Way Too Big To Fail

There was an ad in the New York Times a week ago Sunday entitled "A Thank You Letter to Rush Limbaugh," which read: "We, the women of America, want to express our deep felt appreciation for throwing down the gauntlet. You have awakened a sleeping giant. You have given us the power to crush the Republican party. We are coming after all elected officials, Republican or Democrat, who have failed us miserably. Smart strong women are coming after you." signed Dr. Walton, PhD.

This was, of course, in response to Limbaugh's putrid tirade about a Georgetown law student invited to testify before Congress about a colleague that needed birth-control pills for treatment of an ovarian cyst. Although the need was medically verified, the insurance company insisted it was for contraception and continued to deny coverage. For having the temerity to speak out, womens' rights activist Susan Fluke was attacked as a "slut," and a "prostitute" by Limbaugh, and those were just the headlines. He continued that Ms. Fluke, "is happily presenting herself as an immoral, baseless, no-purpose-to-her life woman. She wants all the sex in the world whenever she wants it, all the time, no consequences. No responsibility for her behavior." I only hope that Sandra Fluke has a good lawyer because in the world of real journalism, this is known as "slander."

Everyone knows that Rush Limbaugh, like Ann Coulter, is a provocateur who knows the more outrageous his remarks, the more headlines they receive, and publicity generates income. In fact Limbaugh and Coulter are the Tea Party inverse of Mr. and Mrs. Jack Sprat, and up until now, anything they said was mainly for publicity or self-aggrandizement. This time, however, Limbaugh not only stepped over the very same line that brought down Don Imus, he snorted it. I don't know which is the most offensive, his complete ignorance of how womens' contraception works, his referring to a womans' health advocate as a prostitute, or his total disdain for the rules of broadcast journalism. Rush's claim that Fluke was, "having sex so frequently that she can't afford all the birth control pills that she needs," was simply stupid. After four marriages, didn't any of his wives tell him how it works? During his non-apology about "using those two words," Limbaugh was perspiring like a whore in church, so I don't understand his rage against prostitutes. Nor do I understand how he can oppose contraception, when he himself is a scumbag.

As a proud graduate of the U. of Memphis' College of Journalism, among the first things we learned was what was and what was not considered "protected speech" under the 1st Amendment. Usually, people in the "public eye," celebrities, or commentators, having been placed in that position by design or circumstance, are considered fair game for criticism, which explains tabloid journalism, The Jersey Shore and The Fashion Police. That's why if I wanted to call Sarah Palin a moronic inferno of malediction or infer that Rush is showing traces of being back on the Oxy, that is protected speech because they are both "public figures." To intentionally pronounce malicious falsehoods against a private person that may tend to damage their reputation, however, is against the law. Attempting to defend the defenseless, the "ditto-heads" are scrambling to find equivalencies in leftist rhetoric by Bill Maher or Ed Schultz. The problem is that these editorialists always pick their fights with the powerful and the pontific. Limbaugh and Bill O'Reilly prey on the powerless and rely on scapegoating singular examples, like doctored Acorn videos or selectively edited speeches by Shirley Sherrod, to besmirch an entire movement or people. Let the blowhards ridicule Nancy Pelosi's botox all they want, but never ask a female congressional witness to post sex tapes online for your edification. That makes you not just a defamer, but a pervert, too.

This entire controversy exploded onto social media with a ferocity I had not yet seen. When Limbaugh apologised for his words but not for their intent, dozens of petitions popped up on Facebook and Twitter urging signers to go after Rush's advertisers. Limbaugh scoffed at the herd of corporate sponsors heading for the door saying it was, "like losing a couple of french fries from the container when it's delivered to you at the drive-thru...You don't even notice it." It's true that Limbaugh appears to never have missed a french fry, but with over 98 sponsors and counting suspending their ads, that's beginning to sound like a supersized order. Still, Rush affirmed that on the business side, "everything's cool," although his final radio program of the week contained over five minutes of dead air. By brushing off the desertion of advertisers, Rush has inadvertently left a blueprint for protesters to follow; go after his networks and local stations, which would be Clear Channel Communications, Premier Radio Networks, and locally, WREC-AM600. Rush's audience has been characterized as "angry, white men," but after 20 years of spewing his vile misogyny about "feminazis...out there protesting what they actually wish would happen to them sometimes," surely the mothers, wives, and daughters of these angry men deserve to scream, "Enough!" Hey, it's just the free market at work.

Limbaugh may well be "too big to fail," and survive the onslaught of outrage coming his way, but consider the long-term damage he has done. Senator Olympia Snowe of Maine, the only Republican to vote against the Blunt Amendment which would have vastly restricted womens' access to contraceptives, announced she will leave public office, blaming an "atmosphere of polarization." Not a single Republican rebuked Limbaugh for his noxious campaign. Santorum said Limbaugh was "just being absurd," and Romney disapproved of his "choice of words." Frontrunner Romney might have shown some courage with a "Joseph Welch moment," but he blew it. Welch was the Army attorney who finally confronted Senator Joseph McCarthy in the fifties by saying, "Have you no sense of decency sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?" This assumes Rush ever had any decency to begin with. It's a mammoth undertaking to knock Limbaugh from his perch, but never underestimate the power of passionate women on social media. The unwarranted attack on Sandra Fluke's character has morphed into an insult to all thinking women. Rush might save his job, but he's lost the GOP any chance they might have had to win the presidential election.

Tainted Love

With apologies to Rufus Thomas, B.B. King, and James Brown.  Let everybody say "Yeah." Alright, break it down fellows, I got something I want to say. That's right, now bring it way down so I can talk to the ladies for a minute. Ladies? I said LADIES! That's better. Let me ask you a question. Did your old man come home drunk last night because he was laid off at the job, and he crawled in bed feeling all romantic? And while usually you might push him away, this time you didn't since times have been so rough on everybody, only now you have need for the morning after pill, Plan B, or whatever they call it. So you go down to the corner drug store only to find that the pharmacist refuses to sell it to you because he has a religious objection to birth control? Well, did you know that's just what Senator Roy Blunt's new bill will allow. Anyone along the birth control distribution chain whose religious views frown upon contraception can claim a "conscience objection," and refuse to sell it to you. That includes clerks, shelf-stockers, and cashiers. Now, can I give the drummer some?

"Everybody, scream!" Let's say you're a single lady and you went to a party and met a nice guy who seemed attentive and funny, so you ended up having nightcaps at your place, and Marvin Gaye was playing on the stereo and one thing led to another. Only, some time later you discover that the SOB was married and something is off with your cycle. It's been less than a month, and since you would never consider carrying the child of someone else's husband, nor do you consider a non-breathing zygote with a prehensile tail as fully human, you wish to terminate the pregnancy. Only President Santorum has gotten his wish that abortion be criminalized and outlawed in all cases, and even rape victims should consider a resulting pregnancy as "a gift." So, you turn to Planned Parenthood, but they've been defunded and/or bombed and all the physicians that performed the procedure have gone underground to avoid assassination from the insane anti-abortion zealots. And now, the only place left to go is underground. Can I get a witness? Ladies, having Rick Santorum as president would be like having Franklin Graham as your prom date.

Break it down band, and let me talk to the fellows. Guys? You didn't think this wasn't your issue too, did you? Imagine your 16 year old daughter getting early admission to that prestigious college she's been dreaming about. All the arrangements have been made, only at the last minute, she gets pregnant by her ex-boyfriend who is joining the Marines. After your family has cried about it and prayed about it, you all decide the best course is abortion. Only, you live in Virginia, and the state legislature  passed a law that requires any woman seeking an abortion to first have a state mandated ultrasound, in order to humiliate them into reconsidering. Since most abortions occur within the first 12 weeks of pregnancy, this would require a "transvaginal procedure," in which a probe is inserted into the vagina and manipulated to produce an image. Fellows, I don't know about you, but forcibly penetrating a woman for no medical reason sounds awfully close to rape to me. The Virginia legislature might have known this had they consulted any women, but the bill was on the governor's desk when even he backed out, so to speak. Governor Bob McDonald, looking like a graduate of preacher college, covets the Vice Presidency, so he decided to soften the bill by eliminating the invasive kind of ultrasound, but not the procedure itself.  Now, 'scuse me while I do the Boogaloo.

People always talkin' bout less intrusive government, but that's just about as intrusive as you can get.  All these candidates for president are trying to prove who's the most conservative. One guy says he's "severely conservative," while his opponents line up to say, "I'm the most," "No, I'm the most," when what they're really saying is my penis is larger than yours. Have you ever heard anyone describe themselves as "severely liberal?" Not even Trotsky was that liberal. Progressives never brag about who's the most liberal of all. Even Bernie Sanders, the Socialist Senator from Vermont, doesn't boast about it. And what about that congressional hearing about women's reproductive issues held by Rep. Darrell Issa? Women are 52 percent of the population, yet a House committee couldn't find any to join their stag party. "Issa in 'da House!" These GOP candidates aren't running against Barack Obama so much as they're running against the 1960s. Republicans want to run your sex lives when they can't even run their own primaries. Now, did you heard me?

