A Scandal Trifecta



"I gave them a sword," Richard Nixon said of his political enemies during the infamous David Frost, post-resignation interviews, "and they twisted it with relish." Had the roles been reversed, he said, "I'd have done the same thing." So, don't look at me to defend the Obama administration over the recent trifecta of scandals infecting the government. I am an equal opportunity scorn dispenser, and when an abuse of power occurs, it matters not the affection I have for the executive, but the severity of the breach of public trust. Obama is well aware that his every utterance comes under scrutiny by those who would undermine his presidency, so the careless and stupid actions of his subordinates threatens to squander the moral high ground established during the first term. Now, regardless of the outcome, Obama's second term will be mired in hearings, depositions, and legal briefs. The sharks were already circling. They were just waiting for a little blood in the water. He gave them the sword.

The tragedy of Benghazi is like catnip to the House Republicans and their propaganda arm known as Fox News. They have been flogging this story since Ambassador Susan Rice repeated redacted talking points on all the Sunday shows. An ambassador and an aide died in the conflagration, yet the GOP's focus of inquiry has been on the reporting about the attack. Republicans accuse the administration of a "political cover-up," claiming the president's staff manipulated talking points regarding Benghazi in order to influence the 2012 election. In return, the White House released a hundred pages of emails which show the CIA was responsible for the blather, which was then edited by someone in the State Department trying to make the agency look better than it deserved. Hillary Clinton's now famous eruption of, "What difference at this point does it make," in response to questions concerning terrorist involvement in the Benghazi attack have been turned into a GOP ringtone in preparation for the 2016 elections. The remainder of her statement; "It is our job to figure out what happened and do everything we can to prevent it from happening again," was forgotten in the ensuing hysteria.

The IRS targeting of Tea Party groups requesting tax exemption is inexcusable and illegal and deserving of the "heads will roll" attitude of the administration. The IRS acting director, Steve Miller, got dumped. I expected him to sing "Take the Money and Run," upon his departure, but I'm showing my age again. As long as I am, however, I well remember the IRS being used as a political weapon by Richard Nixon and his crewe. What's galling is that these political hit squads, both left and right, are supposed to be "social welfare" organizations that help to inform the electorate about the candidates, before they get their tax exempt status. After the IRS grants that status, the groups are free from reporting on their donors or the amount they spend. Ironically, the IRS flagged smaller Tea Party organizations for scrutiny while giving the big fish a pass. Karl Rove's American Crossroads super pac spent over 100 million dollars with such tax-free status, and none of it was for "social welfare." The politicization of the IRS still reflects the fact that Democrats can be as petty and ruthless as their counterparts and more firings are in order. The harassment of right-wing groups seeking a tax exemption, however, does not rise to the level of Rep. Michele Bachmann's accusations that Obama used the IRS to steal the election.

While the media focuses its attention on the IRS screw-up, the most egregious of the scandals is the covert collection of phone records from the Associated Press. Now we're into Nixon territory, and should the Justice Department's national security concerns fail to persuade, then Eric Holder has got to go. I understand he was personally questioned in regards to the AP matter and has thus recused himself from the investigations. Holder claims his Deputy ordered the harvesting of personal records from AP phone lines. There are other ways of obtaining information than breaking the law. The surreptitious collection of AP phone records could compromise the integrity of their sources and discourage whistleblowers from coming forth in the future. Associated Press CEO, Gary Pruitt, claimed the seizure of reporters' phone records "unconstitutional," and said the organization is considering legal action against the Justice Department. I don't hold many allegiances, but my first is to journalism. Earning that degree took a good deal of study, and much of it was about the constitutional protection of free expression. I believe the trampling of the 1st Amendment right of a free press by the Justice Department deserves the resignation of the Attorney General. Whether the AG is John Mitchell, Janet Reno, or Alberto Gonzales, when they skirt the law they were sworn to uphold, they become a drag on the presidency, and a negative representation of his government.

I don't understand the Republicans. They claim to be the party of family values with a special emphasis on marriage and fidelity. This president is a wonderful father and role model, faithful to his wife, without a hint of scandal, and yet they hate him so much. The zeal with which the Republicans are attempting to prove that Obama was the Svengali that micro-managed every crisis reminds me of the GOP's inquisition of Bill Clinton. By portraying Clinton as Satan, the GOP managed to obfuscate his real transgressions and ultimately turn the tide of public opinion in his favor. Recent polling indicates that Barack Obama's popularity has remained steady despite the shitstorm of conservative abuse. These "scandals" will consume Obama's presidency only because of political posturing by the Republicans, and ultimately they won't amount to much. Watergate was a scandal. Teapot Dome was a scandal. These are merely the bumblings of bureaucratic zealots, but the poisonous wing of the Republican party is already talking impeachment. It didn't have to be this way, but Obama's legislative agenda has been hijacked by a witches' brew of controversies. What a waste of talent.

 

Call The Wrecker For My Heart

"The Possum," George Jones, finally bought the farm at age 81, at Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville on April 26. To his family's eternal credit, last week's funeral was declared open to the public. Some of Country music's greatest stars, with some unusual dignitaries, gathered at the Grand Ole Opry House along with thousands of fans, some of whom began gathering before dawn, for the memorial service. For those who couldn't attend the funeral personally, the event was live-streamed on the Internet, two different cable channels covered the obsequies, and as a tribute to Jones' transformative effect on country music, all local Nashville television stations broadcast the farewell in tribute. It was a ceremony fit for the King of Country Music, but Roy Acuff already claimed that nickname, and it's no longer accurate to call George, "No-Show" Jones. He was in the middle of a nationwide tour that was to have wrapped up in November with an all-star concert in Nashville. For a man who missed all those performances earlier in his career, he sure died with his boots on.

For those few poor souls unfamiliar with the singer, let's just say he was the Elvis of Country music, and I ain't talking Costello. Sam Phillips once referred to the Nashville music bidness as "having a follower's mentality," and in a town full of imitators, George Jones, like Hank Williams before him, must have been the most imitated singers in country history. His backwoods soul, seemingly linked to a bottomless well of pain, made for classic songs like, "He Stopped Loving Her Today," sung movingly by Jones acolyte Randy Travis at the funeral. Until that one came along, Jones' signature song was a tune written by former Memphis teen-heartthrob Dickie Lee called,"She Thinks I Don't Care," or as we other jealous songwriters laughingly referred to it; "She Stinks But I Don't Care." Dickie Lee could afford to laugh. Jones made him rich. George's rowdy side was best illustrated by a famous story from his raucous marriage with Tammy Wynette. George was schnockered and wanted to drive to the liquor store so Tammy hid the car keys. A half-hour later, the police stopped Jones on the highway, driving to the package store on a riding lawnmower. Jones credited his fourth wife, Nancy Sepulvado, with straightening him out for good. I owe her too.

During the decade I spent writing songs in Nashville, a period I refer to as my "Babylonian Exile," having George Jones record one of your songs was akin to, as I said, getting a cut by Elvis, or Jimi Hendrix, for that matter. I was a new hire at a fledgling publishing company that paid me a pittance each week for gruel, but did offer me access to the recording studio. I had been in Country Music City for a couple of years and had such rotten luck, I used to sprinkle rejection on my Corn Flakes for breakfast. Once, during a Memphis-in-May-type downpour, I parked my car and ducked quickly into an office building on Music Row for a writing appointment, but the other guy never showed up. As I stood waiting for way too long, I fixed my gaze on the parking lot below and spotted my car with the headlights still on. Soaked, I dove underneath the hood to find the battery dead and no one around in the driving rain. While waiting for a tow-truck, I started to write the lyrics to a song titled, "Call the Wrecker For My Heart." After I became quasi-employed, I presented the half-written tune to my songwriting partners, but they thought it so corny, they didn't want to have anything to do with it.

Each week, the boss held a company demo session for those writers with just a single song to record. I brought "Wrecker" to the session and everyone seemed well pleased with the result, although finding a prospective artist for a parody song was admittedly difficult. My friend and stablemate, awarded writer Eddie Burton, also had a song on the same session and took a cassette tape (remember those?) over to the house of his friends, Nancy and George Jones, to listen. George loved Eddie's song, and while they discussed it, the tape continued on to the next song, which was mine. Before they could turn it off, Nancy said, "Wait a second, I like this one, too." So they listened again. Later that month, Eddie took me aside at a staff meeting and said, simply and with a smile, "You got your Jones cut." I didn't just want to kiss him, I actually did. My song was to be on an album called, "Who's Gonna Fill Their Shoes," and co-incidentally, it not only appeared as the track after Burton's on the LP, it was also the B-side to Burton's song. If that's confusing to younger readers, a B-side is the flip side of a 45 RPM record. If the A-side sells a million, so does mine, only 45s weren't doing so well in the mid-80s, and the record died a quick death. Still, a B-side on George Jones was, and is, my proudest accomplishment as a songwriter. It should have cemented my reputation.

