ran it through ChatGPT to see if this time it would deem me an idiot, like it should. I apologize for burdening you with this, but here is that story:

A Weekend Visit

It was a bright and sunny day when Jerome Jeffries went to the train station to pick up his old college friend, Sidney. Jerome arrived at 3 p.m., just as the train was getting in from St Louis. Just in case the train was early, Jerome had hoped to get there at 2:30, but his older sister, Gilda, kept pestering him with questions about Sidney, and so he was later than he wanted to be. But it worked out.

Sidney took the train, a trip of two days, because St. Louis was snowed in an no planes were flying. He enjoyed the ride. “It was pretty cool,” he told Jerome. “No WIFI, but you could look out the window and see the American countryside. I didn’t know there were so many cows in Ohio.”

What Sidney didn’t tell his friend was that, while on the train, he received a compromising picture on his phone from Jerome’s sister.

From the train station they went right to a McDonald’s for a snack. Jerome had a Big Mac. Sidney had a Quarter Pounder with cheese. They both got large drinks and large fries.

“Do you think these fries are a little salty?” Sidney asked.

“They are,” Jerome said. “Cover up the salt with more ketchup.”

When they got to Jerome’s house, Sidney was introduced to everyone, mother, father, and sister Gilda, who wore a tight-fitting yoga outfit and, for some reason, did a series of bend-over stretches.

Sidney was shown his room and told to put his clothes in a dresser. He used three drawers, one for his underwear, one for his street clothes, and one for miscellaneous items like his brush and toothpaste. He wore his sneakers but put a pair of dress shoes by the bed, just in case they went somewhere fancy.

After a short time, the door to the room opened and Gilda entered. She was wearing a bikini and asked if Sidney wanted to go swimming. He paused and said no. “Your brother and I have lots of plan,” he said.

In the family room, Jerome and Sidney met up, and discussed their plans until Jerome’s mother served a dinner of meatloaf, mash potatoes, and peas. There was pie for dessert, but no coffee. Jerome’s family didn’t drink coffee.

After dinner, Jerome said, “Let’s go to a movie.” And they went to a movie. It was about time travel and alternative universes.

“Is this science fiction?” Sidney asked.

“Yes, it’s science fiction,” Jerome said.

“I like science fiction,” Sidney said.

“Everyone does,” Jerome said.

After the movie, the two friends walked the town streets.

“Tomorrow we will go to a ball game downtown, and I want to take you to a giant flea market where you can buy many things for under $5. Later, we’ve got to go to my favorite bar. There is so much to do.”

“I realize that,” Sidney said. “But sometime this weekend, do you think I can go swimming with your sister?”

Jerome paused. “Maybe. But only once. And for a short time. We’re going to be very busy.”

Ho hum, right? Here is what ChatGPT said about, A Weekend Visit.

This short story presents an intriguing narrative, though it is somewhat odd and leaves room for interpretation. Here’s an evaluation of its elements:

Strengths:

  1. Character Relationships: The dynamic between Jerome and Sidney is clear: they are old friends reconnecting. There’s an underlying sense of warmth in their reunion, especially with the mention of old college days and their shared history. Jerome’s protective nature towards Sidney also comes across—he seems to want to ensure their time together is meaningful, while Sidney seems more laid-back and open to new experiences.
  2. Humor and Absurdity: The story is sprinkled with moments of absurdity that add charm, especially the quirkiness of Jerome’s family members. Gilda’s unexpected behavior, like stretching in a yoga outfit and later wearing a bikini, feels odd but adds an element of intrigue to the family dynamic. Sidney’s casual comment about cows in Ohio and the throwaway line about the fries being too salty are small but effective moments of humor.
  3. Pacing and Structure: The story’s pacing is easy to follow. It moves smoothly from one event to the next, from the train station to McDonald’s to Jerome’s house. It has a natural flow, which helps keep the reader engaged. The decision to present the day-to-day experiences in a somewhat banal but detailed way (e.g., their meal choices or the description of Sidney’s packing) keeps the story grounded in reality.

Areas for Improvement:

  1. Underdeveloped Themes: The story doesn’t delve deeply into any particular theme. While there are moments of tension—like Sidney’s secretive interaction with Gilda—these are left unexplored. The plot feels like it hints at something more (perhaps involving Gilda’s behavior), but it never fully materializes. The story seems to build toward something deeper or more meaningful, but it doesn’t follow through.
  2. Character Depth: Jerome and Sidney’s personalities are sketched briefly, but they don’t evolve much throughout the story. The most significant development is Jerome’s brief internal conflict about Gilda’s behavior and his protective attitude toward Sidney. Sidney, on the other hand, remains mostly passive—he enjoys the trip, mentions some trivial observations, and asks about swimming with Gilda, but there’s little else to make him stand out as a fully realized character. This could have been an opportunity to explore their relationship more or to introduce a deeper tension between them, but the focus remains surface-level.
  3. Ambiguous Relationships and Subtext: The interaction between Gilda and Sidney raises questions that go unexplored. Sidney’s comment about wanting to swim with Gilda could be read as a subtle hint at something more, but it’s left hanging in the air. Gilda’s strange behavior (stretching in a yoga outfit, wearing a bikini) feels unmotivated and makes the reader question whether there is some unspoken tension between her and Sidney, or between her and Jerome. Without exploring this further, the reader is left with an unresolved and somewhat uncomfortable sense that there’s more going on than is revealed.
  4. Tone Inconsistency: The story seems to straddle different tones—there’s an almost slice-of-life casualness in the first half, but as Gilda’s actions become more peculiar, the story takes on a slightly surreal or uncomfortable edge. The narrative never fully commits to this shift, making the tone feel inconsistent. It’s unclear whether the story intends to be comedic, quirky, or darkly mysterious, which can leave readers unsure of how to engage with it.

Overall Impression:

The story succeeds in creating a comfortable, ordinary scenario that becomes increasingly strange and unsettling. There’s potential in the relationship between the characters, particularly the dynamic with Gilda and her interactions with Sidney, but the story leaves too much unexplored. If the narrative delved deeper into these relationships and played with the tension hinted at by Gilda’s odd behavior and Sidney’s secret photo, it could have been much more engaging. As it stands, it feels like a brief snapshot of a weekend that might have been more interesting with a little more depth and development.

In short: The story has charm and humor but could benefit from a stronger narrative focus and deeper character exploration.

***

ChatGPT found humor where there was none, found the pedestrian interesting, mentions charm that was absent, speaks of imagined subtext, and said its banality keeps it grounded in reality. Yes, there is a bit of well-deserved criticism, but it is too kind, a little obsequious. It reminded me of the guys in the office who sucked up to the boss.

 The review should have simply said this is juvenile, lousy, and idiotic. Yet it didn’t. ChatGPT addressed A Weekend Visit as a serious piece of writing, and wrote a serious review that would garner a good grade for any student calling the review his own. And I think that is what this is all about – providing a service for students uninterested in doing their own work.

My test confirmed there probably was no genius in Sweater in a Jar, and no genius in ChatGPT. It’s a tool, maybe impressive and useful, but only a tool. I can go to sleep tonight know it will not take over the world.

Still, I’m slightly fixated on this idea that maybe – just maybe — the banality in my deliberately bad story has – as ChatGPT suggests – meaning and merit. My banality was deliberate and written to be banal. Nevertheless, could there be something deep in my mind – the genius mind seen by ChatGPT – that unconsciously pushes me to use banality effectively, maybe as subtext, whatever that is? Can my stilted dialogue about a science fiction movie be considered, by intellectual and machines minds, as something equivalent to Andy Warhol’s globally famous soup can, which I never liked?

