Irony is the source of humor. It is also provides a lense through which events can be judged in proper perspective. I was reading the Wall Street Journal yesterday (yes, the print version) and could not help but be amazed at this picture and caption.
We have the following: 1. "Accounting for Evil." 2. "28,060 deaths." 3. "helping murder nearly 30,000.00 people." To which add: 4. "a 5 year sentence" and 5. "He was freed, pending an appeal." There were more pictures of him in a wheelchair leaving the courthouse which only adds to the spectacle. I wonder how many people showed up at his "camp" (another grotesque literary misnomer) crippled, maimed, or sick and were shot on sight and then discarded like yesterday's garbage. In any event, if you are going to account for evil, account for evil.
I was driving home last night on I95 and some kid rocketed past me in a small car that sounded like it was carrying 12 cylinders. Had to have been going at least 110. It felt like a 747 missed its landing on the runway nearby. Kind of thing you see almost every day now on a motorcycle. Made me wonder about the youth of today. Of course, now that I am in my mid 50's such a display of depravity got me to using language and expressing feelings that my father did in the early 70's when I was letting my hair grow and doing everything I could to piss him off. As that car blasted away with no cop in sight, inexplicably the following words crossed my mind: "son, you're going to drive me to drinking if you don't stop driving that HOT ROD LINCOLN." I was so fixated on this that I logged onto Itunes via my Iphone with the other hand on the wheel and bought the song (only 69 cents). And here it is:
Good old Commander Cody. Sort of a Chuck Berry on Steroids. Listening to the lyrics, I now have a much better appreciation for adults of that era who swore that my generation was destined for a permanent place in hell. At least for me, my place in Satan's home will be earned not for anything I did as a kid but for what I did and thought of doing when I was old enough to know better. In my jaded mind, I juxtaposed the lyrics against the rantings of many in gentile society in the past 20 years about the dangers of hip hop and rap music. My knowledge of the former is restricted to the damage they do on South Beach every Memorial Day weekend and the latter to the constant use of the "N" word that would shout from both my daughters' Ipods when they were younger. But the rap lyrics are nothing compared to the Commander. I guess there was a time when there was nothing more American than driving down the road at 100 mph while knocking down your neighbors' mailboxes tossing empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon out the window onto their lawns.
I love listening to saxophone jazz music. Two months ago I read Nat Hentoff's review of the life of Houston Person. Fifteen years ago, I would have read it and made a mental note to myself that if I ever came upon the music in a record store I would buy it. In other words, it would never happen. But thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I went right to my Itunes account and voila, in 90 seconds 30 of his songs were in my Ipod. I listen to his collection at least once a week, usually on Saturday or Sunday morning. If you like the sax, his music is highly recommended. Read Hentoff's review. It reinforces my conviction that African American music(as well as every other kind of music) reached its peak in this country in the late 1950's. Life was tough and that unfortunate fact was reflected in some very good music.
I was reading the Wall Street Journal or The Sun Sentinel yesterday and there was a post of four sportswriters who opined about their favorite Thanksgiving football memories. Most were recent (last 25 years). It got me to thinking. I have vivid memories of being at my grandparents' house at Thanksgiving circa 1966/67 and watching Bob Hayes return a punt against St. Louis without ever being touched. So I did some quick internet research, and voila, my memory did not let me down. Here is the link: http://www.pro-football-reference.com/boxscores/196711230dal.htm. He in fact returned a punt for 69 yards. There is no youtube tape. I remember Hayes well. The called him Bullet Bob. He was a track star before becoming a standout wide receiver for the Cowboy teams of the late 60's. He was in the twilight of his career when the Cowboys beat the Dolphins in the 71 SB. Hayes later did time for narcotics violations and then became a born again Christian and motivational speaker. In case anyone thinks football was better and cleaner without the likes of Randy Moss and others who gain notoriety for actions off the field as well as on, Hayes' fellow wide receiver, Lance Rentzel, was arrested for exposing himself to a minor. Add to this collection the Raiders' then standout wide receiver, Warren Wells, who did time for stabbing his wife, and former Heisman Trophy winner Johnny Rodger (armed robbery), and you can see that the old adage, the more things change the more they remain the same, has not lost its luster.
