Palin the Pernicious

I understood what the National Tea Party Convention in Nashville was all about as soon as I heard that sound. It was in the audience's response to former Colorado congressman and professional xenophobe Tom Tancredo's wistful reminiscences about literacy tests at the polls, after which he said, "People who could not spell the word vote, or say it in English, put a committed Socialist ideologue in the White House named Barack Hussein Obama." In one phrase, Tancredo managed to insult blacks, Hispanics, and the majority of U.S. voters, and the crowd's reaction was startling yet familiar. Tancredo had harnessed the mob's basest instincts and their reflexive response was manifested in a high-pitched, shrill, Banshee wail that I recognized immediately as the "Rebel Yell." There's nothing quite as chilling as being outnumbered in a clamor of Southern yahoos and good old boys when someone lets loose with the Rebel Yell. I've heard it all my life, and it means "I've got my blood up, by God," and suddenly the air becomes electric with the potential for real violence and "outsiders" find themselves in danger. During last week's Kleagle gathering in Nashville, the Tea Baggers did everything but burn a cross.

And that was before the headliner ever showed up. Sarah Palin gave the mob their money's worth while demonstrating that she could star in the sequel to "Mean Girls." As I listened to her mocking tone, her empty, bumper-sticker platitudes, and her irrational personal attacks on the president, accompanied by the howls of her receptive audience, I remembered where I had seen all this before. Even Palin's grim visage and set-jaw beneath the Farrah Fawcett hair-do was reminiscent of her true mentor, George Corley Wallace. And the Tea Party crowd is the re-assembled Wallace coalition of 1968 that gathered just enough votes to put Richard Nixon in the White House. Their message was the same then as now; Stop the Socialists and their ideas about Medicaid and Medicare, crush dissenters, oppose the Federal gub'ment in favor of  "state's rights," and return the Negro to his proper place in society. But even the old sege Wallace, in his declining years, saw the immorality of his lifelong convictions and spent his final days visiting black churches in Alabama, begging for forgiveness. Sarah Palin is just getting warmed up.

The former half-governor was a red-meat cornucopia to the angry and fearful, but it doesn't take Carl Jung to figure out what's at work here. Palin has a chip on her shoulder like a 2x4, and there is a mean-spiritedness that underlies her entire message. She suffers from the inferiority complex of the ruthlessly ambitious but otherwise average in a world of the gifted. She is in open rebellion against those whom she sees as the "elites," as opposed to "hard-working Americans," like herself. Palin had previously stated that she never attended an exclusive Eastern University, but worked her way through a series of community colleges, even that one in Hawaii, before earning her journalism degree. She got a gig on local news; she wanted to be a sportscaster; she took music lessons; she entered beauty pageants; all the attributes of someone who wants to be in front of the camera. But when all her efforts came a cropper, she, Todd, and God, found politics. And when Miss Wasilla became the mayor of Wasilla, the cross-eyed girl became a swan. If Palin couldn't be a media star, she discovered that, like a one-eyed man in the world of the blind, a mildly attractive person could be a star in the realm of the ugly. There just aren't that many pretty politicians and the Republican party is always looking for the next Dan Quayle.

Disguising hate speech in folksy colloquialisms is Palin's forte, but even she surpassed the gag threshold by asking Obama supporters, "How's that hopey, changey thing workin' out for ya'?" I know she's in Nashville, but who writes her material; Billy Ray Cyrus? Next, they'll be line dancing to her speeches. The mob went wild when she said that we needed a commander in chief and not a "law professor speaking at a lectern." Didn't the Republicans say the same thing about fellow Nobel Laureate Woodrow Wilson, whose dream of a League of Nations was torpedoed by the protectionist spectre of internationalism. Although Palin was likely referring to Obama's professorial "elitism," judging from the Rebel Yell, her Southern audience probably took it in another way. See, down here, we don't like it when our nigras go off to study law and start believing they know everything. Remember, "They call me Mister Tibbs!" But Sarah mindlessly continued to stoke the resentments of her paid-up, all-white audience, and they responded like a crowd at a monster truck rally. They despise the haughty "intellectuals" of the Obama administration as not being sufficiently American, and pine for bombastic leaders like "Dancin'" Tom DeLay and Trent Lott.

The degree of racial animus varies from place to place throughout the South, but nothing much has changed in the way of visceral attitudes. In Memphis, where there is racial parity, public jibes are now couched in prosaic phrases because it's not acceptable any longer to be openly racist, unless you're former mayor W.W. Herenton who makes up his own societal rules. In Nashville, however, they have no such restraint. I have never witnessed more blatant racism anywhere, than in my decade of living in the Music City. So it was appropriate that the Tea Party Convention was held at Opryland. The conventioneers, dressed in red, white, and blue and $500 lighter in the pocket after the ticket prices, have convinced themselves that they are the "real" Americans, and the true "patriots" upon whose shoulders falls the duty of purging the government of subversive elements. So did the Dixiecrats in the forties, the McCarthyites in the fifties, and the Wallace devotees of the sixties. The only difference now is that the reactionaries have a pretty face to follow straight to hell. After a season of slander, ongoing Hitler imagery, accusations of Marxism and worse, this bunch has revealed its true nature, and just like Johnny Nash, "I can see clearly now." But don't attempt to disguise yourselves as "fiscal conservatives," or "small-government libertarians," when you're nothing more than another in a line of misinformed lynch mobs. If knowledge is power, then knowledge of history is the power to avert bullshit when you see it coming down the path. There's an enormous mudslide on the way.

GaGa Over Grammy

I recognized another certain sign of aging tonight; the Grammy Awards no longer piss me off. When I was a worshipper at the altar of pop music, the annual music awards show was always my opportunity to vent at the establishment. Every time they gave another award to Henry Mancini instead of, say, the Kinks, I had the chance to rage against the machine. But the machine has shifted gears and the world of popular music is in an upheaval for which the industry is still groping for answers. I stopped following the pop charts with the advent of the arena, hair-bands of the seventies who tarred and paved the road for corporate rock. Coincidentally, cassette tapes came on the market at the same time, so my soundtrack has pretty much remained unchanged for the past 30 years. But I still keep an eye on it, and this years' awards were perfectly satisfactory, some talented people won, and when the awards ended, my heart was filled with like.

I mean, how can you not like Lady GaGa? Not only is she outrageous and provocative, but she's also seriously good. She opened the show in a futuristic, tight-fitting costume that gave new meaning to the term "cleavage." Strutting in front of the now obligatory flying wedge of dancers that Michael Jackson hath wrought, GaGa was flung into a fiery kettle and emerged face to face with Elton John, with whom she performed a stunning duo on twin pianos covered in what appeared to be severed arms from the "Thriller" video. For some unknown reason, they were both covered in soot and wearing outlandish sunglasses. I don't know what the effect was supposed to be, but between Lady GaGa's outfit and Sir Elton's latest fright wig, they both looked like they just stepped out of the cast of "Cats." The performance set up the evening's theme of incongruous duets.

As scintillating as was the GaGa-John partnership, the pairing of America's Sweetheart, Taylor Swift, with America's ex-girlfriend, Stevie Nicks, was nearly excruciating, and that was just the singing. It looked like "take your daughter to work" day at the Grammys. The same disconnect occurred in the Leon Russell/Zac Brown Band collaboration, with the emphasis on "bore." Russell looked like he was auditioning for a role in the next Tarantino movie, and had his lips not been moving, someone would have covered him with a sheet. Wouldn't the logical production decision to have been for Leon Russell to sing with the Kings of Leon, or is that too much irony? Mary J. Blige, who has a nice voice, and Andrea Bocelli sang an operatic version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," for Haitian relief, which inspired me to write a short poem:
Mary J. Blige might be Queen of the Scene,
But she's no Mavis Staples, if you know what I mean.
And who is Silverberg? They kept singing, "Sail on Silverberg." I liked the Sugarland girl who sang with Bon Jovi, but I never got them either. Bon Jovi, not Sugarland. Just when my attention was beginning to lag, they gave the Song of the Year award to Beyonce and when she made her acceptance speech, I thought I was watching the Golden Globes. I was really hoping that Taylor Swift would storm the stage and grab the microphone, but that's so last year.

The tribute to Michael Jackson proves that you can grow tired of anything after a while. The 3-D video may have looked nice in the Staples Center, but in my living room it just caused retinal burn. And, the kids are adorable, but enough already. I'll still probably buy the damned film though. Also, I know Maxwell is supposed to be the next big thing, but singing "Where Is the Love" with Roberta Flack will invariably draw comparisons to Donnie Hathaway; not a great idea. Flack, who was either drunk or done, was just awful, which is heartbreaking to a man who once wept through an entire, early-seventies Roberta Flack concert at the Mid-South Coliseum. I understand how hard it is to sing live, but somebody ought to tell her.

The level of musicianship seems to have been raised among the performers, signalling the portent that punk is dead and professionalism has returned. Jeff Beck's tribute to Les Paul was an example of stellar artistry, but he played nothing from his own Grammy winning CD, "Live at Ronnie Scott's," which featured his electrifying young bassist, Tal Wilkenfeld, and, by the way, was the sole award winning album I purchased this year. Dave Matthews is another artist that can grow wearisome, but there's no arguing that he, also, is seriously good. The evening's longest performance belonged to Recording Academy president Neil Portnoy Portnow, who bragged about the association's good deeds and solicited donations for Haitian earthquake relief before the screed turned into "Portnoy's Portnow's Complaint," where he scolded the listening public over illegal downloading and file sharing. It's fun to watch the "industry" so hapless and lost after their decades-long stranglehold on the entirety of the muzic bidness. It was also nice that Jim Dickinson and Willie Mitchell were recognized in memoriam.

I don't care how many hit movies Quentin Tarantino makes, he's still a dork. During his introduction of the Rap portion of the show, he suddenly went all Ebonic on us and his fingers began twitching as if he were playing air-turntable. In the words of Speaker Harry Reid, he was using a "Negro dialect," unrecognizable this side of the 1950s. I never much cared for rap, mainly because I don't like people shouting at me, but I don't criticize it lest someone assume I'm a "hater." Every time Lil' Wayne opened his mouth, however, the network censors leaped to hit the "delete" button. In the process, they wiped out two-thirds of the song. They wouldn't let him curse, but he was allowed to show his ass above his droopy drawers. Eminem, however, looked like he got the message and discovered a new thing; the belt. Also, Eminem wasn't bleeped, and his rap sounded like a jazz, scat-singer. His creativity seemingly places him at a different level than the rest of his colleagues in the genre. Is that a racist thing to say?

Either CBS or WREG Channel 3 seriously screwed up the ending of the show. I suspect I know which. After showing a series of local commercials and no-snow closings, the station had a "Heidi" moment and blew the entire presentation for Album of the Year. They returned to Taylor Swift's thank yous already in progress and eliminated at least four minutes of network feed. It was like reading a mammoth novel and finding the final chapter had been torn out, or listening to a CD that's missing a few tracks. Do they get their engineers straight out of high school over there, or is there some remedial training required? Aside from the mutilated ending, this year's Grammys were, pleasant. It was justifiable that "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" won best song of the year for Beyonce, and Swift won Album of the Year. I'm concerned that if I hear that "You Belong With Me" song one more time, I will plunge a knitting needle into my ear canal. Also, after seeing Lil' Wayne's performance, it's obvious that the real song of the year was submitted far too late for consideration. But everyone knows it's got to be "Pants On the Ground."

The People Are Revolting

I thought I felt the earth move last week, but it was only Teddy Kennedy rolling over in his grave. I wouldn't know Martha Coakley from Martha White of the Self Rising Flower, but how bad must a candidate be to go from being 20 points ahead a month before the election, and still lose by five? You would have thought they had found naked pictures of her posing for some cheesy magazine or something. I mean, look what happened to Vanessa Williams. I heard Coakley was "detached" from Massachusetts voters, so in their wisdom, they turned to Tea Party favorite, Scottie "The Body" Brown, to occupy a senate seat the Democrats had held since 1952. My Yankee cousins are going to have to explain to me how another haircut came to represent the people of the Commonwealth since this overnight transformation of Scott Brown from complete obscurity into Republican superstar makes no sense to me.

It should be no surprise that the party that elected George Murphy, Ronald Reagan, Sonny Bono, and Arnold Schwarzenegger to public office would look for another face out of Central Casting to put a handsome smile on obstructionism. The GOP always thinks that a pretty boy (or in the case of Palin; girl) is going to attract the young voters. Witness Mitt Romney, or Dan Quayle, or any of the frozen-haired fellows like Vitter and Ensign, currently embroiled in sex scandals while still remaining in office. Even Karl Rove's infatuation with George W. Bush falls into the category of first finding the head and then filling it with facts, as he similarly did with his latest creation; Texas Governor Rick Perry. So, good for the Massachusetts voters for finding another stud-hoss to send to Washington. It used to be said that "Politics is show business for ugly people." Now, it's just plain, old, show biz.

I know Ted Williams' head is somewhere up there in Boston, (except for that chip off the old block), in a cryogenics lab, and it was there that the original Tea Party took place, all hoping that one day, in some unforeseeable society, they might find the cure for death and taxes. So the only thing for certain anymore in this life is change. I understand that change produces anxiety, which in turn provokes strong responses, but attempting to resist inevitable societal change is as fruitless as trying to hold back the turning of the seasons. Sending one more "no man" to Congress will not affect any solutions, but putting him in Ted Kennedy's seat was most definitely a shot across the bow, both for the undisciplined and unprincipled Democrats, who continue to knit one, pearl one, on health care reform, and the president as well. There are some pissed-off people out there, but the wake-up call should be for progressives to realize that this is a philosophical war, and their opposite numbers are highly motivated. It will take equal motivation to protect the hard-earned gains already won and prevent a slippage back into Bushism.

The anger directed toward Obama after one year in office is baffling to me. The conservatives scream, "Slow down, you're doing too much." And the liberals cry, "You haven't done enough. Your campaign promises weren't accomplished in the projected time frame." I understood, and wrote, that Obama would spend a full half-term extricating us from the Bush-era political quicksand, but if electing more far-right, cultural conservatives (except for that centerfold business), is supposed to punish the president for arrogance or aloofness, or whatever you wish to call it, it's a losing strategy. Obama tackled health care reform first because it was the most difficult issue and required the most political capital. It has dragged on much too long with far too much drama, partly Obama's fault, and as a result, he has spent a good deal of that capital. People are frustrated that only now is attention being focused on job programs and they are angry at the perception that the White House is coddling Wall Street.

In the propaganda wars, the Obama administration is losing to the point where perception has overtaken reality. The Republican "NO" Chorus, assisted and abetted by Fox News, has successfully painted the president as culturally removed from mainstream America, if not outright attempting to subvert the capitalist system. They claim Obama has no accomplishments, despite their protestations that he's "trying to do too much." In reality, Obama has pulled this country back from the brink of Depression, and the government's deficit spending was necessary to save entire industries. Criticism was heaped upon him for the takeover of General Motors and the firing of the Chief Executive, but after six months, look what has happened. GM has retooled, begun manufacturing the vehicles that Americans want, and paid back the TARP money loaned by the government. We are finally at the dawning of the mass produced electric car. Do you think the auto industry would have made the shift on their own without governmental assistance and insistence on stricter CAFE standards?

Obama has in actuality been warring with corporate America, and the corporatocracy is fighting back with foot soldiers from the disgruntled Tea Party protesters, who don't even realize they're being used. In his first full year, the president has announced the prospective closing of offshore tax havens like the Cayman Islands; forced restrictions on credit card rate increases; provided mortgage assistance to millions of people; re-regulated the banks so they can't gamble with your money; introduced new infrastructure repair and high-speed rail programs; moved a shitload of new cars; and is on the verge of passing health care reform so people like me don't have to be afraid to go to the doctor because of the potential expenses that the insured need not fear. I'm a realist. We survived eight years of the most dangerously radical era in American politics. If it takes another year to correct our course, that is how wide was our detour. The election of one more beefcake, cretin Republican to the Senate does not deter my confidence in the president, only in the people of Massachusetts. There are still three years remaining in Obama's first term, and in the words of the old gospel song by Reverend James Cleveland: "Please be patient with me. God is not through with me yet."

Cheech & Chong & Cohen

You have to admire the political moxie of Rep. Steve Cohen for being the only Congressperson to address the Marijuana Policy Projects' 15th annual gala last week. It's not as if the congressman's district is clamoring for the reformation of pot laws, but Cohen has, ever since his days as a state senator where he proposed legislation to enable Tennessee's doctors to prescribe the use of medical marijuana for their patients. Cohen told the Memphis Flyer in 2005, "The laws are crazy to restrict an individual from something that can make them feel better when they're dying. There are so many other legal drugs out there that are much more habit-forming, addictive, and potent." Immediately, Cohen's detractors accused him of being a pot-head, but judging from his previous statement about marijuana's potency, he hasn't smoked any in a while. I was at first delighted and then confused over Cohen's appearance, along with "Trailblazer" honorees, Cheech & Chong, at the marijuana advocacy group's confab. I'm not used to my representatives acting on principle. First, this guy establishes a lottery that enriches the public school system, then he passes legislation formally apologizing for the institution of slavery, and now he's trying to decriminalize marijuana. Who does he think he is? Marcus Garvey?

Cohen told the self-confessed pot smokers that his own campaign polls have shown nearly 3-1 support for medical marijuana. "This is an issue that's important," Cohen said. "It's a freedom issue. It's an intelligence issue... I'm proud to be here." News reports said Cohen received nearly as loud an ovation as did Cheech & Chong, if not the belly laughs. It is a certainty that Cohen's political opponents will seize upon this issue in the 2010 elections. The conservatives will say that he's in league with Barack Obama in attempting to indoctrinate the nation's youth. And his Democratic opponents, including a group of African-American "ministers" who disliked his support over the passage of a hate crimes bill, of all things, will accuse him of being in favor of drugs in the 'hood, when what they actually mean is they don't want Steve Cohen there. The congressman, however, has shown consistency in voting his conscience, and anyone who is even vaguely informed knows that he is on the right side of history.

History teaches that cannabis was made illegal in the 1930s after a study by the Harry Anslinger Commission linked its' usage with illegal workers from Mexico. A marijuana "devil weed" campaign of provocative disinformation followed and was accepted as gospel until the beatniks and hippies exposed the hysterical propaganda as just plain silly. Today, cannabis cultivation is a billion dollar domestic industry that operates on cash and remains untaxed and unregulated despite the fact that, according to author Eric Schlosser, "There are more people in prison today for violating marijuana laws than at any other time in American history." Given the supposition that any mind altering substance is not good for children or the developing brain, isn't it time we admitted that marijuana is a gift from God for grown-ups and good for what ails ya'? Cohen speaks of pot giving comfort to the dying, but how about the living? This innocuous weed eases nausea, pain, and anxiety in most people, while causing passivity in its users. The Rastafarians use it as a religious sacrament, and there are now as many cannibis connoisseurs as wine experts. I suppose I've spent a full third of my life in bars and nightclubs, and I have seen a thousand fistfights, all fueled by alcohol. But I have never, ever, witnessed a pot smoker get high and become violent, unless he was about to be ripped off for drugs or money.

And that's the crux of the problem. Remove the massive illegal profits from pot cultivation and distribution, regulate it, and disassociate marijuana from other Schedule 1 drugs like Heroin and PCP, and prisons would suddenly have room for the rash of violent felons among us. The group for which Rep. Cohen spoke, The Marijuana Policy Project, issued recent statistics showing cannabis arrests outnumbering arrests for all violent crimes combined. And the hypocrisy of accepting thousands of deaths per year resulting from drunken driving while incarcerating nearly fifty thousand people, one out of eight prisoners, for pot use is dumbfounding. Yet the alcohol bandwagon rolls on unabated, creating shareholder wealth while destroying lives in its wake. New Jersey, however, has just become the 14th state to legalize medicinal marijuana and the ski-town of Breckenridge, Colorado has just decriminalized pot possession completely. There are a lot of rich folks in Breckenridge that just grew weary of the hassle and decided to stop pretending. And the Obama administration announced it will no longer conduct federal raids on state approved marijuana dispensaries, as the Bush government did in California.

We can all agree in hindsight that the temperance movement and the "Noble Experiment" of prohibition from 1919-1933, was a miserable failure with unforeseen consequences. The governmental ban of alcohol and liquor gave birth not only to thousands of "speakeasies," but led directly to the formation of the modern crime organization in America, whether known as the Mafia, the Mob, or La Cosa Nostra. Not just men with names like Capone or Luciano made millions from smuggling and bootlegging, but families named Kennedy and Bronfman did as well. After more than a decade of fierce bloodletting, the public had enough and repealed the 18th Amendment, abandoning prohibition. That "tipping point" has been reached again in the case of marijuana. Ordinary people are tired of seeing SWAT teams kick down doors and passive users being brutalized. Parents are weary of their children establishing arrest records over possession of a joint. And the people of the Southwest are sick of the Mexican drug gangs and their American accomplices who murder journalists, judges, and innocents to protect their cash flow. All this can end with the stroke of a pen. And with common sense congressmen like Steve Cohen leading the way, who says "It can't happen here?"

Flying By the Seat of Your Pants

It's wondrous how quickly the Transportation Security Administration leaps to the task of preventing an attempted act of terror that's already happened. First, the Shoe Bomber assured that the flying public would forever tiptoe through security in their stockinged feet, and then a couple of half-assed, bathtub chemists made certain you're not allowed  a bottle of water on a plane. Since the attempted destruction of a American  Northwest Airlines flight over Detroit, the press has dubbed the latest perp the "Underwear Bomber," though I much prefer the more accurately descriptive, "Taint Bomber." Following the TSA's logic, the next step is for everyone to fly naked. If these guys are always a step behind the terrorists, why do they call it "intelligence?" Now, before my octogenarian mother can pass through a security checkpoint, she first has to be patted down by an overly empowered high school dropout in a uniform.

The Taint Bomber, of course, hid explosives in his briefs, which malfunctioned, giving new meaning to the term Great Balls of Fire. Now, the cry is for the installation of full-body X-ray devices, which leave nothing unrevealed to the observer and fulfill every young boy's fantasy of being Superman. I could give a damn if some "professional screener" saw me in my underwear, but if I were a woman, I might be concerned that the man behind the curtain may be enjoying his job a little too much, especially if he is entrusted with the saved images that would be needed to provide any evidence to the authorities. The American public sheepishly goes along, tolerating any abuse for the illusion of safety. The new rule about not going to the bathroom during the last hour of a flight will certainly need to be revisited after passengers start peeing on the floor. And, no books? What the hell are you supposed to do on one of these flying disease incubators; meditate? If you did that, someone might mistake you for a religious extremist and the next thing you know, you're experiencing a full cavity search by a zealous teenager on a summer internship.

As terrible as the potential disaster on Christmas day may have been, the shameless exploitation of the terrorist action by the GOP, not to merely politicize the event, but attempt to fund-raise because of it, is repugnant. Say the word "hijacker" to a Republican, and like a Pavlovian response, they begin to salivate over the possibility of bashing the president over national security, especially the disgraced, future convicted felon, Dick Cheney. The now worst former vice president in American history issues missives from his cave that seem more intent in harming the president rather than preventing future attacks. In fact, Cheney and a handful of hawks almost seem to be wishing for a domestic cataclysm on Obama's watch so they can say, "See? We're not the only ones who allowed  an egregious lapse of security to cost American lives." I have come to the opinion, expressed frequently by commenters to these posts, that the Congress, on both sides of the aisle, are a bunch of whores (my Representative excepted). The difference is that the Republicans are particularly nasty and syphilitic whores, and thus a danger to the common good. The torture party's credibility on national security is shot and can't be restored by a "Democratic" airline disaster.

Who wants to endure the humiliation involved with airline travel anymore? This is why programs like high-speed rail are so important, not just to offer an alternative to the airline monopoly, but to ease the chaos at the airport and lesson the traffic on the highways. Want to know why we are light years behind the Europeans and Asians in the development of high-speed rail?: 50 years worth of congressional cash from the airlines, muscle from a corrupted Teamsters Union, and cheap gas, which strangled the railroads in their tracks, so to speak. I would much prefer riding in a 300 mph bullet train than spending the extra two hours of useless screening before being herded onto another austere and tension filled flight. The Madrid bombings proved that trains are as equally vulnerable to terrorist attack as planes, but if an explosive device detonates on my mode of transport, I'd rather already be on the ground than blown out of the sky.

The system in place should have prevented the latest violent Islamic extremist from boarding a flight in Amsterdam, but the system failed. The Obama administration, clearly flustered, attempted to explain that he was not on the "no fly list," but rather the "watch list" which contains half a million names. Bulletin: We have computers now, so rather than harassing millions of passengers at their point of origin, wouldn't it be wiser to invest more in computerized file sharing between the airlines, in conjunction with governmental security agencies? As it now exists, the TSA merely reacts, rather than project or predict, and the hands-on approach is only succeeding in infuriating passengers and disrupting air travel; exactly Al Qaeda's intentions. How difficult is it to punch up a prospective ticket buyer's name in a security database and insist on photo identification, rather than accept cash for a one-way ticket? The Taint Bomber made it through security undetected and someone must accept responsibility, but the real question is why was this known suspected jihadist, whose own father warned of his radical intentions, allowed to purchase a ticket on a domestic airliner in the first place?

Valedico Decadis Horribilis

To paraphrase Queen Elizabeth II, we're about to bid farewell to a decadis horribilis. To be sure, there have been rotten decades before, but there were always redemptive events to counter-balance the daily drumbeat of doom and despair. The fifties gave us McCarthyism, the Red Scare, and "Duck and Cover," but also Elvis, Chuck Berry and Jonas Salk. Anyone nostalgic for the sixties was obviously not someone in the line of fire. But amid war, assassinations, generational conflict, the draft, and the daily televised body count, we had the Beatles within a flowering garden of popular music, and a self-created counter-culture with unprecedented expressions of artistic freedom.

The seventies brought inflation, oil embargoes, gas lines, hostage crises, a cocaine epidemic among young professionals, and Disco. But on the bright side, we had the Bicentennial and Quaaludes. Reaganism ruled the eighties, with his theory of "trickle-down economics" sewing the seeds for the most recent orgy of fiscal de-regulation and near economic meltdown. Military budgets ballooned and social programs were cut adrift while the Christian right muscled a seat at the table and an age of rah-rah, jingoism returned to America. Iranian revolutionaries who had humiliated the U.S. were rewarded with illegal weapons sales and once empty CIA planes returning from money drops to Contras in Nicaragua, now came home loaded with something new for the Pepsi Generation; crack cocaine. On the positive side, we beat the Russians in hockey.

The nineties were the uproariously entertaining Clinton years, where grown-ups were forced to explain the meaning of oral sex to their children. For what more could we have asked? Scandals, investigations, wiretaps, blue dresses, cigars, impeachment; the Clintons delivered it all, and more. Hillary's heartaches and what "is" is, live on in our common psyche. But, in the words of James Carville, "What didn't you like; the peace or the prosperity?" Bubba coulda' been a contenda' if he had just holstered his weapon once in a while. Everyone eventually grew weary of the whole circus, but they took it out on Al Gore.

The laughter ended in 2000 when a politicized Supreme Court actually stopped a vote count in progress and awarded the presidency to the intellectually challenged George W. Bush, a decision that ranks up there in wisdom with Dred Scott. Thus, the prophesy made by humorist H.L. Mencken in 1920, was fulfilled; that, "On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron." The Great Stem-Cell Compromise of 2001 was so exhausting, the whole Bush gang went on vacation, and, of course, we know what happened then. We were all behind Bush that awful day and, without exception, wanted our president to succeed. Something redemptive might have arisen from that terrible tragedy, but Bush began following a playbook from an earlier age. A dark time of imperial arrogance and deceit descended upon this nation, and if you disagree with that statement, you may be part of the problem.

In another time, during another war, when things were going badly and people were marching in the streets, a president demonized dissenters as "bums" and "traitors," and energized his base to rise up against these scruffy protesters. Violence and riots followed. Richard Nixon, during a volatile time of social upheaval, unnecessarily polarized society between young and old, black and white, and rich and poor for personal political gain. Only resignation saved him from being booted from office for abuse of power. The next such divisive president, casting aspersions of disloyalty and treason toward those who would oppose him and fraying the nation's societal fabric in the process, was old GeeDubya "Bring 'Em On" Bush. And who was the common link connecting the political philosophies of the Nixon and Bush governments? Dick Cheney, Master of Disaster.

The decade's nadir came exactly midway with Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. The country was shocked to see such an unrelenting tragedy compounded by the government's ineptitude; the same government that plunged us into two wars and an economic catastrophe unmatched since the "Roaring Twenties." But Bush was such a one-man, walking disaster that he made it possible for the first African-American to be elected president. So, just here, at this miserable decade's twilight, comes the glimmer of hope of what's possible in the next; affordable health care, resolution to wars of choice, government infrastructure projects and the accompanying jobs that follow, high-speed rail to finally compete with the airlines, quality public education and reasonable college costs. Positive things can happen when people finally decide to work together. Of course, I believed John Kerry was going to be elected president too.

I Jammed With Bat Masterson

The recent death of the actor Gene Barry brought a wash of memories over me about the occasion he visited Memphis. At the time, Barry was starring in the lead role of the hit TV western, "Bat Masterson," the legendary Dodge City lawman, and was to be the featured attraction at the Mid-South Fair's annual rodeo. Cowboy stars like Roy Rogers and Lash LaRue had appeared in years before him, but Barry's series was among TV's top rated shows when he was booked for the fair appearance, guaranteeing a large segment of the audience would be his young fans. I'm certain Barry thought his Memphis stop would be a breeze, but then he never expected to encounter Sputnik Monroe.

The evil professional wrestler with the skunk-like white streak in his hair was already the second best known face in Memphis, after Elvis, when he decided to seek even more public outrage by going to the fairgrounds to stalk Gene Barry. Robert Gordon, in his vastly entertaining book "It Came From Memphis," got the scoop years later from Sputnik himself. Monroe explained calmly, "I read in the paper where Gene Barry was coming to the Mid-South Fair and I went out there to hit him in the nose for copying the way I dress. I was born and raised in Dodge City, Kansas, which is the cowboy town of the world. Gene Barry was the star on 'Bat Masterson' and dressed like I dressed, with a homburg and a vest. I figured if I jerked him off a horse and hit him in the nose for dressing Dodge City-style, I'd get a national reputation." In Sputnik's world, such were the just desserts for impersonating a cowboy. The police kept Sputnik at bay and Bat/Barry's appearance went smoothly, but the Hollywood cowpoke probably never appreciated his near miss with meeting mayhem in Memphis. As it was, Sputnik picked a fight with a rodeo cowboy and made the morning paper's front page. The authentic clipping was sent to me by Sputnik's arch ring enemy, the great Billy Wicks. (Click on clip to enlarge).

The following morning, as we did every Sunday, my sister, Susan, and I attended Temple Israel Sunday School, but returned home to see a sleek town car in the driveway. My mother told us we had a visitor and when we walked into the living room, my jaw dropped. There was Gene Barry himself, sitting at the dining room table having a Sunday brunch. When my father asked if I knew who this was, I replied, "Sure, it's Bat Masterson." The New York bred actor, born Eugene Klass, was the brother-in-law of one of my father's business associates in California. When he found he was coming to Memphis for the weekend, his kinfolks called my mother to ask if there was a good place for a nice, Jewish TV star to get some lox and bagels without being mobbed by fans. "For that," Mom replied, "he'll probably have to come to my house." So there I stood, at age eleven, trying to process the sight of Bat Masterson sitting with my parents, spreading cream cheese on a toasted bagel.

Barry was gracious in the extreme and offered rodeo tickets to my sister and me. When he heard I was an aspiring guitarist, he insisted that I play for him. I had gotten through, "Don't Be Cruel," and "The Battle of New Orleans," when Barry enthusiastically said that he wanted to play along. So, I fetched a pair of bongo drums which I had acquired resulting from my admiration of Maynard G. Krebbs. With bongos firmly clamped between his knees, Gene Barry and I set off into the strangest, rollicking medley of nearly every folk and rock song that I knew. After a laugh-filled jam session, the handsome actor cheerfully suggested that we take the show on the road. Barry withdrew a publicity photo from an attache case and signed it; "To my pal Rand, from his pal Bat," then after expressing his gratitude to my parents and bidding his farewells, Barry opened the front door to find a half-dozen neighborhood kids who had somehow found out about the visit. He was generous to the last child before taking the wheel and heading off to some glamorous hotel suite.

I was still in the thrall of Bat's visit when I spread the morning paper on the floor and saw the article about Sputnik Monroe. I was enraged that this vile man would try to attack such a hero of TV westerns, and I was glad to see Sputnik wrapped in bandages after his fight with the itinerant cowboy. Had someone told me then that I would one day come to revere the man and take his name as a nom de plume, I would surely have asserted that they were insane. I kept up with Gene Barry as a secret pal, but when "Bat Masterson" was finally cancelled, my interest waned, and I never did like the show "Burke's Law" so much. Not so with Sputnik Monroe, who continued to wreck havoc in and out of the ring for another decade and cemented his legend in Memphis history, while personally defending my young ass in the process. But that's another story.

Gene Barry continued his successful career in movies and television and was nominated for a Tony Award for his performance in the original "La Cage aux Folles" on Broadway. His death at the Motion Picture Home in California at age 90 reminded me how quickly life passes. Although I am older now than he was then, I still vividly recall a rugged-looking man with a big laugh asking my father to please pass the lox, and an actor completely at ease in the company of my family, playing the bongos with abandon and a smile while I wailed away on the guitar. The genial Mr. Barry never realized how close he had come to a Memphis-style ass-kicking the previous night. I liked Gene Barry a great deal, and I'm grateful for the afternoon we spent together. My single regret is that if I had only kept in personal touch with him for a few more years, I could have introduced him to Sputnik Monroe, and they might have reminisced about their respective days in old Dodge City.

Obama's War

After Vietnam, I measure a war's nobility of purpose by asking two simple questions: Would I give my life for it, or ask my daughter or son to give theirs? The answer concerning the war in Afghanistan on both counts is "no." I don't understand the logic of committing 30,000 more troops to a guerrilla war that can't be fought with a standing army. The British have already tried that, not only in Afghanistan, but in another tussle known as the American Revolution, with similar results. I don't believe that the President, as a student of history, will repeat the mistakes of Vietnam, yet here we are again, facing an enemy that could be a merchant by day and an insurgent by night, defending a corrupt government that lacks popular support, and an enthusiastic general requesting more troops to "complete the job," only his name is McChrystal instead of Westmoreland.

