Can't Turn You Loose



Isaac Tigrett, "Duck" Dunn, Randy Haspel: Hard Rock Cafe, New York, 1988

Donald "Duck" Dunn used to say that Al Jackson, Jr. was the greatest drummer he'd ever heard. With the recent passing of both Andrew Love and Charles "Skip" Pitts, the guys have all the makings of a smokin' celestial soul combo. Add Isaac Hayes and Otis Redding to the mix, and they've got a full blown Stax/Volt Revue going on for the Heavenly Host. If you're inside the Memphis city limits and you've never heard of Duck Dunn, you must be a tourist. Dunn, who died last week in Tokyo at age 70, was one-fourth of Booker T. & the MGs, the house band during the glory days of Stax Records and among the greatest instrumental groups to ever record. Duck was in Tokyo for a series of gigs with his childhood friend, Steve Cropper, and Stax soul star Eddie Floyd. Cropper posted, "Today I lost my best friend and the world has lost the best guy and bass player to ever live." Booker T. Jones said, "I can't imagine not being able to hear Duck laugh and curse but I'm thankful I got to spend time and make music with him. His intensity was incomparable. Everyone loved him. None more than Otis Redding." Duck's passing essentially ends the 50 year phenomenon known as Booker T. & the MGs. The band recruited another drummer to replace the late Al Jackson, Jr. and played on for another 37 years, but nobody can replace Duck Dunn.

Listen to any track by Otis Redding or Sam & Dave. If Al Jackson, Jr. was the pulse, then Duck's bass was the propulsion. He once described himself as "a seat-of-the-pants bass player," but in reality he was more of a "kick you in your ass" bass player. He not only supplied the bottom, but also the energy, for some of the 20th century's most memorable recordings, like "Soul Man," "The Midnight Hour," and Otis' remarkable "Try a Little Tenderness." Watch those old, black and white videos of the Stax Revue in Europe, 1967, and you'll see Duck's characteristic neck-jerk in time with the music; increasing in fervor with the strength of the groove. Duck's biographical information is familiar to friends and fans; a graduate of Messick High where he and his friend Cropper had a band called the Royal Spades, who morphed into the Mar-Keys and had Stax's first monster hit with the instrumental, "Last Night." When Cropper moved on to fledgling label, he recruited his friend Duck to replace Lewie Steinberg in the MGs, and history was made. The MGs were Memphis' first inter-racial band, something unheard of in the early sixties. But those of us who were younger and aspired to a music career, took pride and inspiration from the group during those turbulent times. In segregated Memphis, an integrated group would most likely be denied the right to share the same bandstand, but in the recording studio, nothing could stop a group of teenagers who all grew up listening to Rufus Thomas and Dewey Phillips on the radio, and Willie Mitchell and the 4 Kings, Bowlegs Miller, and the 5 Royales in the clubs of West Memphis.

It's worth noting that in his fellow musicians' remarks, in the same breath that they praise Duck's musicianship, they note that he was an even better human being. That's what his friends recall first; that Duck was a humble man, unaffected by his worldwide fame, he loved to laugh, either at your jokes or his own, and he very well could have put a bumper sticker on his bass guitar that read, "I'd rather be golfing." Like most Memphians, I admired Duck from afar and regarded him as a soul  icon, until 1981, when we became acquainted. That was the year Huey's Restaurant made their first attempt at expansion with "Louie's," a converted eatery on Poplar Ave. in East Memphis, and had hired my band, the Radiants, to play on Sunday nights. While other local bands were covering Journey and Foreigner, we were still performing a venerable list of Rhythm & Blues classics, with a healthy dose of Stax songs. When Duck began to show up and we asked him to sit in, everyone so enjoyed themselves that we reserved a regular spot for him every Sunday. Our long-time bassist, Steve Spear, was leaving Memphis and I was in a bind to find a suitable replacement. I asked Duck if he knew anybody and he answered, "What about me," and the next day, he was in the band.

