Sit Down Comedy … April 24th, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Sometimes good people do bad things.

Likewise, bad people do good things.

More often, people do nothing.

This compels us to ask the question, “Should folks be judged by what they accomplish, or by the dictates of their beliefs and the parameters of their character?”

It does come up.

For the greatest among us are often splattered with iniquity, while simultaneously making a notable contribution.

Such is the case of a man named Henry Ford.

He is arguably the inventor of the car. The argument exists because there were many souls experimenting with the “horseless carriage,” but Henry was certainly the first one to take it to market, promoting a product known as the Model T.

Mr. Ford jokingly once said about his Model T, “The customer can get it in any color whatsoever that he may want, as long as it’s black.”

Along with this massive achievement of motorizing the race, Mr. Ford was also known to be one of the worst bigots and enemy of the Jewish people. He even received an award for his writings from Adolph Hitler and the Nazi boys.

So history has handled the dilemma by enjoying the automobile and leaving next to it an asterisk, which quietly tells about its creator, Henry Ford.

Perhaps that’s the best way.

But the truth of the matter is, Henry Ford took something that was impossible and made it pleasing. Why was it impossible?

A gasoline combustible engine.

Can you find a word in there that isn’t dangerous?

Yet Henry took on the job of making a shell to sit on top of that engine safe for traveling.

He did it by following a three-step process. And though I don’t agree with Henry about the Children of Abraham, I cannot ignore the visionary approach he took for making the renowned family car.

First step: make it work.

It doesn’t matter how pretty it is, how many colors it comes in or how many seats it has—if it doesn’t work.

It has to function without people choking from all the smoke. It has to start up instead of needing repair on every trip. It must be reliable.

Now wait a second. I must be candid—over half the things we have going on in this country are negated because they don’t work. They are pretty, popular, spiritual, touted—but they don’t work.

If you’re going to do great things, you have to make sure the great thing you have come up with actually kicks ass, while taking names.

Number Two: make it comfortable.

It was not easy to ride a horse for twenty miles to the next town. That’s why they came up with the carriage in the first place. But it had its drawbacks, with broken wheels, axles and many a sore buttock.

Yet people were not going to give up their horses for something that did not work—and was not pleasant.

Room for at least three inside.

A little padding on the seats.

Glass in the windows.

A way to get fresh air.

And a way to start the vehicle that didn’t demand priming the engine each time or turning a crank.

And then, once you make it comfortable:

Number three: make it fun.

All the things that have been added to the automobile since Henry Ford pushed his little invention down the road have been all about making driving fun.

• Radio.
• Speedometers.
• Air conditioning.
• Heated seats.
• Video.
• Audio.
• GPS.
• Mirrors everywhere.

These have turned the car into more than just a means of transportation. Now it’s a way to brag about your success.

Henry Ford, in spite of his bigotry, took an idea and made it work, made it comfortable and made it fun.

Somewhere along the line we will have to do this with everything we wish to accomplish in America, or we will drag our feet, fail to pursue great ideas—and shall we say—back the wrong horse.

 

Not Long Tales … September 3rd, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

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4.

43

The Great Debate.

As the critics and advocates tumbled and tussled over the issue of gun control, an innovation quietly made its way onto the world stage. It silenced the controversy about guns because it was not considered a weapon. It was touted as beneficial and given a clever, almost cute name: The Blaster.

Privately, for years the American government had been working on a nuclear hand-held device. Though it was initially considered impossible to control a fission reaction held in the human hand, the well-funded research nevertheless persisted, energized by much money.

It was unveiled as a simple climate-friendly way to dispose of waste, clean up after a hurricane or even quickly eliminate unwanted foliage in building of new communities.

It had a companion device called “Clean Boy.” Even though The Blaster itself emitted low-level radiation within the acceptable range of human exposure, Clean Boy was manufactured to make sure that any work done with The Blaster would leave the region free of the fear from radiation sickness.

The Blaster seemed ideal for disposing trash from an area since it only covered a twelve-foot radius, leaving whatever was in its path a pile of ash and dust. As often is the case, for a brief season it was used exactly for what it was conceived to address.

That was, until the Holy City Massacre.

