Turning Sixty

I'm writing a new country song, so if you steal it, you have to credit me. It's called, "I'm taking the mirrors out of my house, 'Cause I can't stand to see a grown man cry." For the past several years, I've become accustomed to looking in the mirror and seeing my father's face, but lately I look and see someone else's Dad; one of those old guys in the health club at the Jewish Community Center who wanders around in a towel searching for his locker. It began in December when my drivers' license expired on my 60th birthday and I was required to have a new photo taken. Over the years, my photo IDs have looked like a rogues' gallery of pirates and smugglers, but this time I looked like a demented department store Santa in a fright wig, called into the manager's office for psycholological evaluation. I asked Melody why my beard looked so white and bushy in the photo when I had just trimmed it, and she assured me it was because my big smile accentuated the beginnings of what the pro wrasslers used to call a "turkey neck." In forty years, I've morphed from young Ben Franklin into sinister Sinter Klaus.

When Melody and I run into an old friend we haven't seen in a while, our response is usually the same; "Can you believe how old he looks?" quickly followed by, "Do we look that old?" After we reassure ourselves that our zaniness keeps us cute, we forget it, until I notice that the bags under my eyes have turned into two-suiters and gravity has taken such a toll on my face, I've decided to walk on my hands for the next twenty years. When I glance in a mirror, for an instant I wonder how the basset hound got into our house. Of course, the problems with internal plumbing started years ago. My friends and I used to get together and talk about politics, women, and sports. Now we discuss our prostates. It seems a lifetime ago since I was a teenager, but wasn't I just 35 and moving to Nashville? I used to thrive on steak and eggs at three in the morning, and now, in the past five years alone, I've helped build a new wing on my Gastroenterologist's clinic, and the sonuvabitch won't even name it after me.

Before turning sixty, I had every bodily orifice probed, prodded, or peered into, and been told I had a floppy colon, IBS, a spastic colon, internal hemmorhoids, enflamed intestines, and an ulcer. These are usually considered the easily rectified problems of aging, unless you don't have health insurance, and then you have to pick and choose which among your orifices you wish to treat. I used to have group insurance with the National Council of Jewish Women, but the premiums grew so dear, the underwriter dropped the entire organization, sending a bunch of old ladies, and me, into a frenzy. I have been paying retail for my medical expenses ever since 1991, because I made the terrible mistake of having anti-depressants prescribed by a psychiatrist.

I feel like an anti-depressant pioneer, and I also believe they saved my life. I took one of the first tricyclic medications in 1987, under a doctor's care, who carefully monitored my blood for the proper levels. When I returned to Memphis, I was on my own. I found a doctor to prescribe the medication, but was required to make periodic office visits to show I could still speak in sentences, even though they knew of my insurance woes. Then I got a notice in the mail that said a new office policy required them to charge a fee for refilling prescriptions. It reminded me of what Tony Soprano's mother said in Season One; "Psychiatry is a racket for the Jews." My internist suggested that if I transferred all my records to his office, he could prescribe and I would be able to procure insurance. Who says therapy doesn't work? I felt very empowered when I fired my psychiatrist, but when I applied for insurance, it was the same answer; pre-existing conditions, and no one, and I mean no one, would cover me. My new plan was to wash my hands alot and stay off of high ledges until I was 65. But something happened.

Every young boy claimed the ability to write his name in the snow, but I used to do it in bold, cursive letters and my name is Randolph. Now, as they derisively say in the South, I was "squattin' to pee," and my wife stopped worrying about the toilet seat being up. A bad PSA level caused me to see a specialist who found the cause to be a prostate the size of a ripe kiwi. It was treatable with medication, but the side-effects from the sinus remedy I was using contributed to the bladder restriction. I was given Flomax for that, but the doctor told me I had a choice between peeing and breathing; so I breathed on MWF, peed on TTS, and Sunday I reloaded. He substituted prescription Flonase for my over-the-counter sinus medicine, until one day I confused the Flomax with the Flonase, took out a handkerchief, and inadvertently blew my penis. The problem got worse until I visited a reknowned urologist who said my prostate had indeed shrunk, but the medication had also restricted my urethra and it needed to be widened.

When the color ran from my face, the doctor told me it was an out-patient procedure; all they had to do was arrange an operating room and an anestheologist to put me out, and not only would I not feel a thing, I could go home the same day. When I said I had no health insurance, he said, "Oh." The doctor said he could do a discounted procedure in the office with local anesthetic and get the same result, and nothing I treasured would be punctured, merely inserted. I disrobed and a paper sheet was placed in my lap when, to my alarm, the doctor's young and homely female assistant came in with a needle. She tore a hole in the paper sheet, as if that would be less humiliating, and exposed me like a spring toadstool, but her aim was bad. With terror, I watched the whole tableau turn into the shower scene from "Psycho," and was prepared to bolt when the drug finally took effect, but because I lacked coverage, the doctor didn't use a surgical tool, but widened my urethra with a rusty old shovel. Then he had the temerity to suggest that I have more sex as recovery therapy, which pleased my wife, but was the equivalent of telling a man just out of electro-shock therapy that he's appearing on Jeopardy! next week. Intimacy sounded good, but the tension had weakened my lower spine and I wasn't sure if my back would peter out, or vice versa. (Thanks for the joke, Dad).

I walked around in a daze muttering, "The horror," for a month. I would have sued the doctor for physical and emotional distress, but he was doing me a favor. Things have returned to relative normalcy now, but every once in awhile, I'll pee a little gravel. On the positive side, since I'm a late bloomer in nearly everything in life: college, marriage, career; post-sixty looks bright. I've nearly reached emotional maturity and feel at the peak of my mental abilities. So I guess I'd better start writing faster. All in all, turning sixty beats the alternative, but unless a Democrat is elected and does some fast work on health care, Melody and I will be supplementing our income with a new line of bumper stickers for sexagenarians and new grandparents, saying; "I'm spending my children's college tuition," "Sixty is the new sixty," and, "Ask ME about my colonoscopy."

Super Sisters' Sunday

It was a great game and the commercials were entertaining. People around here seem to like nearly anyone named Manning, and the brothers made their own history. My sympathies to my kith and kin in the Northeast since Memphis is also partial to the Patriot's "Flying Elvis Head" insignia. I've heard of leaving everything on the field, but the losing coach left his entire team out there. And what was the deal about going for it on 4th and 14? For the only pro football game I've watched in its' entirety all year, this was a good one, but I've been more fixated on the other contest.

Earlier in the day, instead of watching beefy, steroidal men without necks exchange their opinions about what was only just about to happen, I watched C-Span so you don't have to. There was another sort of pre-game pep rally going on at UCLA, where thousands packed an auditorium for an early morning Barack Obama campaign event. While the men were tailgating, four strong women orchestrated one of the most significant political events of the year. Energized by Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg's endorsement of Obama in last week's New York Times, the women made a full frontal assault on Hillary's claim to "California Girls," and the rally began to take on the air of an evangelical tent meeting.

Caroline Kennedy spoke first. At the risk of sounding sexist, there is a certain sweetness to her in the discomfort she feels in the spotlight, and I understand what Neil "The Real Deal" Diamond had in mind. Motivated by her children, this is the first time Kennedy has taken so active a role on behalf of any candidate, so her boldness is thus meaningful and admirable. Saying that this was "the first time I get to introduce someone who's not my Uncle Teddy," Caroline brought out the undisputed champ; Oprah Winfrey. I've discussed Oprah's influence in an earlier post, but nowhere was it more evident than in California. A confidant Oprah strode to the stage to thunderous applause and worked the crowd like the pro she is, with lines like, "I have followed the truth and it has lead me to Barack Obama," and "I'm not voting for Barack Obama because he's black. I'm voting for him because he's brilliant." A rapturous, rainbow-coalition audience responded with delight to the most influential media figure in America, who then introduced Michelle Obama.

Any doubts I had about the perceived reluctance of Michelle to stand by her man were forever put aside by her electrifying address, which was part advocacy and part defender against the Clintons. Entering the arena with Stevie Wonder on her arm, Michelle provided the first serious drama of the day. While ascending steps to the speakers' platform, Stevie slipped and fell sideways off the staircase. I was reminded of a similar event in the North Hall of Ellis Auditorium in 1963. Unlike that shocking memory, someone was there to catch him this time, and after retrieving his glasses he was non-plussed about the whole thing. Stevie spoke of peace and love and sang his new Barack Obama chant. Stevie Wonder is another person who's influence should not be dismissed. After all, who was mainly responsible for the MLK holiday?

Michelle Obama displayed an informal earthiness along with the gift of communication that reflected her Princeton education and had the crowd on its' feet with every poignant remark. She opened by saying that, "Only in America could Michelle Obama follow Caroline Kennedy, Oprah Winfrey, and Stevie Wonder." She made the case that Barack did not concoct his convictions on the eve of a Presidential run, and his choice to work in the communities on Chicago's South side, rather than Wall Street, made him better qualified to understand the realities of life than any other candidate. She even made a lawyer joke. Michelle repeated Barack's truthful observation of a "deficit of empathy" in this country, and is the only politician or political advocate who has publicly said that a society is measured by how we treat "the least of these" since Jimmy Carter. She also came up with the line of the day; "Americans can handle the truth. Sometimes we don't know what the truth looks like because we haven't seen it in so long." Every sentence was punctuated by Michelle's graceful pianist's fingers making her points in the air.