American poet T.S. Eliot is shown seated in his London Office on Jan. 19, 1956. (AP Photo)

Maybe there is a muse on my shoulder that won’t let me write badly, even when I try. ChatGPT, however, did get me thinking about the existence of critically acclaimed banalities. For example, T.S. Eliot, considered one of the world’s greatest poets, launched into a near-epic piece and used such common phrases as:

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

… and …

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

… and my favorite …

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

Admittedly, these are much better than, “Do you think I can go swimming with your sister?” but I’m beginning to realize I might have something that I didn’t know I had.

I’m going to be patient about Artificial Intelligence and see how it all plays out. If ChatGPT starts buying and recommending books based on its own reviews, I should be in pretty good shape as a writer. That’s a future to look forward to.

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When a Hero’s Brilliance Dims

10 Nov

By Lanny Morgnanesi

I’m not necessarily a Yankees fan, but I respect and admire the team’s tradition of excellence. I’m more than willing to pay homage to Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Maris, and all the others. They are legends of hard work, talent, and accomplishment.

 Aaron Judge, a six-time All Star and the 2017 Rookie of the Year, is a contemporary reflection of past greatness, an equal to the best of Yankee history with his 2024 regular season stats of 58 home runs, 144 RBIs, 180 hits, and a .322 batting average. His brilliance, however, dimmed in the World Series against the Los Angeles Dodgers. Judge’s inability to hit caused me discomfort and concern, as if his setback was my own.

It also made me remember the fate of a guy named Sonny Z, the best ball player ever to play in our neighborhood.

 We were 12 when Sonny Z entered out lives.  He was not from our neighborhood but had a girlfriend there, the older sister of someone in our gang. Although he was 19, Sonny Z often came out to our diamond and played with us.

 Sonny Z was everything that baseball was. He talked like a ball player, walked like a ball player, looked like one, spat like one. There was little about him that wasn’t baseball. Baseball was his preoccupation and his obsession. They say he played in semi-pro, or in an industrial league, or maybe just Legion ball. I can’t really remember. But the thing about Sonny Z was he played on a level much above ours, and he always played hard — even against 12-year-olds. We loved that about him.

Out on our sandlot, he’d amaze us with his catches. When he came to bat, we watched him intently. We wanted to see his swing, to learn from it, to feel its power and to hear the thunderous crack of his bat. Inevitably, he would send our centerfielder running after a ball that landed way over his head and rolled and rolled and rolled, nearly into the next county.

Sonny Z sometime sat with us and told us of his baseball exploits. We were a rapt audience. Once, the subject of his name came up. The “Z” stood for a long Polish name we could not pronounce. And “Sonny,” it turned out, was not his real name. His real name was Marion. We thought “Marion” was a girl’s name and wondered how the very masculine Sonny Z ever got such a name.

“It’s spelled with an ‘O.’ That’s a man’s name,” he said.  “The girl’s name is spelled with an ‘A’.”

One hot summer day, Sonny Z visited his girlfriend and joined us later on the ballfield. The bases were loaded with two outs and Sonny Z was up. He was, of course, going to hit a grand slam home run and clear the bases. We all knew this. He even told us so. The pitch came and – bang – there went the ball, high and far to centerfield. Playing center that afternoon was . . . me,  one of the least-skilled athletes in our group. But when Sonny Z came to bat I knew enough to play deep. As the ball soared above me, I ran as fast as I could. I can’t recall if I was looking up or down, or even if I had my eyes open. I just remember running. Finally, in near exhaustion, I stuck my glove in the air, tripped over my own two feet and fell to the ground. When I got up, the ball was in my glove.

A little shrimp, a talent-less pipsqueak, had robbed the great Sonny Z of a grand slam home run.

Across the infield, the outfield, and among the players on the sidelines, there was a pronounced sigh of disappointment. And I felt guilty, as if I had done something wrong, as if I had harmed someone I loved. As I ran in to bat and Sonny Z ran out to take the field, he patted me on the head and said coldly, “Nice catch, kid.”

 A month later there was big news. The biggest news of the summer, or perhaps of ever: Sonny Z was going to try out with the Philadelphia Phillies.

 For us, this was like winning the lottery, or having your parents buy a candy store, or your new teacher being a former underwear model for the Sears cateloge. Better than all that. Soon we would have a friend and pal who is a for-real professional ball player.  Someone who played on our modest little sandlot will be taking the field on game day at Connie Mack Stadium. We’ll know his name, we’ll know him, we’ll know his girlfriend. We’ll know the things he says and does, like flipping an imaginary switch on the heel of his glove and saying, “OK. The vacuum cleaner has been activated.”

When the day of the tryout came, we were too nervous to play. Instead, we sat around trying to anticipate how the tryout would go. Would Sonny Z send one out of the park? Would he make a flying grab? Would he get on base and quickly steal second? I think we even prayed, which we had never done as a group.

Then we waited.

It may have been the next day, or a couple days later. Sonny Z returned to our neighborhood. We ran toward him and leaped about. He looked solemn, but we ignored that and considered it modesty. “How did you do?” we asked. “How many hits did you get? Did they take you? Will you play this season or next, or go to the minors first? What was it like? What was it like?”

Sonny Z’s girlfriend was standing in the doorway of her house. Just standing, like it was a normal day. Sonny Z looked back at her, then to us. “I guess I did OK,” he said with vacant eyes. “Hit a couple. Made a good catch. There were lots of good players there.”

As a group, my friends and I deflated. Our soaring spirit crashed onto an already cracked pavement. Although it was hard to believe, we slowly, fog-like, accepted this new reality. The truth way,  Sonny Z had been told by the Phillies that he was ordinary, which in the world of ambition is the worst they can say about you.

Sonny Z’s girlfriend called, and he walked away.

“Will they give you another chance?” we asked, and he did not answer.

I can’t recall if we ever saw him again, or ever heard of him again. But he did break up with my friend’s sister, which took him out of our neighborhood and our lives. We were not hero-less, but for a long time it felt that way.  I’m sure the Yankee fans know the feeling.

People need to know their ship captain can sail through the storm; that their general will get them through the war; that the person they back for president will win; that when it’s the ninth inning, with two outs and the tying run on second and the go-ahead run – the hero — at the plate, he will do the job he was destined to do.

 The hero makes life bearable for the ordinary. When Aaron Judge can no longer hit, those who are ordinary – the great masses of us — experience personal failure. That’s why we depend on our heroes to succeed, and to succeed with honor and valor, with dignity and a kind of magic.  We only triumph through them. If they cease being heroes, then we are doomed in our ordinary-ness.

The most frightening thing for me about the Yankee-Dodgers series was the look on Aaron Judge’s face as he waited for a pitch. He’s a giant of a man with a granite jaw. Still, there was something about his face during those plate appearances that questioned his very being. It was deep doubt. A series like his would destroy an ordinary person. It would send most to the dust heap. As a professional, the great Judge surely will get past this. He’s not Sonny Z. As a dimmed hero leaving behind darkness, he can only shine brighter when the new season begins. And then everyone outside of LA can once again feel special, and the ordinariness of life will fade away, like the sun going down over the rightfield fence.

Who needs the sun when you have a hero.

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Modeling a Country After a Shopping Destination

23 Oct

By Lanny Morgnanesi

Near my home, in a place called Lahaska, there’s a tranquil spot of beauty and commerce called Peddler’s Village. It was built by a somewhat eccentric man named Earl Jamison. The village is spread over 42 acres. It has old-fashioned shops, restaurants, bars, lodging, even a carnival merry-go-round. The peddlers at Peddler’s Village peddle everything from clothes to hats to paintings to fresh pastry, popcorn, maple syrup, and beef jerky.

Part of the attraction is the artful landscaping. Jamison liked gardening, and when he was alive you could mostly find him at Peddler’s Village on his knees, tending to plants. That kind of attention and that kind of tradition has been passed on to others. The place looks great.

