How Good do we Have to Be?

While my family endeavors to single-handedly revive the economy this holiday season with frivolous gifts, and while we attempt to meet our charitable goals for the calendar year, a question keeps entering my mind: how good do we have to be?  Can we spend money on unnecessary items knowing that it could instead improve or even save another’s life?  Should we in effect take a vow of poverty, agreeing to forgo any of our own pleasures while others are in need?  If not, where do we draw the line?  How much should we devote to helping others while we pursue our own security and interests?

I suspect that a couple of hundred years ago giving was easy.  Living in the relative isolation of a small farming town in Europe, a charitable person would probably have given to their church or synagogue, nearby families enduring hardship, and the local beggar.  They you’d have it.  You’d be good to go.

Nowadays, when the woes of the entire world make headlines daily, it’s impossible to confine your giving to local needs without wondering about the atrocities occurring half a world away.  There is always more to do.  In 1800, a tsunami in Japan would hardly have been a concern for a person living in America.  Today, it’s another tug on our consciences.

Or at least some of our consciences.  A woman I met in 1995 said to me once, “Charity starts at home.”  The problem is, for many people, that’s exactly where charity ends.

A recent article in the Sacramento Bee discussed charitable giving and highlighted the One Percent Foundation, an organization whose members give one percent of their annual income on-line and vote for a cause quarterly to donate to.  They attract young adults primarily – those still in school or still paying off student loans and getting their career paths set – and while it’s a nice start to be sure, one would hope that it instills a habit of lifelong giving that grows as incomes rise, because one percent hardly seems enough.

Mitt Romney’s run for the White House this year highlighted the Mormon Church’s practice of tithing, whereby 10% of one’s income is devoted to the church.  This is similar to the tithing Jews set into law in the Torah, but after the Temple was destroyed, Jewish tithing was amended to giving at least 10 percent of net earnings to helping those in need.  This is somewhat ironic, since in fifteen years of attending Shabbat services, I've rarely heard that tithing is a goal Jews should be aspiring to.  By contrast, the Presbyterian church where I’ve played piano for the last year has already devoted a sermon on tithing and how we are not doing nearly enough to help those in need.

Then there are the mega-wealthy – Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and the like – who’ve committed to The Giving Pledge, a promise for billionaires to give at least 50 percent of their wealth to charity in their lifetime or after.  Nice, I suppose, but not nearly as charitable as my 10 year-old son would be in similar circumstances.  I was overcome with pride last summer when he concluded that if we won the lottery, we should keep about ten percent and give the rest away.  I couldn’t agree more.

But we are not lottery winners.  We are people living comfortably but who have a mortgage, three college educations and a retirement to consider.  And we like to have fun.  Did we really need to buy five tickets to see “War Horse” in Chicago?  After all, if we’d instead donated that money to Feed My Starving Children, we could have fed a meal to 2045 people.  How can three hours of entertainment be justified?

This isn’t a no-brainer, but being human has always encompassed so much more than giving.   Education.  Art.  Beauty.  Creating.  Athletics.  Family.  Friendships.  Community.  Should we really forego great architecture and resort to concrete structures because there are people in need?  Should we stop commissioning sculptures, painting and symphonies?  Are movies and sports luxuries we should no longer succumb to? 

It’s comforting to know that smarter minds than ours have struggled over the years with these questions.  For my money, the most reasonable conclusion comes from the Babylonian Talmud.  It states: “One who wishes to donate generously should not give more than a fifth of his income, lest he himself come to be in need of charity.”  This might not cover the billionaires of today, but it could be a good guideline for the rest of us: try to contribute ten percent of one’s net earnings, and, if possible, up to another ten percent.

Either way, how good do we have to be?  Probably a whole lot better than we’ve been.

Method of Self-torture: changing one's email address

Purchasing a new computer after five years was a no-brainer.  Changing my email address after nine years?  Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I am currently in day four of email hell, as I attempt to notify and update every person, corporation, charity, school, credit card, utility, bank, college fund, theater and umpteen other entities that I have in fact changed my email address (though you can still reach me at paul@paulheinz.com from this website). 