The surprise of the day, after Stevie, was the introduction of Maria Shriver, who claimed to have arrived from a horse show with her daughter without changing clothes or applying make-up. Shriver said her daughter had told her, "If you feel like you should be at UCLA," to officially endorse Barack Obama, "You have to go." So there was yet another dynamic Kennedy, standing with Michelle, Oprah, and her cousin Caroline, in a picture of feminist unity that must have sent chills through the Clinton campaign of quite another kind than the ones experienced by those in attendance. Also, the endorsement of Obama by California's First Lady pretty much terminates the buzz over Arnold's endorsement of John McCain.

These four women, all with something to lose, were putting themselves on the line for a cause. Kennedy-Schlossberg must step out of her comfort zone and sacrifice her anonimity; Oprah, who has never campaigned for a political candidate, puts her considerable clout and reputation at risk; Michelle Obama sacrifices time as a mother and a professional for a greater good; and Maria Shriver shows personal and political courage by "following her heart," and standing in opposition to her husband. On this "Super Sunday," while the men were making beer runs, a small coterie of women were trying to wrest the female vote in California away from Hillary Clinton, and if they succeed, as Maria Shriver said, "As California goes, so goes the nation." Now that the game is over and the Giants are the champs, we can refocus on the real contest, Super Tuesday. Don't look now fellows, but today, while you were staring at a zombie jamboree collectively known as Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, the ladies might have gotten together and wrapped this whole thing up.

There Will Be Blood

Now that the Democratic candidate's herd has been thinned, my analogy of the debates as "American Idol" is no longer valid. Especially after last night's bloodletting in South Carolina, which was more reminiscent of the old "Monday Nitro" World Championship Wrestling matches than a variety show. Bill and Hillary had conquered the countryside of Nevada and entered the S.C. primary as the grizzled old tag-team known as "HillBilly," famous for their sneaky and aggressive tactics and taunts to their opponents. Their target was the up-and-comer, the All American Boy, Obama, who was threatening to capture HillBilly's fan base. Hillary immediately attacked Obama with such ferocity that I half expected Bill to run out from the wings and brain him with a folding chair. Wolf Blitzer would make a great pro wrestling referee. He is the Jimmy "Mouth of the South" Hart of broadcasters. I can't decide whether he is a whimpering simp, or a simpering wimp. Hillary shed the softer, indoor voice she had discovered in New Hampshire and returned to form. She and the former President are considering changing the name of the act to Shrillary and Billious.

In the week leading up to the debate, I was reminded each time Bill Clinton turned red in the face and wagged his finger, how much I do not want him back in the White House. Hillary explained that she and Obama both have passionate and supportive spouses. Michelle Obama, however, is not the former president nor a practiced negative campaigner, as evidenced by the hatchet work Bill did on Barack in his wife's behalf. The dislike between the two camps was made clear with every charge and explosive counter-charge, like two nuclear powers practicing brinkmanship with Mutually Assured Destruction. Obama said he was a community organizer while Hillary was "a corporate lawyer, sitting on the board of Wal-Mart." Hillary countered with charges that Obama did work for a law firm that defended a Chicago slum lord. Both charges were spurious. Barack's law work was for his firm, and Hillary, as First Lady of Arkansas, assumed that included Bentonville and the Waltons too, who were just down-home folks and constituants. All this bitter back and forth between Clinton and Obama made one thing clear; John Edwards deserves a second look.

While the revolutionary candidates were bludgeoning one another, the white, Christian, male candidate steadily made the case for carrying out the ideals of Dr. King on his birthday. Edwards is the only candidate who has spoken passionately about ending poverty in America, something that was abandoned after the death of Dr. King and the absorption of the nation's resources into the Vietnam War. Edwards is the only candidate who has pledged not to have former lobbyists work in the White House and to tackle the problem of corporate money influencing our elections and those we elect. In addition, Edwards has promised to remove our troops from Iraq within his first year without equivocation. While Obama was extolling the abilities of Ronald Reagan to a Reno newspaper this week, it is worth remembering that John Edwards began his candidacy for President in the 9th Ward of New Orleans. Ronald Reagan announced his candidacy in Philadelphia, MS, home of one of the most infamous killings of the civil rights era, and symbolism only an Old South, Son of the Confederacy could love. Obama disavowed any admiration for Reagan on this Dr. King's day. Edwards did long ago.

CNN mercifully allowed the candidates to sit after a commercial break, and civility seemed to break out amidst a bar fight. The rivals became more measured and respectful to each other, and even spoke candidly and with humor about their differences. It is exhilarating to see these three unique people, each qualified in a special way and eager to serve in a manner the Bush crowd could never fathom, and have gender and race secondary to the discussion. That is remarkable enough to distance themselves by light years from the Republicans without endangering the party by behaving in debate like Curly, Larry, and Moe, with Bill Clinton waiting in the wings as Shemp. And anyone who thinks Bill Clinton was our first black president hasn't really heard him play the saxophone. After tonight, independent South Carolinians, including many African Americans, may well swing Edwards' way just because of the content of his character. Then we will have a real race heading into the Super Tuesday debates. My only suggestion; less glares, more chairs.

Slick Hilly

"But she breaks just like a little girl"
Bob Dylan: "Just Like A Woman"

Forgive me if I've become so cynical that I mistake a genuine emotional moment for a slick piece of political theatre, but for the past seven years, I've gotten used to listening to "The boy who cried Wolfowitz." Before Hillary's emotional crying game in the middle of a public Q&A, I could swear I saw her reach up and pull a single hair from her nose before the tears began to form. Even the question, "How do you do it," seemed like a plant from a staffer; a trick she has used before. I have difficulty believing that anything that happens in the Clinton campaign goes unscripted. This is the woman that remained stoic even after being publicly humiliated by her husband, and now she tears up saying, "I just don't want to see the country fall back?" If someone spends her entire senate career amassing votes to appear like the "Iron Lady," then you're not allowed to cry when your positions are criticized. And you set yourself apart when you pick a favorite color for your campaign staff to wear. At least we don't have to listen to the wretched Celine Dion tune she had previously selected as her theme song.

Hillary continued to refer to her "35 years in public service." Thirty-five years ago in New Hampshire, the front-runner was Edmund Muskie of Maine and his openly weeping over an editorial that vilified his wife cost him the primary and the nomination. So much for the double standard. Of course, Bill could weep on cue so perhaps it's a shared trait. I don't mind a politician crying. I even find it refreshing. But crying at inappropriate moments is as shallow as laughing at the wrong time; something else Mrs. Clinton does when under pressure. Sure, the guys ganged up on her at the debate, but she gave as good as she got. What raised sympathy was the moderator's remarks to her about other candidates being more likable. Is there a more foolproof way to insult a woman than telling her she is unliked? And would the moderator have framed his remarks the same for the men?

Give credit to the Clintons for being fast learners. In one day, she changed her message from being the tested candidate with all the political experience, to the candidate of "change" who's appeal is to the young. The visage of her Iowa concession speech with a virtual morgue of supporters standing with her, including Bill, Madeline Allbright, and Wesley Clark, had been totally revamped for this evening. No one that stood behind her tonight looked over twenty years old, even though their on-camera hijinx began to distract from the candidate. The original "Comeback Kid," was told to get out of the way, while Hillary said that listening to the people of New Hampshire caused her to "find my own voice." Say what? Where's her "own voice" been for the thirty-five years of political change she continues to mention? It was elaborate stage-management, right down to her notes.

John McCain read an acceptance speech also, but not as well as Hillary. Still, the sight of the winners reading with their heads down made them appear as stiff as Al Gore. The speech of the night, of course, belonged to Obama who did not use notes. Visibly disappointed, Obama delivered another stirring and emotive speech that offered a slogan for the remainder of the campaign; "Yes we can," which was reminiscent of MLK in his prime, and left his audience rapturous. Since Obama spoke before Hillary, I was reminded of the famous story from the Fifties about the fight between Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry over who was going to be the closing act on a rock show. Berry refused to go on before Lewis, so Jerry Lee literally delivered an incendiary performance. At the end of his set, with the crowd going wild, Jerry Lee doused his piano with lighter fluid and set it aflame. As he was leaving the stage, he walked by Chuck Berry in the wings saying, and I'm paraphrasing, "Follow that you sonofabitch." Tonight the part of Jerry Lee Lewis was played by Barack Obama while Hillary sang, "It Goes To Show You Never Can Tell."

So the fight is on and it looks to get quite interesting. Will the Goldwater girl who served on the House Committee to Impeach Nixon change her scarf color from green to pink to appear more vulnerable? After saying that "all candidates records should be open," do we get to see the Rose Law Firm billing statements? Did Bill create sympathy by saying that he couldn't make her younger, or will machine politics yet again vanquish a children's crusade? Since I began with a Dylan quote, allow me to end with another:
"The order is
Rapidly fadin'.
And the first one now,
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'."

The Dawn

While watching the news last night, I experienced an emotion that was so foreign to me, I had to pause a second in order to recognize it. It's called hope, and it is alive. The Obama victory in the Iowa caucuses said volumes about in which direction this country wants to go. Going into election day in a dead heat, Obama didn't merely win, he trounced his opponents and pushed the proverbial lady in waiting to an undistinguished third place. If that weren't history enough, the rousing spectacle of Obama's victory speech in front of a cheering audience bordering on ecstasy was something I have not seen since 1968. If it's always darkest before dawn, Bush is the darkness and Obama is the sunrise.