The summer day of my recent visit was pleasant, and everyone was having a good time. Parents, kids, babies, older couples, dogs. In this part of suburban Philadelphia and at Peddler’s Village, the crowd is mostly – what’s a good word? – Anglo. With a fair number of Asians. The people who walked the brick promenades seemed comfortable in their lives, safe, and secure. As I did. This was an enviable America.

This simple Saturday was starkly different from the America depicted in the political ads of Democrat Kamala Harris and Republican Donald Tump, both of whom want to lead a country they have extreme doubts about. During the broadcast of the July Olympics in Paris, Harris and Trump ran harsh ads designed to shock and get you to the polls. There was an inescapable onslaught of these ads. I couldn’t tell which America was worse, the one the Republicans blame the Democrats for, or the one the Democrats blame the Republicans for. It wasn’t much of a choice. Made me think horrible things about a country that, to me, seems all right.

Shoppers relaxing

The trump and the Republicans presented a nation ravaged by inflation and overrun with invading foreigners who bring in drugs and commit a wide assortment of crimes, including murder and rape. These same foreigners suck the money and life out of our social service and health systems, so there is little left for us. Kamala Harris, the Democratic candidate for president, is said to be dangerous and weak, a radical who clearly will destroy whatever is left of the America that they say once was great but obviously no longer is. The Democrats, for their part, cast Trump as a crude, weird, racist dictator whose speech and actions resemble Hitler’s.

What these ads showed and preached was nothing at all like the idyllic Peddler’s Village, where not even a trace of discontent could be found. And so I thought of my own life and happiness. As my wife shopped, I sat on a bench and enumerated the America I knew and appreciated, and that I think others would recognize, regardless of the horrors in the political ads.

In my America:

  • No one is shooting at me or dropping bombs on or near my house.
  • My home is nice, comfortable, and in good working order.
  • I have clean water and plenty of food.
  • The stores are filled with everything I could possibly need or want.
  • They take away my trash and sewage.
  • They take away the snow.
  • We have good hospitals and good doctors, and you can get appointments.
  • We have good schools.
  • The police protect us.
  • We are free to go where we want, when we want.
  • Contrary to what some people may prefer, we can say whatever we want.
  • We have a strong tradition where the rule of law prevails, and the legal system works.
  • We are allowed to invest our money in companies that can make us money.
  • Generally, you don’t have to bribe a public official to get something done.

I’ll stop there. I hope you can see the difference between what the presidential candidates are saying and what I am living.

Elsewhere, beyond me and beyond Peddler’s Village, there are people living lesser, unenviable lives. In these last few decades, inequality in America has bounded ahead in a rampage. There is nothing unusual about inequality in America, but it has gotten worse. For many there is food insecurity, job insecurity, little or no medical attention, poor or no housing, poor schools, high crime, discrimination and lack of opportunity. None of this was on display at Peddler’s Village.

Philosophers and do-gooders will say that in a country as rich as the United States, poverty is unnecessary. Others will say poverty is the self-inflicted disease of the shiftless and not something for government to fix. But in almost every society and culture, the natural, human tendency is for a strong and aggressive minority to acquire nearly all the wealth and broker all the power. Sometimes, this inevitable pattern is halted or reversed by uprising and revolution, but only for a period, and then the inexorable progression of the dominant human forces continues, and the once-again complacent majority – usually with a very worse-off minority substrata –allows its modest wealth to trickle up.

Therefore, it is difficult for a nation such as ours to eliminate poverty and establish of nation of Peddler’s Villages.

In my mind, eliminating poverty is not about giving money to the poor. Rather, it is about allowing the poor to be productive. This requires removing the often-invisible restraints and barriers holding them back, as well as reorienting a defeatist mindset and the established alternative culture of the outsider.

Not an easy thing to do. Maybe impossible. But for the sake of discussion, let’s see how much money is out there for the poor, as if we just wanted to give it to them, which of course we do not.

Forbes magazine says there are about 400 billionaires in the US. It says they are worth a total of $54,000,000,000,000 – that’s $54 trillion. (The entire federal budget in 2024 was about $6.5 trillion). The top five billionaires are:

Elon Musk — $244 billion

Jeff Bezos — $197 billion

Mark Zuckerberg — $181billion

Larry Ellison — $175 billion

Warren Buffett — $150 billion

If, in some crazy world that is not ours, we took 25 percent of the wealth away from the 400 billionaires and handed it to the 37 million people living in poverty, each would receive $36,000. I guess a family of three would get more than $100,000. That’s enough to start a small business, send the kids to college, or maybe get a mortgage on a house.

This is just fun with numbers and of no meaningful purpose when it comes to problem solving. It is for perspective only. A more practical solution to income inequality is a return to tax policies of the ‘50s and ‘60s that allowed for a more even distribution of the wealth.

To illustrate the change, in 1963, the wealthiest families had 36 times the wealth of families in the middle class. By 2022, they had 71 times the wealth of those families. The top 10 percent now own about 70 percent of the nation’s wealth, with the bottom 50 percent owning 2.5 percent.

The charts below show how the money was spread out then, and how it is spread out now. The blue is the money. The poor are on the left. The rich are on the right. Most of us are in the middle.

If we can find the strength and courage to eliminate barriers to opportunity, and there is a redistribution of some wealth, without so much money sitting in the hands of so few, maybe there will be enough money to fix things up in our country. Maybe our crumbling cities can look like Dubai, or Shanghai, or Singapore. Maybe, if neighborhoods aren’t economic dead zones, they’ll be welcoming places and not fearful haunts to be avoided. With the proper changes, maybe escalators and streetlights will work. Maybe we will have fast trains, and wide, smooth roads, and bridges not in danger of collapsing, and JFK airport won’t be a 21st century embarrassment.  Maybe we can prop up Medicare and Social Security and have a good universal health care program. Maybe, state universities can be free. It’s not that we need free stuff, it’s that we’ve worked hard enough to get them, and that wide access to education and health care will result in a stronger, more productive country with greater participation by its population. With a vibrant, involved population, there will be great costs savings in law enforcement and prisons, mental health, public housing, all kinds of things. This is a great trade off.

New York City subway

I was disheartened when I heard of an American who returned home after living for a decade in Japan. “Nothing works here,” he said. “And the public bathrooms are disgusting.”  So let’s fix things up. Fix ‘em up good.

There is a theory that if you don’t repair a broken window in a building, the entire neighborhood will eventually collapse. If you do repair it, the entire neighborhood will keep itself up and thrive.

I want the latter for my neighborhood and my country. Why don’t others?

Visit the clean, the organized, the efficient, the beautiful Peddler’s Village and perhaps you will change your mind.

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On the Duck that Traveled 10,000 miles

6 Oct

By Lanny Morgnanesi

An old friend came home for our 55th high school reunion and had a criticism of my recent novel, The King of Ningxia.

The book uses a shifting timeline and is loosely based on my experiences in China during the mid-80s. The story is about the relationship between an American man and a Chinese woman, whose antics together help illustrate China’s great ascent in the world and its changing relationship with the U.S. But the book also includes a stupid joke. My friend was disappointed that only an abbreviated version of the joke appears, rather than the elaborate version I told years and years ago.

My friend felt the short version misrepresented the joke, was a disservice to the joke, was a disservice to his memory of the joke, and also a disservice to the novel.

I, of course, disagreed.

From my adult perspective, the joke is juvenile and not even funny. But my friend remembers how our gang laughed and laughed and laughed as I extended and stretched out the simple story of a guy trying to sneak a duck into a movie theater. To do so, he places the duck in his pants. Once in the theater, he opens his fly to give it some air. The lady next to him sees the duck’s head popping out of the pants zipper and says to her friend, “Look at that.” Her friend responds with a shrug, “When you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.” To which the first woman says, “Yes, but this one is eating my popcorn.”

Now according to my old friend, I would tell this joke for 20 or 30 minutes. I’d do the voices of the duck owner, the ticket taker at the theater, the two old ladies, even the duck. I would push the joke farther than it was supposed to go, provide great detail and back stories, improvise and go on and on. My friend especially liked how I had the guy pleading with the ticket taker to let the duck in, saying the movie – a film starring Donald Duck – was his all-time favorite and his pet just had to see it.