Now, I got one more thing I want to say right here. I believe in the power of love, yet here comes this guy Ricky Santorum, who thinks he has the final definition of what love ought to be for you and me. He believes that sweet love should only be for married people and even then, just for procreation. I know someone else who believes that way; Pope Benedict XVI. A long time ago, a Catholic man named John F. Kennedy ran for president and assured the electorate his allegiance was not with the Church in Rome, but with the United States Constitution. Now, this Santorum person runs for office claiming that JFK's address was "a horrible speech," and that he prefers Papal edict. Not the kind of Christianity practiced by Obama, because according to Rick, "He has some phony theology. Not a theology based on the Bible." The Sanctum Santorum believes contraception is against God's will, and has seven children to prove it. And In Rick's world, prenatal screenings only cause more abortions to "cull the ranks of the disabled" in society. So, good people, what I'm trying to say is that you should get down on your knees and say, "Thank you President Obama for being a moral, family man who keeps his business to himself. Thank you, Barack, for concentrating on the whole house instead of just the bedroom. And thank you for being the only thing standing between us and the Sexual Inquisition." Any woman who votes for a Republican now, has got it coming. Can I get an "Amen?" The name of the group is The Coat Hangers. Now, let's hear it one time for the band. Goodnight everybody!

Have Mercy Baby!

With apologies to Rufus Thomas, B.B. King, and James Brown.

Let everybody say "Yeah." Alright, break it down fellows, I got something I want to say. That's right, now bring it way down so I can talk to the ladies for a minute. Ladies? I said  LADIES! That's better. Let me ask you a question. Did your old man come home drunk last night because he was laid off at the job, and he crawled in bed feeling all romantic? And while usually you might push him away, this time you didn't since times have been so rough on everybody, only now you have need for the morning after pill, Plan B, or whatever they call it. So you go down to the corner drug store only to find that the pharmacist refuses to sell it to you because he has a religious objection to birth control? Well, did you know that's just what Senator Roy Blunt's new bill will allow. Anyone along the birth control distribution chain whose religious views frown upon contraception can claim a "conscience objection," and refuse to sell it to you. That includes clerks, shelf-stockers, and cashiers. Now, can I give the drummer some?

"Everybody, scream!" Let's say you're a single lady and you went to a party and met a nice guy who seemed attentive and funny, so you ended up having nightcaps at your place, and Marvin Gaye was playing on the stereo and one thing led to another. Only, some time later you discover that the SOB was married and something is off with your cycle. It's been less than a month, and since you would never consider carrying the child of one so despicable, nor do you consider a non-breathing zygote with a prehensile tail as human, you wish to terminate the pregnancy. Only President Santorum has gotten his wish that abortion be criminalized and outlawed in all cases, and even rape victims should consider a resulting pregnancy as "a gift." So, you turn to Planned Parenthood, but they've been defunded and/or bombed and all the physicians that performed the procedure have gone underground to avoid assassination from the insane anti-abortion zealots. And now, the only place left to go is underground. Can I get a witness?

Break it down band, and let me talk to the fellows. Guys? You didn't think this isn't your issue too, did you? Imagine your 16 year old daughter getting early admission to that prestigious college she'd been dreaming about. All the arrangements have been made, only at the last minute, she gets pregnant by her ex-boyfriend who is joining the Marines. After your family has cried about it and prayed about it, you all decide the best course is an abortion. Only, you live in Virginia, and the state legislature has just passed a law that requires any woman seeking an abortion to first have a state mandated ultrasound, in order to humiliate them into reconsidering. Since most abortions occur within the first 12 weeks of pregnancy, this requires a "transvaginal procedure," in which a probe is inserted into the vagina and manipulated to produce an image. Any woman may refuses the procedure, but that refusal is then inserted into her permanent medical record. Fellows, I don't know about you, but forcibly penetrating a woman for no medical reason sounds awfully close to rape to me. Now, 'scuse me while I do the Boogaloo.

People always talkin' bout less intrusive government. That's just about as intrusive as you can get. Then, all these candidates for president are trying to prove who's the most conservative. One guy is "severely conservative," while his opponents line up to say, "I'm the most," "No, I'm the most," when what they're really saying is my penis is larger than yours. Have you ever heard anyone describe themselves as "severely liberal?" Ever heard progressives brag about who's the most liberal of all? Not even Barney Frank is that liberal. And what about that congressional hearing about women's reproductive issues held by Rep. Darrell Issa in the House? Women are 52 percent of the population, yet a House committee couldn't find any to join their stag party. "Issa in 'da House!" Republicans want to run your sex lives when they can't even run their own primaries. Now, did you heard me?

Now, I got one more thing I want to say right here. I believe in the power of love, yet here comes this guy Ricky Santorum, who thinks he has the final definition of what love ought to be for you and me. He believes birth control is destroying society and that sweet lovemaking should only be done by married people and even then, just for procreation. I know someone else who believes the same way; his name is Pope Benedict.XVI. A long time ago, a Catholic man named John F. Kennedy ran for president and assured the electorate his allegiance was not with the Church in Rome, but with the United States Constitution. Now, this Santorum person runs for office assuring the electorate that he  prefers Papal edict. Not the kind of Christianity practiced by Obama, because, according to Rick, "He has some phony theology. Not a theology based on the Bible." The Sanctum Santorum believes contraception is against God's will, and In Rick's world, prenatal screenings cause more abortions to "cull the ranks of the disabled." So, good people, what I'm trying to say is that you should get down on your knees and say, "Thank you President Obama for being a moral, family man who keeps his business to himself. Thank you, Barack, for concentrating on the entire house instead of just the bedroom. And thank you for being the only thing standing between us and the Sexual Inquisition." Any woman who votes for a conservative now, has got it coming. Now, can I get an "Amen?" The name of the group is The Coat Hangers. Let's hear it one time for the band. Goodnight everybody!

Oh Happy Day



Another football season is in the books. Eli was great in the Superbowl and a Manning for all seasons, and Madonna showed that the only thing flatter than her abs, is her voice. Plus, the actual game was exciting. Not the most exciting I've ever seen, however. That distinction would go to the game between Memphis State and Mississippi State at Crump Stadium, Oct. 26, 1963, back when they still used leather helmets. The previous year, the Tigers had claimed Mississippi State as their first victory ever over an SEC team, and the Bulldogs were looking for payback. Memphis State was quarterbacked by Russell Vollmer, who was among my first boyhood heroes. I was in junior high when Vollmer starred in football and basketball for Central. Although I cheered for East, my big sister dated a benchwarmer on the Warriors basketball team, and I sometimes ventured onto enemy turf to watch Vollmer play. Consequently, I was excited when Vollmer announced he would play football at Memphis State, especially since my parents had season tickets since the dawning of mankind.

The Tigers already had a spectacular season going. A month earlier they had battled Ole Miss, ranked #2 in the nation, to a 0-0 tie in a game that still stands as a milestone in Memphis football. When the Bulldogs and their cowbell ringing fans came to town, Memphis had the #3 ranked defense in the country. Vollmer started the game with a 70 yard punt return before Memphis' Justin Canale kicked a 39 yard field goal for the Bulldogs. Vollmer returned the kickoff and was running out of bounds. In Crump Stadium, the locker rooms were located under the stands and the players reached the field by walking up a steep set of concrete stairs, which was protected on the surface by a steel railing. As Vollmer ran out of bounds, he received a late hit, or shove, which sent him careening toward the Bulldog bench, which he vaulted, then hitting the protective railing at full gallop, Vollmer flipped heels over head and plunged ten feet onto the concrete steps below. The capacity crowd of 31,650 was stunned silent as medical personnel ran to tend to the motionless Vollmer. After an excruciating wait, Vollmer was carried up the stairs on a stretcher and placed into an ambulance waiting to race him to nearby Methodist Hospital. It appeared as if his injuries were going to be extensive.

With Vollmer gone, the Bulldogs pulled ahead to take a 10-9 lead at halftime. The fans' mood was somber as the second half began with the star quarterback in the emergency room, and no word yet about his condition. In the third quarter, it was beginning to look like the Tigers' dream season might be over, when suddenly, ascending the stairs from the dressing room came Russell Vollmer. It had been loud at Crump Stadium before, but nothing like this. As Vollmer trotted around the field to the Memphis State side, section after section of Tiger fans went delirious. The air was electric when Coach Billy "Spook" Murphy said to Vollmer, "Do you hear that? Now get out there and let's win this game." Vollmer led the team on a final, 70 yard drive, culminating in a touchdown run by fullback Dave Casinelli, giving Memphis State the win, 17-10. The Tigers finished the season 9-0-1 but turned down an invitation from the Sun Bowl, hoping for a call from the Gator Bowl, which unfortunately never came. Casinelli led the NCAA in rushing and scoring, and unheralded Memphis State, shunned by the major conferences, rose as high as #15 in the national rankings. Russell Vollmer ascended to that high place of esteem reserved for all-time Tiger heroes.