I admit to being an emotional man who is both gladdened and saddened far too easily, but Obama's electrifying address caused me to weep at the realization that this improbable candidate is both the political and spiritual heir to Robert Francis Kennedy, and our nation finally has another chance at redemption from decades of hubris, arrogance, and greed. Obama put together a coalition of old and young, and rich and poor. I would say black and white, but there aren't many African Americans in Iowa. I have visited Iowa in winter and its' citizens this time of year are mainly blue. But the most astounding number of the night was not that Barack won by eight points over John Edwards and nine points over Hillary, but that he won 35% of the woman's vote compared to Clinton's 30%. Can you say Oprah?

Only a few weeks ago, the mainstream media was speaking of the Clinton inevitability, thus proving the openly and often spoken suggestion that network and cable news programs are bad entertainment who's spokesmen are mainly full of bullshit, and once courageous and groundbreaking newspapers like the Washington Post and the New York Times are now merely shills for their corporate masters. So the Obama thumping caught them by surprise and left them wild-eyed with fresh speculation. Columnist Eugene Robinson of the Post made the Robert Kennedy comparison and presidential advisor David Gergen referenced Martin Luther King in Obama's speaking style. But thanks to C-Span, the no commentator network, it was clear that something electric, extraordinary, and groundbreaking was happening in that room during Obama's speech.

I trust the speech will be shown again and I hope that you are able to see it. I know the Orange Bowl was more important to some than the Iowa caucus, but something akin to a movement was born last night that will only grow larger with time. With the New Hampshire primary only five days away, I see no way for the Clintons to regain any momentum. She is the establishment candidate and the populace is sick of the establishment. Her entire senate career of triangulation and calculation has come to naught. All those carefully calibrated Senate votes in trying to show herself as the candidate with the most machismo has come a cropper. Didn't Dorothy Rodham ever tell her daughter "To thine own self be true?" My wife, Melody, called Clinton, "Bush in a pants-suit." By contrast, Obama is the real deal; consistent, eloquent, inspiring.

One additional bit of amazement for me was that Obama's race was barely a factor in voters' minds, as much as the need for sweeping change. If whites in Iowa will vote for Obama without a second glance at this country's ever-lingering racial discord, then something truly historic has happened. MSNBC analyst Howard Fineman described it as a generational shift where racial differences just aren't that meaningful to young people who grew up in an integrated society. I see it in my own step-son whose friendships with his peers, both white and black, are seamless. It would be well to remember, however, that scores of past campaign trails are littered with those sorrowfully unelected who depended on the support of the young. If Iowa is an indicator, maybe it will be different this time around. Maybe.

If young people would come out and vote, I would gladly relinquish the reigns of power that my generation seized, but badly misused. My generation was split in twain a long time ago and the two sides of that divide have now been represented by the brilliant but morally flawed Bill Clinton, and the maritally faithful but grossly incompetent George Bush. It's time to turn the page on the Bushes, the Clintons, and their respective philosophies of centrist pandering and right-wing extremism. I am tired of fighting the Vietnam War over again and arguing about someone's personal sexual decisions, especially now that there's a democracy to be saved; ours. For the so-called "values voters," who twice elected re-born Bush, don't dream of a Huckabee presidency. Though Huckabee talks more like a Jimmy Carter Christian than a George Bush Christian, President Zero has tarnished and distorted the faith and proven the absolute necessity of separation of church and state. It will be sweater weather in hell before a self-proclaimed Evangelical is elected president again on the basis of his religion. And to the Bush supporters, if there are any left who will admit it, allow me to quote Sir Paul McCartney;
" Boy, you're going to carry that weight a long time."

Al Gore Broke My Heart

I want to thank you folks for not pointing out that my future as a political prognosticator has been irredeemably scarred by my wishful thinking toward an Al Gore candidacy. I thought I had it all figured out. But like someone that can't accept Lee Harvey Oswald as the lone gunman, I could not believe that a statesman who's political trajectory had propelled him to win the popular vote for the presidency could turn his back on his destiny and merely walk away. I thought Gore certainly must have some grand and Biblical strategy that would swallow the other candidates like Jonah by the whale. My scenario was this; John Edwards wins Iowa, Hillary wins New Hampshire, and Obama wins South Carolina. Then in the midst of this turmoil would come Al Gore, organization at the ready and with a chest full of medals, prepared to assume his rightful place in American history as the redeemer of the thoughtless and slayer of the Bush philosophy of government by the corporation.

America believes in redemption and needed Gore to cleanse the collective guilt felt by those who voted for Bush, actually believing he had integrity. It would have been a national do-over, like a football sideline review, where an historic wrong might finally be righted. In every interview, when asked about running again, Gore always said, "I have no plans to be a candidate." That's quite different from saying, "No, I will not run." But then came the news that Al had accepted a partnership in a Silicon Valley venture capital firm that specialized in helping innovative start-ups that were energy efficient and potentially profitable. Before I could become too indignant about Gore cashing in on his environmental advocacy, however, I read he is donating his salary to the Alliance for Climate Protection. Still, he started the Alliance, and venture capitalists usually get stock in the company. I'm sure he's not working for free.

Silicon Valley is also within proximity of Gore's San Francisco based cable network, "Current," which plans to combine the best features of television and the Internet. Now you can watch multiple reruns of "Law and Order," while simultaneously seeing the most popular Google searches. Gore has been a noble, lifelong public servant and deserves to financially capitalize on an historic year of achievement. I'm certain the speaking fees of a Nobel Laureate are considerable, not to mention the Oscar and Emmy, but I can't help but feel disappointed as a citizen.

If Al Gore is on an urgent mission to decrease global warming, it would seem the most direct way of affecting policy is as U.S. President. But, I am reluctant to admit, Gore's moment has passed and any lingering hope that he, or we, had for a draft has passed too. Also passed is the chance that the "boy groomed for the office," will ever be President. Had he known this before, Gore could have skipped the Nam. I'll also admit something else. When I heard Gore speak last week at the U.N. Climate Conference in Bali, and he blamed the U.S. for obstructionism to great applause from the delegates, I wanted to say, "All right. We get it!", or, "You've got the job. Ease up already." For the first time, I found Al Gore annoying, and imagined years of similar preaching.

So, I was wrong. There will be no President Gore and the politician I have championed since the eighties has gone Hollywood on me. Though sometimes unctuous, most obviously when he blew the 2000 Debates, he was the best informed candidate we'll likely ever see, including Bill Clinton. He will choose to remain in the private sector until next year, when a new President may call upon him to return once again to public service, and I'm sure he will answer his nation's summons. I only hope that in whatever capacity Mr. Gore serves the next government, it doesn't require him to make any more speeches.

The Jewish Conspiracy

I'm always bemused when some mouth-breather starts spouting off that the Jews own the entertainment industry, or the Jews run U.S. foreign policy, or any other such notion that the Jews collectively "run" anything. Such myths are so easily dispelled, it's difficult to realize they still exist, but much of American society, at least, still think of the "Jews" as if they were some monolithic bloc, thinking with one mind and speaking with one voice. The Jews can't even agree on how to spell Chanukah, or is it Hanukkah? Determining how the Jewish community thinks is much like a pollster asking, "How do you white people feel about this?" It's more accurate to refer to Jewish communities, since the diversity of opinion is so vast.

When I was a child in Memphis and excluded from certain social functions because of religion, I used to ask my father, "Don't they know how much we argue among ourselves?" My father, correct as usual, told me that the Jews don't air their dirty laundry in public. He explained that there are always plenty of people willing to criticize the Jews without us doing it to ourselves. But the internecine feuds between the three branches of Judaism were so intense in the Fifties, that the Orthodox Jews segregated themselves from the Reform Jews, and vice versa. For every Country Club and golf course the Reform Jews erected, the Orthodox would counter with swimming pools and gymnasiums. Although the Reform thought the Orthodox were a superstitious lot who refused to leave the 12th century, and the Orthodox considered the Reform Jews as Christians, the fact that the sects of Judaism did not get along was lost on the general public. And, my father would remind me, during the war when the Nazis were loading up the boxcars, they never asked anyone if they were Reform or Orthodox.

It's not hard to understand why there are Jews in influential positions in all fields. In their history, the Jewish people have traditionally emphasized two things; family and learning. A scholar was among the highest pursuits to which a Jewish man could aspire. Add that tradition to 5000 years of ancestral intellectual pursuits, and you'll eventually breed some big-brained people who are not only capable, but adaptable as well. Consider the fact that this country is up in arms over an estimated 12 million undocumented foreign workers within our borders, then contrast that with the knowledge that there are only 13 million Jews in the entire world. While Americans remember 1492 as the year that Columbus sailed the ocean blue, Jews know it as the year that Ferdinand and Isabella expelled the Jews from Spain. Our collective history is what binds us, but we rarely indulge in group-think. When I asked my father why the Jews didn't recruit like the Christians, he told me that back in the bad old days of anti-Semitism, when a Gentile expressed interest in converting to Judaism, the first thing the rabbi did was try and talk them out of it.

