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Then Jet Asked Me: Why Do Conservatives Love "Seinfeld"?

3/8/2017

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We were watching a "Seinfeld" rerun, an episode about nothing, the other night when Jet looked at me and then looked at the TV, and then looked at me. I studied his body language and said, "You're right. Conservatives love  Seinfeld. Both of them. But why?"

 Sen. John Thune, Republican, calls it one of his fav. TV shows. A battle-hardened three-star Army general, speaking at an august Washington D.C. think tank last summer, quoted Jerry's pal, George Costanza. He was explaining counter-insurgency strategy. Mitt Romney quoted the same character during his campaign, to explain political strategy.

But why, I asked Jet again, do conservatives love that show (last episode nearly 17 years ago. Reruns still strong)? Hollywood is mostly enemy territory for Republicans. Its left-wing gliterati collect more cash for Democrats than any other industry, except, maybe, trial lawyers. (Ah. trial lawyers. You are getting warm.) Larry David, Jerry's comedy club buddy and co-creator, hates Republicans. I mean, he really hates them. He refused to have sex with Cady Huffman the instant he spotted a portrait of George W. Bush in her dressing room. Now that's hate.

But there is something Larry hates even more. Or, is at least willing to ridicule: political correctness. Jerry shares the hate. Recall, they devoted an entire show to the offended class––those who find wrong in asking an Asian-American mailman: where is the nearest Chinese restaurant?

Thus, to conservatives, a "show about nothing" is actually a show about something––stuff that is fairly important in a democracy: Individual liberty. Independent though. Freedom of expression.



 All are under assault, they believe, by a national political correctness movement pushed by college professors, left-wing activists, the main news media and, yes, Jerry-Larry's base––Hollywood.
 
  Besides those weighty issues, "Seinfeld" is funny. So, lets grab a booth at Monk's, order coffee, an egg-white omelet, chicken salad on rye, and talk this out:

1. The Postal Service.

There is no better icon for a big, inefficient federal bureaucracy than USPS. It loses millions of dollars––and lots of mail. An internal report recently found that its employees are rude. And guess what management's reply was?: we don't care.

Now, who better epitomizes this inertia than Seinfeld's down-the-hall bete noir––Newman. He's a letter carrier who does not deliver mail if the weather is bad. He stashes undelivered letters in Jerry's storage locker. He ignores the "fragile" package stamp.

As the soup Nazi would say: Next.

2. Trial Lawyers. 

No profession is hated more by conservatives than the filers of millions of law suits against anything that walks, breathes, eats and has money.

What do conservatives get from Seinfeld? Jackie Childs, a greedy, unethical trial lawyer who on occasion sees Jerry's sidekick, Kramer, as his ticket to riches.

In one episode, Kramer expands his cigar smoking to include cigarettes and pipes. His apartment becomes a smoker for the likewise addicted. All that tobacco accumulates into lifetime of inhaling, the damage told on Kramer's face, which is leathery and discolored. He looks in the mirror and proclaims,  "I'm hideous." 

He goes to see Jackie, who gleefully proclaims,  "Jackie's going to cash in on your wretched disfigurement."

Another episode: Kramer burns himself when jostled in a movie theater.

"You had to sneak the coffee in the movie theater? That's an enfringement on your rights as a consumer!" Jackie declares.

3. Ribbon Tyranny.

Larry-Jerry chose an AIDS walk episode to poke fun at the ribbon culture. We wear them for all sorts of causes. And, if you know what's good for you, you'll wear them on the right day and in the right place.

But not Kramer. On walk day, he signs up, but when handed an AIDS ribbon he refuses. It's not his style to wear ribbons, he tells the offended registrar. You have to wear the ribbon, he is told. News of his boycott ripples through the crowd, until a Latin street-tough hears the news. "Who? Who doesn't want to wear the ribbon?" he demands.

Sans ribbon, Kramer is beaten up by politically correct vigilantes. He staggers across the finish line and collapses.