I told this joke at parties back in the late ‘60s and reminded my friend that most people at those parties were using a substance that made them laugh at anything.

“It was marijuana telling the joke, and it was marijuana laughing at the joke” I said. “The joke, by itself, is not funny.”

He held his position and said the entire joke – which I certainly could not recollect – should have been included in The King of Ningxia. At this point, I had to explain why a short version is in the book, and what it was designed to do.

It occurs during a scene where the main character, the American male, tries to learn about Chinese culture by asking a Chinese person to tell a joke, to see if the humor translates. The person agrees and tells a story of a guy who sneaks his duck into a movie theater. (In real life, this is what happened when I asked for a joke). Rather than popcorn, this Asian duck eats the woman’s sunflower seeds, which is what Chinese people eat in movie theaters. The actual punchline is a bit different as well, but it is still the same joke. In response, the American tells his version of the joke, and they compare the two.

So, I say to my friend as we prepare to attend the reunion, “Do you see the purpose of the joke? It was not to get a laugh from the reader. It was to show that an aspect of culture can jump 10,000 miles across an ocean, from a capitalist country to a communist country, and be enjoyed by two entirely different people. It says something about the oneness of humanity, about the commonalities of our minds, about the strength of global reach, of geography’s inability to contain us and the uselessness of political barriers to stop the flow of information.”

“Yeah,” said my friend. “But when the guy in the joke practically gets on his hands and knees and cries, ‘It’s Donald Duck, his favorite actor. You’ve got to let him in.’ How could you not have included that?”

It was as if my friend was still smoking weed.

“Well,” I said. “Maybe in my next novel.”

I really should end this here, but in contrast to the duck joke, I want to relate a funny Chinese video – Chinese howl at this one – that Americans just don’t get. It’s a video of a street scene in China, and there is a horse in the street. A man walks by and pats the horse on the ass. The horse then violently kicks the man in the head.

Why is this funny?

It is funny because there is a famous Chinese saying that to get ahead, you must pat the horse’s ass, meaning you must suck up and flatter authority figures. People who don’t suck up are angry that those who do receive special privileges. Therefore, the video gives the non-suckers delight in showing that sucking up does not always work.

Are you laughing yet?

No? Did you hear the one about the duck in the movie theater?

THE KING OF NINGXIA IS AVAILABLE AT AMAZON.CO

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How “The Bear” Made Me Appreciate My Restaurant Education

22 Aug

(ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE GUILTY)

         By Lanny Morgnanesi

         When I first tuned into the FX/Hulu TV show called The Bear, which just concluded its third season, I had no idea it was about a restaurant. Actually, it’s about two restaurants. Season One opens in a popular but gritty eatery best known for its Italian beef sandwich. Season Three ends in a classy, upscale joint (run by the same people) where the food on each plate is equal in size and weight to a Snickers. The Chicago-based series is about many things, including the obsession with perfection. But it is also about restaurant culture, a culture I was exposed to from age 15 to 22; a culture that I liked, appreciate, and understood. It was more than a culture; it was an education, one that was rare and unique.

         And it all came rushing back after watching The Bear.

         As a teen, I was unaware of myself. I knew I was not especially athletic, or especially smart, or especially funny. Other than that, I was blank. I didn’t know my quirks and idiosyncrasies, and assumed I didn’t have any. Early awareness, however, began developing after I took a job washing dishes at a place I’ll call De Luca’s, a small suburban restaurant that mostly served pizza, hoagies, steak sandwiches, and pasta dishes.

At De Luca’s, dishes were washed by hand, in a triple sink, with one empty, one having sudsy water, and one having a rinsing solution. On my first day, I found myself appalled that a fellow dishwasher was dumping sauce-covered dishes right into the sudsy water, turning it red, meaning all other dishes, even cleaner ones, would have to be washed in a tomato broth. Although I was the least experienced person at the restaurant, with no stake whatsoever in its management, I insisted that the saucy dishes be rinsed in the open sink before being placed in the soapy water, and I took it upon myself to change the soapy water at regular intervals.

On a busy Saturday, I expressed panic when the senior chef and consiglieri, the uncle of the owner that every called “Uncle,” tried dropping a large stack of saucy dishes into my sink. I stopped him abruptly and told him I needed to rinse them first. He looked at me with one eye and said, “OK Mr. Clean.” From then on, Uncle always called me Mr. Clean.

         Next in my restaurant education, I was forced to ponder the conflict between morality and capitalism. It centered primarily on the quantity and quality of certain ingredients.

Between lunch and dinner, the dishwashers helped making meatballs. There was a set recipe to follow, and it included what I thought was an overabundance of breadcrumbs. I was outraged and started calling them bread balls. Clearly, the customer was being cheated (although they did taste good). Later, I was shocked to learn that on All You Can Eat Pizza Night, less than half the regular portion of cheese was used. What shocked me more was that no one cared. Furthermore, we were instructed to cut the lunchmeat paper thin. There were some complaints, but only because it took longer. All this led me to feel like an abnormal outlier, a crusading do-gooder that no one listens to. Then, the Uncle restored my confidence in mankind.

When I was cutting salami for hoagies, he happened to walk by with one of the managers. He saw what I was doing, paused, and looked around the table where I was working. He looked on a nearby shelf. He picked things up and looked underneath then. His head went left and right. The manager standing by his side asked, “Is something wrong?” Uncle answered, “I was just looking for the razor you use to cut this salami.”

         Salvation. I was not alone. Morality and fairness can at least be a minority voice in capitalism. Humanity had been saved.

         De Luca’s owner, let’s call him Tony De Luca, did have his moments of generosity. At Christmas, every employee – even lowly dishwashers — received a gift, a nice one. And every supplier, the truck driver or whoever it was that brought in the cartons of canned tomatoes, the heavy sacks of flower, the produce, received a fifth of whiskey. Once a year, Tony, a member of the Kiwanis service club, would donate hundreds of hoagies for the club to sell at its fundraiser. My young mind thought: Wouldn’t it be better to not do these things and instead make the meatballs meatier? Ultimately, I concluded, with no evidence, that what appeared like generosity  was actually business decisions with a positive financial return; that goodness and kindness had only a little to do with it.

         Thus was my early grounding in American capitalism and the world of commerce.

         Next came my realization that common-sense rules, made sacrosanct and beyond question, had their purpose.

         Growing up, I don’t recall being faced with rules that couldn’t be bent or challenged. But in the restaurant business, such rules existed, and while they meant more work for me, I considered them logical and important. I was more than willing to comply.

         Three of those rules were:

  1. Break down all boxes before putting them in the Dumpster.
  2. When putting new supplies on shelves, rotate the old stock to the front.
  3. Do not leave the restaurant at night until it is thoroughly cleaned.

These rules, never written down, showed me people, even obstreperous ones, can be compliant in the interest of building a great institution or even a great civilization. This was an important lesson for a guy who had too many opinions of his own.

         As a person who read books and intended to go to college, I felt superior to most of my restaurant co-workers. So, when they showed flashes of intelligence, as they often did, it caught me off balance. Once I was asked by a manager if I could operate a certain food processor. I said I could not, and he walked away. That’s when a guy named Freddy, who would spend his life in restaurants, told me, “You never say no. Say yes, and when they take you to the machine, say this one is a little different than the one you used. Ask him to show you the basics, and then teach yourself how to use the machine. You’re smart enough to do that.”

         Basically, Freddy was telling me the adage, “Fake it until you make it,” which I hadn’t yet heard.

         The educational level of De Luca workers was shown in their limited vocabulary, but some knew more than they let on. I recall a manager named Leon scolding a waitress, saying, “You know what your problem is? You’ve got ASS-mosis. Every time your ass sees a chair, it sits down.” After that, I had to assume he was familiar with the scientific process of osmosis, and Gpd knows what else.