While the real enemy, Al Qaeda, has an estimated presence in Afghanistan small enough to be defeated by the Tennessee National Guard, their legions have purportedly crossed into Pakistan, as Sec. Clinton so bluntly pointed out to their prime minister. So, it's hard to know who the enemy is in Afghanistan. The Taliban are a nasty bunch, as attested by the news footage of them whipping women in the streets, or blowing up ancient Buddhist statues, long before we invaded. But the purpose for their removal was for harboring bin Laden and friends, not for being religious extremists. I realize that the U.S. must present force in the region to prevent the murderous conspirators who attacked us from regaining a foothold to plot new atrocities. But history and the Mossad have proven that terrorists are better fought with special forces trained for that purpose. If U.S. personnel cross borders to pursue the assassins, I don't necessarily want to know how the sausage is made.

It's not that I don't trust the president's judgement by listening to the military's eternal call of "more troops," or General McChrystal's veracity, although he was involved in the cover-up regarding the death of Pat Tillman; It's Sec. of Defense Robert Gates that I believe. This is a man deserving of one of those Medals of Freedom that Bush used to hand out like prizes from a box of Cracker Jacks. Gates is serving his third president during wartime, having been retrieved from academia to rectify the worldwide chaos wrought by Donald Rumsfeld. Having previously served as head of the CIA, he could have comfortably remained president of Texas A&M, but chose to serve the country again by re-directing the strategy in Iraq, and staying on as secretary under Obama to focus on the indecipherable dilemma that is Afghanistan. Through it all, Gates' primary concern has been for the troops, both in the field and after returning home. If this genuine patriot and public servant believes that more troops now will bring this war to a faster conclusion, then I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Several major differences exist between today's wars and Vietnam. For starters, today's soldiers are volunteers, while the Vietnam War was fed with draftees who were forced to go fight in an alien land or face jail. The war in Indochina was expanded by LBJ primarily over the issue of the size of his balls. He famously said, "I'm not gonna' be the first American president to lose a war." Nixon and Kissinger had the same missile-headed reflexes and cost millions of more lives. Afghanistan, however, was the staging ground for the attacks against us and deserving of retaliation. Now, Obama has the delicate task of extracting us from this morass. No one can accuse him of bait-and-switch on this issue. He campaigned on the promise to bring the focus of our national security back to the region that still endangers us. If the Gates-McCrystal strategy succeeds, I suggest we never again commit troops to any country with a "stan" in its name.

It's too bad the Obama haters won't be listening to his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in Oslo out of general, misguided principle. But they would only still despise him anyway. Had they listened, they would have heard a Chief of State describe the use of arms against an unprincipled enemy as "just," in defense of the citizens he is sworn to protect. He also reminded the "effete" Europeans that the conservatives are so eager to loathe, that their freedoms over the last century have been purchased with large doses of American blood. Obama stated something even Dubya could love; "There is evil in the world that must be confronted." This sober, thoughtful, and historic speech should forever put to rest the wing-nuts' insistence that Obama is somehow un-American, or acting on behalf of dubious forces beyond our borders; but it won't. They have become so engulfed by hatred and misguided outrage, orchestrated by right-wing, self-serving, on-air, borderline seditionists, that they can't see the man standing before them has become the legitimate Commander in Chief of the United States. And no one is blinder than he who won't see.

Full Contact Shopping

When my email in-box became filled with ads from every merchant with whom I've ever purchased a book or candle, offering steep discounts and free shipping, I knew that the holiday shopping season had arrived in earnest. Before the turkey had even been digested, every news outlet was talking about Black Friday. I understand the day after Thanksgiving is when retailers are supposed to "go into the black," but as a history buff, I can't help but think of the original Black Friday on Oct. 25, 1929, when the stock market crashed, precipitating the Great Depression. That day, it wasn't merely prices that were falling, it was raining stockbrokers. Nonetheless, I suppose I managed to save around three hundred dollars this Black Friday just by staying in bed.

The news footage of the crowds that camped out in front of big box stores and rushed the entrances at dawn was enough to discourage me. Police were called to restore order at a local Toys R'Us when a crush of people caused one female shopper to begin waving a taser in the air and threatening those around her to back up. Voices could be heard saying, "Don't tase me, Ho, Ho Ho." I've been informed that people wait all year for these "doorbuster specials." They get the family involved and plot out strategies and logistics, and were it not for the early-bird sales, many could not afford these gifts at other times. As for me, fighting a frenzied mob of aggressive shoppers at 5AM for an electric, Japanese hamster sounds only slightly less appealing than dipping my face in the deep-frier at Wendy's.

Then comes "Cyber Monday," a recent creation to encourage online shoppers to begin early so they don't end up at "Glitch Thursday," when the retailer screws up your order, it doesn't arrive in time for Christmas, and you end up giving your loved one a catalog photo of the gift they were going to get. Even though you run the risk of receiving that late season post card telling you the great bathrobe you ordered for Mom is presently out of stock, I still shop online ever since I noticed that people don't know how to behave in public anymore. The jostling crowds, the slow walkers and cell-phone talkers, the indifferent clerks and rude cashiers had turned Christmas shopping into a two Xanax event. Online, the need for human interaction is unnecessary, which some may think is contrary to the spirit of the season, but it also reduces the chances of contracting the swine flu. That's why the hottest holiday gift this year is Purell Hand Sanitizer.

Speaking of "holidays," I would expect the opening volley of the annual "War on Christmas," sponsored by Fox News, to go off any day. Usually, Bill O'Reilly kicks things off about a conflict over a creche at the post office somewhere, or some such symbolic thing. I heard a woman say last season that if a merchant wished her "Happy Holidays," instead of "Merry Christmas," she would void her sale and take her business elsewhere. I don't suppose a delicatessen was on her list of shops, but isn't that attitude a bit like the Taliban? Since my neighbors think I'm strange anyway, I was thinking of erecting a large, inflatable Ganesha, the Hindu Elephant God, in the front yard. I mean, anybody can blow up a Walgreen's Frosty the Snowman, but Ganesha is the "remover of obstacles." I heard that my rabbi doesn't approve of Jews having Christmas trees, but we're getting by on a technicality since our tree isn't even real and folds up in the attic the rest of the year. Since we're a bi-tradition home, I always get out the acrylic, electric Chanukah menorah, where, on each of the eight nights, you switch on another pastel-colored bulb. I am, after all, a Reform Jew.

I wish I could get more exited about Hanukkah, but it's a minor holiday commemorating a military victory in the 2nd Century BCE, that paled against the festiveness of Christmas as a child. While our Christian friends were given bicycles and ponies, we were getting mesh bags of chocolate coins to celebrate the miracle of one day's worth of Temple oil lasting for eight nights. As far as miracles go, I thought the "Let there be light" one was far more impressive. If it were a holiday of great significance, you would think that after two thousand years, they could agree on how to spell it. It was, however, the world's first holiday celebrating energy conservation. I saw one catalog selling the ultimate in mixed-faith metaphors; the Chanukah spinning top, called a "dreidel," with pictures of Santa on the sides. Could this be a sneaky attempt at conversion, or another Obamanite plot of world-wide ecumenicism?

I know I'll radiate a more seasonal glow as the time draws nigh, then on Christmas day I can erupt in good cheer like an overstuffed Pinata. The family will gleefully unwrap our presents and hunker down for Blue Tuesday, when everybody exchanges everything they received for store credits and gift cards. When all the carolling stops, no one wants to miss an after-Christmas bargain. Until then, the traffic is impossible, the crowds are surly and pushy, and I'm having a difficult time adjusting to life in a world without Ed McMahon. Ask not for whom the jingle bell tolls; especially if you're Dick Clark. "Hiyo!" And, is it alright to say "happy holidays" if you're referring to Lincoln's Birthday, Valentine's Day, and Passover? Finally, why do people pray on Good Friday, but shop on Black Friday? It's not a riddle, I'm just asking. Now get out there and help heal this sick economy by joining our new, grass-roots, holiday initiative, "No electric gerbil left behind."

Lieberman the Schmuck

I would like to offer a heartfelt and blanket apology to anyone that I ever mocked, criticized, or offended for having inadvertently cast a vote for Sarah Palin while trying to register their choice for John McCain as president. To my lasting humiliation, while casting a vote for Al Gore in 2000, I am guilty of voting for the mamzer Joe Lieberman. At the time, I felt it was an inspired choice by Gore. Holy Joe was the anti-Clinton and I was thrilled at the prospect of the first Jewish Vice President. Now, Lieberman's looking more like the anti-Christ, and he has announced his intent to join with the Republicans and filibuster Harry Reid's health care reform proposal, or any bill that contains a public option as a "matter of conscience."

I know this guy believes that he holds up the sky, but how can he speak of "conscience" when he betrayed his own party, supported the opposition candidate for president, and was the second Democrat to speak at a Republican convention in successive conclaves, after the nar Zell Miller. Lieberman means to stand in the way, like George Wallace in the schoolhouse door, and prevent the Democrats from even voting on their centerpiece issue on the Senate floor. All this cranky noise from Lieberman is the continuation of a pattern of revenge against the Party for backing the legitimate winner of the Connecticut senatorial primary in 2006, Ned Lamont. Lieberman was re-elected as an independent, but caucuses with the Democrats, and to guarantee that he would play nice, was allowed to retain his chairmanship of the Homeland Security Committee. At the risk of encouraging Jew on Jew violence, it might be time for Rahm Emmanuel to think about slipping a horse's head under Lieberman's linens.

If you'll permit me a couple of ad hominem attacks, Lieberman looks like The Joker from Batman, and when he speaks he reminds me of the Saturday Night Live characters from the 1980s, Doug and Wendy Whiner. He might even have diverticulitis. Every time he opens his yapper, he embodies the term "mealymouth." In the latest Quinnipiac poll, even Connecticut voters believe his views are more in line with the Republicans, so why continue with this sham? The handy website Opensecrets.org lists Lieberman's top campaign contributors. Why am I not surprised that in the home state of the insurance industry, his major donors include Aetna, Hartford, Pfizer, and Purdue Pharma? Rather than serving the public, or even his constituents' interests, Joe is first serving his corporate masters that got him re-elected.

I long for the days when there was a strong Senate leader like Sam Rayburn or LBJ, who preferred a little arm twisting to assure the success of the party's promises rather than fluff and flattery. And who is the Senate Whip whose responsibility it is to guarantee the votes are there and to enforce party discipline? -Illinois Senator Dick Durbin. Between Durbin and Harry Reid, I don't think either man has ever raised his voice. As a result, rather than a unified party doing the will of the people who put them there, we have a version of a Democratic Party Fight Club, with the Blue Dogs peeing on the carpet. Senator Patrick Leahy has suggested punishing Lieberman by stripping him of his committee chairmanship, but I think it's past time to boot his tuchis from the party so he can find his true home as a spokesman for Fox News. Either that, or force him to filibuster and read the phone book on the Senate floor while people are suffering. Lieberman is already in bed with the Christian right over their staunch support for the state of Israel. His ultra-Zionist views allow him to compartmentalize the fact that the evangelicals' long-term vision for the "end times" in the Holy Land is for either the conversion or death of the Jews.

Earlier this month, Mel Brooks announced the founding of a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving the word "schmuck." Brooks announced at a rally in Brooklyn that, "Shmuck is dying. For many of us, saying 'schmuck' is a way of life. Yet when I walk down the street and see people behaving in foolish, pathetic, or otherwise schmucky ways, I hear only the words 'prick' and 'douche bag.' I just shake my head and think, 'I don't want to live in a world like this." The literal meaning of the Yiddish word "schmuck" is a man's penis, or more specifically, the foreskin. But over the years it has become used to describe any arrogant, annoying, or disagreeable person. Brooks told reporters at the first Shmucks for Schmuck rally, "You can be a poor shmuck, a lazy shmuck, a dumb shmuck, or just a plain old shmuck. We must save this word." I have a tip, forgive the pun, for the success of Mel's campaign. Take a long look at Senator Joe Lieberman, and I think you may well have found your poster boy.

Vocabulary:
mamzer=bastard, nar=fool, tuchis=ass, schmuck=Lieberman

Dick Cheney On Acid

I suppose it was a coincidence that both the National Geographic and Discovery Channels broadcast back to back documentaries about the CIA's experiments in mind control on successive nights. There was nothing new that had not been previously revealed during the Church Committee Congressional hearings of 1975, where the entire ghoulish laundry list of CIA abuses was unfurled before the public, but one inadvertent piece of evidence made my jaw drop. Both shows focused on the CIA's MK ULTRA program, begun in the fifties, which examined the effects of LSD on subjects both witting and unwitting, in an attempt to create new ways to brainwash potential adversaries. Among the early volunteers for the program was Stanford University student Ken Kesey. The whole sordid story is easily researched online or in library, but here's the short version.

In 1953, the CIA killed one of their own and covered it up. An agency biochemist named Frank Olson, who was critical of the program, was surreptitiously given a large dose of Lysergic Acid in his coffee by fellow agents and observed through a two-way mirror. Soon, Olson was debating the weather on Mount Olympus with Zeus and had a severe psychotic break which required sedation and observation by CIA doctors. Claiming Olson was suicidal, he was secretly checked into a tenth floor New York hotel room to be supervised by an agent entrusted with his care, but before morning, the chemist allegedly leaped from a window to his death while his trustee slept. The CIA declared it a suicide. After Senator Frank Church's committee determined that Olson was a forced participant in the CIA's LSD experiments, his family filed a civil suit against the U.S. Government for wrongful death. President Gerald Ford invited the Olson family to the White House and convinced them, for reasons of national security, not to pursue the case. This is where my eyes widened, since this was not a new film, nor one with a political purpose. The official, contractual papers were shown where the family agreed to settle with the government for $7000 (Seven Thousand Dollars). The author of the deal and the signatory for the United States was the president's Chief of Staff, Richard Cheney.

When someone says "Cheney knows where all the bodies are buried," they are not speaking figuratively. Dirty Dick has been covering up for the CIA's illegal nastiness since the seventies. No wonder he was able to go to Langley as Vice President and rifle through the files with impunity to cook the intelligence for the Iraq War buildup. They owe him, and his access goes back to the Nixon years when he coat-tailed his pal Donald Rumsfeld into the White House. Under Gerald Ford, Cheney and Rumsfeld staged what became known as the "Halloween Massacre," usurping the powers of Nixon holdovers Henry Kissinger and Vice President Nelson Rockefeller to become Ford's Chief of Staff and Secretary of Defense, respectively. From his new position of power, Cheney urged Ford not to cooperate with the Church Committee, arguing that airing the CIA atrocities could only damage the intelligence community. And when the terrible truths became public testimony, Cheney and Rumsfeld engineered the ouster of acting CIA Director William Colby, and had him replaced with George H.W. "Poppy" Bush. The Secret Service's codename for Cheney was "Backseat."

And what a putrid list of illegal activities it was that Cheney wished to protect. From the assassination attempts; Lumumba in the Congo, Trujillo in the Dominican Republic, the Diem brothers in Vietnam, and the Mafia sub-contract to kill Castro; to the domestic spying and infiltration of the peace movement; to attempts to discredit Dr. Martin Luther King and destroy the Black Panther movement, the CIA was so blatantly beyond the law that congress passed legislation to reign them in. The FISA laws (Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act) came from the Church Committee recommendations, a law that Cheney obviously disdained then as now. When Ford lost the presidency, with Cheney as his campaign manager, to Jimmy Carter in 1976, the Wyoming native ran for Congress in 1978, serving as the Republican leader on the House Intelligence Committee before "Poppy" Bush tapped him as his Secretary of Defense for payback.

In exile at Halliburton during the Clinton years, Dick Cheney enriched himself as Chairman and CEO of the international conglomerate until the uncanny opportunity presented itself for him to screen the Vice Presidential prospects for "Poppy's" clueless boy Georgie's new administration. We know how Cheney spent the next eight years, trying to revive the Nixon presidency and attempting to concentrate power in the Executive Branch. CIA director George Tenant genuflected before him and Cheney became the de-facto head of government and chief protector of manipulated intelligence. He invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, Halliburton and KBR became bloated with war profits, and the CIA was marginalized by the mercenaries from Blackwater. His understudy, Scooter Libby, pleaded guilty to outing a covert agent, and George Tenant was given the Medal of Honor. Everything he warned of or predicted, from the spectre of mushroom clouds to the effectiveness of state sanctioned torture, has been proven dead wrong; yet he still has the temerity to stick around the Capitol like the ghost of Strom Thurmond, and criticize the military strategy of Secretary Gates and the President.

I believe Cheney is hanging around just to scream "National Security!" if any legal entity should dig too deeply into his resume. Anyone who places a value on the life of an intelligence agent who died in service to his country at $7000, has no qualms about exposing the identity of an undercover CIA analyst who crossed him over the veracity of reports that advanced his imperialist agenda. In 1994, the family of Frank Olson requested an exhumation of the body for further examination. A new autopsy showed that Olson suffered "severe cranial injuries delivered by a blunt object," and was most likely "knocked out" before being tossed from the window. Since Dick Cheney was intimately familiar with the case and prepared the original settlement, and considering his influence with the CIA was sufficient to put his man "Poppy" in the directorship, why do I get the nagging suspicion that he knew about Olson all along and bought his family off with pennies and patriotism? Now that his multi-year, century spanning, executive office-holding marathon is over, there is only one additional governmental agency that Dick Cheney truly deserves to be a part of; the Federal prison system.

Son Of A Beatle

I'm so frozen in time, I wouldn't know an X-Box from a PlayStation if you smacked me upside the head with it, so I haven't the slightest idea how the Beatles Rockband game works. I was curious enough to watch some of the animated videos, however, and they are wonderful. (See them here) Besides, if I want to play a Beatles song, I'll mess it up on guitar like everybody else. But it's amazing to me that 40 years after they broke up, the Beatles are the hottest, cutting-edge group going. Consider that the remastered CDs, prepared for release to coincide with this new project, have already sold 2.2 million copies in a marketplace that barely sells CDs anymore. They topped the Billboard charts yet again and the Las Vegas Cirque du Soleil "Beatles Love" show is sold out forever. Finally, younger people are realizing that Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings.

On the anticipated Rockband release date, Melody and I were surfing channels on a Sunday afternoon when we came across the Beatles' Anthology on VH1. Six hours later, we wondered how the time flew by so quickly. Recalling such sheer joy, we concluded that the first couple of years of Beatlemania were the best and last innocent times we knew. In 1965, LBJ was sending half a million men to Vietnam, and by the time the Beatles reached Memphis in 1966, the emerging evangelical movement was ready to crucify John Lennon for saying the Fabs were more popular than Jesus. At least they were on the pop charts. All those pictures you see with people holding signs saying "Beatles Go Home" were taken in Memphis, where they held a counter-Beatle rally and concert at the Auditorium while the Lads played the Coliseum. I was there when the cherry bomb was tossed from the upper balcony and John Lennon jumped as if he had been shot. The Beatles played two shows in Memphis, and there were still tickets left unsold. Had I known that, I would have attended both. But, I saw the Beatles, and despite the pandemonium, I also heard the Beatles; and it was a religious experience.

When "Hard Days' Night" was released in 1964, local theatres didn't know how to market it, so it premiered at the Malco Twin Drive-In on Summer Avenue. My sister, Susan, and I saw it in Times Square on a family vacation to New York. So many memorable moments in my life are punctuated by Beatle songs. The first time I heard "I Want To Hold Your Hand," I was driving east on Walnut Grove Rd. and immediately took a left on Mendenhall, headed for Pop Tunes, to buy the single (which I still have in the original dust cover). I can tell you where I was sitting in Knoxville the first time I heard "Day Tripper," and wished I was still in a band. Melody favors "Norwegian Wood" and insists that if I outlive her, "In My Life" must be played at the memorial service. I was thinking of "Nowhere Man" for mine, but I figured it was too self-deprecating, so I'll settle for "The End." And during the multi-year run of my lost and lamented radio show, "The Psychedelicatessen," I always started the program with two Beatle songs, just to begin where it all began. My life would have been immeasurably less interesting without the Fabs in it, and I am grateful.

George Harrison was still alive during the taping of the Anthology, and there was a scene towards the end when the surviving three were discussing the impossibility of a Beatle reunion. Answering suggestions that Julian Lennon replace John, Paul said, "Why would we wish to put him in the middle of this?" It's better to "Let it Be" and savor the memories of a remarkable era. The Rockband game offers memories in the making for young fans not yet alive when the Beatles ruled the world, and the sales and popularity indicate a whole new wave of Beatlemania, Part II in the air. These fabulous songs and wonderful melodies have come to life again for fresh listenings, or discovering for the first time. I don't intend to start playing video games now, but I'm sure happy that it's there. If I had teenagers, their Christmas presents would be already chosen.

Rather than dusty dreams of re-forming the Beatles, my new show-biz idea is to start a new band called Sons of Beatles. Ringo has two sons, Zak and Jason Starkey, who are both drummers; Zak, most notably, with the Who. Consequently, The Sons of Beatles could have double drummers like the Allman Brothers. Both Sean and Julian Lennon are artists and singers, with Julian showing a prodigious talent for songwriting. Dani Harrison, George's son, is a singer and guitarist, and surely one of Paul's children, maybe James, can be taught to play bass if he doesn't already know how. Place them all under the control of George Martin's son, Giles, who was instrumental in assembling the Beatles Rockband, and you have a phenomenon waiting to happen. I would certainly like to see it, even if they were rotten. But there's too much nascent talent there for that to happen. Since Brian Epstein left no progeny, I will volunteer for the manager's position. That's OK, fellows; You don't have to thank me.

Premature Acclamation

OK, maybe Rocky hasn't yet amassed the resume of previous recipients of the Nobel Peace Prize, but to hear the nasty protestations of his deranged, right-wing detractors, you'd think they gave the prize to Yasser Arafat or something. I mean, let the man broker a treaty first. Even Obama seemed perplexed at having been chosen International Homecoming King, but there are worse things than having the U.S. President regarded as a peacemaker by the rest of the world. Obama's public statements regarding the prohibition of nuclear weapons, torture, the elevation of diplomacy, human rights, and an outstretched American hand to nations once our adversaries, stand in such stark contrast to his predecessor, that the Nobel Peace Prize is as much a rebuke of the former administration as an expression of approval in the country's change of direction. George W. Bush must have misread the Sermon on the Mount to think it said, "Blessed are the warmongers."

The Nobel awards have never been beyond politics, but Obama accepted with a humility that was nearly uncomfortable. It was as if he were awakened by Rahm Emmanuel and answered, "I won what?" John F. Kennedy got a Pulitzer Prize for "Profiles in Courage," a tome composed when he was still a junior senator from Massachusetts, with the uncredited assistance of a professional journalist. Henry Kissinger won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1973 for his "Peace is at hand" speech, when in reality, he interfered with the Paris Peace Talks of 1968 in order to get his man Nixon elected. So, it is not uncommon that these awards are given to a mission in progress rather than the completed work. The last sitting American President to win the Peace Prize was Woodrow Wilson for authoring "The Fourteen Points," and configuring the Treaty of Versailles which ended "The War to End All Wars." But when Wilson attempted to establish the League of Nations, he was thwarted by an obstructionist Republican congress who wished no part of a world governing body. The result? World War Two. Obama rightfully noted that the prize was, "a means to give momentum to a set of causes," rather than for a new President with precious few political victories to brag about.

One would hope that the "loyal" opposition would be gracious enough, just for once, to say "way to go," and press on, but immediately, Fox News went into overdrive with indignity and condemnation and the wing-nut radio talkers exploded in revulsion. Fox's Brian Kilmeade speculated that Obama delayed sending more troops to Afghanistan in order to win the prize, and Rush Limbaugh brayed, "The Nobel gang just suicide bombed themselves," and, "Something has happened here that we all agree with the Taliban..about, and that is he doesn't deserve the award." RedState's Erick Erickson artfully said the Nobel committee must have been trying to fill an "affirmative action quota." The Obama-haters applaud and cheer when he loses the Olympics and grouse when he wins the Nobel Prize, and these are the self-described "patriots." Yet even a partisan like Bill O'Reilly said, in an unusual spasm of conscience, "Deserved or not, having a U.S. President honored with a peace prize is good for the country." The voodoo wing of the conservative movement remained mute.

All Republicans were not as typically obnoxious as the party's right wing. John McCain and Tim Pawlenty were gracious with their remarks, which puts them out of the mainstream these days. Pawlenty is running for President, and McCain is wise enough to realize that Obama is not the Anti-Christ, as suggested in the above mentioned RedState blog and other internet sites, just the Anti-Bush, who must be sitting in Dallas with the relief that no one is searching for the three sixes on him anymore. Had you told the conservatives in advance, omitting any physical description, that their new president was not only a family man with a beautiful wife and two adorable children, but also a constitutional scholar, lawyer, and college professor, who agreed to let his mother-in-law move in, they would have named him a Saint. And the thing is, Obama's not all that liberal. People see in him what they wish to see in him, including the Nobel Prize Committee, who awarded the honor for noble intentions and the desire for peace. It's like my mother says about eating chicken soup for a cold; "It couldn't hurt."

Depending on where Obama decides to go on Afghanistan will determine his mettle and mantel. A large part of the battle we are fighting, as General William Westmoreland used to say, is for the hearts and minds of the people we are trying to assist. It does us no harm for the Afghan civilian population to perceive that Obama has peaceful intentions for their country. He has already accepted the indigenous nature of the Taliban and recognizes that they are not the enemy; Al Qaeda is. Before we commit more troops to this struggle, it would be wise to remember that the Soviets lasted ten years fighting in Afghanistan before going broke. The U.S. is now into its' ninth year of conflict. The battle against the guerrilla insurgents that this country armed to fight the Russians would be better waged with special forces, spies, and bribes. Obama is walking a fine line between giving humanitarian aid to our friends and the Green Berets to our enemies, but if this bloody conflict is merely to prop up another corrupt dictatorship friendly to the U.S., then it's Vietnam redux. If the President can bring some semblance of normalcy to the Afghan people, and draw down the combat forces in Iraq, he may well deserve the recognition bestowed upon him by the Nobel Committee as "peacemaker." Until then, I can already hear the heathen rage, "Sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace."

Things I'll Never Understand

Madonna
While songwriting in Nashville, the publisher brought in his man from L.A. to tell us hicks what he wanted in rock songs. He played us a cassette of an unreleased tune called "Like A Virgin," and said it was the future of popular music, to which I replied, "God, I hope not." I always thought Cyndi Lauper would clean her clock. A pure product of the video age, her workout regimen must be fierce; especially the crunches. The only thing flatter than Madonna's stomach is her voice.

Piercings
Every time I see one of these guys, I wonder if they might live long enough, infections aside, to seriously regret their self-mutilations. My generation grew our hair long to show we were in harmony with the natural order. This practice shows solidarity with the primitive rituals of isolated, Amazonian tribal savages. I'll hand it to you though, you sure look different.



Local News
Local news is actually regional stories with corporate direction. From coast to coast, they have been using the same formula for 35 years. A bi-gender, mixed race anchor team finish each other's sentences before throwing it to bleached blonde reporters in the field who are all looking to make it to the networks. We've all heard the phrase, "If it bleeds, it leads," by now. But must they drive a hundred miles away in the "news van" to find some meth-head who murdered his family because there wasn't enough serious violence nearby? And how come everything is always "Breaking News?" If the local news was all you watched, you'd never leave the house.

Chicken Joints
Why is it that every time you go into one of these places around dinnertime, they're out of chicken?





Sushi
I understand I'm a provincial with an unsophisticated palate, but among the reasons man discovered fire, wasn't one of them so that we could cook our food?

Ronald Reagan
The "B" actor who co-starred with monkeys and co-operated with the House Un-American Activities Committee in the 50s, became a mouthpiece for right-wing causes before entering politics. Speaking against Medicare, he said, "One of the traditional methods of imposing Socialism on a people has been by way of medicine. It's very easy to disguise a medical program as a humanitarian project." As Governor of California during the campus unrest of the 60s, Reagan said, "If it takes a bloodbath to silence the demonstrators. let's get it over with." And as President, he relaxed regulations on business and industry, imposed a draconian fiscal policy that his own Vice President called "Voodoo Economics," courted the religious right, and declared government as the enemy. I know the Republicans haven't had a hero since Theodore Roosevelt, but do they really want to carve a face on Mt. Rushmore of the man that said, "Trees cause more pollution than automobiles?"

Black Republicans
It must feel groundbreaking to be a big fish in a little pond, but they're using you, pal. How can a black man be the spokesman and apologist for an increasing virulent racism spreading among the base elements of his party? It's like Dick Gregory becoming the Grand Wizard of the KKK. They aren't your friends and are frothing at the mouth to toss you overboard. You believe you're a pioneer, but you're merely a stooge and your term as RNC Chairman will end badly.

Math
A constant and persistent reminder that I ain't so damned smart. I have become such a numerophobe that when you discuss figures with me, my eyes roll back in my head. Math was my worst subject and created a visceral loathing of unknown origin within my soul. I only graduated college because they allowed me to substitute Ethics for Math. When someone tells me, "You do the math," I have a panic attack. I think that in a former life, I may have been an accountant.

NASCAR
Why? When did turning left become a sport? I'd like to see them try to negotiate Poplar Ave. If you asked me if I would like to watch some goober wearing a jump suit covered in small corporate logos, barrel a car blanketed with large corporate logos for 500 miles in an asphalt circle accompanied by the stench of burning tires and gasoline, I would have to say, "No thanks, I'd prefer to watch water evaporate."

Pot Prohibition
Since we have seen the outlawing of a weed, that grows almost anywhere, result in violent drug gangs that deal in bloodshed to protect their massive profits; the filling of our prisons with casual users; revolts in several states to de-criminalize its use by medical cannabis smokers; and the barbaric home-invasions of minor pot growers by DEA and SWAT teams, why is marijuana still illegal? I guess we'll have to wait for Obama's second term before we can even whisper about the complete failure of our government's absurd, 80 year old pot policy.

Fox News
There have always been agitators who blur the line between free speech and hate speech. From Father Charles Coughlin and the Nazi appeasers in the 30s, to Sen. Joseph McCarthy in the 50s, to Rush Limbaugh today. But there has never been a 24 hour "news" network dedicated to propagating lies and slander with the intention of destroying a presidency and furthering radical conservative causes at the behest of its owner. I saw "Tea-baggers" wearing patriotic colors admit that they watched Fox News exclusively. They are unwitting water carriers for an unscrupulous, bare-knuckled, publishing monopolist from Australia named Rupert Murdoch, who could give a damn about the U.S. government so long as they don't re-regulate the multiple ownership of media outlets in one market by a single company. If Fox is to be the broadcasting propaganda arm of the far right, how about removing the word "news" from their title to conform with "truth in advertising?"

Texting
If you are holding a telephone, why are you typing on it?






Thug Rappers
I don't care how relevant, gritty, ghetto, or "street" the message is, I can't hear it because I can't stand being shouted at. And what is this affectation that every single rapper has adopted with the stiff-digits and thrusting hand motions? Are they all supposed to be playing "air turntable?" The "man" is exploiting you, fellows. Learn to sing.

Garth Brooks
See "Madonna" above. This guy has sold over 100 million albums with a talent that rivals Hootie and the Blowfish, yet he will surely be inducted into every existing music hall of fame. Did I lose my taste or my mind? And, truth be told, "I have friends in low places," is not that clever a song idea. I sure wish I'd written it though.

What's The Hurry?

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
Blame the obstructionist Republicans for slow-walking health care reform to death.

Please indulge me if I've said this before; I have no health insurance. I can't buy it anywhere for any price. I once acquired the help of an insurance specialist whose job it was to find individual coverage for people who were self employed. After allowing her access to my medical records, she assured me that she would find something, only to call back in frustration after a week to refund my deposit. Every company has refused me coverage because of the "pre-existing condition." First, this catch-all phrase of doom was an invention of the insurance industry, and secondly, without Divine, metaphysical insight, how in hell would they know what my condition was before I existed? My personal theory was that my soul was in what theologian Jimi Hendrix referred to as "Spiritland," getting ready to go around that wheel one more time. I think the insurance companies would prefer to believe that if you are dead after life, then you are also dead before life. Therefore, if death is a pre-existing condition, they don't have to insure anybody.

It astounds me that so many people question the president's motives over reforming health care and accuse him of every nefarious scheme except wanting to help the American people and the human condition. The GOP has no plan other than to delay the debate and cry, "What's the hurry," which sounds very similar to Alfred E. Neuman's life's query. But tomorrow, forty million people will either have to pay retail for medical costs, if they can afford it, or use the emergency room as their primary physician, and let you pay for it. For a nation whose good was supposedly crowned with brotherhood, we sure have a heartless and ruthless system to care for the ill, the uninsured, the working poor, and the "least of these, my brethren." And what was my sin that forever disqualified me from health coverage? Several years ago I had an ulcer. It went undiagnosed and grew worse for a long time because my doctor was trying to spare me the expense of an MRI since I didn't have health insurance. The last time I had a chest X-Ray, I was billed for $650. How much was yours?

When I could take no more of mooching expensive prescription samples and pleading for doctor's to give me the "brother-in-law discount," I found that the local Church Health Center, although established to help the uninsured working poor, had an exception for musicians that would allow them to acquire decent health care at a nominal cost. I first had to attend an orientation meeting which was filled with mostly poor people coming straight from work, and fill out forms. God bless these folks for the work that they do, but the greeting meeting came with a healthy dose of Jesus and an emphasis on the importance of faith and building a relationship with God. A line in the registration form asked for "Church Congregation." Since Judaism does not have churches, I technically could have written "none," but instead I put "Temple Israel," to avoid any recruitment bulletins. It is, after all, the "Church" Health Center, and I accept their mission.

The young doctor leading our session seemed to have had a bad day and rather than having everyone take a seat, pass out the forms, and give instructions, He had us make a single-file line and he repeated the same instructions fifty times. He grew impatient with an Asian couple that spoke insufficient English and insisted they return at a later date with an interpreter. The young couple in front of me spoke only Spanish to each other, and I was prepared to say, "Yo hablo Espanol," to help these people muddle through on my bad Spanish, but they knew enough English to receive the forms. A brief lecture followed about 1040 tax returns and pay stubs necessary to verify sufficient work hours, and further instructions and calls necessary before being accepted as an "established patient." We concluded with a tour of the Hope and Healing Center on Union Ave., which is a wellness and exercise facility, with a chapel.

It is a tremendous relief to know that should I become ill that I have somewhere to go that will not financially break me. At the same time, while returning to my car after the meeting, I couldn't help but feel somewhat depressed about the whole thing. My wife assures me that the people who work at the Church Health Center Clinic are the most caring and thorough medical professionals she has ever dealt with and that I will appreciate the experience after my years of dealings with doctor's offices. I feel blessed that this alternative is here and is non-sectarian in the dispensing of medical care. But, as a former child of privilege sitting in a room with the likewise uninsured working poor and the truly destitute, I could not help but feel that I was occupying someone else's place whose life was far harder than mine. If I'm able to afford health insurance, then what am I doing accepting charity? The way the collusive medical/insurance complex is currently configured, desperation over health care knows no economic, ethnic, racial, or religious boundaries. Thankfully, neither does compassion.