4. Government Tyranny.

Nozzles. Yes, "Seinfeld" did a show on shower nozzles. The city mandated low-flow shower heads in all bathrooms. Jerry protested the government interference in his hygiene. For one thing, no one's hair got clean after a low-flow shower. Newman gets a tip about a Yugoslavian shower-head black market. A guy is selling vintage plumbing fixtures out of the trunk of his car. Kramer buys one used to wash elephants.

5. Race.

A very touchy subject. Conservatives just feel there is too much talk about a person's skin color and not enough about all the wonderful opportunities out there. "Seinfeld" loved to make fun of the whoe topic.

Elaine Benes, Jerry's gal pal, introduces a new boyfriend. Jerry later asks her if he's white or black.  She says white, but then has doubts and embarks on a number of tricks to get him to reveal his true color. Meanwhile, George becomes paranoid for even talking about the subject in public, at Monks, warning Jerry the topic is taboo. "Should we be talking about this," he says.

In another episode, George tells Mr. Morgan, his boss at Yankee Stadium, that he looks just like Sugar Ray Leonard. Offended, his boss replies that he guesses George thinks we all look alike.

George is rattled. Does his boss think he's a racist? He quickly goes on a furious hunt to find a black friend. He has none. Desparate, he recruits a pest exterminator who had once serviced Jerry's building. He shows him off at the restaurant where Mr. Morgan is having dinner.

6. The Homeless.

We all have compassion for the homeless. Conservatives just believe there are root causes that trace to the popular culture of drug-alcohol abuse, and dependence on the welfare state. I recall one survey of the homeless done years ago showing the vast majority had a drug, alcohol or mental problem––or all three.

"Seinfeld" does not romanticize the homeless. It makes fun of what Jerry called "bums."

The legendary "Puffy Shirt" episode in which Jerry unwittingly agrees to wear a pirate shirt during his appearance on the "Today Show." In the end, the shirt ends up at the Goodwill and then on the back of a homeless man whom Jerry passes on the street.

In another show, Kramer provides food to a homeless man. When he goes back to retrieve his Tubberware, the man refuses to give it back.

The best homeless episode: Kramer and Newman decide New York City needs rickshaws. They order one form Hong Kong. But who to pull it?

Kramer has the solution: the homeless. "They're always walking around the city. How about strapping something to them."


Jerry: "Now that's the first sensible idea I've heard all day."

Kramer and Newman recruit three homeless men. The training begins with a speed test. But the first trainee runs off with the rickshaw. Stolen.



When Jerry's latest girlfriend says her soup kitchen has just one menu item, he says, 

“They serve soup at 6 a.m.? Do the bums ever complain, ‘Soup again?’”


7. Big-Breasted Waitresses


Elaine's feminism could get out of control at times. She would not date a man who was pro-life. She went to a lesbian wedding before such ceremonies went mainstream. But she was at her best when she went to city hall, office of anti-discrimination, to file a complaint against the owner of Monks, Jerry's second home.


The complain: Monks only hired waitresses with large bosoms. Elaine did a survey and they all looked alike. The investigators show up. Elaine informs the owner he's in big trouble for discriminating against normal-breasted women. Yes, they all look the same, the owner says. They are my daughters. A family business. Defeated and embarrassed, Elaine grabs a booth.

8. The Final Episode.

What better example of government overreach than the good samaritan laws. The government decrees you have to intervene to stop a crime or face criminal charges.

That's what happens to Jerry, Kramer, George and Elaine. They laugh instead of helping the victim of an armed robbery. The town charges them with violating its good samaritan law, locks them up, puts them at the mercy of an ambitious prosecutor and then sends them to prison.

Postscript.

In February 2014, Jerry Seinfeld appeared on "CBS" morning show, interviewed by a Buzzfeed reporter, who asked why his show, and his ongoing production, "Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee," is so white.

“People think it’s the census or something,” Seinfeld said. “This has gotta represent the actual pie chart of America? Who cares? Funny is the world that I live in. You’re funny, I’m interested. You’re not funny, I’m not interested. I have no interest in gender or race or anything like that.”


