Where Even Cousin Eddie Could Become The Presumptive Favorite

Traditions a-plenty find their way to the homes and hearths of America this time of the year.

High up, if not first, on that list of traditions is the holiday gathering of kith and kin around the actually big, or made big by shoving fold outs together, dining table for the family holiday meal.

One tradition within that tradition getting increasingly more difficult to honor these days.

Avoiding, by any means necessary, any whiff of a hint of discussion of the terrible two, the twin topics that are guaranteed to set fire to the frivolity, put a stop to the celebrations, turn the carving of the Thanksgiving turkey or the Christmas ham into a potentially catastrophic carving up of one another.

Like tigers on the Serengeti. Sharks in the water. Partridges in a flaming pear tree.

Politics. Religion.

Hey, all you bickering brothers and sisters and maters and paters and grannies and grandpas, it's 2018.

There's a new kid in town.

Immigration.

Naturally, a case can be made that the topic of immigration is actually a sub-topic easily found under the heading of either politics or religion or both.

But. thanks to a presidential candidate who decided a couple of years ago that inspiring people was for pussies, inciting people was electoral gold, Jerry, gold and so undertook an  historic uncorking of the vial where the more virulent strain of the virus bigot-us prejudishus had, at least, been somewhat contained in recent decades, immigration managed to break free of its second tier status and has found a home in an every growing bulge of a folder all its own.

Hold that thought for a minute. Because a question suddenly comes to mind I'd like to inject here.

Did you ever stop to think why people from other countries, who must obviously know what a hot button, spit and snarl subject their desire to come to this country has become in recent months, still risk limb and/or life to come on-a our house, our house-a come on, no matter what?

Well, there is the obvious "if they stay where they are, they're subject to poverty, starvation, persecution, torture, genocide, you know, all the things that make living somewhere else pretty much a buzzkill thing" thing.

If that's your first answer, you get credit for not going all "burning cross/towelhead/they're only coming to murder my family in the name of Allah" on me right off the bat, but, that's really the easy answer, so, think for a second and try a little harder.

And, if perchance, your first answer was to go all "burning cross/towelhead/they're only coming to murder my family in the name of Allah" on me, then, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and suggest you're probably not going to find the rest of what I'm offering up here all that worth your time, so, scootle along, now.....buh-bye.

And allahu akbar to you and yours. Hey, I'm just messin' wit ya. Merry Christmas.

Seriously. At the level that suspicion and mistrust and hostility and downright hot bed hatred have been ramped up to in this here land of the free, home of the brave these days, you've gotta ask why these people knock, knock, knockin' on Uncle Sam's door would want to risk the aforementioned limb and/or life to accomplish what is, one could articulately be convincing in calling, pretty much just a brutal, dangerous journey from the frying pan of one nation to the fire of another.

Other fairly common go-to answers, of course, include more from the evil intent seats in the peanut gallery, you know, take our jobs, recruit our kids, infect us with their blasphemy, take a few french fries from our bag when our backs are turned.

And then, as the evil intent club refers to them, the bleeding heart, snoflake libtard faction comes along with the Hallmark card tested and approved axioms of a better and richer life, the seeing of dreams coming true, giving their own kids a chance at the kind of happiness they would never otherwise find in life.

You know, just more of that insulting, liberal, Pollyanna bullshit. Those moonbeams of malarkey that further blind those who go through life already badly blinded, what with being afflicted with starry eyes and all.

Lately, a little inadvertent research has given me pause for considering a possibility possibly not considered before.

It's about freedom.

And, yes, I know that freedom is already prominently featured on the list of features that come with the premium package here in the land of the free, home of the premium package but I'm not talking about those trying to cross the river or tunnel under the fence or climb over that high tech, state of the art wall, you know, once, and if, there's actually ever a high tech, state of the art wall for them to climb over, wishing to come and live here so they can see their dream of trial by jury finally come true. Or so they can read or hear, each day, all the facts and truths and need to knows that result from living in a nation that honors, respects and critically needs a free press. Assuming, of course, that by the time they get here, that "enemy of the people" shit has run its course and we're not starting our days with " I pledge allegiance / to supreme leader / and his trusty sidekick, Sean Hannity."

But the freedom I'm talking about is a little more abstract, a shade more subtle, a mite more microscopic.

At first glance, the helpers who hear these broadcasts and read the blogs will elbow in and "help" by chirping "free speech!". You're just talking about "free speech!"

Well, first, why, thank you, Mr or Ms. Helper. Now you get your Hot Pocket out of Mom's microwave, have a seat and shush.

Second, credit where due, you're correct. It is about free speech. But not just free speech. It's way more comprehensive and complex than that.

Allow me to elucidate.

Came across a social media posting of a link to a news story published in the Nashville Tennessean. It related the story of  a mother of four walking out of an area WalMart with two of her sons.

The woman's name is Ayat Abu. She covers her hair with a hijab. She is a Muslim.

As she walked out of the store, a man walking into the store looked her up and down and had a single comment to make.

"Terrorist", he said.

Let's skip the knee jerk, go-to, frankly, exhausting, enough already back and forth about hijabs and Muslims and freedom of religion and terrorism and lions, and tigers and bears.

Instead, here's some sadly predictable comments made in the thread that followed that social media post. And while I don't usually name names in cases like this, I'm making an exception this time for a specific reason, which I will explain shortly. I'm also not violating anyone's privacy or rights as these are public posts, easily found by you or anyone else, so, there is no presumption of privacy. Thanks again, Mr. or Ms. Helper. Hot Pocket. Shush.

Kyle William..."go home, witch".

Danny Robinson..."no part of me believes this actually happened."

