America Where The Price Is Right!

Drew Carey just isn't quite right.  While that statement may be true in a myriad of entendres, I am speaking of the fact that, to me, Bob Barker will always be THE host of The Price Is Right, the Hour of Power of TV game shows.  Barker is the quintessential American host, slim, slick-haired, tan, Californian white male, wrapped in the ultimate pitchman demeanor, as seen through my young immigrant eyes.  I came to the U.S. as a wide-eyed 10-year-old, and watched this game show that embodied what America is all about:  an unabashed and unbridled glorification and celebration of consumerism that cuts across all racial, ethnic and social class lines.  The more I think about it even as an adult, the more I marvel and believe it to be true, still, even though I now rarely watch it all the way through.

Indulge me to walk you through the format of the show for those of you who have never watched it, heaven forbid.  By some pick of the lottery, four contestants are called out, "Joe Shmoe, come on down!"  There is no discrimination here as the only requirement is that you are in the audience at the time of the taping (do they even use videotapes nowadays, albeit digital?).  Equality.  Everyone is welcome in this melting pot or mosaic or what have you.

Next, Bob Barker (sorry, Drew Carey, I can't help it) the host is introduced; the crowd goes wild for he is the man in charge, directing the contestants, laying out the rules and informing them of what is to come and what the result is.  Out comes the first or the next item up for bid.  Pure capitalism and free market auctioning with a twist.  You must guess the retail price of the item "without going over" the actual price.  Four contestants call out their bids, and the item is usually some mid-priced merchandise like an appliance or some furniture piece.  And this is where it gets interesting.  Joe? 1000.  Mary?  1200.  Steve?  1190.  Ann?  1201.  Inevitably, if someone thinks that another person's bid is very close to the actual price or that all other bids are too low, then he or she would essentially lock out the rest and up their bid by one dollar, the lowest increment possible.  This rather cutthroat maneuver usually works but not always.  Then, Bob would announce the moment of truth, "The actual retail price is...1239!  Ann, you're our next contestant on The Price Is Right!"  Nothing is more egalitarian and democratic than the finality of judgment by mathematical means tied to cold hard cash.

Ann jumps for joy and bounds on to the stage, flying next to Bob and, if so inclined, gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  Ah, Americans are so publicly affectionate and demonstrative; I always envied and admired that, but also somewhat mystified by it since my Korean upbringing is so staid and square, almost Victorian.  But the excitement is only beginning.  Bob engages in a brief small talk then he would cue the announcer, "Johnny, tell us what she can win!"  After a short pause which seems like an eternity, sometimes, if you've watched the show enough times, you can feel it with your sixth sense what the next prize is going to be...."A brand new CAR!"  The whole place goes wild and crazy, screaming in amazement and the sheer thrill of knowing that someone could win a new car.  And what is more American than a brand new automobile?  That brand new car smell?  That shiny and polished exterior and interior?  It almost doesn't even matter what the car is.  Who cares?!  You could win a new ride for free on a game show in America, and it doesn't matter where you come from and what you had done before you got here.  It just doesn't matter.  The rest of the show pretty much goes like this, and they usually give away one or two cars per show, so that's how you can sense who the lucky dog is gonna be if a car hasn't shown up by the first half hour of the show.  Ah, easy, eh?  And the show culminates with its prize bonanza, the Showcase Showdown,  a giveaway of thousands of dollars in merchandise and travel packages.  This is the rarefied air of hitting pay dirt.  American success!  Jackpot!  Sure, one could make the similar analogy and metaphor with Las Vegas, but the gambling aspect of it ruins the innocence of it all for me...

But "ain't that America for you and me?"  One can get lucky or strike it rich just by being here and living here.  That in a nutshell is the American Dream.  That is why so many of us have come to these shores by boat or by plane, gazing at the majesty of the mountains and the oceans and the Statue of Liberty, crossing the borders to the north and to the south.  We are all Americans looking for freedom, equality, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  And no matter how high the cost to attain them, the price is always right.

