I’m too old for Sesame Street. I was eleven before it showed up. To be eleven is to be at the end of your childhood. I didn’t need the letters to get up and dance any more.
Joe Raposo is the fellow who wrote it. He was born right down the street from here, in Fall River, Massachusetts. He’s been dead a while now.
He was part of a little clique while he attended Harvard, and fell into music work, if not notoriety, exactly. He was never as snide as his friend, Tom Lehrer, but in his way, he was more sophisticated.
I’ve seen all sorts of people that performed music on Sesame Street, much of it delightful. Stevie Wonder, Van Morrison, Herbie Hancock, well… you probably know the list better than I. It’s a captivating scene to make, and everybody wants to make it. It is a testament to its original kind intent.
Joe Raposo and Dr Suess. I conflate them in my mind, but I don’t know that they ever had anything to do with one another. When I read my little son the thrilling, trilling words of Theodore Geisel, I’m never bored. Those men understood children, which means they understood people. A children’s book has devolved over time to mean: I can’t write properly — I’ll write a children’s book. It was not always the way. It’s much harder to write a child’s story, I think. Properly, anyway. Doubly hard to set it to music. Suess kept up by drawing.
My son sat in my lap in rapt attention as the little frog —fwog— ruminated wistfully on the nature of being mundane and wonderful. Joe Raposo could sing to a little one and his father at the same time, and lose neither of our interest.
I used to sing and play the guitar for my boys when I put them to bed. It was peaceful, and there was a poignant moment when the gentle sigh of the sleeping boy would overtake the gut string sound. The big one don’t want it any more. All I’ve got is the toddler now.
GarGar swims in the deep blue sea
GarGar swims with Mom and me.
Scares away the sharks and such
They don’t nibble GarGar much.
Puts a worm upon his hook
Five minutes flat that’s all it took
Fry that fish in the big black pan
GarGar you’re a fisherman
When the fish refuse to bite
Paddles home in the pale moonlight.
To dream about ocean blue
GarGar daddy sure loves you
I can’t watch the football game with my eleven year old. Every time the action stops, there is a commercial that shows one eviscerated corpse after another; one abducted child after another. They’re displayed as a fun sort of puzzle for the entertainment of people inured to what’s tantamount to the lionization of monsters. No one is green on television anymore–easy or no– only harvested or picked over to taste.
But I can watch Kermit sing Joe Raposo’s little tin pan triumph with my three year old. I want for him to know the same things I’d like to know. We search for them together.
I link to WoodWeb. I read their message boards as an insight into other woodworker’s situations.
I’m not in the same business as 99% of the participants there. They generally make kitchen cabinets and sell them directly to the end user. I make furniture.
99% of those 99% of the business owners have no idea what business they’re in, by the way. They think they are manufacturers. They are not.
Someone posted an article written by someone whose mouth moves when they read the (tabloid) paper that’s got them in a tizzy.
You can read it if you want, but I advise not wasting your time. It’s drivel of a very common kind; disconnected charts and weird, unrelated facts — mostly unrelated to accuracy as well as each other — with a “Someone should do something about all these problems!” bleat as a kind of turd cherry on top.
He’s got graphs, all signifying not much. Here’s my fave:
See, the graph goes down. I just fell off the turnip truck but even I know that a graph going down is bad.
But alas, I also know that the population of the US in 1950 was around 150 million people. I also know it’s around 300 million people now. So the percentage of people in manufacturing has been halved, while the the population doubled. That would mean… hmmm… about the same number of people work in manufacturing now as half a century ago. You’d have to think it is a defacto societal ill that the proportion of people doing any particular thing in an economy changes over half centuries for this chart to matter. I wonder how many people were telephone operators in 1950? I wonder how many are now? I’ve haven’t noticed that my phone service is worse, but maybe it’s just me.