Blasters, which were supposed to be highly regulated and kept out of the hands of criminals or the uninformed were suddenly used at a mass shooting in Jerusalem, killing over four thousand pilgrims and annihilating several of the holy sites.

Of course it was a shock to everyone’s system. But over the years there had been so many mass shootings that no one considered The Blaster, with its nuclear implications, to be that much worse than other atrocities.

What was once considered an American problem had, over the years, been translated into every language and culture. Even though the United States wished to export democracy and freedom, it ended up transporting death and mayhem. So the debate about The Blaster was similar to the arguments over assault weapons.

But there was a man who lived in Winesca, Iowa, named Dylan Cavanaugh. Fifteen years before The Blaster came onto the scene, Dylan and his wife realized that the thirst to kill and the appetite to hear about it on the nightly news was too strong to stop the insanity.

When the ban on assault weapons was lifted, Dylan and his wife journeyed to Wyoming, where they found a parcel of land with a mountain and purchased it, using some inheritance money Dylan had acquired from his mother and father.

The couple set off to change their world. Every summer (and actually, every chance they got to get away) they prepared a way of escape. Even when four daughters arrived, Dylan and his wife, Crenslo (whom he called Crennie) went to Wyoming to their dreamscape and made plans—intricate plans.

Dylan was a licensed electrician, but he also was an inventor. He had manufactured a special battery for an electric minibus which had solar panels in its roof and large storage spaces in the sides. It seated eleven counting the driver.

Shortly after the Holy City Massacre, Dylan gathered his family together and explained his plan. “I do not want to scare you, or maybe I should say I don’t want to scare myself, but because of the atrocity in Jerusalem, it seems to me that half the world is anticipating the wrath of God and the other half is ready to bring it. I’m going to ask you to trust me. For the time being, and for further notice, we are going to our property in Wyoming, which we have prepared as a living space, until I am certain that I can offer you a safe home here in Iowa.”

The girls stared at him in disbelief. Each one had a life in the small Hawkeye town. But Dylan had succeeded, both as a human being and as a father, to build trust with his children. So Clancy, age fifteen, Roberta, thirteen, Sharon, eleven, and Caroline, nine, climbed into the electric minibus and made the journey with their parents to Wyoming. There was sadness, intrigue and just enough distraction along the way from trying various treats at gas stops to keep them engaged and hopeful.

Upon arriving, the young ladies got to see their mother and father’s vision. Carved into the mountain were a series of caves, fully lit and even decorated—enough openings and rooms to house fifty people. On the mountain itself were thousands of solar panels, providing enough energy—especially with Dylan’s new battery technology—to keep them warmed or cooled for months.

They spent the whole first month learning how to shoot a bow and arrow. No guns were allowed, but there was a need to gather food. Dylan had brought a computer, and also a ham radio setup so he could stay in contact with society. Still, the rest of Earth seemed far away from the Wyoming outpost.

About two months in, the Internet disappeared, and the radio went silent. The girls watched as their father cried and their mother joined him. They weren’t certain what the tears were for, but they contributed a few of their own.

At that point, Papa Dylan began going off in the minibus for days at a time. Upon returning, he always had one, two, and once, five people along with him. Each one had a story, each story more terrifying than the one before.

Dylan made his journeys for about six months. He ceased them once he stopped coming back with human folk. All in all, there were 43 people who found refuge in the vision of Dylan and Crennie.

One day, when it was pretty certain who was who and what was what, Dylan made a short speech. “I have not given up on the Earth. But right now, I want to make sure that we don’t give up on each other. I know each one of us saw lots of movies about the Apocalypse and the destruction of the Earth. In those flicks, the survivors always ended up killing each other.” He looked around, then joked, “Maybe it was because they were all zombies.” Everyone laughed. It was good to laugh.

He continued. “There are going to be three jobs in our little home. Those who gather the food, those who cook the food and those who clean up. Each one of us will learn how to do all the jobs. We’ll alternate. There will only be three—well, I guess we can call ’em rules. Love your neighbor, do your work, learn something new every day.”

The other 42 people who had gathered for the little speech smiled, shed a quick tear over loss and then turned to one another and embraced. Dylan found Crennie and kissed her lovingly on the lips.

Clancy, the oldest daughter, looked across the room at a boy named Zach.

She thought he was cute.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly donation for this inspirational opportunity