The music business being the venal pit of writhing greed that it is, however, new owners bought out my employers and decided to downsize. Since I was among the lower-tier writers, in pay and reputation, I was unceremoniously hustled out the door, George Jones cut and all. Instead of my Jones song being a great beginning, it was the beginning of the end for me in Nashville. Unable to latch on elsewhere, I ultimately returned to Memphis with my country tail between my rock and roll legs. The Jones LP of which I was so proud, for whatever reason, became the single album he recorded in the eighties that did not make the elevation to Compact Disk. Thus, my song was never digitized, never played on the radio, and faded further into obscurity. I had to content myself with having written the George Jones song no one had ever heard, and when I was asked the title, folks had a good but unnerving laugh at my expense. Last I checked online, the few test CDs of the album were going for $129.20. When the funeral was over, and after everyone from Laura Bush to Kid Rock had spoken, and Barbara Mandrell called Jones "the greatest Country singer of all time," sales of George Jones albums were up a reported 1000 percent. So, I figure that after 28 years, my novelty tune might get heard after all, and I can say yet again, "Thank you, Old Possum, for recording my song when everyone around me told me that it was silly. You too, Mrs. Jones."

 

The Media Bomb

Against my better judgement, I woke up my wife, Melody, at 3:00am last week to tell her all hell had broken loose in Boston and that she probably ought to get up and watch the breaking news. We had already witnessed the terrorist bombs detonating at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, killing three and maiming 170, but the resulting manhunt was nearly as shocking. My guess was that the bombers were home-grown knuckleheads of the Tim McVeigh variety. Melody thought it was the work of Muslim extremists, so it turns out we were both right. After the release of the suspects' photographs, within three hours, the police had the two Chechen-American brothers identified and trapped, and when the city-wide lockdown was lifted, the surviving brother was located and taken alive. It was a stunning success for the Boston Police Department, the FBI, the ATF, and all the other agencies that helped track down these miscreants, but it was an extraordinary and historic failure for both print and electronic journalism.

The post-marathon manhunt made for some gripping reality television, only you couldn't change the channel. When the networks joined the cable news channels in wall-to-wall coverage, there was no escaping the unfolding saga. In fact, you could take a nap and afterwards, the same people would be speculating about the same things. It was like watching an endless episode of Dragnet, except nobody had the facts, ma'am. From CNN, to Fox News, to the Boston Globe, so many falsehoods were presented as fact and so many baseless rumors floated as the truth, it's understandable why a good sized portion of the populous doesn't trust the news "industry" anymore. The medium now has more face-men than real journalists, and a woman with an attractive cleavage is valued more highly than one with a journalism degree. For days, all the networks' top stars were based on a Beantown corner, acting like they knew something. Not to demean the seriousness of the event, but the twenty-four hour, non-stop coverage of the search for the terrorists in Boston knocked all the rest of the news off the airwaves. It would seem that if someone from Waco called a news outlet and claimed credit for the massive explosion in West, Texas for Al Qaeda, every news anchor in the business would be sitting in front of a bombed-out fertilizer factory in Texas talking about how they caught us unawares.

The Boston Journalistic Massacre began, predictably, when the Rupert Murdoch owned New York Post printed a front-page picture of a Moroccan-American man, falsely accusing him of being the bomber. As in most violent events, the first lie reported was that the hunted person was a black man. The Post claimed twice in one week that the suspects were "dark-skinned males." After CNN repeated the lie, and during the subsequent media frenzy, an innocent man from Bangladesh was assaulted. Next, Fox News and the Boston Globe reported arrests were made when there were none. The network cameras focused on a man lying prostrate in the street, arms akimbo, while police officers trained their guns on him; wrong guy. They reported on a mysterious person on a rooftop overlooking the bomb site; just a bystander. And in one of the most bizarre scenes of the entire week, a man was forced to strip naked in the middle of the street and was frog-marched to a squad car, private parts pixilated for the cameras, without comment or explanation from the chattering "experts."

When the manhunt moved to Watertown, the bad information shifted into overdrive. First, someone coincidentally robbed a 7/11 while the wanted brothers happened to be in there. Then the robbery became a carjacking and, within the hour, NBC's Brian Williams was seated in front of the Town Diner. When the network cut into a local feed and an announcer was heard saying, "I don't know shit," a red-faced Williams had to apologise for the incidental profanity and remind everyone that tensions were high. At least the guy was honest. The best reporting of the night was done by a bystander named Andrew Kitzenberg who spoke with MSNBC by Skype while a gunfight was raging beneath his apartment window on Laurel Street. Kitzenberg accurately reported the shoot-out which killed one brother, and the reckless escape of the other. Misinformation poured in about explosive devises at MIT and the murder of a campus policeman who was responding to a disturbance, when actually, he was shot while sitting in his car. When the quarantine was finally lifted and the second suspect was located, it was at first by a neighbor that saw something unusual about a ladder and a boat, but it turned out to be the homeowner who went out to his backyard for a smoke. NBC stationed Rehema Ellis in front of Massachusetts General Hospital to await the fugitive's arrival, but in a rich irony, the Islamic Jihadist was taken to Beth Israel Hospital for treatment.

My intention is not to criticize the police- obviously whatever they did worked- so who's to criticise? It's just that I've never seen the total lockdown of a major city before. In the drama's denouement, when it appeared as if every law enforcement vehicle in a tri-state area had converged on the scene, it occurred to me that if I had criminal inclinations, it would be the ideal time to rob a bank. Maybe it's just me, but 9,000 law enforcement officers in pursuit of a wounded teenager seemed a bit like overkill. Someone said it was necessary to have a show of force after a terrorist act. Probably so, but there weren't that many cops out looking for Lee Harvey Oswald, and the Israelis, who deal with suicide bombers on a daily basis, merely clean up and open for business the next day. An argument could be made that, with every camera focused upon them and the entirety of the American news media reacting to their every blood-drenched move, the terrorists succeeded in their goals. One deranged fanatic managed to lock-up a million people while he ran free. Major league baseball and hockey games were cancelled. All municipal transit was halted. They got their man, but now we know what martial law looks like. And finally, the major networks can stop their "breaking news" interruptions to regular programming. What I want to know is, if a thunderstorm were approaching Memphis, would the local stations break-in to the national networks' break-ins?

Basketbrawl

Now that March Madness has ended and the recruiting season has begun, remind me not to play basketball for Rutgers. I'd prefer to reserve my efforts for someplace where my talents are  appreciated rather than abused. I need to work on my forty minute stamina and some concession for my age has to be made, but before I play for a physically or verbally abusive coach, I'll hang up the sneakers. Of course, I have the luxury of having nothing to lose, unlike the unfortunate student-athletes at Rutgers University who would put their college careers and any hope of playing professional basketball in jeopardy if they had criticized their foul-tempered bully of a head coach. They just had to grin and bear it until someone posted an online video of their practices, which tended to look more like scenes out of Fight Club. And we all know the first rule of Fight Club.

 

The now viral video, first given to the University and ESPN by a so-called whistleblower, shows ex-Coach Mike Rice shoving, kicking, brutalizing, and screaming epithets at his players, calling them fairies and faggots, while bouncing basketballs off their heads. It only proves just how much these young men have to lose, or else someone would have, and probably should have, cold-cocked him. The resulting public uproar got Rice fired even though Rutgers was aware of his abusive conduct and knew about the incriminating video at the beginning of the season. The University issued a report last December, criticizing the video for "taking many situations out of context," and absolving the coach of accusations that he "created a hostile work environment." The University's examination of the torture video resulted in a 50,000 dollar fine, a suspension for three games without pay, and an agreement that Mike Rice undergo anger-management therapy and have his behavior monitored. The resulting outrage over that petty, hand-check foul caused the resignations of the Athletic Director, the University's top in-house lawyer, and an assistant coach. University President Robert Barchi now claims he probably should have watched the video.

 

Just when it seemed college basketball could get no uglier, the whistleblower, ostensibly doing a good deed by exposing a bad coach, is now under investigation by the FBI. The Associated Press reports that Eric Murdock, former director of player development under Coach Rice, may have attempted to extort the University before the videos became public. An FBI report says that a lawyer representing Murdock requested a sum of $950,000 from the University to "settle employment issues," or face a lawsuit. Murdock has since filed suit as the good guy, claiming Rutgers dismissed him for being the whistleblower. In addition, it is unknown who originally taped the coach's deplorable conduct, but Murdock received multiple hours of just such incidences and edited the tape down to the thirty minutes currently in public circulation. It becomes difficult to tell if this is college basketball or Abu Ghraib.

 

No one with a hint of empathy for those cowed teenagers could justify such violent tactics by their coach. But over at Fox News, where groupthink is reality, everyone got the memo to turn a sports story about an ugly incident into a sociological commentary of the state of manhood in contemporary society. Sean Hannity drooled that he approved of the "old-fashioned discipline," while Michelle Malkin nodded in agreement that this was a left-wing, nanny-state condemnation of a tough coach trying to instill discipline in his wards. The most incredulous commentary of all came from a talking potato named Eric Bolling, who blathered that, "this is our culture in freefall," and "this is the wussification of American men." God, I hate that word. Hearing Mr. Bolling call for corporal punishment reminded me of the bad old days in parochial school when the teachers were permitted to beat, pound, and paddle their students. Bolling said a whack across the legs with a wooden paddle "never hurt anyone." I'm hear to tell ya', it hurt me. It turned me into a good didact, but nobody knows what that means anyway. Watching Coach Rice kick those young men recalled those sadistic coaches in high school. These days, that "old-fashioned discipline" would be called "assault."