Why would our pixel-stained wretch think it matters? Because he’s an economic troglodyte, that’s why. Here’s his theory on how wealth is created:
Wealth is created when we add labor and functional capability to raw materials that increase its value to an end user. Companies and individuals that produce durable and consumable goods create wealth. They then share some of that wealth with local, state and federal governments which consume the wealth in order to deliver the services and infrastructure we require. Wealth-creating jobs include manufacturing, construction, mining and farming.
Service organizations such as banks, accounting and law firms, retailers, newspapers and digital media, restaurants, hospitals and the like merely redistribute wealth across the economic chain, depending primarily on wealth-creating enterprises for their revenue stream.
If that theory of wealth creation sounds familiar, it should. It’s the “Labor” theory of wealth, and its big daddy is Karl Marx.
It’s fashionable to think that if you make tangible things you’re swell, and everybody else is a parasite. It’s also pre-renaissance economics. Actually, it might be pre-dark ages now that I think of it.
(Upon further reflection, it’s probably pre-historic economics. Just because they still occasionally give this a go at the Universities doesn’t mean it’s cutting edge, guys.)
OK, let’s “add labor and functional capability to raw materials that increase its value to an end user” and see how wealthy we get. They tried this method in Eastern Europe a while back: They stripmined coal and iron ore. They burned the coal in a furnace and made steel. They made the steel into… you guessed it… excavation machines to mine coal and ore. That’s it. Everyone had a job. Stuff got made. But there was no wealth created.
As I recall, this ended with everyone standing on a wall in East Germany with sledghammers, not with anything remotely resembling a functioning economy. I was actually amazed they could swing the hammers with so much force after the diet of ration-card suet and vodka they’d been on for half a century.
I believe in personal responsibility, so it’s Don Shultz’s fault he can’t write and won’t think. Likewise, it’s Wood Digest’s fault that they publish stuff which is mildy inflammatory — where it’s coherent enough to be much of anything at all — instead of enlightening for its readers. But I can’t blame the readers for being upset, and somewhat at sea over their situation. No one talks any sense to them.
The reason that the amount of people in manufacturing doesn’t go up is because productivity has skyrocketed. Watch “How It’s Made” on television. A factory makes a lot of stuff with not many people working in it nowadays. Does anyone really think 300 million people in 2008 have fewer consumer durables than 150 million people in 1950 because their proportional representation in the workforce has been cut in half? We added 41% of the population to the workforce in the last 50 years, too, don’t forget–women went from 26% to 67% percent employed in those intervening years. Just exactly who would you get to work in those American factories you demand we build? There’s no one left to hire. And there isn’t much for them to do there. Chinese labor isn’t competing with American labor. They’re competing with American machines.
As I mentioned earlier, my fellow woodworkers at WoodWeb are mostly in trouble, in my opinion because they don’t even know what sector they’re in. They think they’re manufacturers, because manu= hand and factory = mill. But in any real sense of the term, they are not manufacturers. They are in the service industry and don’t know it.
What anyone that wants to help them make sense of their place in the modern economy needs to tell them is to find out what the customer wants and give it to them, and they will flourish. And it’s the “finding out,” not the manufacture of the goods that offers an opportunity for the small to medium sized woodworker to add value and create wealth. The end product is less than 50% of that equation. A customer gets better service from Home Depot installing Chinese-made cabinets than they do from the average woodworker that makes custom cabinets. The average cabinetmaker treats the customer like an annoyance, and thinks that by paying close attention to the last 50% — the made good — that he’s all done and people will beat a path to their door. But manufactured goods are not scarce, and you’ll get killed if you try to paddle across the ocean of manufacturing in a raft. People need to add value to the process, not just the item, and the only thing you can offer a customer that he can’t get from a factory with almost no one working in it is service. But if you think all ancillary functions of a business are parasitic, you’ll never even try.