There's been nothing like that magical season when a combination of hometown stars, like Vollmer, John Fred Robilio, and John "The Bull" Bramlett, along with some key recruits like Casinelli and Harry Shuh, went undefeated in front of a packed stadium for every game. However, there's something new in the air, and regardless of recent frustrations, I'm beginning to think that sort of passion for Tiger football is once again within our grasp. I've been walking on a cloud ever since it was announced that Memphis would be joining the Big East Conference in all sports for the 2013 season. I'm rapturous over the return of our traditional basketball rivals, along with some of the most fabled programs in college hoops. But this is a stellar chance for Tiger football. New head coach Justin Fuente needs the football equivalent of a "Larry Finch moment," when a couple of bona-fide hometown star athletes, like Melrose's Finch and Ronnie Robinson, decided to stay home to play their college ball. With admission to the Big East, Fuente can now offer a local, blue-chip recruit that might want to stay and play in front of his friends and family, the chance to play big-time football. Suddenly all things are possible. Sink or swim, the Tigers are in the big leagues now.

For long-time Tiger basketball fans, this is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Since 1976, Memphis has not been in a conference that wasn't of our own invention. We've had more conferences than COGIC. Joining the Big East is like finally being called up to the majors. When the news broke in the middle of the night, I woke my wife singing choruses of  "Walking On Sunshine," by Katrina & the Waves. Memphis need no longer be the Rodney Dangerfield of college sports. Jaded northeastern fans say it's not the same Big East since Syracuse, West Virginia, and Pittsburgh are leaving. To paraphrase CeeLo Green, "Forget them." Syracuse is the powerhouse basketball program Memphis is replacing, and we don't need to play those other teams in football yet anyway. Under a bigger spotlight and with major media coverage, perhaps some of our players that might have jumped to the NBA will consider returning to have some fun and raise their profiles. (Hear that, Barton brothers)? The renewal of the rivalry with Louisville is gravy. Like most Tiger supporters, I hate their city, their school, their fans, and their team - but I love their coach. I never thought I'd say this, but, "Thank you, Rick Pitino." And while we're expressing gratitude, thank you, R.C. Johnson. I couldn't have imagined a better going away present. And it's a helluva lot better than the one left us by that greaseball Calipari.

Say My Name!

Let's be honest. The only grizzly bear within 500 miles from here is in the Memphis Zoo. And I'm sure there's some hip jazz bands in Provo, but no great Be-Bop giant ever came from Utah. So, the Utah Jazz should give New Orleans its team name back, only New Orleans is now using the old Charlotte nickname, the Hornets. Everyone knows that the Packers are in Green Bay, the Bears are in Chicago, and the Colts are in Baltimore. Only, they're not. We've got Cardinals in Arizona; Rams in St. Louis; and Colts in Indiana, and the names are all mismatched to the locale. Instead of franchises moving around, I propose a trade of a different sort. Let's have a one-day, giant name swap and return all sports team names to the places where they have meaning. Memphis would be better served known as the Kings; for MLK, B.B., and Elvis, only Sacramento is using that name. What king is from Sacramento? Larry King? Let's swap names. Memphis gets the Kings, and a grizzly bear is featured on the California state flag. Perfect.

It was a sad day in 1957 when two fabled New York baseball franchises packed up and split for the coast, leaving the palaces where Duke Snider and Willie Mays roamed the outfields as rubble for the  wrecking-ball. The Dodgers and Giants' move to California was, for many, the first generational lesson in hardball capitalism. It raised the question of what's more valuable; free enterprise or fan loyalty and trust. Still today, there are wounded men walking the boroughs of New York in tears, wearing faded, old baseball caps, mumbling, "what happened to my team?" The New York teams move west was the also the first example of corporate greed entering pro sports. But, when some greedy bastard sees greener pastures and decides to relocate a beloved sports franchise with emotional roots to a community, at least have the decency to change the name. Imagine Boston's hoops team moving to Salt Lake City and calling themselves the Utah Celtics. (Why is Boston the only place that pronounces it "sell-tics," instead of the correct, "kell-tics?"). Finding a Celt in Utah is as rare as finding a Mormon pimp. When the Washington Senators moved to Minnesota, they changed their name to the Twins. Since Indianapolis is not known for horses, give Baltimore their Colts back, retire the morbid name "Ravens," and rename the Indianapolis football team the Racers. It rhymes so well with Pacers.

Some regulations will be necessary. After all, we don't want the Baltimore Orioles returning to St. Louis to become the Brown Stockings. So some locations get to remain as they are. The Milwaukee Brewers now have a descriptive name preferable to their old one. Atlanta has no business, however, naming their baseball club the "Braves" when their stadium sits on what once was Indian territory. So, Atlanta must drop the "tomahawk chop," and return to the team name they used until the early 60s, the "Crackers." In football, St. Louis gets to reclaim their Cardinals from Arizona. Only they must first return the name "Rams" to Los Angeles, so that city can have their team back. Arizona is then free to choose a new moniker. Since their governor is Jan Brewer, I recommend "the Haints." But, the Rattlers would fit well with the baseball Diamondbacks. "The Haints," however, might go well with the New Orleans Saints.  But "Jazz" is synonymous with the Crescent City, so return the name to its proper place and then Utah can become the "White Polygamists." It's sort of like the Crimson Tide, only kinkier. Finally, give the Lakers back to Minnesota and retire the silly Timberwolves name. L.A can become the "Stars," like they were in the old ABA. Charlotte can then reclaim their Hornets from New Orleans and put the Bobcat mascot in play. Maybe Utah has bobcats. When fans get back their traditional mascots, everyone will be happy, and there's nothing so pliable as a happy customer next time they decide to raise ticket prices.

It's curious that some of the most durable teams are located in the most economically distressed areas. That's because they have owners with a stake in the community that understand the value of long-time fan loyalty. The Rooney family has owned the Pittsburgh Steelers since the leagues' inception. Founder Dan was known for his generosity, and son Art developed the "Rooney Rule," which says any NFL team with a coaching or managerial vacancy must interview a minority candidate. "Papa Bear" George Halas both coached for and owned the Chicago Bears. Born in Chicago, Halas was noted for his philanthropy. The Packers have the only publicly owned franchise in pro sports, with over 100,000 Green Bay fans holding stock in the team. When the Packers leap into the stands after a touchdown, they're just saying "hello" to the boss. But corporate money has corrupted sports. Where teams once played their games in Veterans Stadium, the Polo Grounds, and Soldier Field; they're now in Qualcomm Park, MetLife Stadium, and Bank of America Stadium. Corporations are so fond of splashing their name on every sports edifice in the nation, here's a thought: spend some of that tax-exempt cash putting your names on hospitals, schools and colleges, rather than just college bowl games.

Finally, a word to the Grizzlies front office. I've said this before but in vain, so permit me to say this once again, only louder. LISTEN TO ME! You are wasting a unique opportunity to promote Memphis' most famous export; music. The formulaic techno music used throughout the league is not inspiring, it's annoying. Imagine the excitement if the team enters the arena to the sound of the Bar Kays' "Soulfinger." Rather than "We Will Rock You," picture the crowds' response to the opening two chords of "Jailhouse Rock." And, after a Grizzlies rally, the audience might enjoy a bit of Jerry Lee Lewis' "Whole Lotta' Shakin' Going On." You have everyone from Carl Perkins to Three 6 Mafia to choose from. I'm not fishing for a job here. If you throw a rock in this town, chances are it will come down and hit a music expert. So, pick your consultant, but be bold and plant your own flag. In the words of celebrated philosopher Sam the Sham, "let's not be L-7," and be just another follower of the formula. Sam Phillips once said, "If you're not doing something different, then you're not doing anything." You Grizzlies execs aren't in Vancouver anymore. You're in the town of visionaries like Sam Phillips of Sun Records, and Dewey Phillips, the free-spirited disc jockey immortalized in "Memphis, the Musical." So, like the man said, "let's get hot, or go home!"

Generation Gas-X

Hi Kids! Uncle Randy here. As a younger man, I found nothing quite so boring as listening to old people complain about their ailments. But I'm here to help you and give you some insight into growing older so that you might prepare yourself. Also, I'm here to remind you to dance as much as you can. You'll miss that. My advice comes with an appeal. Can we finally stop using the infantile term, "Baby Boomers" to refer to my generation? I'd prefer Atomic Kids or Original Mouseketeers, but I'd like to find the person that branded me a "baby boomer," and throttle him. There's nothing baby-like about growing older but the diapers, and hopefully, that's still down the road a few decades. I believe the party that's guilty for the "boomer" moniker worked for Life Magazine? Remember magazines? They're those things that sit on the tables in doctors' office waiting rooms. I'm sure Kindle will make them obsolete before you have a seat. But you will take a seat, nonetheless. The doctor will see you now.