 

Rutgers has a lot at stake here. They made the mistake of protecting the coach instead of the players.  Mike Rice's 2012 salary was $655,000 and he was only in his third year with a 44-51 record. But, as called for in his contract, Rutgers will pay Rice a $100,000 bonus for "longevity."The myopic Athletic Director will receive 1.25 million dollars in a severance pay package. Here's hoping that the next coach won't feel so much pressure to win in the Big-10 that he resorts to violence. Coach Rice's former school, Robert Morris University, is now investigating his behavior at that institution. The aforementioned Eric "whistleblower" Murdock contends that there were at least "five coaches-versus-player brawls in practice." Rutgers should look on the bright side. After Robert Morris took leave of Mike Rice, their new coach, Andy Toole, took the Colonials to this years' NIT and beat John Calipari's defending national champion Kentucky Wildcats in the first round. It doesn't get much sweeter than that, proving once again, that you can catch more flies with honey than with vitriol.

 

Bouncers

I've never had the occasion to go to Jack Magoo's Sports Bar and Grill and now it's for damn sure I never will. Two weeks ago, bouncers at the Broad Avenue bistro physically removed a customer from the bar because they believed he was intoxicated and creating a disturbance. The police responded to the scene to find an injured man on the sidewalk bleeding from a wound in the head. When the police became aware of the cane by the  man's side and his inability to speak with them, they suspected that this was more than just a drunk tossed out of a saloon. In fact, the aggrieved customer was Brian Roper, thirty year veteran and retired Captain of the Germantown Police Department, who suffered a debilitating stroke in 2007 which left him crippled on his right side and without speech. Roper offered a card to the officers explaining that he suffers from aphasia, a lasting side-effect of stroke caused by damage to the part of the brain that controls speech.  Roper declined to be taken to a hospital, so the officers took him home. That might have been the end of it had not some concerned citizen brought the matter to the attention of WMC-TV Channel 5, who reported the story in their March 25 nightly newscast when reporter Jason Miles interviewed Roper in his midtown apartment. My wife and I cried when we saw the report. You see, Brian Roper is a friend of mine.

I have spent half my life in bars and have known some bad-ass bouncers in that time. But I never saw any of them- not Skip Ousley, Campbell Kinsinger, Mac Thompson, or Rusty Neel- rough up a disabled customer. After an explosion on Facebook and other social media, Jack Magoo's issued a statement on their Facebook page through one of the unidentified co-owners, either Bryan Plunk or Jim Shannon, stating, "A recent report by one individual on social media and subsequent local news reports of alleged aggressive behavior toward a disabled customer greatly disturbs us." The bruises to both Mr. Roper's arms, chest, and head, however, are certainly not "alleged." The dissembling owner continued to say that he was tardy in responding to the matter because he was on sequestered jury duty without telephone accessibility, and his partner did not wish to respond to the news reports until they had time to confer. This is the grown-up equivalent of a doctor's note, exempting a student from Phys Ed. The owner continued, announcing the hiring of an "outside company to conduct interviews of the employees allegedly involved," and said that a statement would have been more forthcoming if not for the collection and examination of video surveillance. "It takes time to review all the video," the explanation read, "but it is being looked at to ensure the truth is brought forth. And we seek the truth." The rest of the online proclamation was enough boilerplate legalese to make Cory B. Trotz throw up. I don't know what the delay is. I got the story in one phone call.

According to police reports, Mr. Roper took a cab to the Three Angels Diner on Broad Avenue the night of March 14 to have dinner and watch the Memphis Tigers' game. According to Roper, he had been served there before without incident. In a happy mood, Roper proceeded to Jack Magoo's to celebrate the Tigers' victory in a boisterous sports bar atmosphere. When he got to the bar, Roper's drink order was misunderstood, as were his fruitless protestations to the bartender. Assumed drunk, Roper was ordered to leave the bar. When Roper angrily responded by trying to communicate through his ever-present notepad, three employees forcibly removed him from the nightspot and threw him to the pavement outside. A follow-up report was made the next day after Roper's friend and "interpreter," local musician Jim Spake, took him to the ER of Methodist North Hospital and re-called the police to give a more accurate account of the incident according to Roper. Officers Reinhardt and Norris took photos of the various scrapes and bruises on Roper's body before he was moved to the Intensive Care Unit due to a small brain bleed. He was released from the hospital Sunday morning.

I'll admit my prejudice in being sympathetic to Brian Roper's side of things. Our friendship dates back to the early 90s when Roper, Jim Spake and I were all volunteer programmers on WEVL-FM90, and members of the same pub quiz team which we named "Chest Pains." Roper's specialties were sports, military history, and great books, but there wasn't a single subject of which Brian did not possess some passing knowledge. He was a great wit and known to have a cocktail or three, although I never witnessed any aberrant behavior on his part. What made his stroke even more saddening was that it deprived Brian of his ability to express himself. I was present in those early days of his recovery and saw his frustration over knowing what he wanted to say, but being incapable of forming the words. Conversations with Brian became a guessing game akin to "you're getting warmer," and were difficult to conduct. To my shame, because it became uncomfortable for me, I allowed our friendship to slide, ceasing regular contact with Brian and moving on. Jim Spake, however, stood by his side through good times and bad, and knows Brian so well that he can anticipate, understand, and "interpret" Brian's speech patterns. Thus, Spake's insistence that an additional police report was necessary. I spoke with Spake before his gig with Lucero in Pawtuckett, Rhode Island, and he was firm in his defense of Roper. We agreed that even if Brian were knocked-out loaded, that would have been no excuse for throwing him in the street, and even the smallest amount of examination would have revealed his disability.

I know that where I work, if I ever put my hands on a customer, I would be gone within the hour. That's because the owners emphasize customer service above all else and this was made clear to me before I was employed. No business, bar or otherwise, allows their employees to physically eject a customer from the premises without the tacit approval of management. I was therefore not surprised that despite Jack Magoo's insistence that the bar "maintains the highest ethical standard," there was no expression of regret or attempt at apology in their online legal brief- only a promise of an internal investigation, then they'll get back to us. This delay has created turmoil among those who care about Roper, and a Facebook discussion of a musicians' boycott has already begun. If I were advising the owners of Jack Magoo's, I would tell them that if you wish to salvage the reputation of your establishment you should immediately issue a public apology, announce that the thugs that abused Roper have been terminated, and promise that nothing like this will ever occur again. Then I would quietly offer some restitution to Roper personally to compensate for his injuries and public embarrassment. So far, it's business as usual, and a glance at Jack Magoo's Facebook page trumpets "60 cent wings and $3.50 Margaritas," to which one commenter replied, "If I come, please don't dump me out of my wheelchair."  Brian Roper deserves better, and if Jack Magoo's doesn't act properly and soon, he just might get it.

 

Viral Cruises

If you should ever run into me at some social gathering and I mention in passing that I'm planning on going on a cruise, just go ahead and shoot me in the head, for surely the pod people will have taken over my bodily essence. I would no sooner take a cruise than take a colonoscopy without anesthetic, and judging from the images I saw from the recent floating disaster called the Carnival Triumph, the pictures would look about the same. Set adrift in the Gulf of Mexico because of an engine fire, nearly 3000 passengers were stranded for five days without heat or air conditioning, a broken sewage system too disgusting to describe, and a scarcity of food; which reminds me of that old joke about diners complaining that the food was simply poison, and in such small portions. After the "poop cruise" situation was followed hourly by cable news and the wretched tourists finally disembarked, they were heartened to learn that Carnival Cruises was offering full refunds on fares, an extra $500, and a credit for another cruise. The company tweeted that "of course the Triumph bathrobes are complimentary." If I were a passenger, I'd be burning that stack.

I used to think of cruises as something my parents did, when the passengers dressed for dinner and either watched a show or some other entertainment and then passed out. Now cruises are built around food and the all-you-can-eat banquet feasts that are available 24 hours a day. Cruise ships once required some decorum in dress, but the people I saw exiting the Carnival Triumph were the same American slobs you see in Wal-Mart, with oversized T-shirts over baggy shorts and white, athletic socks with some hideous sneaker. I wouldn't want to spend time with 3000 people on dry land, much less trapped in a E Coli incubator on the open seas. And these leisurely cruises are looking more like episodes of Survivor. In 2010 the cruise ship Celebrity Mercury left Charleston, SC with 2600 passengers and returned to port with 400 people stricken by an outbreak of norovirus. All this comes only a year after the Costa Concordia ran aground off the coast of Italy, killing 32 and capsizing after the captain jumped ship. Didn't anybody ever watch Gilligan's Island?

