 Briefly
Noted
By Martin
Schultz
Greatness Thrust
Upon Me
Writers, statesmen,
composers, scientists — those of us categorized as having
achieved greatness — are often asked about our loves, likes and
loathings. You know the drill, Churchill loved champagne at any
time of the day, Napoleon loathed the English as being a nation of
shopkeepers, and Carl Sandburg liked the smell of the Chicago
stockyards.
When the time came to
ask me for my Top 10 aggravations and anticipations, I came
stoutly to attention. I was ready to wax eloquent about my
choices. Let the people know where I stand. Give them a list to
remember.
The problem with my
preferences was their lightweight quality. They didn’t match the
immensity of my greatness. I should have great loves of things and
great hatreds. Well, of course I could go on and on about my
Top-of-the-List Number One Favorite target for total loathing:
anything French, except their food, naturally. How could any sane
person actually like them, with their arrogance, their
superciliousness, their cynicism? This is detesting on the grand
scale.
But I can’t keep it
up. Most of my preferences are lightweight. What’s the use,
therefore, of telling people that I like fish, for example? That
doesn’t get them smoldering with admiration. Even enhancing the
point to say that I like any finned or scaled thing dropped on my
plate doesn’t get them writhing in the aisles, either.
How about the fact
that I loathe country music of any kind? That’s huge in my mind.
I can’t stand country music. Country music is a one-note epistle
that inevitably focuses on loss—lost loves, lost home, lost
wife, lost fortune, lost future. Can anything be more boring? Not
like the subtle variations in bluegrass. Or the passionate
undercurrents in the blues. Or the unexpected rhythms in jazz. No
sir. Country music is third-rate and generally doesn’t warrant a
stronger emotion than a feeling of disgust.
I disdain any
interest in basketball — except when the Bulls make the finals.
I’m always waiting for His Eminence to take to the court just
one more time.
I like the sunrises
you can catch from Washington Pike. The intensely orange skies,
the vast clouds, the Big Sky I call it. Like being in Montana.
I hate shaved meat,
on or off a sandwich. The ham is shaved presumably because the
store’s slicing machines are blunt. Why else would anyone settle
for heaps of meat that have to be plucked from a pile and dropped
onto bread? Do we have to admit we prefer our meat to be enjoyed
like finger food?
I dislike shoes with
laces, don’t much enjoy Broadway musicals, have a warm regard
for all kinds of whiskies and reserve a special hatred for any
tall guy who chooses to sit directly in front of me at a show.
Except when it’s a Broadway musical.
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