Our song list contained some complicated tunes that required rehearsal, but, considering his expertise, I was reluctant to ask Duck to practice. He beat me to it by opening up his home and inviting the band there to rehearse as often as we wished. When we began, Duck cautioned us in typical humility, "Look, I'm no Steve Spear. You're going to have to have a little patience with me." When I later told him, Spear was delighted with the comparison. Along with our Sunday gig, the Radiants began playing Tuesday nights downtown at Jefferson Square, and Duck propelled our band like he did the MGs. When our young saxophonist, Jim Spake, had to leave the band suddenly and I needed to replace him, Duck said, "I don't think Andrew Love is doing anything." The next week, one half of the Memphis Horns joined the band. Andrew stepped in seamlessly without need of rehearsal and I suddenly found myself fronting the best soul band I ever had. I got an offer from a brand-new combination Pizza Parlor/Disco in Dallas and booked the band there for a week. Neither Duck nor Andrew complained about the drive, but when we checked into one of the city's seedier motels to save on expenses, I felt a bit guilty about putting these two world famous musicians into such raunchy accomodations. Halfway through the gig, Andrew came to my room and said, "I think Duck's paralyzed." He had slept beneath an air conditioner and woke up to find half his face frozen into a Joker-like smirk. I thought, "My God. I've crippled this man in a rotten Dallas motel room." A doctor diagnosed Bell's Palsey, but by the evening, Duck was feeling well enough to play and stopped me from phoning Memphis for substitute bass players.

It couldn't last forever. Andrew and his Memphis Horns partner Wayne Jackson went on the road with Robert Cray, and Duck got the call from Eric Clapton. Shortly afterward, in a memorable night at the Orpheum Theatre, Clapton headlined with Duck on bass while the warm-up act was Ry Cooder, featuring Jim Dickinson on keyboard. Then there was the night a rejuvenated Booker T. & the MGs made their first homecoming appearance at B.B. King's on Beale Street. I was sardined into that packed house mainly to support my friends, but when the Hammond organ began a thunderous roiling noise that ultimately became the introduction to "Green Onions," and the band kicked in, I leapt to my feet cheering like the Tigers had won the national championship. Duck found a groove and was snapping his neck sideways, always to the left, and a roomful of lucky patrons got to see the show of a lifetime. Duck was a cancer survivor and lived the past few decades in Sarasota, where he moved for the golfing opportunities as much as for the nice weather. If Duck and Andrew had one thing in common aside from their music, it's that they both were supported by wonderful spouses. June Dunn and PeeWee Love are two of the kindest, yet strongest, women I know, and the love both couples shared made it a delight to be in their company. I'm proud to have known them. In Tokyo, Duck had just finished two shows at the Blue Note Nightclub, when he called home to say he wasn't feeling well. Later that night, he passed away in his sleep. Like the true, musical road-warrior that he was, Duck Dunn died with his boots on.

TV or Not TV

The original bargain struck between the television industry and its viewing audience was that if we plugged the magical picture box into the wall socket, the programming would be for free. In return, a program's sponsor could take four or so minutes per half hour to promote their products and services with commercial advertisements. That deal lasted nearly forty years until the advent of cable TV. So my question is, if we are now paying to watch television, why are there still commercials? We have become so accustomed to the commercial interruption that it has woven itself into the fabric of television's daily reality, at the exact same time that programming has become increasingly unreal. In fact, under the guise of "reality television," programming has become one continuous advertisement, seamlesly blending from TV show into paid commercial, and back again.

From toddler beauty-queens with insane mothers, to "celebrities" in re-hab, nothing is too extreme for exploitation by reality shows. This works out great for producers who no longer have to bother with hiring those troublesome actors with their desire to be paid, or those left-wing scriptwriters with their "human dramas," backed up by show-biz union thugs. Controversial FCC Chairman Newton B. Minow famously referred to television as a "vast wasteland" in 1961. How quaint that back during the Kennedy administration someone actually thought television's objective should be to entertain and inform. Today, the industry's raison d'etre is as an advertising medium, interspersed with the least expensive drivel that the public will tolerate. During an age of flat-screen, plasma, blu-ray, and other advances, I find it unnecessary to watch Hillbilly Handfishin' in high definition. At a time when television technology is at an all-time high, programming is at an all-time low. Who needs Norman Lear or Garry Marshall when we have Chef  Gordon Ramsey and Ryan Seacrest?

