Sunday, September 23, 2012




CASTRATION AT AN EARLY AGE     5-5-08  BLOG

BY

Bertram Rothschild

You must understand that at age seven or so I had heroes. In those ancient days, the radio was the fountain of all pleasure . . . well, most pleasure . . . and after dinner, we gathered to listen to Mandrake the Magician, Little Orphan Annie, The Shadow and others. Turning on the radio produced a bonanza of thrills and delights.
But, for me the Lone Ranger was the epitome of my burgeoning manhood.
How could it be otherwise? One, he had been cruelly wronged . . . what child can’t identify with that? Two, he was supreme in his abilities, routinely shooting the gun out of villains’ hands, riding faster than anyone and never losing a fight. Fathers were OK, but what boy wouldn’t rather be like the Lone Ranger or at least share some reflected glory? Three, his morality was impeccable. He never did anything evil or sinful and always rescued the weak and helpless. Unlike every other cowboy hero, he had an Indian sidekick, Tonto. Who can ever forget, when starting on a trip of derring-do, the ringing “High You Silver.” and Tonto muttering, “Gettem up, Scout.” And, who can forget the music, the William Tell Overture. Us smart kids knew that.
The Lone Ranger sold Silvercup bread, the best in the land. And by my dictate, no other entered the house. The few times it was sold out, my mother had to buy an inferior brand and it truly disgruntled me. Feh!
In those days, the radio shows provided some gadget to increase sales. Mandrake the Magician always ended with a series of bells that told about his next adventure. But, you needed the Decoder Ring. Of course, my mother had to provide the box tops. How could I be left out? Never. And, then one day, the miraculous happened. The Lone Ranger offered a real, simulated pistol for $2.00 and a large number of Silvercup seals. Of course, I demanded she buy all the necessary loaves at once, but for once my ability to manipulate her failed. I forget how long it took to accumulate the requisite number; as I recall it was pretty close to an eternity. Yet, finally, I had enough of them. The $2.00 I had accumulated from my .10 cent a week allowance so the next eternity was spent waiting for the postman to deliver my genuine, simulated gun. Like everything else, such eternities come to an end. My moaning and groaning ended when that wonderful day arrived bringing a package from the Silver Cup Bread Co.
At age seven, I surely knew how to rip open any package and I wasted no time . . . and what I found was like a stab in the gut, a heart stoppage, an almost loss of life.
They had sent a wooden silhouette of a pistol with decals on one side only simulating the pistol grip, the cylindrical cartridge holder and the barrel. I knew I had been cheated; it was not a genuine simulation, it was junk!
I struggled for many days to try to understand how the Lone Ranger could have pulled such a trick on me. At that age I didn’t get it, but I did know he was a cheat, a hero with feet of clay, and ordinary (ugh) human being. By extension, my lesser heroes were diminished. They were only actors, after all. I suspect that incident started my on Diogenes quest, searching for an honest man.
Sidebar: Psychoanalytic theory would assert that receiving a fake gun was a symbolic castration. Curse you, Lone Ranger!
  

CASTRATION AT AN EARLY AGE     

BY

Bertram Rothschild

You must understand that at age seven or so I had heroes. In those ancient days, the radio was the fountain of all pleasure . . . well, most pleasure . . . and after dinner, we gathered to listen to Mandrake the Magician, Little Orphan Annie, The Shadow and others. Turning on the radio produced a bonanza of thrills and delights.
But, for me the Lone Ranger was the epitome of my burgeoning manhood.
How could it be otherwise? One, he had been cruelly wronged . . . what child can’t identify with that? Two, he was supreme in his abilities, routinely shooting the gun out of villains’ hands, riding faster than anyone and never losing a fight. Fathers were OK, but what boy wouldn’t rather be like the Lone Ranger or at least share some reflected glory? Three, his morality was impeccable. He never did anything evil or sinful and always rescued the weak and helpless. Unlike every other cowboy hero, he had an Indian sidekick, Tonto. Who can ever forget, when starting on a trip of derring-do, the ringing “High You Silver.” and Tonto muttering, “Gettem up, Scout.” And, who can forget the music, the William Tell Overture. Us smart kids knew that.
The Lone Ranger sold Silvercup bread, the best in the land. And by my dictate, no other entered the house. The few times it was sold out, my mother had to buy an inferior brand and it truly disgruntled me. Feh!
In those days, the radio shows provided some gadget to increase sales. Mandrake the Magician always ended with a series of bells that told about his next adventure. But, you needed the Decoder Ring. Of course, my mother had to provide the box tops. How could I be left out? Never. And, then one day, the miraculous happened. The Lone Ranger offered a real, simulated pistol for $2.00 and a large number of Silvercup seals. Of course, I demanded she buy all the necessary loaves at once, but for once my ability to manipulate her failed. I forget how long it took to accumulate the requisite number; as I recall it was pretty close to an eternity. Yet, finally, I had enough of them. The $2.00 I had accumulated from my .10 cent a week allowance so the next eternity was spent waiting for the postman to deliver my genuine, simulated gun. Like everything else, such eternities come to an end. My moaning and groaning ended when that wonderful day arrived bringing a package from the Silver Cup Bread Co.
At age seven, I surely knew how to rip open any package and I wasted no time . . . and what I found was like a stab in the gut, a heart stoppage, an almost loss of life.
They had sent a wooden silhouette of a pistol with decals on one side only simulating the pistol grip, the cylindrical cartridge holder and the barrel. I knew I had been cheated; it was not a genuine simulation, it was junk!
I struggled for many days to try to understand how the Lone Ranger could have pulled such a trick on me. At that age I didn’t get it, but I did know he was a cheat, a hero with feet of clay, and ordinary (ugh) human being. By extension, my lesser heroes were diminished. They were only actors, after all. I suspect that incident started my on Diogenes quest, searching for an honest man.
Sidebar: Psychoanalytic theory would assert that receiving a fake gun was a symbolic castration. Curse you, Lone Ranger!

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