My aversion to cruises dates back to the 1985 hijacking of the Achille Lauro when four terrorists from the Palestinian Liberation Front dumped poor Leon Klinghoffers' body overboard in his wheelchair. You might think that particular cruise ship would be retired out of respect, but the Lauro Line returned it to service until an engine fire caused it to sink off the coast of Somalia in 1994 with 1000 passengers on board. Which brings us to the Carnival Splendor which was attacked by Somali pirates in 2005. I'm certain that those passengers weren't aware that some of the cruise activities included dodging machine gun fire and rocket propelled grenades when they purchased their tickets. Yet still, the cruise industry reports a 23 percent increase in business in the past year alone. This despite the numerous incidences of cruise ships becoming floating petri dishes of disease. The Center for Disease Control has said "sickness has run rampant on cruise ships," especially norovirus which has been derisively called the "cruise ship disease." Doesn't anybody just get plain old sea-sick anymore?

The cruise industry fights back by saying that the norovirus is a common illness found in hotels and other public places and is spread like the ordinary cold. Also, since cruise ships participate in the Vessel Sanitation Program, they are required to report the number of cases of gastrointestinal illnesses before the ship arrives at a U.S. port, creating greater attention to ship-borne diseases. On the CDC homepage, however, sixteen cruise ships reported outbreaks of norovirus in 2012 alone, with the Ruby Princess cited twice. But like the industry says, why sweat the intestinal eruptions when there is salmonella, E Coli, and Legionnaire's disease to be concerned about as well. In 1994, 50 passengers aboard a cruise ship contacted Legionnaire's disease from a contaminated whirlpool spa, and the British ship M.S. Black Watch had a Legionnaire's outbreak in 2007, killing one. 100 other passengers have filed suit against the company. Cruising may be fun for some, but I equate it to sitting in a hot tub full of other people's simmering sickness, or an airplane full of coughing babies.

The disease-athon is not relegated to the four-day cruises alone. In 2012, the prestigious Queen Elizabeth 2 and the Emerald Princess were both hit by incidences of norovirus and gastroenteritis. I admit to a passing acquaintance with gastro-intestinal problems myself, and it's adventure enough in my own home. I can't imagine too many things worse than suffering in a cramped loo in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Just last week, the Royal Caribbean "Vision of the Seas" docked in Port Everglades, FL with 108 passengers and three crew members stricken with norovirus and suffering from diarrhea and vomiting. The company reportedly apologized to the sick, sanitized the ship, and headed back to Aruba. Should I ever get another vacation in this life, it will be on terra firma. Let others smell the ocean air or whatever that smell is. Also, I don't do well in crowds, especially crowds of sick people. Besides, if I ever have the desire to watch large groups of people throw up, I can always go down to the casinos.



The Forrest For The Trees

Health Sciences Park

There was a Ku Klux Klan rally in Overton Park during the mid-sixties, I can't remember the specific date, where they did the night-time cross burning and the whole deal. It was quite the white-robed spectacle and my teenage friends and I attended in order to heckle the rubes. The Klan no longer appeared frightening in their customary outfits, merely ridiculous. Because, we understood that beneath the hood was just another cracker-ass redneck with a chaw between his teeth and gums and a tin of Red Man in his back pocket. A speech was delivered by Robert Shelton, the Klan Grand Wazoo, who shortly before had granted an extensive interview to Playboy magazine, which I read between the centerfold and naked girly pictures.  Even as a teen, I was convinced he was a damned fool. So the clown show that is coming to Memphis in March is way past the day when they intimidated anyone and an embarrassment even to an organization like the Sons of Confederate Veterans. The Klan, however, is riding in defense of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, only the General would not approve.

 

O Lord, please don't force me to write about Nathan Bedford Forrest at the end of Black History Month. Let this cup pass from me. You see, I was born in Memphis, where the very mention of the name Forrest brought either a visceral loathing or a wistful admiration, depending on the individual. There is nothing defensible about an illiterate, bad-tempered, racist slave trader who made a fortune dealing in human bondage, but the Forrest name was such a lightening rod for controversy, I decided to read a couple of books about him. The most informative was "That Devil Forrest" by John Allan Wyeth. Although Wyeth was a Confederate soldier and Southern sympathizer, his biography contains first-hand, eyewitness testimony from the combatants. The book tends to gloss over some of the most glaring accusations of evil towards Forrest. After all, slavery is a crime against humanity second only to genocide, and for that there can be no recompense. The single thing that historians all agree upon, however, is that Forrest was a born soldier. General William T. Sherman, no friend of the South, said that Forrest was, "the most remarkable man the civil war produced on either side. He was the only soldier who entered the war as a private and emerged as a general and his fearlessness in battle was legendary. In close combat, Forrest killed thirty foes, had twenty-nine horses shot from beneath him, and was wounded four times. What the civil war historians admire about Forrest was his unflinching courage.

 

I don't have a personal stake in this racial strife since my ancestors didn't own slaves; they were slaves. The family story passed down from my father's side was that my great-grandfather immigrated from Bavaria to avoid the occasional pogrom. He landed in New York in the unfortunate year of 1861, and before he could join relatives in Memphis, he was conscripted into the Union army. So after all those years of Tennessee history classes, it seems the only dog I had in this fight did his soldiering for the North. Even as a schoolboy, I was also a Southerner, so I was perplexed and had to wonder, "You mean our side lost?" That's an adjustment for a child who knows nothing of the war's particulars but only the region in which he lives. Consequently, I was thrilled by  stories of Forrest's raid on Union occupied Memphis, when he chased General Washburn from the Gayosa Hotel in his nightshirt. There's still a street called Escape Alley in honor of the event, yet no one has suggested changing that name. I look as an objective observer at the current controversy over the Memphis City Council's decision to rename the parks memorializing the Confederacy. I can understand the wounded Southern soul descended from gray uniformed soldiers, as well as the constant irritant Forrest Park is to the citizens of a city that is over sixty percent African-American. Bedford, as he was called, was an unrepentant white supremest, and to have his glorified tomb in the center of the city is galling to most. But, it is history, regardless of how ugly that history may be, and renaming monuments or parks does not change that.

 

The upcoming Klan rally will eulogise their founder and first Grand Wizard, although the Klan in which Forrest belonged was born in 1867 and officially disbanded in 1869. Testifying before a Congressional hearing, Forrest said the KKK was formed as "a protective political military organization," primarily to fill a lawless void and oppose the war profiteering of Reconstruction. When its members became night-riders and terrorists against black citizens, Forrest resigned and lobbied for the organization's dissolution. It's no wonder that the state senator that tried to freeze Confederate monument names in place is from Parker's Crossroads. That's the location halfway between Memphis and Nashville where Forrest's cavalry was surrounded by Union troops and he did the unthinkable by dividing his forces in half and charging in two directions at once. I used to stop at the general store there on my frequent trips to Nashville to restock on Confederate memorabilia. They have a huge portrait of the General hanging in the store, but once I had read about what transpired there, I was no longer offended. This is the stuff of legend, where Forrest's abilities as an unschooled military tactician were unmatched. Still, they don't erect statues of General Erwin Rommel in Berlin.

 

Personally, I don't care if they disinter Bedford and the Missus and move them back to Elmwood Cemetery where they were first buried. There's already a Forrest State Park near Camden that offers boating, fishing, and hiking. It just all seems so unnecessary. Why call a city park Health Sciences Park with a dead man there? The Memphis location could be used for reflection, especially upon the end of Forrest's life when, in 1875, he was invited to speak before a group of black Southerners advocating racial reconsiliation and the General espoused an agenda of equality and harmony between the races. Oh, you say you didn't know that? Most folks don't. Perhaps Forrest's transformation from a conciousless slave trader to an advocate of inter-racial peace is a story of redemption, like Saul of Tarsus on the Damascus Road. Both men were knocked off their horses. There is no way to temper the sins of N.B. Forrest. He said, "War means fighting, and fighting means killing," and he was a ruthless killer. When he saw that the Confederate cause was lost, he told his troops, "humanity demands that no more blood be shed." In a farewell address, the "unlettered General" said, "Civil War, such as you have just passed through naturally engenders feelings of animosity, hatred, and revenge. It is our duty to divest ourselves of all such feelings..Whatever your responsibilities may be to Government, society, or to individuals, meet them like men. Obey the laws, preserve your honor, and the government to which we have surrendered can afford to be, and will be, magnanimous." Were the Memphis City Council only so generous. If it's wrong to kick a man when he's down, what does it say to kick him when he's dead?

Strike Up the Band

In past years, Grammy night has traditionally been among my wife's least favorite evenings. It's because I tend to grow cynical and bitter about certain contemporary performers and shout epithets filled with jealousy and rage at the television, except only Melody can hear them. This year, however, the annual Grammy Awards show was downright entertaining and bordered on the spectacular. There was no Lady Gaga emerging from an egg and everyone's favorite egomaniac, Kanye West, skipped the proceedings entirely. What there was in abundance though, was great singing and dynamic performances, except for Taylor Swift's bizarre opening number, which appeared like a Fellini stage version of Alice In Wonderland if all the actors were insane. Her song, "We Are Never Getting Back Together Again," was yet another in a long line of hate-screeds about her latest former lover. It even included Swift kicking a hapless man around the stage, but I'm certain he was guilty of something. I'm just about over Swift's male-bashing song list and her repertoire of exes. If she ever had a successful romantic relationship, Taylor would have nothing to write about. What's the opposite of misogyny?