Any off-the-wall behavior or activity that you can imagine, there's a reality show about it: extreme hoarders, redneck tycoons, bounty hunters, repo men, pregnant teens, or the morbidly obese. In my house, I like to see the news/discussion programs. I tell my wife, Melody, that it's my job to watch them so I can write this rant. But every time I leave the room, the station has been changed to the Bravo Channel when I return. I finally put my foot down and told her that I refused to watch this mindless, soulless, dreck about self-absorbed women complaining about their privileged lives. So, as we were watching The Housewives of Orange County, I was commenting on how much better Tamra looked now that she's had her breast implants removed. But when I found myself concerned that the feud between Melissa and Teresa on the New Jersey housewives would rip their families apart, it occurred to me why we watch this stuff. In difficult times, if we can take a voyeuristic peek into the travails and troubles of the wealthy, or watch how Teresa's husband, Joe Giudice, faces ten years in prison for forgery, it makes us feel a little better about our own wretched lives. Or, as Joe Giudice is fond of philosophising, "It is what it is. What are you gonna' do?"

Nothing about this window peeking is new, however. It began in 1973 with the PBS series, An American Family, which documented the destruction of the Loud family, holding viewers entranced with weekly admissions of infidelity, drug use, and the coming out of a gay son. It all ended rather badly, however, and though it was ratings gold, no one seemed eager to repeat the experiment. Todays' shows just skip the family trauma entirely and go straight to drug re-hab, where burnt-out former reality show participants explain how they were pre-genetically disposed to alcoholism and addiction. After years of quiz, game, and talk shows that were ordinarily confined to daytime fare, the Big Bang of reality TV was The Real World, the show that took the "music" out of MTV. The success of The Real World spawned a hundred more shows where strangers are locked in a house and filmed over time; Big Brother, Last Comic Standing, Hell's Kitchen, The Apprentice. and the Frankenstinian Jersey Shore, which shamed a generation of young people. MTV, meanwhile, gave us celebrity home invasions like The Osbournes and Anna Nicole, the results of which were resolved in courts, clinics, and morgues. Another disaster was My Big, Fat, Obnoxious Fiance, where a prospective bride's family was led to believe she was marrying a disgusting buffoon up until the phony wedding day when she confessed her hilarious deceit to her traumatized family, who all promptly sought counselling. After the success of Survival, and the phrase, "voted off the island," entered the lexicon, "reality" replaced writing and we were left with Who Wants to be a Millionaire? seven days a week.

We've now seen all the Storage Wars episodes so that they are as quickly identifiable as old Seinfeld reruns. We agree that the people on Pawn Stars in Las Vegas are more likable than the combustible family in Detroit's Hard Core Pawn, where every negative stereotype about angry black people and heartless, Jewish pawnbrokers is played out for the cameras. Between the TruTV Network and the Bravo Channel alone, you can see; Bait Car, World's Dumbest, South Beach Tow, Top Chef, Pregnant in Heels, Next Top Model, Project Runway, and The Shah's of Sunset, which proves that rich Iranians can be just as obnoxious as privileged Americans. But nothing offends like the Kardashian family franchise. Begun as Keeping up With the Kardashians, the story of a family obsessed by surgery and celebrity, it has morphed into what seems a hundred spin-offs. Kim has her own following thanks to a public obsession with her gluteous maximus, with the emphasis on maximus, while her sisters document their marriages to athletes and basketball players, which seem to always end in heartache, as most reality unions do. Just ask Jon and Kate plus Eight. Choose your poison; American Idol, The X Factor, The Voice, America's Got Talent, So You Think You Can Dance, or Dancing With the Stars, someday this will all come to an end and there will be more drama shows to choose from than Law & Order, and CSI. Until then, if you're entertained by television, it's a coincidence. If you're informed, it's a miracle. Unless your trying to catch a catfish in a mudhole with your toes.