The Wrinkled Rebellion

Hey kids! Remember when your parents told you that wisdom comes with age? Mom and Pop told you a lie. Since you're the Online Generation, you know the acronym, "gigo," stands for "garbage in, garbage out." Wisdom is a long-term distillation of knowledge and experience; but when your experiences are limited and your knowledge comes from AM radio, paid shills for Rupert Murdoch and other right-wing groups, and chain emails, the only wisdom to be found there has to do with impacted teeth. Before the Bush re-election of 2004, an email went around from the GOP to conservatives that stated, "They think you're stupid," and liberals went crazy attempting to discuss issues of war and the economy instead of creationism and gay marriage. Well, the time has come to admit it. We really do think the far right-wingers are stupid, but more than that, we now think they're dangerous as well. And as George Bush proved over eight years, there's nothing more dangerous than an idiot convinced that he's right.

The discussion of health care reform has morphed into a carnival geek show with every pro-militia, automatic weapon-toting, Tim McVeigh wannabe out in public to show that nobody pushes them around. And since I live among them in the south, let's own up to the undercurrent of racial resentment that flows beneath these demonstrations of public anger. It's too simple to say, "Scratch a conservative and find a racist," because there are principled fiscal and social conservatives with much to add to the public debate. So although all conservatives are not racists, all racists are conservatives. Or else they use the "conservative" label to help dilute their 19th century worldview, and those who hold genuine conservative principles have allowed their movement to be distorted and corrupted by a group that could well be called the "New Dixiecrats." These propagandized "patriots" allow themselves to be used by corporate interests and show up at demonstrations howling "Facism, Communism, and Socialism," as if this was the new axis of evil threatening their lives. Where were these protesters when Dick Cheney came as close to establishing a totalitarian state since George Washington decided to be president instead of king?

I have a theory that's going to piss you off. I believe we're seeing the unintended consequences of private Christian education. First, let me say that I am a product of Christian education myself and I am all the better for it, because it helped me to understand religious faiths and viewpoints other than my own. So it is not the Christian part of the equation in which I find fault. In 1971, when the Supreme Court upheld busing to achieve integration in public schools, it threw the national educational system into chaos. It may have been a noble ideal, but many considered it "social engineering," and in retrospect, it was impractical policy. It was also the first conservative uprising since Nixon's "Silent Majority," and led to the complete desertion of public schools by white people, so that schools like East High went from being all-white to all-black in the course of a single year. This, in turn, led to the establishment of the private Christian academies and high schools and to the mammoth growth of churches in the following decades. Congregants found all their needs, from day care and exercise rooms to concert halls, met by the new church community. The unforeseen result was a new type of segregation, where like-minded people associated only with each other and suburban Christianity became a sort of exclusive club. These people have held sway for so long, that they now feel threatened by "socialistic" ideas, even when they are in their best interests.

And those that are screaming the loudest are the members of the so-called "Greatest Generation," who have been on the government teat since 1945. Returning soldiers from the big war were given the biggest slice of socialism this side of Sweden and they called it the GI Bill. Not only was a college education granted to every serviceman, but low-cost government loans were made available to purchase homes and start businesses, which fueled the economic boom of the fifties. Veterans from other wars did not receive such generosity. Now, old soldiers with white hair are hollering "Keep the government away from my Medicare" at town hall riots, or arguing over phantom rationing and forced euthanasia, while demagogic prophets tell them Obama is attempting to overturn the Judaeo-Christian ethic upon which this nation was founded. Which ethic was that; love thy neighbor, or an eye for an eye?

No social progress has ever been made with the help of the obstructionist conservatives. The only things the right-wingers have contributed is free-market Darwinism, prohibition, and term-limits after Roosevelt drove them crazy. I used to ask my Dad what it was like when FDR was president, and he said the GOP, the bankers, and industrialists hated his guts so thoroughly, they refused to refer to him by his name, only as "that man in the White House." Or they called him Rosenfeld and inferred that he was a secret Jew. Sound familiar? He was also known as the "poor man's friend," and called a Socialist and a Communist. Even Eisenhower was called a Communist by the right. When Ike expressed his approval for fluoride, a proven dental aid, to be added to public drinking water, the reactionaries claimed it was a Communist plot to rot the teeth of our children. But now, the factually challenged believe this president is a Kenyan Muslim, sent here by sinister forces to be a bi-racial Robin Hood ready to rob the white rich and distribute their earnings to crackheads and crooked ACORN employees. How did we get so damned dumb?

Any societal advances, from Social Security, the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts, women's economic and reproductive rights, Medicare or Medicaid, were advanced despite the resistance of the naysayers and defenders of the status quo. Some sort of major health care reform is going to pass this Congress, and in a year or so, it will look so seamless, we'll wonder how we ever allowed our rapacious current system to exist for so long. The Republican party, under the thumb of the Palin/Limbaugh wing, can't even bring themselves to admit there are no "death panels," in the bill, so why even consider them any further? They lost, so steamroll them and leave them in the wake of progress once again to sulk and lick their wounds. Better still, add the public, government-run option to compete against the carnivorous health insurance agencies, name the bill "Ted," and ram it through. Then, when our health care changes for the better, the repugnant, Hitler-referencing, functioning morons among us will have to focus their hatred elsewhere. It may well be true that the United States is the greatest country in the world; it's just the people that suck.

Miami Pop 1968: Best Festival Ever

When my friend Malcolm Levi called me in late August of 1969, he was ready for a vacation. Malcolm co-owned The Electric Outlet, Memphis' first hippie clothing store located at Poplar and Evergreen, and he invited me to join him and some friends for a trip to upstate New York to the Woodstock Music Festival and Aquarian Exposition. Rather than visions of Jimi Hendrix, all I could see was twelve or so hours locked in a cramped hippie bus with acquaintances known for erratic behavior, and so I declined. Besides, nothing could ever top the festival Malcolm and I had attended only eight months previous, which turned out to be promoter Michael Lang's trial run for Woodstock; the incredible three day festival held over the New Year's weekend of 1968-69, at Miami's Gulfstream Park thoroughbred racing track.

After the "big bang" of the Monterrey Pop Festival of 1967, this was the first attempt at such a gathering on this side of the continent and the promoters saturated radio stations in college towns all over the southeast. Since my musical passions were the new, psychedelic music as well as the classic soul sounds of the sixties, I could barely believe I was going to get to hear Procol Harum and Marvin Gaye on the same day. Soul music was still huge in the south and the promoters wisely included such artists like Joe Tex, Jr. Walker & the All Stars, and Chuck Berry to lure the college kids, and Iron Butterfly, The Grateful Dead, and Fleetwood Mac to attract the freaks. Featured for the folkies were Jose Feliciano and a new artist named Joni Mitchell. A gang of Memphis pals piled into cars and headed south and when we reached the bucolic, green racing grounds, graced by flocks of pink flamingos, we were astonished at the sight. In our separate southern locales, the hippies were cautious and few, but together in Miami, we were many and mighty; colorfully dressed and long-tressed, we stared at each other for a full day before we could believe it.

The grounds were separated into two stages, giving the manageable crowd of thirty to sixty thousand room to wander between competing acts, while free-standing, whimsical sculptures in the walkways in between offered shade and wonder. Our Memphis group staked out a small, secluded spot under a tree by the entrance as a meeting place. If anyone were feeling distressed or confused, a few minutes under the tree would bring another friendly face from home. I had just witnessed such familiarity in the faces of Booker T. & the MGs and had made my way back to the side of the mainstage when I saw my boys; the band formerly known as Ronnie & the DeVilles had hired a new lead singer named Alex Chilton and had changed their name to the Box Tops. Alex was in the process of telling a huge audience that he didn't know what they were doing there, as if their hits weren't hip enough, but I managed to get close enough to shout at Thomas Boggs on the drums, who also seemed delighted to see another face from home.

As the days grew in number, so did the extraordinary kindnessness shown between strangers. There was a permanent smile on the face of the entire festival, and even those who never tampered with the locks on the "Doors of Perception," could feel it. Our little group had kicked in the doors and were probing around in the ethers looking for cosmic clues when a helmeted, motorcycle policeman roared a Harley onto the mainstage and stomped down a kickstand with a heavy black boot. I was searching for the exits when the menacing cop grabbed the micropohone and growled, "Got your motor runnin'," and John Kay and Steppenwolf exploded into "Born to be Wild." After sitting through the entirety of Iron Butterfly's "Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida" drum solo and the debut performance of Three Dog Night, big Bob "The Bear" Hite and Canned Heat took the stage. When they locked into that John Lee Hooker groove it was like an electric current went through the crowd. I felt myself propelled toward the front until I stood with a large, writhing group beside the stage, and while normally reserved at such events, I became somehow transformed into a Native-American warrior under the relentless beat until song's end found me shirtless but for a sheepskin vest, in bellbottoms and moccasins. To celebrate my conversion, we all travelled to the large campgrounds set up for visitors at the nearby Seminole Indian Reservation, where we sat around fires and smoked the pipes of peace well into the next morning.

I left Miami believing that I had witnessed the dawn of an age of gentler people who retained the capacity to love and treat one another with more compassion than previous generations, and it would only spread until we ended the war and changed the world. That euphoric naivete lasted about three weeks until Richard Nixon's inauguration, the demonizing of war protesters as "bums," the bombing of Cambodia, and student strikes ending in the blood of Kent State and Jackson State. But for one golden weekend, I saw it. I saw that by surrendering exclusivity, the worth of all people can be revealed, and that everyone has something to offer if only you are receptive. I witnessed that love is better than hate and kindness is superior to indifference. But that was a long time ago, and, like other flights of fancy, I haven't seen it much since.

My buddy Malcolm told me Woodstock was a bonding experience because so many had to endure so much, but when he described a half million hippies slopping around in the mud, I was glad I didn't go. I went to a few big festivals after Miami, but they only grew more commercial, with massive crowds herded into the infields of auto raceways surrounded by asphalt and inadequate facilities. The promoters of Miami Pop were emboldened to go on to Woodstock, but rather than obtain the cooperation of a friendly community and even an official welcome from the Governor, as in Florida, local officials in New York state gave them nothing but resistance and Governor Nelson Rockefeller threatened them with the National Guard. It is a great achievement of the hippie experience that showed the world that determined people can live without violence. Unfortunately, there are far too many others with no such determination. I can still recall that pop group from Memphis, though, among all the "heavy" acts at the Miami Pop Festival, that sang, "Love is a river running, Soul Deep."

The Hitler Offensive

After watching more incomprehensible town hall hijinks, I began to wonder how so many thirtysomething, ditsy, housewives became such experts on Hitler and Nazism. I realize that the usual suspects; Limbaugh, Beck, and other dim bulbs with red faces, have been working the Nazi angle for weeks, but they're not the ones furnishing the "Obama as Hitler" posters appearing at an event near you. That distinction belongs to Lyndon LaRouche, the perennial candidate for president on the Democratic side, although LaRouche is a Democrat in the same way as say, Leon Trotsky. He's been called a philosopher and visionary economist, but also a cult leader who uses his young followers, an anti-Semite, a fascist, and a convicted felon and ex-convict, the last two being non-subjective. His twisted message is all here. It's been confirmed that the woman who asked Rep. Barney Frank "why he supports a Nazi policy?" is a LaRouche devotee. How damaged must your reasoning be to accuse a gay, Jewish congressman of supporting the Nazis? It shows zero knowledge of history and is painful and offensive, not only to the memory of the victims of Hitler's genocidal regime, but to the sacrifice of almost a half-million American servicemen who died to rid the world of this demented demon of the twentieth century.

I know the argument; "this sort of extremism happens on both sides," but it seems to have broken out like poison sumac on the populace over the summer. As much as I despised the philosophy and actions of the Bush government, you would be hard-pressed to find any comparisons to Hitler in four years of these posts. Know why? Because I fucking know better. It's the cheapest, meanest, and dumbest sort of protest there is. Don't like Obama's health care initiative? Compare him to Hitler. It would be ridiculous on its face were it not for the fact that so many impressionable and angry people, especially in the South, have embraced this as a good idea. So, as long as any geek with a grudge feels entitled to discuss the Nazis, I'll break precedent and give it a stab. Which leader is more Hitleresque? One who wishes to make decent health care accessible to all citizens, or one who invades a sovereign nation without provocation and sets up a systematic, worldwide, torture ring? I report, you decide.

The handsome people in the above photograph are my great grandmother, Sala Haspel, with my two great uncles, Josef and Pavel, and Aunt Frania. The picture was taken in Warsaw and sent to her third son in Memphis, my grandfather, who was the only member of his family to escape Europe alive. See, all these people were murdered by the Nazis, and as meticulous as the Gestapo was known for their record keeping, there is no trace of them anywhere. Their names are not listed in Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, nor in the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. They simply vanished from the earth. I had always known this, but some years ago, I came into possession of my grandfather's papers, and after seeing their faces and learning their names, it became far more personal. I read his anguished letters to foreign ambassadors and government officials about learning the fate of his "dear ones," without result. This is the dismay that all the Hitler comparisons evoke in millions of people like me, and provokes the contempt I feel for those who use them. And all over health care? There is something deeper and more disturbing here that must be faced.

The past eight years have caused me to surrender my pacifism. I had the notion that the Republicans lost the last election and we might try something new. But after witnessing the disruption, uncivic behavior, and general obnoxiousness at Rep. Steve Cohen's town hall meeting in Memphis, I think the only way to effectively communicate with some of these goons is with a left hook. Please forgive my passion on the subject, but there is free speech, and then there is hate speech. I'm neither young nor strong anymore, and perhaps I lived so long under the protection of the late Sputnik Monroe that I feel emboldened, but should anyone ever approach me with that Hitler stuff at a public event, I will do my dead-level best to fuck you up. Either that, or I hope I'm on your "death panel." Oh, I'm sorry. Should I have said, "Mister?"

Thoughts on Jim Dickinson

It was in the early seventies when we used to hang out at Phillips Recording Service on Madison when Jim Dickinson told me the secret to prominence in music. "The best way to make it in the music business," he said, "is to start a good rumor about yourself." That's why I took such delight in watching him work his theory and create the "East Memphis Slim" persona he continued to develop. He became the authentic, white boy with the blues, possessing a sardonic sense of humor and the willingness to step out on a limb for his art. Yet, he still had the intellectual honesty to once tell an interviewer, "We all learned it from the yard man." However, sometime after his work with various Memphis bands and his stint as house keyboardist for Atlantic Records at Criteria Studios in Miami, Jim's ever-expanding credits as a producer became so impressive, and his expertise and keen ear so desired by a new generation of musicians, that the reality simply overran the rumor.

Dickinson based his "good rumor" theory on Mac Rebennack, a New Orleans keyboardist he greatly admired, who labored for years in anonymity before creating the Voodoo High Priest, Dr. John the Night Tripper, and then rocketed to recording stardom. Jim turned me on to that particular record in 1967, and when the opening notes of the title track began, Dickinson said excitedly, "Listen to that. That's a cane flute," displaying his fondness for esoteric instruments. That was the year I worked with him on our single recording project at the old Ardent Studio in John Fry's garage on National. Before Led Zeppelin, before Cream, even before Moloch, Dickinson had the idea to record some white-boy, electric blues to stand in contrast with the usual pop fare of the day. He recruited Sam the Sham's drummer, Jerry Patterson, Fred Hester played stand-up bass, Lee Baker played lead, and Dickinson produced and played piano. Even though I was away at college and had been absent from the Memphis scene for a year, I was honored that Jim chose me to sing. I was afraid that, even after a short time away, I would have been forgotten, but Dickinson didn't forget me. That was one of those sessions that was deferred then abandoned for one reason or another. I bugged Jim about it for a year or so, but recording tape was then too expensive to save something that you weren't going to use.

Because of Dickinson's session work in the sixties, he finally crossed paths with Sam Phillips and took his words; "If you're not doing something different, then you're not doing anything," to heart. As a record producer, Jim became the true disciple of Phillips, both in his approach to recording, and the talent he chose to work with. Someone more capable than I can surely enumerate the records he produced and the influence they had on their audiences, but Dickinson, always prepared with a quote, wisely said, "The best songs don't get recorded; the best recordings don't get released; and the best releases don't get played." For his own production career, Jim adopted the "crazy is often good," credo of Sam Phillips. Dickinson's keyboard and vocal work for Sun with sixties garage band, the Jesters, has just been released internationally by Ace/Big Beat Records. The same company is also in the process of assembling a box set by Memphis legends, Big Star, who benefited from Jim's production.

I'm dating myself, but it seems like yesterday when Jim and Mary Lindsay Dickinson lived over off of White Station Road, and entertained a group of Bohemians, hipsters, bluesmen, musicians, and magicians in their living room nightly, and those now famous young men were still little boys. There was very little recording going on in Memphis once the famous labels closed, but the camaraderie among artists was such that it's strange how some of your fondest memories arise from times when you believed you were suffering the most. Though our mutual recording attempt was in the past, I valued Jim's opinion so much that, like a big brother, I still sought his approval for whatever I was doing musically. The whole truth be told, I never much cared for Mudboy and the Neutrons because I disagreed with Dickinson's philosophy that the less rehearsal the better. Actually, I believe there was a whole Andy Kaufmanesque quality to Mudboy, and those who said they sat down and actually enjoyed them were missing the point. Still, anyone like Jim who wears a wrestling mask on stage automatically commands my respect.

Dickinson was a man who would always tell you what he thought and not one to hand out compliments idly. That's why receiving one from him meant so much. I participated in a garage band reunion a couple of years ago, mainly because of my admiration for Larry Raspberry, who also recruited Dickinson to play in an assemblage of Gentrys. I did some shtick that was a throwback to the old soul revues when the singer would chime, "I once heard a friend of mine say," and then sing snippets of various artists' songs. On the changeover, I was walking offstage and Jim was stepping up when he said, "Hey man, that was great." Those few words were sufficient to make my night. Some time later, I got a call from David Less, whose label releases Dickinson's albums. Jim wanted to know if I'd be interested in coming down to Mississippi and singing some backup on his latest solo effort. I sang harmony vocals on one song and when I was done, Jim wrote me a check. "What's this?" I asked. "You're actually going to pay me?" Dickinson just laughed and said, "That's the way we do it these days." I reminded him of our 1967 recordings and told him how pleased I was that it only took him forty years to call me back. But I really would have done it for free.

I can see by the way the North Mississippi Allstars have conducted their careers thus far, that their parents have taught them well. Aside from his extraordinary talent, the other quality Jim Dickinson had in abundance was integrity. He leaves a void in the vanguard of contemporary music production that is impossible to fill. Even after I heard he was in ill health and had bypass surgery, I just assumed if anyone could kick a heart attack's ass, it would be Dickinson. The man just had an air of invincibility about him, and he seemed only in the middle of a saga that had so much more to go. His "East Memphis Slim" creation had come full circle and he was gaining the respect he desired as a producer with every passing day. It was as if he was almost where he wanted to be. Not quite, but almost. A whole generation now, raised on the fifties music played by Dewey Phillips and Rufus Thomas, and with an appreciation for the absurd and the eccentric, is beginning to fade from view. Jim has already achieved legendary status with a generation of musicians inspired by his adventurous productions. For many more that knew him well, or those that only knew him by reputation, the loss of James Luther Dickinson is like losing a part of Memphis itself.

Uppity White People

So I went to Congressman Steve Cohen's town hall meeting and a Jerry Springer Show broke out. I haven't seen that many white people downtown since "Cats" played the Orpheum, and it became quickly obvious by the heavy use of madras and pastels, that most were not residents of the 9th District. I half imagined that the conservative suburban white folks wouldn't flock to a Democratic town hall meeting in the heart of a black district, yet here they were, nattily dressed and tan with nice cars and looking in reasonably good health to me, as in, people who already have health insurance. I wore my T-shirt reading, "I'm one of the 45 million Americans without health insurance," and got my picture taken alot. I guess some people had never seen one before. I attended with my wife and brother-in-law, Melody and Billy, in that order, and although we got there early, the line for admittance stretched around the block and all the seats were taken by the time we entered the cavernous building.

We stood on the side with a large group of anti-whatevers while Cohen's security chief announced that three armed, carry-permit holders had entered the arena and requested for anyone else packing to please identify themselves to the local police. There were a mixture of boos and applause while the preppy beside me shouted, "That's against the law." Now I knew why the white people weren't reluctant to attend, but this was, after all, a community center. Steve Cohen was finally introduced to the cheers and jeers from his constituents and carpetbaggers respectively, but I knew we were in in for a long day when he read the headline from the morning's paper that said "U.S. Economy Shows Life," and a cascade of boos gushed forth from the hostile crowd. When Cohen told the crowd that under the pending House bill, "If you like your current health insurance, you can keep it," it sounded like the referee just made a bad call at a Tiger home basketball game. Then the chants began; "Read the Bill," and "Tell the truth." If Cohen had announced free beer and Bar-B-Que, this crowd would have still booed.

A parade of doctors on both sides of the issue stoked the fires, with the crowd cheering wildly for those condemning health care reform as governmental intrusion into the free market, and shouting at others who stated that the poor deserved health care too. See, these assembly-line doctors who get paid per procedure don't want anything to change because, like street Mafiosi, they're in on the skim. Another jock doc sent the crowd-turned-mob into a frenzy by blaming all the problems of the health industry on the high cost of malpractice insurance. With two wars, an economy on the brink, and unprecedented collapses in the home, banking, and auto industries, you don't know what surreal really means until you stand in the middle of a crowd of angry, red-faced, rich white people chanting, "Tort Reform!" A thunderclap of boos erupted when Dr. Neal Beckford said, "There are fifty million uninsured Americans," as if railing against the facts would change them, but the largest display of hostility was reserved for the doctor who announced that he had read the House bill and, "There was nothing in it about euthanizing Granny."

Boisterous crowds had gathered around us when suddenly a dispute about free speech broke out right next to me. Linda Moore reported in the Commercial Appeal:

Within 15 minutes of the start of the event, a nearly nose-to-nose confrontation between individuals with opposing views became so heated they had to be separated as Shelby County sheriff's deputies and Memphis police officers called for reinforcements. No arrests were made.

OK, so that was me. A knuckle-dragging, Fox News talking-points spouting heckler believed he had the freedom of speech to come into my district and prevent me from hearing my Representative, bellowing, "Stop Lying" in my ear the entire time, and I felt I had the freedom of speech to tell him to be quiet. I might also have thrown an epithet or descriptive adjective in there somewhere. Of course, I said "Shut up," and he thought I said "Stand up," so there was a brief flare-up and exchange of words that was followed by some macho posturing until I felt hands on my shoulders and arms, one of which belonged to brother Billy who was telling a muscled loudmouth with a salon cut to get his finger out of his face. Security immediately stepped in and the meeting continued. The burly heckler looked hard at me a few times, but there was a Sheriff's Deputy standing between us now and, you know what? He wasn't so eager to act-out after he was challenged.

What I want to know is, where were you? I scanned the crowd and you weren't there. The news has been filled with clips of town hall meetings across the country erupting into organized chaos and there was a good chance it was going to happen here. So, why did you allow an enraged mob of former Bush voters to hijack an important democratic function and throw your elected Congressman to the wolves? Where were Steve Cohen's friends and loyal supporters when the modern equivalent of a torch-bearing, superstitious mob of townspeople descended on his meeting with his constituents? Where were the self-congratulatory whites to defend him, who thought Cohen's election signaled the start of a post-racial paradise, and the patriots and champions of freedom who permitted this assault on democracy to go on unremarked? And where in this crowd of 1000, were the black people? I saw, aside from members of Cohen's staff, maybe a dozen African-Americans in the hall. Your congressman was speaking on your behalf today too, and that you weren't there to hear the message makes me wonder if its apathy, or an early indicator of support for Cohen's foe for re-election, former Mayor Willie Herenton.

The last time I saw passions run this high was forty years ago over the war in Vietnam, so something deeper than health care reform must be driving this anger. In 1970, I participated in a Knoxville protest of Richard Nixon's use of a Billy Graham Crusade in the University's stadium to show he was still able to speak on a college campus after his announced invasion of Cambodia. My assignment was to stand at the main intersection and hand out leaflets explaining that our protest had nothing to do with Reverend Graham, but the angry Christians pouring in by the thousands were outraged by these alien, shaggy-haired weirdos that had taken over the college without ever realizing that they were their own children. I had never felt so detached from the society's mainstream as then, but now I know why. The mainstream is sometimes polluted. The angry protesters at today's town hall meeting are like the fabled "Silent Majority" of the Nixon years. They are confused and afraid that there are things beyond their control, even sinister forces, that mean to alter their way of life, because the era of white entitlement is fading away. Another of the doctors speaking today was roundly booed for reminding the mob that fear and lies, repeated over and over again, will always trump the truth.

I regret that because of recent spammers, your comment may not immediately appear, but I will try to post all legitimate comments as soon as possible. RJH

To vote for Born-Again Hippies in the Memphis Flyer's "Best of the City" reader's poll, please click here. Deadline is Monday, Aug. 10, thanks.

Bad Health Nuts

Didja hear? Obama is coming to kill Grammaw. I'm a great believer in questioning authority. In fact, I'm told my first words were addressed to the obstetrician when I asked him, "Was it necessary to slap me like that?" But these damn fools that are disrupting town meetings about health care reform on the instigation of the Republican Party and their lobbyists aren't quite sure what they are questioning. They just know that they are beside themselves with visions of Communism and Socialism and fear that the totalitarian gub'ment will tell them which abortionist they must register their daughter with. The current Unsilent Minority, formerly the "Teabaggers," can't decide whether to protest against phantom taxes, or health care, or the president's birth certificate. All they know is that they look at Washington and see a president named Obama with an assistant named Rahm Emmanuel and a future Supreme Court Justice named Sonia Sotomayor (it's pronounced Soto-maYOR', not like Golda Meir), and they see the lily-white, Christian America of their patriotic fantasies slipping away. That frustration and rage you are now feeling is probably very much like what reasonable people around the world have felt for the past eight years.

What I would like to know is, where were all these outraged citizens who resent government intrusion in their lives when their children were being sent off to fight and die in a political war of choice? Isn't that the ultimate government interference? Where was the righteous indignation of the right when we learned that foreign civilians of questionable guilt were being tortured in secret prisons around the world in the name of the United States? There were no objections from the conservatives over the war in Iraq because it was planned and executed by their faith-based president and his corporate pals. In eight years, Bush never faced a heckler. All this current discord and hysteria by the "birthers," and the xenophobes is driven by a single overriding theme; fear of a black president. There is an undercurrent of white denial that rejects the notion of an erudite African-American as Chief Executive, so they go in search of any scrap of evidence that sinister forces must surely have been involved in his election. Obama's DNA on a 1961 Hawaiian-made pacifier wouldn't convince them otherwise. I'm reminded of Marlon Brando in "The Wild One," when asked what he was rebelling against, answered, "I dunno, whaddaya got?"

And the groups that turn out the mobs of angry whites in Bermuda shorts and ball caps always have such patriotic sounding names like Freedom Works and Liberty Council, as if their scripted disruptions had anything vaguely to do with freedom. This is what passes for a senior "flashmob;" people motivated by disinformation and fear who would rather shout down and close a public meeting than allow civil discourse on the subject of real health care reform. It appeared to me that the protesters were reasonably healthy looking, middle-aged white people, so I can assume they must already be insured. I am not, and readers of these posts know that I have endured a decade of retail, substandard, medical care that has affected me like a tire with a slow leak. I am counting on Obama's reforms, as are fifty million others that are one medical catastrophe from a financial dilemma. It's a great racket to pay premiums to an insurance company, have your health needs met and be obligated for only a fraction of the astronomical costs of advanced medical procedures. And the more procedures ordered, the more your doctor gets paid, or "reimbursed." It's a sweet tax right-off for your employer too, but it's done on the backs of the uninsured and the underinsured who are denied critical medical services every day. People are concerned about health care rationing? I can show you fifty million more uninsured like me, who would be happy with anything.

As far as the "public option" that the insurance companies, in collusion with assembly-line, procedure-mill doctors, are spending so much money trying to kill; I trust my government to look after me far better than any HMO or insurance company you could name. Private insurers have treated me like an untouchable; why would I ever consider giving them my business now? For those who scream "Socialism," with visions of Mr. and Mrs. Mussolini hanging upside-down in the town square, "socialism" can also mean that which is done for the common good. The concept of law is a socialistic idea, so if you intend to shun such radical thought, you should hire your own private security force. And when you drive, stick to city streets since you are not entitled to abuse the Eisenhower interstate system. If you get shot over a parking spot by another law-abiding citizen with a carry permit, don't dare dial 911. Drive yourself in your unregistered car to your personal physician as best you can with your illegal driver's license. But then, they'd only ask for a Social Security number.

Still, the Republicans will tell you that we have the finest health care system in the world and if the government becomes involved you will have to wait in line, like those wretched Canadians, to have your broken arm set.It is past time for someone to say it plainly; The Republicans are lying to you. They have always lied to you because that is what they are paid to do. By telling you that government is bad, and regulations are useless, they persuaded a great part of the electorate to vote about abortion pills and gay marriage while the country's economy flirted with total collapse. And look what it's gotten them. Abortion is still legal and the bans against same-sex marriage are falling in state after state. All that's left is for them to demonize the president and tell elderly people that the evil Obama wants them to hurry up and die. Their protestations over health care reform are not about the people's welfare, but because they wish to, in the words of S.C. Senator Jim DeMint, "Break the president."

I know which way my Congressman will vote on this issue, so I wasn't planning on attending his forthcoming town meeting. Now, I may have to go just for the circus. I live in a predominantly black district and since almost all the recruited phony protesters are white, I'd like to suggest a program change for my Representative. Before discussing health care reform, as a treat to the community, stage a brief concert/revue of some of Memphis' most promising rappers. Then we'll see how much conviction these outraged wingnuts have. And if they persist on pursuing this nonsense about Obama being a foreign-born, Constitutionally ineligible, illegitimate president, I will begin circulating petitions demanding that the Supreme Court re-examine and overturn their decision in the case of Bush v. Gore; Dec. 12, 2000. Then it will all have been just a bad dream. I can't wait until a "Wise Latina" gets ahold of that one.

This Brew's For Blue

Where my niggaz at? I don't actually speak that way. In fact, I loathe that type of speech in general, and the spelling in particular, but I felt if I did something inappropriately racist and caused a fuss, like arresting a man in his own home, I might stand a chance of having a beer with the President. Only, I drink sweet tea down here in Memphis, and I don't need a "teachable moment" concerning racial profiling. I've seen it up close, personal, and ugly. In my youthful interactions with the police, then mostly Korean War and WWII vets, I've been jacked up, backed up, frisked, knocked down in the middle of a student riot, threatened with a nightstick and a snarling German Shepard, roughed up, cuffed up and caged, and spoken to by the police with obscene homosexual references concerning the length of my hair. And that was just for being in attendance. Back in the hippie era, my black friends would always remind me that although I had tasted police abuse, I could always cut my hair, whereas the only black man who has successfully changed his skin color is Michael Jackson, and look where that got him.

Growing up in a segregated society, I have seen police abuse against black people my entire life. I saw a policeman beat a man with a billy club for dancing in place at his reserved seat at a Rhythm and Blues concert. Police then never referred to a black man by anything other than "boy," and God help you if you objected. Gradually, police standards were raised and alot of the old guard was phased out by the mid-seventies, but a policeman friend told me at the time that that the command structure "resented the college man," and it took many years to try and purge, at least, the overt racism that existed in the Memphis Police Department. So my tale is personal, and only this latest incident in Cambridge caused the recollection.

I had a friend named Mike Whitten, who, unlike most hippies in the early seventies, worked a steady job as the night manager of a mid-town 7/11. He didn't mind the late hours because he loved to read, especially horror stories, so we often exchanged different volumes of H.P. Lovecraft. I still have one of his books I meant to return. One night two black thugs with guns held him up. Whitten cooperated and when commanded, got on his knees on the floor, Still, one of the men shot him execution style for nothing. Shock reverberated through our youthful community of longhairs and Mike's friends. It was a severely painful episode in the middle of a sorrowful time. Police caught the robbers, but the loss was tragic and palpable.

After the tearful funeral, a wake was organized at the apartment of my friend and colleague Skip Ousley, where we would toast to our late friend. Skip is a black man who worked as a bouncer at the time at the High Cotton Club. Soon, many toasts were made and the crowd in the small space was growing unmanageable, until they filtered out into the common courtyard several floors below. A particularly drunk, boisterous, and grief stricken husband and wife began a personal argument that echoed throughout the building until Skip had to intervene and bring them back inside. But soon they were back at it in the echo chamber courtyard, only this time, while Skip tried in vain to stop them, the Memphis police arrived. They immediately went for Skip, who was shirtless, cuffed him and threw him in the back of the police car, and then they asked what happened. The drunken white couple attempted to speak up and were immediately put in the patrol car with Skip.

Uncommonly, I had the clearest head that night, so I approached the officer courteously and tried to explain the painful reason that we were assembled, and that this noisy couple simply had too much to drink. Skip had merely tried to stop the argument. The policeman frowned at me and said, "Everybody's going downtown." This was a younger cop and I thought I could appeal to his reason. "Look," I said, "This man lives here and was doing his best to stop the noise. There's no good reason for him to be arrested." The officer stared at me coldly and said the words I'll never forget, "Ain't no way the turd's not going down." I was stunned silent, but more bothersome was the reaction of my friend. Skip sat, handcuffed and head bowed in resignation, accepting of his fate, offering no protest. I was more outraged than he was. "Can I at least bring him down a shirt," I asked. In the same terse manner, the officer said, "Say one more word and you're going too."

So, Skip went to jail for the offense of being black while two white people in his parking lot went berserk. The charges were ultimately dropped, but Skip was printed, spent the night in jail, given an arrest record, and needed a lawyer. My friend's reserved response showed that he had learned never to argue with the police regardless of the circumstances, but my shock over the casual injustice showed my naivete regarding police attitudes towards blacks. These two cops had no sympathy for the situation and made no attempt to remove the guilty parties, only relished the thought of taking another black man, in the midst of these white hippies, down a peg. It was a disgusting thing to watch. Since then, the professionalism and diversity of police departments across the country has most certainly improved, but there are places and remnants of the old attitudes everywhere. So, although Cambridge Police Officer James Crowley may be the exception, don't tell me that there aren't a ton of racist cops still out there who get their power rush from harassing "niggaz." Sorry, Mr. President. I prefer Miller High Life in a frosted mug.

