Slipping Standards

In 1964, a Chicago TV station aired the movie version of Moby Dick. The book was required reading in my high school English class, but I bailed immediately after “Call me Ishmael” - turning to the recently released TV movie (and Cliffs Notes) in the hopes of pulling off a passing grade. Six decades later, one troubling image from that film remains stuck in my head.

Not the mechanical white whale.

Nor peg-legged Ahab.

It was Queequeg, the Pacific Island harpooner and his tattooed face.

Tattoos were somewhat frowned upon in my childhood, adorning mostly carnival workers and Navy vets. Daggers. Lightning bolts. Girls’ names like “Trixie.” Faded blue ink on forearms or biceps…but never on faces. That was a no-fly zone. Then Queequeg popped onto the screen and freaked us all out.

That was the point.

He was a strange, unsettling dude, made to appear even weirder by his overly-inked skin. We in the audience knew that normal societies would never sink to a level where excessively tattooed people would become mainstream.

And we were wrong.

Perhaps the tattoo craze is linked to a broader erosion of societal grooming standards. People used to dress up to buy things…

…to travel…

…and watch sporting events.

Not anymore.

Civil, polite dialogue patterns have also been blown to smithereens by a torrent of F-bombs dropped with increasing regularity onto to our everyday lives - athletic events, movies, music performances, newscasts and presidential utterings. The once verboten use of “damn” is now gone with the wind, replaced by words that George Carlin swore could never have gotten past the old school language police.

That was then.

In 1970, “Mash” was the first “mainstream” movie to have included the F word. It was uttered once, in a throwaway sentence. By 2003, the word was used 389 times in “Bad Santa.” Yes, foul-mouthed SANTA! Ten years later, “The Wolf of Wall Street” shattered Mr. Claus’s record with 506 usages.

I’m usually not prudish about these things. I swear regularly…just not on camera or in situations that would unsettle those who could be offended.

In October of 1990, cognizant of the deteriorating language standards, a legit organization caught my eye while researching story possibilities.

The American Council of Spotted Asses.

Ass, as in a donkey-like, mule-like animal that is neither donkey nor mule.

Back then, it was against broadcast protocol to call a living being an ass on the air. This was my chance to stand up to the censors.

Instead, I stood down, self-censuring to the point of ridiculousness…and to make a point.

“Spotted Asses” NBC TODAY October 1990

(Runs 4:22)

For paying subscribers, an out-take from our 2004 cross country RV journey. After ranting about declining societal standards, it’s time for me to come clean about a long-ago family decision to get shamrocks tattooed on our butts. The arrangement was cooked up by my elderly dad in the early 1980’s - way before it was “cool” to get inked. For some reason, my father thought that he and his four sons should share an indelible bond connected to his Irish homeland. One night, near the end of the road trip, my father was goaded into showing off his artwork. It’s not too gross…I promise.

Story below.

“The Shamrock”

(Runs 2:15)