The Israeli Jews demonstrate this internal disagreement daily. The Ultra-Orthodox claim that anyone who converted to Judaism under the auspices of a Reform rabbi is not a Jew. The Reform want to go to movies on Saturday and say the Orthodox religious laws interfere with their freedoms. But the vast majority of Israelis are secular Jews that practice no formal rituals at all, or consider themselves as "religious." The latest conflict began with a group of Israeli environmentalists calling for a "Green" Chanukah this year, by lighting one less candle than the traditional eight. Whenever three Jews agree on anything, they call themselves a "coalition." Thus, the Coalition on the Environment and Jewish Life, and the New York based Jewish Council for Public Affairs, neither of which have I heard of before, have stated that lighting one less Chanukah candle will reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in the air and lessen greenhouse gasses. If this is an example of the workings of the "International Jewish Conspiracy," my ballot must have gotten lost in the mail.

Many think of Chanukah as "The Jewish Christmas" anyway, so it's fitting that Chanukah should lose its' way as well. Chanukah is a minor Jewish holiday, celebrating the military victory of the Maccabees over the encroaching Greeks by recapturing the great Temple and relighting the lamps. The oil, only enough for a day, lasted eight, which represented some sort of miracle of early refinery. A Jewish group that calls for the lighting of only seven candles sort of defeats the purpose of the holiday, doesn't it? As children, my sister and I were told that we got eight days worth of presents, but they were always trinkets and tops and mesh bags of gold-covered, chocolate coins. We couldn't wait for Christmas. Still, all eight nights my father said the Hebrew blessing while the family gathered around the menorah to light the candles, a practice that I continue in his honor. Do you believe I am about to listen to the advice of an Israeli tree-hugger and alter that tradition? It only proves to me that Jews are as capable of foolishness as anyone else.

That also explains the "Jews running U.S. foreign policy" argument. It's true that several influential Jews, Wolfowitz, Pearle, and Feith, among others, were among the neocons who thought up the Iraqi War and most of the Bush governments' Middle East policy. But most U.S. Jews are liberal Democrats who are the antithesis of the neocons. This small group caused a huge rift among American Jews who are generally anti-war, regardless of Mel Gibson's opinion. It goes back to the "smart Jews in all fields" argument and proves that Jews can no longer be characterised as only one thing. The adamant Zionists, Israeli and American, support the Bush regime for one reason only; their unblinking, rapture-driven, apocalyptic dream of a united Israel, Temple Mount intact and prepared for the return of Jesus. The Wolfowitz crowd is living proof that assholism is a universal affliction, but never believe they speak for the Jews. This is Cheney's war, and no more proof need be offered than the Jew they scapegoated in the Valerie Plame case.

So, Happy Chanukah, or Hanukkah, ya'll. We sure kicked some ass that time. A joke going around Jewish circles says that most Jewish religious holidays can be summed up with a short blessing; "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat." But why can't we keep the (guttural) "cha" in Chanukah and keep modernistic and trendy phases out of it? The only green I want at Chanukah is the gelt, and I won't allow Jewish guilt to prevent me from lighting all eight candles, even if I feel global warming is entirely my personal responsibility when I'm done. I apologize to the polar bears in advance. Like my Daddy said, "It's better to light a candle than to curse the darkness." Or, to paraphrase Elvis, "I'll have a green Chanukah without you."

Don't Mess With Oprah

The men don't know, but the little girls understand"
Howlin' Wolf: "Backdoor Man" 1955

I watch Oprah. You got a problem with that? I used to think when "Jeopardy!" was over, it was time to hit the computer. I associated Oprah with all the other provocative, one-name, daytime hosts, like Phil, or Maury, Sally, or Rikki, who all seemed to cover the same topics on the same day; teen sluts, people who were grotesquely fat, or incest, sometime all three at once. Then I became a househusband and a freelancer, which means any sort of lancing I'm called upon to do is usually pro bono, so I've allowed myself to be coaxed by Melody away from the internet to check out the topics on "Oprah," and have come to the same understanding that all her admirers reach; there are talk show hosts, there are celebrities, there are politicians, and then there is Oprah. And the amazing part of it is that men have no conception of this single, courageous woman's influence, because they don't watch the show. Men think of her as a rich, celebrity TV star, women see her as a force of nature.

I've become familiar with the inner stories surrounding Ms. Winfrey and Harpo Productions. I know of her humble beginnings and her start in broadcasting in Nashville to become the head of not just a corporation, like Martha Stewart, but a business empire that includes publications, movies, television, theatre, and more. And she is the CEO, as well as spiritual leader, of a philanthropic organization that has given more scholarships, medical supplies and treatment than any celebrity since Danny Thomas. Her school for girls in South Africa was briefly touched by sexual scandal until Oprah attended to it personally, ending the problem like Paul Bunyan stamping out a prairie fire. I know her favorite designer is Nate Berkus who lost his partner in the Indonesian tsunami, and her best friend is Gail King. When Gail and Oprah came through Memphis, it was treated by the media like a Presidential visit and their tour of Graceland was hosted by Priscilla herself. Oprah had already won the Freedom Award, given by the National Civil Rights Museum.

Oprah has never used her celebrity to support politicians, until her recent endorsement of Barack Obama and her announcement that she would attend several upcoming campaign events in Iowa on his behalf. Immediately, both Keith Olbermann and Chris Matthews, who should know better, discounted the importance of her participation. But, as I said, they are men and just don't watch the show. I have seen spontaneous demonstrations of respect and love by ordinary people toward Oprah that rival the public's response to Robert Kennedy. Olbermann said that she would make no difference unless she started handing out clock radios. Others may only see the Oprah highlights; the ribbon cuttings, the Broadway openings, and the "favorite things" shows, but they don't understand that the devotion of her fans is a direct response to the sincerity of her mission, to help people live better lives.

Oprah will be appearing opposite Bill Clinton, but I bet that secretly, Hillary would trade Bill for her, if Oprah would only offer. Because Oprah is a genuine threat to Hillary and her claim to the women's vote. I, like many people, would welcome a woman President; just not Hillary Clinton. Obviously, Oprah feels the same way, and anyone who doubts her ability to persuade should look at the long list of books, including many classics, that have reached the top of every national best-seller list because of her recommendation. And anyone who wishes to cross Oprah, or take her on, would do well to remember the author James Frey, who's fictionalized "autobiography" caused Oprah to break him into a million little pieces after the hoax was revealed. Or the Texas Cattle Industry, whose lawsuit against Oprah's free speech was thrown out of court as baseless and only caused Winfrey's stature to rise.

I have heard female talking-heads on cable news say that the thought of a woman president is just too appealing not to vote for Hillary. I'd like to see a Jewish president one day, but don't expect me to be voting for Joe Lieberman. Oprah's appeal to women of all regions, economic strati, races, and ages is enough to make the most ardent feminist take another look at Barack Obama, and that chips away at the perception of inevitability that Hillary is attempting to establish. Clinton tries to project competence and toughness. Oprah constantly exudes the single emotion that Mrs. Clinton lacks; empathy. Anyone who doubts this does so at their own peril.

My wife believes that Hillary's interview yesterday with Katy Couric is the equivalent of Howard Dean's scream. Asked if she would support a nominee other than her, Hillary protested that "it will be me," and when prodded by Couric that certainly she must have taken into consideration that someone else could win, Hillary replied that she never thinks of anything other than being the next President. That is hubris that George Bush would admire. No wonder all the Republicans are dying to run against her. But the latest Zogby Poll showed Hillary losing in head-to-head races with five different Republican candidates; Giuliani, Romney, Thompson, McCain, and Huckabee. Her arrogance, masquerading as certainty, may be her undoing.

Celebrity endorsements may not mean much to the beltway types, but they have never reckoned with an Oprah Winfrey. And although Iowans are reputed to be a jaded lot when it comes to celebrity, I'll bet right now that Oprah and Barack are the hottest ticket in town and will outdraw Bill and Hill. And that's because Obama is right; the Clintons are old news and are still caught in the teeth of the culture wars begun in the sixties that my generation will fight until we all roll over and die, and people are rightly weary of it and eager to turn the page. Barack Obama is increasingly looking like the agent of change the country so desperately wants, and Oprah, like her many other successful endeavors, just may convert enough women voters to tip the nomination to him. In that case, Ambassador Winfrey has a nice ring to it.

American I Dull

"Sitting on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon,
Going to the candidate's debate.
Laugh about it, Shout about it, when you've got to choose,
Anyway you look at it you lose."
Paul Simon "Mrs. Robinson," 1968

These travelling road shows called debates have increasingly taken on the air of a TV reality program, complete with scripted and planted questions. I watched one Republican debate, but after seeing a majority of the candidates admit, en masse, that they questioned the validity of evolution, I didn't need to watch another. The Republican debates are only the equivalent of the summer replacement, "America's Got Talent," to the Democrats', "American Idol." The contestants are carefully scrutinized on appearance and confidence, and expectations run high each week over who will stumble and who will rise to the challenge. They even have judges posing as questioners, who critique the candidates' answers and attempt to build rivalries within the group. The role of the intemperate asshole judge is played by Wolf Blitzer. The single flaw is that we can't phone in each week and get somebody bounced, in order to thin this herd and maybe hear something of substance.