Your Cell Phone Is Killing Me

In the name of all that's holy, will some elected official entrusted with the public's safety; man or woman, Republican or Democrat, local, state, or federal, please find the conscience or the nads to stand up to the telecom industry and propose legislation banning cell phone use while driving? Is this a difficult call to make? Nothing is more personally enraging than to be held up in traffic by some grinning, oblivious, self-absorbed fool, yammering into a cell phone with one hand on the wheel and the other up to an ear, while angered drivers maneuver to pass on the left and right. Don't they still teach Driver's Ed in school? And if so, whatever happened to both hands on the wheel in the ten and two positions? At the risk of sounding curmudgeonly, I believe that cell phone use is a prime contributor to the breakdown of civility in society, but using the dastardly devices while driving a car is simply stupid, and deadly.

Now we discover that, according to the New York Times, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration withheld hundreds of pages of research confirming the deadly results of cell phone use in cars, "because of concerns about angering Congress." The research, begun in 2003, estimated that cellphone use by drivers caused 240,000 accidents and nearly 1000 fatalities in the previous year, and we would never have heard about it had not the Center for Auto Safety petitioned for the findings under the Freedom of Information Act. Clarence Ditlow, the Center's director, said, "We're looking at a problem that could be as bad as drunk driving, and the government has covered it up." Why am I not surprised that the Bush era Transportation Department, under Secretary Norman Mineta, decided to quash the report as "inconclusive?" The Bush team caved-in to every other corporate interest with political donations in hand, why not the cell phone industry too? Ditlow added, "No public health and safety agency should allow its research to be suppressed for political reasons." Can I get a witness?

There are currently fourteen states that ban texting while driving, which is like outlawing mixing cocktails behind the wheel, but only six that forbid yacking.(Current state cell phone and text messaging bans are posted here). The texting ban grew after the April 29, 2009 incident of a bus driver in San Antonio captured on film while he texted his way directly into the rear of several vehicles stopped at a red light. Tennessee has a texting ban, but although they have compiled crash statistics, there is currently no effort to ban hand held devices while driving. There is some irony in the fact that, as a nation, we mourn the brave soldiers, now over 5,000 in number, who have sacrificed their lives in the Bush wars over the past eight years, yet we barely swallow hard over the nearly half million traffic fatalities on our nation's roads annually. It took Mothers Against Drunk Driving to raise public awareness about that deadly behavior, but a University of Utah study comparing 40 volunteer drivers of a "virtual car," discovered that the actual drunks did better than the cell phone users, and that chatting on the cell was the equivalent of registering a .08 on the drunk-o-meter.

I understand that there now exists a "culture of the cell phone" that will be difficult to alter. I carry a cell phone, but I don't answer it if I'm driving, and if I need to make a call, I pull in somewhere and stop. It's not that I'm not smart enough to multi-task, it's that I realize that driving today's roads requires complete attention, if only to protect yourself from some Suburban Assault Vehicle drifting into your lane because the driver is on the phone. Unless you're a doctor or a fireman, aside from a "please pick up some milk on your way home" call, there is no phone message so urgent that it can't wait a few minutes to be answered safely. In Europe and the UK, cell phone use is already banned while driving, so why does it always take this country so long to enact the obvious? I forgot, we disdain European culture. The Old Country takes the matter so seriously that there is a kit for sale that includes a paint-ball gun for drivers to mark the cars of violators when the police aren't around. Of course, anyone around here would have their heads blown off with a real gun by the law-abiding, carry-permit holders who would never allow such an affront to their property. The effete Europeans don't allow guns in cars either, but at least in this country, we're able to call in a shooting with the cell phone that's already in hand.

Willie and the Hand Jive

"North side, east side
Little Willy, Willy wears the crown/
He's the king around town...
'Cos little Willy, Willy won't go home/
But you can't push Willy round/
Willy won't go."
(Chinn/Chapman)
"Little Willy" The Sweet, 1973

There are occasions in the life of Memphis city politics when you just have to stand back and stare in awe. In 1968, Mayor Henry Loeb's patronizing, pigheaded position concerning city employees virtually forced a confrontation with sanitation workers. Then there was the memorable evening back in the mid-seventies when a disgruntled bar patron grew tired of hard-drinking Mayor Wyeth Chandler attempting to grope his date and kicked his ass in the parking lot behind Overton Square. Now, we have the on-again, off-again resignation of Mayor Willie Herenton, supposedly set for July 30, depending on how spiteful he's feeling at the time. But the bellicose rhetoric and the contempt the Mayor has shown for those citizens outside of his loyal voter base has made it open season for Herenton's critics, and they are legion.

If Chicago is "The City of Big Shoulders," then Memphis must surely be "The City With a Chip On Its Shoulder." It's true enough that African-American citizens have been disenfranchised, underrepresented, and used as pawns in city politics in the not-so-distant past, but most Memphians long for the time when those days can be considered ancient history. It's just that some politicians who shoulder the largest chips won't allow us to move beyond it. Race is just too good of a political wedge issue to leave alone. City Council votes fall routinely along racial lines with many agenda-driven Councilpersons seemingly in it for self-aggrandizement or personal advancement. There is the rare, well-meaning, public servant, but John Vergos retired in frustration over trying to deal with the half-wits, even if he denies it. Perhaps it would be helpful to begin each City Council meeting with a brief group therapy session, or a 12-step program to see how everyone's doing with their respective dependencies. Meanwhile, the mayor's utter contempt for the Council does not make for good government, nor do his take-it-or-leave-it pronouncements from on high.

The most common term describing the mayor that I have seen lately, from professional editorialists to letters to the editor, is "egomaniac." He has become George Bush-like in his opinion of his subjects; you're either with him, or you're against him. And if you're not beholden to the mayor for your job or other "city services," you're considered by Herenton as just another "hater." The Mayor has been playing defense so long now, he has forgotten how to inspire. But it wasn't that way always. I voted for Herenton three times, and three out of five ain't bad. But he lost me around the "Don't bring no mess" phase, when his speeches became increasingly angry, paranoid, and racially tinged. Recalling Herenton's election as Memphis' first black mayor and the tremendous elation that came with the hope that this city might finally transcend its' racially divisive past seems like a very long time ago. Eighteen years of waiting for a renaissance that never arrived has made me Willy weary in the extreme. Especially since he ran for his fifth term just to prove he could be re-elected.

Mayor Herenton's admirable place in the revitalization of downtown during his first two terms has decayed along with the city. The combined efforts of government and business have overseen the opening and closing of Peabody Place, the pending destruction of the Coliseum, the Mid-South Fair moving to Mississippi, and questionable construction issues concerning the FedEx Forum. And as far as our big, empty Pyramid, it is way past time for Bass Pro Shops to fish or cut bait. Remember when a consortium of businessmen wanted to put a first-rate aquarium in the Pyramid? The mayor blew that one off before he even examined how similar facilities in Chattanooga and New Orleans have become major attractions. The thought of coming over the Memphis-Arkansas bridge and envisioning the architecturally beautiful Pyramid with a giant, hooked fish on its facade would be enough to make the project's founder, John Tigrett, spin in his grave, had he not purchased the "Fair and Square" casket he descibed in his autobiography that leaves him no wiggle room.

So now Herenton wants to run for Congress against Steve Cohen to restore African-American representation to the majority black 9th District. As reported in the Flyer, the Mayor thinks Cohen is "an asshole," but he's wrong. Maybe Cohen used to be an asshole as a young, ambitious County Commissioner, but thirty years in the state legislature taught him the humility needed to compromise with others for the common good. The difference between Cohen and Herenton is that Cohen is running for re-election to serve his constituents; Herenton just wants to win. It was heartening to see Rep. Cohen get a position on the prestigious House Judiciary Committee, where as a freshman, he was taken under the wing of legendary Michigan legislator John Conyers. Cohen was wise enough to know that he had a lot to learn and humble enough to allow himself to be mentored by the elder Conyers. Herenton has no such humility. I'm certain that if Herenton knows John Conyers, he considers himself every bit his equal. After all, what has John Conyers ever run? In the U.S. Congress, you must wait your turn; not the best job for a 70-year-old man used to getting what he wants when he wants it. Herenton has already said he plans to win the election with black votes alone, so we can expect a particularly ugly and race-based campaign.

I think Herenton feels under appreciated. After 18 years, the Mayor is crying out for recognition as the historical politician that he is, only he has stayed at the dance too long and the guests have all gone home. This late-life, vanity run for Congress is an attempt to prove that nobody stops Willie Herenton. Except, the Mayor may first want to check the last election returns to see that Cohen captured 60% of the African-American vote, and in the age of Obama, racial politics takes a back seat to the competence of the candidate. My unsolicited advice is for Dr. Herenton to make good on his retirement of July 30, go out a winner, and forsake further political ambition. Either that, or learn how it feels to lose, badly. Mayor Herenton has become an angry man who no longer receives praise or thanks for his work and feels persecuted by those around him. I think what he really needs is a big hug. So, how about this? For your decades of service to this community, thank you Willie Herenton. During your tenure as Mayor, you did many good things. May you enjoy your golden years in tranquility. Now, was that so hard?

Who Killed Michael Jackson?

"The pure products of America go crazy." William Carlos Williams, 1923

Only days ago, we were discussing the crackdown on dissent in Iran, a world mired in an economic slump, a pending Congressional showdown on health care, and the Argentinian adventures of Governor Mark Sanford, and then suddenly all that talk stopped. Michael Jackson had died. In another of those "where were you" moments, my wife rushed in with the news, and we settled in to watch the sad pageant of grief and shock. It takes a person of enormous influence to halt the 24 hour news cycle in its' tracks, and the filmed reports of people pausing worldwide, for even a moment, to acknowledge the loss, proves Jackson was such an individual. Love him or hate him, this single artist's contributions to popular culture are immeasurable.

Michael had become a touchstone in people's lives. Multitudes grew up with him, and though it's hard to imagine, there's another generation who missed his heyday in the spotlight. Can it really be 25 years since the release of Thriller? I always place myself between the bookends of Elvis, who was 12 years older, and Michael, who was 10 years younger than me. It's curious that shortly before Elvis' death, just before a major tour, he was bloated almost beyond recognition with the effects of narcotic painkillers, while Michael's most recent appearances showed him looking confident, if frail. So, even though Elvis died at 42 and Jackson at 50, Elvis appears forever older in my mind, while Michael remains eternally young. Coloring these images is the memory of Michael emerging as the leader of the Jackson 5 at age ten; so commanding as a singer and polished as a dancer, and so gifted a musical prodigy, that he made a good singular argument for the existence of God.

I confess to being an unabashed Michael Jackson fan, the only other artist of the age who belongs in the same category with Elvis and the Beatles, since I saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show in December, 1969. When the Beatles appeared on the same program in 1964, it was barely three months since the assassination of JFK, and they brought joy to a grieving nation. The Jackson 5 appeared on our TV screens just eight months after the murders of Dr. King and Robert Kennedy, and gave particular solace to young, black Americans who gained a new source of pride and inspiration. The corporate, white-dominated, music industry sprang into action and offered the Osmond Brothers as a squeaky-clean alternative. The Jackson 5 got a TV variety show; the Osmonds followed on their heels. A Saturday morning cartoon series was created around the Jacksons; the Osmonds had one within weeks. The Jacksons put Michael forward as their child leader; The Osmonds focused on Donny. It was the old practice of mediocre white artists ripping off black performers that dated back to before Pat Boone recorded "Tutti Frutti." But it was never a contest.

Michael's talent drew so much attention at such a young age, you just knew he would be a major adult artist if he could only survive the pitfalls that befell so many other child stars before him. Frankie Lymon, the MJ of the fifties, was devoured and abused by a music industry that drove him to addiction and early death. But Michael's 1979 Off the Wall solo LP, produced by Quincy Jones, was all the evidence anyone needed to know that the cute little boy had grown up. The Jacksons stopped at the Mid-South Coliseum for their Triumph tour in July, 1981, after Off the Wall had been released. Portions of the Memphis show were recorded for the follow-up Jacksons' effort, the double-album, Live, and though the show was critically hailed, it was clear that it was time for Michael to step out on his own.

No one could have predicted the massive response to Thriller, but something happened to Michael afterwards. Both Off the Wall and Thriller were essentially Rhythm & Blues records, but the international hysteria over Michael grew so far and so fast, that it was no longer sufficient to "cross-over" to a pop audience; he needed to dominate the scene, and he did. Jackson brought in Eddie Van Halen to play solos on guitar-based rock songs with a harder edge, and soon became the "King of Pop," but by the time Bad was released, Michael had begun his sad transformation from a vibrant, young, black man, into an old, white woman. I believe it was to make himself more race-neutral to his expanding international fan base, and the stories of him being teased by his father for his classic Negroid features are now legendary. But all his transitory cosmetic surgeries and eccentricities never compared to his lasting creative contributions to music and dance.

It was the personal oddities that fueled the tabloid fodder, and Michael became a target for opportunists. I truly believe that Jackson was an emotional man-child attempting to surround himself with the only group of people he felt he could completely trust; children. Only Michael could have been naive enough to admit in a documentary that he shared his bed with young boys in a non-sexual and innocent manner, like a childhood sleep-over, and expect people to understand him. Even his trust in children was betrayed when the boy he tried to help with medical expenses and emotional support filed criminal molestation charges against him. After the young man and his mother were proven to be grifters and Jackson was acquitted of all charges, Michael was forever burdened with suspicions of pedophilia, and became an object of ridicule. This trying ordeal led the former Jehovah's Witness into the world of prescription meds, painkillers, and "boutique" doctors. All the questions swirling around Jackson's sudden death have yet to be answered, but there is an object lesson in the latest saga of Scottish singer Susan Boyle. The only thing we English speaking followers of pop culture enjoy more than placing a hero on a pedestal to be worshipped, is to rip them apart when we realize they are not gods after all. In the aftermath of this tragedy, songwriter Don McClean's lyrics about Vincent Van Gogh seem most appropriate to Michael Jackson; "This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

The Alabama Extreme Makeover

Amid all the political vitriol of the past week, it's heartening to report the huge initial response we've received to our petition drive to officially rename the state of Alabama. Not merely in the Northeast and California, but people all over the world are writing in to endorse the idea that since Alabama is the cradle of the civil rights movement, and the scene of some of the era's most tumultuous events, it is only fitting that their citizens honor our 44th, and first African-American President, by formally renaming the state "Alobama." Since so many Alabama towns are named after European cities already; Florence, Athens, Birmingham, Oxford; the contributions from Europe, where our president is a superstar, have just been pouring in.

We, of course, realize that the name change will cause some inconvenience, especially at the DMV and official state buildings. But only one vowel has to be altered and our studies show that thousands of people can become employed rounding off "a's" into "o's." Hiring will be under a federally run public agency like the Works Progress Administration during Roosevelt's New Deal. Any map revisions can be incorporated in the next generation of cartography, however Alobama would lose it's alphabetical advantage to Alaska; a small price for historic change. In return, municipalities throughout France and Germany have agreed to build a series of Bistros and Rathskellers all over rural Alabama with authentic French waiters and Bohemian Frauleins, to introduce European cuisine to the natives. It will be a foie gras meets cheese-grits international smorgasbord. We predict European Socialist Tourism will increase ten-fold, especially during the year-long Obamafest planned to coincide with the name change celebration. It will be like Oktoberfest, only with Earth, Wind, and Fire playing instead of the oompah bands, and exclusively Mountain Dew, endive, and bratwurst in the dry counties.

Understandably, the state's land grant universities have to be treated with the sensitivity deserving of their legendary heritage. The former University of Alabama will be permitted to sell its' supply of red sweatshirts before beginning the new printings, and in honor of Bear Bryant and that song by Steely Dan, they will be allowed to retain the nickname "Crimson Tide." We would prefer, however, that the schools colors be changed to crimson and mauve to reflect the new multi-culturalism, and the football cheer "Roll Tide," be replaced by, "Roll Tide of Hope." The phrase, "Go Bama," is permissible, but the second syllable must be pronounced, "bomma," as in "Go Bomma." The guy in the elephant suit they use on the sidelines is easily swapped for a donkey in a red poncho. Since Auburn University can't decide whether to call their mascots "Tigers," or "War Eagles," a decision has been made for them. There are already too many schools using "Tigers," and we wish to de-emphasize the glorification of war, so to reflect the new patriotism, their sports teams will now be known as the Auburn Bald Eagles. Since nobody knows what a "Blazer" is anyway, UAB can remain the same, with commendations for their "green" theme.

We pledge not to alter the state flag, even though it's the same design as the Confederate battle flag, only with different colors and without the stars. It is a bit too antebellum, however, so the committee recommends co-state flags. We prefer adopting a flag with the Obama "O" logo, with the rising sun in red, white, and blue. Since the existing flag looks like a big, red "X" anyway, we will simply rededicate it in honor of the late Abdul Malik Shabazz, known internationally as Malcolm X. To assuage the concern of local citizens, we have been assured by the Nation of Islam that they will construct enough mosques statewide to accommodate all the new Muslim transplants, so that no one has to be inconvenienced. We further believe, to further the state's new, pacifist image, that flying an "X" flag next to an "O" flag, will also represent kisses and hugs. Henceforth, the Aloboma licence plates will read, "Land of the Tolerant," but that "Heart of Dixie" business has to go in favor of "I (Heart) Big Government." By popular demand, the official state song will be changed from "The Stars Fell on Alabama," to Stevie Wonder's, "Signed, Sealed, and Delivered." With the international attention this will receive, I can promise you that Birmingham will become the new Bangers and Mash capitol of the South, and Muscle Shoals can reopen their recording studios to tape large-group, Socialist anthems from Georgia.

Even George Wallace grew a conscience in his declining years and publicly rebuked his racist past. The old segregationist, who once stood in the schoolhouse door, cried like a woman and begged forgiveness for his sins before going to visit Old Scratch. Likewise, Alabama's day of redemption has come. Petitions are presently circulating in the state and we look forward to the Governor's support. It is hoped that the state legislature will address the name change, but we are prepared to have the name "Alobama" recognized by the World Court, as advised by our council from the ACLU, like Ceylon was changed to Sri Lanka. So here's to the "Yellowhammer State," which in the future will be known as "The Big 'O'," and the destiny that awaits you in the New World Order. Already, in keeping with the state's refreshing new post-racial attitudes, the City Council has voted unanimously to rename the Birmingham International Airport after Alabama's two most distinguished, and colorblind citizens. Henceforth, everyone will be flying into the Helen Keller-W.C. Handy Memorial Airfield in Birmingham, Alobama. "Yes We Can."

Osama Fears Obama

Memo to Osama bin Laden re: Your latest audio release; It ain't working anymore, pal. You've become like the Doobie Brothers and released one album too many, and now it's time to hit the Oldies Circuit. You're yesterday's news, with a strong, charismatic competitor for the souls of Muslim youth throughout the Middle-East. All over your imaginary Caliphate, young people are replacing the Osama wall posters with Obama posters. One offers hope, the other offers death. No wonder you released a frantic communique criticising Obama's historic address in Cairo to the Muslim world. If the enormous youth population of the Arab Crescent begin to believe that an erudite man named Barack Hussein Obama can be elected president, maybe the U.S. isn't the "Great Satan" their radical coreligionists have led them to believe.

Obviously, no single speech can erase the chasm that exists between cultures, or diminish the zeal of holy warriors on either side, but Obama's superb address did more to influence the next generation of Muslim youth than eight years of Bush's selling them Democracy as, "God's gift to mankind." Obama is uniquely qualified to deliver a speech of this magnitude, and approached his massive Muslim audience with two things they never heard from the last administration; humility and respect. Making the speech in Cairo must have been particularly galling to Ayman al-Zawahiri, bin Laden's Dick Cheney, who claims that turf like the Gangsta Disciples. Islamic extremists, who use a great deal of religious symbolism in recruiting, must have freaked-out when they saw the Obama-like hieroglyph in the Great Pyramid at Giza. I know I did. The Pyramid is known to have great mystical powers and astronomical accuracy, and is a recorder of the past and predictor of the future. If Obama is somehow able to jump-start the Arab-Israeli peace talks, this country's Evangelical right, already in a frenzy over his references to the "Holy Koran," will be holding the President down in order to shave his head and search for the sixes.

Regardless of your opinion of the President, it took some courage and finesse to speak those hard truths. Like Daniel in the lion's den, he said the U.S.'s bond with Israel was "unbreakable" in the capitol city of an Arab country, while insisting that Hamas and Hezbollah must reject and rebuke violence. Simultaneously, Obama insisted that Israel cease settlement expansion in the West Bank in preparation for a Palestinian state. He was the first President to use the word "Palestine," and also the first to acknowledge the complicity of the CIA under Eisenhower to topple the democratically elected leader of Iran, Mohammad Mossadegh, in 1953. That was our original beef with Iran, which was more pro-Western than not, when we feared our oil might become more expensive, and so staged a coup, giving them the Shah instead of the people's choice as leader. While some criticize Obama for "apologising," he merely owned up to some unpleasant history that needed to be addressed. The Iranian elections are coming, Ahmadinejad is in political trouble, and their young voters were paying close attention to this speech. Could it tip the balance?

President Obama also represents, as an honest broker, the best chance for peace in the Holy Land that we may yet have seen. The Netanyahu government of Israel will make a lot of groaning noises, but they have the proven alliance of Hillary Clinton to assure their interests are protected, and the persuasiveness of George Mitchell to begin the process. Netanyahu is like Nixon or Ariel Sharon, in that he is bellicose and unyielding right up to the moment he realizes history could record him as a peacemaker, then he's a realist. As a result of the positive reception to Obama's Cairo speech in the Muslim world, the Palestinians may begin to moderate their stance. It's only a beginning, but what an absolute dilemma for Al-Qaeda. When the U.S. is represented by a man who tells his Egyptian audience, "I am a Christian," yet is able to quote from the Koran, who will Osama bin Laden demonize to recruit new suckers? Other than the Republicans, who can hate this man? What a delight to have a leader who understands the benefits of community organizing.

Don't Take Your Guns To Town

In my career as a vagabond musician, I suppose I've spent a full third of my life working in bars and restaurants. I've seen some ugly incidents and brutal violence over the years, but aside from one or two times, it never included me. When a fight broke out, the band's policy was to keep playing unless the combatants rolled onto the bandstand at which point, all bets were off. I have used my guitar or microphone stand as a weapon, but we were fortunate to have a couple of big guys in the band who were our enforcers. I've actually turned my head to witness percussionist Skip Ousley catch the fist of an enraged person in mid-swing, right before it reached my face. We performed countless times at the Enlisted Men's Club at the Millington Naval Air Base where there were 200 men and four women, and a brawl erupted every ten minutes. I've watched teeth fly and blood flow, but nothing quite compared to the beat-down of an inebriated patron I witnessed at an all-night club in Little Rock called The Apartment.

Members of the Radiants were taking our parking lot break when a drunken fool was thrown out of the front doors by the club's immense bouncers. The drunk sprang up and attacked the two men, as drunks do, causing one of the bouncers to begin smashing the idiot's head with a lead-filled police slapper while screaming, "You done fucked up now, Bobby Gene!" When the other bouncer pulled a gun and began waving it in the air, we dove for cover behind the parked cars while the drunk continued to fight on. After a dozen more hard blows to the head, the man was beaten nearly senseless. When he tried to struggle to his feet he received a parting boot kick to the ribs that thudded across the lot and dropped him on his back. Still, the bleeding man struggled into his pick-up and managed to lay rubber leaving the club. It then became my job to get back on stage and reassure the freaked-out crowd that the danger was over and play some dance music, but midway through our second song, I saw a sort of panic sweep the room. It seems Bobby Gene had returned, only this time with a shotgun, and there was some sort of stand-off outside. For an agonizing moment, the nightclubbers, as well as the band, believed we could be part of a hostage situation. The police arrested him, but it was one of the few times in a club that I have been really afraid.

The common denominator in all of these incidents was alcohol, yet the Tennessee Legislature overwhelmingly passed new laws allowing handgun-carry permit holders to bring their weapons into bars and restaurants, supposedly for self-protection. So, on behalf of musicians, bartenders, managers, hosts, wait staff, cooks, cashiers, and busboys everywhere, I'd like to ask our distinguished state legislators a question. Are you people fucking crazy? Are you so deeply in the pockets of the National Rifle Association that you are willing to let someone die to keep the endorsements and contributions coming? Any fool can see that if this vote becomes law, somebody, and possibly a lot of somebodies, is going to be killed. The only people that should have guns in places that sell alcohol should be the owner and the security guard, just like at the liquor store. Anything else is inviting a disaster.

Governor Phil Bredesen has made the principled stand against this outrage by vetoing the bill, but there are powerful forces aligned against him and the General Assembly is prepared to override. The bill's sponsor, Republican Representative Curry Todd of Collierville is a former police officer and should know better, but a cursory exam of his voting record shows he wants handgun permit records to be closed to the public, he favors allowing loaded long guns in vehicles and the elimination of the thumbprint requirement for gun purchases. No wonder the NRA Political Victory Fund, which contributes to the campaigns of sympathetic legislators, gave Todd a grade of A+. The curious thing is that there was no demand for this bill. There have been no Luby's style massacres in the local cafeterias. The bill is entirely political and driven by the NRA to expand carry rights into every area of public life. A fear based campaign has already begun by the Tennessee Firearms Association and the NRA to urge their members to contact legislators to override, along with a blatant threat to the political futures of the police and law officials that stood with the Governor.

The gun-toters' argument is always the same: that carry permit-holders are law-abiding citizens that must pass a rigorous course in the use and safety of a handgun before being granted a licence to go strapped to Kroger's, and that they are our first line of defense when the armed drug gangs start to invade our Applebee's. Bullshit. In the past, someone had to show a legitimate purpose for carrying a weapon before being granted a permit. Now, anyone with a pulse and no felonies who can manage to act right for a few hours of training and keep from drooling over the paperwork has a gun in the glove compartment. Why do you suppose the number of road rage shootings has recently rocketed?

Instead of guns in bars, there should be more bars in guns. The last fatal shooting in a Memphis nightclub came from someone who was well-trained in firearm use and licensed to carry; an off-duty policeman who became enraged after a few drinks and shot two people over a parking space. Oh, I take it back. It was that hothead in Cordova, near Rep. Todd's district, who killed the father of two children in the parking lot outside a restaurant for a perceived insult toward his wife. He had a carry permit too, proving that what a handgun often does is turn a small man into a self-perceived badass. Add alcohol to that mix and what used to be a fist-fight will now become a shooting. The new law states that the gun holder is not supposed to be drinking in these "food-serving" establishments. Who's going to enforce that; the waiter or the bartender? This is one of those "contact your congressman" times for the sane people in Tennessee. For your own self-defense, find them at link, or www.tn.gov, and tell them that this gun legislation is a really bad idea. No one deserves to be shot over their creme brulee because of an NRA campaign donation.

Monkeys Be Losin' They Minds

First it was monkeypox and now this.I noticed a news headline not long ago that read "Australian Zoo Evacuated After Orangutan Escape." The ape showed no aggression, but the newsworthy part of the story was the 27 year old primate breached an electric fence by using a branch to scale its' way to freedom and avoid being shocked. Coming so close on the heels of the recent, hideous chimp mauling in Los Angeles, I saw a pattern and decided to do some research so you wouldn't have to. What I found is jaw-droppingly shocking. We are in the midst of no less than a covert, global monkey jihad. Especially among so-called pets or otherwise kept monkeys. Consider this:

5/17/08, Los Angeles News"An orangutan named Bruno escaped from his enclosure at the Los Angeles Zoo and went on a 25-minute jaunt...Bruno got out through a hole in his wire mesh enclosure...Zoo officials were not sure whether Bruno made the hole..or if the wire broke some other way"
1/30/09,blog.nola.com"Using only a stretched green T-shirt and powerful upper body strength, a Sumatran orangutan named Berani escaped from his Audubon Zoo enclosure..Employing a level of cunning that could come from a prison movie, the primate stretched the shirt, scaled a 10 1/2-foot wall to the top of the moat, wrapped the shirt around the "hot" electrical wires surrounding the exhibit and swung out."
5/11/09 Monkeyday.com"An orangutan in Heidelberg Zoo has attracted attention after teaching himself to whistle. Now the 14-year-old ape has recorded his first CD. Entitled "Ich Bin Ujian," The CD single by Ujian will go on sale in June. The song, a jaunty pop-rock number with reggae elements, features Ujian's melodic whistling..and a chorus including the lines: 'I am Ujian the orangutan, I am so cool, man, I am a star.'"

Obviously, the captive orangutans are up to something. They escape their Escarpments with ease, causing chaos but never harming anyone, but just to brazenly show us they can do it at will. Some are learning skills involving the disarmament of locked gates and electric barriers, while others are learning to whistle "(Sittin' on)the Dock of the Bay," and releasing CD singles to distract us from what's really going down and have us believe that they are cool with our values. This orangutan song-and-dance is really a smokescreen to cover-up what is happening at the tip of the spear of the monkey revolt; the angry, malicious, and revengeful violence of the world's chimpanzees. In this battle against their human captors, they are the guerrilla warriors of the simian movement; "The Simianese Liberation Army."

The Kolkata zoo in India reported that a mother and her six-year-old daughter were injured by rocks thrown from Babu, a male chimpanzee, who became "furious and retaliated" when visitors threw pieces of bricks at him. Zoo officials confirmed that Babu escaped his enclosure last year by breaking the lock. The victims were treated in the hospital and released. More ominous were the plans of the chimp named Santino in Sweden's Furuvik Zoo, who was observed "chipping at concrete to create discs to throw at visitors. He even made weapons at night to throw...in the morning." Santino impressed Swedish scientists who believe "this is the first evidence of a non-human animal being capable of making plans for the future." Thousands of miles away in Thailand, the monkey murders have already begun. Nature and Conservation reported in March that Leilit Janchoon purchased a monkey for $180 dollars to climb trees and fetch coconuts, but when the exhausted beast tried to take a break, Janchoon beat the monkey until he returned to his task. The primate, named Brother Kwan, promptly re-climbed the tree and "hurled a coconut straight down on Janchoon's head, killing him instantly."

Most pet chimp stories end badly, including Elvis' monkey, "Scatter," who amused the boys for awhile before becoming too aggressive. People who can't find human contact and acquire a monkey instead, often treat chimps like children, until they discover their pets are feral beasts with great strength and not a lot of conscience. The latest gruesome mauling of a woman in Los Angeles by Travis the Chimp is an example. We discovered to our immense discomfort that Travis' female owner bathed and slept with the chimp. (Isn't that how AIDS got started?). But might she not have imagined that giving drugs to the animal could cause problems? Did she not think that the simian brain reacts differently to Xanax than humans and, just possibly, her pet may become confused? She may as well have given the monkey LSD and turned on a strobe light.

Travis' owner might have consulted with St. James and LaDonna Davis, who put their pet chimp, Moe, in a California primate sanctuary in 1999 after he bit off someone's finger. The couple went to visit Moe on his birthday in 2005, bringing a cake to celebrate the occasion, when two chimps in an adjoining cage went berserk, broke free and viciously attacked the Davis's. St. James took the full measure of the apes' fury, who bit off a foot, chewed off his nose, and ripped off his balls, while his pet Moe merely sat back and watched. Something sinister is going on around the ape grapevine, and it doesn't seem to be good, but there's a lesson in this for humans. Remember when our government invaded Iraq and disbanded the army, the police, and the Ba'ath party, in effect disenfranchising tens of thousands of Sunnis? The result was an unforeseen and bloody insurrection. The moral being; When you go to a primate party, you better bring enough cake for all the monkeys or they'll be having your testicles for canapes and your face for an entree.

The Thing That Wouldn't Leave

If Warner Brothers is ever interested in a remake of "The Man Who Came to Dinner," the Monty Wooley role of the irascible, housebound, curmudgeonly critic could be perfectly filled by Dick Cheney. His continuing media appearances have become an irritant like a rash that just won't heal. As badly as I'd like to forget these guys, the former Vice President, sometimes known by his regal name, "Richard the Chickenhearted," refuses to go away. Every day there's another Cheney sighting and another microphone to assist Dirty Dick in sewing his discord. And now that he's linked arms with Rush Limbaugh, his white noise concerning "enhanced interrogation techniques" will always have an outlet.

It has to be a tough gig defending torture under any circumstances, but Cheney tries to justify his special methods because, "They worked." So does armed robbery, but the criminals are usually brought to justice after they confess. Now, separate reports have surfaced saying the Office of the Vice President personally suggested "harsh techniques" to be used on certain captives in Iraq, and not because of some Keifer Sutherland, ticking dirty bomb fantasy. Col. Lawrence B. Wilkerson, Colin Powell's former chief of staff, recently wrote in the Washington Note that Cheney's suggested "enhanced" methods used in April of 2002, before the President's legal council had spoken on the matter, were entirely for the purpose of "discovering a smoking gun linking Iraq and Al Qaeda." Wilkerson continues to state that the reason the country has been free of a terrorist attack since 9/11, "is due almost entirely to the nation's having deployed over 200,000 troops in Iraq and Afghanistan," and not as the result of Cheney's interrogation methods. So why does Cheney continue to parrot that the country is more vulnerable under Obama's non-torturing directives?

There is certainly no downside to Cheney predicting another terrorist attack on American soil. Most Middle East analysts agree with him, so if or when an attack is attempted, Cheney can say "I told you so," and be seen as a visionary. If another sneak attack should never come, he can say that he erred on the side of national security. Either way, Cheney can't lose and he believes history will absolve him of his crimes in the name of "vigilance." Of course, if you go above or around the law and, say, attack a sovereign nation without provocation, then you're merely a "vigilante." The fog of talk-show war that Cheney is churning out is for one purpose only; if he can get everyone to focus on the use of harsh questioning of perceived terrorists in defense of the country, attention is diverted from the larger issue of the initial decision to invade Iraq and the consequent sales pitch that preceded the bombing of Baghdad. Interrogating bad guys is an argument that Cheney can win, but busting him for torture is like arresting a man for speeding when he's been caught in a stolen car. Sending the armed forces into combat under false pretences is the real crime. The torture of prisoners was used to justify it.

There's a fierce storm a'comin. It's going to be more furious than Katrina, worse than the Clinton impeachment, and uglier than Watergate. In fact, you'll have to go back to the Grant administration and the trials of Jefferson Davis and the hierarchy of the Confederacy to find a parallel. But it is as inevitable as justice itself and the people will demand it. We've always known there would be a reckoning someday for all the destruction and death resulting from this misbegotten war; a war spawned by a political philosophy encapsulated in the "Statement of Principles" of the Project For the New American Century. (Click on title). Among the signers of that document, three years before Bush was appointed president by the Supreme Court, were Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, Scooter Libby, and Dick Cheney. Their imperialist desires were pretty much spelled out in advance, and Cheney, by necessity, had to emerge from his undisclosed location to defend what has become the indefensible; starting a war. And to think that if Karl Rove had achieved his goal of a "permanent Republican majority," through voter fraud and gerrymandering, this gang would have gotten away clean. All this clamor over harsh interrogations being spewed by Dick Cheney is the sound of a drowning man who realizes he's going under, but is treading water just as fast as he can to delay the inevitable; sort of like someone being waterboarded.