The Death Penalty Box

Did you know that if you kill a man in St. Louis you could be executed for the crime, but if you kill the same man across the river in East St. Louis, you will only go to prison? States with capital punishment are very pro-choice. Among 37 states, there are 5 different methods of execution in use, allowing the condemned to choose between the chair, the rope, the needle, the gas chamber, or a firing squad. The Death Penalty stirs strong emotional feelings on both sides. Abolitionists claim that since man did not create life, it's therefore not his to take, without exception. Advocates say that is a deterrent to violent crime and the ultimate justice for its victims. George Carlin said that death was more than just a penalty. A penalty is something that happens in hockey. Death is a bit more permanent. I have given this issue a great deal of thought. I have looked at it from Judaeo-Christian-Zen-Hindu points of view, including the consideration of both karmic laws and state laws. I have contemplated its inhumanity and whatever is the philosophical opposite when it comes to putting a person to death. I have examined the costs and the morality. I have perused the holy texts, including the Bhagavad Gita, and I have come to agree with the wisdom of my Texas cousins: "Some people just need killin'."

I know that admission may shock some of my progressive friends, but I'm conflicted here. I realize that the Christian point of view ought to be no executions, no exceptions, because Jesus Himself stopped one. I guess stoning was a particularly cruel manner of capital punishment, depending on the size of the rocks, but Jesus said, "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone." Then again, the Old Testament calls for "an eye for an eye." So many conservatives cheered for Texas Governor Rick Perry's heavyweight championship of execution during the Republican debates, it's an ongoing spiritual mystery how so many Rock of Ages absolutists can be both pro-life yet also favor the death penalty. Irrespective of the fervor of the faithful, if karma works in the same way as the laws of cause and effect, and someone has committed a crime so horrible that he will return to this life with some type of deformity, we'd be doing him a favor to give him a little nudge along the path of his spiritual journey.

Everyday, I see someone walk out of prison that was on death row. Advances in forensics and other technologies have freed men held captive for decades while others have surely been wrongly put to death. In Texas, they do it for a hobby, like hot dog eaters trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records. On the other hand, Charles Manson may well have reached cult-like status anyway if the death penalty were not eliminated in California in 1972, but he wouldn't have stayed alive long enough to record new CDs and become this country's convict with the most correspondence. I doubt that John Wayne Gacey's paintings would still be on the market if he hadn't spent that much time in prison in order to paint them all. The most egregious example is Richard Speck, the mass murderer. Speck's was the first particularly horrifying mass slaying to be made public during the media age. In 1966, Speck raped, tortured and murdered eight student nurses in their beds at their Chicago apartment. He was quickly captured and sentenced to death, but a Supreme Court decision created a four year moratorium on state execution, under which Speck's life was spared. He later claimed he never really had a reason to kill those girls and that it was so messy, if he could go back, it would just be a simple house burglary.

If there were ever a candidate for capital punishment, it would be Richard Speck. But the evidence was not necessarily in the trial so much as in the prison video Speck made before he died of natural causes at age 50. The footage is still so gag-inducing, it makes me ill to conjure the memory, but without being expansive, Speck is featured snorting coke with his jail lover and showing off new surgically enlarged man-breasts. He says to the "videographer," "If the public only knew how much fun we're having." At that point, I stopped caring about deterrence, or cost, or philosophy, or ethics; I just wished that guy was dead. But, "Vengeance is Mine," sayeth the Lord. Fair enough. But it's also said, "The Lord helps those who help themselves." Face it, there are some people that are just dying to meet their maker, and doing it in so gruesome a way that we, as a society, need to accommodate them. These times in which we live, (the Kali Yuga in Hindi), are so dark that violent crimes have become increasingly brutal, depraved and committed with such savagery, that the perpetrators have forfeited their right to live on this planet and breathe the same air as other humans. Game over. Thanks for playing. Better luck next time.