 

CBS, still smarting from Janet Jackson's Superbowl "wardrobe malfunction" a decade ago, wanted to take no chances this time around. The network sent an unintentionally hilarious memo around to the program's guest list saying, "Buttocks and female breasts must be adequately covered," leaving the exposure of the male buttocks as optional, I suppose. "Avoid exposing bare fleshy under curves of the buttocks and the buttocks crack." I guess the show wasn't planning on having any plumbers in attendance. "Bare sides or under curvature of the breasts is also problematic. Be sure the genital region is covered so that there is no visible 'puffy' bare skin exposure." Although the CBS memo read like the Ken Starr report on the sins of Bill Clinton, it was the equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet to a bunch of rock stars that thrive on outrage. It's just a good thing that Flea, of the Red Hot Chili Peppers wasn't there. As it was, Rihanna showed forbidden nipple exposure and under-bosom tattoos, J-Lo showed an endless leg, and Alicia Keys showed pretty much everything. The undisputed champion of ignoring the network memo was Katy Perry, who single-handedly won for best performance by a duo. On the red carpet pre-show, when asked who she was wearing, Perry replied, "Hugh Hefner."

 

Justin Timberlake once again did the home folks proud. His new, soul-tinged songs bring back memories of the glorious days before auto-tune when singers had to actually sing, and there is still a little bit of Memphis in his compositions. Justin's big band may have been called the Tennessee Kids, but he is a mature artist in his prime. Even Beyonce said, "We all love you Justin," and it seemed to be true. Only, Justin better watch his ass, or buttocks in this case, because Bruno Mars is hot on his tail, so to speak. Mars is simply the most dynamic performer going, with a spectacular voice. Justin may be smoother, but Mars has got the whole James Brown thing down. I don't leave the house much, but I might just pay to see Bruno Mars in concert, depending on the seats. When Rihanna, Ziggy Marley, and Sting joined Mars in a tribute to Bob Marley, singing "Could You Be Loved," the ordinarily jaded music industry crowd were on their feet. I'll bet it smelled something like teen spirit in the room as giant images of the dreadlocked Rastaman were projected overhead.

 

A Memphis influence was a continual presence throughout the broadcast. A regeneration of Soul music influenced by Stax Records is in vogue, as is a roots-based, Sun Sound, as represented by Mumford and Sons. The names and images of Duck Dunn and Andrew Love were featured in a tribute to artists we have lost this year, though not prominently enough for my taste, and the musical tribute to beloved Arkansan Levon Helm featuring the incomparable Mavis Staples again had the Hollywood audience dancing in the aisles. Kelly Clarkson sang a masterful version of "The Tennessee Waltz," in memory of Patti Page, and emcee LL Cool J mentioned Memphis in reference to Timberlake's hometown. We've got the heart. If we only had a brain.

 

If Ike Turner lost everything after his violent abuse of Tina was made public, why does Chris Brown still have a career? The horrifying photos of what he did to Rihanna were sufficient evidence that he should disappear from public life. Yet, there he was, on the front row, nominated for best something-or-other, in the same category as his rival, Frank Ocean. Brown, proving that he also punches men, was in a fistfight with Ocean last month over a parking space at a recording studio. According to police reports, Brown threatened to shoot Ocean. When Ocean won the award for "Best Urban Contemporary Album," the cameras captured Brown remaining in his seat while the audience stood. The capper came later when Brown and Rihanna were photographed reunited and smiling, abuser and enabler. Meanwhile, Frank Ocean's meandering version of "Forrest Gump," was bewildering, despite the nifty camera effects. A flock of monarch butterflies also flew off of Carrie Underwood's dress and a concluding rap summit, featuring LL Cool J and Chuck D, was interrupted for CBS' rap which, after all, is the name of the game. Oh, I forgot. They also gave out a bunch of awards- but who cares?

 

 

 

 

Gnats

It's still permissible to use the word "pissant," isn't it? Merriam-Webster defines it as someone or something without significance, or obsolete. That's the very word that came to mind while watching congressional Republicans attempt to skewer Sec. of State Hillary Clinton over the attacks in Libya last September that left four Americans dead, including the ambassador. The sharp knifes were out for last week's all-day hearings and the GOP had been salivating for weeks over an attempt to place blame for attacks on the American Embassy in Benghazi. Fox News bloviators like Charles Krauthammer accused the Secretary of developing a case of "Benghazi Flu" to avoid testifying, which turned out to be a blood clot on her brain requiring hospitalization. But there would be no apologies coming from the right, as gnat after insignificant gnat tried to make their bones trashing the former First Lady as if she had set the fire personally. Extremist Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky, reacting as if he'd just smoked a bowl of bluegrass, said, "Had I been President at the time... I would have relieved you of your duties," undoubtedly drawing guffaws from White House staffers watching on television. The very thought of a Rand Paul presidency set the tone for the ridiculous spectacle to follow. Permanent grouch John McCain, still in recovery over his loss in 2008, stated that Clinton's answers, "are not satisfactory to me," as if that still mattered. McCain continued, "The American people deserve answers, and they certainly don't deserve false answers," inferring that Mrs. Clinton was lying.

Was it just me, or was there a healthy dose of chauvinistic patronization going on when the hollow men interrogated Mrs. Clinton? Wisconsin minimalist Senator Ron Johnson claimed that Clinton's emotional and tearful testimony about greeting the returning caskets of the four slain Americans was merely "theatrics" to avoid his tough questions. Johnson told CNN that Democrats were playing "election politics" with the Clinton hearings, tone-deaf to his own party's desperate political posturing. Predictably, satire turned to farce when the circus moved to the House of Representatives. Congressman Jeff Duncan of South Carolina shook his finger at Mrs. Clinton while accusing her of allowing the embassy in Benghazi to become "a death trap," and inquiring, "what does responsibility mean to you Madame Secretary?" This coming from a former auctioneer who'd never been fifty miles away from Greenville until his election to the House, attempting to scold a public servant who has logged a million miles in service to her country. The clear motive of these inquisitions was not to find facts concerning the Libya attack, but as an opportunity to attack the Secretary of State. At hearing's end, there was no resolution over what actually took place in Benghazi, and Hillary Clinton, in her final act as a member of the President's cabinet, made the political opposition look like an assortment of opportunists and fools.

This is exactly the image the Republican Party was trying to change at their post-mortem winter meeting in Charlotte, N.C. last week. Governor Bobby Jindal of Louisiana again rebuked the GOP for being "the stupid party," and urged future candidates to avoid saying things that were "offensive and bizarre." Jindal said, "It's time for a new Republican Party that talks like adults." Gov. Bobby must believe that we forgot about the time he gave his party's rebuttal to the State of the Union address by coming on television speaking to the American public like he was the newly elected mayor of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. To underscore the image of the "new" GOP, one of the invited and honored keynote speakers was Newt Gingrich. The meeting devolved into another Obama hate-fest, although they paid particular care not to call him a Marxist this time. The GOP believes their principles are solid and that it's just a matter of messaging that will return them to relevancy. They believe that by softening their rhetoric on womens' issues, they'll retain more of the female vote. Perhaps not trying to parse the definition of "rape" might be a good start. Oddly, the emerging Sunday spokesman for Republican "values" seems to be the unrepentant loser Paul Ryan, who attempted to use the term "forcible rape," in his own anti-abortion legislation. In fact, the GOP began the 2013 legislative term by introducing dual bills to defund Planned Parenthood, a "personhood" amendment that would outlaw certain forms of contraception, and harsh anti-abortion measures that mirror similar efforts in  states with Republican controlled legislatures. It's tough to do a lot of soul-searching when you have no soul.

The re-election of Reince Priebus as Chairman of the Republican National Committee does nothing to dissuade the "stupid party" label. When, as chairman, Michael Steele brought the Republicans control of the House and gains in the Senate, the party rewarded him by firing him. Now that Priebus has presided over one of the party's worst political collapses in history, he is punished by being re-elected. I'm still waiting for some pundit of renown to connect the dots between Priebus and Governors Scott Walker of Wisconsin, Kasich of Ohio, Snyder of Michigan, and Scott of Florida in their union-busting attacks on collective bargaining and attempts to do on a state-by-state basis what they are prohibited from doing on a federal level. After Snyder's attempts to declare martial law in Michigan and Scott's voter-suppression measures that backfired in Florida, Priebus actually said, "Actually, our principles are more conducive to minorities than the Democrats'." Fellow, in-denial Republicans echoed the refrain that their problems arise from an inability to "explain their values," and the ordinary citizens' incapacity to "understand our Conservative principles." The meeting then unanimously approved a resolution to strip Planned Parenthood of federal funding on a voice vote.

A Republican lawmaker in New Mexico just introduced a new bill that would require the victim of a rape who was impregnated from her ordeal to carry the child to term in order to preserve the fetus as potential evidence at a criminal trial. The legislation reads: "Tampering with evidence shall include procuring or facilitating an abortion...of a fetus that is the result of criminal sexual penetration or incest with the intent to destroy evidence of the crime." This begs the question, who benefits from such a "trial," the victim or the rapist? At the same time, House Speaker John Boehner made a speech to the conservative Ripon Society and said, "We're expecting to be the focus of this administration as they attempt to annihilate the Republican Party." Austerity's champion Paul Ryan further opined, "If we had a (Hillary) Clinton presidency, I think we would have fixed this fiscal mess by now." Democrats need do no more than stand back and watch in awe, since, unlike Boehner's predictions, the current Tea Party-enthralled Republican Party will most likely collapse of its own accord. With enemies like this, who needs friends?