I took an online poll where you are asked your opinion on a variety of topics and then you are matched with the candidate who most closely holds your views. Mine came out Dennis Kucinich, which is good and bad. I admire the Congressman's courage to call for impeachment openly and often, (he nearly got a vote to the floor last week). I agree with him on ending the war in Iraq and holding the planners accountable, and he has been the single most consistent liberal voice in all these dark Bush years. But I also know he hasn't got a chance to win the nomination. I'll happily vote for him in the Tennessee Primary to make a statement. Hell, I once voted for Prince Mongo for County Mayor. I also voted for LaToya London. But once again, machine politics and corporate cash rule over the procedure, and even though Kucinich's rousing debate performances rival Bo Bice, he's going to lose to the blond lady who was mistreated when she was younger. Yes, I'm speaking of Kelly Pickler.

Hill & Bill are all but Lords and Ladies in Waiting according to the geek news channels, and just waiting for the coronation. But before Hillary gets measured for crown and scepter, it would be well to remember that not a single vote has yet been cast, and the American voter is a famously fickle animal who will turn on you in an instant. How else can you explain Taylor Hicks winning American Idol, or George Bush winning anything, for that matter? Let's get through the first couple of rounds before we declare a winner. I'm sure Kucinich will get a record deal, even though he deserves at least as much attention as Clay Aiken. But if I had to review Hillary's debate performances thus far, I would say, "It was just aw'ite for me, Dog. You're a little pitchy."

While this lite operetta continues, President Zero is neglecting some serious issues. The Chinese are trying to date-rape our children; Wal-Mart has been discovered taking out life insurance policies on their aged workers and collecting benefits when they die; Lacy Peterson has morphed into Stacy Peterson; a statement from the still deceased Saddam Hussein said his flim-flammery about WMD was not to threaten the US, but to fool Iran; and deluded Dick Cheney was forced to fill in for the absent drug store cowboy, and lay a wreath at the cracking Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers, while the blood dripped from his gloved hands as surely as O.J. Simpson's. But stay tuned, Barack has promised to take off the gloves this week. And did I fail to mention our troops are in the middle of a foreign civil war with no end in sight? Too bad we can't just vote the troops off the island.

Al Gore may have won his Grammy, his Oscar, and his Nobel Prize, whatever that is, but Carrie Underwood and Daughtry kicked major ass at the AMA's, and Fantasia was up for an award too. With the current television writers' strike in effect, the mid-January start of the new season of American Idol might have to be moved up, just like those nervy states and their Primaries. Then we could have five nights of nothing but Idol, Countdown, and Debates. But if the Debates are going to compete with Idol, they have to really want it, dog. This is, after all, a singing competition. And there is one lonely voice singing in the corner, crying, "Impeach Now. Impeach Now." Can you hear him? It's Dennis, "the Dark Horse" Kucinich, and his spouse is better looking than Hillary's any day. Hey, no one believed Ruben Studdard could win either. Seacrest out.

The (Bleeping) Phone

I apologise to anyone to whom I owe a phone call. I've attempted to explain individually in the past that it's not personal, I'm just a phoneaphobe. I hate the fucking telephone; now, more than ever. Every advance in phone technology has been cause to hate them more. Remember when the government determined that AT&T was a monopoly and broke them up into "Baby Bells?" Now, everything has been reconsolidated into AT&T again, and to show their corporate gratitude, they have voluntarily turned over your private phone records to the government to see if your call to Lowe's about fertilizer is part of a plot to blow up Home Depot.

I enjoyed the days when the telephone was a black and heavy curio. I recall our family's first number was 38916, changed to 33-8916, and then entered the golden age of the prefix, with terms like "Fairfax," and "Broadway." Our number was Mutual57795 and morphed into 685-7795. The two phones in our house were in the den and next to my mother's bed. If you wished to speak in privacy, it required pulling the phone cord into the kitchen and closing the door, leaving you standing over the oven to converse. The number of wacky phone calls I received increased with my band's popularity, until one late-night caller harassed my mother to the point of arranging a sting with the phone company. Mom had to wait for the call, leave the phone off the hook, walk to a neighbor's, and call the phone company to begin a trace. It turned out to be a girl I knew that I would like to have spoken to in the daytime.

When I returned to Memphis after college, I was pursuing a career as a working musician the hard way; I refused to have a telephone in my apartment. When that chattering bell went off, you never knew if it was a pal calling, or the grim reaper. I had to show up personally to seek work and my friends knew they were welcome to come over without calling first. My mother and my employers, Ashlar Hall and The Looking Glass, finally convinced me to get a phone, but it was uncanny how it could ring at the perfectly inopportune moment. If I chose not to answer, it became a test of wills between me and the unknown caller to see who would give in first. Although I was ignorant of the identity of the person at the other end of the line, the more times the phone rang, the bigger the asshole the caller became in my mind. I worked out one-ring, hang-up codes with my family but it did not always work. Finally, out of frustration, my mother said, "What good is a phone if you won't answer it?" and she gave me one of the first telephone answering machines for a Christmas present.

The machine was so old, it still ran a reel of recording tape to capture incoming and outgoing messages, so I figured I'd have some fun with it. I began recording funny messages with sound effects and it evolved into the recruitment of friends to help me record outrageous twenty second skits before the beep. We made fun of the carnival execution of Gary Gilmore and did parodies of the news and scenes from movies like "Nevada Smith," but then along came "Roots." The message began by me saying, "I'm not home now, but answering the phone in my absence is my friend Toby." Then a second voice said, "Kunta Kinte," and I lashed the kitchen table with a belt until the voice said, "Toby." Granted, it was stupid and insensitive, but only my mutually twisted friends were aware of it, until one of them gave my personal number to an ebony secretary who knew me not, and she thought it was a recruitment line for the White Citizen's Council. I thought I was parodying a TV show rather than insulting a cultural touchstone, but the secretary reported it to the NAACP and radio station WDIA. Unfortunately, I was on the road, unable to turn it off, and when I returned, the recording tape reel had reached it's bitter end until the incoming calls had run the batteries down. I fielded an additional week of hate calls and messages, night and day, until finally the phone company unlisted my number.

One of the first songs I wrote in Nashville was called "Code-A-Phone," about the frustrations of leaving messages for someone to whom you need to speak, but the cell phone is, by far, the most insidious, privacy-invading mutation yet. I first became revulsed when I was placed into a large waiting hall for jury duty with the first great wave of gadget buyers and spent a week listening to sing-song rings and one-sided conversations until my head throbbed. Then I attended a private patio dinner and several of my hot-shot friends showed up with cell phones hooked to their belts where they used to hang their Buck knives when they were hippies. Not only did they allow incoming calls, but first one friend, and then another, interrupted live, face-to-face conversations to take them. I was shocked to think someone believed they were so indispensable that they needed to remain within constant telephone reach, and I actually said, "Hey fellows, it's after 5. You're off the clock."

Public courtesy pretty much disappeared everywhere after that. All incidental contact between humans was precluded by the ever-present phone glued to the ear of each pedestrian. I've stood in check-out lines where cashiers rang-up every item and presented a paper for my signature, without ever making eye contact and talking on the cell the entire time. This insulting behavior is epidemic, but nowhere is it worse, more dangerous, or infuriating than in a car. Observing someone driving blithely along, yakking on the cell, making turns with one hand on the wheel and operating their vehicle in a semi-comatose state, jacks up my barely suppressed, but festering road rage into overdrive. The Suburban Assault Vehicle and the cell phone have made driving among the most unpleasant and hair-raising activities in daily life. It would be logical and easy to stop it, but most local, state, and national governmental bodies are so far in the pockets of the telecommunications industry to make any regulation unthinkable. But I still search like Diogenes for that single, non-corrupted legislator, who will have the common decency to scream, "enough," and pass a law slapping a hefty fine on hand-held cell phone use while operating an automobile. Call it, DWB; "Driving While Bloviating."

I find email a terrific way to communicate because you have the chance to consider what you say before you say it. The Caller ID was a godsend for protection from the unknown caller and it allows you to recognize in advance which calls will take two minutes, and which twenty. But you can answer an email at your leisure and the sender doesn't expect you to drop everything and answer immediately. People get so angry if you fail to answer the phone that they hang up on the answering machine. And then they get pissed-off at me. If it's important, leave a damn message, and if it's strictly convivial, I'll be happy to talk when my anxiety levels are manageable. In the meantime, I'll be here if you need me. Just drop me a line. It's more personal these days.

Waiting For Goredot

The only thing more exhilarating than seeing Al Gore win the Nobel Peace Prize was watching the dead-end Republicans squirm and fester like petulant children who's football team just lost the big game. The whole thing was rigged. It was the referees. It was the fuzzy math. But as far as American Presidential candidates who have won the Nobel Peace Prize, the score is Democrats-3, Republicans-1. The Nobel Prize Committee can't be played, yet the mini-Goebbels cable talkers tried to make it sound like Oslo was rebuking King Chuckles. Who did the GOP shills think it would go to, President "Bring 'Em On?" Of course, Henry Kissinger has one, but then, so did Yasser Arafat. But not the old, cold warrior Ronnie Ray-gun, or "Line in the Sand," Bush the Elder. You actually have to be a peacemaker to be rewarded this prize.