The Price Is Right (Wikipedia)

[Footnote:  Apparently, Bob Barker has very ethnic roots and ties to the Pacific Northwest.  It reaffirms my belief that he is still the host that embodied America, the Land of Opportunity.  Wikipedia: Bob Barker]

The Original "Drive By Writing"

Had I thought of doing this a few years earlier, I would have been the proud owner of the URL http://drivebywriting.blogspot.com.  Someone beat me to it in 2004, which is kind of ironic because the stories I have been posting were majorly tinkered with around that time.

If you're curious, take a look at the original "Drive By Writing" blog.  The writer managed to post one story (well, two posts if you count the welcome note), and apparently did not believe in the usage of punctuation very much, unless that happened to be the inimitable style the writer intended.  Hey, I am all for giving the benefit of the doubt to a fellow wordsmith...

Vincent, part 3

[Another installment...Still haven't figured out how to wrap it all up...]

            Vince was undoubtedly odd, as Catherine thought about the past, but she had much sympathy for him, then everything got misunderstood.  She was never sure how to handle it after that.  How to handle him.  No one really noticed Vince until that one night at that one party little over a year ago.  They all lived on the same floor in that sanitarium of a freshman dormitory called Harden Hall.  Almost everyone in sight got stoned or drunk on beer, wine, liquor, then came the news that spread like cheap gossip does in the undergraduate library study hall.

            “What?!”  “Yeah, Vince said he’s got only a few months to live.”  “Nah, he was just blasted off his gourd.”  “I don’t believe it.  How in the hell did he get in if he’s got some terminal illness?  You have to get a physical when you apply.”  “I don’t know but that’s what he said.”  “No, he said that he’d just heard about it from his doctor.”  “Bullshit!”  “Gedatta here!”  “He was just drunk, that lying son of a bitch.”

            After that Vince was permanently labeled.  A good number of people who lived on the floor thought that he was a quiet, brooding type or was a pathological liar of some sort.  One Saturday night, a few weeks into the first semester, Vince just sat in the hallway gulping down an entire case of Bud tallboys, one after another.  They just watched him or ignored him completely, going about their usual weekend business, but there lingered a hidden consensus that Vince needed some serious professional therapy, since very few wanted any personal involvement.

            Then there was Catherine who felt compelled to help his troubled soul and volunteered herself for counseling him.  In doing so she came to know her current boyfriend, Steve--white, blond, athletic and aiming for Wall Street.  Steve was Vince’s roommate then.  He felt sorry for Vince but thought that he needed professional help, instead of the attention his soon-to-be girlfriend was giving.  After both of them dated each other exclusively, his disagreement became disapproval to the point of jealousy.

            “Do you really think that you’re doing any good?” Steve asked.

            “I’m just trying to help him.  What’s wrong with that?”  Catherine retorted.

            “You’re not a psychiatrist, not yet anyway.  Just ’cause that’s your career goal, doesn’t mean you should take this upon yourself.  Besides I don’t think you’re doing this out of some altruistic motives.”

            “Jesus, I was hoping that it wasn’t true, but you’re jealous of him getting my attention.  You men are such babies.  All right then, let’s hear your analysis of my motivations, doctor,” Catherine said deflecting his pointed remarks.

            “You’re helping him for yourself, Cat, to make yourself feel better.  Don’t even try and tell me that you don’t feel some satisfaction in knowing that he needs you or that people see you as this wonderful, caring, empathetic soul.  People do not act for the pure good of helping another person, unless there is something in return.  Come on, Cat.  Humility and modesty are quite overrated,” Steve flashed his green eyes directly into hers, “You know that I am right.”

            Catherine did not like being wrong at all, no matter how trivial.  She tried hard not to sound defeated in her voice, “You obviously don’t understand at all.  Sure, I admit feeling good about helping people.  So what?  You gonna hold that against me?  You’re accusing me of some sort of self-gratification?”  She knew, however, that he was partly right and looked away from his eyes, but she could feel his gaze upon her.  She lowered her head letting her dark brown hair obscure her eyes.

            Steve stroked back her hair with his right hand and touched her cheek.  “I care for you, Cat.  I want us to have more time together.  If that’s being jealous, so be it.”

            She couldn't be certain whether he was being sweet or condescending.  The whole argument wreaked of selfishness and guilt.  Nevertheless, Catherine liked that about Steve who could be as tough as her when it came to taking a stand.  She respected and admired that about him.  She began to spend less time with Vince and more with Steve, but there was no need to feel guilty about it.  After all, who could fault her for being with the guy who cared for her, maybe even loved her?  

