Friday, February 27, 2009

Race Cowards?


"A nation of cowards", is how our new Attorney General, Eric Holder, described race relations in the United States a couple of days ago.
That sounded odd to me. Maybe he meant that relations between blacks and whites wasn't perfect. What is? But, if he was implying that there hasn't been a change for the better in this country, well...he's just plain wrong.
The simple fact that he is an African-American Attorney General appointed by an African-American President of the United States says it all for me. As recently as twenty years ago someone my age would have told you that was impossible. Never going to happen. Yet, here we are.
I have long harbored a theory that most of us enjoy lifespans that are directly related to how much change we can handle. One-hundred years of updating the old cerebral Rolodex, (Wow, that dates me.), is only for the bravest among us.
"He treats us like men. He lets us wear two earrings."------an actual quote from a contemporary professional athlete, and moron, regarding his coach.
A quote like that would have had my father, were he still around, begging for somebody to kill him. There was no room for the concept of ANY man wearing even one earring left in his acceptance of change. I am barely able to grasp that one myself, but you get the idea.
Change happens! Your perception of it is all relative. You accept or reject it in degrees until you're "full up" and decide to cease to be among us.
This is not the same country I grew up in. Not even close. Some of that is good and some of that is bad.
In 1970 Linda and I moved from the frozen tundra of South Dakota to Gainesville, Florida where I had been accepted for graduate school at the University of Florida. To support us I took a job as the morning man for WUWU radio. (Try saying those call letters fast three times.) The station was located in the Gainesville Mall on the Northeast side of town. My first morning on the job I arrived at the mall around five to prepare for my six o'clock sign-on. As I turned the key in the mall's darkened doorway, my eye caught sight of what appeared to be a pile of rubbish or something in the far corner of the entrance. I thought nothing of it until the pile, which I could now see was a bunch of cardboard, started to move. A small round black man stood and ambled toward me. "Geezus...I'm going to buy it right here! On my first day" was all I could think.
"Hello sir...it's me Henry," said the man who was toothless and easily into his seventies. Henry Anthony was the station janitor. He was sleeping under cardboard at the door to the mall because he did not own an alarm clock and was not trusted with a key to the premises. He would rise each morning when he "thought" it was time to get up; hop on his battered and rusty old bicycle and head for his job at what he referred to as "double woo radio". I was astounded.
Henry and I became good friends over the course of the year I worked at the station. He was one of the kindest and most decent people I have ever known. I learned that he had been employed by the owner, "Mr. Mims", for more than twenty years. More than twenty years and the guy wouldn't give him a key???!!!! What kind of redneck jerk was this guy? (The kind who makes the Army look like a vacation is what I later learned.) It took me about two days before I had a key made for Henry, (our secret), and had loaned him one of my many alarm clocks. We would arrive together and go about our very different jobs, each of us happy in his own way. While I played the hits Henry sang hymns as he vacuumed the floors and emptied the wastebaskets. Sometimes, because of his poor eyesight, he would barge into the studio while I was on the air singing at the top of his lungs. Most of the time his singing was better than the contemporary crap that was on the air and if I hadn't needed the job I would have featured him on the show. He was a character, but Mr. Mims was a humorless, cranky old man who would not have appreciated such programming genius.
Henry had a large family. All his kids were grown; most had college educations and he was proud of each and every one of them. I often wondered why they didn't make sure that he was well taken care of until I began to understand that Henry was too proud to ever let them know when he needed anything. He took care of himself.
Henry Anthony has been gone for more than twenty years now. He'd probably seen about all the change he could tolerate.
I often wonder what he would think about a black family in the White House. I'll bet that is some change Henry could have handled. "Tell Mr. Mims to get bent."
Race cowards? Henry wouldn't think so.
Grow up Mr. Holder.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Ahh...The Wonders of a Midwest February


People in the Midwest will tell you that they like living there because they love the changing seasons. "I don't know how you stand to live in a place like California where the weather is pretty much the same ALL the time," is a constant refrain.
(Cool and classy winter scene shown above shot somewhere in America that is NOT the Midwest.)
Once a year, usually in late Summer, I start to think that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to return to my roots in the "Heart of America". What could be so bad? A brisk breeze and a light dusting of snow might very well be refreshing...And then I go to Illinois in February!
"Son of a bitch!!! What was I thinking??"

Illinois in February has all the beauty and charm of a meat locker. My God...It is not only colder than a mother-in-law's heart, it's also like living inside a black & white TV from the 1950's. There is NO color, and it snows a lot. How could this be my native soil??!!
I was born here. My mother still lives here in Springfield; my brother and his family are nearby, but it sure doesn't feel right for me. I get the feeling that I got out just in time. I'm definitely a palm tree and sunshine kind of guy. California may be broke and inclined to tax the bejesus out of everyone and everything, but I'll pay the price. No more snow and gray skies on my calendar if I can help it. If that makes me a candy ass, so be it. I did my time!
Oh...the one neat thing about a February getaway to the charms of the Midwest: both of us caught a cold.