Mark McCammon..."liberalism is a mental disorder,"

Pat Price..."are you sure that's a woman?"

Regenia Rose Clifton..."all Muslims want to conquer the land they live in...AAALLL OOOF TTTTHHEEMMM!"

Kim Raspatello..."you never know what they are hiding in there."

By there, of course, one assumes she is referring to the scarf covering Ayat Abu's hair.

Previous documented incidents, of course, relating the stashing of knives, grenades, missile launchers, jet fighters and the occasional fully armamented aircraft carrier under those, more than occasionally, brightly colored silks.

You'd think they'd know better than to call attention to themselves with the bright colors and all.

In fairness, a laudable number of comments in response to those comments offer kindness, compassion, rational thinking and even a very humanitarian apology or two for the crude, rude, classless carping of the less tactful in the tribe.

But the compassionless carving there whittles down to this point.

Lots of countries, and/or those who are "in charge" of said countries, talk a good game about privileges and rights and freedoms.

But the pudding so often has a nasty way of being proven to be lacking the proof part.

America, meanwhile, puts its money where its mouth is.

And props and a shout out thanks to the very American voices of Mr Williams and Robinson and McCammon and Ms. Price and Clifton and Raspatello for their, surely, unintentional participation in proving the point.

That, in this country, when it comes to freedom, we don't just talk the talk.

We babble the brainless.

We conversate the contemptible.

We dish the disgusting.

We spew the spewage.

And still get to wake up in the morning, sip that espresso, wobble on down to work, eat, pray, and love, such as it is, without fear of retribution or incarceration.

If there truly is a logical reason why, when its all said and done, tens of thousands of people would risk limb and/or life to live in this land of the free, home of the blowhards, it transcends mere freedom of religion and freedom of speech and freedom of the press.

Who wouldn't sacrifice anything and everything to spend their lives in a land where anything goes, free of retaliation, retribution, incarceration.

In America, obviously.....anything goes.

Anything.

We don't just have free speech.

We've got unlimited free speech.

Take that, A.T & T.

And not only no limit on how long you can talk or how much you can talk, but, with the possible exception of literally threatening to assassinate the President, any President, pick a President, literally no limit on what you can say. No matter how distasteful. Disturbing. Disgusting. Racist. Sexist. Bigoted. Mindless. Moronic...

...or just good old fashioned garden variety stupid it might be.

And thank the Founding Fathers and the good Lord above that that good old fashioned garden variety stupid totally falls under the protective umbrella of free speech in this country.

If it didn't a lot of families would be about to have a terrible, heart breaking holiday, what with their loved ones being locked up and keys being thrown away and all.

Instead of tinsel and holly and egg nog, it would be tears and heartache and weekly visitation.

For the families of Mr. Williams and Robinson and McCammon.

Ms. Price and Clifton and Raspatello.

No Dancer or Prancer or Comet or Vixen.

Just a 6 by 8 cell. And Christmas dinner with no fixins.

That might not be the reason for the season.

But bet your berka that's a heavy duty reason that those who come come at the risk of losing limb and/or life.

You'll probably still want to stay away from politics and religion.

But it might do some good for you to talk about that at the holiday dinner table.

Better yet....

...make it a tradition.

Baby, We've Got Much Bigger Problems Than It Being Cold Outside...

Old saying.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Turns out that this time of year, it's also covered with a glistening blanket of holiday white.

Or, more accurately, black if you subscribe to the whole white hat-good guy/black hat-bad guy paradigm to which a lot of us grew up subscribing.

You may have heard there's a number of previously warmly welcomed traditional songs of the season nominated for blacklisting, these days, owing to one perceived perversion or another.

There's your once upon a time, charming and redeeming Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer...now being ballyhooed for banning because a number of the aforementioned good intention gang see the whole saga as an endorsement of bullying.     

A long time nominee, Deck The Halls, shows up again, like those poor rock bands that come thiiiiiis close to getting in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame every year only to miss it by thiiiiis much. The danger in Decking? Well, let's have a pink lady, don we now our "gay" apparel and think about it for a minute.

One of the favorites of my generation is slated for a slot on the no-fly with Santa list. Speaking of the randy, rotund ho, ho, ho himself, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus has the PC Police pursing their lips, pouting out accusations of implied sexuality, not to mention adultery, what with Mommy giving Santa the old smoochie smack-down while Daddy is theoretically nestled all snug in the half empty bed upstairs in Daddy AND Mommy's room. 

Santa Baby returns to our countdown of condemnation again this year. Between the salivating for sable, which hits on both slutty and furry in the list of oh, no you didn't's and the sultry request for a yacht, a platinum mine and that '54 convertible which makes us, at first, think of the song as pretty dated until you blue book how much a mint condition '54 would be worth these days, you've got all the makings for some serious dissing and draggin' about how this song is nothing more than an ode to a gold digger.

And let's don't even come near the not very thinly veiled bestiality on display in both Dominick the Donkey and I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas. I mean, come on.... sung by a woman? Hello. I don't hear Johnny Mathis burrowing into the middle of a chorus of burro.

And this year....a new entry in the competition. The pick perversion of the week. Sleazier than a sleigh ride with Louis CK, more corrupting at Christmas than an egg nog filled glass with Bill Cosby........oh, baby.

It's cold outside.

Let's skip the blow by blow (pun kinda intended, truth be told) of why this 75 year old Christmas chestnut is currently being roasted on the open fire of the prohibitionist's pyre and, if the court please, we will stipulate that you could, in fact, take the lyric of that song and with just the right tone, inflection and interpretation, conjure up quite a compelling case that all that's missing is Harvey to make this sucker a full blown tribute to a Weinstein Winter Wonderland.

