Once You Get Started, Oh, It’s Hard To Stop

Let’s talk about Rufus.

No, not that Rufus. I hesitate to cast aspersions on the obvious metaphysical endowments of Chaka Khan and her band of Rufusians (Rufusniks? Rufusticans? Ruffians?), but I’m talking about Musonius Rufus. Dude was a Roman philosopher in the first century AD. He’s like the Roman version of Socrates. Well, I say he is, anyway. For instance, neither togalicious dude wrote anything down that we know of. Everything we know about what they said comes from notes from their pupils. I always hated the kids who sat in the front row and scribbled down everything the teacher said, but I was never averse to cheating off their test papers.

Socrates sounds like about the most irritating person who’s ever trod the Acropolis. Answering questions with questions gets old fast when you’re on the receiving end. If you’re unfamiliar with the process, buy a three-year-old and try to get a straight answer out of them. If you’re in the mood to hear, “Why?,” more than four Columbo episodes put together, I mean.

Gaius Musonius Rufus got under plenty of people’s skin, too. Got run out of town from time to time, but unlike Socrates, he was never forced to ask the question, “I drank what?” He had a hint of Billy Sunday about him, although I don’t know if Rufus batted left and threw right in the Etruscan League. But they both had more or less the same schtick. They were pointing their fingers at the audience and telling them to wise up. They didn’t have TED talks exhorting people to fully explore their solipsism. They told people to straighten up and fly right. Don’t lie, you know what you did. Now knock that shit off.

I see Rufus as the granddaddy of the Stoics. The Athenian Greeks were airy-fairy and thought endlessly about thinking. Worrying endlessly about thinking usually ends badly, when people like Spartans or Philip of Macedon show up, and start doing things. The Romans like Rufus came up with rules for living. It’s robust, moralistic, and practical advice.

So, the internet, in all its glory, got me to thinking about the way the modern woman operates. Unlike the dim dark past — you know, ten years ago — everything is recorded now. The police, your doorbell, lightpoles, Walmart lobbies, your laptop if you don’t have any electrical tape in the house, and every chad and strumpet clutching an iPhone like it’s a heart lung machine makes sure that everything happens in front of a silicon audience, ready to be curated for a silicone audience. It got me to thinking about what Rufus said about Roman chicks back in the day, and whether it applies to the girls nowadays:

“Women have received from the gods the same reasoning power as men — the power which we employ with one another and according to which we consider whether an action is good or bad, noble or base.”

He didn’t mention anything about parallel parking or hogging the bathroom, so I guess he’s on firm ground here. Women have the same ability as men to understand what virtue is. I gather from surveying the internet and entering a Walmart that cultivating virtue is another matter entirely. Are modern women cultivating virtue? Has feminism set them free to become nobler, more educated, more fully formed, more helpful, pleasant, and productive? What practical advice did Rufus have for the distaff set, and how’s it working out two centuries on?

“…a woman must… be pure in respect of unlawful love, exercise restraint in other pleasures, not be a slave to desire, not be contentious, not lavish in expense, nor extravagant in dress.

“As for justice, would not the woman who studies philosophy be just, would she not be a blameless life partner… a sympathetic helpmate… an untiring defender of husband and children, and… free of greed and arrogance?”

… to control her temper, not be overcome by grief, and to be superior to uncontrolled emotion of every kind. Now these are the things which the teachings of philosophy transmit…”

Hmm. Maybe I had the right idea at the top of the page. The philosopher Rufus, featuring Chaka Khan, was on to something deeper and more topical than Rufus the Roman:

Once you get started
Oh, it’s hard to stop
You can’t stop, you just can’t stop
When you get down, y’all
When you get down, ain’t no turning back, no

How To Avoid Norwegian Wood Splinters

When I was younger, I played music for money.

99.99 percent of the music I played, I hated. I didn’t care for the remainder, but I didn’t hate it.

We played pop music covers, mostly not current ones. We needed a lot of material. We’d attempt to figure out what people would want to hear resurrected, in advance. That’s tricky. We didn’t hang around in bars anymore –we worked in them. It was already too late to figure out what we should be doing by the time we were in there.

We’d meet in the slack winter season, once a week for a month or so. Everyone would bring in a handful of suggestions. We sort of voted  on each. It wasn’t  a popularity contest. We didn’t say: I don’t like it. I told you; I didn’t like anything. We said: It won’t get over; or it will. If it wasn’t unanimous, we didn’t bother. Unanimity didn’t guarantee success, either, but dry holes were more likely to be found in controversial drilling. That’s dreadful enough to be popular was a common assessment.

It was deuced difficult to get the source material into everyone’s hands back then. Before the Intertunnel, it was real work to lay your hands on music you didn’t like. For a while, I used to go to a store that sold 45s wholesale to people that filled jukeboxes. They’d have everything trite, so they were wonderful. But back then, I’d have to painstakingly figure out all the parts by listening to the records, and communicate it to the other fellows when we met.  It was hard work.

My son plays music all the time now. He can find anything he wants, immediately and without charge. He can get a really high-quality instructional video, too, never mind just the source material. YouTube is an enormously useful thing. The Intertunnel is an enormously useful thing.

Or not.

I have opinions. I’m a big, hairy man with big, hairy opinions. Most of what is on the Intertunnel is just opinion; ill-considered, ill-reasoned, ill-mannered opinion, and inelegantly stated. It’s useless. Services that exist simply to aggregate and direct me to various strains of this twaddle are so much less than useless, I may have to coin a term for it. Distilled twaddle. Twiddle?