I've got the Theraflu, Zicam, and good cough medicines lined up and ready to go. It's time to get an "over the counter" load on in good ol' Southern California.
Party starts right now!




Wednesday, February 11, 2009

A Fable For Our Time...

Once there was a farmer who had a mule.

In need of money, he sold the mule for $100 to another farmer who lived nearby.



On the day he was to deliver the mule to its new owner the farmer found the animal had died.

Farmer One went to Farmer Two and said, "I'm sorry but your mule is dead."



Farmer Two replied, "Then give me back my $100."



"I can't...I spent the money," said Farmer One.



Farmer Two then insisted that Farmer One deliver the dead mule to him immediately.



"Why would you want a dead mule?" exclaimed Farmer One.



"I plan to raffle him off," was the response.

Farmer One thought this strange but was glad to be rid of the mule and the obligation.

Six months later Farmer One ran into Farmer Two at the bank and out of curiosity asked how the raffle of the dead mule had gone.

"Splendid...I charged $3 per raffle ticket and cleared $197 on the deal", said Farmer Two.

A startled Farmer One, amazed at this news, exclaimed, "What???? Didn't anyone complain about the mule being dead?!!??"

"Only the winner...and I refunded his money," came the reply.



CAST:

Farmer One: President Obama

Farmer Two: Democratic Congress Economic Stimulus Bill

Lottery Winner: You (minus the $3 refund of course)

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Just Five Years...



Has it been fifty years?
Yes.
We have had ten presidents, several economic booms and busts, put a man on the moon and endured a considerable dumbing down of our culture since "the day the music died" in a frozen Iowa cornfield. February 3, marked the fiftieth anniversary of the plane crash in Clear Lake, Iowa that killed Richie Valens, J.P. Richardson and Buddy Holly just as their individual stars were beginning to rise. Richardson at 28 was the oldest; Valens, 17, the youngest and Holly was only 22.
They all had big hit records at the time and were in the middle of a Winter tour that had them playing lots of one nighters in the upper Midwest. Their last stop was the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake. My pal, Skipper Dave, (seen here) and I stopped to visit the Surf and the crash site just three years ago when we rallyed on our way to a fortieth high school reunion. According to Dave's brother, Gus, who lives in the area, not much has changed during the past few decades.

It's always hard to predict what might have been, especially in show business. All three were talented and had obviously navigated the predictable rejection and management treachery that only the truly determined among us can survive. They each may have had very successful careers or have fallen prey to the temptations of excess that no amount of talent can save. We'll never know.

Of the three, one seemed destined to become an icon---Buddy Holly.
The span of his career was short, 1954-1959. It's astounding when you think about it. He went from playing three-chord hits at Lubbock, Texas sock hops to sophisticated orchestrated, string enhanced melodies that still influence pop music today. In the year of his death he and his wife had relocated to New York's Greenwich Village to be closer to other young musicians that he felt he might learn from. Just listen to his "It Doesn't Matter Any More", released in the month following his death and you'll hear finesse far beyond his twenty-two years. This guy was going to provide us with great music for years to come. Think of the songs we've missed! He would have produced a songbook the likes of Sinatra, Elvis, Lennon & McCartney and Brian Wilson. The cat was that good.



It's funny how you sometimes just know things...

I remember the Summer that I was nine years old. The southern Michigan night was sticky and tomorrow would be even hotter. All the windows were open and I could hear "Doe" Chamberlain's transistor radio playing on the picnic table in her parents backyard as she and her friends listened to Bob "Hoppy" Hopkins Record Review on WKHM in Jackson. I was jealous that she, being a teenager, was able to stay out past dark even if it was her own backyard, but was grateful that I could listen to all this wonderful rock n' roll music that all of our parents hated so much. It was so damn cool! I had no idea then that it would become not only the soundtrack of my life, but also for what I laughingly call "My Career".
It was that night...that hot Michigan night of 1957 that I heard old "Hoppy" introduce Buddy Holly and the Crickets That'll Be the Day. The hair on my arms stood up and I was changed. That song still gives me chills. It's that powerful.

Five years is all he had, but Buddy Holly has given all of us more than fifty years of great memories: That'll Be the Day", "Oh, Boy!", "Maybe Baby", "Think it Over", "Peggy Sue", "Rave On", Early in the Morning", "Everyday", "True Love Ways", "It Doesn't Matter Anymore".


Rock n' Roll heaven? Gotta be.




The site of the Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson, Richie Valens plane crash near Clear Lake, Iowa.