The 1972 case that stopped all executions for a time was called Furman v. Georgia. It wasn't because of a rigged trial or planted evidence, the court merely ruled that a more uniform system about what did and did not qualify for the death penalty needed to be put in place. So, let's merely follow the court's ruling and narrow the criteria for the ultimate punishment. This would, of necessity, have to be a federal law, just to overrule the "try 'em and fry 'em" regimen of some of our more trigger happy states. To my mother's regret, I am not an attorney, but I'll bet that some legal statutes could be written on a national level, like the voting age, that regulate the conditions necessary for and the method of execution. Leaving a matter of this magnitude to the states has created the chaos we are currently witnessing. I once believed that the correct solution was not to kill the murderers, just lock them in a cage like mad dogs. Forget about rehabilitation or exercise, just slide their food under a crack in the door and let nature do its work. But in recent decades, a category of soulless criminal has emerged that just doesn't deserve any more food and water. For example- anyone committing a mass slaying or spree killing is good to go; anybody that tortures and murders for kicks is hot to trot; serial child predators win a free ticket to the afterlife, including the clergy. Now that might serve as a deterrent.

Female Problems

What would you call someone whose actions intentionally harm their own best interests? 

"Misguided" is the most charitable word I can think of. What about, say, a union organizer in Wisconsin working to keep Governor Scott Walker in office? Or, a group of Mexican-Americans supporting the re-election of Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio because they approve of Arizona's "Your papers, please" law? Would they be masochists or just damned fools? Then how about any woman who would vote for a Republican in the coming election? I don't mean just the presidential contest, I mean any Republican for any public office. After the GOP's party-wide fatwah on womens' contraceptive rights was declared and an agressive campaign to restrict legal abortion swept through statehouses around the country, I can only think of a few possible reasons that women would stick with the Republicans: either they are indoctrinated, propagandized, misinformed, or motivated by a simmering hatred for our mixed-race president with the foreign sounding name. Or else they're Marsha Blackburn.

A religious backed effort to strangle women's access to abortion has been spreading through Republican controlled state legislatures like the whooping cough. Georgia passed the "Women as Livestock" bill, so named when a GOP Representative compared pregnant women to "cows and pigs on (his) farm," sparking fist-fights between lobbyists and a walk-out by Democratic women who wrapped themselves in crime scene tape. Commonly called the "Fetal Pain Bill," Georgia  criminalized abortion after 20 weeks, down from the current 26 weeks, without exceptions. Similar "Fetal Pain Restrictions" have passed in seven additional states, placing roadblocks toward a womans' right to a legal, and safe, abortion. In Mississippi, the legislature passed a bill mandating that physicians have "admitting privileges" at local hospitals before performing abortions. Since Mississippi's sole abortion clinic is the Jackson Women's Health Organization, the new law would effectively shut it down, fulfilling Gov. Phil Bryant's pledge to "make Mississippi abortion free." The obvious consequences would force the state's women seeking reproductive rights into Tennessee. However, Rep. Marsha Blackburn of Brentwood has co-sponsored a bill in Congress prohibiting "bringing minors across state lines for the purpose of abortion."

Behind the scenes is the anti-choice group, Operation Save America, which has targeted states with only one abortion clinic, including North and South Dakota, Wyoming, and Arkansas, virtually making them also "abortion free." If all this sounds eerily like the 1800s, when states were divided into "slave states" and "free states," that is the purpose of the stealth campaign to criminalize abortion through local, rather than federal law. After Virginia passed the mandatory ultra-sound bill, nine states followed suit, including Oklahoma, whose state Supreme Court just struck down the law as unconstitutional. Of all the states attempting to bypass the Roe v. Wade decision of 1973, perhaps the most zealous jihadists are right here in the Republican controlled Tennessee Statehouse. They adopted the Mississippi bill concerning physicians' "admitting privileges," 93-0 in the House, and are currently being sued by Planned Parenthood to re-instate grant funding stripped by the wing-nut legislature. The most frightening thing is that Republicans are poised to dominate the state's legislative bodies well into the foreseeable future, emboldening the anti-abortion crusaders.