Because I am now old and irritable and had just returned from an Endoscopy, I thought it would be amusing and help revive me from a Demerol haze if I watched the Gore coverage on Fox News. Can these Bushney zombie zealots not consider the fact that one of the world's most prestigious awards went to a deserving American who has devoted his entire public career, often in the face of ridicule, to raise awareness to the dangers of climate change? But, how do you get Luddites who don't accept evolution to believe global warming is anything else but God's will? Still, it might have been refreshing to see some grudging appreciation for the man's accomplishment from this obscenity against journalism that passes for a news network.

Instead, Fox went into full, live attack mode. We were treated to a panel with actor Jay Thomas, who spoke as if he had just been beaned by a Curt Schilling fastball, asking what the big deal was over a factually incorrect movie. Gore's left-wing show-biz friends put in the old Hollywood shuffle to the prize committee, just like they did at the Oscars. He was joined by a child-blond named Cheri Jacobuss, not a half-decade off an anchor desk at Eyewitless News somewhere, speaking venomous bile for the right as calmly as an original cast member of "Village of the Damned." She couldn't imagine what Gore's work, or this U.N. Committee he shared the award with, had anything to do with peace. She concluded her sour diatribe by saying, "No one can name the Nobel Peace Prize winners from year to year anyway."

I raised my hand and shouted, "I can." If not from every year, some real winners, like Oscar Arias Sanchez, President of Costa Rica who helped bring peace to Central America, or Mother Theresa, Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat. Nelson Mandela, Yitzhak Rabin, Le Duc Tho, or Martin Luther King, Jr. Mr. Gore joined a highly distinguished company today, show some goddamned respect. Do they have special Journalism schools with different rules to train the Jello-heads, or have we become numb to this ideological carjacking of the airwaves to promote discredited drivel from a frantic fringe of pseudo-philosophical fools? Later in the evening, Fox had different discussions about whether Mr. Gore is too fat to run for president, or if the Nobel committee only awards the prize to people who wreck the economy, like Jimmy Carter, awarded for his humanitarian work around the world.

After Gore's brief and eloquent statement in receiving the award, of the three cable news networks, only MSNBC continued with a discussion about the prize's effect on Gore's future. CNN and Fox immediately cut to breaking news about the terminally dead Anna Nicole Smith. The Fox "News" gang could have learned something from Al Gore today that they overlooked in 2000 as well, magnanimity in victory, and graciousness in defeat. I've made my support known for Al Gore in these posts before, (Clinton's Sin,12/5/05; Al Gore, "Soul Man," 1/30/07; and Gore/Obama, 7/8/07), so I need not repeat myself, other than my consistent belief that he is the best qualified candidate for President in 85 years. This year alone, he's captured the trifecta; the Oscar, The Emmy, and the Nobel Prize. Why not go for the cycle?

Gore said today that he would continue to bring the urgency of climate change to the people and governments of the world. Hey Al! You wanna' do something serious about reversing the damage of global warming? Run for President of the United States. You have the knowledge, the moral authority, and you are the only candidate who can stop Hillary Clinton. Perhaps it's also time to acknowledge that maybe it would have been wiser to vote for the smart guy who dedicated his life to public service, rather than the amiable novice who's personality you kind of liked but really didn't know. After almost seven years, who's been the better "steward" of the Lord's creation?

Hillary, Please!

At the risk of sounding too graphic, we're about to have Clinton rammed down our throats, but it's Hillary this time; so driven to wrap up the nomination that she's still willing to pander to the militaristic right. Her latest Senate vote giving Bushney a first step toward war with Iran may be the "close but no cigar" moment when liberals, feminists, and anti-war Democrats realize that Senator Clinton is using them. If Hillary's support for the Kyl-Lieberman amendment, opening the door for U.S. attacks on Iran, is her best judgment about resolving the Iraq war, then this nation deeply needs an agent of change. In this election, we really do need a "uniter and not a divider," and that includes the liar lying beside her. If she betrays the anti-war movement, the blue states could turn against her like the blue dress did for her advisor.

That's always been my problem with Hillary, too many advisers. Her entire Senate career seems one giant calibration in preparation for this presidential run. Though she has done some admirable things, her vote for the Iraq War lacked political courage, as does her ongoing attempt to justify it. But the co-sponsorship of an anti flag burning amendment to the Constitution was suck-up politics of the worst sort, and an insult to thoughtful people, especially in the Mid-South, who have followed her career since she was Arkansas' First Lady. She is so determined to become this century's new "Iron Lady," that she has torched her liberal values in favor of appealing to the electorate as the toughest, bare-knuckled, anti-terrorist who has never thrown an actual punch, this side of George Bush.

How else to explain this vote in favor of granting Bushney a toe-hold in Iran, despite her colleagues warnings, if not to show herself tough on security and somehow "supporting the troops?" Did the Senator learn nothing from her original vote, or has she forgotten the Tonkin Gulf Amendment giving LBJ power to unleash the military in Indochina? Since the current regime insists on following the Vietnam blueprint, they can be expected to use their new powers to initiate cross-border raids and secret bombings, guaranteed to take more civilian life regardless of the strategic targeting abilities. Mrs. Clinton is the only Democratic candidate voting in favor of the Lieberman sponsored nightmare, made doubly dubious by the secret and "Refuse to discuss it," bombings of Syrian facilities by Israel last month. Someone whispered to Hillary to be "Thatcheresque," and she has enabled Bush and Cheney to make more war.

Since Senator Clinton's ultimate goal is to be the first woman President, here's the sure fire way to de-rail her. Demand that Congressional Democrats join with John Conyers and Dennis Kucinich in immediately drawing up terms of impeachment for Dick Cheney for war-mongering and profiteering, as well as the many felonies committed while in office. Then, demand similar charges be filed against George Bush, including Abuse of Power and High Crimes and Misdemeanors. You could pick from the dozens that Chuckles doesn't even realize he has yet committed. After accepting Bush's resignation in order to "support the troops," the line of presidential succession goes to the Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, who would immediately be sworn in by Justice John Roberts. President Pelosi, the first woman and Italian president, could then run as the incumbent and pop Hillary's bubble. Insert your own sexual reference here, but the Clintons back in the White House with Lincoln Bedroom sleepovers for preferred corporate donors? Hillary, please!

USA/Half Off

The dollar hit an all time low against the euro again today, trading at $1.44 and heading further south. This would be dry news for most, except that it ties in with Iran's President Ahmadinejad's visit to New York this week. That was some ugly business at Columbia University yesterday. I believed that Columbia showed courage and honored freedom of speech by allowing Ahmadinejad a forum, but it was anything but courageous for the University's president to sucker punch him like a bitch. Ahmadinejad sat and took it like Edwin Booth returning to the stage after his brother killed President Lincoln, and Columbia's Bollinger succeeded in actually making him look sympathetic. Had he left it to the students, it would have been an informative enough exchange since they asked scalding questions. The student response to the statement that there are no homosexuals in Iran was with derisive laughter and ridicule. That is what effectively defangs a clever liar, but I haven't seen such grandstanding by a university president since S.I. Hayakawa at San Francisco State in 1968.

Ahmadinejad's entire anti-Israel, holocaust denial, Palestinian propaganda carnival is strictly for Middle Eastern consumption, since I have learned from Iranian exiles that Persians are quick to point out that they are not Arabs. Neither am I moved by his semi-admission of the holocaust before a New York audience. He knows that all holocaust deniers are about to get a Third Reich Smackdown in the soon to be opened trove of documents that have been sitting in the German town of Bad Arolsen since 1945. Just because the Nazis attempted to disguise their genocide against the Jews while it was happening, doesn't mean they weren't proud of it. They kept meticulous records of every soul they sent to a death camp, and it has taken 60 years to unseal these files. Millions of records will soon be available to the public, and the answers may yet tell a worse story than previously thought.

No one today, and no one tomorrow, will ask Ahmadinejad the important questions about the IOB, or the Iranian Oil Bourse. The Bourse, or exchange, began last year and is the third such exchange for oil, futures, petroleum products, and all other financial instruments, joining those in London and New York. The IOB is the first located in the Middle East and the first to trade exclusively in euros. You know the term "petrodollars?" If that changes to petro-euros and other oil consuming countries like Russia and India go along, we're in for a wild ride. In his book, "Reefer Madness," describing the U.S. underground economy, Eric Schlosser already maintains that the one hundred dollar bill, once the staple of smugglers the world over, has been abandoned for the euro by money launderers and all manner of dealers in contraband, not just for the value, but because the euro comes in notes of 500. When the euro was launched, it was ridiculed in some quarters of this country. Don't be surprised to reach in your pocket one of these days for an Amero.

In this insane economy where President Chuckles thinks we can have guns and butter, if the perception of the almighty dollar collapses, so does our economy. Our trade deficits are obscene because we all want cheap stuff, yet there is no market for our consumer goods; not in autos, software, or even underwear. We do, however, lead the world in the gross output of porno. We are a debtor nation, $200 billion in hock to China alone, who buys our debt in Treasury Bills and transfers a large percentage to euros. Russia has followed suit in transferring their dollar reserves, and the country of Dubai, of the infamous Dubai Ports World debacle, has found their convergence of dollar reserves to the euro to be so profitable, they are poised to purchase the NASDAQ stock exchange; wholesale. The kings of the no-bid contract, Halliburton, home of the Cheney School of Business Ethics, have just moved their entire operation to Dubai. So much for that good corporate citizen nonsense.