            As she got closer to her dorm and away from the cafeteria rumor mill, she told herself, I couldn't have helped him, no matter what.  And he couldn’t have helped me, either.

Family Values - Prologue

Later on, I decided to add a backstory to this, but it has a feeble Orwellian ring to it that doesn't sit comfortably with me.  Anyway, it captures the setting I am going for.  I also changed the narrative to first-person, but I didn't change much from the first draft.  I'll post them after I flesh out the story a bit more...

At a time and place not so farfetched from where you are now, this country changed but changed gradually to the point where no one seemed to notice.  No one clearly understood what was happening or really cared to know.  Well, at least not enough of us cared to know what was changing about where and how we lived.  Maybe it started with the new millennium when the urban and the rural parts of the nation, blue states and red states, became so polarized on “culture war” debates and social issues.  Who can forget that silly 2000 presidential election decided by the Supreme Court?  Then came 9/11 with those crazy al-Qaeda bastards, then came the war on Afghanistan, Iraq…back to Afghanistan...then Pakistan...then Iran…then Syria…pretty much the whole Middle East Muslim world, even Saudi Arabia.  The Obama years were merely a footnote in history.

Since we militarily and economically decimated a good chunk of the world, refugees flocked to our nation, and we welcomed them all as we enjoyed unprecedented prosperity during the war years and thereafter.  Immigration was at its peak easily eclipsing the sentimental years of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty (which by the way was blown to smithereens in another al-Qaeda attack).  With the new influx of such multitude, our population began to rival those of China and India as great numbers of Chinese and Indians continued to immigrate to the states in order to escape their oppressive and corrupt governments.

          In spite of all that, the country remained divided politically and culturally.  The urban centers benefited the most from the economic growth and successes generated by the wars, but the rural parts became more alienated and isolated, caught up in their disdain for the wealthy and decadent urbanites and separating themselves culturally and socially away from their "sin city" counterparts.  More notches were added to the Bible Belt which fastened tighter and tighter.  The line between religion and legislation increasingly blurred day by day in the Belt.  It soon became apparent that a mutual separation was on the horizon--the Great Disunion. 

Eventually the urban states and the rural states governed separately, almost as seceded and sovereign nations, but what used to be one country now had two of everything to run the affairs of the states--two capitals, two Congresses and two co-Presidents.  The Supreme Court and our country's name remained the same.  I can see you shaking your heads about now.  It would take too long to explain how these double-the-fun federal governments actually functioned.  Suffice it to say that they serve as two different heads for two different bodies that interact freely on every level except politically.  The rural minority needed to have political autonomy from the potential mob rule of the urban majority since demographically the "Inlanders" would have always lost to the "Bicoastals" (actually, those in the Great Lakes states prefer the term "Shoreliners").

By promoting safety, security and family values, the Inlanders had hoped to attract more people and businesses to their states, but still a disproportionate number fled to or stayed in the crowded Bicoastal states that were more tolerant, permissive and liberal on matters of lifestyle and privacy.  As in the past, the new immigrants preferred to settle in the overpopulated cities, about which they romanticized and mythologized in their own minds as places of greed and riches that led to the American dream.  Imagine every large city in the nation turning into a New York, Los Angeles, Beijing or Mexico City.

          Soon the fear of overpopulation that hung in the back of our collective closet suddenly became a reality that loomed over our heads like a dark, threatening storm cloud.  The cloud then precipitated on us as a social policy crisis that had to be dealt with.  The Bicoastals were left with no other option but to impose a limit on childbirth.  At first, the limit was no more than two children...then one child...then only those who could afford to raise a child could have one, but still no more than one.  Those who couldn’t afford to have any kids were put on contraception by law.  If the contraception failed, then they had ways of finding out whether a woman was pregnant or not.  Once you’re caught, an abortion was immediate.  At least there is a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to how and why a woman became pregnant in the first place...as long as you agree, more or less, to have the abortion.