The Nouvelle Neo-Cons

When I walked in on the evening news and heard them say that Specter had become a Democrat, I figured Phil Spector was looking for a pardon. But the prospect of Penn. Senator Arlen Specter voting with the Democrats is equally chilling. Arlen Specter was already a registered Democrat when he made his bones as Junior Council to the Warren Commission investigating the Kennedy assassination. His eternal contribution was the concoction of the "single bullet theory," which claimed that the same bullet passed through the throat of the president, then through the car seat and into Texas Governor John Connelly, through the Governor's body, striking his wrist, and ending up on the floor of the presidential limousine in near pristine condition. Specter sold his theory to the Warren Commission, but couldn't sell it to the American people, or even Governor Connelly for that matter; the point being that Arlen Spector has been shovelling the same shit for nearly fifty years. A Republican since 1965, Specter's defection deprives the GOP of their last moderate senator in the Northeast and the infamous inquisitor of Anita Hill. His multi-party reversals are like a man who undergoes a sex change, then returns to the doctor forty years later asking for his penis back.

To drive a weasel like Specter from their ranks, the Republican Party must be seriously off the rails. Last week, members of the conservative wing of the Republican National Committee drafted a resolution to officially change the way they refer to the opposing party. It states:

RESOLVED, that we the members of the Republican National Committee call on the Democratic Party to be truthful and honest with the American people by acknowledging that they have evolved from a party of tax and spend to a party of tax and nationalize and, therefore, should agree to rename themselves the Democrat Socialist Party.

This week, a new initiative called The National Council for a New America hit the road with such fresh faces as Mitt Romney and Jeb Bush holding town meetings to "re-brand" the Republican party. The architect of the Council is Virginia Congressman Eric Cantor, who has been called the GOP's "rising star" and undoubtedly has ambitions of his own. Cantor hopes that trotting out John McCain to talk about the future, or Rep. Michelle Bachman telling Chairman Michael Steele that, "You be the man," will energise the teaparty-goers and give a focus to their anger. But re-branding this Republican party is about as useful as changing the wrapping on a can of Spam.

I think we should no longer deny the dead elephant in the room, and that the real name change should be considered by the Republicans. GOP makes a nice acronym for "Greedy Old Pigs," but they all got washed out in the banking collapse and are now on the government teat, and not in a position to complain too loudly. All that's left of the old party are the religious conservatives, gun zealots, and Old Dixie: the remnants of Richard Nixon's "Southern Strategy." After Lyndon Johnson signed civil rights legislation in 1964, he said to an aide that the Democrats had probably lost the South for a generation, but not even LBJ would have thought a Southern governor would suggest secession. And all along, when I heard the term "neo-con," I thought they meant neo-conservatives. Now, I understand that the term actually means neo-Confederates: the party of states' rights, only with a few constitutional amendments prohibiting certain behaviors they deem offensive. So why not just re-name the Republican Party the "New Confederacy?" It sounds a little better than Strom Thurmond's Dixiecrats in 1948, or George Wallace's American Independent Party in 1968, but it appeals to the same group; the red-faced mob screaming about taxes when, most likely, they just got a refund.

The lack of historical reference is palpable among the current batch of Republican legislators. If they had any sense, they'd reverse course now, but because they don't, they are doomed to repeat the past. In this case, the example is the Democrats. At the Chicago convention of 1968, the Democrats tore themselves apart over the issues of war abroad and equality at home. Beaten and bloodied by the overeager Chicago police, the chaos in the streets shocked the nation and helped elect the law-and-order candidate, Nixon. Rather than lick their wounds and take a centrist approach, the party lurched to the left, into the doomed candidacy of George McGovern, and became known as the party of political correctness rather than the party of inclusion. Now that the roles are reversed and the Republicans have had their heads handed to them in the last two elections, they will instinctively follow their gun-toting, frustrated, base on a march to the far right, and into the arms of Governor Sarah Palin, or someone like her, who will lead them to crushing defeat.

The GOP has become the party of the angry Southern white man, led by talk radio into ugly sloganeering against the current government, without offering any solutions other than tax cuts and torture. The Boehner obstructionists need to either adjust or start learning the lyrics to James Taylor's "Steamroller Blues." Senators Arlen Specter and Al Franken will give the Democrats their filibuster-proof majority, and the Republicans, like the old Confederacy, become the defenders of yet another "Lost Cause." With no moderates remaining in the party, I only hope there is someone left who can discourage the Palin voters and the hysterical cultural crusaders from armed rebellion.

Tortured Logic

So the news is all atwitter over recently released memos that prove that the hierarchy of the Bush government sought out and approved methods of "enhanced interrogation techniques," particularly Cheney and Rumsfeld. Tell me something I don't already know. One witness after another has refuted the Rumsfeld "few bad apples" explanation for institutional torture in American run prisons. If Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks, I personally don't care if they pull his teeth one by one, each representing 100 victims inside the World Trade Center, to get information or exact revenge for that matter. If he was responsible for the sneak attack on this nation, then he is an enemy combatant deserving of retribution. It's disturbing, however, to learn that the White House was inquiring about which "harsh techniques" they could legally use on prisoners three months before they had anyone to interrogate.

Focusing on the Bush government's sanctioning torture of detainees in the midst of this ghastly enterprise is like quibbling over the preferred thumbscrews used during the Spanish Inquisition. The My Lai Massacre occurred within the massive horror that was Vietnam. Violations of international law concerning treatment of prisoners happened in the greater atrocity that is the American invasion of Iraq. The continuing reports of prisoner abuse in Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib while under U.S. control are worthy of examination, but they are misdemeanors when compared to the Bush government's larger crime. They conspired at the highest levels to willfully and without provocation, invade and occupy a sovereign nation, cynically using the 9/11 attacks to mislead the American people and the Congress into believing we were living under an imminent threat of nuclear attack from Iraq. All they needed was a major Al Qaeda leader to confess a confederacy with Saddam Hussein, and that would seal the deal.

I'm no seer, but I saw through the obfuscation the day the entire Bush cabinet fanned out to the Sunday talk shows to warn of Saddam's "mushroom cloud." In a time of patriotic fervor, this previously unutterable phrase sounded like obvious bullshit to sell the public on a war that's execution had already been decided. Why else would they send Colin Powell in front of the United Nations to display pictures of "rolling biological weapons labs," and "aluminum tubes used in the manufacture of nuclear materials," when U.N. weapons inspectors were still on the ground? But, according to the Downing Street Memo, the timetable had already been set for March, 2003. White House chief of staff Andrew Card famously told The New York Times in 2002, "From a marketing point of view, you don't introduce new products in August." Even when Bush gave the Husseins 24 hours to get out of Dodge, the invasion was set. In the final hours when asylum was offered and accepted by Hussein, Bush blocked his exit. Cheney and Rumsfeld were going to exorcise the demon that had haunted them since the first Bush presidency ended; after a brilliantly executed war against Iraq, they had allowed Saddam to remain in power, and Poppy's critics called him a "wimp."

If the Justice Department wants to look at who approved waterboarding, have at it. After all, they finally got Al Capone for income tax evasion instead of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. But there are larger issues here. Taking a nation to war through lies and deception is a more serious infraction to me than smacking someone upside the head. Conducting a military exercise that kills over a half-million civilians and foments an insurgency that costs our soldiers 35,000 casualties is a higher crime than placing a dog collar on a detainee. The best estimate I've found of prisoners that have died in U.S. custody is 108, and that was four years ago. Of those, the Army admits that 34 are homicides. Our government's agents have done far worse than lock a man in a box with insects. We have tortured people to death, and it is documented. It's best that we, as a nation, address this egregious breach of civilized law ourselves, rather than have an international court parade the Bush lawyers who justified torture before the world. They were just the good Germans. The criminal conspiracy that took over the highest offices of government are the evildoers. I'm sure, however, that comfortable accommodations can be arranged for the Secret Service within Federal Prison grounds. Better locked-up in Leavenworth than renditioned to Romania.

Forget the Alamo

I enjoy telling my Texas friends that if it weren't for a few brave Tennesseans, they'd all be speaking Spanish. But to hear Governor Rick Perry talk these days, they'll have to choose a national language when Texas re-secedes from the Union. Then they can build an electric border fence as high as they want and reassign the beleaguered Border Patrol to hold the line against Oklahoma. But, according to the treaty admitting the Republic of Texas to the Union, they would be required to break up into five separate states, and then who would cheer for the Texas Rangers; either the ball team, or the lawmen? What manner of insane, combustive, prattle is this from an inane public servant who is a "Rebel Without a Clue?" It has reached a point where it may be necessary to require every seeker of public office to first take a remedial class in American history, just to keep them from self-humiliation.

"Texas is a unique place. When we joined the Union..(the treaty said), we would be able to leave if we chose to do that. We've got a great Union and there's no reason to dissolve it. But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, who knows what might come out of that?" Gov. Rick Perry

It's not that Texans alone continue to elect absolute dumbasses for Governor. After all, Tennessee elected the crook Ray Blanton, not to mention Rod Blagojevich in Illinois and Eliot Spitzer in New York; first-rate political jackalopes all. But not even Huey Long suggested that Louisiana should declare its' independence. Texas has also produced master politicians like Sam Rayburn, LBJ, Ann Richards, and the distinguished Congresswoman Barbara Jordan, who had the intellectual capacity to become the first woman, and black president. The good people of Texas have merely been duped like everyone else by the malignant political theories of Karl Rove. The Rove philosophy is not to be overly concerned with a political client's particular opinions on the issues as long as they meet three criteria; they must be pro-business, which also means anti-tax and anti-regulation; culturally conservative and demonstrably Christian; and have good hair.

This methodology emerged with Ronald Reagan, when the GOP found a man with one, great, "gut," principle, and the rugged, good looks that Americans like in their movie stars and father figures. When Bush the Elder, who fired Rove for dirty tricks, was presented with a choice of worthy candidates to nominate for his Vice President, he said, "I'll take the peachy blond who looks like Dennis the Menace." Molly Ivins has described Rove's first star-crossed meeting with Dubya when he was assigned to pick up the younger Bush at the D.C. train station. Rove was taken aback by the Texas Air National Guard flight jacket, the steely, blue eyes, and the cowboy hat on the man from Harvard Business and thought, "I can make him president." After Rove stacked the Texas statehouse and Supreme Court with his clients, and was about to do the same to the country, his hand-picked successor to Bush, Rick Perry, moved into the Governorship. Kay Bailey was a local TV anchorwoman with good hair before becoming a Rove client. In the upcoming gubernatorial election between Rick Perry and Kay Bailey Hutchison, how can Karl Rove lose? Rove's clients still occupy positions and seats in overwhelming numbers in every aspect of Texas government, including Senator John Cornyn III, who's hair is not as great as his right-wing politics.

Former and future Texas roach killer, Tom DeLay, came to Rick Perry's defense by saying, "This is a governor standing up for the sovereignty of his state," and claimed he was caught up in the tumultuous hysteria of San Antonio's recent "Tea Party." In a demonstration so incoherent that the GOP should stand for "Gut Obama's Policies," Perry was more likely attempting to appeal to the malcontents who, without proper stoking, might be inclined to vote for the slightly more moderate Hutchison. At least as a former Senator, Hutchison must know that seceding from the Union is unconstitutional. Perry probably knows as well, only he doesn't give a damn when it comes to fanatical, redneck populism. Either way, Texas' next governor will be a Rovian creation. So what if one seems like a rabid disciple of John C. Calhoun, and the other is like, well.. a TV anchorwoman? With an unprincipled State's Rights fanatic as governor, the criminal Dubya and Karen Hughes planning the Bush Policy Institute in Dallas, "The Hammer" DeLay plotting a comeback, and the Ron Paul Revolution, I say, "Let Texas Go." Fence it, put a moat around it, build a great wall; just stop sending Rove's politicians to Washington, and please grant passports to my cousins so they can visit me in free Tennessee.

Brand Loyalty Oaths

What ever happened to soap? I envision some genius in the marketing department at Proctor & Gamble saying, "You know, our soap smells far too pleasant and produces a rich lather. Let's change it to a slick bar with no discernible scent that leaves an oily residue that is hard to wash off, but also put specks of grit in it that are uncomfortable on the skin and tell the public that it's good for them." Before you know it, every bar in the soap aisle is either anti-bacterial, or Ivory, which brings back bad memories of childhood punishments for cursing. I gave my heart to Safeguard, and then they took it away from me. The whole concept of lather disappeared in order to sell you a new, gel "body wash" in a plastic, disposable container. Of course, that makes the puffy bath net on a rope a necessity and then you're into a whole new category of bathroom accessories. A similar thing happened with Vanilla Pepsi. I had finally found the proper mixture of cola, carbonation, and taste and was pledging my loyalty to Pepsi by listening to Michael Jackson records and watching old Joan Crawford movies, when they cut me off cold-turkey. I protested the bait-and-switch like a true Southerner and turned to Royal Crown Cola. It's hair tonic today and Bug Be Gone tomorrow. Packaged groceries are shrinking in size, trusted brands are disappearing from the shelves, and somehow the Watson's Girl just doesn't seem as sexy in her new incarnation as the Family Leisure Woman.

That's why, ever since the age of awareness, I have tried to be cautious of developing brand loyalties. But then I'm not like other people, if only for the fact that I put my pants on two legs at a time; always have. I sit at the edge of the bed, britches in hand, rock back and place both legs in at once, and spring to my feet fully trousered. I figure it saves me 15-20 seconds a day, which may not seem like much, but accumulated over many years it gives me an extra few hours at the end of my life to just mess around. That sort of thinking, plus a few college advertising classes, made me cognizant of tricks used by image peddlers who know that if they hook you young enough on their product, they've got you for life. Joe Camel was no accident. Neither were subliminal images contained within advertising, mostly in popular magazines. I saw devil heads painted into ice cubes in liquor ads without actually having to drink the stuff. I once considered advertising as a career for a minute until I realized I'd be lying for a living, and had I wanted to do that, I would have gone to law school. Over the years, I cast away the brand name products for common sense, but there was a time when brand preferences went a long way in determining social acceptance.

I wore a uniform back then, just like all my friends. But we weren't in a military academy or assigned a school uniform; just in Junior High, trying to be cool. We created a self-imposed, official, "cool" outfit and became slaves to fashion and the brand names. I wore Oxford cloth, Gant, button-down collared shirts in white, blue, yellow, or pink, H-I-S slacks in navy or khaki, Burlington Gold Cup socks, and Bass Weejuns. Upon enlightenment, I shed the uniform for simpler garb; the light blue workshirt, bell bottom jeans, and chukka boots. Then one day I looked around and realized that everyone was wearing exactly the same outfit and that I was back in uniform again. My clothing decisions these days are based more on comfort than style, but I have steadfastly refused to display a designer label on my ass or be anybody's walking billboard; Marvin Gaye and Barack Obama T-shirts excluded.

Back when American cars were the world's standard, they produced the fiercest brand loyalties. Beginning in 1934, my grandfather owned one long series of Buicks for his entire life. My first car was a Pontiac Tempest Le Mans ragtop and I loved it dearly. I had read in one of my big sister's "Teen" magazines that a gentleman should keep a scarf in the glove compartment so his female passengers wouldn't have to mess up their hair when the top was down. I had a variety of colors. After a few hundred trips back and forth from Knoxville, however, I began to notice something known within the industry as "planned obsolescence." Without constant maintenance, these cars weren't designed to last very long, and the ragtop wasn't so impressive at 85mph on the interstate. I would shove in an 8-Track of the Steve Miller Band and let him and Boz Scaggs battle the howling wind for noise dominance in the vehicle. Major mechanical problems began to develop in the car's third year, and that's only because it sat idle in my parents' driveway for nine months while I obeyed the UT rule forbidding freshmen from having cars on campus.

After an angst-ridden stretch in a doomed 1969 Mercury Cougar and a hippie pipe dream gone horribly wrong with a stripped-down, short-lived VW Minibus, I abandoned buying American cars completely for an alternating group of Hondas and Datsun/Nissans, the last of which I drove for ten years. I lease a car now, and I guess we show a little Honda favoritism since Melody drives the Accord and I drive the Metropolitan scooter. In the cola wars, I prefer to drink whatever is on sale that week. I am very fond of the Fender electric guitar, although I have owned others, but I have played the same cracked, hollow-body Gibson acoustic for 47 years. To power my home stereo, I still use the Marantz amplifier I bought for $75 from my former college roommate in 1972. That was a good deal, but the one I'm not so proud of was selling a 1962 Fender Stratocaster to Buddy Davis for $175. He was a good guitarist, I wasn't, and I thought he could make better use of it. That same guitar is worth over $12,000 today. Buddy ultimately sold it too, so there's someone out there with a prize. I only hope they know it.

As I have aged, my brand loyalties have dropped away one by one; Ultra-Brite toothpaste, Mennen Speed Stick, English Leather, any razor of any type, and since I've been married; Stouffer's Lean Cuisine and Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumplings. I have no favorite football team although I can't say the same for basketball, and I always root for the old hometown, as difficult as it sometimes gets. I seldom read fiction unless it is forced on me. I have owned both Apple and PC computers. Because I have 1000 songs at my fingertips at all times, I have no need for an iPod and I never listen to music through headphones or when I'm in public. I hate the cellphone and I refuse to text because that's essentially typing on the phone. I've entered the digital age, but saved my albums, and yes, I'll probably end up buying the newly mastered Beatles albums for the fifth separate time. All it takes to make me happy these days is a box of real Kleenex with Aloe and my remaining three undying brand loyalties which perfectly illustrate my priorities; Charmin Ultra, Jockey, and the Democratic Party.

All-American Murder

The "Hello-Kitty AK-47"

When Charles Whitman lugged a duffel bag full of high-powered rifles to the top of the clock tower at the University of Texas and began picking off unlucky bystanders, leaving 14 dead and 32 wounded, the country was brutally shocked and our collective psyche was forever scarred. There had been mass murders before, but nothing like this: a random spree killing of innocents. The killer never discriminated between young or old, man or woman, he just shot everything that moved. The year was 1966, and for years following the disaster, a macabre national obsession with the tragedy produced a best-selling, minute-by-minute novel and a made for TV movie, creating stars out of the Texas Rangers that finally took the sniper down. Everyone knew from the Kinky Friedman country song that Whitman had a brain tumor and was an Eagle Scout, but only insanity could explain his murderous rampage. I recall news footage of the day of horror being repeatedly broadcast with each gruesome detail examined. The name Charles Whitman entered the lexicon as the prototypical mass killer and an avalanche of psychobabble followed concerning how to identify and stop these potential time bombs in the future before they exploded. After 43 years of heated discussion, we are now experiencing a Charles Whitman-like massacre once a week. Rage and spree killings have become as American as Mom, apple pie, and methamphetamine.

Consider:

3/10/09; Sampson, Ala. "The worst rampage in Alabama history" began when a man described by friends as "a nice, quiet kid," armed himself with two military assault rifles, a handgun, and a shotgun, and began a multi-town slaughter that took 10 lives, including his parents and four relatives. When he opened fire on a True Value Hardware store, the owner said, "we realized what it was and grabbed our guns, but he was gone." A witness said he was wearing earplugs.

3/23/09; Oakland, Cal. A violent felon on parole used a handgun to murder two motorcycle policeman who had pulled him over for a traffic stop. When a SWAT team entered the apartment in which he was hiding, he killed two more before being shot himself.

3/29/09 Santa Clara, Ca. Six are killed and one injured in an upscale townhouse community by a man who shot his two children and three relatives with a .45 semi-automatic weapon, legally purchased two weeks previous.

3/30/09; Carthage, N.C. A nursing home is attacked by an armed man whose wife worked at the facility. An employee and 7 residents are killed and 4 wounded before the spree ends. A policeman is shot subduing the shooter. The victims' ages ranged from 78 to 98.

And that was only March. This month's tally so far:

4/3/09; Binghampton, N.Y. A man blocked a rear exit of the American Civic Association and killed 13 immigrants taking a citizenship test. Four are wounded. The center had tried to help the unemployed immigrant whose two handguns were properly purchased and registered. The killer boasted of his murders in a letter to the newspaper.

4/4/09; Pittsburgh, Pa. A gunman in body armor and "lying in wait" ambushes police responding to a domestic disturbance with an assault rifle and two guns, killing three.

Am I the only one seeing a pattern here? Yet it seems like the debate about restricting gun sales has already been settled. You rarely even hear it discussed anymore. It takes a high profile shooting or a massacre like Columbine to get our attention, and then the NRA moves in and showers money on the Congress, both Democrats and Republicans, and the problem quietly goes away until the next time. Is it a coincidence that after Bush the Merciless allowed the Clinton era ban on assault weapons to expire, the incidences of multiple victims murdered in a short period of time, from Virginia Tech to Northern Illinois University, began to spike? If someone who is mentally disturbed can act right for a couple of minutes, they can buy a gun in America. Or perhaps all these rampage killers went crazy after they purchased their weapons. It's also worth a reminder, before someone goes all racial about it, that with a few notable exceptions, serial and spree murder is almost entirely the province of angry white males. Yet the Obama administration has expressed no desire to bring up further restrictions on assault weapons, or the kind of "street-sweepers" that should only be in the possession of SWAT teams or the military.

The war news continues to report murders, kidnappings, and beheadings, and that's just in Mexico. Aside from Coke and Colonel Sanders, weapons are the US's most popular export, including assault weapons like the AK-47, which is the preferred weapon of Somali pirates, thug gangbangers, and Mexican drug lords as well. The AK-47, or Kalashnikov, was adopted by the Soviet Army after the Second World War for its killing effectiveness. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, it became accessible to American "collectors." Now, there are more than 70 million in production and they even make them right here in the U.S.A. Some have Chinese wood stocks, but that's globalization for you. Secretary of State Clinton was criticized for admitting that assault weapons enter Mexico from the United States. Where else would they come from? We want the drugs, and guns and drugs go together like peanut butter and jelly. The automatic weapon and the handgun have replaced the automobile as the iconic American image. Our auto industry is on life support but the domestic sale of weapons is soaring, partially because of right-wing media goons spreading a mantra that says, "Obama is coming for your guns."

America is armed like never before and a rash of paranoia is spreading through the populace, the television news spends 50% of their airtime reporting crime, and carry permits have exploded in number. In Memphis, men packing weapons at restaurants are killing over parking spots, and you can't tell me that if someone has a gun in his glove compartment and feels threatened in a road rage incident, his first instinct won't be to reach for the weapon. I still recall the woman who put her purse on the counter of a Baskin-Robbins store, discharging her pistol and killing a high school coach who was buying ice cream for his children. Now there is a measure to allow permit holders to carry a concealed weapon into a bar. Even in old Dodge City, they collected the guns at the saloon door. I understand anyone's desire and right to possess a handgun for protection or a rifle for hunting, but no one needs an infantry weapon to ensure their family's safety. I am not the first to point out that if cars must be registered and drivers licenced, certainly firearms deserve the same serious attention. What sort of hypocrisy allows a nation's weapons manufacturers to churn out guns like Dunkin' makes doughnuts, but the switchblade is illegal? Commerce will triumph, but recent history shows that desperate times produce desperate people. We don't need to resurrect the Tommy Gun to accommodate their twisted revenge fantasies.

Hello Liverpool!

I would never send out two posts in the same day were it not for the fantastic news I wish to share with my friends. I received a call early this morning, noon London time, from my man at Ace Records UK, Alec Palao, who was the producer of the CD: "Randy and the Radiants: Memphis Beat, The Sun Recordings 1964-1966." He had told me it might take a year or two before word of mouth spread about the disc, but a pirate radio station, broadcasting from a ship off the UK coast, began playing a song last month by Bob Simon called "Nobody Walks Out on Me," written in 1965, and it has become the most demanded and downloaded song in the English Midlands. It appears that after forty years, we may have a hit record on our hands. But here's the exciting part.

The surviving Radiants, plus Reni Simon, have been invited to participate in an event called the "Liverpool Renaissance" in the fall. Liverpool is completing a year as the official "Cultural Capital of Great Britain," and all the renovations have been turned into pedestrian malls, shops, and areas for concerts by the Mersey River. There is also a large entertainment district with a variety of nightclubs, but the buzz has been about a club called "Mania," with a limited partnership that includes Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney. The 1,200 seat club will feature music from the 1960s era performed by both vintage and contemporary groups. Somehow, Sir Paul heard Bob's song on the radio and called Ace Records to get the story, and he was fascinated that Sun Records and Sam Phillips ever recorded a "garage band." Because of his fondness for Sun, (he owns Bill Black's "doghouse" bass), the Radiants will perform at "Mania" during their opening week. Every celebrity from rock royalty to real royalty are rumored to be attending, but that's not all.

Sir Paul has become interested in the Radiants' history, especially that we persevered for thirty years, and believes that since Liverpool and Memphis are similar, the stories of the Beatles and the Radiants are likewise similar. So, Apple Corps. has decided, along with my friend Isaac Tigrett, to fund a project that will bring famed British artist and documentarian Alan Aldridge, editor of "The Beatles' Illustrated Lyrics," to Memphis over the summer to film black-and-white scenes at local 1960s hotspots like the former T. Walker Lewis YMCA, Clearpool, and the Mid-South Coliseum. The plan is for the yet untitled film to be debuted at "Mania" in September before the Radiants' performance. But, and this is important, here's where you come in.

Mr. Aldridge has asked for everyone that participated in the Sixties' scene to be part of a "Battle of the Bands" recreation at the former T. Walker Lewis YMCA, now the Ira Samelson Boy's Club, behind Treadwell High. He will intersperse scenes of young dancers with the actual people who were there at the time. The filming will be on a Sunday evening when the facility will be available and everyone who shows up will receive an "extra's fee." Those willing to share their memories of the time and be interviewed on camera will receive a standard actor's fee, plus a royalty if the film is picked up for distribution. They are particularly looking for stories concerning the wildness of the place to compare to the Cavern Club. After the interviews, the Radiants will play T. Walker Lewis one more time, and we're hoping to convince the original Flash and the Casuals to join us in the "battle." Of course, we're supposed to win.

I know you are as excited to take part in this unbelievable event as we are, and we all hope to have our own
"Magical Mystery Tour" right here in the River City. I understand a special guest or two might be coming from London, but that's all I'm saying. I can barely believe it myself, but I will notify everyone when the occasion draws near and we can all make plans to go to T. Walker Lewis again, but this time, no fighting or making-out in the parking lot. The film crew should be here in early June, after Memphis in May wraps up, which only seems just around the corner. We can already start counting the days. If the British arrive on June 7, then that's only...let's see what today is. Oh yeah, April Fool.

And Cal Taketh Away

photo: Commercial Appeal
Since my statcounter showed that my last post regarding basketball was the least read or commented upon in recent months, let's do another. I don't know whether to be sad or mad about this John Calipari situation, but here is a message I received on March 22nd from my cousin Bob who lives in Boston and, as a fan of Umass, has experienced this same drama before. I don't think he'll mind if I demonstrate his prescience.

Cousin Bob said...
Randy,
For years, I've been advocating a rule change that would really make the fouling team think twice. Award the shooting team two points if the first foul shot is made for any foul committed in the last minute.
I usually agree with everything you write, but I wouldn't pop the champagne corks yet if i were a Memphis fan. No doubt the bad taste that remains from Calipari taking UMass far but ultimately nowhere, then skipping to the NBA (and to the Nets at that - it would be like leaving Gonzaga for the Grizzlies), makes it hard for me and many others in New England to root for a Coach Cal team. Which does not mean that I'm picking UConn, which (as Dan Shaughnassy pointed out the other day) might as well be on Long Island as far as Bostonians are concerned. I'd like to see Pitt win, and as for Louisville, if you think Calipari left a bad taste...
Keep up the great work, a sentiment seconded by Denise./Bob

I don't begrudge Coach Cal accepting the premier head coaching job at the University of Kentucky, but does he have to wreck the Memphis program on the way out the door? My understanding is that U of Memphis backers were prepared to match whatever lucrative offer made by Kentucky. The big dog, FedEx Fred Smith his ownself, went to visit Cal's home to convince him to stay. So, most likely, money wasn't the motivator. At some point, however, it would seem a coach whose star has already risen would ask himself how many times can you start over and at what price? Everything Cal could want was here for him in Memphis; a new arena, new on-campus practice facilities, a devoted fan base, a rich recruiting environment, plus all the money he would ever need to commit the remainder of his career to the university, and have the building named after him when he retired. Is the fame or respect so insufficient here that you need your name to be whispered in the same sentence with Adolph Rupp or John Wooden? Without question, Cal turned the U of M into one of the nation's elite basketball programs, but that elitism just caught the last plane out.

The pain of losing so dramatically in the NCAA tourney was assuaged by Cal's statement that Memphis was where he wanted to be, and that next year's recruiting class was ranked among the best in the country. Now, Cal leaves with the staff, the recruits, and the reason for the remaining players to want to stay here. After Memphis dominated the C-USA Conference for years, sports radio announcer George Lapides says that instead of competing again for a national title, the Tigers will be fortunate to finish in the conference's second tier next season. Kentucky gets their man, but Memphis fans get to see a wrecking ball taken to their beloved program and the resulting rubble will take years to clean up. John Calipari has become the George W. Bush of basketball. There is no questioning Cal's civic contributions to our city, and I'm sure he'll continue to do the same in Lexington, but to discover he "chased" vacant coaching jobs at Pittsburgh and St. John's in recent years confirms that nagging doubt that while Cal was our Dixie Chicken, his heart was always in the northeast.

Thirty-five million for six years at UK is one sweet deal and it will make Cal the highest paid coach in college basketball history. But what price can you place on the loyalty of the Memphis fans who, in these difficult times, were willing to pay whatever the cost to convince him to stay? After nine seasons, Cal understood that one of the remaining joys in this "Town Without Pity" is University of Memphis basketball, and he was the parade's Grand Marshall. Where is his loyalty in return? While watching this year's tournament, I couldn't help but take note that the most successful coaches in college basketball; Gary Williams at Maryland; Mike Krzyzewski at Duke; Jim Calhoun at Connecticut; Jim Boeheim at Syracuse, are coaches that have devoted decades to their respective institutions. Recently retired coaches like John Thompson and Cal's arch-enemy John Cheney, became famous for taking relatively small schools' basketball programs from obscurity to prominence. When Cal came to Memphis, he promised a national championship. We nearly got there, but he didn't deliver, especially in the final seconds of last year's championship game. But then, he made the same promise to UMass before he split for a dismal tenure in the pros. Will Kentucky be his final stop, or does Cal secretly want to be Pat Reilly? Same hair-do.

I suppose Cal deserves thanks for the nine exciting seasons he was here. He hit the gold-mine with his connection to Laurinburg Prep, the basketball preparatory institute who's starting five all came to Memphis. Season ticket costs plus the extortion to the Athletic Department were jacked up and television was limited, but Cal could sure recruit. Thanks for one year of DaJuan Wagner, who's Dad you hired to assure his attendance, and is now out of basketball after a stint in Poland. Thanks for one year of Derrick Rose, two for Darius Washington, and now one-and-done for National Freshman of the Year, Tyreke Evans, who said, "If he (Calipari) leaves, then I'm not staying." And thanks for sneaking away from Galloway Drive under the cover of night without saying a word to the fans who supported you, while simultaneously deserting the team who played for you. When I received the above message from Cousin Bob in Boston nine days ago, I initially felt it was just sour grapes. Now my own grapes are making me feel a bit queasy.

I am sure that John Calipari can resuscitate the storied Kentucky basketball program, yet I'm still reminded of a former Memphis coach, Gene Bartow, who didn't find UCLA nearly as hospitable as Memphis, nor as patient, and ended his career in Birmingham. Calipari was already a legend in Memphis. Now, he risks his legacy to reach for, what? So once again, the U of Memphis must start from scratch. According to my pal Billy in Florida, the quickest way to return to national attention is to recruit Michelle Obama's brother, Craig Robinson, now the head coach at Oregon State. He didn't have much of a season last year, but at least we'd have one very high-profile fan. But what prominent coach would want to come here to the OK Corral and play in a mediocre conference with a decimated team anyway? The answer may lie right in our own backyard; tanned, rested, experienced and ready. It's time to forgive and forget. Re-hire Dana Kirk.

Basketball's Longest Minute

If I'm ever informed that I only have one minute to live, I'm heading straight for an NCAA basketball game. Not just because I'm a fan, but the final sixty seconds of a college game can seem like an eternity. Anyone who has ever waited for their team's game to be televised, while an already decided contest bogs down into a parade of free throws and time outs, knows the frustration of watching thirty seconds on a frozen scoreboard turn into ten minutes of futility. During a game's thirty-nine other minutes, the personal foul is considered an infraction, both for the individual player and the team. A foul is supposed to produce a penalty, yet in the final minute, a foul is encouraged and rewarded by stopping the action and giving the losing team the chance to steal a victory through, essentially, breaking the rules. It transforms a team game into an individual free throw shooting contest, and worst of all for television, it is intensely boring. It's time for a rule change.

A mild case in point was Saturday's Michigan-Oklahoma game. With 59.4 seconds to go and ten points down, Michigan called a time-out. That final minute took six minutes to complete and, guess what; after three more fouls and another time-out, Michigan lost by ten points. It was like watching water evaporate. Why should something considered a liability for the rest of a game become an asset in the final seconds? Other rule changes have only benefited the game. I can recall when the dunk was illegal, and any player the referee believed a little too aggressive around the rim could have his shot waved off. The slam dunk electrified the game when it was finally permitted, but the strategy changed from the jump shot, to throw the ball under to Shaq and let him break the backboard. To correct this, the three point shot was added to reward the long jumper and reclaim the game from the behemoths lurking beneath the basket. Now, the excitement of a timely three-pointer rivals the dunk.

The shot clock sped up the game and ended the strategy of stalling and sitting on a lead. No one knows the pain of holding season tickets for a team who's game plan is to hold the ball for extended periods of time and only shoot if it's a lay-up, like the fans of the Memphis Tigers during the mid-1960s. Moe Iba, who was hired as coach because he was the son of legendary coach Hank Iba, proved that none of his father's success wore off on him by routinely producing games with final scores like 27-24. In the process, he ruined the career of Memphis Prep star Mike Butler, who, with the proper coaching, might have looked something more akin to Pete Maravich. But the fans endured until Iba was finally shown the door and the shot-clock made certain that such an abomination would never happen again. The excitement returned with a team that wanted to win and not merely try not to lose, and the problem was fixed. Now, it's time to address the game's final flaw, the excruciating, final second foul-fest and crawl to the finish.