Or it could just be a flirty ditty from a time when men and women tiptoeing around each other in the dance of seduction didn't involve being paranoid, always taking great care not to inadvertently step on a landmine of political correctness. And, just so we're clear, I'm not naively putting any white gauzy, fifties filter on the point of view here. Of course, these people were trying to get laid. Along with breathing, eating and hydrating, getting laid is the fourth of the four things in life that make life go round. Or, at least, make life continue to exist.

But this piece isn't about determining exactly where to draw the line or just how fine the hair has to be before you can no longer split it with any hope of ending up with anything except two really, really thin hairs.

This child of the 50's who, I freely admit, has more than enough emotional and psychological baggage to pretty much always guarantee some kind of overage charge,has no recollection whatsoever of being traumatized by Mommy swapping spit with Santa, being confused about sexuality because the apparel was gay once a year or feeling anything other than uplifted when Rudolph got the nod from Santa and guided that sleigh that night with that nose so bright.

It really fell into the category of "every dog, or reindeer, has his day". Especially when it comes to bitch slapping the bullies back to the rear of the line. A feeling of vindication I'm hoping, by the way, to witness again very, very, very soon be it from the North Pole or Mar A Lago.

No, it's not about the latching on to these songs and picking the elf poop out of the pepper by the supposed do-gooders that occurs to me as I read the current list of contenders for the crown of Christmas condemnation.

What occurs, or, to be accurate, re-occurs, at the moment is a theory that I've been theorizing for a while now. And not just since Donald arrived with his mile high stack of snafus. This theory dates back, come to think of it, far back as I can remember. At least as far back as that time in life when I realized the innocence period of my life was pretty much over. A time when it was okay for Mommy to smooch Santa, it was festive for the apparel to be gay and if he or she donning was likewise, then, fa la la la la. A time when Rudolph did a Rocky Balboa on those snobby, sorry ass reindeer in the pack, self centered, pampered princesses showed up at holiday time to strut a little and sing about jewelry and mink coats, all in good seasonal fun and didn't show up on the web and the flat screen twenty times a week for no more important a reason than they had decided to name their kid North or Saint; a time when a hula hoop was the holy grail and I could hardly stand the wait.

A time before I knew about blacks having to sit in the back of the bus, gunfire from sixth floor windows in downtown Dallas, brothers, cousins, nephews dying in far away places with strange names like Da Nang and Hanoi; a time before I knew about dreamers dying from being shot on hotel balconies in Memphis and kitchen floors in Los Angeles, before I knew about airliners full of innocent travelers flying head on into New York skyscrapers.

A time before I heard about children being tear gassed...and neo-Nazis being defended as "very fine people"...before I heard what I never ever thought I would hear.....a supposed leader of the nation declaring the free press the "enemy of the people"...and, even more incredulously, the sound of, literally, millions of "patriotic" citizens mindlessly screaming their agreement.......a time before building a wall became more of a priority than even bothering to think anymore about building a bridge.

My theory is this.

When we find ourselves faced with things in life that need to be corrected or fixed or adjusted or even ended....and, for whatever reason, we have neither the resources or the skill-set or the opportunities or the first clue about how to go about correcting or fixing or ending them.

Or the courage to just try.

We go looking for things we can fix.

Whether they need fixing. Or not.

Yeah, boy. Some of those Christmas songs sure do have some questionable lyrics.

We need to get on that.

At the same time, though, there's another song we should probably revisit.

Here's some of the lyrics.


Yeah, my blood's so mad, feels like coagulatin',
I'm sittin' here, just contemplatin',
I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation,
Handful of Senators don't pass legislation,
And marches alone can't bring integration,
When human respect is disintegratin',
This whole crazy world is just too frustratin',


And wraps up like this.


The poundin' of the drums, the pride and disgrace,
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace,
Hate your next door neighbor, but don't forget to say grace,
And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,
You don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.


Put a pin in that.

We don't have the time, or a clue about how, to buckle down.

So, for now, let's just bundle up.

Cause, baby, it's cold...outside.

 

 

"Did You Ever Know That They're My Heroes..."

Favorite question, still asked, every now and then, when people find out that I have some success at songwriting in my past.

".....which do you write?......the lyrics or the words....?"

If the curious soul is a friend or an acquaintance with whom I feel comfortable enough to have a little self deprecating fun, my reply is usually "well, I write lyrics.....although a lot of people think they only rate high enough to be called words."

If the question comes from someone less familiar, I politely offer up the lack of difference between the two and then distract them from any possible embarrassment by diverting right into an anecdote from a healthy stock of anecdotes I've been lucky to compile through the years.

Sometimes, it's the "Wayne Newton used to be my baby sitter" saga.

At other times, it might be the "...living with Roy Orbison and accidentally breaking his Grammy..." tale.

Either way, there's always a palpable measure of interest in the "backstage" kind of stuff that people like me have experienced through the years.

One of the reasons those "behind the scenes" things are so popular on HBO and Showtime.

So, in the spirit of sharing some fun facts to know and tell about how those songs that end up living inside of your brain and/or heart and/or soul for the rest of your life, here's a fun fact to know and tell.

The process of creativity, itself, is both too complex, even abstract, to try and explain. It's a lot like trying to explain why a joke is funny. You either laugh or you don't.

The mechanics, as it were, of a song's journey from birth to debut, meanwhile, is, well, fairly mechanical.

Writer and/or co-writers of said song finish writing and/or co-writing it, produce a demo of sufficient quality to make it presentable enough to A&R people, producers and/or recording artists that they are willing to listen to more than thirty seconds of the song. Writers play said demo for said A&R people, producers and/or recording artists and, then, the really key part of the whole process comes into play.