          Mandatory abortion was the one thing that forced some people to move into the rural states.  They had no such thing; in fact, as you may have guessed, they banned all abortions.  “Family values” and “family friendly communities” were their rallying cry and selling point.  Those who held religious fundamentalism and conservatism in high regard lived there by choice.  But the abortion ban did very little in bringing more people into the economically-challenged rural states and keeping them there because the abortion ban was instituted long before overpopulation became a real problem for the Bicoastals.

Family Values - original draft

First attempt at a cross between "Fahrenheit 451" and "A Handmaid's Tale."  Its working title was "Abortion."  I realize that parts of it are very derivative and somewhat comical, but I don't really mind the comical part:

“So what should we do?”

          “I don’t know.  I don’t know.  Let me think for a sec....Do we know anybody in New Orleans or Philadelphia because those are the places to go, they said,” Ralph looked at his watch.  “I gotta go to work, hon’.  We’ll have to talk more later.  Can you meet me for lunch?”

          Phyllis gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, “I think so.  I’ll have to call you from the office.  Have a good day, and don’t worry about it so much.”

          “I won’t.  You always have to say that, don’t you?  You sound like your mom whenever you tell me not to worry.  I’ll be okay.  How about you?  Do you feel all right?”

          “Just a little sleepy,” she yawned.  Ralph started putting on his raincoat and headed for the door.  “Ralphie?”

          “Yeah, hon’ ?”

          “I love you.”  Ralph gazed at her for a moment, walked over to her and kissed her deeply on the lips.  “I love you, too,” he whispered then turned around and left the apartment.  Phyllis stood there staring blankly at the door.  She walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up the narrow white plastic stick with the telltale fine blue line in the center.  What are we gonna do, she worried.  How are we going to manage this?

          Ralph merged on to the jam-packed freeway, listening to his usual morning talk radio program.  “KLIF traffic time is 7:08, and this is the Lance McGovern Show with yours truly on this lovely rainy Wednesday morning, and today’s topic is:  Should we give those smokers, how ever many of you out there still smoking, a break by letting them smoke at a few designated smoking areas like we used to do years back.  I know most of you out there are probably up in arms--I can see the board lighting up already--saying that why should we let them, knowing the dangers of second-hand and even third-hand smoke as recent studies have shown, and that it’s been so wonderful since smoking outdoors has been banned more than a decade ago, etc.  I agree with you.  It’s been wonderful breathing clean, fresh air all over this great nation of ours.  But I think we should give them a break, and I’ll tell you why.  This is supposedly a free country...”

          Yeah, you tell ‘em, Lance, Ralph said to himself.  I am so sick and tired of sneaking around, trying to find a place where no one can see me smoke.  Dammit, what kind of place am I living in?  Is this the kind of world that I want my child to grow up in?  Ralph then stopped himself in the middle of his ritualistic morning rush hour mental frenzy.  My child.  Good Lord, I’m going to be a father.  That’s right; I will be a father, if I have any say about it.

          Unfortunately, he didn’t, not legally anyway.  He didn't exactly look forward to the prospect of having to hide out like some mob informant in a witness protection program for nine months, six months at least.  Do I know anyone in Pennsylvania or Louisiana?  Or how about Arizona?  Utah?  We are not gonna live with freaking Mormons all barricaded behind some paramilitary fortress around the whole state, assuming that they would even let us in in the first place.  Jesus, how did things get this far?  Ralph let out a sigh in frustrated resignation.  I gotta figure something out.  Will this traffic ever move?

 ---------------

Phyllis walked a few blocks from the apartment to catch the 7:26 bus to her office.  Another day at the stinkin' unemployment office--no, sorry, job placement office.  It's hard to be positive in such a dead-end government job where she meets an endless stream of disaffected, displaced and disgruntled, out-of-work lot, day in and day out.  Is it right to bring another life into this god-forsaken world, she thought.  What makes me more fit to become a mother than all those women that I see everyday?  Having a job?  Do I have a right to do go through with this?  Damn straight, I do.  I want to be a mother.  Phyllis kept telling herself that.  If she couldn't convince herself, then this whole endeavor would fall apart when it barely started.  Yes, I wanna be a mother!