         Another vocabularic surprise came from a waitress who, during this period, might be described as “hard.” Rita used to hang out with her gang, drinking, smoking, and intimidating people on their “turf” behind a shopping center. She and I talked once about a De Luca’s employee who was fired. “The guy was a real jerk off,” Rita said, using a term often applied to people you don’t like. But then she added, “I mean he was literally a jerk off. He’d call you into the backroom and when you got there, he’d be stroking it.”

         Writers and scholars often confuse the words “literally” and “figuratively,” but Rita, a young hoodlum, got it right.

         De Luca’s was filled with thought-provoking characters and innumerable personalities. There was Ralph, who today would be persona non grata for his incessant use of sexual innuendo and inappropriate quips. We all thought he was funny, and – sorry — he was. Each year on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, he’d kindly tell every waitress, “Have a good holiday, but don’t get too much bird.”

         Then there was Sidney, the brother of the owner’s wife. He was the kind of person only a relative would hire. Sidney fancied himself a tough, with-it guy who had learned everything from the streets. In truth, he was of genuine low intelligence, with a mumbled, tortuous way of speaking. He was difficult to understand, but he liked to talk. When he talked to me, I listened politely and just nodded my head.

Sidney took a liking to an obese young waitress with a clever mind and, unlike him, good verbal skills. She took to him, too, and they paired up for life – a short life. She died of kidney failure. He died trying to stop a robbery in progress.

         I remember a Jewish guy who started working several years after I started. For some reason, he told us to call him Bean. He had shoulder-length hair and spoke like a Malibu surfer. One day, for a reason I cannot recall, I was contemplating the meaning of the Yiddish word “shiksa.” I didn’t know if it was a reference to all gentile woman, or just used to disparage them. During a slow period, I asked Bean, “What’s a shiksa?” Bean thought a moment, then pointed to a cute blonde waitress wearing a short skirt and showing cleavage. “You see her? That’s a shiksa.”

         Funny story. Even funnier is he married her.

         There was a pecking order at De Luca’s, with some holding high status and some holding low. Luther was one of high status. These were the ‘60s, and Luther was a full-blow hippie living the counterculture life. He was sarcastic and smart and knew things. At 19 or so he left home, married a hippie chick, got his own rundown apartment, plastered the walls with the covers of Rolling Stone magazine, and began working the grill at De Luca’s.

         There was something about him, an air of mystery, or of danger, and he was treated like a celebrity by the other workers. Years later he came out as gay. Even later, he died of AIDS.

Old and young got along at De Luca’s. There was a middle-aged guy, Nico, who had been working lots of overtime.  To perk himself up, he borrow some methamphetamine from a high school student working as a waitress.  Then he borrow more, and more. I recall him up on the platform making pizzas on a busy Saturday night and the waitress who loaned him the drugs laughing loudly. “Look at Nico,” she said. “He’s speeding his ass off.” I just thought he was working fast.

         Jocularity was always a part of work. A running joke or gag or bit would circulate and be repeated for weeks, until it was overused, dropped, and another gag adopted. There was a period when everyone called each other “cuz” – meaning cousin. Cuz this, cuz that. Hey cuz, get over here. Cuz, they are waiting for you. “Cuz” was used affectionately, to express like-mindedness, or ironically, to suggest strong disagreement. In cases of the later, the mock would sometime be answered with a sneering, “I’m not your cousin.”

 I forgot what followed the “cuz” craze, but I was glad when it ended.

         At De Luca’s, we were not all family, but we were close. Over time, we grew together, sharing large parts of lives. That happened with me and one of the partner’s daughters, let’s call her Melissa, who sometimes worked as a hostess.

         When I first met Melissa, she was probably (hard to remember) 17. I may have been 19. Melissa was a special project. She was being groomed by her father, Nicholas, and Tony De Luca for the world of Show Business. She was their investment, and they expected a large payout. Several days a week, her father would shuttle her off to New York for dance, singing, and acting lessons. To protect their investment, Nicholas and Tony sheltered Melissa from boys, keeping her too busy to have time for them and directing her down a path they could not follow.

But one New Year’s Eve, everyone within and even without the De Luca circle was going to a huge party at a local night club. Melissa begged to be included. As a compromise, possibly as a controlled experiment, her brother-in-law (who also worked at the restaurant), enlisted me as her date. I was happy to oblige.

         On New Year’s Eve, fresh through the door of the club, Melissa, whom I don’t believe ever drank, started doing shots. One after the other after the other. She was drunk in no time. After a dance or two, she grabbed me and led me out to my car. Then she jumped on me like a feverish cat. It was quite exciting. In the midst of that pleasure came a disturbing thought: I could loss my job. Worse, I could destroy Nick and Tony’s investment and they’d murder me.  Neither possibility helped the mood.

         Fortunately or unfortunately, there was a bang on my car door. It was the brother-in-law, who ordered us back into the night club. Yes, a controlled experiment.

         In the aftermath, Melissa and I dated a little. On Saturday nights after closing, her father would finish up the bookkeeping while we’d wait in the car and neck. That was fun. But the most fun came for me one Saturday evening at a place called Paulie’s Starlite Ballroom, which was more of a bar than a ballroom. Saturday was a work night for me, Melissa and her father. However, an arrangement had been made that after closing, we would go to Pauli’s and Melissa, even though she was underage, would perform. And we did just that. I didn’t quite know what to expect, and I didn’t anticipate anything special, and nothing special happened. Even so, the simple experience of it, once I comprehended it, gave me a Sinatraesque feeling that put me on a cloud and transformed me into something I never thought I could be, even if it was only in my imagination.

 There I was. Nineteen years old. At 2 a.m. Inside Paulie’s Starlite Ballroom. Being served shots and beers – for free. With my girlfriend up on a stage looking and singing like an angel.

         Who was I? Obviously, someone very cool.

         All from a humble beginning as a restaurant dishwasher.

         When I watch The Bear, with all its gut-wrenchingly realism, I sometimes tear up. I did that during the Third Season’s finale, about the closing of a famous Chicago restaurant. There is a “funeral dinner” held to honor the restaurant, and restaurant people from all over town attend. When they filmed this scene, they included verité-like testimony from actual chefs. Toward the end, Olivia Colman, the actress playing the owner of the closing restaurant, gives a speech. She says of all the years and all the food, the one thing she will never forget are the people.

         I was jubilant on my final day at De Luca’s. By then I was an assistant manager making pizzas. As I prepared to depart, there was no sadness, no melancholy, no regret. I just wanted to get the hell out of there, knowing that I would never again have to spend hot summers standing in front of two 450-degree ovens. My new destination was the University of Missouri, where I would earn a master’s degree in journalism. I looked so forward to a future where I would do something important and serve people who were hungry for news and information – not food.

         But having now watched The Bear, I realize everything I’ve done since De Luca’s has been impacted by De Luca’s, and that my memories of Tony and Uncle and Bean and Freddy and Luther and Sydney and sweet Melissa and all the others are much stronger than of any professor at Missouri, or of any high dignitary I covered as a journalist. I also realized that the invisible energy and palpable excitement that invades and dominates a packed restaurant on a Saturday night, even to someone washing dishes, is indescribable, euphoric, and almost impossible to duplicate.

         One final note.

         In the early ‘80s, about a decade after I last saw Melissa, I was walking through the lounge at an Atlantic City casino. There was a stage and on it was a band fronted by an attractive, stylish woman. It was my old girlfriend, and she saw me. When the number ended, she ran off the stage to hug and kiss me. The audience watched and, God bless them, applauded.