In June 2015, Jerry appeared on Colin Cowherd's ESPN radio show. Jerry struck another blow against PC, this time taking aim on colleges, the birthplace of political correctness.


“I don’t play colleges but I hear a lot of people tell me, ‘Don’t go near colleges, they’re so PC.’ My daughter’s 14. My wife says to her, ‘Well, you know, in the next couple of years, I think maybe you’re going to want to hang around the city more on the weekends so you can see boys.’ You know, my daughter says, ‘That’s sexist.’ They just want to use these words. ‘That’s racist. That’s sexist. That’s prejudice.’ They don’t even know what they’re talking about.”

Postscript II.

In the online "Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee," Jerry always picks up his guest in a special vintage car, some of which he owns. For "Saturday Night Live's" Seth Myers, he arrived in an ultra-expensive 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS. Jerry explains it's a car that only passes hands via dead guys. He bought it from a dead guy and it won't be sold again until he, Jerry, dies.

I silently protested at that point. If there is anyone who will never die, it is Jerry Seinfeld. Like "Seinfeld" the show, the man is timeless. He could have done stand-up for Caesar or The Founding Fathers, or at Gettysburg before Lincoln's famous address.


 On that gig, btw, he would have had the presence to stay up there long enough for those pre-digital, Daguerreotype cameras to capture his performance.

"President Abe is dying to get out here. But before he does, a couple of announcements," Jerry would have told the crowd at Gettysburg. "To you Revolutionary War baby boomers––that brown whiskey that is circulating around us is not specifically good. It's just that you might want to stay away from that. Of course it's your own trip."

"Also, the battlefield coffee shop is closed for renovations. Those Confederates and their cannon balls. It was supposed to be off-limits."

"The gift store is open, however. Thaddeus told me he has no idea what he's going to do with 20,000 Robert E. Lee T-shirts. That's what happens when you bet on the wrong team. Try to help him out."

"And, when this is over, folks, please stay seated while the president exists. No stampede to the trains. One Pickett's Charge is enough."



 
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The Day I Lost Jet

1/14/2015

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It was a late February day, warm enough to understand why pitchers and catchers were reporting for baseball in Florida. Jet and I arrived at a secluded park in semi-suburban Washington. I say secluded because—despite its wildlife, big pond,  woods, creek and trails––rarely is anybody else there. We often walk in persistent silence, broken by an excited kingfisher or the creek's rush. A park policeman once told me, "That place is spooky." But to man and beast, it's paradise.


Most of its rugged paths lead to the rumbling Patuxent River.  But first, we hike through the park proper, out the far gate, to a collection of farm fields owned by the state. There, I let Jet off  leash so he can be a real hunting dog for a few minutes before re-entering the park, picking a trail and hiking down to the river. 


On this day, we ran into a guy visiting from Michigan with his short-hair pointer. Its collar featured some type of GPS system just in case the fellow ran off.

Unleashed, Jet entered a small wooded area as I moved down a trail that eventually leads to a view of the stadium for the Bowie Baysox, the Orioles' AA team. Near left field, I turned around and headed back. I could hear Jet rustling through the brush. The wild fruit bramble smells of fox, deer, groundhog and wild turkey. As I said, paradise.

Back toward the gate, I called Jet. Waited. Called again. Nothing. No black, tongue-protruded creature emerging from the chopped corn stalks and huge Oaks. I walked back down the trail, this time yelling. Then back up, and then down a second trail that leads to several farms. "Don't do anything crazy," I told Jet, in absentia. "Don't get yourself shot or run over."

The guy and his pointer reappeared. The pair had not seen my boy. Back I went to the parking lot. He knows that spot. He might of gotten disoriented and hit a trail that took him there. No Jet along the way. No one had seen him.  He was not standing by my trusty Buick.

Jet, I officially announced to the tall disapproving Oaks, was a lost dog.

I returned to the farm fields. Another hike down toward the ball park. Then, I went where there was no trail, stomping through the muted grass of winter as I followed a tree line around to the farm-side trail.