While visiting with a friend and listening to him complain about a hernia, I felt the need to one-up him with my gruesome tales of last year's gall bladder surgery. I've embellished the story over time, though the basics are true. They had to open me up the old fashioned way and remove the gelatinous mass that was my gall bladder, except I didn't have health insurance, so they scooped it out with an old, rusty, garden hoe. It's been over a year, and I'm still walking around like Groucho Marx. Except, I'm not the only one. It seems like all my contemporaries are either being scoped, scanned, prodded, or pricked. In these trying times, I can understand how someone might develop stomach problems, but everybody at once? The number of clinics waiting to probe you for the insurance money are growing like Pizza Huts, and the "oscopy factories" are as efficient as the Cadillac assembly line. The unseen consequence of this explosion of invasive procedures is a generational obsession with digestive regularity. When a group of older people go out to dinner, they'll call the next day not to ask how was the food, but how did the food go down? They say "all things must pass," but not according to my peers. Once, we used to discuss acid, now it's acid reflux. I thought I could once again trot out that joke about "all the old hippies getting together now to drop antacid," but we're way beyond over-the-counter medication now. Even friends who once shunned drug use are now hooked on Senna.

Of course, the exercise gurus are right, you have to get up off of the couch, but football is just so colorful in Hi-Def. I still have several friends that walk, jog, or play tennis, but they're forever complaining about Bursitis and there's always medication and shots involved. My theory about vigorous exercise was always, "no pain; no pain." But of all the workouts of which I'm aware, there is no correct way to exercise the gall bladder. So, this wasn't a case of "use it or lose it," as the doctors advise. Years of expensive tests which failed to detect the problem have convinced me that I am another victim of the Medical/Pharmaceutical/Insurance Axis of Evil, and all the exercises in the weight room won't reimburse me what I've forfeited to the "procedure" industry. And make no mistake, the majority of doctors quietly bought into the insurance scam long ago because it made them rich. It's no accident that Germantown Parkway is dotted with private medical clinics. I think I might have built a wing on one of them. I've been told that there are exercises that I can do that thankfully don't strain stomach muscles, but my career as a promising cage fighter is over. My new motto is "Live healthy, eat right, die anyway."

To quote the great American poet Curtis Mayfield, "I know everybody whose heart is still thumping; is drinking, shooting, snorting, or smoking on something." If there were singles bars for the aging, instead of "What's your sign?" the main pick-up line would be, "What anti-depressant are you on?" We gather now in small groups and discuss the merits of Lexipro as opposed to Effexor; and is Abilify really worth the boost at over $400 dollars a month? When in a group of old friends, our discussions go straight from politics and protests to prostrates and our PSA's. With that particular gland, size does matter. And when you get past six decades, suddenly nobody can pee anymore. For that, the doctor prescribes Flomax, and for sinus congestion they prescribe Flonase, but I know a guy who confused the two, took out a handkerchief, and blew his penis. (Come on, it's original). And what's growing faster than the erection industry? Nowadays, guys without any erectile dysfunction whatsoever will take a Viagra just to make a point. It's enough to give a man restless leg syndrome.

I just figured that a year after invasive surgery, I should be feeling somewhat better, so after yet more tests, my doctor returned with a good news/bad news prognosis. My nerve was cut, so I can expect to live a life in a certain degree of pain, plus I will continue to have unpredictable and sudden gastric episodes, which will keep me closely tethered to my reading room. The good news is it's not going to kill me. How is one supposed to respond to that? "Great, I'll suffer from these maladies then die of something else?" I've been informed that there are preventative measures that will allow Melody and I to go out and socialize without me constantly worrying that I'll pull an Elvis and do a header into somebody's bathroom floor. Melody assures me, however, that she will not allow me to sit and vegetate, which reminds me, I need to eat more vegetables. One of my father's wiser sayings was, "It's better to be rich and healthy than poor and sick," only I never thought I'd have to put his theory to the test. So, I'm grateful to the Church Health Center for looking after me, and I'm going to try harder this year to become more active. But, if you younger folks should happen to see me around town and I have a cane by my side, take a look but don't stare too long, for I am you.

Thanks, Melody, for the title..

Please, Stop That

I've always heard that if you get pooped on by a bird, it's supposed to be good luck, but the day before New Years, it looked like a scene from a Hitchcock movie at my house. Thousands of robins roosting in the trees bombed everything in sight, including the deck, the car, the dog, even the bird feeder. My father used to say, "It's a dirty bird that fouls its own nest," but if this is a portent of things to come, I should be having a shit-load of good luck this year.  I sure hope so, because after 2011, this crappy year couldn't end soon enough for me. In this political climate of wasted opportunity and obdurate myopia, it wasn't the heat, it was the stupidity, and there was plenty of dumb to spread around. Between the reactionary Republicans and the docile Democrats, these annoyances plagued my existence, which is why, in this new year, I'd like to implore the perpetrators to, "Please, stop that." Beginning with:

Hand-held Devices- I don't "tweet" and I don't text for several reasons, the first being that texting has destroyed the public's ability to spell and has given birth to a hundred cutesy abbreviations and a moronic shorthand. If I want to type, I'll do it on a keyboard and not with my thumbs, and I will continue to try and express myself like a person instead of a robot. As for "tweeting," I don't care what you had for lunch. Since CNN has begun adding viewer "tweets" to their broadcasts, the full idiocy is on display for the world to see. I tuned in to see the news, not some hash-tag, half-wit's opinion of the news. For those permanently lost in their hand-held gadget worlds, walking the streets like zombies and altering what it means to be in a "community," please, stop.

Local News- If all you watched was local news, you'd never leave the house. I don't blame the "talent," since most are either established professionals or ambitious telejournalists on their way up. But, my God, if they can't find a gruesome enough murder or rape in Memphis, they will search the tri-state area for an event that's suitably heinous. I've heard the old saying, "If it bleeds, it leads," but local news broadcasts would have you believe that the streets of Memphis are running with blood. I blame the General Managers and News Directors that insist on following the "formula," that's the same in every major city in every state. It's not about news, it's about ratings, and crime does seem to pay after all. Only, don't say that you're "on our side" when your bread and butter is scaring people. No wonder Memphis has lost population in the past decade. Please, stop doing that.

The Tea Party- I suppose the game's about over for the radical right until they form their third party and guarantee Barack Obama's re-election. Then they'll be relegated to the ranks of other loser, fringe parties that peddled hate instead of hope. What a strategy! Oppose every initiative the president proposes, then blame the Democrats for a lack of accomplishment. I hope that when the people go to the polls to literally clean House, they only bounce the right people, the far-right people. Unfortunately, the Tea Party still rules supreme in most state legislatures, including Tennessee, where they demonstrate their dedication to limited government by proposing to drug-test welfare recipients. I say, "You first, Senator." And prescription meds count. After the revolting Curry Todd episode, perhaps we should drug test for gun ownership. A drunken legislator driving around with a loaded weapon in his car is a sufficient reason to say, "Please, stop  that." Which brings me to;

Gun Carry Permits- We have hotheads in jail who shoot someone over parking disputes, yet the NRA has funded enough local politicians for them to continue their efforts to allow gun fanatics to carry their weapons anywhere at anytime. This includes public parks, bars and restaurants, even church. Say what you will about the "Occupy" protesters, at least they're not armed, unlike that other "grassroots" movement. And the carry-permit crowd are always "law abiding citizens," right up until the minute they blow someones brains out. I don't know who I fear more, street thugs, or the person driving in the lane next to me. Take Johnny Cash's advice and "don't take your guns to town." As for the NRA enriched "public servants" whose souls have been purchased, please, stop that.

Basketball Announcers- OK, I'm into the Grizzlies, but every time the arena announcer opens his mouth, my silver fillings begin to rattle. Enthusiasm is one thing, but this guttural hysteria and forced glee is so annoying, it detracts from the game. In the old days of AM rock radio, they called over-the-top, "personality" disc jockeys like this "pukers." You're not Michael Buffer, pal, and we already have cheerleaders, so could you  take it down a notch? I guess I was spoiled by 40 years of the late Fred Cook in the Coliseum, but the Tiger's announcer is similarly afflicted. Also, I know Memphis is stuck in a mediocre conference, but is it too much to ask the CSS network to buy a decent camera? It's like watching Russian television. And if I have to hear "We Will Rock You" one more time, I'm going to stick railroad spikes in my ears. The Griz have the unique opportunity of playing music exclusive to Memphis at home games. If an opponent is called for travelling, Rufus Thomas could sing, "Walking the Dog." I'd offer to help, but I'm not much of a company man. Meanwhile, your recorded musical selections suck, so please, stop that. And while we're on the subject; 

Pro Sports- Lockouts in football and basketball, juicing in baseball, billionaires fighting millionaires over that last slice of the pie- and there's something unseemly about Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones building a billion dollar gilded football palace in the middle of a depression. This is like ancient Rome, when gladiatorial contests distracted the populace from the decline of the empire. It's fitting that their quarterback's name is Romo. Despite my affection for my Texas kinfolk, the Cowboys now truly represent "America's Team,"- opulence and excess in the midst of a losing season. As for Dallas Mavericks' owner Mark Cuban, have a seat Sonny, you ain't on the team. You own Dirk Nowitzkli's contract, not Dirk. And in this era of the "foreclosure society," why are the California Angels paying a 32 year old man $260 million to play ten years of baseball? I believe it was Curt Flood who once said, "A well-paid slave is still a slave." For both arrogant owners and showboat athletes, please, stop that.