Of Cockroaches and Congress

A revealing survey was released last week by the Public Policy Polling group comparing the popularity of Congress to various noxious irritants that clutter our world. Among other things, respondents preferred used-car salesmen and the NFL replacement refs to the 112th Congress. The Congress has been polling at a history-making nine percent approval rating by the American people; the lowest number since polling was invented. I can only imagine those nine people out of a hundred that think the legislative branch is doing a good job are either congressional spouses and dependants, or the brain-dead remnants of Glen Beck's following. I can't think of a Congress that has accomplished less and is more deserving of public scorn than this one, unless you include the Congress of 1856, when Charles Sumner was brutally caned on the Senate floor, which- on second thought- would probably garner more public approval than anything this batch has done. In fact, I'm certain there are many who feel a little caning might have helped during the previous cantankerous session. Instead, the current crop of Congressional Republicans have been administering a metaphorical caning to the American people since 2008, and there are neon, blinking signs of public revulsion- not the least of which was the total rejection of the GOP platform in the November election. Just when  voters were hoping for a return to a semblance of sanity, the dictatorial, ideological, Republican jihadists didn't seem to get the message and continue their crusade against the will of the people. No wonder people hate Congress.

Of the twenty-six different categories the PPP used in polling, Congress was found to be less preferable than head-lice, cockroaches, and Nickelback,  but to their eternal credit, they scored higher  than gonorrhea, John Edwards, or the Kardashians. I sense a prejudice against the Kardashians, however, for over-exposure. At least they get things done, even if it's elective surgeries or the bunny-like multiplication of their TV franchises. Just look how fast it took Kim to get pregnant by Kanye West and spin it into a new reality show on Bravo. Elvis might have called that "takin' care of business." The Kardashians do more in a day than the legislative branch does in a month. What I found interesting, as a patient of intrusive gastric probery, was that Congress was deemed even less popular than a colonoscopy. I was puzzled by the comparison for a minute, and then it made perfect sense. When you have a colonoscopy, at least they knock you out before shoving something up your ass. An earlier poll revealed the Republicans weren't accepting the election results easily; forty-nine percent of GOP voters agreed with the statement that Acorn stole the election for Obama.

In a move to counter the criticism that they are incapable of accomplishing anything, the House of Representative passed a bill last week that bans the word "lunatic" in all federal legislation. Michele Bachmann had the honor of introducing the first bill of the 113th Congress: to "repeal Obamacare in its entirety," the thirty-fourth such attempt. John Boehner rewarded the zany representative by reassigning her to the Intelligence Committee. Now, Bachmann will be privy to the nation's most sensitive and classified military information. Feel better? Tennessee Representative Marsha Blackburn followed Bachmann the next day with a bill to defund Planned Parenthood, calling the organization, "Big abortion." Not to be outdone, the very next day, another self-loathing female Tennessee Congressperson, Diane Black of Gallatin, introduced the exact same bill with the same sponsors. Planned Parenthood president Cecile Richards said, "they apparently learned nothing from the results of the last election, when Americans said overwhelmingly that they do not want politicians dictating women's access to health care. In an interesting aside, before running for office, Diane Black was a nurse.

In a contemporaneous account, a former acquaintance claimed Blackburn showed up in Nashville in the early eighties, newly graduated from Mississippi State, claiming to be an "image consultant." She and her husband started a business with Marsha leading seminars for teaching aspiring corporate women how to dress for success. Political observers have called Blackburn a "rising star" in the Republican Party, while a local political action committee has been formed with the goal of bouncing the representative from Brentwood out of Congress. In addition to her opposition to Planned Parenthood, Blackburn recently claimed on CNN that gun control is not the answer to mass shootings because, "hammers, hatchets, cars, and video games" also contribute to the murder rate in the United States. Rep. Blackburn may dress smartly, but she votes like an idiot. And my confidential source also said that she lies about her age.

Former GOP Rep. Joe Scarborough has said that he is tired of the Republicans being the "Stupid Party." Morning Joe claims that the Tea Party wing is destroying the party's chances of competing in national elections because of their extremists views. But as the Tea Party declines in public favor, its voices only grow louder. Latest to join the fray is Georgia Rep. Phil Gingrey. Just when you thought comments about "legitimate rape" were gone from the national discussion, here comes Gingrey claiming the statements were "partially true." Discussing the subject of rape with the Georgia Chamber of Commerce, Gingrey stated that "a scared-to-death 15 year old who gets impregnated by her boyfriend," might tell her parents she's been raped, as opposed to a "legitimate rape," which increases a womans' adrenaline and may cause an interference in ovulation. However, if a woman has already had her period, Gingrey explained, "then the horse is out of the barn, so to speak." Can you guess what Gingrey did before becoming a congressman? He's an OB-GYN. His Georgia colleague in the House, Rep. Paul Broun, recently stated that "evolution, embryology, the Big Bang Theory, are all lies straight from the pit of hell." Like Gingrey, Congressman Broun is also a physician. I didn't know Vatterott College had a Med School. I just feel so sorry for their next appointments.

Pipe Dreams and Fancy Schemes

Rather than make up some lame best/worse list from the past year, I'd rather list a few things I would like to see happen in the future. They vary in subject and are in no particular order, but all are equally important. At least to me. I'm not talking about things in general, like "a return to civility," but specific things that I lie awake and think 
about in my quietest hours. It's because I'm a problem solver, and I'm waiting on some progressive think tank to call me up and actually pay me to dream up gems like these. Some may call them pipe-dreams, but I'd prefer to think of it as "creative visualization," which I read causes your wildest fantasies to come true, provided that they are first approved by CIA guidelines on astral projection. So, if I shut my eyes and concentrate, the Akashic record of all things past and future will grant my desires, which include:

     -In the near future, the discredited and co-opted Tea Party will break away from the Republicans and form a third political party called the Neo-Dixiecrats, paying homage to their philosophical forefathers. This will encompass the race-baiters, the climate deniers, the science refuseniks, the rape defenders, the Obama haters, the wackos, morons, and yahoos, leaving the business of governing up to those who actually have the country's best interests at heart.

     -After the first of the year, NRA President Wayne "Call Me Crazy" LaPierre will convene another news conference in which he will reveal that because of pressure from his members, he now agrees that military assault weapons have no purpose on city streets other than murder, and his conscience leads him to oppose the sale of high-capacity magazines and drums to the general public. LaPierre says, "The police are out-gunned, and just like the 'Tommy Gun' was banned in the Twenties, I see no reason not to outlaw assault-style weapons now." LaPierre further announced an NRA fund to assist victims of gun violence and educate school children about the dangers of firearms. In a candid aside, LaPierre told assembled reporters, "Look, I always knew that the Founders were only talking about muskets, but these guys were paying me a million dollars a year. The hi-tech weapons of today don't really have anything to do with the Second Amendment."

     -Leading up to the mid-term elections, the benefits of legalizing marijuana will spread from west to east, just like the original pot craze in the sixties. But this will be about personal freedom and the potential revenues resulting from government regulation and taxation of marijuana sales. Pot laws will fall in state after state like dominoes, who, by coincidence, see their pizza sales rise. When the possession and sale of small amounts of pot are legalized, the prison doors will open wide and release tens of thousands of non-violent marijuana offenders back into their communities; municipalities will discontinue using SWAT teams to kick in the doors of marijuana growers; because the profit has been taken out of illegal pot trafficking, the crime rate drops precipitately; the bloody conflict in Mexico ends because marijuana was the cash crop and the demand for harder drugs has now diminished. The U.S. government smacks themselves on the head and says, "what were we thinking?" while Congress votes to end the fool's errand, the failed "War on Drugs."

     -Rupert Murdoch decides that the Republican Party has gone too far and transforms the Fox News Network into an entertainment channel that only shows Elvis movies and old re-runs of "All In The Family." Murdoch announces that a major portion of Fox's profits will go to Planned Parenthood and the establishment of a series of nationwide adoption agencies for unwed mothers. Shortly thereafter, Rush Limbaugh's sponsors decide that "enough is enough," and end one of the longest and most obnoxious chapters in radio history. After his arrest for "inciting a riot," Rush is declared a "clear and present danger" to the common order and is spotted wandering the streets with Bill O'Reilly, attempting to kick the homeless.

     -President Obama brings the war in Afghanistan to an early end, pledges that the U.S. will never again initiate a war by invading a sovereign state without provocation, and announces a commission to look into the Bush administration's lies leading up to the bombing of Baghdad.

     -The Bass Pro Shop opens in the Pyramid to praise and unprecedented excitement. The featured attractions are unique to Memphis and the world and become a must-see in travel articles and tourist guides. The underwater visual experience is so enthralling that even the jaded people of Memphis return to the area, revitalizing the North Main St. district while creating scores of jobs. Bass Pro decides against plastering their name all over the pyramid or putting a giant fishing lure on the exterior.