These last minute touch fouls that kill the action and make the game resemble the Bataan Death March should be called by the refs as what they are; intentional fouls. Just because a foul doesn't knock somebody down, it's still committed with the intent and purpose of stopping the action. Rather than put the fouled player at the free throw line for a one-and-one, change the rule to make every non-shooting or open court foul in the final minute to be an intentional foul, and give the offended team an automatic two free throws. Or better still, do what they do in soccer. When a foul occurs in the open field, the offense just throws the ball back in and play continues. If there's no reward for fouling, the action goes on and the losing team actually has to play defense and sink the three-point shot.

Anything would be better than the interminable wait for the final ticks to expire on a game who's outcome has already been determined. The better team should win, and no basketballer who plays his heart out for forty minutes should have a game rest on his free throw unless he was fouled in the act of shooting. Ever since he removed the bottoms of the peach baskets, I don't believe Dr. Naismith intended for his fast-paced game to be decided at the charity stripe. And, need I add, that if this rule change had been in place last season, my Memphis Tigers would be the defending national champions. We ended, however, as runner-up to Kansas after owning them for thirty-eight minutes, and then the fouls began. But did you see the way the Tigers shucked Maryland and ate all their oysters on Saturday? And we're a much better free throw shooting team than last year, so until enlightenment strikes the NCAA rules committee and they decide to give the long-suffering fans a break, Go Tigers Go! In the meantime, please make your foul shots.

The Terrorists Won

"Happy birthday Osama,
We hope it's a blast.
But cover your backside,
It might be your last."
RJH

Doggone it. I forgot yesterday was Osama bin Laden's birthday and now I'll have to send one of those belated American Greetings e-cards. I think the NSA still forwards his correspondence. Osama has disappeared like Howard Hughes, supposedly in the "Mad Max" region between Afghanistan and Pakistan. But they ought to check out the penthouse suites in the high rise hotels of Islamabad, just to see if anyone has tin-foiled the windows. Osama's probably up there, kicked back with his dialysis machine and a hookah, watching a Blue-ray of "Ice Station Zebra" on the 50" flat screen he just got for a steal at the Kandahar Circuit City. I think the cave search should be about over, now that bin Laden is the hero of the Muslim world and could be given shelter and protection just about anywhere. I noticed that no one has yet ventured a claim to the 100 million dollars that was offered by the Bush Regime, "Dead or Alive," for his capture. His devotees are busy celebrating the 57th birthday of a sick man who has been fighting in the mountains since the 80s. He's been the subject of a supposedly intense, worldwide manhunt, and has already lived fifteen years longer than Elvis.

Al Qaeda's stated objectives for their attacks on the U.S. were to draw the nation into their apocalyptic visions of worldwide Jihad, entrap the military in an extended guerrilla war on rugged terrain, and drain the nation's economy. I recall thinking at the time that if these lunatics believed knocking down the World Trade Center would alter our way of life, they had badly underestimated the United States. But bin Laden and his personal Karl Rove, Ayman al-Zawahiri, used the same playbook that worked with the Russians in the 80s. Back then, when the Afghan mountain resistance was known as the mujaheddin and were being armed and supplied by the Reagan government, we called them "Freedom Fighters." The bloody and costly ten year Soviet stalemate in Afghanistan did far more to bankrupt the Soviet Union than Ronald Reagan's' "Tear down this wall" speech. U.S. troops have now been in Afghanistan for eight years.

Look where George Bush's "International War on Terror," has brought us. The Iraq war and the resulting atrocities have been a breeding ground for terrorist recruits like a fetid swamp for mosquitoes; 17,000 more troops have been ordered to Afghanistan to attempt to return the situation to the status quo that existed several years ago; and the American economy, in the words of Warren Buffett, "has fallen off a cliff." Wall Street greed, the housing debacle, and Reagan/Bush economics certainly contributed to our financial collapse, but no U.S. president in history has ever tried to fight two wars, while simultaneously granting massive tax cuts and not requesting sacrifice from anyone but the military. Our financial institutions are in shambles, our armed forces are pushed beyond their capacity, the Taliban has returned along with the burka, and Pakistan has granted safe haven to "suiciders" and "evil-doers" in the Swat Valley, adjoining Afghanastan. One would have to surmise that in the past eight years, every one of Al Qaeda's objectives has been met. And bin Laden is still alive somewhere, with his pal Ayman, carving up a birthday cake in the shape of Pakistan like Hyman Roth in Cuba.

All this could never have been possible without the myopic George Bush and his militaristic neocons. In fact, if al Qaeda had hand-picked and trained their own accomplice, like a Manchurian Candidate, and placed him in the U.S. Presidency, they could not have found a more hapless and predictable foil than the crusader Bush and the other two stooges, Rummy and Cheney; Curly, Larry, and Moe, in that order. To paraphrase the old country song by Roy Clark, "Thank God and Greyhound They're Gone." There is still this thing called "accountability," however, and in the name of "keeping us safe," some evil deeds were committed in our Halliburton sponsored war with Iraq. Somebody's got some 'splainin to do and someone needs to inform all the Bush lackeys screaming "executive privilege," that the executive they speak of just left town.

In addition to the "Truth Commission" that Sen. Patrick Leahy has introduced to determine who did what in the phony, "mushroom cloud," Iraq War build-up advertising campaign, the United Nations has just begun an investigation into the Bush kidnapping and rendition policies, stating, "The change in administration will have no effect on our decisions." I know that Dubya wouldn't understand irony if it hit him in the presidential library, but who would have believed that Osama bin Laden would plot and execute an attack on this country that claimed 3000 lives, and eight years later, the wanted man is George Bush. In the world at large, Osama is a hero and Bush is a zero. The Leahy Commission and John Conyers' House Judiciary Committee are slowly chipping away at the Bush regime's wall of silence. It might be time for George to mosey on down to those imaginary 75,000 hectares that he denies buying in Paraguay, where they have no extradition agreements. It's beginning to appear that the Bushes should either go on the lam, enter Witness Protection, or flip on Cheney, or our 43rd President stands a good chance of going to jail. Happy birthday, Osama.

What, and Get Out Of Show Business?

Bob and Randy
East High School
Dec. 1960

I had always heard that musicians do well in a Depression because everyone wants to be entertained, but I never imagined I'd be testing out the theory. I thought if bad came to worse, I could always ramble from campfire to campfire, like Tom Joad, and maybe get a skillet of stew if my song was spirited. It's not like I haven't done it before. So, a couple of weeks ago, I stepped away from whining and opining to emerge from semi-retirement and return to my real job as a singer. The semi-retirement wasn't really my idea. I'm just at that awkward age where I'm too old to be musically relevant but not old enough to be rediscovered as a curio by a younger generation. Fortunately, our audience for this gig was there to celebrate an old friend's sixtieth birthday, so we were practically on the cutting edge.

I performed with my old partners, Bob and Reni Simon, with John Grosse on bass. Since tinnitus prevents me from playing in an electric band, we did a seated acoustic show that travelled farther down memory lane than anyone cared to admit. It had been a year since we played together, so a couple of rehearsals were necessary to get our harmonies right and because we refuse to go anywhere and suck. But our main repertoire was at our host's request. We sang songs by Mary Wells, Ruby and the Romantics, the Impressions, and the Four Tops. We played some Carl Perkins and Buddy Holly and a short set of early Beatles, plus my favorite Ray Charles impressions and Bob's note-perfect Isley Brothers' version of "Shout," complete with the Little Richard "Whoos," that had some of the less inhibited souls doing the Bulldog on the living room floor. We even sang a couple by the Tymes and the Fleetwoods; and no, kids, I'm not talking about Fleetwood Mac. I had a great time and no one had to take me to the hospital or give me oxygen. Before the gig, however, I was a mess.

Musicians have a saying, "The music is free. You pay us to set up and tear down all that damned equipment." Although we were well compensated and I'd had two run-throughs, the day of the gig I developed a severe case of shpilkes, and by the time I loaded my own car, I was already exhausted. I refused Melody's offer to call an ambulance and boldly drove through the rain to my afternoon, early set-up rendezvous with my bandmates which, unfortunately, was my idea. I'm a little older than the birthday boy, so I required a nap immediately after all the stuff had been plugged up. I awoke to the intestinal spasms of which I have previously spoken, caused by the criminal Bush, and for a moment, I thought I would have to call in my apologies. But I've never missed a gig. Never. Besides, the host was giving away Radiants CDs as party favors and I already had a gig shirt picked out. Once we started playing, though, I was fine, and the crowd's good spirits lifted me.

The guests came with the intention of having a good time and a main topic of conversation was that there is no place in Memphis to hear this kind of acoustic music anymore. There are still good clubs that cater to younger crowds, but when I went to the Hi-Tone to hear the Iguanas, the opening band roared like a jet and sent me hurtling from the room wiping the blood from my ears. I can dish it out, but I can't take it anymore. My friend Jay Sheffield has generously offered a tour of area Huey's, but I just no longer have the desire to be background noise for family supper. Bless him and good old Thomas Boggs for providing the venues, though. The last time the Simon-Haspel Trio played Huey's midtown, Thomas sat at the end of the bar staring at us intently while the customers were noisy and indifferent. I was certain he was thinking that our act was too tired for the room. When we took a break, Thomas approached and said, "If you ever want a drummer to play that song list with you, I'm your man." I really miss Thomas. Especially when we were reminiscing at the birthday party about our club-going years at Overton Square, when Thomas was often my boss.

On some brisk, March, Saturday night in 1975, six great bands would be playing on Madison Ave. alone. Beginning near McLean St., you could hear Jimmy Buffett, Taj Mahal, or one of the funniest bands I've ever seen, Darryl Rhodes and the HaHaVishnu Orchestra at the Ritz, a club born to fail, but beautifully furnished, both aesthetically and acoustically. Across the street, new bands played in the underground Procope Gardens while upstairs, Fantasia was Memphis' only club featuring live classical music. Perhaps Rick Christian and the White Boys with the late Mark Sallings on sax, or Joyce Cobb and Hot Fun would be playing at Trader Dick's while headliners like Billy Joel, Kansas, or Minnie Ripperton held forth at the lost and lamented Lafayette's Music Room. Across the street at Bombay Bicycle Club, the acoustic group St. Andrew's Fairway was thrilling an audience with harmonies, while, if you were lucky, you might hear a late set of Larry Raspberry and the Highsteppers at Godfather's. Walk the extra blocks down South Cooper to the High Cotton and maybe catch a night when Don Nix or John Mayall was hanging out. Those were wonderful times for live music, but I needed to remind my enthusiastic and nostalgic friends that our audiences from back then are usually in bed by 10:00 these days. And Tunica has laid such waste to the Memphis nightclub business, who would gamble on a music room in this economy?

Still, it would be great if Overton Square could recover like Beale Street, or maybe they don't want it to. Old folks still like music too, however, and most of them carry credit cards. Any potential investors for Randy's Acoustic Deli? Last week's gig was also a milestone of sorts, and I tell you because many of you have listened to us for a very long time and wouldn't otherwise know. Bob Simon and I started the Radiants in 1962 with Howard Calhoun and Mike Gardner, but it was already our third band. After the Silvertones and the Dynamics, with John McNulty on drums, we started the Casuals with David Friener and Gary Hofman in 1961. David Fleischman joined the band as a back-up singer, and became "Flash" when I was grounded for poor grades. But Bob and I started playing and singing together in 1959 and made our first appearance that same year at a summer camp. Now, I'm not fishing for attention or accolades, certainly not from any show-biz type organization, and wouldn't accept any if offered, but the first gig of this year marks fifty years that Bob Simon and I have been entertaining together, and without a single fistfight. Of course, it ain't over yet. I guess someone must have told us somewhere along the line to never give up. Questionable advice. It took me a week to recover. Next time, please let me know well in advance if you want to book us so I can start doing sit-ups.

Doctors Without (Ethical) Borders

"(Health Care) is a cost that now causes a bankruptcy in America every thirty seconds. By the end of the year, it could cause 1.5 million Americans to lose their homes...It is one of the major reasons why small businesses close their doors and corporations ship jobs overseas...Given these facts, we can no longer afford to put health care reform on hold. So let there be no doubt: (it) cannot wait, it must not wait, and it will not wait another year."
Barack Obama: Address to Joint Session of Congress 2/24/09

Considering that I have lived without health insurance for seventeen years, last week's check-up was pretty good. When I told the doctor that I was excited about the prospect of finally obtaining insurance, he replied that he hoped Obama "wouldn't make him into a federal employee." I would have argued with him, but he was examining my prostate at the time. The doctor knows better than to believe he is about to be drafted into some triage system for the wretched, but he defended his ground because he has been a part of the problem. And the problem has existed for thirty years. Doctors are sort of like truckers: once, a long time ago, they were courteous. Since I am now a "retail" patient, who's insurance cannot be exploited, I have received second-class treatment and taken my seat in the back of the medical bus. I have to enter a doctor's office, hat in hand, and ask for favors and discounts, and thus, have not received the same treatment as an insured patient. Melody urges me to go to the Church Health Center, but I feel I would be taking the place of someone who is truly destitute. I can afford insurance, but the HMOs have determined me "uninsurable." I can't buy it at any price.

Since all the current institutional and infrastructural decay can be traced back to the Reagan administration, that's when the crisis in health care began as well. The nation voted for "less government," and that's what we got. Reagan, the Great De-regulator, was saying it was "Morning in America," but that was mainly for opportunistic capitalists who could see their dreams of unfettered greed finally realized. So the big insurance companies, in collusion with the medical/hospital industry, and the American Medical Association, allowed the formation of the HMO and began herding all citizens into groups of managed care. That was the Conservatives' version of "socialized medicine." I recall having to join the National Council of Jewish Women to get a group rate, but the premiums grew so astronomically that the insurer finally thought better of paying the medical costs for a bunch of elderly, Jewish woman, and dropped the whole group.

Since then, I have been considered an "untouchable." Millions of people take anti-depressants and still obtain insurance. Because mine was initially prescribed by a psychiatrist, I have what is considered a "pre-existing mental condition," which disqualifies me from consideration by the beancounters who decide who's a bad risk for the insurance company. My internist told me to transfer all my records to him and he would prescribe the medication, allowing me the extreme Freudian pleasure of firing my psychiatrist. But when I again applied for coverage, the doctor sent in the same old records and I got the same old answer. So, I am one of those people who fear a catastrophic illness, only more financially than physically. It amazes me that those who can get health insurance are granted it through the workplace, or otherwise have to prove themselves healthy, while others who actually need medical attention are routinely denied. But as long as those papers kept shuffling between doctor's offices, insurance companies, and the government, it was a sweet deal for everyone but the patient. Doctors were so well compensated, they began to think more about Medicare payments and profits than patients. That's why, when you walk into a doctor's office, the first thing they examine is your wallet. And why is it that every time you're in the waiting room, a tight-dressed, spike-heeled, drug representative pulling perks on wheels gets ushered right in?

While the Medical/Pharmaceutical Complex was pulling in huge profits, they failed to re-invest any of it in the upkeep of hospitals. Once the avant-guarde of innovation, hospitals across the country lie in states of decay with antiquated equipment and intrusive devises that are monitored from an understaffed nurses' desk. How could hospitals become the last institutions to embrace new technologies? Confining the ill to be monitored may be a convenience for the doctor, but it has become the equivalent of checking into a seedy hotel for the patient. The last time a relative was at Baptist East, they charged extra for cable on that Motel 6 TV that's been mounted in the corner since 1972. The understaffing is another result of greed within the industry. I'm of an age to have observed several loved ones go through the hospital "system," and their halls are full of only bad memories for me. I only hope that if I'm incapacitated, rather than be hooked up to all that pre-historic shit and left to linger, that I be allowed to go home and die in my own bed. Of course, the technology exists where you could be monitored from home, but where's the profit in that?

I was delighted to hear President Obama announce that health care reform was among his priorities. The Conservatives can scream "socialized medicine" all they like, but that's exactly where we were going with health management organizations that had nothing to do with health, and everything to do with maximizing profits on the backs of the ill. The Right can't tolerate socialistic ideas because they believe they all lead right to Mussolini. But the Bush regime's hands-off, business first policy created no incentive for reform and so health care costs have exploded during the past eight years. Bush's statement that "Too many good docs are getting out of business...Too many OB/GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women across this country," wasn't out of concern for doctors or their patients, he was defending the insurance companies.

Now that we're all in a mid-sociological bungee jump, I wonder how that first big drop is treating everyone's stomach? I first developed stomach problems several years ago and when the doctor asked if I was experiencing any unusual stress, I told him, "I don't know Doc, but it didn't hurt during the Clinton administration." Since then, I've experienced enough invasive procedures to add a wing to his clinic, but they found nothing and since I had no insurance they wanted to spare me the expense of an Ultrasound. Ultimately, the Ultrasound I was forced to purchase turned up an ulcer so aggravated, it even surprised the doctor. It's been treated, but I've been left with a gastric condition that was further enflamed by the stress of no health insurance and no hope of getting it under the previous administration. I can't afford any more "oscopies," so I live with the condition. I have, however, named my pain. So until I am able, and hopefully soon, to obtain some health care coverage, when I am stricken with sudden gastric distress and have to excuse myself, I plan to say, "Pardon me. I have to go take a Bush."

You Talkin' To Me?

I wouldn't suppose anyone likes to be called a coward, even if you are one. Yet Attorney General Eric Holder said we were a "nation of cowards," when it comes to discussing matters of race. I understand Holder's purpose was to chastise and challenge people of all races about our national unwillingness to have a dialogue about what is really going on in our society, but only a month after we elected our first African-American president with an unprecedented outpouring of good will, and only two weeks since Holder was sworn in as our first black Attorney General, was "cowards" the wisest terminology to describe American society? Where I come from, those are fighting words. I recall another first, Andrew Young, who became Secretary to the United Nations under Jimmy Carter, and in debate with the British delegation said the English were intimately familiar with racism since "they pretty much invented it." What he said may have been factually correct, but his job description was supposedly to be a diplomat.

Perhaps I've lived in the South so long that I've developed a touch of redneck, but Holder's comments unexpectedly made my blood rise. It was akin to being a kid on the playground being pushed to the ground by the class bully. You can either sit there and put your cowardice on display, or charge the bully and try to inflict as much physical pain as possible while simultaneously praying that someone is there to break it up. There are, in fact, readers of this post that if you called "cowards" to their face, your next act would be gathering your teeth from the floor. I'm a pacifist who understands the intention, but Holder's unfortunate choice of words served to inflame many of the people who were already on his side and feeling uplifted over our historical national achievement. The really unfortunate part of this episode is that Holder is right about the need for racial dialogue, but his message was lost in the rancor of his clumsy and intentional provocation.

Holder succeeded in pretty much offending everyone, including, I imagine, President Obama. The President has so far been very careful to be non-confrontational and inclusive in his speeches, I wonder if Holder ran that little doozy past him first? In a joint appearance shortly after the inauguration, when Joe Biden joked about Chief Justice John "No Notes" Roberts mangling the Oath of Office, Barack grabbed his elbow and gave him a glance like a parent would a feckless child. I hardly believe the President would approve of his new Attorney General, in one of his first public speeches, making well-intentioned but ultimately divisive remarks. A racial discussion would be a good thing, but just right now, it's a few notches down in urgency than the economy, health care, and fending off an impending Depression. First, clean up the Justice Department, then we'll talk.

In fact, had Holder taken the long view, he might have seen what I have in recent years. I am among the remaining members of a generation who never sat in a classroom with a black student until I reached college. Attempting inter-racial friendships took some outreach and understanding on all parties, but I was never afraid to discuss race with anyone. Early on, I noticed a curious thing about both whites and blacks from a segregated society attempting to talk to one another for the first times. Whites would adapt some imagined hip-patois or jive lingo trying to relate to blacks, while blacks would become stricter and more pronounced in speech with white people than they were with each another. I managed to find a way to be constant in my behavior with everyone while resisting the temptation to perform multi-layered handshakes. An entire generation of people are still awkward around each other simply because of their forced separation in childhood. Such is not the case with young people like my step-son, Cameron, who know not the curse of segregation.

I marvelled at the seamlessness of his friendships with people of all races. Cameron didn't have "black" friends, or "Asian" friends, they were all just his friends. Holder's "nation of cowards" is of a certain generation, a remnant from the past when races were separated by law, along with the casualties of the "Reagan Revolution" who were either enriched or institutionally impoverished by "trickle-down" economics. Like 1968, we are a nation divided by young and old, rich and poor, black and white, Christians and everybody else. But the warriors of the Civil Rights movement, as well as their opponents, are rapidly aging now, soon to be replaced by this post-racial society we speak of, but have yet to experience in our time. Since Eric Holder was being blunt to make a point, let me be blunt as well. General Holder, before you come out swinging wildly and calling people of good will "cowards," you may wish to first display some personal courage yourself. The conflagration at Waco and the storm-trooper mission to retrieve Elian Gonzales are not sterling references on your resume. I already know you will be a wiser Attorney General than John Ashcroft or Alberto Gonzales by default, but maybe you should shut up until you have at least passed the Janet Reno threshold.

The Simmering Pot

Thank you, Michael Phelps, for pointing out the most glaring hypocrisy in American life that we have now lived with for over forty years; the foolish and childish demonization of marijuana, existing cheek by jowl with the romantic and seductive image of alcohol, created and sold to us since birth by the liquor industry. The Olympic star is 23 years old. Old enough to be responsible for his decisions. But the only misjudgement I see here, is that he trusted his rat bastard friends to not take cell phone pics of him, thus proving Cindy Lauper's warning, "Money Changes Everything." Sure, pot is still against the law, another sign of the failure of my generation, but suddenly Phelps' photo is all over the world, as if he were caught in a Chinese opium den, and he is being forced to grovel before the cameras to save his sponsorships. Kellogg has already announced they are dumping him. If I wasn't hooked on Raisin Bran, I'd consider boycotting the company.

And all this was simply over a photo. I thought it was only illegal to possess marijuana, but Phelps is being persecuted for a picture of him smoking sometime in the past. The reactionary governing body of some obtuse organization called U.S. Swimming has suspended Phelps for three months, cancelling several meet appearances and cutting off all financial support, "effective immediately." The board's statement could have come right out of 1968:

"This is not a situation where any anti-doping rule was violated, but we decided to send a strong message to Michael (Burt Bachrach take note) because he disappointed so many people, particularly the...kids who look up to him as a role model and a hero."

Spoken like a true member of the 50% of American society that still denies trying pot. Are those hard-won gold medals less worthy because of a bong hit? Fools! Your children already know more about it than you do. I understand that still developing brains have no business trying any mind-altering substance whatever. That's why we don't sell whiskey to children. But it's easier for your children to get pot than alcohol, especially with the profit motive and the outlaw mystique that comes along with the procurement and use of the illegal herb. And the smoking of anything is not healthy for the body, but a lung full of pot is far less harmful than a gut full of whiskey. Had Mr. Phelps been photographed at the same party with a large tumbler of scotch, no one would have raised an eyebrow, and that's just asinine.

Eric Schlosser has written the book, Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs and Cheap Labor in the American Black Market, where marijuana is claimed to be the largest cash crop in the country. At the same time, Schlosser claimed in 2003, that "there are more people in prison today for violating marijuana laws than at any other time in American history." First outlawed by the states in the 30s to threaten illegal migrant workers not yet sufficiently exploited by their employers, with arrest as well, a government sponsored misinformation campaign of marijuana hysteria continued unabated until the Beatniks and Hippies exposed it as lies and propaganda. According to Schlosser, "The war on drugs launched by President Ronald Reagan in 1982 began largely as a campaign against marijuana, organized by conservative parents' groups." When Reagan secretly supplied the Contras in Nicaragua with weapons, we now know those supposedly empty CIA planes came back to this country filled with cocaine which, depending on who you ask, created the nationwide crack epidemic. Yet, the know-less-than-nothing Reagan began his War on Drugs on a weed that grows wild in almost every continent. He may as well have declared war on Kudzu.

The cultivation of marijuana is now an American industry. In the mid-60s, they once estimated that three million people had smoked marijuana, now it is estimated that three million people grow it. Entire counties in Northern California have been given over to pot farming and the legalization of medical marijuana has not just brought relief to sufferers of a variety of maladies, from Glaucoma to symptoms of AIDS, it has made pot as easy to obtain as a pizza. Still, the federal laws clash with the state laws and the DEA goes in periodically like the bull in the china shop to bust everything up on principle. And marijuana laws in other states, particularly in the South, are as draconian as ever, despite the ever-rising number of pot-related arrests. With the out-of-proportion public flogging of Michael Phelps, perhaps the indignation will be sufficient enough for the public to be amenable to the reform of marijuana laws. Ohio State University scientists have recently shown marijuana has the capacity to reduce memory impairment in the aging brain and those few who still claim that pot is a "gateway" to more dangerous substances have yet to discover that the gateway leads to a bag of Fritos and a Snickers Bar. Wouldn't it be something if there were a movement underway to re-educate the public, decriminalize, regulate, and tax marijuana? Well, there is.

Reps. Barney Frank and Ron Paul have introduced bi-partisan bills: H.R.5842, which allows the states to decide to decriminalize or allow medical marijuana without interference from Federal authority, and H.R.5843, officially called "The Act to Reform Federal Penalties for the Personal Use of Marijuana by Responsible Adults." The intrepid people from NORML helped to write the bill, which would end the criminal prosecution of Americans in possession of 100 grams, or nearly four ounces, which would be considered as personal use. Presently, the government classifies pot as a Schedule 1 controlled substance, just like heroin and PCP. The Marijuana Policy Project states marijuana arrests "outnumber arrests for all violent crimes combined," yet I never knew anyone who ever held up a liquor store because he was out of pot. Barney Frank said, "The vast amount of human activity should be none of the government's business." The Congressman added, "I don't think it is the government's business to tell you how to spend your leisure time." With all the problems on the new President's shoulders, it would seem that an innocuous weed would be a low priority. But if President Obama is looking for new and profitable businesses, he need look no farther than California, where an already burgeoning marijuana trade, if properly regulated, just might take a huge bite out of the national debt. This is one project that is literally "shovel ready."

Cyber Self-Gratification

Everybody does it, they just don't talk about it. It's a natural occurrence that is done almost exclusively alone, but it's a dirty little secret people like to keep to themselves. Even those who claim no curiosity know in their quiet moments that the urge is there, and sooner or later, they succumb. People wait until their privacy is assured and they won't be interrupted, then they surrender to their yearnings and do it. They Google themselves.

I'm guilty, too. But ever since I began posting online and The Memphis Flyer has been thankfully printing my articles in their popular weekly paper, I've gotten all Googled up and, like B.B. says, "The Thrill is Gone," or perhaps, just de-glossed. But the first time I Googled myself, my throat constricted and my face froze. After I had typed in my name and pressed "enter," the first headline that came up said "Dead in Memphis 6-19-70." For a moment, I thought I was living in an alternate universe until I read the article. It was from a 1995 Flyer story about The Grateful Dead coming to Memphis, and the reporter contacted me about attending a Dead concert in the Mid-South Coliseum in 1970, where they bombed. At this Vietnam era show, it looked like every sailor in Millington had come to see the Grateful Dead, and they all just sat there. I and several other hippies hung around afterward to offer our condolences to the band and apologise that our city wasn't more receptive. Phil Lesh told me that "Memphis is the most soul-less city we've ever played." Ah, the good old days.

After I had realized that it wasn't actually me who was dead, there were several other "hits" referencing my 1960s garage rock band, Randy and the Radiants, with links and listings about Sun Records. I discovered that our 1965 Sun single was selling online for $65.00, which indirectly led to a full compilation by Ace Records. I was also amazed to learn from Google that I was a member of the Jackson, Tennessee based Rockabilly Hall of Fame. I suppose admittance is granted to anyone who ever released a record on the Sun label which, after the "Million Dollar Quartet," includes a long list of my fellow unknowns. Although the Radiants came along ten years after Rockabilly, a term that Sam Phillips hated, I was honored by the association. If they're still in the planning stages for our induction ceremony, however, they'd better hurry.

My last name is uncommon, but Google introduced me to a slew of prospective relatives, from jocks to doctors, and even actors that play doctors. It turns out there are Haspels all over the place. I know for certain that some actually are unknown cousins because someone has to be making those seersucker suits. I wonder if when they Google themselves, they wonder who in the hell I am. Seeing all that potential kin is interesting, but not enough for me to actually try and contact anyone. In this climate, they'd probably just hit me up for money and who needs that aggravation? I have other cousins who I actually like. Why ask for trouble?

It was likewise frightening the first time I typed in my name and clicked on Google "images." I expected to see an aging guy with a disheveled white beard, like my driver's license photo, but the first picture that came up was Osama bin Laden. Now my paranoia was confirmed. I had been scooped up in the Bush administration's net and the NSA was monitoring my computer activity. I had used too many of the Echelon project "code words," and now they were lumping me in with Al Qaeda. I was hesitant to even click on the picture, thinking that a giant eye would appear on the screen and order me to the courthouse to receive my bar-code, but it turned out to be just a picture from the Flyer from an issue in which I also had an article.

I enjoyed the Google re-affirming my identity for a time. Having online references about yourself is like a little droplet of immortality, until the next technology comes along. But things have changed and Google is not as kind to me as it once was. It seems writing for The Flyer is a mixed blessing. I enjoy having my thoughts and opinions considered by a wider audience and the Flyer pays me for my work, but it also brought me out of my tiny, blog bubble and the greater access has invited more criticism. As a songwriter in Nashville, I used to eat criticism on my cereal for breakfast and developed a weatherproofed, leathery hide. I've been disappointed more times than a Manson woman at a parole hearing, but when the criticism is printed, that goes up on the Google as well. Now, just after a music site that says my voice is interesting, there's a reader's comment that says I'm also ignorant. After such a blissful spell of happy Google searching, I have lost control over my cyber identity, and with each published article, the number of people who consider me an idiot has grown in tandem.

So, I had to give up Googling myself. It felt good for a while but I needed to stop. I was beginning to go blind and hair was growing on my keyboard. Every now and then I'll check to make sure I still exist, but my self-Googling verve has diminished with time. At first, it was a gentle ego massage to see my name on the World Wide Web, but it's not as thrilling when your name is followed by the word "fool." Googling is such a tough habit to break, it should have it's own 12 step program. "My name is Randy and I'm a Self-Googler." Although I haven't given it up completely, I'll stop cold turkey before I let that damn Google start talking back to me. If I allowed that, it would then cease to be self-gratification and something more akin to masturbating with steel wool. It feels so good when you stop.

This Hussein's For You

I feel badly for those people who can find no joy in the inauguration of Barack Obama. Not enough to sympathize with their sour, sick and sorry asses, just regretful that they insist on going through life without a soul. If not for the mere history of the event, can they feel no grudging happiness for a people disenfranchised for centuries finally feeling the pride in their country that comes with inclusion? The possibilities now seem so limitless, one day we may even get a Jew in there. Hell, who am I kidding? But here are some choice excerpts from The Commercial Appeal's letters to the editor the day after the inauguration:

If Dr. Martin Luther King really believed what he preached, Tuesday would have been a sad day for him rather than a jubilant one.

I did wonder... if the new president would wear a golden crown, or continue with the halo...my feelings toward our new president have changed-I have no wish to even see his face with its arrogance, or the smirk on his wife's face.

..we have finally sworn in Barack Obama as savior of our country. I regret...he was not inaugurated sooner,...he could have walked on water to save the passengers of the U.S. Airways plane.

And this was before Obama had spent a single day in office.

With such gravely serious problems facing the country and the president, any sane person would wish him success, if only for their own self-interest. The most visible exception is Rush Limbaugh, whose latest ugly, narcotised ramblings should even give the "ditto-heads" pause. When Limbaugh was asked by a publication to write 400 words about what he hoped from the Obama administration, instead of enumerating political differences, Rush went into a sputtering rage saying, "I don't need 400 words. All I need is four; I hope he fails." What manner of patriot is this who's chief concern, in the face of worldwide financial catastrophe, is the reconstruction of his failed and broken political opinion? I became aware of Limbaugh the day after Clinton's election, when the swarthy egomaniac went on the air declaring "America Held Hostage: Day One." He beat the drums for Bush and cheerleaded for the Iraq War, and when the GOP lost Congress, he admitted that he had "carried water" for ideas and politicians with whom he did not agree. In other words, he's a tool and a liar. Were John McCain elected, can you imagine a single liberal pundit wishing him failure in a national crisis? It's time that local radio stations realize they have another Father Coughlin on their hands and kick Rush to the curb. Who needs this crap anymore?

I recognize well who these bitter radio talk-show callers are because I live among them. I find it prudent, however, to disassociate myself from those who can't bear the reality of President Barack Hussein Obama, because one thing I learned from the Bush regime; If someone strikes you on your left cheek, burn their houses, poison their wells, bomb their villages, and take all their shit. Then, if they should happen to turn out not to be the ones who struck you to begin with, oh well, "stuff happens." I choose to give the new president the time to prove himself and, for all of our sakes, I want him to succeed. But as for Limbaugh, who's verbal mung has finally sunk to Ann Coulter levels, and other blabber-mouths that agitate for the government's failure as an industry, the cheek-turning days are over and it's time to strike back. Hard. Amidst all the general good feeling generated by the Obama election and inauguration, the tolerance level for the old-school hate speech disguised as dissent is very low. Since we are still Born-Again Hippies, we say it with love; "Don't Tread On Me."

The Overground Railroad

I guess you have to be over a certain age for the full symbolism of the Obama's train ride into the Capitol to hit you right in the heart, so I hope younger readers will indulge me if I get a little misty. Although Obama's trip from Philadelphia to Washington was fashioned after a similar inaugural Lincoln journey in 1861, only those over 148 years old will remember that a decoy train was used so Lincoln could be snuck into the Capitol under cover of darkness by the Pinkerton Company. Obama took the same journey in the light of day and arrived in exaltation. I only hope some aide is whispering "glory is fleeting" into his ear for humility's sake, although he seems to have plenty.

There is only one other similar train ride in my memory where ordinary people stood ten deep to catch a glimpse of their hero, and that was the funeral train of Robert F. Kennedy from New York to Washington, D.C. in August of 1968. It was the most poignant and tragic public event I had ever witnessed, and since I was young, and felt in the thick of current events, I was crushed by the promise destroyed and the hope denied. I'll admit that several years passed before I was able to watch news footage of that sad, solemn train and all those broken-hearted people standing by the tracks without weeping. But Barack Obama seems indeed inspired in his use of symbolism. Just as Grant Park in Chicago, a place infamously barred to protesters at the 1968 Democratic Convention, was used for Obama's election night victory celebration, so this jubilant train trip, lined with exuberant well-wishers, only with tears of joy in their eyes this time, stands in juxtaposition to that painful memory of so many years past. It's almost as if something that was taken from me a long time ago has, in part, been given back.