A big congratulations to the New York Giants for beating the expansion Washington Senators. I watched the series and while the Giants' move to SF predated my addiction to baseball, the Senators move to Texas was in the prime of my career when I was free basing Strat O Matic on an hourly basis. Every time I watch them play, I cannot erase the thought that they are really the expansion Washington Senators. The "real" Senators left DC in 1961 for Minnesota and four years later took Koufax and the Dodgers to game 7 before succumbing to the best pitcher God ever assembled (at least from 1963 through 1966). And speaking of images permanently embedded in one's mind, every time I hear "Dallas" I think not of JR Ewing, the Cowboys, but of JFK. Don't know why but as soon as the city is mentioned, I think Parkland Hospital, Grassy Knoll, Manlicher Carcano rifle, and Texas school book depository.
I was reminiscing yesterday with an old friend about how our society has become preoccupied with risk avoidance at the expense of taking a walk on the wild side. And it hit me. I am over 50 and grew up in a normal middle class household on the East Coast. As anyone of that era can attest, there was a widely accepted way of getting around: hitchhiking. That's right. Need to travel five or six miles and didn't have a car? Stand on the side of the road, put your thumb out, and hope for the best. I started doing it in 6th grade and didn't stop until I graduated high school. And the funny thing was, my parents knew about it and never thought anything of it. My friends and I "thumbed a ride" at least once a week. Things were different back then. People were more trusting. Very rarely will you see a hitchhiker these days and rarer is the person who would pick one up for fear of being robbed or raped. A reflection of our society and not a good one I guess. Here are some of my favorite hitchhiking stories, in no particular order: 1. 1974. I had to stay late at school. Don't remember why. I hitched a ride home. A couple picked me up. Told me to sit in the front with them. Girl was gorgeous. She had a very loose fitting dress and no bra. The ride was 3 miles. I spent 99% of it staring down her blouse and for the first time in my life saw a perfectly shaped breast live and in color. Got out of the car and thanked them. They probably spent the next 20 minutes laughing at how I was ogling her. 2. 1971. I was in junior high. The Red Sox were playing an afternoon game. They called it the "Businessman's Special." Sort of a day when Don Draper would sit in the stands. My two friends and I, on pure whim, decided to leave school, thumb it to Fenway, and watch the game. For me, school was a waste of time. I never learned anything worthwhile anyway. So I left. Just up and hit the road. We made it to the Wellesley train station and took the trolley to Fenway. Sox played Cleveland. Had a great time. We hitched a ride home. A businessman picked us up and for the next 30 minutes lectured us on the dangers of hitchhiking in the city. I got home around 8 at night and my parents were worried sick. My brother told them I was in school and then noboby saw me, My father wanted to kill me. I don't remember how many detentions I got but it doesn't matter. It was worth it. 3. 1972. Early evening. Got picked up in a VW van. Bunch of hippie types were smoking pot. Ride was about 5 miles. Don't know why but I was scared to death. They were not your friendly peace loving types. More like the Charles Manson cult figures. When I got out, I swore I would never hitchhike again. Ten minutes later, I thumbed it home alive. Well, that's today's salute to yesterday and the lost art of hitchhiking. Now it's off to work where I hopefully can once again accomplish 25% of what I set out to do.
I was on my way to the office on Sunday and made my monthly stop at CD Trader in Hollywood. For music aficionados post Pearl Harbor and pre Sputnik, it is a gold mine of otherwise unavailable jazz and crooner music for less than $3.00 a cd. I always buy 4 or 5 cd's a month, download them to my Itunes and Ipod and listen to them the next week while walking my dog and wish I were somewhere else (permanently). I picked up a collection called Wartime Anthems. The song "You Can't Say No To A Soldier" was part of the set. The lyrics astounded me. I listened two more times. Here is a reconstructed audio/video of the tune:
Amazing. This is 1942. Can you imagine someone singing this today about the troops in Iraq or Afghanistan? Never. The message is clear: it is patriotic to succumb to the prurient desires of some soon to be GI who will be putting his life on the line for his country. And this was no bar room melody sang in brothel parlors in the seedier parts of town. It was mainstream stuff. It makes me laugh when I listen to this song and think back to 1974. I always thought I invented sex and then perfected the art form with my first girlfriend in the back of my father's Bonneville station wagon. What a conceit.