The Intertunnel is the most useful thing I’ve ever seen. Because it has an editor. That editor is me. Without the editor, the Intertunnel is the most useless thing I’ve ever seen.

Good luck out there.

Marketing, Advertising, and Sales 101

What is Advertising?

It’s often confused with Marketing. And Sales. And Sales and Marketing. Community Outreach? Sure, toss that in there with all the other euphemisms, too.

Marketing is renting a lodge where the animals are. Advertising is hunting. Sales is bullets.I hate to break it to you, but you’re the deer, dear.

Marketing people have the least to do with the public, at least personally, so any essential creepiness on their part is hidden. They talk about customers like bacilli in a pyrex dish, but no one hears it until it’s passed along to others and gussied up and covered with shiny glass balls and garlands. That’s why cable networks don’t make episodic dramas about callow and cutthroat marketing departments with buxom secretaries.

People in advertising can seem rather two-faced. Janussarries, if I can coin a word. Advertisers are paid to fall in love with a product. Like all callow lovers, they are prodigious haters, too. They are tasked with making others love and hate things in turn, but the money has to convince them first. The most effective advertising sometimes sounds like love, or sounds like something unexceptional, but is seething with studied disregard for competitors. Don’t be evil is not a promise to nice. It’s a vicious, unsubstantiated accusation against your competitors, made by stealth. It’s almost worthy of a politician.

Salesmen are the butchers. Close the deal. They are paid to get stuff on their aprons, the stuff the supposedly vicious admen and rapacious businessmen can’t seem to stomach. Good salesmen make the customer feel as though the salesmen is simply helping the customer get what they want. It may even be true. But generally salesmen would push your face into the paper and mash a pen in your hand and move your arm over the contract by jerking your elbow around, if they could. They don’t come on the lot, ‘lessen they wants to buy…

It’s not personal (Sonny); it’s just business.And salesmen aren’t even always wrong in this regard. Sometimes a potential customer drives themselves to distraction worrying endlessly about signing on the line that is dotted. Ending the process gracefully is a blessing all around in many cases.

I run a very rare operation nowadays. I am a vertically integrated business. I thought up the concept, and I designed the products, and I make the product, and made the place the product is made, and I identify the potential customers, and talk to them, and sell to them, and send things to them, and I wonder forevermore afterwards about whether every single one of them is still happy with me. It’s easy for me to love the thing I’m selling, and I deserve less or more credit for delivering the whole megillah depending on your worldview. If I was more disconnected from the disparate steps in my operations, others could be paid to do them, and more customers could be served. Some persons like small, and reward me for my efforts. Some give credit to bigger organizations that don’t lose their soul by inches in expanding out instead of up. Me, I’d just like to eat more often and sleep more soundly.

I’ve become attuned to the machinations of selling things to people. I see the wires behind the animatronics a lot. We live in a world where Bill Gates is considered by many to be an evil mofo, but the ShamWow guy is lovable, at least between bouts of biting a hooker on the face, and being bitten.That is not a naturally occurring phenomenon.

To put yourself in Michelangelo’s shoes, he told the Pope that once the money was settled, he’d find a way to fall in love with the Pope’s thankless Sistine ceiling painting job. The Pope just wanted to get his message out. He hired the best ad man he could find. We’re all the better for it. And I’m sure the Catholic salesmen ultimately had an easier time closing the deal under that ceiling. Advertising and marketing and sales doesn’t have to make your flesh crawl. And many of the greatest artists I know of produced advertising for others. Picasso was one, lifelong advertiser for himself, but made is seem as if he didn’t have a bit of self-promotion going on. I preferred Suess just taking the money and making Flit ads. There’s more charm in it, and less deception.

So everyone has to warm to their task along the way to sell a product or service, and everyone uses dollar bills for the fire they warm their hands over. But you can tell when it’s not just the money talking; when a manifest affection develops for the object of the attention of talented people.

Watch the video. Whoever made it — and conceptualized it in the first place —  learned to love it; and maybe you might to, they importune without seeming to, if you’ve got a moment.

How else do you explain telling potential customers how much fun they’ll have with their boogers frozen in their beard?

Pardon Me While I Subreference Sub-Subculture Again

I don’t consider myself a controversialist. I’m not trolling for a fight for page views. Many people have written me to tell me they like visiting my page because it’s not as angry as the Intertunnel often is. Glad to hear it.

People send me things all the time, for this blog and my other blogs, or simply because they want to share something with their Intertunnel friends. It makes my life more interesting.

You learn about all sorts of subcultures and memes and movements and pockets of resistance and shrines and cachement areas if you browse the Intertunnel as I do, but all people, me included of course, have a tendency to drift into: This is how I go when I go like this. I like getting stuff from all over from all kinds of people because it gets me out of my stale OODA loop and into an Immelman turn.

If it wasn’t for reader Charles Schneider, how would I know that there’s a little cottage industry on YouTube of pasting oddly chosen musical selections over a clip of Laurel and Hardy dancing? There’s dozens of them, all charming in their own way.

Kids today make their own fun out of the crap they find lying around, same as it always was. The crap changes a bit, that’s all.

I Don’t Like The Sound Of These ‘ere Boncentration Bamps

I’m not sure which is more tiresome on the Intertunnel. “Flying cars” or “high-speed rail.” I’ve decided to up the ante and demand funding for High-speed flying railcars.

My bad. We already have that. They’re called “airports.”

Tag: Intertunnel

Find Stuff:

Archives