Holy crap.  I thought it was bad when my credit card was stolen and I had to call every business who charged me automatically.  That was nothing.   

Gmail can now press on with the security of knowing they have a loyal customer for life.  Larry Page and Sergey Brin, I am now your slave.  I wouldn’t change my email address now if you promised me a Brewer World Series victory next October.  Don’t ever, EVER do anything that will jeopardize my @gmail.com extension.

What was truly troubling were the hoops some websites made me jump through to make such a simple change.  For financial institutions, I get it.  But some websites practically required a security clearance in order for me to be notified of the next 20% off sale.  Seemed a little excessive.  Particularly annoying: the number of sites that offered an “unsubscribe” link at the bottom of their emails, but NOT a “change email preferences” link so that I could simply update my address.

As of today, in addition to notifying all of my personal contacts, I have updated 60 (that’s right, SIXTY) websites.  And I’m not even a computer savvy guy.  I don’t own a smart phone, and up until last week, I was still working on MS Vista.  I gotta believe there are people out there with hundreds of websites to update next time they change email addresses.  What will they do if they ever change carriers?  (Other than swear a lot, I mean.  Which is what I did.)

The biggest challenge has yet to be resolved.  I must have set up an incorrect answer to my security question on my 401k website many years ago, because after three attempts, I’ve now been locked out of my financial data altogether.  Apparently my best man was NOT my brother, though when I look at my wedding photo, I seem him standing next to me.  Go figure.  It’s easier to change our memories than it is to change our email addresses.

The Tylenol Murders Thirty Years Ago

One of the most gripping and troubling pieces I've read in a long time: Chicago Magazine's chronological retelling of the seven Tylenol murders that took place in and around Chicago in late September, 1982.  The tragedy begins on Wednesday morning, as a 12 year-old drops dead in her bathroom, and through dozens of interviews of family members, friends, political leaders, doctors and investigators, we follow the unfolding of events, hour by hour, as more and more people are discovered dead with no logical links.  

Except for one. 

Through the efforts of skilled professionals and a little bit of luck, in just over 24 hours after the first death it's concluded that cyanide-laced Tylenol capsules are the culprit.  Within five days, Johnson & Johnson recalls everyTylenol bottle from the shelves nationwide, resulting in an overhaul of how foods and medications are protected ongoing.

Hearing first-hand accounts of the mundane events that lead to so many deaths leaves you feeling hollow, shocked, angry and saddened.  You want to reach out and stop these ordinary people from making that fateful stop to Wahlgreens, or call out and tell them to forego the medication and just go to bed.

Vitality literally asphyxiated.  The crime remains unsolved.

When Stuff No Longer Matters

A classic scene from 1999’s Best Picture, American Beauty:  Kevin Spacey makes a move on wife Annette Bening in the living room, and for a moment it appears that the two will rekindle what’s long been lost.  Annette’s character notices the beer in her husband’s hand.

A:            You’re going to spill beer on the couch.

K:            So what?  It’s just a couch.

A:            This is a four thousand dollar sofa, upholstered in Italian silk.  This is not just a couch.

K:            It’s...just...a...couch!  This isn’t life!  This is just stuff.   

I love that scene, and not just for the entertainment value; it beautifully captures what’s wrong with many people’s lives.  How many of us have become possessed by our possessions? 

Lately, I’ve pondered where our desire for “stuff” comes from, because after a decade of watching my kids accumulate books, Legos, jewelry and stuffed animals, it’s become apparent that collecting things begins early on.  Even for the very young, something about possession – of calling an object one’s own – is appealing, so that it’s not enough to just see a pretty rock on the Lake Michigan shore; the rock must be picked up and added to a collection of other rocks.  Whether this is a completely natural instinct or the product of a consumer society is open to debate, I suppose, but as a child, I possessed many things, and most of them cost nothing: rocks, pinecones, aluminum, pennies, beer cans, a bad attitude and shot-gun shells. 

(That last one is a bit perplexing.  Why my parents allowed me to wander unsupervised in the woods behind our home where people apparently shot loaded weapons is just one more in a long line of unanswerable questions about my youth.)