The WoodWeb is there for people who are in the woodworking business. But they have been taught from birth that accounting, banking, actuarial analysis, sales, insurance, advertising, and almost all forms of pure management are parasitical. Don Shultz is just the latest guy to tell them that, he’s nothing special. And why shouldn’t they be confused by macroeconomics? We just watched a few hundred thousand Ivy League, Sorbonne and Oxford educated MBAs run the international banking and investment system into the ground, then throw up their hands and say: We have no idea how to assess value in the modern economy. Let’s make charts of workforce participation in the manufacturing sector like it was still 1950, and have a liquid lunch with a government official.
Small businessmen post questions that break my heart at the WoodWeb. Business is bad, should I think about printing business cards? How much is a “fair” price to charge for a cabinet? Why do I even have to talk to the customers? They’re annoying, and they always want stuff I don’t want to give them. Can’t I just make stuff like I want to and why can’t people just mail me money and wait for me to make it?
They’ve been told from birth that if you build it, they will come. They were told wrong. Wrong like Don Shultz. Stop listening and save yourselves.

I’m in a good mood lately. I’m under a tremendous amount of pressure but I don’t mind. If I wanted to be a nine-to-fiver I could have stayed in the cubicle farm.
The fluorescent lights buzz like crazy. On top of that, I’ve got tinnitus from too many music jobs, too many pneumatic nailgun blasts, and the fever of 104 I had from a tick bite. You think I’m a woodworker, but in my mind, I’m a beekeeper.
I got tired of sports talk radio. It was fun for a while to listen to schlubs foam at the mouth about offside calls like Robespierre outside the Bastille, but I did a little thinking. Entertainment makes people unhappy. I’m a people, too.
I used to run jobsites with many disparate people working side by side. The radio was a constant source of annoyance and trouble.
The rednecks would want seventies arena rock. The mechanical trades usually had sort-of Goth types with lots of tats that wanted to listen to speed metal. The tilesetters were often more urban and wanted hardcore kill whitey thumping. The concrete finishers were all Brazilian and their radio had announcers yelling in that “I just scored a goooooooooooaaaaaal” over-the-top style between wild salsa numbers. The truck drivers wanted country. You could fill in all the other points of the compass with everybody else.
All the subcontractors would bring in their own, very big radio and the fight would begin. Sometimes actual fights, and believe me, if you were an ultimate fighting champion you’d take one look at some of the dudes that used to work for me and take a pass. They made The Road Warrior look like a Disney movie, and they weren’t acting.
I was their lord and master on the jobsite, and I only had one rule: If anyone complained, I turned them all off forevermore. Many a job was built in total silence, too, because we can’t just all get along, at least not at first. They all got along great with each other when joined in a unanimous hatred of me for nuking all the radios, so it just goes to show you I’m a Uniter, not a Divider.
They would never admit it, but they were all happier with the radios off. Even the stuff they fervently adored made them moody and cranky. I noticed that they’d grumble at first when working with nothing but their own thoughts and their tools but ultimately they were less likely to kill one another. Fewer tools were thrown.
Sometimes you have to realize that what you think makes you happy actually makes you sad. By “sad,” I mean: a raging angry spluttering jerk. Hairshirt self-abnegationists won’t help us deal with this. They always end up tapping their feet in airport men’s rooms or something anyway. But people can convince themselves, usually after a long period of making themselves miserable, that maybe they could live without all the self-inflicted wounds that make the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune pale in comparison.
I decided to stop listening to people being upset for no reason. It doesn’t matter if you’re not like that yourself. Sooner or later it seeps in through the pores no matter what you think.
When I used to play music for money, I didn’t care much what I was playing. They were just musical bricks to be laid. By good fortune, I fell in eventually with people whose only criteria for choosing material was that it be fun. Guys would come up to us and ask us to play Freebird and so forth, and we’d gently inform them that we didn’t care what men wanted. I’ve played Brown Eyed Girl three consecutive times because girls wanted to hear it. The girls were happy and the men stayed to be around happy girls. I learned from that. People like to be happy. They think they don’t, but they do.