Fox News- Fox News is like poison. It won't kill you all at once, just a little at a time. The unapologetic propaganda arm of the Republican Party is the electronic equivalent of the Hearst newspapers of the late 1880s, for which the term "yellow journalism" was invented. At least in the 19th century, you had to be able to read to be affected by a newspaper. Fox viewers soak it up like Brawny absorbent tissue and repeat it as gospel. You hear it in their conversations and read it in online comments and letters to the editor. Unfortunately, it's the gospel according to Rupert Murdoch, the scandal-ridden, right-wing foreigner who fueled and funded the ridiculous "birther" nonsense about the president. Fox's disinformation campaign didn't keep them from firing Glen Beck, the false Messiah searching for a cult. A recent poll by Fairleigh Dickinson University found that, "Fox viewers know less than people who don't watch any news." Murdoch, like Hearst, is a provocateur that will print anything that sells. Hearst came to regret his journalistic sins. As for Murdoch and Fox News, please, stop that. Better yet, go away, and take that sumbitch Limbaugh whicha'. Then we can all have a happy new year.

The Greatest Guitarist You Never Heard

This week, rather than rant, I'd prefer to rave, about the greatest guitarist you never heard. His name was Lyn Vernon. You'd be forgiven for not recognizing his name. This year marked the 40th year of his passing and no one outside of a few crusty musicians remembers who he was, yet his influence on this entity we call the Memphis Sound is so enormous that it would not be the same without him. Vernon made his living playing Big Band music and Jazz during the post-war era of live radio transmissions from the Peabody Skyway. For several years, he worked with veteran trombonist Louie Pierini in a jazz quartet, and doubled on guitar and vibraphone with pianist Irving Evans' orchestra at the exclusive Summit Club, five nights a week, for two decades. He was in such demand as a performer that young Memphians might never have seen him if not for his morning gig. "Good Morning From Memphis," on then WREC TV, was co-hosted by the erudite Fred Cook and Gordon Lawhead, with news, conversation, and a live band, featuring Vernon. Every morning the stocky man with the short, curly hair would offer a beaming smile for the camera while his fingers flew over the neck of his guitar, creating clean, clear notes that cascaded from the TV speaker like droplets of water from a rushing stream. He made it look fun and easy.

After Memphis got their first good look at Elvis in 1956, hundreds of local kids fanned out in search of guitars and someone to show them how to play. It so happened that Lyn's day job was teaching guitar in a cramped attic studio of a girls' dancing school at Summer and National. After a great deal of pleading, my parents agreed to let me take guitar lessons at $9.00 per week, only there was a waiting list. I finally took my first lesson from Mr. Vernon in the spring of my 11th year. The greasers who hung out next door at Geters Dollar Store, wearing blue jeans and white T-shirts with a pack of Lucky Strikes rolled up in the sleeve, would yell at me, "Hey Elvis, play us a song," to general laughter. A delinquent with greasy hair molded into a duck-tail sneered, "That gee-tar is bigger than he is," which would have been funny had it not been true. From there, I had to negotiate my way through a sea of tiny, giggling girls in pink tutus to a ladder that led to the attic. Halfway up, mounted on the wall, was an 8x10 glossy photo of a young Larry Raspberry dressed in a fringed cowboy shirt. Climbing back down the attic ladder after my time was up, I encountered Larry Raspberry himself, who had the lesson after me. Then, it was once again through the phalanx of ballerinas to face the waiting greasers. One day, my ride was late and I got the usual, "Hey, Elvis," jocularity. I put the case on the sidewalk and extracted my Sears guitar. Then, daringly putting one foot on their chrome bumper and placing the guitar on my knee, I sang Elvis' version of "Mean Woman Blues." When the song ended, just like a real Elvis movie, the heckling stopped. When I showed up the following week, they still yelled, "Hey Elvis," only this time with a tone of respect.

Another aspiring guitarist was a youngster named Sid Manker. By the mid-fifties Manker was an advanced student of Vernon's when he co-wrote and played the hypnotic guitar line of "Raunchy," by the Bill Justis Orchestra. Released by Sam Phillips on The Phillips International label, the record became the biggest instrumental hit of its time, selling over three million copies. Encouraged by his friend Manker, Sun session guitarist Roland Janes ran to Vernon and paid him for lessons in advance, "to learn more about chord theory." Janes' electrifying, fuzz-drenched guitar caught fire on records by Jerry Lee Lewis and Billy Lee Riley, and before Janes could take his lessons, he had become one of the nation's first guitar heroes. Roland claimed every time he ran into Vernon, he would try to give him his money back. But Janes insisted that he keep it as a down-payment for the lessons he planned to take as soon as he got a break from making hit records. Sid Manker used his royalties from "Raunchy" to support his own Memphis Jazz Quartet. There, he befriended a local jazz musician named Sidney Chilton, who convinced Manker to teach his young son, Alex, to play the guitar.

Charlie Freeman was a skinny kid from Messick High who would demonstrate what he had learned from Vernon to his high school pal, Steve Cropper. Cropper explained, "I would go to Charlie's house after school and wait for him to get home from his lesson. It worked out pretty good for both of us," Steve laughed, "I got a free lesson and Charlie got to practice what he had been taught." Cropper added, "Later, I saved up enough money to get lessons from Lyn myself." Wayne Thompson, lead guitarist for legendary garage band Tommy Burk and the Counts, claimed, "Cropper had the lesson just before mine." Charlie Freeman and Cropper formed a band that ultimately became the Mar-Keys, with Freeman continuing as lead session player for Chips Moman's American Studios and Atlantic Records' Criterion Studios in Miami. Cropper, of course, became one-fourth of Booker T. & the MGs, and as a musician, songwriter and producer, one of the pillars of the glorious Stax sound.

When garage rock emerged in the mid-sixties, performed entirely by high school students, many of Lyn Vernon's charges became successful musicians. Rick Ireland became so proficient that Vernon convinced him to help teach the overflow of young students before Ireland became the manager of Ardent Studios. Fellow students, Bob Simon and I, started the Casuals, then the Radiants, while Larry Raspberry formed the Gentrys with his classmates from Treadwell, and later the super-charged Highsteppers. B.B. Cunningham, Jr. recorded the "Summer of Love" smash hit, "Let It All Hang Out," with his band, the Hombres, and now works with Jerry Lee Lewis. Bobby Manuel became a session guitarist for Stax, working primarily with Isaac Hayes, before producing and engineering the immortal, platinum selling "Disco Duck," by local deejay Rick Dees. Jack Rowell, Jr. made his debut in the Debuts, with Jimi Jamison, and worked with Joyce Cobb before forming his current band, Triplthret. Allen Hester, founder of Natchez, claimed the lesson after Rowell. To sum up, Lyn Vernon taught the major session guitarists at Sun, Stax, and American Studios, and he was the Father of Garage Rock. Yet, despite the near reverence in which his students hold him, no one knows his name. Vernon died at age 49, after experiencing a heart attack in the studio preparing to go on morning television. He still had 41 students. Once, during a lesson, I played a difficult assigned song with gusto and found Mr. Vernon smiling broadly. "I can see it all now," he said. "In a few years, you're going to be riding around in the back of a limousine, I'll just be sitting there on the corner, and you won't even stop. You'll just speed by." I answered him earnestly, "No, Mr. Vernon. I'll always stop and pick you up. I promise." Perhaps, in a small way, I've finally succeeded.

Sexual Congress

I've been enjoying the new reality show, "Sex Lives of the Rich and Heinous," starring the 2012 GOP presidential contenders, only now it's on every channel. In the latest episode, people everywhere held their breath as the fate of the free world fell into the hands of a single woman; Gloria Cain. Would she tell her husband that he was a scoundrel and philanderer and to get his hound-dog ass home? Or would she make a personal sacrifice for the greater good and not allow a bee-hive of scurrilous rumors to derail the "Cain Train," thus depriving a grateful nation of the entertaining pizza magnate who only last month was the Republican front-runner? After the Cain's "face-to-face," a press conference was held where it looked for all the world like Gloria was about to do her best Tammy Wynette impersonation and "Stand By Her Man," but alas, the Cain Train has pulled into the station and drawn its brakes. The press conference began with a prayer from Alveda King, the right-wing niece of Martin, and the La Toya of the King family, before the Cains entered hand-in-hand with the crowd chanting "Gloria," like it was a Van Morrison concert. But, Gloria just smiled and waved while Herman continued to deny a boatload of charges of sexual impropriety, blamed it all on the elitist media, and claimed that politics was "a dirty, dirty game." I suppose the devil made him grope those women. After all, "9-9-9" is just "6-6-6" upside-down.