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Unconventional Writing Tips

22 Jul

Since writing my novel, “The King of Ningxia” (available on Amazon), I’ve been using TikTok to offer unconventional writing tips, the kind generally ignored by the literary world. Find them on TikTok by searching for my site, NotebookM. Here’s my latest advice video

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The Divine Comedy: Hard to Understand After 700 years

8 Jun

By Lanny Morgnanesi

In 1990, I wanted to name my new-born son after a writer, or at least an Italian. In the end, we named him after an Italian writer. Dante Alighieri. Just Dante. Not Alighieri. And because of this, I vowed to read Dante’s most famous work, the acclaimed Divine Comedy, written between 1308 and 1321 and divided into three parts, Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso. When I was gifted by my young son with a nice leather-bound copy, I let it sit on the shelf to marinate. Or maybe I was just intimidated. When I decided to open it, it wasn’t there. Lost forever.

         Thirty years later, I am reading a free, digital version, an 1867 translation by poet William Wadsworth Longfellow. It is considered one of the best. By coincidence, at this very same time, PBS is airing a series on Dante and The Divine Comedy. The series is easy. The book is hard.

 You can’t just read the book You must look things up … constantly. There are scores of other books and websites to help with this – understanding the references, the personalities from history, the Greek and Roman legends, the pagan gods, geography, and so much more — and still it remains hard.

         The work is considered one of the finest in all of literature, even 700 years after it was published. I find this remarkable because I’m certain Dante wasn’t writing for us. For him, in my estimation, it was a strictly contemporary work aimed at a small audience, the people of his native city, Florence. I drew this conclusion because with the billion who have died and gone to hell, Dante, during his visit there, run into about three dozen people just from his little part of the world. There are others, like Ulysses, Mohammed, and lots of classical Greeks and Romans. But for Dante, hell was very much like old home week.

His encounters include those with Florentines whom history remembers, as well as some whom history never knew. A few were involved in provincial scandals (like the two adulterous lovers inspired by the romance of Lancelot and Guinevere, who were murdered by the woman’s brother) or committed poor behavior (like the glutton Ciacco). These characters no doubt were a source of 14th century tongue wagging. But now? For Dante to include them means he was not intending to entertain readers in the far future. He doesn’t even provide much context or background or explanations, assuming his readers know the full story. Often, there is just a casual hint, or the drop of a single name. For example, when Dante enters Purgatory, he is greeted by a person he obviously expects his readers to know. He never names the person, only the woman that person loves, Marcia, and the city he comes from, Utica. Apparently, his target audience knew, or were expected to know, that the person from Utica who loved Marcia is the famous Roman orator and statesman Cato.

         Confession: I did not know. I had to look it up.

         Obscure as he may seem to us, Dante wanted to reach the widest possible audience of his day, and that included the nobility and the common people. This required a revolutionary approach, and Dante was more than willing to take it. Instead of writing in scholarly Latin, he wrote in the vernacular or vulgate, basically street talk, the dialect of Tuscany. And because of this, and the influence of his work, a form of Tuscan eventually became Italian and the language of a unified nation. Aside from its poetry, this is one reason why The Divine Comedy is considered a literary landmark.

         If you read it closely, and don’t take its spirituality too seriously, you might find it quite temporal, an act of earthly vengeance by the author, who makes a habit of using the Inferno to inflict pain and punishment on his enemies.  Context is needed here.  Readers need to know that the poet had been a victim of Florence’s ceaseless civil war between the factions known as the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. He was a Guelph (although they later split as well), and when his group lost power, he was exiled from Florence and sentenced to death should he return. One of his enemies was named Farinata, a Ghibelline military leader and aristocrat. In hell, Dante conveniently entombs Farinata, for all eternity, in a coffin of fire.

         A writer can get great pleasure doing that.

At times, however, he could be merciful.  He spares a fellow name Buonconte by putting him in purgatory, allowing him to cleanse himself of sin and reach paradise. Buonconte was no friend of Dante. He was a military strategist who literally fought against Dante at the Battle of Campaldino in 1289. According to Dante’s telling, Buonconte accepted Christ at the time of his death, which I guess makes all the difference. So no punishment there.

         Aside from punishing his enemies, Dante places a few people he liked in hell, including his teacher, a known sodomite, but he expresses sympathy and sadness for him.

         Following the then-teachings of the Catholic church, Dante condemns to hell everyone in the world who was born before Christ, and therefore did not worship Christ. He places the virtuous Greek and Roman figures there, in the tame, unthreatening, limbo portion. These include Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Homer, Horace, Cicero, Seneca, Ovid, and, of course, the poet Virgil, his underworld guide. There are always exceptions, and one of them is Cato, the Roman politician and stoic known for his virtue and defense of the old Roman republic. Cato is in purgatory, but he probably will not get to cleanse himself and go to heaven. Rather, Dante gives him a job of sorts. Cato is a greeter who welcomes and instructs the new souls.

         Although Dante, as the writer, condemns to hell those who followed the Greek and Roman gods, he shows immense respect for these deities, as if he, too, were a follower.  He seems to worship them and acknowledge them as if they were real. In fact, he punishes those who blasphemed against Zeus, the supreme god, known to the Romans as Jupiter or Jove. In one unusual passage, Dante appears to call Jesus Christ by the name Jove.

         Let’s get back to the punishments, which range in severity depending on the sin. If you were gluttonous, you are tormented with ceaseless rain. If you were lustful, there is ceaseless wind. For the really bad, you could be continually pecked by bird-like creatures, or forever bitten by dogs, or submerged in boiling blood, or be torn apart, or forced to stand head-first in stone bowls and endure flames upon the feet. While we think of hell as hot, the worst level is a frozen wasteland. In addition to all this, Dante, as poet, sometimes punishes with a type of irony known as “contrapasso,” (to suffer the opposite). False prophets who claim to see the future, for example, have their heads turned backwards on their bodies, so it is impossible for them to see what lies ahead. That kind of thing.

         Indeed, above all, The Divine Comedy is a poem, a work of art. And, at least in the Italian, it rhymes. It rhymes in such a complex fashion that, to keep their sanity, most translators of Dante don’t attempt to rhyme. Longfellow didn’t. The technique Dante used is called Terza Rima, or third rhyme. In the original Italian, each stanza is three lines. The first line rhymes with the third, then the first and third lines of the second stanza rhyme with the second line of the preceding stanza – and continues this way throughout. It’s ABA, BCB, CDC, DED, and so on.

 This means the poet never gets a fresh start. As he moves on, he must craft new information based on words he already has used. It’s difficult to imagine writing a graceful or even coherent passage using this technique, yet Dante did it.

         While I find The Divine Comedy utterly remarkable, I find it astonishing that Dante’s 14th century readers (and those who heard the poem recited by bards and troubadours) understood and appreciated the frequent references to Greek and Roman mythology. Dante uses them matter-of-factly and with confidence, as if he were communicated in the most simply, easy-to-grasp fashion. I sense he, while writing, was certain these allusions, descriptions and analogies would be as easily understood as the Tuscan version of “hello.” What is perplexing, almost depressing, is that these magnificent references, these beautiful literary devices, these moral tales of virtue, honor, tragedy, and comedy, are, for all practical purposes, impenetrable to us. Without the guide of a scholar, The Divine Comedy, in all its wonder, means little to us.

With the advent of modernism and the passing of the classical period, the elite and the common have lost the cultural bearings on which our civilization was built. And so we walk with half-empty souls, rejecting what had once been given to us, leaving behind the magic of our own humanity.

         I envy the cobbler, or the butcher, of the Florentine farrier who maybe didn’t have an education but was washed daily, through frequent and copious tellings, in the stories of genius.

         The concubine of old Tithonus now

         Gleamed white upon the eastern balcony

         This is from the purgatory section of The Divine Comedy. Very beautiful, but pretty much a casual throw-away line of introduction. What does it mean? It simply means: The dawn arrived. But today’s reader has no way of knowing that.