So I’ve drilled a hole in the office floor, and put a satellite setup of computer speakers in the workshop downstairs, and I bookmarked Musicovery. And in a fit of saving myself aggravation, I uncheck all the boxes except classical. And then I click on the chart for the mood, and nail it dead-on “dark and calm.” The useful but insane people that run Musicovery think music Hitler had piped in while he blitzkreiged Poland is “positive and energetic,” but they’re not fooling me. You bring a positive attitude and energy to the proceedings yourself; the Ride of the Valkyries won’t help.
Satie. Bartok. Chopin. Mozart. Beats the hell out of Brahms Third Racket over on the uplifting side, never mind a steady diet of Guitar Hero brainbashing.
I banish the bees in my head. And I listen to music literally taken off the walls in a concentration camp, and think to myself: People are wonderful. Life is great.

This is the Intertunnel, so let me first assure you that the picture has not been altered. My nephew took the picture on his way home in Venice, CA.
When I was young, my Father would take us to visit our relatives in Boston, and we’d drive by an apartment building that was essentially built in the median strip of Storrow Drive. It featured an enormous billboard:
Dad’s a wag, so he’d have a different version of it ready every time we drove by it.
If you lived here, you’d be run over by a truck now.
If you lived here, you would have taken your own life by now.
If you lived here, there’s no way you could read this sign because you’d be inside.
If you lived here, you’d be bankrupt now.
If you lived here, you’d be watching you drive by now.
Anyway, naming your buildings, and the neighborhoods they’re in, is an American art form. There’s a list of only a dozen or so words allowed for naming tract-house neighborhoods, which can be used in any combination of pairs to differentiate your cul-de-sac slice of heaven from the benighted troglodytes that live two streets away.
Woods
Stone
Ledge
Brook
Harbor
Park
Hills
Lake
Valley
View
Heights
River
Acres
Crest
Gate
You can get an extra four grand at closing if you’re a developer if you add “Old” at the front of your two word head fake, and “Village” at the end. Little known fact.
The same urge for gibberish that brings us terms like: “Person of Color” has crept into the proceedings now, so developers that name the streets after their children now tart up the process by calling the whole shebang:
The first blank is increasingly filled in with “Preserve,” instead of “Homes,” to pay homage to the dual gods of agoraphobia and environmentalism while you’re bulldozing a wetland full of snail darters and bald eagles to fill it up with snouthouses. You can stick “Estates,” or “Residences,” or “Homestead” in there; doesn’t matter, really. “Village” seems to crop up here again. I see many more people put “Plantation” in there, lately, which conjures up all sorts of imagery, doesn’t it? I guess it’s OK, as everyone that tends to the crops outside (the lawn) is Central American now. I can’t picture the aforementioned person of color being too enthusiastic about moving back to something called The Plantation. Maybe it’s just me.
For the second blank, you just ram any combination of any two words from our list in any order and you’re golden.
The Preserve at Woodstone
The Village at Stonewoods.
The Preserve at Woodstone Village
The Village at Stonecrest
The Preserve at Woodcrest Plantation
When you get old and need a diaper again, you can always call it: “The place at the thingie, there,” and everyone will know what you’re talking about anyway.
So the Crapi isn’t so strange, really, is it? It could be just some horrible mistake at the Capri sign shop, but who knows? Venice, CA is named for Venice, Italy, of course. I lived right down the street in Culver City for a while, a long time ago, and I noticed the similarity between Venice, Italy’s storied canals and the drainage ditches filled with flies, dead dogs, and puddles that adorn the American version. And watching rollerskaters roll by wearing thong bikinis over their pneumatic boobs is just like feeding pigeons in front of St. Marks Cathedral. So maybe the fellow that built the Crapi knew exactly what he wanted to name his building after: The Italian word for more than one female goat.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
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