When we become adults, most of our childhood collections are discarded or stowed away in boxes, but we manage to fill the void with other kinds of collections.  When my wife and I moved into a bigger house in 2000, we had to fill it with something, and although we didn’t call our new purchases “collections,” they served the same function.  Instead of scanning the earth for rocks and pine cones, I scanned store shelves for paintings and frames, accents and knickknacks, not to mention storage bins for the collections of our children.  And unlike the treasures of my youth, these new acquisitions cost money.

Well into my forties now, the idea of accumulating more “stuff” is not only unappealing, it’s terrifying. What I used to consider important – my CD collection, for instance – I now view as little more than a nuisance.  I’m trying to stick to a new rule: if something comes into my house, something must leave my house.  It may lead to more yard sales, but it should also lead to less clutter and less stress.  And maybe it’ll even help me to avoid that impulse buy.

I recently read the following quote by Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut about growing older and how our views on possessions change over time. 

Several years ago, we sold our home and disposed of many things, including significant parts of our library.  Surprisingly, disposing of our cherished acquisitions collected during three and a half decades stirred not an ounce of regret.  After all, books are only things that join the grand parade of desire/ acquisition/ possession/ discard...having grown old, we stop acquiring things and instead acquire a growing indifference to them.

I wonder if we all grew indifferent a little earlier, if we might be better off. 

Did You Not See James Taylor at Ravinia? Me too! (a critique of Ravinia)

Last Friday night, I and about 15,000 of my white, upper middle-class brethren (though most of them decidedly better looking) congregated on the well-manicured lawns of Ravinia in Highland Park to not see James Taylor.  Mind you, I could have not seen James Taylor for free at home while simultaneously watching the opening ceremonies of the 2012 London Olympics.  Instead, I paid good money to not see JT, and managed also to not see the opening ceremonies (though at least that part was free).

I already knew Ravinia was a lame excuse to not see a show, so I have no one to blame but myself.  About a decade ago, after purchasing tickets to "see" Lyle Lovett, my wife informed me that at Ravinia, lawn seats aren't within site of the stage.  Instead, large speakers hover overhead so you can hear the show. 

No fricking way, I said. 

Way, my wife said.

We didn't go.  My inactive social life was going to have to plummet even further before I agreed to hire a babysitter and drive through rush hour traffic on a staggeringly hot and humid weekday evening to not see a show.  There were dozens of other ways I could enjoy not seeing a show, like...oh, watching reruns on MeTV.  Schlepping to Ravinia didn't even make the list.

This year I caved, because James Taylor is one of the few acts residing on both my wife's and my circle on the Venn Diagram of our musical interests.  Also, the reserved seats sold out before they went on sale to the general public (not joking).  I thought: what the hell.  I'll get lawn seats.  It'll be a nice evening.

On the day of the event, after an hour and a half trip through the north suburbs of Chicago, a free shuttle dropped off my wife and me at the venue, where we found a shady patch of grass and laid out a blanket and chairs to enjoy a picnic meal prior to the show. 

Then the people came.  And the new arrivals constructed picnics so elaborate they required blueprints.  Men in Ray-Bans and polo shirts and women in full-length dresses attached legs onto wooden tables from Restoration Hardware, set out champagne glasses, cutting boards, cheese spreads and fruit trays, and revealed candelabras whose bases fit snuggly into the neck of a wine bottle.  It was all very impressive.  All around us, beautiful people raised their glasses, bantered and laughed heartily.

And then a funny thing happened.  A concert began, right on time, and while JT began singing, "Hey Mister, That's Me Up On The Jukebox," the people around us continued their banter, only louder.  Each syllable that spewed from their lips was annunciated with great import...all of it was apparently so VITAL to the evening, that it needed to be conveyed NOW and with as much gusto as humanly possible.

So not only could I not see JT, I couldn't hear him either. 

The ticket printouts I have from the show read as follows: "These are your concert tickets to see James Taylor."

False advertising?  You bet.  But even if they had corrected their mistake and had written, "These are your concert tickets to hear James Taylor," they'd still be open for a lawsuit.

Next time, I'm going to picnic in my backyard and put the iPod on shuffle.