         Tithonus is the key to understanding this well-crafted little stanza. In Greek mythology, Tithonus was a Trojan prince. The goddess Eos (the Roman Aurora) fell in love with him, took him for herself, and asked the god Zeus to make him immortal. In asking, she neglected to specify that she wanted him to remain young. And Zeus, with a dose of trickery not uncommon when gods grant favors, allowed him to live forever but required that he age. To the distress of his mistress, he became decrepit.

Eos and Tithonus

Eos, the disappointed lover, is the goddess of dawn. She dresses in a saffron-colored mantle and arrives in the sky each morning on a chariot, casting out the darkness and making way for Helios, the sun god, to bring on a new day. Know that and read again:

         The concubine of old Tithonus now

         Gleamed white upon the eastern balcony

         Consider another simple passage that for us is complex. Most today are aware of the constellation Gemini. Most are aware that Gemini refers to twins. But most would not grasp the meaning of this:

Whereon he said to me: “If Castor and Pollux

  Were in the company of yonder mirror,

  That up and down conducteth with its light …

         It’s a reference to the heavens. Castor and Pollux are the twin brothers for which the constellation Gemini was named, so Dante here seems to be talking about the constellation. But the story of Castor and Pollux is deeper and illustrative of an unusual scientific phenomenon called heteropaternal superfecundation. You see, the twins are only half-brothers. They have the same mother but different fathers. Their mother was the mortal Leda. Castor’s father was the mortal king of Sparta. Pollux father was the god Zeus, who raped Leda. The story tells us that the ancients obviously knew two eggs, in rare cases, can be fertilized around the same time by two different males. And they also knew they could use the skies to education and inform.

Castor and Pollux

         I say and explain all these many things having read not even half of The Divine Comedy. Now, it is time to return to the pleasant drudgery of those pages.

         Before leaving, I’ll add one thought. It concerns the frigid ninth circle of hell, where a giant-sized Satan resides, frozen up to his waist in ice, waving his bat-like wings to maintain the cold. He has three heads and is chewing on Brutus, Cassius (the assassins of Julius Caesar) and Judas Iscariot. My question: With the much-later arrival of Adolph Hitler, which of the three would Satan spit out?

         Even hell can change after 700 years.

Lanny Morgnanesi is a journalist and author of the novel, The King of Ningxia.

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A New Look at Charlie Parker’s Son, A Decade After His Death

26 Apr

By Lanny Morgnanesi

A writer may write, and may be appreciated, but for him or her there is nothing like, say, applause. So writers take satisfaction in notes sent by readers. I received such a note this week, a reaction to a simple piece I wrote 10 years ago, one that may not have been entirely accurate.

It was a sad piece, about the death of a man named Baird Parker, who at the time of his death worked quietly in a Lansdale, Pennsylvania, grocery store. In his life, Baird Parker had known fame, but it was not his fame. It was his father’s, a man named Charlie Parker, a saxophonist and one of the greatest jazz innovators of all time. The headline on my story was: “Is the son of a god a god? The problem with famous sons.”

What I wrote was based primarily on Baird’s obit and included a statement from Baird’s mother that his life, for the most part, was destroyed by the fame of his father.

That was 2014. Ten years later, on the anniversary of Baird’s death, I received an online message from his old roommate, a drummer. For a time, the two lived together with their girlfriends on Clinton Avenue in Doylestown, about five minutes from my home. The roommate told me that Baird’s life was not one of sadness, that there was success, joy, happiness; that it was a good life, one to be celebrated. It was a simple message but moved me greatly. Most important – and this was not in any obit – Baird was a musician and a composer. On the 10th anniversary of Baird’s death, I now share with you drummer Paul Bozzi’s touching account of his old friend.

Paul Bozzi

Lanny, I read your post about Charles Baird Parker. I was disappointed and I thought I would take this opportunity to fill in a few details on the 10th anniversary of his passing. His life was not a failure by any means. Here is what I know.

Charlie “Bird” Parker died in 1955 when Baird was only 3 years old. Shortly after that, Bird’s widow, Chan moved the family to Paris. Chan remarried another great saxophonist, Phil Woods. Baird studied guitar and created a unique style, slightly dark and moody with a relaxed groove. His guitar influences ranged from Jimi Hendrix to Django Reinhardt.  

In the early 70s, Baird moved back to Pennsylvania. I met Baird in 1973. My girlfriend had known Baird as a child when they both attended Ramblerny, a summer camp for the performing arts in New Hope, Pa., that has become a thing of legend. Other “campers” included the Brecker Brothers, Holly Cole and the recently passed Richie Cole, who after Phil Woods died had become the one remaining bearer of the bepop saxophone. Sadly, with his passing, there seems to be no successor to truly carry on that torch.

Phil Woods

We were living in Connecticut at the time and the best friend of my girlfriend was in a relationship with Baird, so we came down to visit for a weekend. The drummer in the band Baird was working with fell ill on Saturday and they asked me to sub for him. A few days later I returned to CT and picked up what I needed and moved to Doylestown, Pa. to join the band.

We moved in with Baird and his girlfriend in a two-floor apartment on North Clinton St. in Doylestown, where we stayed for a few years. During that time, we worked with a few bands, most notably, Ronnie Rinard and The Shadows.  Ronnie was a well-known Elvis impersonator, and I think he really did channel Elvis. Ronnie had a great voice and amazing stage presence, and in true form he was absolutely eccentric. From 1972 through 1977 we played some crazy joints as well as big clubs around Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Neither Baird nor I were big fans of Elvis, but we were young and happy, the money was good and the gigs were plentiful. Several nights a week, we would hop into his bright red Oldsmobile 442 convertible, he would quip “we’re off like a herd of turtles” and we would be on our merry way to another gig. Never a dull moment! If we ended up in a country joint where the clientele was rough and maybe a little racist about having a black man on stage, Baird would speak French into the mic, until his warm sense of humor would defuse the situation. He was so funny, and often had the band in stitches with jokes and witticisms about music and life in general. Often, at 3 am we would end up at Doylestown’s now-defunct Ed’s Diner (known by the regulars as “Dead’s Diner”) where we would enjoy the company of other late-night denizens and slam down a breakfast (or two sometimes)  before slipping around the corner to North Clinton St.

During that time, we also formed a group to play and record Baird’s original compositions. Unfortunately, all those recordings have disappeared. A great personal loss to me as the music was unique and now lost to the universe forever. In 1978, I took a gig touring with a band after which I returned to CT to start a family and lost touch with Baird.  Then around 2010 I went to Bucks County to ride the Delaware Canal bike trail. While there I looked him up and found him in Lansdale, Pa. where he had opened a music store, I believe it was called Birdland Music. He was doing quite well, owned a home and was living happily with a beautiful young woman and enjoying his life. Also playing with local musicians, many of whom had no idea of his lineage. I visited every summer for the next couple of years. Eventually, he closed the store and wanted to try something different. So he took a job as a baker at a grocery store. He enjoyed cooking and he wanted to learn about baking. We visited a few times after that until that day in 2014 when I received the devastating call from his girlfriend with the news of his passing. I was crushed. We had plans of the two of them coming to CT for an extended visit in the summer that year.

Charlie Parker

Baird was a joyful, humble, hardworking, extremely intelligent, talented and kind man. He was the son of a great innovator, and he had the same creative pulse running in his blood. He had been born into jazz royalty, and he accepted that and was proud of it. We talked about it a few times and you could hear the pride he had about his dad and his stepfather Phil Woods as well. Many famous jazz players knew him from his childhood, and he kept up with some of them. We once attended a Chick Corea concert where we were invited backstage and he was greeted warmly by Chick. He often spoke of his childhood relationship with Dave Lambert of the jazz vocal trio, Lambert, Hendricks and Ross. Dave was killed in an automobile accident in 1966.  Jon Hendricks’ telling of the story says that Lambert was a compulsive do-gooder and that he had stopped to assist another motorist in changing a flat tire. I can imagine Baird doing the same thing, he was just that kind of man.