Back at the gate, I began thinking up a strategy to find Jet. I was distraught, but not panicked. Jet is chipped and collared——and friendly. That combination will bring him back.

My Plan: Light lasted until after six that time of year. I would stationed myself in the parking lot, and wait. Kicked out at sundown, I would park near the entrance and, every so often, train a flashlight into the lot. If no Jet by midnight, I would head home, get some sleep and reappear at first light to hunt again. I would notify Maryland Park Police. An officer visits the sprawling grounds each day. 

As I turned toward the gate, my optimism parted a bit to let in thoughts of dogs who go missing—forever. Life without Jet was just not acceptable. He was only 2. We had really just started to strongly bond. Jet had been at several stops before me. A stray at six months, Jet was picked up by the D.C. Humane Society. The shelter found a home that did not work out, brought him back, and sent him to a foster owner in Fredericksburg, Va., where I found him. Count 'em. That's six separate stops. (The original owner; shelter; new owner; shelter; foster home; me.) A year later, Jet had finally realized I was the last one.

I moved down the trail to begin my Buick-based surveillance. Just then, my cell phone rang. Not a smart Internet-linked phone, but a link nonetheless. I did not recognize the number.

"Are you looking for a dog," the accented voice said. (It is a sentence whose syntax I will never forget.)

My blood and heart depressed. Dogs are not found that quickly, I thought, unless, God forbid, something bad has happened.

"Yes," I said.

"I have him," said the Latino. I learned Felix was in a wooded area clearing brush for a new home. Jet approached him. He read his tag, with my number, and called. I got directions and  trotted back to the Buick. My plan had been to start praying after two days. Now, I just gave thanks that Jet had run into a good soul.

I drove down  Rte. 301, a direction that takes people to Richmond and then the deep South. I found the life-line to Jet, a two lane winder, and then a muddy road that opened to a clearing and then a man and a chain saw, and, then, to Jet, on his haunches, tied to a backhoe, a thick rope around his sodden neck. I approached him. He had a look like, "What, you couldn't keep up?" I gave him a kiss on a glistening head, untied him, wiped his paws and coaxed him into the back seat.

Felix filled me in. As he was working, he looked up at a ridge line and there was a small herd of deer——and Jet. 

"Jet was chasing them?"

"No. They were walking together."

"Jet is a dedicated hunter. Are you sure they were walking together?"

"Yes. He saw me. Came down the hill. Sat still and whimpered."

Jet is smart, I thought. He knew he was lost and needed help. He had to appear totally docile for this guy to approach. Jet's friendliness save him.

I got Felix's phone number. The next day, I called him, wrote down his address and mailed a reward. No amount of money could fully thank Felix for his kindness. Some might have thrown a rock at Jet and told him to keep moving. Some might have just kept him. Some might have driven off to let him fend for himself. But Felix decided to befriend a dog he did not know, read the tag and call me. I will always be grateful.

I looked at a map, tracing Jet's journey from farm field to construction site. It was over three miles, across several roads, creeks and ponds. No wonder he and the deer became pals. They had exhausted themselves into a traveling friendship.








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Jet's Bath. It's Worse Than Horrible

12/29/2014

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I gave Jet a bath a few days ago. basement bathroom. ran the water to heat it up. put five towels on sink. dog shampoo on the shelf. down we go like we’re heading to the car in the garage. but then, a quick right turn before his brain catches up.

once in the shower stall, the jig was up. he cowered in corner. you would think he was locked in a CIA black site—unreachable by ACLU. Red Cross. Oh, the torture. a shower soak. then suds. a scrub. a rinse. the pained looked. unbearable.

when done, the towels came out. that tail that was firmly between his legs sprung up and started wagging. By the 5th towel, and a few vigorous shakes, he was happy again.

In the backyard, he rolled around. ran around. and then looked at me with an expression that said, “Isn't life grand."