Just before Cain returned to Georgia to face his wife, he claimed in a speech that, "Stupid people are ruining America." Here, I tend to agree with you, Bubba. Only a fool would launch a candidacy for president with a virtual harem of accusing women claiming sexual abuse just a tabloid's phone call away. Yet Cain seemed oblivious to mounting charges of inappropriate sexual conduct, harassment, assault, and finally, a 13-year long extra-marital affair. Who does this guy think he is, Bill Clinton? At least Clinton acknowledged his serial infidelities as "problems" in his marriage, but Cain insisted his 13 year fling with a Georgia woman was merely one of a generous businessman helping out a friend in need. I wanted to test that theory in real life, so I told my wife, Melody, that I've had this secret gal-pal for many years, and because times are tough, I've been paying her car note and utilities. Before I could scream that the friendship was strictly Platonic and it was only my compassionate nature speaking, Melody was headed for the knife drawer in the kitchen, muttering something about a Lorena Bobbitt. I explained that I only kept it quiet so as not to burden her with all those cancelled checks made out to "Gigi," but I guess my wife isn't as understanding as Mrs.Cain. One of Herman's accusers claimed that he reached under her dress and grabbed her inner-thigh, proving Cain to be the ultimate pizza man, always going for that extra slice. To translate the end of the Herman Cain presidential campaign into the language of the pizzeria; Gloria was the hot pepper and ground sausage. Herman was the barbequed chicken, deep-dish.

Michele Bachmann defended Cain saying, "(He) brought much energy and goodwill to the race." Of course Bachmann also said that a woman should bear her rapist's child, and that her religious belief requires her to be "submissive to her husband." The Stepford Candidate was in Iowa, stumping to overturn the state law recognizing same-sex marriage, when a student asked her why gay people shouldn't have the same rights to marry as heterosexual couples. Bachmann patiently explained that, according to her Oral Roberts University law degree, "All of us have the same civil rights, but we must follow the law." Ergo, gay men and lesbians do have the same rights as everyone else, only they must marry someone of the opposite sex. So, a gay man marrying a straight woman is completely acceptable in Bachmann world. In poker, they call that tipping your hand. Already going down in the polls like the Hindenburg, Bachmann expressed hope that true conservatives that had backed Cain would "return to her," after she lost her brief lead to Rick Perry. The Texas governor has had to confront rumors of infidelity for years in his home state. The issue probably hasn't arisen in the campaign because Perry is too busy stepping on his own dick.

No sooner had I washed the stench of the John Edwards affair from my nostrils, than here comes a resurgent Newt Gingrich. The ethically challenged Gingrich is being hailed as the "probable nominee" by many pundits, including Gingrich himself, who recently intimated that this just might be God's plan. Only, Cain and Bachmann said the same thing, so I think God is just messing with them. For those with a short memory, here's a brief, documented and sourced, highlight reel of the life of Newton Gingrich, defender of family values and the sanctity of marriage. Gingrich married his high school Geometry teacher, Jackie, when he was 19 and she was 26. Jackie paid Newt's way through college all the way to his PhD, and they had two daughters, while Gingrich conveniently avoided the Vietnam War, which he supported. When Newt acquired political ambition, he brought divorce papers to his wife's hospital room while she was recovering from uterine cancer. After being granted the divorce, Newt refused to pay alimony and child support until his hometown 1st Baptist Church had to take up a collection to support the deserted family. Regarding his wife, Gingrich was quoted as saying in an article featured in The New York Times; "She's not young enough or pretty enough to be the wife of a president. And besides, she has cancer."

Newt's second wife, Marianne, maintained a separate residence for six of their twenty-year marriage. Newt asked for a divorce from Marianne by phoning her on Mother's Day, 1999, after indulging in a six year affair with his current wife, Callista, she of the golden helmet of hair. During their clandestine assignations, Gingrich led the impeachment of Bill Clinton, and stacked up 84 charges of personal ethics violations resulting in a $300,000 fine and his ultimate resignation from office. Newt was also an enabler. If he had not led the government shut-down of 1995, Monica Lewinsky would never have delivered that pizza. Somehow, it all gets back to pizza. And if  Callista has a half-million dollar a year jewelry habit, Newt might not be able to afford being president. I'm reminded of the line by comedian Stephen Wright, who said of a friend, "He's gotten himself a trophy wife, only I don't think it was for first place." Still, the rabid right-wing hails Gingrich as a man of "big ideas," like child labor and apprentice school janitors. Slavery was a big idea; it just wasn't a good idea. Gingrich bragged in an interview last week that he was among the primary architects of supply-side, trickle-down economics during the Reagan era. So the joke's on us. We're all Newt's bitches now. Shouldn't I at least get some Tiffany cuff-links, or something?

Freakin' Cops

"And these children that you spit on
  As they try to change their worlds,
  Are immune to your consultations,
  They're quite aware of what they're going through."

  David Bowie; "Changes"

Back in the bad old days of the Nixon era when, like today, public unrest was reaching critical mass, I found myself involved in a campus demonstration at UT-Knoxville that began as a theatrical protest over the lack of a student voice in university affairs. A student group had petitioned, and was granted, a vote on the search committee to find a replacement for the beloved Andrew D. Holt, the retiring  President of the University. Instead, the committee waited until Spring Break when the campus was vacant, and chose who they wanted. The local version of the SDS, called the BODS (Big Oranges for a Democratic Society), gathered a crowd on The Hill to object to the bureaucratic bait-and-switch with some street satire and guerrilla theatre, only not everyone got the joke. Several beefy-looking jock types confronted the hippies during a break in classes, the crowd swelled, and the mood grew ugly. Predictably, the university panicked and called the Knoxville city police, enraging the students, who began chanting, "Pigs off campus." When one of the protest leaders was arrested and thrown into a squad car, what had begun as fun and games turned deadly serious as the group of protesters turned into a crush of people who rushed the doors of the Administration Building, which were quickly locked by university employees.

I was trapped in the middle of a sea of rage and could see the police riot squad, now inside the building, assembling a flying wedge in preparation to disperse the crowd. You could feel the mentality of the mob take over, driving the protesters' anger. The fear was palpable. When the squad of baton-swinging riot police waded into the mob in a skull-cracking frenzy, beating students to the ground and spilling their blood onto the late spring snow, I turned and ran. Casualties began trickling into the Student Center, none worse than the wound to my own conscience. Because I ran, I considered myself a coward; and no rejection hurts quite like self-rejection. I vowed that the next time a situation arose where I could be in danger from the police, I was going to be prepared like the South Koreans and bring my own damn helmet and stick. The cops hated us; we hated the cops. Fortunately for my health, I never had to put my freshly-minted, false courage on the line. No other campus or anti-war demonstration in which I participated ever again turned violent. Although when I was pamphleteering Richard Nixon's crashing of a Billy Graham Crusade in Neyland Stadium, I was spat upon by a few of the more righteous attendees.

Ultimately, I reached an age when the World War II era cops were pretty much retired and a few of my oldest friends had even joined the force. I could no longer think of the "cops" as a monolithic thing as much as dedicated individuals doing a difficult job, no more than the police could classify any long-haired or black person as a revolutionary. With the exception of a few major cities where corruption was systematic, police forces became more professional, better trained, and increasingly attuned to the law. The end of the Vietnam War seemed to also bring an end to the venomous rancor among citizens, and the intimidating image of the helmeted riot cop was iconicized in the disco group, The Village People." Since we've been through all this generational nastiness before, it was with particular disgust to hear Newt Gingrich say to the "Occupy" protesters, "Go get a job after you take a bath." I thought I was having some hideous flashback of the worst of the Seventies. In any case, there are no jobs and all the bathtubs are in use by the Cialis Company. What could really use a thorough rinsing, however, is Gingrich's soul. He was among the architects of the very difficulties that are causing the street protests today. The return of police violence, however, was unexpected.

By now, everyone has seen the video of UC-Davis campus police Lieutenant John Pike using pepper-spray on a group of passive protesters, as if he were spraying the baseboard for termites. The repugnant casualness of his actions made my blood boil, as it did for one old friend whose daughter is a student at the university, and said, "It was like Kent State without the bullets." In other cities where the police have shown excessive force, particularly New York and Oakland, there is a chain of command in which to distribute the blame. Although Oakland's Mayor Jean Quan and New York City's Michael Bloomberg have become the modern equivalents of Richard J. Daley and Bull Connor, the police are there to insure public order and have no further responsibilities to the protesters. Not so with UC-Davis Chancellor Linda P.B. Katehi, whose first concern should be the safety of the students in her charge. Katehi complained that students staying on the Quad overnight constituted an "encampment," something she had unilaterally banned for the weekend protests. It was her office that sent in the campus police. The two "officers" impersonating exterminators were put on "administrative leave" while Katehi forms a "task force" to study the incident. I'm sure in the eyes of my friend, whose daughter is now participating in the protests, Ms. Katehi is not someone you can entrust with the care of your child, and needs to resign immediately and hire a good civil attorney.  

