Potpourri, June 18 (2012 ed.)

[What I saw on Google’s home page today. (Almost certainly, YOU did NOT.) You rock, Google.]

On this day in history: The US declared war on Great Britain in 1812, initiating the War of 1812. So glad we got that out of our system, finally. (Well, declaring war on them, anyway. We’re still working on being satisfied with everybody else — although by now it feels absurd to add, “Give us time.”)

Speaking of the (more-or-less) British: Also, Canadian actress Linda Thorson was born on this day, in 1947. Thorson’s biggest career splash (well, so far) was her role as Tara King on the British light-action TV series The Avengers. (That’s her over there at the right, hamming it up with series co-star Patrick Macnee (who played John Steed).) Tara King replaced the outgoing Emma Peel (Diana Rigg). Mentioning (or remembering) Emma Peel still induces heart flutters among men of a certain age, but, alas for Ms. Thorson, mentioning (or remembering) Tara King has relatively no effect among that audience. Not her fault, I think. Those were very tough leather boots to fill.

The problem, honestly, was rooted in the character, not the actress. Audiences had been teased for years by the playfully flirtatious yet respectful on-screen relationship between her predecessor and Steed. In Tara King, the series producers opted for a sexy-cute character, nothing at all like Mrs. Peel’s sexy-dangerous. (And Patrick Macnee had obviously been given the message, too: Don’t just waggle your charming eyebrows and smirk your charming smirk. Hit on her, man!) Mrs. Peel had seemed like a step forward for women as action heroes; Tara King seemed to have wandered onto the set from the typing pool on a 1950s-era sitcom.

Speaking of women’s effects on men, and vice-versa: A good online friend is experiencing a rather prolonged, none-too-subtle online bullying from an acquaintance of the opposite sex. Guess which of the two in this scenario is a guy.

Yeah. Still.

Now, even those of us guys who imagine ourselves to be enlightened still have a good way to go. (See, e.g., the whole Emma Peel-vs.-Tara King routine above.) I don’t worry about my friend, who is tough in her own right, but being tough is not the same thing as being happy. Ironically, the guy she’s dealing with does confuse the words tough and happy, evidently imagining that (a) he’ll be happier the tougher he is, and (b) my friend is unfathomably weird for not operating under the same principle — and he must convince her! (Neither proposition is true… but since when does truth ever factor into human decision-making?)

Somehow, somewhere, sometime, and for some reason, the continuum of “normal,” balanced human psyches — from assertive to unassertive, each with its own virtues and dynamic — seems to have widened. Maybe it’s an effect of capitalism, according to which aggressiveness brings success (and reticence, failure). Or maybe it’s genetic, involving a particular combination of genetic markers (most common in men? dunno) suited for combat but not so much for, well, satisfaction.

Whatever the cause, this sort of swaggering can’t-you-take-a-joke aggression just oughta be laughed at and dismissed. Except, of course, that the can’t-you-take-a-jokers cannot under any circumstances “get” a joke which is on them. Sigh.

Speaking of this day in history, and British-American relationships, and sexy/cute vs. sexy-dangerous: It’s also the birthday of Paul McCartney (1942). Holy cow. SEVENTY.

At the height of the Beatles’ popularity over here, I guess you could say that McCartney was the sexy/cute counterpart of Lennon’s sexy/dangerous. In early photos, like the one at the left, I always thought the latter looked waaaay more convincing than the former in the James Deanish, black-leather-and-denim style they affected back then.

By the time they switched over to the “mod” look — matching suits, white shirts, often with dark ties or (later, the gods help us) Nehru collars — McCartney seemed the more comfortable.

(And, post-Sergeant Pepper, just before and eventually after they broke up, as they settled into solo lives and careers they showed us how they’d probably always have preferred to be: McCartney more like You just gotta love me, eh?, and Lennon settling into something along the lines of You don’t think I look like this for YOU, do you?!?)

…but, well, holy Matilda. SEVENTY?

Speaking of Paul McCartney: Here’s the song widely regarded as the best on his 1970 debut album, McCartney, although the album version (says Wikipedia) was never released as a single:

[Below, click Play button to begin Maybe I’m Amazed. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 3:49 long.]

Finally, because I’m allowed to be self-indulgent today: Here’s the opening paragraph of the work-in-progress, a short story called “The Lift”:

Webster had never had to learn the rules of crowded-elevator etiquette, because they were Webster’s rules for every social interaction anyway. Don’t touch anyone. Don’t move if you can help it, because that only increases the odds of breaking the first rule. Don’t make any eye contact. If someone insists on getting your attention, continue not-making eye contact: acknowledge the “conversation” only with little nods and glances out of the corner of your eye. Don’t talk, and if you must talk for God’s sake say nothing of consequence, do say it only to a specific person right beside you, and say it, furthermore, in a low voice, chuckling softly afterwards in a way which suggests that if the hearer missed it, it doesn’t matter anyway so please don’t talk to me further. And finally, once you’re in it then the only thing that matters is getting out.

Thanks, always, for reading.