I suppose I understand a bit better how Evangelicals must have felt when George W. Bush was elected, only without the accompanying dementia. I have no illusions that Barack Obama is the "messiah," I just believe he is the right man for this extremely difficult job, and I feel grateful for his election and confident in his abilities. Aside from electing a black man, I still find it astounding that the country elected an intellectual. It wasn't so long ago that "intellectual" was a dirty word, as in "pointy-headed," and other scornful descriptions used by the Tom DeLays and Karl Roves of this world. Clinton had an enormous intellect, but he was too much of a razorback, redneck-yahoo to be an intellectual. Kennedy was a brilliant rogue. The last Democratic intellectual to run for President was Adlai Stevenson, and the scorn from his political opponents over his braininess was sufficient for every candidate since to dumb down the message. Not this time. And people seem to be responding well to being talked to like adults.

Despite these desperate times, the excitement over the Obama inauguration is palpable and Rooseveltian in its scope. Yesterday's speech in Philadelphia contained these majestic words:

"And yet while our problems may be new, what is required to overcome them is not. What is required is the same perseverance and idealism that our founders displayed. What is required is a new declaration of independence, not just in our nation, but in our own lives — from ideology and small thinking, prejudice and bigotry — an appeal not to our easy instincts but to our better angels."

Language like this, with an historical echo of Lincoln, if taken seriously, could well save not just this nation, but save us as a civil society.

I don't usually like to kick a man when he's down, but in the case of George Bush, I'll make an exception. There's a final irony to this entire scenario and it's that the Bush presidency really began with a catastrophe in lower Manhattan, and it ends with one as well, only with an entirely different result. Bush's tough-guy image was built standing on the rubble of the Twin Towers, but his "farewell" speech to the nation, with its' supporting cast of human props, resembled the final episode of "Seinfeld." There was the old fireman that Bush draped his arm around on top of the pile, there was the Katrina survivor who's arm someone must have been twisted to be there. The only old face missing was Lyndie England giving a "thumbs-up.". Only hours before, some sort of miracle had occurred in the Hudson River and a true American hero emerged in pilot "Sully" Sullenberger, but Bush was too self-absorbed and oblivious to even acknowledge the event and, of course, it's far too late for him to exploit it now. Obama already called. It reminds me of the Iranian militants waiting for Jimmy Carter to leave office before releasing the hostages. Whatever the significance, I'd think it serendipitous to begin a new administration after a miracle than after a disaster any day. Perhaps an era of new heroes has begun.

Check, Please

That was one hulluva soiree, but now it's time to fold the chairs, pay the band, and settle the tab. Let's see, you had the economic collapse and deepening recession, the housing crash and implosion of our financial institutions, the corruption of the Justice Department and the renegade Vice President, two ongoing wars with a side order of torture and a generous helping of CIA secret prisons, warrantless wiretapping, the destruction of the middle class, and the city of New Orleans. All told, your share comes to 1.2 trillion dollars. Do you think we should leave a tip with that?

With yesterday's eye-popping, head-shaking press conference, Bush leaves the presidency just as he arrived, full of it. Full of self-absorption without reflection, and full of pride, who's consequences a man familiar with proverbs should understand. But Bush was never one to dwell on consequences once his "gut" told him what to do. From the very first prime-time televised speech about his "Great Stem-Cell Compromise," Bush has played the presidency as a performance piece, where he goes out, day after day, and plays an amiable Master of Ceremonies to the nefarious deeds being done behind the curtain, just like Chuck Barris putting a smiling face on all the bizarre Gong Show activities going on in the background. He memorably said in 2005, "See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again, to kind of catapult the propaganda." Bush certainly catapulted it with the best of them, I only wish someone had informed him beforehand that the President's job was more than Huckster in Chief.

When Bush was asked about Obama's campaign pledge to restore the Unites State's moral standing in the world, he replied, "I strongly disagree that our moral standing has been damaged. It may be among the elites," he continued, "or parts of Europe." Who is it that Bush considers "the elites?" Oh, I remember, it's that Eastern Establishment from whence he came that now disdains him. Bush continued that he was "aware that some of them don't like me; the writers and opiners," almost poetic in blaming the messenger. In fact, Bush blamed everyone and everything except himself for the chasms of neglect that define his presidency. From bad intelligence concerning WMD in Iraq, to bad judgement over the aircraft carrier "Mission Accomplished" banner, to bad advice about the economy, nothing was his fault. Bush was merely a victim of circumstance, like a college fraternity president, embarrassed by a cheating scandal perpetrated by a few of the brothers. Of his time in office, Bush said he "had fun." At least someone did.

A question about a proposed, legal "Bush Doctrine" of pre-emptive pardons for his inquisitioners caused the President's hackles to rise and he abruptly dismissed the question, meaning "it's supposed to be a surprise." If someone's own conduct in office is felonious, do his pardons count later? Finally, addressing the viciousness of what passed as political discourse during his tenure, Bush had the gall to again compare himself with Abraham Lincoln, saying, "There was harsh discord (sic) at #16, and harsh discord for #43," neglecting the fact that aside from being President, the only thing Bush has in common with Lincoln is the hole in the head. The delusional Bush's final press conference was truly "The audacity of dope."

So far, President-elect Obama has been low-key in discussing future investigations of the Bush abuses, saying only, "No one is above the law," but there is a groundswell of people demanding accountability. I don't believe we've seen the last of George Bush in Washington D.C., only next time he'll be answering questions under subpoena in front of a congressional committee. Until that day arrives, as it surely will, my parting wish to George W. Bush is that he gather up all his American flag lapel pins and leftover "W" stickers, his jeans and boots and concho belts, all the Western-themed art and cowboy memorabilia, his "Shakespeares" and biographies of George Washington, the flags, the drapes, and that goddamned rug in the Oval Office and get the fuck out of my White House. Make room for someone who understands that the job is greater than the self-exaltation of one flawed and foolish man who remains thick as a brick until the bitter end. And I do mean bitter.

Happy New Year From Father Farken

This is a special guest blog from Father Ferhgus Farken. The good Padre is an ordained minister of the gospel, presently living in New Jersey.

"OH NO! NOT CLOWN SHOES!"
Johnny*Burnette!!! Bless me Sputnik for I have sinned! In my New Year's sermon I told my congregation That the economy was so bad that I partied like it was 1929! I was about to credit the SPUTMEISTER but all that laughter...well it caused me to gloat instead... as if I had an original thought! Forgive me my good friend! I owe you big!

The New Year's party @ St Louis reminded me that there is a lot of room for song & dance in Catholic, Eastern Orthodox & Jewish theology. Matter of fact its a sin not to enjoy the presence of others. True spirituality is life affirming....Calling us to be fully human & fully alive. Hell is the absence of love...Heaven is where G*d's Love reigns. Like singing Danny Boy to the GREAT MONSIGNOR CLUNAN. (My favorite versions of DannyB are sung by Elvis Presley, Jackie Wilson & Mario Lanza but I'm sure Randy's rendition is right up there. Never heard Carl sing it!) And Clunan! Well he was like an uncle to me! My good friend Ernie Pecker did a charming painting of the old saint. By the way! Did the good monsignor lead the Love Train? Which reminds me... I meant to mention something in your last blog (which dealt with homosexuality)!

I took some courses @ Memphis Theological Seminary & my professor of Church & Culture challenged us..."To love others! You've got to spend time with them". He had us dress up as homeless paupers & go begging on Beale St. with the poor. (I made a butt-load of beer money that night but I don't recommend sleeping on the sidewalks in front of Silkey's!) The late Dr. Paul Brown assigned McGirk & me to go to a gay bar some where near SUN RECORDS(This was in 83) & give a report the next day! I confess I didn't want anyone to recognize me so Shecky McGirk & I dressed up like clowns thinking we were incognito. Every thing was going alright till I had to go to the restroom. This guy follows me in & stands right beside me & sez " I couldn't help noticing the shoes!" (Me big ass clown shoes) Then he starts staring at me privates & sez while shaking his head "All shoes & nothing to show for it!" I thought this was no time to be competitive. Then I hear all this moaning...I turn around & there were about 12 guys doing the weirdest love train I have ever seen...they all had their pants down below their knees holding on to dear life to the person in front of them! They were all connected! This was no Little Eva's Locomotion! It was more like a Boo foo choo choo! It was not pretty! To be honest! I got the hell out of there before that LOVE TRAIN ran over me! Then I find my way to the bar only to discover that its open mike night & Shecky Kierkegaard McGirk is singing the worst version of Danny Boy that I have ever heard! Thank G*d Clunan wasn't there to hear that!

In my report the next day I disagreed with the professor. When you are in love...love is blind. When you are serving in a soup kitchen...Love has no nose! When it comes to loving our brothers of a different orientation...stay away from that boo foo choo choo...for it might make one a wee bit judgemental...let us not forget... we all fall short. Love unconditionally!The Peace of the Lord! Fr.FerghusFarken

Wednesday, January 7, 2009 12:51:00 AM CST

Shock and Oy

Hamas rocket

There is no questioning Israel's right to defend itself against Hamas rocket attacks from the Gaza Strip, but the ongoing aerial assault and ground invasion is Bush-like in its' conception, and Rumsfeld-like in its' execution. It is as if the caretaker Olmert government wants to unleash one last spasm of violence against Hamas while they have the blinkered Bush still in office. But the lame duck Olmert, like Bush, has nothing further to lose except his legacy. After the disastrous incursion into Lebanon in 2006 which empowered Iran and strengthened Hezbollah, Olmert's popularity among Israeli's fell to 3% and, also like George Bush, he became the subject of a Hebrew Google search where his name was synonymous with "miserable failure."

The violation of a truce by Hamas and their indiscriminate firing of Qassam rockets into Southern Israel as a foolhardy provocation needed to be addressed. But if you have a sniper in a tall building, you take out the sniper- you don't level the entire building and hope the sniper is killed in the explosion. The massive ground invasion proves that the Olmert government is still fighting last century's wars and hoping for new results. The outrage has been the civilian casualties of the bombardment. U.N. observers have stated that as many as 1/3 of the total deaths in Gaza are women and children. This philosophy of "destroying the village to save the village" was discredited in Vietnam, and if they're keeping score by body count, the Gazans are losing 540-5. The blockage of a cease-fire demand in the United Nation by the U.S. further inflamed humanitarians, Muslim and Israeli alike, for abandoning the Gazans to the cold and dark.

My father used to tell me that it wasn't wise for Jews to publicly criticize other Jews, because there were so many others eager and ready to do so. But American Jews need to make the same differentiation between the founding principles of the Jewish State and the succession of transient power-holders in the Knesset, as was done in this country with the Johnson/Nixon Vietnam era, and the current war of choice in Iraq. I consider that Americans like Richard Clarke and John Dean, who were among the first to criticize the Bush war policy, as the true patriots of this dark period. In Israel, even the frontrunner for next Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, said that the Sharon/Olmert Kadima Party government was a "total failure." It's normal and understandable for Jews everywhere to wish to defend Israel against all naysayers, but in the succession of larger-than-life Prime Ministers, from David Ben-Gurion, to Golda Meir, to Itzak Rabin, Israel has come to Olmert, an official who has already formally resigned his post over suspicions of corrupt activity while in office.

There will be no Mid-East peace until a new group of actors take their places, but it's hard to imagine that the Hamas government, even if physically destroyed, will be discredited in the eyes of the Palestinians. Israel has had peace governments and war governments, and it hasn't seemed to make much difference because of one fact of life; the Israeli people and their government have shown the desire to live in peace since the nation's founding in 1948, while the acting governments in Gaza, the West Bank, Iran and Syria and massive portions of the Arab populations that surround Israel, live to kill the Jews. The original conflict has turned into a blood feud. It's unfortunate, then, that the image of the heroic Israeli fighter in the War of Independence, and the bravery of Jewish soldiers during the Six Day War, should fall victim to this current image of aggressor and occupier resulting from the poor judgements of politicians seeking short-term gain. As the U.S. sheds itself of the Bush Doctrine of pre-emptive war, so Israel should examine its response of massive retaliation which has caused a humanitarian catastrophe and is in danger of transforming the Gaza Strip into a new Warsaw Ghetto. The Gazans must be responsible for electing Hamas as their representatives. Israel must realize, however, that every Gazan is not Hamas.

Ringing Out The Old

Happy New Year to One and All
Melody and I had an old fashioned New Year at home. We partied like it was 1929. As we stirred our pot of gruel simmering over an open fire in our den, I reminded her that we didn't have a fireplace. So after we stomped out the ashes, so as not to cause smoke damage to our High Definition television that I purchased right before the prices dropped like the Dow on a day when Bush holds a press conference, we settled in to watch how Dick Clark's attendants were going to dress him this year and wait for my balls to drop. But only Ryan Seacrest and Fergie showed up. I guess old Dick finally took the hint that the public doesn't want the New Year counted down by the Cryptkeeper. I still recall the New Year's in Times Square when the pickpockets were so aggressive, they tore the entire back pocket out of my friend Larry's pants. When they say that you must spend at least one New Year's Eve in your life in Times Square, they lie.

We were invited out by friends, and I appreciate them thinking of us, but like my Daddy used to say, "The only thing worse than staying home on New Year's Eve is going out on New Year's Eve." Add that to the fact that in my years as a working musician, every single New Year's was an adventure waiting to happen. Some were terrific, like playing the Hard Rock in New York with Isaac Tigrett acting as host. And some were nightmarish, like the private corporate party we played thrown by a CEO big shot who got shitfaced and insisted on singing "Summertime" with the band. The poor slob got up to "and the cotton..." and he could go no further. He just stood there slumped and numb, mumbling "and the cotton...," over and over. Finally, when a couple of his employees were helping him off the stage, I said into the microphone, "Hey, don't quit your day job," at which point he broke loose from his handlers like James Brown and charged the stage, jacking up Bob Simon by the shirt collar screaming, "What did you say, you sonofabitch?" Bob was beet red before the enraged and drunken man who was going to pay us could be torn away from his throat, proving that even in the most miserable of circumstances, there can still be amusing incidents.

I've seen the combination of an anxiety-producing overemphasis on having a good time, mixed with a "drink quick and suffer later" philosophy, end badly and early for a whole lot of people. Musicians refer to New Year's Eve as "Amateur Night." One thing I'm assured of by staying home is that I won't be killed on the road. I have no objection to anyone drinking, but I don't drink because it has an unpleasant effect on me. I wish I could achieve a little pleasure in drink, but I only get ill. I go directly from being straight to being sick, with no euphoria in between. That's why it's particularly difficult for me to be around drunk people on this night. It's like back in the 70s, when you walked into a party and everyone was high on Quaaludes but you. Unless you're part of the orgy, it's a gruesome sight. Melody and I even forgot to open the champagne at midnight sent to us by Father Farken, but that only means Mimosas tomorrow, headache or no.

Among the best New Year's parties we ever played, was for the congregation of St. Louis Catholic Church on White Station Rd. No one was drinking except for what they were sneaking under the table because they were in the Parrish Hall and the retiring Monsignor Clunan was in attendance. I got to sing "Danny Boy" for him. It turned out that several people I knew from high school were there and they were so happy the band turned out to be us, that they turned it into a 60s style sock hop. I've never seen sober people with so much abandon. They even did the "Love Train" all around the room. Of course, I've been on the other side of the coin until I realized that alcohol wasn't my friend, and have been carried from a few places, or woken up with my head bobbing from the back seat of a strange car in an unknown location among people speaking in a foreign tongue, but why dwell on that? The sick part was never worth the momentary fun part for me. I envy sociable drinkers. It's that glassy stare that gets to me.

My most memorable New Year's gig involved our late drummer, Mike Gardner. An agent had booked us at the Officer's Club in Millington, on the naval base- always a fun bunch. We needed passes to be admitted and when it took too long, the ever impatient Mr. Gardner got into an argument with a guard after calling him an "Anchor Clanker." Things got no better from there. The Naval officers and their wives had to have had the tightest collective sphincters of any group we ever faced. They refused to have fun. They hated everything we played. Our calls for them to hit the dance floor were met with icy stares. We played "Auld Lang Syne" at midnight and the place was empty by 12:05. We were unloading equipment through the front door and down a long sidewalk covered with an awning and into our vehicles when it began to rain. Mike got in his black pick-up truck and backed it into one of the rod-iron, decorative pillars that held up the entryway, bending it in half and collapsing the entire awning. We looked around, but the area was deserted, so we piled in our cars, booked for Memphis, and cashed the check. One of the few times I've enjoyed being with someone who had too much to drink on New Year's Eve was that night when Mike Gardner literally brought down the house.

I wish a very good new year to everybody, may the hangover be brief, and may the pain be made durable by the promise. If you wish to leave 2008 with a little hope, look at the face of this child gazing at our new president. May we all be so inspired in 2009. Randy

Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

I'm not gay, but I support the "gay agenda." I wonder, if you're only pushing one issue, do you have an agendum? If so, gay-bashing would seem a failed, Rovian political stratagem that should have receded along with the power of the bitch-slapped GOP after the last election, so that gays and lesbians might enter a new dawn of equal protection under the law. It would seem, that is, until two things happened; Proposition 8, an initiative banning same-sex marriage, passed in California; and Barack Obama invited one of the bill's primary advocates to deliver the invocation at his forthcoming inaugural. To paraphrase the Three 6 Mafia, "It's hard out here for a gay."

While the majority of the populous is preparing to celebrate their new president, homosexuals must endure the galling sight of Rick Warren, pastor of the ironically named Saddleback Church near Los Angeles, delivering the invocation. Warren is the author of the bestseller, "The Purpose Driven Life," which received a lot of press a couple of years ago after that woman in Georgia read it to a rapist-killer, and he decided, with the assistance of a little meth, to allow her to live. Warren's philosophy may work for outlaws, but Rachel Maddow has reported on the fine print, now removed, from the Saddleback Church's website that said homosexuals who were unrepentant of their gay lifestyle would not be welcomed as congregants. (Did you notice how I so delicately avoided saying "church members?") That's reminiscent of a country club that bans Jews, or putting up a sign that says, "We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone," and Warren is supposed to be one of the newer thinking evangelists that believe that climate change and the AIDS scourge are worthy of Christian attention. I suppose that gays are the last minority at which you can still throw stones, even forty years after the 1969 New York Stonewall riots. Before that, police were allowed to rough up and toss someone in jail for being publicly gay. You haven't come a long way, baby.

We were discussing how downright sorrowful it is that in this year of societal evolution, gays should suffer such a setback that rights granted them by the power of the state, could be taken back by a fear-driven ballot initiative. Melody said that everyone knows that you are born gay, and this discrimination is like hating someone because they have green eyes. I answered, "Not exactly, we all know what's at the core of this hatred, and it is "the act." Melody replied, "If that's what it is, then you're spending way too much time thinking about something that's not your business." But if it's not the act, why is it that so many homophobes seem to have no problem with lesbianism, especially if the chicks are hot? Melody is correct. Someone is born gay or they're not. Who would ask for all that tsuris? We all knew gay children with whom we grew up, but in the immortal words of Chris Rock, "they just didn't have anyone to be gay with" yet.

Candidate Obama could be infuriating, even to his most ardent supporters, during the campaign when he refused to engage his detractors. Then, after he won the nomination by running to the left of Hillary Clinton, his sprint back to the center was rivaled only by Ussain Bolt. I understand what Obama is attempting to do with the Rick Warren invitation. He's trying to bridge a gap between himself and "people of faith" who didn't vote for him in the first place and never will. But aside from Rick Warren's public comparisons of homosexuality with incest and pedophilia, Barack Obama is playing politics with God. This Saddleback symbolism may pacify some, but it violates the human code of conscience which demands, "First, do no harm." Not even the benediction by the sainted Reverend Joseph Lowery can't gloss over this bit of "scratch my back" politics with the Evangelical Right. It's sort of like putting lipstick on a pig.

Obama defended his choice of Pastor Warren and added that the message of the campaign was to promote dialogue between differing groups. Barack added that he had been "a fierce advocate for gay and lesbian Americans," while simultaneously opposing gay marriage. With heterosexual marriages failing at the rate of one out of two, and the out-of-wedlock birth rate skyrocketing even while the stigma of unwed pregnancy fades as we watch the gestation of the Palin teen, shouldn't we, as a society, be encouraging long-term relationships between loving couples, even of the same sex? Wouldn't that dampen the sexual promiscuity that the fundamentalists so despise, and lower the risk of acquiring AIDS in homosexual men? For those who consider same-sex marriage a threat to the public good, others still believe in the pursuit of happiness and the redemptive power of love. I think either John Lennon or Jesus taught that, too.

In this festive season of goodwill toward men, that should include gay men and women as well. And in this time of political renewal and the promise of a more just society, I take President-elect Obama at his word that he will be a "fierce advocate," for the only dis-included group at his upcoming gala. I understand that gays will march in the inaugural parade, but at the risk of aggravating straights by acting-up. Their mere presence has already been unjustly illuminated. Mainstream society's delusion is that this Rip Taylor, gay caricature has been accepted to be the norm, rather than the low-keyed, respectable citizen working at the desk next to yours, who also happens to be gay. That is who I wish Obama had considered before extending the invitation to Rick Warren to utter the opening words of a new era. A far better choice for the invocation would have been the Reverend Al Green of Memphis. Reverend Green has made it abundantly clear through his ministry and his music that his major concerns are "Love and Happiness." It makes you want to moan for love. The constitutionality of Proposition 8 will yet be tested by the California Supreme Court, so Merry Christmas everybody, and fight the power.

Magical History Tour

The criminal Bush has been making the rounds lately, trying to convince everyone that he wasn't that bad, but at every turn he continues to step on his dick. Bush told Fox "News," "I didn't compromise my soul to be a popular guy." What soul? And now that Sen. Carl Levin has mentioned the potential for indictments concerning cases of state torture and violating the Geneva Conventions, Bush can look forward to being a very popular guy in Federal Prison. Leaked GOP talking points encouraged Bushies to say that he "maintained the honor and dignity of the office." I guess that means he didn't diddle an intern on his desk. But I would have much preferred he screwed his secretary instead of the Constitution. We're all the blue dress now. Fortunately, George picked up some Iraqi shoes to match.

The shoe dodging video is like a good Beatles album where you recognize something new with every listening, in this case viewing. My initial reaction was shock and outrage. After all, Goober is my president, too. And although I detest the man, his smug, willful ignorance, and the wreckage he has created in the world, I never wished him personal harm. I've often thought that perhaps if someone had kicked his ass 35 or 40 years ago, it might have done wonders for his humility problems, but what purpose would that serve now? Still, the shoe tosser might have heaved something more dangerous while the Secret Service was having a coffee klatch in the back room. I understand they scanned the crowd for weapons and the Iraqi journalist was known by the people in attendance. They said the same thing about Jack Ruby.

Bush passed it off as a messy expression of democracy. Hell, he never even stopped chewing his gum. In true Democracies, however, you don't hear the protester's screams in the next room while the Prime Minister's bone breakers assure him an extended stay in the hospital. Now, the Iraqi journalist/shoe tosser is a folk hero in the Arab world, and even much of the Western world, for one reason; he is the only outraged civilian Bush has had to face in eight years. In my questioning of the Secret Service's reactions, I'd forgotten that there are millions of angry people in the world who would literally die for proximity to Bush, and the true miracle of the Service's protection is that the only harm done to the President in his entire term was by a pretzel.

For eight years, Bush's audience's have been so carefully screened, if they were not big money donors or soldiers, he couldn't get a word out for the shouts and boos. His bubble is so thick, he hasn't so much been heckled in public, and yet he continues to portray himself as merely a victim of circumstance. All those bad things- war, rendition, wiretapping, corruption, economic collapses, hurricanes- just happened to take place while Bush was busy doing the nation's business. Only that one lonely protester in New Orleans that shouted, "Go fuck yourself, Mister Cheney," got through to this gang. Cheney is so contemptuous of the public and the law, he's admitted approving "harsh interrogation techniques" against detainees. In effect, Cheney is saying to the next Justice Department, "bring 'em on." Thus far, Cheney has been accountable to no one, so let the investigations begin, the subpoenas fly, and the chips fall.

This group still believes that in ten years, if Iraq is self-governing, that they will be vindicated by history. Kissinger thought that too, about the carpet bombing of North Vietnam. In the end, it's the casualties that can never be forgiven, and to date, there are 4,209 U.S. soldiers confirmed dead, and another 30,000 wounded. JustForeignPolicy.org estimates 1,284,105 dead Iraqi civilians, (other estimates go from 100,000 to 2 million. The figure is not officially recorded), and an additional 2.5 million people displaced. In that light, "A kiss goodbye from the Iraqi people," in the form of a flying shoe is a fairly mild protest for a "dirty dog." It's a good thing that when someone says "lame duck," Bush takes it literally.

Governors Gone Wild

Imagine this as a screenplay. Right before Christmas, a factory in Chicago gets their credit cut off by a greedy banker, played, of course, by Michael Douglas, and the company fires the entire workforce without even the benefits they have worked to earn. The workers, led by John Leguizamo and Jamie Lee Curtis, urge their companions to protest and, just like Rosa Parks, they finally get tired and decide to sit down. They believe they're going to jail, but the sympathetic police captain, Morgan Freeman, who used to be a working stiff, is hesitant to arrest anyone so close to Christmas. Two days later, the factory is surrounded by media and supporters and even the newly elected President, Denzel Washington, voices his support. But here's where the plot gets tricky. The workers' sit-in gets so much attention that the Governor, already under investigation, decides to get involved.

The arrogant Governor of Illinois, played by Alec Baldwin because of the hair and the temperament, comes to the workers' aid and puts pressure on the mega-bank, in this case we'll call it the Bank of America, to come off of some of the $25 Billion they've just been given by the government, to help out the working man. This makes the CEO of BoA, Kevin Spacey, worried about company image and his pension, and the Board goes into conference to consider the Governor's threats to cut off all state business with the bank. The next morning, the Governor's threats look like extortion as he is hooked up and carried away by the FBI who have been listening to his conversations, just as he invited them to do. Gary Hart appears here as himself. They even hear his greedy wife screaming in the background about appointed jobs and lucrative positions. I know it sounds impractical, but I really believe Kim Basinger could give an Oscar turn in this role. But just as things look grimmest for the factory workers, and they watch as their main supporter does a perp-walk, the bank decides it's Christmas time and peels off a few singles from their wad of billions and gives it to the company owners, Ben Kingsley and Judd Hirsch. I haven't decided yet if the bosses will give the money to the workers, or buy them each a Christmas turkey and kick them out the door.

Cut to a dimly lit office with a smiling President Denzel sitting with his Chief of Staff, portrayed by Hugh Laurie. They are both Chicago politicians and should be concerned that the Governor's arrest will rain on their inaugural parade, but they are chuckling. A recording just turned up where the Governor referred to his former colleague, the President-elect, as a "motherfucker" who would not give him what he wanted, and a no-nonsense Special Prosecutor, Nick Nolte, holds a press conference shredding the disgraced Governor's reputation and exonerating the new President. But here's the kicker. It turns out that the old bareknuckled Chicago poll, the President's Chief of Staff, was the one that blew the whistle on the Illinois Governor in the first place to protect his new boss. The two men clink snifters of cognac before a roaring fire while a montage shows all the factory workers' kids getting just what they wanted for Christmas and the company owners basking in the warmth of their generosity. As Sonny Corleone said to Michael just before he shot the police captain, "Yeah, they just might like a story like that."

Governor Rod Blagojevich, if not ending the Obama honeymoon, at least flushed the toilet while the Love Train was still in the station. He proves that greed, arrogance, and idiocy know no party, yet he is in a class all by himself for naked corruption. I had just written about former Tenn. Governor Ray Blanton and his pardon-selling scandal when Blagojevich goes and puts Obama's former Senate seat on eBay. Tennessee has had corrupt officials, but we only put them in jail one at a time. If, wait-who am I fooling, when Governor Blagojevich is sentenced, he can do time with Illinois' former Governor Ryan, a Republican. In fact, justice would dictate that they be cell mates, with conjugal visits from Bubba and Eugene. This blatant contempt for basic honesty may not taint Obama, but it certainly embarrasses him at an inopportune time, and gives ammunition to his enemies when his concentration needs to be elsewhere. If Blagojevich had a shred of decency, which is questionable, he would take the Elliot Spitzer route; apologize profusely, resign, and disappear. Or as they say in Texas, make like horseshit and hit the old, dusty, trail. The sooner the better.

Singing In The Rain

This is going to be a great Depression. Not with a capital "G" like the 30s, because the tech economy is real and the Depression will be blogged. I heard a TV economist say in regards to the recession that, "it will be longer and deeper than initially imagined." That's what I told my wife on our wedding night and I was lying, too. There is too much entrepreneurial spirit out there to keep the American economy stagnant for long and once we chase the money changers from the Temple, perhaps free enterprise will be a bit freer for all without the old fix in place. Watching the Obama administration come together has been exhilarating just for the pleasure of watching a President who actually knows what he's talking about and can string more than two coherent sentences together. The economy is kicking the crap out of me, but I have such confidence that conditions will improve. It's like when you have a terrible cold and you smoke a joint. You still have the cold, only you don't care as much. I have no health insurance, but Sasha and Melia are adorable.

The question is, can't we speed this thing up? If you've been following the final days of Chuckles, you're aware that Bush would strip mine Jellystone Park if he could get away with it. He's attempting to turn as much public land over to his oil buddies as will fly under the radar and trying to see how many animal species he can bring to the brink of extinction. Tennessee used to have a governor named Ray Blanton who was as crooked as a spring twig. It was discovered that in his lame-duck days, he was selling pardons, or technically, his staff was shopping pardons that he then approved. The citizens of the Volunteer State ended up having to jerk his ass out of there and swear in the new Governor several weeks early to end the crime spree. Al Capone finally went down for income tax evasion, can't we arrest Bush for loitering?

Even the massive bailout of the economy doesn't overly concern me, except for I'd like to know where this barrel of money is that they're doing the bailing from. To paraphrase the late Illinois Senator Everett Dirkson, "Twenty billion here, twenty billion there, soon you're talking about real money." If the banks are hoarding the money, print notes with Bush's picture on them, call them Bush Bucks, and the banks will work late to get them out the door. The Big Three automakers are deserving of scorn for their thirty years of neglect, but I know that they already possess the technology to turn on a dime and start making solid vehicles. It's the oil and gas lobby that has kept the internal combustion engine king, although its planned obsolescence was probably considered along with tail fins. There is a 2006 documentary that you need to see, now on DVD, called "Who Killed The Electric Car?" directed by Chris Paine. These emission free, silent, and powerful vehicles already exist and are in need only of battery charging stations instead of gas stations. Here's a thought: Give them the loan, but put Arnold Schwarzenegger in charge of fiscal discipline.

This dire economy and grim retail season have shown us one thing. If you want the price to drop on a certain commodity, stop buying it. I received dozens of emails about boycotting Exxon or just buying gas on Wednesdays when all that was required to make the price of oil drop like the Times Square New Year's Ball was to stop driving. Oil prices dropped so precipitously, they had to put Ahmedinijad in the hospital for nervous exhaustion. We are a one car family now. I purchased a Honda scooter that gets 85 mpg. Want to know how to decrease the price of electronics, computers, and televisions? Stop buying that shit for awhile, and even customer service might return. My stepson was ultimately glad he didn't buy the iPhone on it's first day of release. So long Circuit City, so long Rite-Aid; you could have done so much better.

The Obama team has shown great skill already in warding off what potentially could have been a general panic and run on the banks. And in foreign affairs, those "Extenze" male enhancement tablets Hillary has been taking finally paid off for her. Now she's got the biggest balls in the cabinet and a job to match. Her selection as Secretary of State was inspired, as was Bill Richardson at Commerce. And you can't help but admire Robert Gates for his patriotic service in staying as Secretary of Defense while we wind down Rumsfeld's and Cheney's dirty business in Iraq. Despite the debris field caused by the Bush era, the cleanup feels well under way. It almost seems like prosperity's just around the corner, every man's a king, a chicken in every pot, and some pot for every chicken. I plan to endure the entertaining economic chaos with my chin up and my eyes open, and if I should falter, tell my family that I fell with my face to the enemy.

Since beginning Born-Again Hippies in 2005, this is my 101st posting. Thank you for reading and all your comments, Randy

Sympathy For The Doofus

White House staffers have been revealing a "genuine sadness" around the West Wing these days. One report said that Bush was concerned that his presidency is being compared to Herbert Hoover's, but that would be an insult to Hoover. His morale was reportedly so low, he practically gushed when honored by the Intrepid Air & Space Museum that everything was "fabulous," from the brave troops to his fabulous Dad. Sarah Palin went out of her way in a Miami speech to thank Bush for keeping the nation safe from another air attack of hi-jacked domestic carriers, while our currency sank like the Lusitania. An anonymous assistant explained that Bush is so distraught because they had planned to spend his last few months in office doing "legacy stuff," but the sudden economic collapse prevented them from accomplishing much. Let me clue the Bush folks in, the economic collapse is his legacy.

While all crashes down around him, Bush still persists that a de-regulated free market is the soundest regulator of itself, a true believer until the bitter end, just like Herbert Hoover. No, Bush's "legacy stuff" consists of criminal capitalism masked by a populist concern for small "bidness," the war in Iraq, torture, rendition, Abu Ghraib, Gitmo, Blackwater mercenaries, illegal wire-tapping, the corruption of the Justice Department, and the No-Fly List. And who doesn't know in their heart that it was Dick Cheney who ordered the outing of Valerie Plame to get even with his critics, and it will only be a matter of days before the criminal Bush gives a full pardon to the patsy, Scooter Libby? And now we're treated to a battery of headlines in the conservative media about how horribly Bush has been treated by all parties in the recently concluded election.

Are we supposed to feel sympathy for Bush because his name was exceeded in toxicity only by Cheney's, and no one wanted to be seen with him, including McCain, who's tardiness to the White House endorsement created the opportunity for us to watch the Buffoon in Chief do a little of the old Shuffle-Off to Buffalo? Bush was the Bubonic Plague, the kiss of death, and the Evil Eye to any Republican who dared utter the name. All he has attempted is in tatters, especially the Constitution, so that it will take the new President at least half his first term trying to unravel Bush's political dingleberries. But now he's feeling lonely because he's no longer popular. This from a man who came to the office with no vision, only a cult of personality that carried him along like a leaf in a gutter after a rain-storm for his entire career. The Bush Presidency was the biggest farce foisted upon a gullible populace since Milli Vanilli, and the full effects are yet to be felt by all those hapless loyalists who have lost their jobs and don't even know it yet.