 ---------------

          Ralph survived another commute and finally made it to his cubbyhole cubicle to tackle another routine testing project.  The stupid thing is automated, but I have to be here to watch and make sure that nothing out of the ordinary occurs.  He sat in front of the 50-inch monitor looking at the cryptic event messages flying across one terminal window after another.  There it goes--pass, pass, pass, pass…Does it ever fail?  Of course not.  If it did no one would be able to handle it, much less try to fix the bug.  Ignorance is bliss.  Out of sight, out of mind.  I just sit here and collect my paycheck, man.  So begins his waiting hours until lunch time.

 ---------------

          "As you well know, the laws and regulations on starting a family in this state are very clear and strictly enforced.  Have you submitted your application to the Department of Child Welfare?” Dr. Garrison asked sternly.

          “Yes, we have,” Phyllis answered, “but we have not taken the competency exams yet.  We’re still awaiting a reply to see if we qualify for being parents.”

          “We’ve always sort of been on the borderline.  This is our third try…” Ralph’s voice trailed off.

          “I see,” the doctor replied in a sympathetic tone.  “For now, there is not much that I can do for you until you get the final go-ahead from DCW.”

          “Robert, please.  Couldn’t you just put in a good word with some of your friends at the department?  I’m asking you as a friend,” Ralph pleaded as Phyllis chimed in, “Please, Robert…”

          “Okay,” he replied in a hushed voice.  “I’ll look into it, but I can’t guarantee anything.  Things are not like it used to be.  Everything is by-the-book now, more than ever.”

          “Thank you, Robert,” Ralph shook his hand.  “You…you have to understand that this is our last chance.  All we want is to be able to have a child of our own.  That is all, but we really need your help.”

          “I know, Ralph.  I wish you both good luck.”

          “Thank you, doctor,” Phyllis smiled.

          About a week later a letter came from DCW for the Chases.  The envelope was very thin, just like the ones they had received twice before.  They threw the envelope away in the recycling bin in the garage.

 ---------------

          “It’s a funny thing about people who just insist on having children,” Todd started on his soapbox.  “Why don’t they see what is going on around them?  Can’t they see the kind of world we’re living in?  For god sakes, most of us live in these shoeboxes that we call apartments because of how crowded this city, let alone our whole country or the whole world, is and is becoming.  How can they possibly justify bringing another life into this world?”

          “Well, the rich folks can have all the children that they want.  That’s just plain criminal.  If that ain’t discrimination, I don’t know what is, not to mention that most of the rich people are white and Asian.”

          “Easy there.  I’m as white as they come and I don’t qualify for kids.  But it doesn’t matter 'cause I don’t want kids anyway.  I believe it's better for the common good...and the environment.”

          “Fine for you, Todd, but millions of other people in this country want to have children but are shut out completely.  Where is the good in that?  Pretty soon all the poor folks are gonna die out and there will be no one to do all the shitty jobs that keep the rich folks livin’ happy as clams.  The chickens will come home to roost one day, I’m tellin’ you.  Something is seriously wrong with this country.”

          “You can go and live in Alabama or Mississippi or someplace like that and have as many kids as you want, Tisha.  No one’s stoppin’ you.”

          “Don’t be givin’ me that shit.  You think I want to live in the South with them hood-wearing, cross-burning white trash rednecks?  I don’t call that a choice.  I am fine where I am, but that doesn’t mean I have to support everything the government throws down at me and like it!”

          “All I’m saying is if we don’t control this overpopulation, we’re all going to choke ourselves to death.  We’re just screwing ourselves by bringing more kids into this world…”

          “Well, then nobody should be allowed to have them, not even them rich people!”

          “The rich people having babies is not the problem.  They’ve never contributed to high birth rates in this country.  It’s always the middle- and lower-class people who have lots of kids and unplanned pregnancies.  The rich folks, as you call them, account for barely one percent of the population.  In any case, they are the only ones who can even afford to raise kids in today’s economy.  The poorer people are just contributing to more social, educational and environmental problems that we are already suffering.”

          “Yeah, well, that’s what you conservative-types want us to think.  That’s all bullshit…”

Vincent, part 2

Two co-eds exhibiting affluent accessories stood in a cafeteria line just inside the lobby of a dormitory building.

“Can you believe this?  They have the nerve to call this Cordon Bleu.  Anything interesting in the Spec?”

“Whoa, did you hear about this guy who goes here that committed suicide?”

“Oh, my god....Who is it?”

“Some guy named Vincent Lee.”

