I never agree with Professor Blunderson.
When the Professor, an old teacher of mine, told me that he was going to invest in a company that made concrete umbrellas to combat the problem of acid rain, I only just managed to talk him out of it. I told him not to waste money on research into the speech patterns of penguins, but, to his regret, he did anyway. ("The apparatus looks like a piston engine at ground zero," I told him, but would he listen?)
Despite our differences, it's hard not to have a fondness for the old man, whose enthusiasm can make even the most ridiculous concept plausible. When he gets hold of an idea, no matter how ludicrous, the Professor gets a gleam in his eye brighter than two 50 watt Kleig lights, his speech speeds up and his small white goatee starts to quiver.
The last time we had lunch, Professor Blunderson had just that look. I knew, from the moment I saw down, that I was in for a rough time.
"Ira," the Professor stated, idly allowing strips of lettuce to fall of his fork, "I think I've found an answer to the problem of unemployment."
"Please, Professor," I insisted, "I'm eating."
"I'm serious, my boy," the Professor stated, as if he had any other state.
I took a couple of moments to finish my salad, screwed up my courage and eventually asked: "So, Professor, do you think there is anything to be done for Canada's unemployed?"
"Actually," the Professor lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned towards me, "I've been invited to Ottawa to give a lecture on the subject to some very prominent politicians. Some very prominent politicians."
I wasn't surprised. Any person with a degree and the promise of a new theory can get the ear of a politician. Especially a very prominent one. (It's getting their brains that is much more difficult.)
"Eliminating unemployment is very simple," he went on. "All we have to do is give everybody out of work a musical instrument." With a self-satisfied flourish, Professor Blunderson poked the table with his fork, being, as he was, totally oblivious to the fact that his salad plate had been removed by the waiter.
"We'll divide the unemployed into three groups," the Professor quickly continued, masking his embarrassment rather well. "Half of them will get guitars, a quarter of them will get percussion instruments and the remainder will get keyboards and other instruments. The government will then start a recording company and give them all contracts. The result music will not only be sold domestically, but can be exported to other countries. Thus, we can have zero unemployment and a better balance of trade all at the same time!"
I was trying to buy myself some time by wrestling with a fatty corned beef sandwich, but I knew I was expected to respond. The idea of millions of musicians wandering around the country, some in their 40s or older, few with any real talent, was frightening. Simply frightening.
"Whadd gout btarent?" I asked. A few seconds later, the food out of my mouth, I tried again: "What about talent? Certainly, not everybody can be a good musician."
"Do you think every artist with a recording contract today has talent?" the Professor responded. Before I had the chance to clarify my point (which was probably just as well, as I would only have gotten myself deeper into an argument I couldn't win), Professor Blunderson continued: "Of course, not every one will want to play music.
"But, think about what would happen if there were as few as one hundred thousand acts ready to record. Think of the demand for engineers, for producers, for distributors!" The Professor's voice started to rise. "Why, we couldn't possibly keep up with the demand! We would have to import technicians and executives just to keep our recording industry going! Can you imagine it? Canada having to import executives?"
I put my sandwich aside. This was getting serious. "What about...what about people too old to play rock music?"
"Who said anything about rock music?" the Professor said. He was obviously using his own musical tastes as the criteria for the project. "I expect most people would want to play Middle of the Road or easy listening music."
"You mean...?"
"Exactly. This country would spawn the biggest batch of Barry Manilows in the history of popular music!" Professor Blunderson happily cut into his fish fingers, unaware of the impact of what he had just said. I felt the room start to spin. MOR is not more - this man had to be stopped!
"Professor," I croaked, "it...it's immoral! The government doesn't have the right to...to interfere in the arts."
"My dear boy," the Professor, in his most patronizing tone, responded, "since when has the government allowed morality to enter into its relationship with the arts?"
We finished our meals in silence. The check came wand was paid. I was stumped, and was about to put on my coat and gratefully skulk away, when I off-handedly asked the Professor, "Umm, have you considered the effect on people who are already musicians?"
"I'm not certain I know what you mean," he said, but his goatee started twitching madly. Clearly, I had hit a nerve.
"I mean," I pressed my advantage, "You aren't saying anything about the musicians you'll be putting out of work. Could it be that you won't be creating any new jobs, just putting different people on the unemployment lines?"
The Professor's mouth opened, but, at first, nothing came out. "There aren't that many musicians working in Canada," he finally managed to get out.
"But, there are that many musicians in the world," I countered. With a sudden realization, I blurted, "But, you're not concerned with the musicians of other countries, are you?"
The Professor thanked me for an enjoyable lunch and hurried off. I thought about music quotas and trade wars, and smiled to myself.
I haven't seen the Professor since, but I understand that he decided to speak on a much safer topic in Ottawa: the relationship between a stronger Distant Early Warning system and the Strategic Defense Initiative!