There's no question that the movement has been infiltrated by "agitators" who, in the case of the black-clad window breakers in Oakland, turned out to be undercover police. But for every cop like the ones at UC-Davis, there's Captain Ray Lewis, former Chief of the Philadelphia Police, whose arrest at the OWS protest for disorderly conduct while in full uniform was caught on a video that also went viral. Lewis, who had been retired for eight years and led a self-described "secluded life," with the Internet as his only source of information, felt inspired by protesters "who were doing this for all people suffering from injustice," and felt compelled to make the trip to "assist the movement." He understood that the protesters were there for the protection of policemen's rights too. Captain Lewis carried a sign encouraging the NYPD not to become "Wall Street's mercenaries." Lewis also demonstrated the power of the Internet at the very same time the police evicted all protesters from Zuccotti Park, proving that the "Occupy" movement needs no permanent encampment to continue, and that we've finally discovered a useful purpose for the "flashmob." Winter shouldn't bring on a self-inflicted Valley Forge. It's one thing to suffer for a cause, it's another to get pneumonia for it. And for the cops that don't yet get it, thanks to cell phone-cams, the whole world really is watching this time. You will not be allowed to beat these people, so you had better damn well join them.

                                                                                                        

The Elephant Walk

Can you believe the presidential election is less than a year away? So, here's what's going to happen. After another dozen or so more debates, the Republican presidential candidates are going to loathe the sight of each other because there's no way to weed anyone out of the process before the primaries begin. The worthy Jon Huntsman will be first to go, followed rapidly by Bachmann, Gingrich, Santorum, Paul, Cain, and any other fringe candidates. Except, they're all fringe candidates. This will leave only Mitt Romney and the idiot Rick Perry standing, even after the stunningly ridiculous vaudeville routine the Texas governor delivered in New Hampshire that has become a viral video. By the time the GOP Convention begins in Tampa next August, the nominee designate will be Romney, because the Republicans always nominate the rugged looking guy who's turn has arrived, just like Bob Dole and John McCain. This will leave the Tea Party faction madder than Herman Cain's wife. They'll beg someone; anyone, to be the ABR (Anyone but Romney) candidate, up to and including Sarah Palin and Jeb Bush, and when rebuked they'll attempt a brokered convention or try to draft someone. But in the end, Romney will be the man and the Tea Party will go insane. They'll either attempt a third party  run with God knows who, perhaps Glen Beck, or intentionally sabotage Romney's campaign. For the Tea Party crowd, the choice between a Muslim or a Mormon is too much to fathom.

I know this because I have (insert your own cliche here: read this book, seen this movie, trodden this path) before. The only variable is at which party's convention will the most protesters gather. And  what happens in the streets could revive that whole "law and order" business the Republicans have run on so successfully before in times of civil disobedience. Already, they mock the "Occupy" movement as being populated by hippies and the homeless. It's unpredictable what will happen when the movement "occupies" Tampa because of Florida's irrational governor Rick Scott and the allegiance of the police. In 1968, when the Democrats nominated the moderate Hubert Humphrey, who was a defender of LBJ and the Vietnam War, street protests turned into bloody, skull-cracking melees after Chicago mayor Richard J. Daley unleashed his baton-swinging police on the protesters, in what an independent commission later determined a "police riot." The ugliness and brutality caused the populace to turn to Richard Nixon, our second worst president, to restore order in the land. The moderate Democrat lost because of discord within the party and the anger of the liberal left. Mitt Romney will lose because of the same anger on the rabid right. My hope is that voters are enlightened enough to see that the Tea Party Congress they put in power in 2010 has done nothing but harm, and they will just as assuredly vote them out. The right-wing's blitzkrieg on public employees and their unions should seal the deal.

Everyone seems to have gotten the message but the police. As public employees, their rights are under siege as surely as teachers, city service laborers, and nurses. The right's open war on collective bargaining includes police unions too, yet police forces in Oakland, New York, Chicago, Denver, Boston, Atlanta, and Nashville have attacked the "Occupy" camps with violence and arrests. If the police were not ensnared in an "us vs. them" scenario, they would join the protesters instead of beating them. But riot squads train for similar situations requiring crowd control, and when assembled to face a large group of disgruntled citizens, they will exercise that training. When the police are ordered by a municipal lackey to dismantle an assembly with nightsticks, helmets, Plexiglas shields, pepper spray, and all the toys, don't you think they're going to use them? If Memphis Mayor A C Wharton were wise, and I know he is, he would instruct the police to protect the protesters in the Civic Center Plaza against predators in their midst, and put up a dozen port-a-potties as a gesture of goodwill. If nothing else, the movement has Bank of America quaking in their jackboots. New York police arrested 24 people over the weekend who were attempting to remove their funds from Citibank.

The Democratic Convention, which usually attracts the most protesters, will be in Charlotte, N.C. in September. Depending on the state of the economy and the intransigence of the Republicans in office, President Obama will either be regaled as the guardian against the barbarians at the gate, or excoriated for granting the Tea Party Congress a foothold by trying to reason with them in the first place. Nonetheless, Democrats don't force their members to sign tax pledges or defend traditional marriage, like Kim Kardashian's, from the encroachment of the gay hoards wishing to live happy lives, so the convention should be less tumultuous. Despite the expected Obama anger outside, within the convention hall, Democratic unity has been strengthened by the irrationality of the opposing party. Regardless of the President's shortcomings as a political negotiator, none of the carnival barkers that pass for Republican candidates can match him for intelligence, judgement, or respect on the international stage. So, with zero precincts reporting, I can now predict the next president will be Barack Obama. The question is, what will happen with Congress?

The country desperately needs a jobs program for infrastructure repairs, educational improvements, and technological advances, but we'll never get there with the conservative logjam that blocks any and all progress. The House Republicans have wasted their opportunity to lead with a series of meaningless bills concerning social issues rather than addressing the real economic concerns that have made the U.S. a borrower nation. And the Senate has been paralyzed for years by the tyranny of the minority and their misuse of the filibuster. Early on, Senate Republican leader Mitch "Frogman" McConnell freely acknowledged the party's supreme goal was to unseat Obama, and their "just say no" tactics should be repugnant to anyone who values democracy. Yet, in spite of the GOP's obstruction, Obama brought the nation back from the brink of a second great depression, passed healthcare insurance reform, saved the American auto industry and accelerated the development of the electric car, killed Osama bin Laden, stopped a genocide in Libya (for which he was criticized as "leading from behind"), which enabled the Libyan people to kill a murderous dictator, and he ended the war in Iraq. Imagine what he might accomplish with legislators who actually had the best interests of the country at heart.

Fetus Envy

Would you like to know my opinion about abortion? That's what I thought. I don't care what you think either. And that's the way it should be with an issue so personal. Unless it involves you or a loved one, it's none of your damn business what someone else chooses to do about an unwanted or unhealthy pregnancy. And it most assuredly is not the concern of the government. Yet the moronic Tea Party Republicans, who came into office with the promise to concentrate on "jobs, jobs, jobs" have so far focused their legislative efforts on "abortion, abortion, abortion." The "smaller, less intrusive government" conservatives want to keep Washington off of your back, but all up in your uterus. Anti-abortion crusaders refer to themselves as "Pro Life;" a misnomer for sure. If you're "pro-life," you don't sit in the audience at a Republican candidates' debate and cheer about state executions, or that the Republic of Texas has an express lane running through their death chamber. If you're pro-life you don't scream "let 'em die" when discussing a terminally ill patient without health insurance. The loudest people that claim to be "pro-life" aren't really that concerned about the already living. In reality, they are merely "pro-fetus." In a critical time of economic crises, the House Republicans' obsession with abortion is extending the jobless, homeless recession that has gripped the nation since the Bush regime, like horse manure, hit the dusty trail.

The GOP zealots believe that their electoral victories in 2010 gave them a mandate to pursue their social agenda, while neglecting the country's economic turmoil, lest it give Obama a political "victory." To date, the Republican controlled House has presented 44 bills concerning abortion and 71 others regarding family relationships. With unemployment topping 9 percent, the number of jobs programs offered by Republicans? Zero, with a zed. Their medical meddling proposals vary in outrage from preventing women from purchasing private insurance that includes abortion services, to jailing doctors who fail to notify the parents of a minor seeking an abortion. This month, the House, with unanimous Republican consent, passed the "Protect Life Act," a law that would make it legal for a hospital, as a matter of collective conscience, to deny an abortion to a pregnant women with life-threatening conditions, basically allowing her to die on the floor without legal consequence. The Republican presidential candidates fell all over themselves to out-radicalize each other. Michele Bachmann would force a woman to carry her rapist's child to term, and Rick "man on dog" Santorum even came out against contraception. And these are the people who want government out of your lives.