This collapsing dollar is great for Europeans and other non-Americans using the euro, including Canadians, who are crossing borders for terrific bargains. Not only are all of our consumer goods on sale for half price, so is our land, our institutions, our landmarks, and our way of life. If there is a crisis in our currency, it could show the Bush economic policy as the Darwinian/Milton Friedman, free market, free-for-all, grab bag that it has always been, and then the tent poles could come down. What makes this scary story even more frightening is that if President Chuckles has populated the Departments of Commerce and the Treasury with his conservative cronies like he did in the Justice Department, you could wake up in a few years in a third world country, and still be in your own bed. The Hurricane Katrina of finance could hit and the first responders will blame it on gay marriage. Someone needs to ask President Ahmadinejad if his intention was to declare economic war on the United States by accepting oil payments only in euros and further weakening the dollar? His views on the holocaust may make him look like a fool, but his views on oil and the euro make him look like a fox.

It's Oil, Ya'll

On the eve of the sixth anniversary of the attack on our country by nineteen fanatical Saudis with boxcutters, I am not too cynical to pause and remember the innocent people killed that day and those that struggle still with the after effects. Whatever grievance Islamic extremists had with this country was nullified by the strategy to make their odious point by killing Mommies and Daddies. It's also worth remembering that under the the cover of the Twin Tower attacks, our government responded by unleashing two hundred 9/11's in the invasion and occupation of Iraq. We bombed their innocents, incapacitated the Iraqi Army, and set up a puppet government, and we ain't going nowhere. Does anyone feel avenged?

The Rumsfeld strategy to allow looting and lawlessness in major cities while securing the oil fields first, should have been the giveaway. Iraq never had anything to do with freedom, or 9/11, or anything other than oil, and our troops will be there until the oil leases are signed. The Bush/Cheney All-Oil team was ramrodding a bill through the Iraqi parliament, opening Iraq's oil fields to exploration by foreign companies, but it stalled before they went on Summer vacation. Not because of "sectarian strife," but because of what oil industry watchdog The Platform described as "sign(ing) away Iraq's future." Though the bill offered "revenue sharing," with Iraq's ethnic communities, it's real intent was to offer up Iraq's oilfields to the international Oil Lobby on more favorable terms than in Kuwait or Saudi Arabia, with the promise of even greater returns.

Regardless of what General Patraeus says today about "the surge," or President Chuckles says about the "possibility" of troop withdrawals, our soldiers will be in Iraq until the oil deals are settled and the fields are open for business. BushCo needs these leases to act as quasi-legal documents when the whole pathetic venture implodes. Only, our CEO and MBA government might all be on a compound in Paraguay clipping their Halliburton coupons by the time that happens. And any discussion of the Democrats defunding the war will be drowned out by the clamor for the essential needs of our troops and Bush's mercenaries. The troops are hostages to Cheney's oil deal and protesting in the streets is no longer viable. Osama Bin Laden can now release 9/11 anniversary tapes with the regularity of an Andy Williams Christmas Show. They have you over the old oil barrel and the only way to stop it is to demand impeachment.

On "Meet The Press" yesterday, Joe Biden suggested a similar solution to the one that I expressed on 4/7/06 (My Exit Strategy); Islamic peacekeepers from neighboring countries to remove the targets from our soldiers' backs. But this President will commission more studies and ask for more patience until his last day in office. Hopefully, under a less venal executive, the next president can begin to repair the damage by returning control of Iraqi natural resources to the Iraqis. Then we can remove our apparatchiks and uproot KBR from Saddam's palaces and return them to the people. Finally, we can hand over the most elaborate palace of them all, the gargantuan American Embassy that was to serve as our personal "Nerve Central" in the Middle East. Like Senator Biden said earlier, all the troops we can send will not accomplish reconciliation among the Iraqis. If that fails, we will be pulling desperate people off of the roof of that new U.S. Embassy in helicopters. All for oil, ya'll.

Letter to Jesse Jackson

Randolph J. Haspel
Memphis, TN

August 30, 2007

Reverend Jesse L. Jackson
Founder: Rainbow/PUSH Coalition

Dear Reverend Jackson,

I write as a long time supporter, contributor, and voter to both your presidential races. I have heard you speak in Memphis and Nashville, and I have been inspired while attending the early PUSH For Excellence Basketball games you brought to Memphis, and standing in a crowd of motivated young people shouting “I am somebody.” I believe in your concept of a Rainbow Coalition and the need for the “common ground” of which you so eloquently speak. Unfortunately, not all the people who claim to work in your name believe the same.

Rev. LaSimba Gray, of New Sardis Baptist Church, who claims to be the president of the Memphis chapter of the Rainbow PUSH Coalition, has established a group within the Memphis Baptist Ministerial Association, to oppose and smear District 9 Rep. Steve Cohen, for his support for the same federal hate crimes bill that was endorsed by your own organization. Rev. Gray has joined in an unholy alliance with the James Dobsons and Donald Wildmons of this world, along with a cadre of conservative Evangelical Christian ministers, in repeating the lie that the passage of this bill will restrict their right to preach against homosexuality from the pulpit. Though the ministers have been repeatedly assured that the hate crimes bill does not affect freedom of speech, they are using the issue to smear the congressman in a Bush-like, pre-emptive strike before the 2008 elections.

Rep. Cohen is the legitimately elected, true Democrat from the district seat held by the Ford family for thirty years. Rev. Gray supported the eminently unqualified Jake Ford, who ran against Cohen as an independent. Even though Rep. Cohen has won praise for his great start in Congress from everyone from John Conyers to Bill Clinton, Rev. Gray has been lamenting the loss of the District’s seat to a white man, regardless of Cohen’s record or accomplishments. The Evangelical preachers say they are incensed that gays might receive special status, and in the original letter sent to Cohen by Baptist ministers, co-signed by Rev. Gray, they demanded that Cohen protect their “Christian values” so many times, the only thing that was missing was a salutation reading, “Dear Jew.” Rev. Gray has already announced his support for Nikki Tinker, a very attractive candidate in the mold of Joe Lieberman and Harold Ford, Jr., only with more corporate backing, when Cohen is the one who’s unafraid to say he is a Liberal and votes in the best interests of the community. In the first six months, Cohen has passed legislation to name a federal building after Judge Odell Horton, he has proposed an official apology for slavery be declared in Congress, and he serves with distinction on the House Judiciary Committee.

When Rep. Cohen met with a group of Baptist ministers to clarify the hate crimes bill, he was met with derision and scorn, not because of his support for the legislation, but because he is a white man who was democratically elected in a majority black district. The newspaper reported that in a rowdy question and answer session, Cohen was repeatedly accused of being unable to represent the district because of his race. Rev Robert Poindexter of Mt. Moriah Baptist Church was quoted as saying, “He’s not black and he can’t represent me, that’s just the bottom line.” Imagine those words transposed into the mouth of a white preacher speaking of a black candidate. Even you, Rev. Jackson, would say that man was a consummate racist.

This hate campaign against the Jewish congressman is taking place in your name, Rev. Jackson, with the imprimatur of the Rainbow PUSH Coalition in the person of Rev. LaSimba Gray. Rev. Gray, and a small group of preachers within the Baptist organization, are opposing the hate crimes legislation that would attempt to stop racially motivated slayings like that of James Byrd in Texas. They are using your organization that preaches “common ground,” to attack and falsely vilify a Congressman, sufficiently enough for the leaders of the Ministerial group to issue a letter of apology. I know these are not the principles upon which the Rainbow PUSH Coalition was founded, but we need to hear from you Rev. Jackson. We need for you to repudiate these repugnant tactics and support Rep. Steve Cohen, one of the truly liberal Democrats in the Congress. The people of Memphis are bone weary of racist politics, Rev. Jackson. You may not be able to end it all, but you could help put a stop to this particularly ugly incident. I implore you to help.

Sincerely,

Randolph J. Haspel

Randianity

A hypothesis on the meaning of life, based on a layman's study of comparative religion.

After a search through a trove of books, I am one of those people who believe that the answers to the eternal questions can be found within. Only in the past few years, did I find that this belief in a personal truth had a name. It is Gnosticism, as opposed to agnosticism, which means you just can't commit. Please regard,

"Randy's revelations from religious ruminations."


1. If there is creation, there is a creator. To avoid confusion, we'll call this entity Steve.

2. There is no Steve but Steve, but all other names for Steve are equally valid.

3. Steve is the primal force, vibration, sound, event, and designer of creation and, yes, it is quite intelligent.

4. It is a mistake to think of Steve in human form since he is formless. The spark of life within every person, or soul, is of the exact same substance as Steve. Thus, the translation of the biblical verse, "God created man in His own image," refers to the soul. Since this energy is divine, it is also immortal. All energy is immortal. The body depreciates, but the soul is ageless. It's resale value remains intact and the warranty never expires.

5. Although there is a probability of other life forms in the universe, the Earth is the realm of Steve's divine play, or leela in Sanskrit, and mankind is the only species capable of reflection, knowledge of self, and contemplation upon the eternal soul by a mortal mind. This is the only life that offers the chance for the soul's advancement. There are no UFOs, Venusians, or Little Green Men, except for Billy Lee Riley's band. NASA is firing our rockets in the wrong direction. More information about the origin of man can be found beneath the seas than beyond the stars.