Let's call it the punchline part.

As in, one either laughs, or not, at a joke.

One either gets excited and wants to record a song based on the demo they hear.

Or not.

Most of the time....not.

That's not meant to discourage anyone from following their dream of songwriting success. But it's both wise and prudent to understand what part reality inevitably plays in that dreaming thing.

Legendary producer Billy Sherrill once put it eloquently spot on.

"In any given calendar year, statistically speaking, ten people go from being unknown to being very successful in the song business. In that same calendar year, twenty eight people are killed by lightning...."

Again, follow that dream wherever that dream may lead you.

Here's a been there, done that tip for you.

That demo? Don't be fooled by what most accomplished writers will tell you is an ironic, if not outright hilarious, slang term. Demo. Short for demonstration. Meaning only intended to give A&R people, producers and/or recording artists a sense of the song and how they could take their own particular magic and turn it into a masterpiece.

A long time ago, in a song business far, far away, a writer could offer up a "demo" via what we used to call "guitar/vocal" or "piano/vocal". The description says it all. A simple, on-key vocal backed with only an adequately played guitar or piano, depending on the mood, and need, of the song.

Unless you're related by blood to the A&R person, producer and/or recording artist you're taking a shot at, the odds on even getting a listen to that no frills old favorite format are actually less than the odds you'll have affordable healthcare in your lifetime. Or your kids lifetime. Or their kids lifetime.

In the high tech world of more songs being pitched on a daily basis than there are stars in the sky, you gotta do your best to musically and lyrically ABC that sucker.

In other words, spell it out for them.

Can't play all that well?

Can't really sing much past acceptable in the shower?

Not to worry.

World class talent abounds in a music industry town. Like NY. LA.

Nashville.

And, at least in Nashville, you benefit from the fact that a lot of that world class talent makes a lot their living doing "demos". Either because they love the work and are happy to do it. Or they are at the beginning of their own climb up the ladder of success and the first, best place to get someone to notice your singing talent is to get it put on as many recordings as possible.

That scenario applies to a lot of now well known names you might not have known got started that way.

Alan Jackson. Kathy Mattea. Trisha Yearwood. Just three of those who were Alan Who? Kathy Who? and Trisha Who? before they demo'ed their way into their own success stories.

And, then, there's the great voices whose names never become household, but who are respected and acclaimed within the industry itself for their talent and their ability to take that talent and make your okay song good, your good song great....and your great song? Forget hammer time, it's Grammy time, baby.

No pun intended, these ladies and gentlemen are the unsung heroes of the music business.

I've had the good fortune and privilege of having a lot of those voices, both known and unknown, grace my own songs through the years. And that's why when I came across this post on the ol FB this week, it caught both my eye and my ears for a few reasons.

First, the song is, obviously, iconic.

Second, the gentleman who posted it is Ernie Winfrey, a legendary Nashville based recording engineer and producer. Do the Google. Trust me. You'll be both enthralled and impressed.

And, then, came the player. And the singer, who I had the pleasure to know and work with through those Music Row years.

Because while the song is iconic, this, obviously, isn't the original version released by Roger Whittaker back in 1982, nor is it the seminal version Bette Midler offered up, nor is it one of the many "covers" of the song that have been recorded through the years.

This...songwriting kats and kitties.....is the "demo".

Piano by Ron Oates. Vocal by Jim Hurt.

Two names I put all the chips down you've never heard before. But, again, do the Google and marvel at the resumes' these gentlemen bring to the mixing console.

Then, enjoy this "demonstration" of how great a song can.....and totally turned out.....to be.

Larry Henley and Jeff Silbar created this work.

But, again, trust me when I tell you that not a day goes by that those talented writers don't thank the stars and/or the good Lord above for the contribution to their creation.....

...of Ron Oates...and Jimmy Hurt.

"...When It Comes To The Really Big Game, A Lot Of You Got Rooked..."

We live in a football nation.

And, in large measure, there's the problem.

Hold that thought. And huddle up.

The challenge in presenting any fair and reasonable critique of the job performance of the current, for the moment, President of the United States is that, given the chapped cheeks that have resulted from two years, now, worth of chapping, much like a marriage that has been fatally wounded with no real chance of survival yet simply refuses to lay down and die, both sides hang on like grim death to their positions, everything one side does is always right and everything the other side does is always wrong.

Which side is which makes no difference. The view is the same from either and both.

Complete agreement is out of the question. Any hint of compromise and/or cooperation is a ship that has long since sailed. And wiggle room is physically impossible in a situation where no one is going to budge an inch.

So, when the cauldron of bicker and bitch bubbles up and over each week, or hour, or day, you say potato and I say patahto, I say tomato and you say tomahto, you say deliverer, I say demagogue...

..potato, patahto, deliverer, demagogue.....let's call the whole thing off.

Yeah. If only.

Point being that point by point back and forth is a waste of time, breath and brain tissue.

So, let's skip the bullet points (no, that is not a snarky, veiled reference to the precedent shattering sucking up to the NRA and their campaign contribution kabillions).

You know, those perfectly plausible reasons for ratcheting up the rumbling between us.

You say booming economy. We say the, now, repeated plunging of the Dow, with all, count them, all, of the gains made this past year gone. All. The whole year. Gone. And, at the moment, no end in sight.

You say right to bear arms. We say, well, wow, pick a shooting, any shooting. Take your best shot. (Yeah, okay, that's a snarky, not so veiled, reference)

You say thank God America finally has a brilliant, successful businessman at the wheel. We say, uh, okay, let's not rehash that Dow thing we just mentioned, let's run with sending troops to the border to guard against the caravan that was a dangerous and evil invasion of plunderers, rapists and murderers right up to election day, then kinda faded back into a caravan again after election day and, at this moment, is still nowhere near the border...and the cost, so far?.....about 75 million. With projected eventual cost being..oh, about 200 million.

