Earlier this year headlines on the obituary pages of many newspapers carried the name of Charles Rolland Douglass, who died in April at his home in Templeton, California, at the age of ninety-three. Douglass was the inventor of something that has intersected with the lives of nearly all Americans—the television laugh track. His Laff Box, developed in the 1950s, has since evolved into a far more sophisticated instrument, capable of producing moans and groans, oohs and aahs.
The laugh track is something that elite critics of television like to ridicule for its vulgarian artifice—it somehow epitomizes the awfulness, as they see it, of television itself. But the laugh track solved a big problem. Humor is best presented, and comedy most fully experienced, in the context of a crowd. An imperfect substitute, the laugh track proved triumphant nonetheless, helping to make possible the emergence of comedy as television's finest creative achievement. I'm sure the grief at Charles Douglass's funeral was real, but in this case a little canned emotion would have been a wholly appropriate touch.
A handful of people improve the world substantially in more ways than one; and of course the vast majority of us leave no enduring mark on the world at all. But a significant number of people are each responsible for a single notable accomplishment, and they are a mainstay of the obituary columns. Recent years have given us—actually, taken from us—the inventor of the three-point seat belt, Nils Bohlin; the inventor of Kitty Litter, Edward Lowe; and the inventor of Velcro, Georges de Mestral.
Early this summer the Federal Trade Commission inaugurated the immensely popular "Do Not Call" Registry, enabling consumers to remove their names and phone numbers from the databanks of intrusive telemarketers. Someday an obituary for Timothy J. Muris will remind a forgetful public of the FTC chairman responsible for this supreme act of public service. Let us hope that it does not have to be written for many years! By then, a generation from now, children will give little credence to their grandparents' tales of dinnertime browbeating by computerized pitchmen—tales that will seem as preposterous as dentistry without painkillers.
As uplifting as such stories of achievement can be, they have a grim and more plentiful counterpart in the careers of men and women who spend their lives in pursuit of the misguided. "That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea," Samuel Johnson observed, "and that is a wrong one." Johnson's comment might well apply to Hans-Friedrich von Ploetz, Germany's ambassador to Great Britain, who has lately launched a crusade to make the teaching of German compulsory in British elementary schools. A previous German outreach effort, in 1939-1945, having come to naught, the ambassador is directing his energies at Great Britain's Department for Education. As one might expect, the ambassador's suggestion has elicited a certain amount of dyspeptic commentary and popular opposition (Volkswiderstand). It is only a matter of time before someone reminds Von Ploetz of the emperor Charles V's remark "I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to my horse."
Mike Phillips and his colleagues at Plymouth University, in England, recently found themselves drawn to a very different sort of bad idea. The Victorian naturalist Thomas Huxley, arguing for the organizing power of random chance, allegedly advanced the conceit that an infinite number of monkeys banging away at typewriters over the course of infinity would eventually produce the works of Shakespeare. The Plymouth researchers set out to explore this proposition, giving six Sulawesi crested macaques the use of a computer for four weeks. In the end the monkeys produced not a single word, and showed little interest in any key but S. "Another thing they were interested in," a spokesman for the project said, "was defecating and urinating all over the keyboard."
The Plymouth researchers seem to have achieved an ironic distance from their experiment, but the only possible reaction to many other efforts is: What were they thinking? A case in point was the plan by the French synchronized-swimming team at the 1996 Olympics to re-create the experience of Nazi death camps by means of a choreographed aquatic ballet. Last year legislators in Nevada approved a measure that would have put an atomic mushroom cloud on state license plates—a move that wiser heads (at the Department of Motor Vehicles, of all places) managed to deflect. Anyone who goes to the finer restaurants has noticed a growing tendency to explain the manner in which the fish or meat on his or her plate lived its life and met its end—details that most people would prefer to be spared. In Washington from time to time proposals are heard to allow advertising on U.S. currency (as a way of raising money) and even to sell naming rights to national shrines. (The Ford Lincoln Memorial? The Victoria's Secret Reflecting Pool?)