Possibly Bush's greatest accomplishment, aside from re-starting the Cold War, is his escaping impeachment. When Speaker Pelosi announced in 2006, that "impeachment was off the table," I remembered Tip O'Neill, who said in reference to Nixon in similar circumstances that, "the best interests of the country must come first." Nancy, you're no Tip O'Neill. And Bush's most egregious and visible violation is that he betrayed his Oath of Office to protect and defend the Constitution and he knows it. That's why he's working double time to write immunity for himself and his cronies into law before he leaves office. Bush envisions a leisurely life commuting between a home in Dallas and the ranch, when he's not off on a lucrative speaking tour to "fill the old coffers," in the President's words. But I envision Bush answering summons after summons without protection from John McCain, like Gerald Ford was to Richard Nixon. This is a man with questions to answer and it's best that they be asked under oath.

George W. Bush is the Frankenstein monster created by the unholy alliance of Fundamental Christianity and a Godless Corporatocracy. He was a Pied Piper, born-again Evangelical Christian, ruthless free-market capitalist who granted access to untold riches for the already rich, while preaching that "government is the problem" to the "social" Conservatives. Even now, while jobless claims are skyrocketing, retail sales are plummeting, and the GOP coalition has been shattered, a Pew Poll found that 60% of people who identified themselves as Republicans, believe the party should go in a more conservative direction. Nixon's 1968 "Southern Strategy" has come to its' fruition, the GOP has become the party of the Old South.

Mine is not the only family who has decided to cut back this Christmas. Instead of lavishing presents on everyone, we're going to draw names and buy one nice present each. Other family's are teetering on the verge of bankruptcy or foreclosure this holiday season with nothing to hope for but a new administration and the departure of Bush. So when Bill O'Reilly revs up his annual "War on Christmas," he need no more than look in the White House to see the Grinch. Sympathy for Bush? I have no pity for this reckless man who, even now, can't bring himself to admit his part in the disaster his policies have caused. I merely worry over the old adage about the cornered animal being the most dangerous. When Bush was elected, he joked that among his first orders of business before moving in after Bill Clinton, was to give the Oval Office a good cleaning. I suggest that before the Obamas move in, they should acquire the services of an exorcist, and that's no joke.

Election Reflection

Did I dream it, or did what I see really just happen? The citizens of the United States not only elected the first African-American president, but Barack Obama's race seemed only a peripheral issue at best. This nation just decided to return to excellence and voted for the most capable candidate. The old smear and fear politics did not work this time, young voters came out in record numbers, people withstood multiple hour waits to cast their votes, and there was jubilation in the streets of major cities in this country, and all over the world. I must be dreaming.

We had the political equivalent of a Super Bowl party here. My friend Dave the Dog drove in from Nashville, as he did in 1992 for the Clinton election, Larry took his customary spot, Melody put out hors' doevres, but I held my breath until 10:00. Even when Pennsylvania went to Obama, I had seen too many voodoo elections to ever get comfortable. When the West was declared, we jumped up and down and yelled and cried, but the spectacle in Grant Park was breathtaking. The symbolism in Obama's historic run kept grabbing me; He began his campaign in Illinois, on the court house steps where Lincoln stood, and he ended it in Manassas, Va, where the documents ending the Civil War were signed. Then he held his victory celebration in the very spot where young anti-war demonstrators were beaten and maced exactly forty years ago. The tears of the greying eminence, Jesse Jackson, spoke more eloquently to the moment than any words, and every citizen, regardless of party, should take a measure of pride in this fulfillment of America's promise.

John McCain ended his quest on an honorable note, with a more than gracious concession speech, that I'm certain reminded more people than just me of the genuine man that he used to be. But that was before he handed his campaign over to the former Bush/Rove operatives, just to let them screw up one last thing before they leave town. In half the McCain rallies that I saw, I thought he was doing a Walter Brennan, "Grandpappy Amos" impression. "Hehhh?" Dirty tricks backfired on Elizabeth "Sugar Lips" Dole as well, and MSNBC reported that for the first time since 1952, a Bush or a Dole will not be on Capitol Hill. Just a little icing for us. To see Obama win North Carolina, Indiana, and especially Virginia, where Robert E. Lee is still worshipped and revered, was simply astounding. I believe this election gave birth to a new electorate which will not revert to the old game of the selling of the president, and we picked the right man that we need for these perilous times.

Even in my little blue corner of a solid red state, people have seemed nicer the last couple of days and I detected a general feeling of, "Things will be better now." We have chosen the candidate that offers the best chance for change, but now the real work begins. Bush/McCain voters will find that Democrats are more gracious in victory than the Republicans could ever imagine, so there will no payback or purges (save Israel's favorite Senator, Joe Lieberman, who has it coming), or "Revolutions" like the GOP Congress attempted in 1994. I only ask of Republicans the same civility and neutrality that I tried to adopt when George Bush was first elected, before he lied this nation into the invasion and occupation of Iraq. So, before the Limbaughs of this world attempt to dismember him, I hope the new president will be given the chance to implement his programs without the same whiplash resistance we have seen in the past.

My initial election night joy was sobered by Obama's magnificent speech concerning the magnitude of the problems we face as a nation, until the emotion I can best describe about this entire ordeal for me, is relief. For those with ears to hear, Obama referenced both Dr. King and Sam Cooke, but broadened the context. I'm happy to be alive to witness the ascension of an African-American to this nations' highest office, but I was so uncertain that it could really happen that I continued to see the dark cloud behind the silver lining. When the moment actually arrived, I, probably like you, thought of a lot of people who would loved to have seen this day. Now, I feel as if I'm undergoing whatever is the male equivalent of post-partem depression. We did this improbable thing, so now what? I trust this good man and his advisers to chart a new course for the nation, freed from the same political battles that have raged for the past thirty years, but I don't trust a recalcitrant congressional minority who's purpose is to thwart and block the new president's agenda.

Obama's victory must also be seen in the light of the 48% of the public that voted for John McCain. They had their reasons, but in light of the brutal recriminations coming from the McCain camp directed at Sarah Palin, I believe we dodged a bullet. And it is troubling that otherwise rational people would even consider placing the government in the control of this cartoonish and inept person. Almost half the country bought that bullshit, when it has been proven in this week's "Newsweek," that Palin is definitely not smarter than a 5th grader, and was ignorant about even the most commonplace facts of geography. Worse still, she took an arrogant pride in her stupidity in favor of "Wasilla Main Street values." If the right-wing Evangelicals want to make her into the future of the GOP, "bring 'em on." Meanwhile, we have a very capable man about to assume the office of President, who was put there by the most committed group of voters I have ever witnessed. So, may I just say, "God bless us, every one," and please diligently protect the Obamas.

The Joe "The Plumber" McCarthy Tour

So it's come to this. Desperate and panicked, the former Bush operatives now surrounding Sarah Palin have sent her out to stoke the mob by quoting Karl Marx. Initially, Palin thought Karl was the fifth Marx Brother after Zeppo, but she can see remnants of Marxism from her official state sponsored trips to the Bering Strait with the "First Dude," so she seemed a natural at calling Obama a Communist. Nodding agreement was added to her quoting of the Communist Manifesto by the gravitas of her chief surrogate of the day, Hank Williams, Jr., who was standing next to her in cowboy hat and customary shades. I always take sociological advice from a country singer who once sang he was, "Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound."

Just like the other day, when Palin appeared with the vapid Elizabeth Hasslebeck. Who better to introduce a candidate who acts like a game show host than a "celebrity" who's claim to fame was being a game show contestant? But Hasslebeck should spare her lectures on Dialectic Materialism for The View, where she can be debated by a real authority, Whoopie Goldberg. Should McCain/Palin lose the election, I'd like to pitch the networks a reality show where Hasselbeck, Palin, Ann Coulter, Michelle Malkin, and Laura Ingraham can sit around a table and excoriate those abortion loving, liberal, women feminists types. We'll call it "Mean Girls." Better yet, allow the gun worshippers and abortion zealots to follow Sarah, Todd, Trigg, Track, Piper, Willow, Levi, Bristol and the baby back to Alaska to wait for the Rapture. There's tons of room and some oil too, whose revenues Palin "redistributes" among her constituents. The Mormons have a state; the Jews have a state; The Catholics have a whole country; let's give Seward's Folly to the right-wing Christians and survivalists, and call it Evangelaska.

Palin's red-baiting and accusations of un-Americanism bring back chilling memories of Republican Senator Joe McCarthy of Wisconsin, who went on a Communist "Witch Hunt" in the fifties that ruined people's lives, reputations, and livelihoods. For young people who don't remember, McCarthy was a bellicose, hawkish, former pilot, super-patriot who, along with his overtly Jewish sidekick Roy Cohn, slandered all those he considered sympathetic to the country's enemies. Sort of like John McCain and Joe Lieberman today, minus the charm. But since the military was one of McCarthy's targets, John McCain should have known better than to unleash this lowest and most dangerous of attacks. Sarah Palin, having no knowledge of history, has no problems slinging around venom like this, but McCain is old enough to know that there are still people alive today, especially in the creative arts, who suffered irreparably from the unspoken "Blacklists" that resulted from McCarthy's inquisitions. It worked for old Joe awhile, but McCarthy's name is forever associated with disgrace and zealotry. This is dangerous stuff for a V.P. candidate who believes that she's the future of the Republican Party to be spouting.

Speaking of Joe, I still can't understand how McCain's entire economic plan is encapsulated in "Joe the Plumber." In fact, if he refers to "JTP" one more time, I'm going to need a plumber. It was bad enough until JTP started showing up at Palin rallies and offering opinions on everything from Socialism to how a vote for Obama assures the "Death of Israel." And to cap it off, country singer Aaron Tippen has signed JTP to a management contract for a future album project. I guess I didn't make it big as a country songwriter because I was too honest. I stood in a room full of Nashville writers who were in my same publishing stable and expressed the opinion that, "Country Music is a celebration of poverty and ignorance." At least that's what Nashville turns out, so Joe The Plumber will not only fit right in, he'll be treated like visiting royalty. There's already a Larry the Cable Guy, so why not?

McCain chose Palin in a fit of pique when the Bush/Rove boys that manage his campaign, refused to let him pick Joe Lieberman. McCain, himself, won the nomination by default, because no one could appease the beast. First, Rudy was a shoo-in until he refused to campaign and began accepting calls from his wife in the middle of important speeches. Then it was Mitt Romney until his magic underwear failed him. Huckabee was too Huckleberry and he didn't believe in evolution, and Fred Thompson was so bloated and gaseous it made you wonder how his trophy wife endured the excessive belching. It was McCain by elimination, and Palin in order to throw the lions to the Christians. That's why at McCain/Palin rallies, you hear a lot of boos, while they are cheering at Obama/Biden events. The Democrats present initiatives and plans, the GOP offers invective and poison.

I am not sorry watching the patchwork Republican majority of free-marketeers, right wing Evangelicals, rich people who hate capital gains and inheritance taxes, anti-abortionists, and xenophobes that has existed for 30 years begin to implode. But it's not enough to merely defeat a party. The philosophy of Gingrich and DeLay, Dobson and Robertson, Limbaugh and Hannity, and Cheney and Bush must be crushed absolutely with a wooden stake driven through it's cold, shrivelled heart. I watched the Democratic Party completely unravel over an unpopular war and ominously repressed societal problems. An Obama victory is not guaranteed, but should the Democrats win, the ultimate irony is that the President-elect will address the nation from Chicago, where exactly 40 years ago, blood ran in the streets and the old Democratic cooalition was trampled and scattered after the brutality and chaos of the 1968 Convention. The mayor then, as now, was named Richard J. Daley. Only this time the candidate is Barack Obama, and he has a clarion call to unity.

"Power concedes nothing without a fight" Barack Obama 10/29/08

An Appeal To Youth

While speaking in Florida a while back, John McCain said, "I'm sorry to tell you, my friends, but there will be other wars." Who's supposed to fight in these wars that McCain speaks of? Not our current military, stretched to the limit. Not me, or my entire generation. We're still busy fighting over the Vietnam War and the domestic cultural shifts that arose because of that bloody conflict. We've been doing that for forty years now, partly because of the disrespect directed toward the military, including the soldiers, who were sacrificed by the "Greatest Generation" for dubious causes, and also the fight over "patriotism," when you find your country is engaged in a murderous and immoral conflict. The American participation in that war ended in 1973, but not before 58,000 men, average age 19, perished. The terrible psychic costs of Vietnam were never resolved at home. We decided it was better not to talk about such unpleasantness and went on a decade long Disco and cocaine bender instead.

I once swore that when I grew older, I would never say "When I was your age," to a young person. When those old geezers were my age, they were still listening to Jack Benny and FDR's Fireside Chats on the radio. How could they possibly relate to my life in the modern era? Having said that, "When I was your age..." we were at war, with a despised president who put us there, when an attractive candidate emerged who was adored by the young. He was a champion of the destitute and the downtrodden. Bobby Kennedy promised to end the war and bring our soldiers home in order to concentrate on the growing domestic unrest exploding in every major city. The similarities between 1968 and 2008 are striking with two exceptions: the draft was feeding my peers who weren't able to take refuge in college into a meat-grinder, and the voting age was 21. Despite being only 20, I had been drafted because of a university's computer glitch, and was emotionally invested in Kennedy's election. You can imagine how crushed we were when Robert Kennedy was murdered in Los Angeles, the first act of Palestinian terror on American soil.

Deeply dispirited, my generation chose to withdraw from politics, insuring the election of Richard Nixon, five more years of war and 20,000 more American soldiers dead, plus the beginnings of the nasty, partisan political world that we inhabit today. There are a lot of "what ifs" in this life. Young people voting in large numbers then could have literally saved lives, and my generation, who once believed we were going to transform the world in the cause for good, blew it...big time. Nixon's bag of "dirty tricks" soon turned people cynical about their government and the tactics of "wedge politics;" topics meant to divide people, were used for the first time; and they worked. The Rovian position of "political strategist" has become the politician's preeminent advisor and we have been divided ever since. You can change that now if you remember two things: Assume nothing, this race is far from over; and do not discount the importance of your actions. Go to the polls as if your single vote were going to determine the outcome, and bring a friend with you.

You've seen the best and the worst of my generation. We had a brilliant policy thinker and communicator who couldn't keep his pecker in his pants, and a moral absolutist and former drunk who took this country to war because his Nixon-worshipping neocons convinced him that it was the Lord's will. To paraphrase JFK, it's time to pass the damn torch already. We have lived too long with prejudices that the young never had to experience, and it clouds our thinking. Can you imagine that I never sat in a classroom with a non-white person until college? Once again, we desperately need to alter our nation's course, but still I wonder if the young are aware of the potential political clout that rests within them. Being disqualified from voting in 1968, when my ass was personally on the line, changed me. I am one of the laziest men walking, (it took 28 years to complete my Bachelor's Degree), but I have never missed the chance to vote in a single election since. Now, it's your future that's at stake.

It's this simple. If young people come out in numbers and vote, Obama will win. If they don't, he won't. And history is not on your side. Young people might have saved us from a second Bush term, but registering on campus is not the same as going to the voting booth and pulling that curtain shut. In every election since Nixon, young voters have disappointed those candidates who depended on them. Just ask Al Gore. Early voting seems to be the way to go, but first-time voters might enjoy the chaos of election day. If you don't know, you must call or Google your city or state's Election Commission to find out your polling place. Don't wear your campaign gear or some zealot will make you turn your T-shirt inside out, and bring an ID and prepare to do battle with those who would challenge your rights. You have the power to decide this election, and if we do it right this time, you also have the ability to redeem a lot of forgotten or discarded dreams. If I could, I would come and beg each of you individually, please vote.

If you don't receive this message, it's because your parents wouldn't send it to you.

The McCain Mutiny

I haven't seen rats desert a sinking ship this fast since we sank the Bismark. Kathleen Parker was first to say the V.P. nominee had no mental clothing, followed by George Will, Charles Krauthhammer, Christopher Buckley, David Brooks, and finally Peggy "1000 Points of Light" Noonan. In other words, the "Intellectual" Conservatives that the red state voters so disdain, have thrown in the towel on the McCain/Palin ticket. So who's left? The Evangelicals who believe that Jesus is a Republican and Palin would just make a nifty president; the fat cats who not only will get fatter in a GOP administration, but will escape further investigation for their nefarious deeds; followers of particular "isms," from Protectionism to Zionism; and pocketbook voters who can't stand the thought of their taxes supplementing anyone's food stamps. And I am so weary of listening to rich people whine about Capital Gains Taxes. A capital gain is free money that your existing money earned for you while you weren't looking. Another of my father's sayings: "This is a great country, but the dues are expensive." Why not just be grateful for any capital gains and pay the fucking tax?

In the final Presidential debate Wednesday, I fully expected McCain to begin rolling steel marbles in his palm, turn to Obama, and say, "Ahh, but it was the strawberries!" Nothing has worked for him. Not Bill Ayers, or "Lipstick on a Pig," or suspending his campaign to fix the economy, or his latest manufactured outrage about Rep. John Lewis. And certainly not the selection of Sarah Palin, who has proven to be Bush in Spanks: just as dumb but twice the ambition. From simply a visual point of view, McCain's pallor made me question the wisdom of High Def TV. At times he alternated from appearing like Casper, the unfriendly ghost (or was that Spooky?), to becoming so red-faced, it looked like his head was going to explode. No wonder they prop Cindy up there at every, single speech. She would have sat at the table with John on Wednesday, but she has already become the Yoko Ono of the campaign.

Senator McCain has made the classic Hillary Clinton mistake in his run for the presidency. He altered who he really was and accepted a persona created by Karl Rove and his hapless, outdated advisers in the belief that the old politics would get him elected. Even his colleagues said they don't recognize the current John McCain, and that's a shame for those who have followed his political career. If you were able to see McCain's comments at the Al Smith Dinner in New York last night, after the hilarious jokes, the Senator paid a genuine and heartfelt tribute to the achievements of his opponent, ending with "I can't wish you good luck, but I do wish you well." This is the honorable John McCain that I remember working with Sen. Feingold for campaign finance reform, or saying that this country does not torture for the reciprocal safety of our own soldiers. It's sad to see him end his career like Bob Dole, wandering around muttering "Where's the outrage?"

I give credit to Sen. McCain for not shoveling through the Rev. Wright muck again, but the constant references to "Joe, the not-quite Plumber," more than created an alternate living, breathing straw man upon which to base a bogus argument. McCain may have been aiming for the "Joe Six-Pack" vote, but he lost every former Hillary supporter when he mocked a "woman's health" in air-quotes as a potential reason to have an abortion. Personally, I believe that life begins when the doctor slaps your ass, but what I, or anyone else thinks is irrelevant to the woman facing that decision. It's not the government's business either. But Obama is the first Democrat yet I have heard say that "Nobody is pro-abortion," and tackle the issue. McCain also doesn't understand that his $5000 tax credit to buy health insurance does no good when HMOs disqualify anyone with pre-existing conditions. There are thousands just like me who can't purchase health insurance at any cost. For the past several weeks, McCain has been asking crowds at his rallies, "Who is the real Barack Obama?" The shame of this election campaign is that we never got to see the real John McCain, until it was too late.

Raiding The Whorehouse

It was one of my father's sayings about stock market declines; "When they raid the whorehouse, they take the pretty ones along with the ugly ones." They all look suspect to me now, but in the case of AIG (American International Group), that's one particularly ugly whore. Only days after receiving an $85 Billion dollar bailout from the Fed to keep from going belly up, the company spent a half million dollars on a "retreat" for company employees at an exclusive California resort/spa. Congress is insisting they pay back the half-mil, while approving another $35 Billion for the company in additional aid. Of course, it's beyond outrageous, but a revealing glimpse into the mentality of today's corporate America. Talk about a group of people who have become dependant on government largess, and they're all wearing suits and carrying Blackberries.

My sincerest sympathy goes to those who have been crack-backed by the decade of gains that have just been wiped out. I feel your pain. I retired from the field of play after the tech stock bust of 2000 and am still licking my wounds. That's when I finally realized that the market; the Dow, NASDAQ, futures, commodities, you name it, was an insiders' game. If you're someone like me, the only way to make money is if you're lucky enough to bet on the insiders' side. It's like the casinos. It's a rigged deal and the odds favor the house. And just like the casinos, market institutions are always coming up with new ways to bet. Only instead of Blackjack, Keno and craps, they call them financial instruments, derivatives, puts, and calls. You can make money betting a company's stock will go down. In fact, that's probably one of the only ways left to make money in stocks.

I come from a family of investors. When I was a little boy, my parents had to explain to me why my Grandfather had given me 50 shares of Nabisco for my birthday instead of a toy truck. After I understood, when my Mother took me to the grocery store I would always insist she buy Vanilla Wafers, just to support the company. The stock market seemed like a private club, or some mysterious Masonic order with closely held secrets. My Grandfather, who came to this country with nothing, would buy a stock and hold it for a quarter century before he sold. He taught my father the same principles of buying shares in a solid company with a future and holding on to them forever. That sort of conservative wisdom helped put me through college, but the internet age changed everything.

Part of the insiders' game is that they don't teach you about the stock market in school. You have to learn it from other insiders, or go to special schools where they teach this stuff exclusively. I learned from sitting with my father about the intricacies of the game. I entrusted my investments to him my entire life because he was better than any broker; he was smarter than most, did better research, and he actually cared. He kept books of moving averages that he would track using his own methods. When a stock broker would show him his new car, my father would say, "I want to see your clients' new cars." He would explain he was such a conservative investor because, "My father got wiped out in the Stock Market crash of 1929. A broker jumped out of a high window and landed on his pushcart." It was the same for 70 or so years. Then he got an online account.

My father had persuaded me that my intuitive judgement was as good as anyone's and if I did the proper research, I could make money in the market. When I pulled the trigger on my first online trade, it was as big a rush as drawing a straight-flush. It was like having a loose slot machine in the house. I was way up for awhile and began imagining myself as having some latent ability to think a step ahead of the herd, but then the herd trampled me. I'll spare you the gory details, but I was left bewildered and feeling guilty that I had failed because I was too impulsive or my research was flawed. I had read books by everyone from Lee Ioccoca to Melvin Van Peebles. I looked at as many as five separate sources for expert opinion before making a trade, but made the mistake of falling in love with the "pretty ones" and holding on to them too long. I took my lumps and bailed out, no wiser but certainly sadder. I didn't even get a free buffet out of the deal.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that my online brokerages, first Donaldson, Lufkin, and Jenrette, and then Harris Direct, were under investigation for their sales practices. It seems that some of the "experts" giving presumably impartial advice had financial interests in many of the stocks they were supposed to be reviewing. Both companies promptly went under and class-action lawsuits were filed, but because of lack of a paper trail and institutional candor, I could never prove that the shares I purchased were tainted by someone else's personal interest. It helped my pride to know I wasn't a total fool, just a sucker and a mark. But it hurt my pocketbook just the same. That's how I know they're a bunch of thieves going in. In the end, they even got to my father. Dad, had who maintained the same investment philosophy his entire life, was lured into a group of clients given exclusive access to IPO's(Initial Public Offerings), which created so many instant millionaires in the 90s, and soon found out that part of his ass was missing. Dad was smarter than me, he had other assets. My financial plan is now probably much like yours; vote for Obama and pray.

"That One"

Here we were all settled in to watch a civil debate and John McCain goes all Uncle Remus on us. His referral to Obama as "that one" can be interpreted one of two ways. First, as an elementary school teacher would refer to a class of mischievous children, or worse, as someone who has a little Joel Chandler Harris (Uncle Remus) in his soul. "That one." It's ugly. It's a dehumanizing remark and suggests the referenced person is somehow "the other." At best, it is sneering condescension, and at worst, McCain may as well have called Obama "tarbaby." That was another old Uncle Remus tale that Disney made one of their classic full-length animated movies about, but they only break it out for White Citizen's Council meetings these days. Try buying a copy of "Song of the South" online while singing "Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah."

The things that seep from the subconscious when you're on live TV are amazing. McCain told one audience member that he had probably never heard of Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae before the current economic crisis. Why would he assume that? The young man was sitting there in a jacket and tie like everyone else, and he had just asked a question about economics. Oh yeah, he was black. Who let the dogs out? Whoo, whoo, whoo. "That one." What else could explain McCain's contempt for Obama except an old boy mentality of exclusivity? Over the course of the debate, McCain's voice grew into an urgent whisper, like an exasperated Washington insider who can't believe he is about to get his ass kicked by a black man still in his first Senate term, sort of like Hillary Clinton in wing-tips.

Last night's debate in Nashville only solidified the image of John McCain as old grouch. He kept referring to the country's need for a "steady hand on the tiller" while he is already being coached by Cindy like Nancy Reagan giving Ronnie his cue. Melody asked me, "Why is she up his ass all the time? No one else's spouse has to stand there like an attendant." I answered, "I guess his advisers must think it makes him look younger." When McCain's prima facie case for bad judgement, Sarah Palin, said, "I think the American people are looking for something fresh and new," she couldn't have been referring to McCain. God help us if McCain should die in office and leave the country in the care of the weather girl.

Speaking of weather girls, there was no mention in the debate of Bernadine Dohrn or William Ayers, which was a welcome respite from Palin's obnoxious repetition of Obama "palling around with domestic terrorists." There you go again, Joe, pointing fingers at the past. Personally, I would enjoy meeting the Ayers' to talk about back in the day, but I doubt that I would walk away from the meeting with a desire to bomb the Pentagon. "That one." And if McCain knows, as he assures us he does, how to capture or kill Osama bin Laden, why doesn't he go ahead and tell somebody? It didn't help matters that the McCains immediately left the hall, leaving the Obamas the opportunity to shake hands and generally look gracious on television. Who's really "that one" in this contest? "Thar he," spoke the pointing man while McCain exited, stage right.

The open contempt John McCain displays towards his opponent is disturbing, and his dismissal of Obama as a worthy adversary is insulting, especially on the heels of the "Bailout/Rescue Plan" that McCain "suspended" his campaign for, failing to stop worldwide markets from going into freefall. I much preferred Obama's choice of Warren Buffett as Treasury Secretary over McCain's suggestion of the woman who founded eBay on the same day that eBay laid off 1,000 employees. When the hock shops are hurting, you know times are hard. If this were a movie, Obama came off as William Powell and McCain looked like Al Lewis as Grandpa Munster. Tonight, I saw John McCain do an illusion worthy of David Blaine; he turned into Bob Dole. And by the way, the Beach Boys' version of "Barbara Ann," that McCain sings "Bomb Iran" to, is a weak cover of the original, doo-wop classic by The Regents, 1961. JFK was President and John McCain was already in the Navy. Just wanted to clear that up.

Hotty Toddy

Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almighty
Who in the Hell are we?
Hey!
Flim Flam, Bim Bam
Ole Miss, By Damn.

Just writing the words gives me a queasy feeling. They echo in my childhood memory from the many football games my father took me to between the Ole Miss Rebels and the Memphis State Tigers. We hated everything about them; how they came to town with their Confederate flags and pep band playing "Dixie" and took over the Peabody Hotel and turned it into a scene from the Old South with annual drunken arrogance. But we hated that damned southern aristocratic cheer most of all. Even before the Coliseum, back when the games were played in Crump Stadium, when the Ole Miss side started up the "Hotty Toddy" cheer, the stadium thundered with boos and the Memphis crowd shouted back, "Go to Hell Ole Miss, Go to Hell," which was considered somewhat scandalous for the time. Mississippi, and it's University, were the last bastions of white supremacy and the plantation mentality. I grew up hating Ole Miss.

In my sophomore year at Christian Brothers High School, I was sitting in a history class, staring out the window at South Parkway in awe as an endless convoy of military vehicles, heavy trucks and tanks, and Federal troops with U.S. Marshals caravaned South in front of the school on the avenue that became old Highway 51 into Mississippi. It was October of 1962, and the resistance of Gov. Ross Barnett to the integration of Ole Miss by James Meredith had touched off deadly riots on campus. President Kennedy had assembled a massive number of troops, which were passing before my eyes on the way to Oxford, when I felt a hard blow to my forehead. The Brother had hit me with a fast-thrown eraser and admonished me to pay attention to my history lesson.

That was an ugly time at Ole Miss. People died and numerous U.S. Marshals were injured by gunfire coming from the angry mob of segregationists. I had some knowledge of the state, travelling with my father on his sales trips when I was a child and performing throughout the Delta when I was a teenager. Although the high school kids seemed more interested in music, sports, and fashion than segregation, the older generation, and by only a few years, seemed to seethe with racial hatred and the potential for violence. At one Delta dance in 1965, a group of greasers at a diner yelled at us, "Where you Beatle boys from?" Thinking I could disarm anyone, I shouted cheerfully, "Memphis," to which the greasers responded, "Well, get your goddam asses back up there then," and we retreated in a hail of rocks and full cans of beer. They were just rednecks who wanted to fight. The same kind that nearly burned down Ole Miss in 1962.

I had no intention of playing at Ole Miss again until I met Holmes Pettey in 1972. Holmes was the scion of an old Mississippi plantation family and booked entertainment as a student at Ole Miss. He heard me play acoustic solo at the old Looking Glass in Overton Square and insisted that I play for his fraternity, SAE. I couldn't imagine that an Ole Miss fraternity, famous for their drunken Bacchanalias, could possibly want to hear me sing protest songs, but Holmes convinced me to come. I drove a VW Minivan full of hippies for moral support to Oxford and set up in the living room of the frat house.
Randy and friends at Ole Miss, 1972 (Melody above Randy holding beer mug w/ head back)
My friends and I could not have been treated better, and found a new generation of Mississippians who were eager to put Ole Miss' racial history behind them and join the rest of the nation in the Twentieth Century. I sang Dylan's "Oxford Town" in a frat house in Oxford, something I might have been beaten up for only a few years before. In short order, my friend Holmes had me opening for the Allman Brothers in the Oxford Coliseum, and pretty much fed me for a couple of years by continuing to book me throughout the state.

It's taken a long time for the stars and bars to disappear and the band to stop playing "Dixie" at athletic events, but under Chancellor Robert Khayat's leadership, even the die-hards came to realize that the Old South symbols were counter-productive for the University and needed to go. The success of that campaign was on full display as Ole Miss applied its finest spit and polish to the campus in preparation as host for the opening Presidential Debate. Just seeing the diversity of the student body that gathered in the Grove for spirited political rallies proves that the University has come a very long way. And it was not lost on some that the school that erupted in violence over the admission of a black student 46 years ago, would now host the first debate that included an African-American candidate for President of the United States.

Ole Miss may always be The Rebels, but the national attention focused on the campus last week was entirely positive. I realize that the significance of football is dwarfed by the pressing issues of our time, but for the unranked Rebels to travel to Gainesville the day after the debate and upset the Florida Gators by one point must have seemed like a sign from the Lord to Ole Miss fans. I will own up to rooting for the Rebels for the first time in my life, just because I know folks like Holmes Pettey and the other alumni, along with the students, faculty and debate organizers, will be walking on air all this week, if not all year. So, before we return our attention to the looming economic abyss, it's worth mentioning that during the vicious 60s, Ole Miss saw a bloody weekend that this nation will never forget. Now, 46 years later, Ole Miss had a weekend that school supporters, students, and officials, can always remember with deserved pride. I never thought I'd say it, but "Well done, Ole Miss." Now, if you could only change that goddamned cheer.

Daydream Believer and a Homecoming Queen

John McClane(L)
John McCain(R)

I believe this election is still close because a great number of the voting populace have confused John McCain with John McClane, of the "Die Hard" movies. We certainly need a "Yippie Ki-Yay" kind of guy right about now, but I think Bruce Willis is in a House of Blues somewhere blowing harp. So we're left with surly tough-guy John McCain applying for the lead role in the next disaster classic, "Soft Money Dies Hard." He's going to "clean up Wall Street" and "reform the Old-Boy Network in Washington." He's going to "follow Bin Laden to the Gates of Hell," because, as McCain/McClane says, "I know how to win wars." Like that one against the villian who blew up an office building. Now that he's cast Sarah Palin as his wisecracking, gun toting, sidekick, we have either a blockbuster, or a sit-com waiting to happen.

There's nothing like a total economic collapse to re-focus the attention. As a lay observer of the Bush economy, I posted an article about this a year ago that I encourage you to revisit by clicking on the title of this piece. But that great ship, the no-holds-barred U.S.S. Free Market, has hit the iceberg and there aren't enough life rafts to go around. And then, the deregulating, anti-government greedheads who have placed us all in this rudderless boat, have the fucking gall to come before Congress and ask for $700 Billion dollars to pass out bail-buckets to Wall Street, but only if no questions are asked, and we must act immediately. Sec. Henry Paulson, the one doing the asking, is the former CEO of Goldman Sachs and has surrounded himself with GS execs to assist him in the current crisis, even while Goldman Sachs is one of the firms in danger of collapse. I don't see any brokers jumping off the ledges yet, so shouldn't we all just stop and take a deep breath?

I'm the first to admit I don't know Freddie Mac from Bernie Mac, except for they both recently died, so I appreciate John McCain's honesty in admitting that economic matters aren't his strong suit. But to suggest a "9/11 style commission" to study the problem when you've just been told the economy is teetering on the verge of the Great Depression Part II, is the equivalent of sitting in a classroom reading "My Pet Goat" when the country is under attack. Now, McCain is eviscerating the very culture he helped to create in his "Maverick" days as "The Great De-Regulator." Only Ronald Reagan patented that fake cowboy stuff 30 years ago, and what Bush the Elder once called "Voodoo Economics," has now come to its' full fruition. Things finally "trickled down" alright, all over me and you. But I don't want Dr. Phil Gramm, the architect of removing institutional regulation like stripping varnish, to be Secretary of the Treasury after the "Ownership Society" has just become the "Borrower Society."

The implosion of the McCain campaign is further evidenced by the Disneyesque, manufactured Sarah Palin bubble that is just about to burst. After being secluded like a college student cramming for finals and being tutored in politics by former Bush operatives, the Palin camp made a serious blunder in trying to manage the media on her meet-and-greet at the United Nations. Attempting to ban a pool reporter from the room while allowing photographers to capture the friendly smiles is an old Soviet-style propaganda stunt. Someone should remind the Governor that in the lower 48, we still maintain that quaint "Freedom of the Press" thing, and sooner, rather than later, she will have to subject herself to the same scrutiny every other candidate must face. In 1980, Geraldine Ferraro's glow fell victim to her husband's sleazy business associates. Should the "First Dude" receive a similar examination of his secessionist views since his wife wants to hold office in this country? Tomorrow, Sarah has a photo shoot with Bono, who's a pacifist, so I hope she washed the blood off of her hands after meeting with Henry Kissinger today.

How anyone could support a candidate who's entire political career has been a trajectory leading to the current crisis is beyond me. His answer to provocation is force; his answer to fiscal crisis is committee. I don't know about you, but I am not a Georgian today, and I will not send my stepson into another politician's misguided war. Our country is being drained, financially and mili