     -The owners of the six major record companies decide that, hereafter, Rap will be considered as an art form, just not music. Some guy screaming into a microphone while a DJ plays sounds from days of yore is not a musical presentation; it is a spoken-word recitation, accompanied by pilfered snippets of already existing songs. I don't care how much they pay in royalties,"sampling," regardless of its widespread acceptance, is merely stealing another artist's creation.  Imagine Andy Warhol "sampling" Vincent Van Gogh.

     -It is discovered that Donald Trump was not born in Queens, NY, as his records indicate, but in his mother's native Scotland. His father falsified the birth notification with assistance from paid lackeys in the press, hoping the boy would be president someday. The Donald is declared an illegal alien and is forced to "self-deport," where he begins a campaign for Scottish independence from an "illegitimate monarchy."

     -In 2016, we will elect our first woman president: Elizabeth Warren. And finally...

     -Justin Timberlake will record my most soulful composition, "A Woman's Touch," available for listening on YouTube by Randy and the Radiants, and it becomes his biggest hit to date. I move into a zero-lot line on the river and pay off my credit card bills. Hey, it could happen. And a guy can dream, can't he? All I need is a little help from my friends and some collective creative visualizations. That just might bring me the same happy new year that I wish for all of you.

  



    

    

    

    





Mayamania

Mayan Calendar cake by Con Amore, Brooklyn.

If you are currently reading this, I guess the Mayans were full of it. If they were such an intelligent civilization capable of accurately forecasting future events, where are they? They couldn't possibly have predicted the end of the world when their calendar stopped, because it only lasted 5,125 years. The Jews have already got them beat by 648 years, and still no one listens to us! But just let the ancient Mayan calendar come to an end and the whole world goes crazy. The Mayans are reputed to have created the world's most accurate calendar, but so what? I understand the Babylonians kept excellent time as well. I think what happened was that the Mayans were carving their great wheels with so many icons and glyphs, they finally ran out of room. What they needed was a congressman like Steve Cohen, and they could have gotten a new calender every year- autographed. There have been doomsday prophets since the dawn of man predicting the end of the world, but no ones nailed the date yet. So why is Dec. 21, 2012 causing an international freak-out?

The History Channel fueled the fire by airing a two-hour documentary attempting to link the prophesies of Nostradamus to the Mayan apocalypse. The ancient seer may have talked about a certain Hister when discussing World War II, but his quatrains are so generic, they've been used to explain everything from dirigibles to donuts.  A 2009 movie titled "2012" is in regular rotation on the cable movie channel. It depicts, among tsunamis and firestorms, the destruction of Hollywood, which would have been considered biting the hand that feeds had the film not made so much money. The Left Behind flicks made a ton of cash too. According to one reputable poll, twenty-two percent of  Americans believe the world will end in their lifetimes, and anytime you can get one out of five people to buy into pseudo-historical paranoid bullshit like that, it's worth a fortune. Occult books and New Age websites followed and soon a low-level panic gripped the world. NASA had to step in with an hour long YouTube video refuting the rumors, and you know you can believe everything you see on the internets. The recent Mayan time cycle that ended on the Winter Solstice is known as the "Long Count." As an amateur boxing historian, I don't think the Mayans were predicting the destruction of the Earth so much as predicting the winner of the Jack Dempsey- Gene Tunney Heavyweight Championship fight of 1927. (I just make 'em up, friends. I don't explain them).

Among the more insane information disseminated online were the rumors that an alien spaceship, which had been camouflaged by a mountain in the French Pyrenees until this moment, is the sole means of escape from the destruction, and a previously unknown planet named Nibiru will suddenly appear from behind the sun and crash into the Earth. Consequently, according to news reports, the French government has blocked further traffic from entering certain mountain villages during the Solstice so that residents might "live in peace." Neo-hippies and New Age freaks have flocked to the ancient Mayan homeland in Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula for the date. Hotels close to the ruins at Chichen Itza, near Cancun, have been booked for a year in advance so spiritual tourists can gather near the pyramid for organized drum circles, and "ritual dancing." A group called Birth 2012 is sponsoring forty events around the world to launch a new global spiritual campaign. AP reporter Jack Chang quoted the movement's founder as saying, "We've activated this campaign for three days of love," making it sound vaguely like Woodstock. Either this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, or else we've gone through all this hocum before. I once climbed the pyramid at Chichen Itza, and though it was nice as pyramids go, with an ocean view, I felt no mystic crystal revelations. I have long grown tired of the phrase, "been there, done that," but I think it just may apply here.

The hysteria spread as far as China, where at least two men built arks to survive the chaos. No one is loading in animals two by two yet, but both men have gone to considerable expense. Chinese media reported that although both ark-builders feared a destructive flood, only one equipped his vessel to withstand a nuclear meltdown, which is probably wise in light of recent events in Japan. I would hate to be the guy who wakes up on Dec. 22 with the realization that he spent his life savings on a giant, homemade frigate that's sitting in the backyard. Anthropologists have translated one Mayan etching  to say that on the feared Dec. 21st date, "Nine gods will descend from heaven to Earth." This would be a pretty good trick, except that it might be the 1919 Chicago White Sox coming to play another game in the Field of Dreams. The etching never said what the gods planned on doing once they arrived. But if they're going to launch a new era of kindness and generosity and they land in Mexico, they had better have papers if they plan to spread their message to this country. Willie Nelson sang about "Seven Spanish Angels," escorting souls to heaven. The Maya tossed in two more for good luck. I think it would be great if the descending gods only spoke Spanish.

The Mayan people made great contributions towards the advancement of knowledge. They were peerless as astronomers and among the first to use math and science in astronomical calculations. They discovered the concept of zero and created an advanced writing system. Mayan architecture and agriculture still influence today's world, as well as their discoveries in medicine. They did all this but failed to discover the wheel. And despite being advance metallurgists, their weaponry was no match for the Spanish Conquistadors who conquered them and sped the collapse of Mayan civilization in the ninth century. Only the ruins remain, but the Mayan calendar never mentioned that unfortunate occurrence. Perhaps the cosmic purpose for the existence of the race was to give to mankind the gift of chocolate. In any case, we don't need the Maya to forecast the destruction of civilization, we've created our own hell. The end of the world might be a step up. If you're still breathing, we're probably stuck with each other for a while, so we need to either discover a way to peacefully coexist or suffer the same fate as the Maya. I'd never root for Armageddon, but we got it coming.


 

Bitch

This bitch over here is about to drive me nuts. Hang on ladies, I would never refer to my loving wife, Melody, in so coarse a manner. I'm talking about the seven-month-old, female pup named Nancy that we adopted from the animal shelter last July. When she arrived, Nancy weighed eight pounds and was wobbly on her feet, but as soon as we started feeding her pet store food, she hit a growth spurt and morphed into The Giant Puppy. It was like watching a wolf getting its first taste of red meat, then becoming ravenous and eating everything in sight. If there is no food in her bowl, she'll gnaw on the couch, or go outside and chew on tree limbs. Now she weighs fifty pounds and shows no sign of stopping. We thought we had given a home to a baby speckled pup. Now we're wondering if  we aren't raising a leopard, like in those old Cary Grant movies. Since the Giant Pup is in her teething phase, we bought her fifty bucks worth of chew toys and Nylabones, but she destroyed them all in twenty minutes. And I'm not talking about little furry playthings. I mean rugged, well stitched rope toys with big knots in them. So now, as I write this with mutilated hands and bloody fingers, I have come to the realization that I am her chew toy, and Nancy badly needs an attitude adjustment.

I have raised puppies before, but it's been a while and I had forgotten about the mania. I've taken the program offered by the Shelby County Obedience Club, (the dog passed; I failed), but it looks like I'm fixin' to take a refresher course. Melody and I have watched a lot of The Dog Whisperer, so we're constantly saying, "Chhhh" to the dog, until it sounds like a Biblical plague of crickets invading our home. A stern "No!" seems to be more affective. Consequently, it seems like someone is always screaming at the dog, and I have a fragile disposition, as you know. Nancy responds to her name, but she thinks her surname is "goddammit." We're not even certain if the pup speaks English. And since she's still a baby, she doesn't realize how strong she is or the power of her canine jaws- but I do.  After five months of living with Nancy, I have arms that look like a junkie's and the hands of a cage fighter. She has eaten a pair of my favorite socks and a couple of T-Shirts, and I have to keep my house shoes off of the floor. Anything that doesn't squeak or rattle is still fair game. She'll chew on your shoe with your foot still in it. She has a tendency to leap on me and nip at my extremities, so when I first get out of the shower, I have to make certain that she's not in the room. Nancy has learned to eat ice cubes and will attempt to climb up on the coffee table and pick them out of your glass if you are at all inattentive. I know that these bad behaviors can be corrected by proper training and obedience classes, but we've noticed that since she's been leaping on our friends, we have fewer guests that just pop in. So we're rethinking the whole obedience thing.