And let's don't even get started on sending troops away from their families at holiday time for no better reason than playing to the crowd or as it's listed in your cast of characters, there, the base.

And let's not even begin to hint at dredging up the failed university or the failed steak company or the failed vodka company or the failed hotels and casinos and how, on God's green Earth, does anybody fail at casinos?

And forget Maude.....then there's Mueller.

But, like I said, bashing those birdies back and forth is an endless loop in space/time that would make for a pretty cool episode of Star Trek-Discovery. Hell, maybe even a two-parter. Hmm. Movie, maybe?

So, instead, let's take a pot shot at being practical here.

And just talk a little "it is what it is"

Regardless of who, or what, is, at any given time, sitting behind that fine burnished dark wood desk in that uniquely circular office in that iconic white building at 1600 Pennsylvania.

Here's what it is.

We are a football nation.

From Friday night lights to Saturday college play calling to Sunday slants, sacks, split T's and shotguns.

With a Monday night here and a Thursday night there, here a punt, there a snap, everywhere a screen pass.

America has got football in places most people ain't even got places.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But, to borrow a tiny piece from the massive jigsaw puzzle that is Beatles lyrics...

..."here's another clue for you all..."

This is not a football world.

At least in terms of the geopolitical.

And, there, all you Hamlet fans and fanettes, lies the rub.

Keep in mind, amigos y amigas, I ain't lying, kids/ there ain't no denyin' that this would be a fact/truth, if the president was FDR, JFK, LBJ, George H.W., George W, Donald Trump or Donald Duck.

Just so happens that, at the moment, Donald is in the chair.

Trump, not Duck. Although I will concede that it is often hard to tell one cartoon character from another.

Here's the thing.

One of the immediate go-to defenses of the Red Capped Donald, Donald, He's Our Man Club when it comes to the stockpile of shit that Trump has either gotten America into or is apparently bound and determined to get America into is his "knack", for lack of a better word, for "telling it like it is"

For the more metaphorically minded amongst us, make that "why bother using a scalpel with precision or a finely aimed laser when a sledge hammer will do."

Well, first, there is the reasonable argument that there's a critically important difference between that which "will do" and that which is "called for."

If we're talking bringing down the barn, then, by all means, let's get our sledge on.

If, on the other hand, we're talking aortic valve replacement, the hammer might just be a little heavy handed.

And this "telling it like it is" quality, again, their words, not even close to mine, which served him so well in the campaign, has been adapted for after the swearing-in usage and presents itself as "kicking some ass" in various and sundry tweets, public grunts and posturing proclamations at the every now and then, lately more often than not, love and praise gatherings, hilariously referred to as campaign rallies.

A lot of people seem to buy the idea that leadership, especially the leadership of the, still, theoretically, anyway, most powerful nation on Earth is defined as blunt talk, blowharding and bullying.

For all his many failings, three skills at which Donald admittedly excels.

If you think about it for a minute, that's exactly the same kind of behavior that, in an altered and adjusted form, wins football games.

Blunt talk at the line of scrimmage. Blow hard taunts as opposing players crouch nose to nose waiting for the snap, a bullying, of sorts, because, let's face facts, sports fans, they ain't exchangin' cookie recipes down there. Hut. Hut. Hut. Hard snap. Quarterback drops back. Cocks his arm back to fire a rifle shot on a quick out. Hard hits at the line. QB looking downfield. Wham. Sacked.

Take that, Eagles. Or Saints. Or Raiders.

Or North Korea.

Or Germany. Or France. Or Canada.

We don't play pussy ball around here, boys and girls, we hit hard, low, mean, take no shit and take no prisoners.

Well, there's Saudi Arabia, but there's a lot of money changing hands on that one, so, come on, be real.

And a lot of Americans who believe football is one of life's essential vitamins and minerals admire, no, hell, worship a guy who hits low, hits dirty, talks tough, takes no shit...takes no prisoners.

Yeah. About that.

From the folder marked "things that should go without saying, but that's not a luxury we can afford to allow ourselves these days", here's a couple of those things.

First, simple human physics. Nobody likes to be pushed. Or shoved. Nobody likes to have somebody or anybody get up in their face. Especially when it's clear as crystal that the only reason that somebody is getting up in their face is to show other people how tough they are because, "hey, look how I'm getting up in their face."

That approach is classic, textbook....bullying.

Here's another one of those things that should go without saying.

Bullies never win. And, sooner or later, as sure as the setting of the sun or the ebbing of the tide, one somebody who has simply had enough of another somebody getting in their face knocks that somebody on their ass.

Even the dumbest, all neck, no brain matter football lineman knows that.

That's why even football isn't all, and only, about kicking ass and taking names.

Psst. That laminated thing the coaches are pacing back and forth with all through the game? That they keep checking and rechecking?  It's a menu of something called "plays". Here's a big word that describes what they're used for.

Strategy.

Not to confuse the issue by injecting another sport into the mix, but, the humorist Gallagher once offered up "....even boxing isn't only about punching and counter punching....sometimes, for a few minutes, at regular intervals, it's about sitting quietly in a corner....thinking things over..."

Those who have bought (read: been conned) into celebrating the tough talk, tell like it is style that Trump likes to take credit for inventing (along with, well, pretty much everything else in life, except for the Internet, Al Gore is still holding on to that one like grim death) have overlooked a very important undeniable in the whole grand scheme of life in America in relation to the global realities in the year 2018.