Tennessee State Rep. Matthew Hill, a religious broadcaster from Jonesborough, a town of 5,220 near Johnson City, introduced legislation that would require the Tennessee Department of Health to publish detailed information about every woman in the state who has an abortion, including "age, race, county, marital status, education, number of children, location of the procedure, and how many times the woman has been pregnant." In addition, Hill called for the online publication of the names of doctors performing the procedure. After a citizens' uproar, Hill withdrew the proposal, accusing his opponents of "spreading lies about the bill, slandering his reputation, and inciting threats of violence against him." Not to be dissuaded, Hill then proposed a law authorizing Tennessee counties to "erect monuments of the Ten Commandments in courthouses and on their grounds as parts of displays of other historical documents." To paraphrase the late, great Tennessee Governor Frank G. Clement, "How long, O Lord, must we be held hostage by these rural legislative rubes?" Along with the state's "Don't Say Gay" bill, the legislature has passed an "abstinence first" sex education law with legal penalties for instructors who stray from the curriculum. Nashville Democrat Mike Turner said, "They've got a real thing with sex. We're about ready to...put the women in burqas here if we keep going at this rate."

Barack Obama is going to beat Mitt Romney like a conga drum in 2012, and that's not just because he has natural rhythm. The Republicans richly deserve the pounding they are about to receive at the polls, and the Tea Party cultural warriors who were voted in in 2010 will just as vigorously be voted out; and the difference will be women. Polls already show that women see right through the transparent attempt by Republicans to pander to the evangelical, Christian right with new laws restricting reproductive freedom. The self-proclaimed, anti-big government activists are attempting the biggest experiment in religious zealotry since Prohibition; and all this at a time when the major concerns of the electorate are jobs and the economy. As soon as uber-patriot Rush Limbaugh said, "I hope he (Obama) fails," the Republicans had their marching orders. GOP Senate leader Mitch McConnell publicly stated that, "Our main priority is to ensure that this president is a one-term president." From that day on, the Republicans have stonewalled, filibustered, blocked, or opposed every initiative put forward by the Obama administration, even those first proposed by the GOP. Cap and Trade? John McCain's idea. Individual mandate? Bob Dole's idea. The EPA? Richard Nixon's creation. Their grand design is to bring down this president regardless of the damage done to the country. Consequently, the only way to put this nation back on the path to progress is to crush them utterly and make these right-wing reactionaries rue the day they chose partisan politics over principle. Only, where is Gloria Steinem now that we need her?

If I Only Had A Heart

Old Dick Cheney has finally had a change of heart. Even though the former co-president has suffered five heart attacks and has been kept alive since 2010 by a small pump powered by special batteries worn in a fanny pack, he underwent successful heart transplant surgery last Saturday. The Cheney family thanked the anonymous donor, who was rumored to be an illegal, gay activist. Some doctors and ethicists are already questioning the wisdom of granting an organ implant to a sick, 71 year old man, but if I was on Cheney's death panel, I'd say more power to him. Give him a new heart, a fresh kidney, a clean lung; whatever it takes to keep his vital signs ticking. I want to see Dick Cheney healthy and hearty so he can be alert for his war crimes tribunal. It would be inhumane to have him show up trembling and frail, unable to defend himself. So what if the average heart recipient is in the 50-60 year old range? This man has a rendezvous with destiny, and destiny's pissed off. In Cheney's defense, he had waited 20 months to receive a donor heart. I understand that he was on the recipient's list just above Kony. In a single year, this man had a quadruple bypass, two angioplasties, and a pacemaker surgically implanted. No wonder he was so bitterly opposed to medical malpractice litigation. His doctor's assistant is a hunchback named Igor. 