The problem is the damn dog is so freaking adorable, I can't bring myself to discipline her. Melody has no problem taking her by the collar and putting her outdoors, but I don't want to hurt the dog's feelings. I tried the old rolled-up newspaper a couple of times, but she only thought I was playing and came at me more fiercely. After she's exhausted herself, however, she loves belly rubs and neck scratches and will curl up at my feet like a loyal companion. Cesar Millan might suggest that the problem is me. I have detected small signs of her beginning to mellow lately and after a few lessons, I am sure that Nancy is going to be a wonderful pet. She is whip-smart and spunky. I'd say she was "mischevious," but there is no such word, so please stop saying it. The word is, "mischievous,"- three syllables, not four, and she is certainly the scamp. Since there are two older dogs here, there should be territorial issues, but like other females I could name, Nancy rules the roost. She also has floppy ears that feel like velvet and the longest tail that wags in sections when you appear. Her cheerful greeting at the doorway is uplifting every time and if I'm only away for fifteen minutes, she's so happy when I return, you would think I'd been gone forever. What I'm getting at here is that shelter dogs are often smarter and more clever than pure breeds. I have had both and I know that the dangers of over-breeding include reduced mental capacity and a tendency for illnesses in certain breeds. This pup has the strongest set of mixed genes that natural selection has to offer. We don't know where they came from, but they're strong alright.

The Giant Pup

Nancy is also an endless source of amusement. Since we don't know her lineage, her behavioral traits are always a surprise, like her ability to speak in low tones. She'll prostrate herself before one of her siblings and start chattering like a monkey. What's strange is that they seem to understand her. The bark is another matter. You want your dog to have a substantial bark to discourage strangers from lingering around the yard. A healthy bark likewise gives a start to any solicitors that have the bad sense to ring the doorbell. But a piercingly loud puppy bark can be disconcerting when it's directed at you in an unceasing manner. I suggest to Nancy that she should use her "indoor voice," but Melody just tells her to shut up. It's another issue we have to address, but I'm not up to using one of those shock collars or anything similarly medieval. I'd hate it if somebody put one of those pinch collars on me, so if the training ain't painless, she can go ahead and bark as far as I'm concerned. I'll admit to being at wit's end on occasion. We concluded that maybe older people need to get older dogs, after all that frenzy has subsided. I'm speaking of the dog's, not mine. But just when I think I can't take another minute of barking, or the puppy demanding my total attention when I'm trying to watch the Grizzlies, she will wriggle her way up into my lap and fall asleep. I tried to take a picture of it last night, but she weighed so much, I couldn't reach the cell phone. Just like the Princess and the Pea, I wouldn't dream of disturbing her, especially when my legs were pinned.

I'm sure that like many other people, I wish that I could save them all. I see the pictures of the stray and abandoned dogs online and I wish I had the means to start a refuge, like the elephant sanctuary in Hohenwald, where all dogs run free and happy. Only, that's not the way it works. I don't need to remind you of the fate of unadopted shelter dogs, only that they are as deserving of love and a decent life as any pet acquired through a breeder. Since we domesticated these animals, they are entirely dependent on caring people for their well-being. Your dog is waiting for you, but that means responsibility as well. You just can't teach kindness. You either have it or you don't. But these adoptable dogs out at the Animal Shelter could melt anyone's heart. They speak to you with their eyes and their expressions, and any fool could see their need for simple affection. I defy you to visit the shelter and not be moved. Even an apartment dweller knows where the dog parks are, and a shelter dog knows when its been rescued. It's obvious by the many photos of "happy endings" posted by the shelter staff when a dog has been adopted. Check it out, the dogs are smiling. Any love offered a shelter dog will be returned tenfold, as we are now happily experiencing with our new pet. It will be even more joyous when Nancy removes her teeth from my arm. She needs some training, and soon, because this puppyhood is a bitch. 

The Twinkie Mafia

When Elvis died, I was shocked and saddened. Shortly afterward, I mourned the demise of Overton Square. I internalized my pain when they closed Borders Book Store, but I can't live in a world without Twinkies. The Hostess Company made a surprise announcement that after 82 years, they were going out of business and liquidating their assets. Perhaps underestimating the popularity of their products, Hostess caused a Black Friday type rush on grocery and convenient stores across the country. Every cupcake and Ho Ho in sight were crammed into grocery carts and whisked into the vaults of end-of-the-world preppers and panicked mini-muffin addicts. I would say the snacks were flying off the shelves like hotcakes, but they're not hot, and the percentage of what constitutes actual cake is questionable. I wanted to pick up a case of Donettes, but the hoarders beat me to them. And that shrill, wailing sound you heard last week came from stoners all over Colorado and Washington who just got gobsmacked by Newton's Third Law of Motion: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What an evil karmic trick: to finally legalise recreational marijuana and then eliminate your Ding Dongs.

 

The general panic that gripped the public looked like food riots in impoverished countries, fed by rumors of a growing black market where fortunes could be made in discontinued Hostess products. I found it ridiculous until I found that sellers on eBay were offering Twinkies for $5,000 each. One optimistic entrepreneur was offering a box of Twinkies for $200,000, no doubt looking to finance a summer home. Being a person who occasionally enjoys an orange frosted cupcake, I lurched for the kitchen, plundering through the pantry, thinking that if my wife bought a pre-bankruptsy announcement box of Twinkies, we could pay off the mortgage and tell Bank of America to kiss our ass. I use Twinkies for medicinal purposes, so the nutritionists are wrong to say they have no reason to exist. If I have medicine that is not to be taken on an empty stomach, what's better than a Twinkie to soften the blow. I can recall times in my wild past when I was awakened with a queasy stomach due to too much fun and drink the night before, and the only conceivable thing to eat was a Twinkie. The soft, vanilla cake can absorb anything, not to mention the delicious cream filling that's never seen a cow. However, I must have eaten the last box, never imagining that I was consuming diamonds and rubies with every bite. Now, I'm conflicted over whether to eat this last loaf of Wonder Bread, or vacuum-seal it, put it in a display case, and see if it appreciates in value.

 

Hostess' management blamed the Grain Millers Union who have been on strike since November 9. Immediately, right-wing propagandists heaped scorn on those selfish workers and their uncooperative union bosses, and conservative bloggers and social media trolls followed suit. Their message is, "If you miss your Ho Hos, blame the unions," but like Paul Harvey used to say, "And now for the rest of the story." Hostess is owned by a private equity firm, Ripplewood Holdings, and two hedge funds, Silver Point Capital and Monarch Alternative Capital. Since 2002, Hostess has had six CEOs. When Hostess emerged from its first bankruptcy in 2004, the unions agreed to concessions that saved the company $110 million dollars. Rather than investing in modernization, the company's board voted to raise the CEO's salary to $2.55 million per year, tripling the compensation payed to the previous executive. In addition, other executive salaries were increased by as much as 80 percent. According to the New York Times, "private equity backers loaded the company with debt, making it difficult to invest in new equipment." In 2011, the company again filed for bankruptcy, unilaterally imposing wage and benefit cuts and ceasing pension payments for their employees. When the union went on strike, management demanded more concessions and gave workers a deadline to return to the job. Hostess employees responded by saying there wasn't a "Sno Ball's" chance in hell they would return under those conditions and filed a complaint with the NLRB. So management announced liquidation, filing papers prepared well in advance of their demands to the union.

 

This was a real Mitt Romney/Bain Capital kind of deal. The new CEO is a liquidation specialist hired months ago while union negotiations were still underway, and although Ripplewood Holdings wanted to preserve the brand, the hedge fund boys refused to put up any more cash. In the event of bankruptcy, the equity partners and their investors walk away with millions of dollars, leaving 18,500 workers unemployed and 33 plants shuttered. If they can place the blame on the unions, they'll get away clean. One laid-off sacker who had worked for Hostess for 35 years said, "The people who are running this company are not interested in making bread." At least, not in the sense he means. Hostess revenues are estimated to be $2.5 billion per year, with Twinkies alone earning $68 million so far this year. The brand is so popular that a petition has been circulated urging President Obama to "nationalize the Twinkie Industry." If Hostess is allowed to go the way of Kay Bee Toys, the black market underground in sugary treats could give rise to a Cupcake Mafia, with Twinkie the Kid as the cappo di tutti capi. I would hate to see bloodshed and violence erupt over contraband Dolly Madison cakes, even though some are to die for.

 

All is not lost for the Twinkie Nation. Hostess has a suitor from Mexico named Grupo Bimbo who tried to buy the company after their first bankruptcy. At first, I laughed at the thought of mothers sending their kids off to school with Bimbo cakes, but as it turns out, Bimbo Bakeries own Sara Lee, Entenmann's, Ball Park Buns, and Thomas' English Muffins. Here all along, those pesky Mexican job-takers were making our delicious breakfast pastries right under our noses. I hope Grupo Bimbo succeeds in their efforts to purchase the company. I would hate to see an iconic American brand like Hostess, serving up empty calories for eight decades, fall victim to vulture capitalists, even if they have to move to Mexico. I'll volunteer to be the first to try a Mexican Twinkie, or even a Hostess Taco. It's often been said of the spongy treat that archaeologists in some future millenia will stumble across a once vital civilization that has crumbled into dust, and the only thing remaining entact will be the cockroaches and a box of Twinkies. In fact, the shelf-life of a Twinkie is about a month. But if a buyer doesn't step forward soon, before the private equity firm sells of the company in small lucrative pieces, the entire Hostess product line may have finally met its expiration date.