Leadership, as it must, by circumstance and necessity, be practiced here in the early 21st Century, most certainly requires the ability to size up an opponent, exude an air of confidence, show no visible weakness, determine an enemy's vulnerabilities, be prepared at all times to confront a threat and, when, the moment is right, and needed, strike swiftly and surely with the intention of thwarting any attack and putting an end to the confrontation.

Sounds a lot like football, don't you think?

Yeah. Except there's that people don't like you getting up in their faces thing. It just seems to piss em' off. And Lord only knows what somebody is capable of doing when they're pissed off.

That's not really doing a very good job of controlling your enemy. Or the situation.

Not a very good strategy at all.

Even the dumbest, all neck, no brain matter football lineman knows that.

Hey. You know what this all really sounds like?

Yeah.

Chess.

We live in a football nation.

And there's a guy with the limo and the Secret Service detail and podium with that really cool seal on it who you just gotta know fashions himself as the best, just terrific, the most terrific quarterback that ever lived. Better than Namath or Staubach....or Brady...or Brees.

Just one problem.

We live in a football nation.

But we live in a chess world.

And there's a guy with the limo and the Secret Service detail and podium with that really cool seal on it who naively, foolishly....stupidly.....thinks getting up in people's faces is the best, terrific, most teriffic way to win.

But wouldn't know a gambit, a pawn, a stalemate....or a strategy if his life, or the life of a nation, depended on it.

Sooner or later, as sure as the setting of the sun or the ebbing of the tide, one somebody who has simply had enough of another somebody getting in their face knocks that somebody, or that "king"... on their ass.

Checkmate.

"...Christmas....One Massively Huge Selfie..."

Pop quiz.

Name three things many Americans survive each year.

Hurricanes.

Elections.

Black Fridays.  

There are, of course, myriad other examples that could answer the question and make the point, but, in keeping with the season, let's zero in on numero tres there.

For, at this writing, another Black Friday has come and gone.

From all reports, the casualty list was relatively short this year. And while the totals are still being tallied, it's a safe bet that the number of people, who were out and about festively pushing, shoving and/or clawing their way to that fourth flat-screen they've just got to have,  this year will still end up, at the least, surpassing the number of people who showed up at the Inauguration.

Surprise pop quiz.

Name three things you are guaranteed to hear on television during the calendar year.

The Fourth of July fireworks safety spiel.

The Memorial Day/Labor Day/Thanksgiving Day be careful in record setting traffic spiel.

The "it's more blessed to give than to receive at Christmas" spiel.

The always energized, smile saturated, good morning mavens at The Today Show are locked and loaded on the subject of selflessness this season.

There's nothing wrong, and everything right, with the spirit of what Jenna and her spirited sidekicks are suggesting by way of getting in the selfless spirit of the season.

But it's difficult, if not impossible, to prevent Mr. Cynicism from tracking into the happy house with his muddy boots if only because of that pesky pixie of a word in that last sentence there.

Selfless.

For those who are, perhaps, unfamiliar with the definition, say, very, very young people or maybe folks new to our shores and to our language, oh, and certainly including, but not limited to, anyone on the Earth named Jenner or Kardashian, "selfless" is defined as "being concerned more with the needs and wishes of others than with one's own; unselfish."

And while it's both unfair and incorrect to paint an entire population with the brush soaked with "enough about me, what do you think about me", it's another safe bet to offer that you wouldn't lose a dime if you were to wager that, at least here in the land of the free, home of the what else you got that's free, these day, selfishness is at all time high....and, conversely, of course, selflessness is at an all time low.

Here's a few examples, especially offered up for those folks who are already tweeting or posting, oh, yeah, well, how about some examples, Mr. Cynicism?

And, just so we're clear, I'm not Mr. Cynicism. And I'm not Mr. Hypocrite,either, because I'll cop to being a cynic on a scale that makes Richter look no worse than a little Jello shaking, but, Mr. Cynicism is a symbolic icon of a mindset, an attitude, a pattern of behavior in our current culture.

And, yes, icon does also mean symbol, so saying symbolic icon is like saying symbolic symbol, thank you, Mr. Helper, for your selflessness in pointing that out.

Here's some examples for use in assisting others, or, your self (and that's totally ironic, but it might take a while before you can connect the dots on that one) in determining selflessness as opposed to selfishness. And taking into account the remarkably, amazingly, record shattering all time low, sometimes even non-existent attention span of the average American, we offer up these examples via the quiz show sensation that's sweeping the nation....that's right, kids....it's time to play........

(play the Soundcloud file)




See? Idea and execution are harder to get together than a red cap and a, well, no cap, because those things look ridiculous.

The idea of no gifts, giving and caring for others, more blessed to give, all of that?

And the execution of actually giving no gifts, giving and caring for others and experiencing the blessing of giving as opposed to the fleeting adrenaline rush of receiving.

Easily said.

But, that's not what America really is right now.

For now, there's just simply more "ish".

And, for that, we are all...all of us.....

Less.

It's Not About Left or Right...Just Doing What's Right

With all the holiday buzz and business already buzzing and businessing, an anniversary of some magnitude slipped past us pretty much unnoticed.

Two weeks ago, give or take.

That would be the observance that it's been two years since November 8, 2016. And the presidential election that will always be correctly described as, if nothing else.... seismic.

It's also been two years now of debating, arguing, bickering, even fighting with each other with an intensity and continuity unprecedented in modern times. Expressed articulately, and not just a little ironically, by one of those voices we sixties kids classify as iconic.

"...there's battle lines being drawn / nobody's right / when everybody's wrong..."

And November 8, 2016 was just the uncorking of the bottle. Or vial, as the case may be.