The most violent act against women by the Tea Party cretins is a bill sponsored by N.J. Rep. Chris Smith, called the "No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act." Since the Hyde Amendment, which has been in effect since 1976, does precisely that, Smith's bill would be merely redundant if not for its unfathomable cruelty. The Hyde Amendment bans all federal funding for abortion except in cases of rape or incest, or to save the mother's life. Smith's bill attempts to further constrict a woman's rights by redefining the definition of "rape" from any form of non-consensual sex, to "forcible rape." This would eliminate date rape, statutory rape, incest, or any other such incident in which the woman failed, for whatever reason, to resist. The bill should be renamed the "Your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes" act. The backlash against narrowing the meaning of rape was severe enough for Rep. Smith to remove the language from the bill, but not the bill itself. It sits in the stack with the other 43, including proposals to ban abortion in the District of Columbia by declaring it under federal jurisdiction, and forcing abortion providers to provide mandatory sonograms and anti-abortion counselling. These bills are frivolous, however, when compared to the GOP's all-out war against Planned Parenthood.

Long demonized by the right, a congressional committee has begun an investigation into Planned Parenthood to examine their compliance with the Hyde Amendment amid accusations of being a mismanaged abortion factory awash in dirty money. The cult of the fetus cheered lustily while the president of the pro-life Susan B. Anthony list said, "This is a critical step in holding accountable...a billion dollar business centered on abortion and an unapologetic partner of those who wish to exploit young girls." Meanwhile, on the Planned Parenthood website, the organization claims that last year they performed one million cervical cancer screenings, 800,000 breast exams, and 4 million STD tests and treatments. Abortion came to 3 percent of their combined services. Don't the cervix police understand that Planned Parenthood was there 100 years before Roe v. Wade?  So now the battle to defund and marginalize Planned Parenthood has come to Memphis. The Republican dominated Shelby County Commission has voted to provide state funding for family planning to Christ Community Health Services, which does not perform abortions. I'm certain the Christ Community folks are compassionate and qualified professionals, and will refer a woman wishing to terminate a pregnancy after a bit of faith-based counselling, but they also do not provide emergency contraception, which is sort of like going to the Christian Science Reading Room to fill your prescriptions.

If the rabid pro-lifers had their wildest dreams realized and the practice of abortion was once again made illegal, do they suppose that it would stop? Isn't a woman's privacy and good health preferable to returning to a time of agony and secrecy? I don't know a soul who actually "favors" abortion, either in concept or procedure. No one wants to run out and get an abortion. But unexpected things always happen and criminalizing a bunch of doctors and stigmatizing vulnerable women is not the answer. The irony is that the things that could lessen the need for abortion: sex education, dissemination of contraceptives, abandoning the idiotic "abstinence only" school curriculum, are all opposed by the social conservatives. When I told my wife that I was discussing this subject, she suggested that a female viewpoint was imperative. Melody would like to say that if a man was the one that got pregnant, we would never be having this conversation in the first place. She also wishes to emphasize that no pencil-neck fertilizer salesman from West Texas should be making medical decisions about a family's most intimate concerns, and until a man develops the ability to birth a child, sit down and shut up, Sonny. The surest way to stop this nonsense is to abort this Congress.

In Dog We Trust

George Carlin once said, "When you get a dog, you know in advance that it's going to end badly." That's because the average canine lifespan is a short 10-12 years, depending on the breed. But Carlin, an animal lover, explained that this allows you to have a whole bunch of doggies in a lifetime, and he was never without one. Then again, if Carlin believed the demise of a well-cared for family pet is a life ending "badly," he never visited Memphis Animal Services on Tchulahoma. Those folks can show you a thing or two about animals coming to a bad end. After the Sheriff's Department raid on the facility in October, 2009, resulting from accumulated evidence of animal mistreatment by the Shelter's staff, the employees were relieved of their duties pending an investigation. That left a public perception that the wrong-doers were all let go, but in fact, most were just on leave and only three people lost their jobs: a veterinarian, the Shelter supervisor, and former Shelter Director Ernest Alexander, who was indicted on charges of animal cruelty. Mayor Wharton said, "The only thing we can do from this point is improve."

Unfortunately for the Mayor, this whole matter landed on his desk on his first day in office. I think it's safe to say that Memphis Animal Services was not high on his priority list. The conditions at the Shelter, however, were so wretched that it made embarrasing national news and the mayor was forced to pay immediate attention. The raid produced evidence of starving, neglected animals, the absence of any record keeping, and a euthanasia rate approaching 80 percent. If dogs were people, we'd be Texas. Promising improvements and "transparency," Wharton delegated responsibility to Director of Public Services, Janet Hooks, who, in turn, promoted the same woman who was only recently very publicly fired and charged with animal cruelty after "Kapone," a pit bull who had escaped his yard, went missing while in her custody. The next day, a dog died from heat stroke in the woman's van while she attempted to avoid arrest. This sterling Animal Control Officer was a hiree from Memphis' Second Chance Program for convicted felons. Not that I'm against giving former felons a break, (after all, they rehabilitated Michael Vick), but guess who's also in charge of the Second Chance Program? Can you say Janet Hooks? Perhaps some felons just released from a cage lack sufficient compassion to care for a dumb animal who's still inside one. In fact, the first requirement of potential Shelter employees should be, "Must love dogs."

The replacement for fired Director Alexander was Matthew Pepper, who came to Memphis from Shreveport. Improvements were made. However, Pepper decided to restrict the public's access to the Shelter's entire inventory of dogs by housing only the most presentable in an "adoption area." He explained that seeing all the dogs would only overwhelm and confuse people. Consequently, the adoption rate was limited and behind a locked door marked "Strays," an animal holocaust continued unabated. The city accepted Pepper's "resignation," but unbelievably decided to keep his policies intact. Pepper was quoted as saying he received pushback from city government and received "no support" over his attempts to fire those city employees he believed to be not up to the job. The city has yet to find a replacement for Pepper while the situation has become a large headache for the mayor, and a stand-off with rescue groups and activists who wish to see the Shelter privatized as a not-for-profit organization and de-politicized as an entity competing over the city's scarce tax funding. Meanwhile, the Shelter is still 1300-1400 calls behind in field investigations, including bites, and charges of abuse and neglect. "Kapone" is still missing, and despite the pleas of several citizens, those ominous doors at the facility and the doomed inhabitants within stay locked away from public view.

The question I hear asked most often is, "Why can't the animal activists show the same concern for people that they do for dogs?" The answer is simple. Most people are born with a capacity to care for themselves, but since we have domesticated these former wolves, dogs are totally dependent on humans for their well-being. That's why half the blame of the Shelter's problems are shared by irresponsible pet owners and reckless dog breeders. Not everyone is capable of caring for a pet, but spay and neuter services are often offered at a discount. Bob Barker was right. The major reason that nearly two dozen dogs are killed daily is to make room for replacements that are coming in all the time from unwanted litters and abandoned pets. Through the Tennessee Open Records Act, animal activist Cindy Marx-Sanders found that two-thirds of the euthanized Shelter dogs were put down for "space;" nearly 12,000 animals last year. There are an unbelievable number of pit bulls on the list, indicating over-breeding by greedy amateurs. These strays come from our homes and yards, and are the result of human indifference to some of our finest companions, illustrating a need for the training of pet owners, as well as those employed by Memphis Animal Services.

To their credit, the Shelter is trying. They have instituted more aggressive adoption policies, and every Thursday, they waive their usual fees for a special $10.00 "Yappie Hour." They're supported by a Friends of Memphis Animal Services Facebook page that posts pictures of available pets. They also sponsor off-site adoption events in parks and shopping centers which have proven very successful. October is officially "Adopt a Shelter Dog Month," and if you're able, you should try it. I know the first thing I did after moving back to Memphis from Nashville in 1992 was to get a dog. I had turned into a taciturn loner and thought a pet might help to re-socialize me. Studies have shown that petting a dog lowers blood pressure and eases depression. I figured I could start with a dog and work my way back up to humans. Here it is, 19 years later, and I have a wonderful wife and two rescued pets in the yard. I credit the dog for my recovery.  In mid-November, the Shelter will re-locate to a new $7.2 million, 35,000 square foot facility, including classrooms to train new employees. The problem is they're bringing the old Tchulahoma policies and staff with them. You can't teach an old dog new tricks or compassion either. You either have it or you don't. That's why the Shelter needs to work with those people who have only the animals' best interests at heart instead of locking them out. Before Memphis Animal Services moves to a clean house, they first need to clean house themselves.