“Oh, my god!  When did this happen?”

“They found him night before last.  He lived in this dorm.”

“How’d he die?”

“He jumped off the George Washington.  I guess some people actually saw him do it.  Here, read this.”

“Wow, this is really spooky, you know.”

“Did you know 'm?”

“No, but....it’s like we all shared the same space, the campus, you know?  It’s kind of freaky.”

“Well, what can you say?  Some people just can’t handle it.  I mean, I guess he was Asian, Chinese or something.  Real high strung and quiet, I bet.”

“It’s just real sad.  What class was he?” 

“Sophomore.” 

“Think how the people who knew him must feel.”

“I don’t know.  It’s likely he didn’t have many friends.  I mean, if you knew him, wouldn’t you have kept him from doing it or something?  I would’ve.”

“Yeah, I guess.  It’s just a shame.  Something like that happening at a place like this, you know?”

“Hello, ladies.”  “Hey!”  “What’s up?”  “May I join you?”

“Sure.  Sit.  We were just talking about the guy who--”

Should I have known that he was going to do it?  Catherine thought, who sat at a nearby table next to them with her back turned to the conversing group.  Just a few of many, she was sure, who were speculating and gossiping about the news of the day.  She had been sitting there before they came, and the temptation to eavesdrop was unavoidable after the suicide was mentioned.  I shouldn’t be surprised that people are talking, she thought.  I was one of the first people to find out; I knew Vince, and I didn’t stop him; I couldn’t stop him.

She tried to finish her meal as quickly as she could and wanted to get away from the curious mob before somebody spotted her as a friend of the deceased.  Normally, she would not dine by herself; she had an aversion to even the idea of eating alone and standing out in the large cafeteria.  But today she wanted to be alone so she wouldn’t have to engage in any conversations about Vince.  She bussed her tray and left the cafeteria without looking at anyone.  As she walked to her dorm room, the thoughts of Vince flared in her mind.  What a way to kick off the semester, she joked to herself.

Vincent, part 1

Here's the beginning of a story that I've been knocking around for a while, heretofore referred as "Vincent":

            The low-hanging winter sun in its off-white brilliance shone from the southern end of the Hudson River.  The warm, bright rays of the late afternoon illuminated the powder blue of the bridge, complementing the sky blue of the clear day.  The usual amount of vehicle traffic shuttled back and forth between New Jersey and Manhattan.

            A lone figure of an Asian-American man barely out of adolescence stood still at the middle of the bridge.  Traffic rushed past him, giving nothing more than a mere passing glance, a momentary distraction in its daily routine.  His eyes narrowly gazed out toward the sun, his round face basking in the light of the new year.  He closed his eyes to absorb fully the moment, to appreciate intensely the workings of his senses.  He opened his eyes wide and looked into the river dark and swirling below, then at himself, his own mortal stature--his legs, his body, his arms stretched out in front of him, his hands and his fingers.  He had become more self-aware than ever before.

            Taking one quick and deep breath, he launched his body over the railing and into the chilly open air.  He descended with the length of his body positioned almost parallel to the surface of the unjudging and giving river.  The wind slowed his descent; his long navy blue coat and gray scarf fluttered in the air rushing past him.  He closed his eyes and screamed as loud and long as he could--his final exclamation to the world he knew.

            Like an errant diver, he plunged headlong into the river with much force, tossing streams and spray of water into the air like a blast of a choreographed fountain.  Soon the water calmed, and he disappeared among the fading ripples, only to reappear many hours later as a lifeless body floating near the Jersey-side of the river when the police found him.

Introduction, or In The Beginning

The idea came to write, as the Word that was in the beginning.  Why not write something and post it in cyberspace for the world to read?  Would someone actually respond back, unlike an echo in a valley or a canyon?  Is it possible to make that human connection with someone who enjoys reading and writing?  Why the hell not!  Let's do it, and see what happens.  I make no disclaimers or presumptions about not wanting fame or fortune.  And I am eyes-wide-open to the possibility of plagarism, both being accused and a victim of it.  Que sera, sera.  Whatever will be, will be.  I trudge on and yearn for a reply, "That's good," or "That sucked."  Two sides of the same coin...And how many more cliches can I cram into this introductory post?  The sky's the limit!