Come January 20th in the coming year, it will be two years since the venom and vitriol began spewing with a flow that made Krakatoa, East of Java look like a dripping kitchen faucet. (Yes, generation X'ers and Millennials, another sixties reference...calm down, do the Google, no such thing as too much knowledge).

Put less linguistically....shit got real on Inauguration Day, baby.    

When those thirty six million people showed up in D.C to watch the swearing in. Or eighty million or whatever number he lands on the next time somebody asks or the mood just strikes him.

Two years in the world of political discourse, discussion, debate and/or dissension,  have a dog years-like quality about them. Again, put in a sound-byte friendly version...seems like we been bitching at each other about this guy forever.

At this point in the plot, I'm personally two years and a kabillion miles past being sucked into any more point by point, tit for tat, I know you are, but what am I back and forth with anyone who is facing me and not standing beside me. Because when you keep saying white only to hear "black" as the reply and you keep saying white, knowing full well that there's not a chance in hell you're going to hear anything in reply but "black", then, cue Professor Einstein and his sharply accurate, but, still somehow, underrated definition of insanity. 

Doing the same thing over and over....and over. And expecting a different result each time.

Or at all. Ever.

So, in spite of whatever naively charming illusions with which we might feel inclined to indulge ourselves, the hard rock bottom of the cold, hard truth is that debate, whether civilized or savage, on the subject of Donald Trump is pretty much a waste of time, effort and stomach lining.

Because of something that genuinely qualifies as precedent setting, perhaps, even historic.

One of the more remarkable, if not mutated, uniquenesses of this particular pimple on the face of American history is that, by now, two years in, there is, for the first time in a long, long time, if ever, virtually no one left in one of the more prominent voting demographics in the American electoral process.

Because when it comes to circling the Electoral wagons, we got...

Democrats / and Socialists
Republicans / and Communists
Then there's Libertarians / A few might be Rotarians
Modern Whigs / Green Partiers
Humanes / They say do not wear fur
Objectivists / and Pacifists
And then the Constitutionists
Green Panthers stand to take a vow
with Legal Marijuana Now

....but one traditionally sizeable voting block is, essentially, extinct.

Undecideds.

Because, two years through the looking glass and down the rabbit hole of the World According To Trump, there are, arguably, zip, zero, nada who are still making up their minds.

The less erudite political science professors amongst us would frame it this way.

The Trump support mantra continues to pretend, or, could be argued, portend, to be "Make America Great Again."

Truth is that's just code. What it translates out to is "you is either fer us.....or you is agin' us..."

So, just like trying to resist the Borg, trying to change the minds of a Trump supporter, two years in, with all we've seen and all we've heard and all we've witnessed and...all we know... is futile.

That said, it occurs to me that there's something worth pointing out to those whose name tags read "fer us". 

And it's not about trying to convince anybody to change teams. Again, Borg, resistance. All of that Picard-esque perspective.

Here's a heretofore previously un-pondered point to ponder.

Recognizing, admitting and agreeing with us as to the staggering personal flaws and shortcomings of Donald Trump doesn't automatically imply that you are a Clinton supporter. Or an Obama supporter. Or a Bernie supporter.

It doesn't, in fact, imply that you are anything other than a reasonable, caring, compassionate, intelligent human being.

Now, for those whose initial, gut/knee jerk reaction is, in the classic style of the Donald, to lash back like a child at anyone who doesn't give you, or say to you, what you want or want to hear at every living breathing moment of the day, indulge me this brief bluntness.

Shut up.
Sit down.
And just listen.

Because, two years in, you're no longer being extended the courtesy, luxury, actually, no, make that privilege of being offended when somebody calls you out on your endorsement, if only by your silence, of the behavior, conduct and, worst of all, "presidential presentation" of this guy.

Two years ago, many of us who dreaded what lay ahead, extended that courtesy to you, and him, in the form of giving him, and, by association, you, the benefit of the doubt. Remember those chats we had that consisted of "well, he's a world class asshole, but maybe he'll rise to the occasion and become a president everyone can be proud of"?.

Or the good times we shared talking about how we agreed that he was dumber than soup, in addition to being as tactless as Kanye yanking Taylor Swift's moment away from her, but, come on, everybody deserves a chance and he has said over and over that he was going to surround himself with "people...terrific people....the best people...who know what they're talking about and how to do the things that need to get done to.......INSERT MANTRA/CODE HERE....."

Yeah. About that. Two years in. Not so much.

Sorry. Make that not at all. None. Zip. Zero. Nada.

The staffs, senior, junior and all flavors in between on the White House roster over the last two years have made Steinbrenner's hiring and firing and hiring and firing and hiring and firing Yankee managers look like unparalleled business management genius.

He doesn't listen to anyone. He doesn't care about any other opinion. None. Zip, zero.....lather, rinse, repeat.

But let's go all Shirley Ellis and get right down to the real nitty gritty.

Two and a half years, or so, ago, I did a compare and contrast kind of thing on my weekly radio show regarding Donald and his psychology. The gist of it was basically this. I said "this man being what he is, behaving as he does, saying the things he does, acting out the way he does, if your daughter brought this man home to dinner and introduced him to you as the love of her life and her future husband, you would move heaven and Earth to end that relationship. You probably wouldn't even want someone like that at your dinner table, let alone in your daughter's home, life, bed, heart. If you wouldn't want your daughter within a hundred miles of this guy, why, on God's green Earth, would you want to elect him to the most powerful office on the planet?" Those already determined to defend him, at the time, followed the earlier mentions of "well, he'll rise to the occasion" or "terrific people...the best people"....and, in one of the more memorable moments, one caller reminded me that "well, we're not electing a Sunday School teacher, are we, now?"