According to Transplant Living, the cost of a heart transplant has gone up from $658,800 in 2007, to approximately $997,700 today. Of course, Cheney has the government, gold-plated health care plan, the kind that you can't get, so taxpayers will pick up the tab for cracking the old man's chest. This means I'm paying to keep Dick Cheney alive while going without health insurance myself. I have to wait until 2014 when a provision in the Affordable Care Act, affectionately known as "Obamacare," kicks in and prevents insurers from discriminating against "pre-existing conditions." I made the mistake of seeing a psychiatrist once, so now, no organization of any sort will insure me because I'm insane, you know. If it weren't for the generous people at Church Health Center, who offer discounted medical services to the working poor or otherwise uninsurable, I'd be lying in the back room on a ventilator and an IV drip, writing my last check. Dick Cheney gets to promenade around like the Energizer Bunny while 49 million people lack access to the most basic care. Yet the right-wing propaganda machine has convinced the proletariat that Obamacare is a government takeover of healthcare, when it's really just an effort to reign in the cut-throat insurance industry that makes its profits by denying care to the sick.

The controversial law will finally see a courtroom this week when the Supreme Court decides the constitutionality of Obamacare. Why is it that I don't trust an impartial decision from virtually the same court that stopped citizens from counting votes in 2000 and gave the presidency to George W. Bush? At issue is the "individual mandate," which was originally a Republican idea. It assures that public health is a shared responsibility, requiring those not already covered by employee-based programs, Medicare, or Medicaid, to purchase health insurance or pay a penalty if not exempted by a  religious objection. The provision is waived in cases of financial hardship and subsidies are granted to lower-income customers. It's a windfall for insurance companies, but the conservative position is that the government should not have the right to force you to buy anything. As I said, I've been begging to buy insurance for a decade, so for me, money was never better spent; and they have to sell it to me. The insurers don't have the right to hang up a sign that says, "We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone." Millions of people will be able to afford to stay alive without taking out second mortgages, and parents of "special needs" children will no longer be denied coverage. To me, it sounds like a Republican wet dream because everybody profits. But religious extremists don't believe contraception or womens' birth control pills should be covered with your other prescriptions.

The Republican presidential candidates grabbed the religious exemption controversy and pounded that wedge issue like John Henry hammered steel. Suddenly bills were stampeding through state legislatures limiting womens' access to contraceptives. In Arizona, they actually passed a bill that exempts an employer from covering birth control pills if they're not being used for "medical purposes." If a woman wishes the cost of her contraception to be covered by insurance, she has to "submit a claim" to her boss stating the reasons for its usage. In other words, you can still have intercourse in Arizona, but you'd damn well better not be having any fun. It didn't help that Planned Parenthood announced a massive giveaway of the "morning-after pill" while they are at the center of an election year anti-abortion crusade. I understand they were trying to make a point, but they unwittingly gave fresh ammunition to the Santorum disciples. By handing out free post-coitus pills, the zealots can rightfully say that Planned Parenthood is encouraging unmarried women to have unprotected sex. I know the beleaguered organization has been dragged into every election since 1973, but their Board of Directors needs to call the Susan G. Komen Foundation to ask how inserting yourself into the political arena has worked for them. To paraphrase Richard Nixon, Planned Parenthood just, "gave them a sword."

The Supreme Court's decision isn't expected until June, but right-wingers are already licking their chops and taking a victory lap. If Obamacare is struck down, it wounds the president just in time for the national political conventions. Imagine the crowing in Tampa if the individual mandate is struck down. There will be stemwinders over the tyranny of a government mandate; even though if you plan to operate a car, you must first have a drivers' license, then are required to procure insurance and register the vehicle. Or, if you ride a motorcycle or bicycle, you're required to wear a helmet. Even your pet Schnauzer needs rabies shots and a license, so don't say the government never mandates a purchase. Think of it this way: If an uninsured person gets sick, they go to the emergency room and the cost is passed on to you. If everyone were required to purchase some form of health insurance, the insurance pool will grow larger, costs will go down, and you will be responsible only for your own care. As it stands now, you're paying for Dick Cheney's heart surgery, when I believe he got the wrong procedure. What he really needed was a soul transplant, but that's considered a pre-existing condition.

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.