Play on Baird, miss you brother!!

Paul Bozzi

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The King of Ningxia — a novel

1 Apr

In the mid-80s, I lived and worked in China. When I returned home in 1985, I set out to write a book partially based on my experiences. Decades passed, and it remained unwritten. But finally, this year, I finished my novel. It is different from what I first intended. Entitled, The King of Ningxia, it shifts in time between then and now. Primarily, the story is about the transformation of two people. On a deeper level, it is about the transformation of two countries. If you are interested in international intrigue, a journey from near poverty to great wealth, or a warm romance that turns cold and controlled, you might find this book interesting. The King of Ningxia is free to Kindle subscribers, and available on Amazon.com in paperback and a digital version. Use this link or a sneak-preview of the first chapter. Thanks.

LANNY MORGNANESI

Speaking, and only a few understanding … well, a few meaning 26 million

28 Sep

By Lanny Morgnanesi

            On a rainy September afternoon at the Bluestone Country Club, in a ballroom surrounded by an empty golf course, the Shanghainese Association of Greater Philadelphia held its annual gala, and I was the only white person there.

            The agenda included music, singing, dancing, a fashion show, door prizes, and a buffet lunch. But overall, it was more like one big commercial. Since there was no English, my escort wife, born and raised in Shanghai, explained most of it to me, even though I figured out much of it myself.

            Once through the door, the first order of business was photography. Everyone, everywhere, was taking photos. On the path to the ballroom was a tripod mounted with a ringed light and a device that took and showed you five photos of yourself, then sent them to your phone. Long line for that.

            Next was a large, wall-mounted banner with the group’s name on it, in English and Chinese, and a hired photographer taking pictures for the group’s website. There was no formal line. Instead, you pushed your way forward in a competitive tussle.

            After that came the ballroom, with about 300 well-dressed people (told to wear black and white) mingling about and shooting with their phones.

            The proceeding began when a fit-looking man in a well-tailor suit addressed the crowd. Poised and confident, he had organized the event and helped secure a panoply of sponsors. At first, he welcomed the people. In short time, however, he pitched his real estate business and advised the group to connect with him on the Chinese app WeChat to learn about the newest real estate deals. He was an effective promoter of himself, and no doubt owned a significant piece of the area’s Chinese real estate market.

            He was followed by a musical performance, a woman in a traditional qi pao-style dress who sang and play an instrument called a pi pa, a sort of Chinese lute or guitar, pear-shaped with six strings. Aside from my wife, this was the only person at the party I knew, and I did not know her well. If fact, I hadn’t seen her for 20 years, and did not remember her name, if I ever knew it. My wife spoke to her first and addressed her as “lao ban,” a title of respect for a store owner. My wife was quickly advised by the lao ban that she no longer was a lao ban.

            There was a time, before streaming and serious Internet use, when my wife and I made regular visits to a bookstore and Chinese emporium owned by the former lao ban. It was on Race Street in Chinatown, a huge, two-story building filled with Chinese merchandise you could not get elsewhere. We went there often to rent Chinese language videos and buy a few books. Chinatown has developed a lot since then, with a more vibrant economy and new, more innovative entrepreneurs who displaced old-school, never-change Cantonese. Longtime establishments have been replaced with contemporary noodle houses, soup dumpling places, and dim sum joints. The lao ban, who had rented her huge building, probably was priced out of the market after Chinatown became hipper and the video and book market died. Where her business once stood, there is a two-tiered Asian food court.

            The lao ban, perhaps in her 60s, is now a musician and singer of Chinese opera. On this day the Bluestone Country Club had the perfect audience for her, but, unfortunately, an imperfect sound system. There was distressing feedback. The volume was too loud, and high notes came off like screeches. I felt bad for her as she played on. The feedback was fixed for the next act, but the system continued to deliver poor quality sound, which, I guess, the audience got used to. They cheered loudly for a young woman in a shiny, tight, blue-sequined jump suit who danced and sang a contemporary song called, “Give Me a Man at Midnight.” She was good, but I wanted to hold my ears. Others seemed more than content.

            Next, a contingent of trained amateurs took the floor and performed a waltz-like dance to the tune of Moon River. It was more like walking than dancing, but the women wore gorgeous gold dresses, and it was fun watching them. When it concluded, audience members were told where they, too, could get dance lessons.

            There was a fashion show, with women of various ages posing and strutting like runway models. This was followed by information on modeling classes. There was no entertainment related to banking, cosmetic surgery, or travel, but people pitched those services anyway.

            As the afternoon unfolded, I paid attention to language. I found it interesting that speakers addressing the crowd spoke Mandarin Chinese, the national language of China. But off stage, while chatting amongst themselves, they spoke Shanghai dialect. No one outside of Shanghai understands Shanghai dialect. It is spoken with pride by members of an exclusive group that considers its hometown the singular place in all of China for high style and hipness. To them, it is the epitome of elan, a better-than-New York equivalent of 26 million people. It has such appeal you must be born there to live there or get special permission to move there. The Shanghainese are a tribe, and they think highly of themselves. They have names for people who are not Shanghainese. And they have a name for their women, who are stereotyped as self-possessed, demanding, spoiled, and self-centered. It is both a polite and derisive term, a little like “Jewish American Princess.” The hard-to-handle women from China’s largest city are called “Shanghai little sisters.”

But back to the dialect, which I’m thinking helps to define Shanghai cool. While the dialect is substantially different from the national language, some alterations are slight. For example, the common Chinese greeting “ni hao” (literally: you good), was changed in Shanghai, for some reason, to “nong hao.” The common good-bye of “zai jian” (literally: see again) was changed to something that sounds like “zay way.” To decline an offer, the Chinese normally say “bu yao” (literally: don’t want). But the Shanghai residents slam those two syllables together, speed them up, and put a different sound at the front, saying “v-yow.”

Here is an example of how protective the Shanghai people are of their exclusive dialect. I was in the dessert line and the guy behind me struck up a conversation in English. He had come to the United States as a student in 1985 and trained as an engineer at Columbia.

“I guessed you’re confused by all this Shanghai dialect,” he said in a joking way.

            “Of course,” I said, “but I know a few words.”

            He looked at me as if that could not be true.

            Then I said the few words of Shanghai dialect I knew. Oddly, he repeated those words back to me in Mandarin. No, I said, I know the Shanghainese. And I repeated the words again, with him once again saying them in Mandarin, as if I were not allowed to speak that way or couldn’t possibly know what I was saying. Finally, I convinced him that I had gently penetrated the veneer of his beloved dialect. He smiled uncomfortably and shook his head. We both got dessert and parted.

So at the party, as the spoken word shifted effortlessly between a defining dialect and the linguistic standard, I thought about American English and concluded that there is nothing comparable to this in the U.S., no comfortable, communicative patois used in a secret way outside the button-down structure of society.  

Or is there? A question for another day.

            After the entertainment came lunch. When going to an affair such as this, one expects Chinese food. There was none. No chopsticks, either. The buffet was bread, salad, green beans, potatoes, pasta, pot roast, and salmon. The partygoers filled their plates high, without reluctance or aversion. I guess the country club chef didn’t offer a Chinese option, and that clearly was not a problem for this crowd.

            After about four hours, the party winded down. It was time to leave, and the rain was still heavy. We did not, however, get wet. Everyone received a well-built umbrella, courtesy of the Paramount Mortgage company, whose name appeared on the umbrellas in both Chinese and English.

            On the way out, the partygoers continued to define themselves as unique. You could hear lots of “zay ways,” but not a single “zai jian.” A group of young Shanghai little sisters, outfitted in fine dresses, pushed past me, seemingly arguing among themselves, or perhaps debating a point or two about the party, or maybe discussing where to go next. I didn’t understand a word of it, and I’m sure they took great comfort in that.

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