Got that right, buddy. Got that right big time.

You elected a sociopath.
A narcissist.
A misogynist.
A pathological liar.
A clinically verifiable case of arrested development with the emotional maturity of an emotionally damaged two year old.

And I'll spare us the list of fumbles, faux pas and fuck ups that two years have compiled and simply give a moment's spotlight to a most recent "are you effin kidding me?" moment.

When asked, this week of family gratitudes, blessings counted and thanks given, he was asked the question that millions of Americans asked each other around countless Thanksgiving tables around the nation.

"What are you most thankful for?"

This man who was extended the benefit of the doubt two years ago replied...

"I'm thankful for having made a tremendous difference in this country."

Cue George Harrison.

All through the day / I,me, mine / I, me, mine / I, me, mine.

Yeah, okay, we all agreed to agree two plus years ago that humility was as absent in his DNA as was the ability to take a joke or any criticism of any kind at any time in any way. Ever.

But that was then.

And like I said earlier, the meter on the benefit of the doubt being extended him and the courtesy of not calling you out for your endorsement of him has run out.

Not that you care what I think. And, right back at ya. I don't care what you think. And I very much don't care what you think about what I think.

Ya see what he's got us doing?

But, again, like I said, there are no undecideds. And one is either "fer" or "agin"

The point being made is, simply, this.

Acknowledging, admitting and, more importantly, denouncing the egregiously offensive, tasteless, gutless, childish, ignorant, illiterate behavior, conduct and farcical parody of this "presidential presentation", unacceptable by any reasonable, basic lowest possible minimum of human decency, is not automatically an endorsement of Hillary or Bill or Barack or Bernie or Millard fucking Fillmore.

It's simply the right thing to do.

And you know that.

Feel free to bitch, moan, swear, curse, yell, criticize, chastise, complain, resent, scream back every cheap shot, low blow, bit of bite back bullshit your brain can process and deliver for you.

Sticks and stones don't change the fact.

It's simply the right thing to do.

And you know that. 

It's kind of like that Borg thing.

What's Past Is Prologue

At this writing, it is the 55th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

After 55 years, almost two generations now, the killing of the president, shot dead in the middle of a busy street on a sunny day in Dallas, Texas seems to many, if not most, people who are alive now, just another page out of a dusty history book.

If you're under the age of, say, 50, you probably think of the murder the way my generation thought of the Great Depression or World War I or even Lincoln's assassination. Events in the timeline of American history, just facts and dates and times with no personal connection, no emotional sense of it all.

It's true what's said about history changing events that take place in your lifetime. You never forget them, in fact, your memory remains clearer than you might believe it will for much longer than you thought possible. The most recent example would, of course, be 9/11. If you were alive that day, you remember it vividly. I was twelve years old on November 22, 1963 and, today, 55 years later, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing at the moment that I heard that the president had been shot and where and what at the moment I heard that the president was dead.

The emotion of that day and that weekend poured out all over the world. The intensity honestly impossible to describe now, suffice to say that tributes and accolades and dedications came by the hour, books and magazines, television and radio shows, even songs appeared paying tribute and lamenting loss. The primal response to a nation's grief included almost endless renaming, the Florida home of America's space program, Cape Canaveral, became Cape Kennedy, you couldn't drive thought a town or city and not, at least once, travel by or on a Kennedy Boulevard or Expressway, most often past a John F. Kennedy High School. Today's under 50's traveling through or to New York probably don't realize that they have often landed or taken off from Idlewild International Airport.

In 1964, it became J.F.K.

And the rest of the world responded in kind, John F. Kennedy Plaza in Berlin and dozens of other memorials to a life cut brutally short.

The passion lasted for weeks, even months, actually, quite intensely for even a year or more and, for a long time, every year at this time, commemorations and observances showed up on our doorsteps, tributes that had, by then, become tradition, expected, like the sad, poignant inverse of the annual celebration of our births.

Eventually, with the passage of time, the commemorations came less often, reserved for the "milestones" like 20th anniversary, then the 30th, then, not again, to speak of, until five years ago on the 50th. And along with the various unwrapping of his human failings through the years, the almost mythical king of Camelot was inevitably reassigned feet of clay, giving validation to the school of thought that all of the grief and mourning and intensity of that November weekend was less about the man who died as it was about what the nation and the world had lost at the hands of whoever it was that pulled the trigger.

If you are young, the death in Dealey Plaza in 1963 is just a page out of a dusty history book. If you were alive then, you will most likely never forget.

And, from the words and tributes, accolades and dedications, airport signs, school banners, books, magazines and other expressions of emotion from that weekend 55 years ago, this song resonates as a poignant, if dated, even a little syrupy, reminder of a tragic time.

Somehow, made more tragic, if only just a little, when the promise lost and hearts broken on that day in Texas is measured against the unity lost and promises broken by someone now sitting in the very office where once sat a young man, human and flawed, but with an inspiring and visionary understanding of what America was...and was supposed to be.

And...is...supposed to be.



From 1963, words and music by David Lee and Herbert Kretzmer.

Recorded by Connie Francis.


In The Summer Of His Years

A young man rode with his head held high
Under the Texas sun
And no one guessed that a man so blessed
Would perish by the gun
Lord, would perish by the gun

A shot rang out like a sudden shout
And Heaven held its breath
For the dreams of a multitude of man
Rode with him to his death
Lord, rode with him to his death

Yes, the heart of the world weighs heavy
With the helplessness of tears
For the man cut down in a Texas town
In the summer of his years
The summer of his years

And we who stay mustn't ever lose
The victories that he won
For wherever man look to freedom ?
His soul goes riding on
Lord, his soul goes riding on