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This is Jet's Raccoon Season

12/8/2014

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In my hometown, November and December are raccoon season. No, we don't hunt them. They hunt us. They're looking for a warm place to spend the winter. An attic will do. There are several reasons why you don't want a pack of raccoons living in the penthouse. I know this by interrogating the raccoon-ed. They're noisy. They can be dangerous. They can eat through wiring, meaning no cable TV, no Internet. And they carry fleas. So you have to be on guard. That's where a dog comes in handy. Man's best friend is a raccoon's worst enemy. 


(This sneaky guy can be seen above right edge of air conditioner.)

It seems to me that even a faint odor of a dog will keep a raccoon away. One has never penetrated this forward operating base. But last week, one made an attempt next door. Out in the backyard, I heard the noise of guttering––like maybe a bird pecking through leaves to find a morsel. A bird, this wasn't. There was a good size raccoon crawling up the side of my neighbor's house. Now, I've seen several types of insertions while walking Jet. One day I spotted a raccoon deftly move down a tree branch until close enough to leap onto the roof and then crawl through a crevice into the attic. I emailed dog-owning friends to ask the proper raccoon etiquette. Do you knock on the door of a house whose family you do not know? I was advised that after 5 minutes they would know an animal was now living upstairs. I've also seen the animals use screened back porches to climb and reach the roof. 


On this day, the gutters were acting like ladders. I yelled at the gritter, who showed me his masked burglar's face. He descended a bit and cornered himself by the air conditioner. That's when Jet sprung into action. I went inside and put him on a leash. We both came sprinting out the front door and between the two homes. Jet saw him and uncorked a loud baritone bark-growl. Game over. That raccoon jumped to the ground and ran––real fast.

Later, I showed my neighbor a photo of her would-be house guest. I told her I don't think we'll have to worry about a home invasion this winter. So far, we have not. Good boy, Jet.









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Jet Saves an Injured Red Shoulder Hawk

11/30/2014

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A few Saturdays ago, Jet made the kind of commotion that brought to mind—feral cat. I went out back to calm him. Rather than a cat, Jet had spotted an injured red shoulder hawk. (photo 1) A beautiful raptor who had likely clipped a utility wire and injured its left wing. I put Jet inside. The hawked again tried to fly but got no farther than a few yards. (photo 2) I telephoned county animal control. Operator promised to send some one who would then take the hawk to a raptor rehab center. Within 30 minutes, the rescuer arrived. (photo 3) That hawk actually seemed happy to see him. It sat patiently as he draped its head (photo 4) and then gently placed it in a crate for safe passage. (photo 5) Patient was reportedly doing well. Jet, for all his fury, saved him. I never would have spotted the quiet, orangey bird among the leaves. It would not have survived the night.

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Dog Park, the book

11/26/2014

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My first blog is to introduce folks to Dog Park. It’s a short novel. Hopefully funny. Hopefully capturing the excesses of dog ownership via a group of friends who regularly go to Rexville’s dog park. 

Robert Benjamin is the lead character. He is simply into dogs too much. His. And others’. And it gets him into jams.

Jen Giolito is his therapist. She too owns a dog. She’s ambitious and sees Robert as that a special case leading to stardom.

Andy Kershaw was rescued from Lou’s Auto Emporium to clean up Rexville’s popular, but unruly, dog park. He takes his job real, real seriously.

Gladys Ridgeway is his ally. And at times, Robert’s worst enemy.

Mindy Sanchez is a very nosey, but good, dog blogger.

Father Jack Murphy runs Happy Trails Dog Rescue.

Devon Holland is a criminal defense attorney whose talents are badly needed.

Mayor Ozzie Osgood plots behind the scenes.

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    Author
    Rowan Scarborough
    MyBlackLabJet

    After four decades of doglessness, I brought Jet into my life six years ago. How did I go that long? Anyway, the wonders of a black Lab include fun, adventure and new friendships. That's what I'll write about. That, and my book.
    Walks are essential if you want a balanced dog and to know its true personality. A backyard existence doesn't work.

    Picture
    Jet and his No. 1 girlfriend. Photo By Bonnie Scarborough

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