6. Since the soul consists of the stuff and substance of Steve, the heart's desire is to return Steveward. The ultimate purpose of the soul's journey is to merge human awareness with Steve awareness. This requires an accumulation of experience and wisdom that takes more than one lifetime to achieve. Thus, the soul is in a constant birth/death/rebirth continuum, as is all of nature, until you get it right. Nature moves in a cycle, but the soul travels in a spiral. The soul advances Steveward, or away from Steve, according to thoughts and deeds while in human form. Some call this karma, or cause and effect, and reincarnation. Some call it, "What goes around.."

7. Your soul is an individual soul, and though it may animate many vessels in many ages, it remains a unique gift from Steve to you. Humans have karma, families have karma, communities have karma, nations have karma. In order to sufficiently learn from the human experience, souls must be incarnated in groups to resolve past issues and advance to the next round, like in Family Feud. Thus, families are incarnated together, although not necessarily in the same roles or genders, to learn of the absolute equality of the spirit. That's what makes "Deja Vu" such a fascinating notion. So, say hello to your Uncle Max, my boy. And don't be going upside anyone's head, lest your head be gone upside against.

8. Any method of seeking Steve is valid, as long as it includes service to man and seeks to foster peace and communion. The least any individual can do, is restrain from intentionally harming anyone else. Steve's messengers say, "There are many paths up the mountain, but they all eventually lead to the top." Any group that claims to know the exclusive way to Steve, has delusions of grandeur. Killing in Steve's name causes you to be demoted and held back a grade. You will not be graduating with your class and must repeat the entire term. If you return a leper, you had it coming.

9. Steve is not prejudiced. If Steve chose to send a divine messenger, or evolved being, to reveal eternal truths to a group of people in one part of the world, it's a logical imperative to assume that he would send his messengers to people in all parts of the world. Enlightened teachers from Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Zoroaster, Confucius, Muhammad, and the present Saints of India are living examples of the capacity of humanity to achieve Steve consciousness. There are hundreds of Holy Scriptures in the world written by thousands of divinely inspired men. One book alone cannot contain the infinite wisdom of Steve.

10. Steve doesn't care if you believe in him or not. It's inconsequential to his purposes. He does, however, value righteous action over rigid religiosity any day. The search for Steve begins with a thirst for truth and not a desire for dogma. Since brainwaves create ripples in the ether and Steve encourages communing with the spirit; prayer, meditation, and contemplation are good things. But there are billions of stars and Steve does not micromanage life on this one. He sets the wheel in motion and gives you what you need, and then you are responsible for your own salvation. The church is for those who benefit from the comfort of ritual, but Steve resides in your heart, bidden or unbidden.

11. Everything does not happen for a reason. That is an arrogant and homo-sapiencentric assumption. Sometimes, things happen for no reason at all. It is Steve's nature to allow for free will and random accident. Every event in life, negative and positive, offers the chance for spiritual growth, even tragedy. Evil exists in the human realm because of ignorance, but if you screw up, don't go blaming Steve by saying that it was his will.

12. Steve created evolution. Natural selection is Steve's way of seeing which of his creations can cut it. The dinosaurs are now our fossil fuel. To prevent our becoming fuel for a future superspecies, we must get about the business of evolving. Now that we have achieved opposable thumbs, further evolution in man must take place in the heart. War is not the natural state of mankind. Although Arjuna had to fight in the Bhagavad Gita, and Ecclesiastes says there is "a time for war," peace is the evolutionary, and revolutionary destination of mankind.

13. When Steve created physics, those laws function in a physical world in perpetual flux and thus, are in transition. If man's evolution is continual, then the rational mind must allow for the possibility of the irrational. If Steve has dominion over the laws of physics, he can also defy them, since they only operate in this realm. Paranormal powers, psychic energies, ESP, clairvoyance, and miracles are not only possible, they are within the reach of humanity in its evolutionary state. There is already enough anecdotal evidence in hypnosis, meditation, and past life regression to warrant scientific study into metaphysical phenomena. The power of Steve is within you.

14. Steve is love. Whatever the question, the answer is Steve.

Elvis+30

I got the call early on Aug. 16, 1977. My friend and guitarist Donnie Baer's brother-in-law was a fireman who had monitored the first ambulance calls to Graceland, and he was reporting Elvis had died. I replied with one word, "bullshit." There was nothing on radio or TV yet, and enough reason to disbelieve, at least for a short while. Elvis had become a curio by 1977, and had long passed the days when he was an active influence in popular music. But people from Memphis felt a special pain at his passing, especially those who had been there at the beginning.

My sister, Susan, returned home from a teenage party at the Gayosa Hotel on Main Street in 1957, flushed with excitement. Elvis had chosen the occasion to visit his friend, disc jockey Dewey Phillips, at the WHBQ radio studios in the hotel, "On the Magazine Floor," in Deweyspeak. After his visit, someone informed him of the party of twelve and thirteen year olds going on in the ballroom, and he took the time to come say hello to all the kids. Susan breathlessly told me about Elvis putting his arm around her and posing for a photograph, and I could picture the entire scene in my mind. Susan, short haired and diminutive in bobby sox and saddle oxfords, with Elvis, wearing a two-tone sport coat with the collar turned up in the back and slicked back hair, draping an arm casually around my sister's shoulder. Years later, I asked her what ever became of that picture, but Susan continues to insist that no such photo has ever existed. But I can still see it. After all, I developed it in my imagination for my scrapbook of Elvis memories.

That's how much we loved him. It was inconceivable to think of Memphis without his presence. When the nation saw him for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956, we felt were watching one of our own conquer the world. And Elvis' loyalty to Memphis never wavered, even during the dismal Hollywood era. During the Quaalude years, I knew a girl who worked in the pharmacy across the street from Dr. Nick's office on Madison Ave. She told me that one of the guys was picking up packages of 100 Quaaludes a week for Elvis. I imagined the slur-fest that must be going on up at Graceland with "E" and all the guys, but I never thought Elvis could be ingesting them all himself. That's a dose to knock down a silverback gorilla. At the same time, reports of bizarre behavior by Elvis of using police lights to pull over cars and behaving like a narc, or interfering in the arguments of strangers as if he were a superhero, began to surface. When the drug problem became public knowledge, there was no Betty Ford clinic to check into, or facility to dryout and rehabilitate a reputation. The tragedy of Elvis' lonely death is that the Colonel had him end his years, playing a carnie circuit of arenas as a very sick man, in order to cover the Colonel's Vegas gambling debts.

When Elvis died, I, and several other musicians, gathered at the Sam Phillips Studio to talk it over. We ended up surrounding a piano being played by James Brown Hooker of the Rhythm Aces. There was Donnie, Bob Simon, Jerry Phillips, Casper Peters, Teddy Paige, and other regulars, and we began to sing Elvis songs. But because we were irreverent, we sang them all in minor keys, like "Hound Dog," only in E-minor, making it sound like a Gregorian chant. We were laughing to cover our sorrow, since every person in that room was aware that the reason we were even standing there, was because of Elvis. The very studio itself, stood because of Elvis. We were the musical spawn of Elvis. Whatever careers in music we had, we owed to him. That's how important he was in our lives.

I recall thinking in the early 70s, that there was no further need for Elvis to be so isolated. The people of Memphis were used to his presence and would allow him to interact normally in society without too much interference. I saw Jerry Lee Lewis and his entourage out on the town all the time. His boys protected him from the severely inebriated and he was generally gracious to everyone else. I wondered why Elvis couldn't live in a similar manner. But, I was walking down the concourse of the Memphis Airport, back in the days when you could actually meet someone at the gate, and I saw this bizarre looking man walking toward me headed for the exits. I thought, "I know this guy," but I couldn't place him, despite the white jumpsuit. He was very handsome, with unusually large facial pores that looked sanded, and a shock of the blackest hair to come out of a bottle. When I caught up to my mother ahead of me, she asked, "Did you see Elvis?" Only then did all the gears mesh and without another word, I turned and began running after Elvis like a crazed teenage girl. I caught up to him just as he was entering his car on the passenger side. He looked up and I said with understated brilliance, "Hey Elvis. How you doing?" "Fine man. How 'bout you?"

My single conversation with Elvis made me realize that, if I had chased after him at full speed through an airport just to gaze upon his countenance, perhaps he couldn't come out in public after all. I have attended many Elvis "Death Week" events over the years, including conferences, dinners, and impersonator competitions. At first, I went for the freak show aspect of it; to witness these people who were turning Elvis into a world spiritual figure. But the devotion and sincerity of these Elvis fans, who come here during the hottest days of the year, was moving to me instead. I went to laugh, and ended up crying. In the middle of yet another Ronnie McDowell "tribute," I looked to the back of the room and saw a large group of Japanese tourists standing and silently weeping copious tears. You have to marvel at the astonishing depth of emotion created by this one man, in people from all corners of human existence.

I never got to meet Elvis. I might have imposed upon George Klein or members of the Phillips family to wrangle myself an introduction, but that would have been very un-Elvislike of me. I was lucky enough to have been at the epicenter of the Elvis explosion and could never describe to a non-Memphian how incredibly exciting it was. Like cotton candy, Elvis' music is a confection that conjures up wonderful memories that linger long after it's gone. I did write a short poem for him after his death, titled; Elvis Never Bought Me a Cadillac.
Elvis never bought me a Cadillac/ He never knew my name.
I never got a diamond ring/ But I loved him just the same.