Heyyyyy Abbott!

When Irish Ears Were Smiling

2012-03-17T08:15:00.001-07:00

It was quite a sight to see. The anointed had come out for a night of Irish songs, and they were dressed to the nines in their furs and elegant gowns, even a tux or two was spotted among the 1500 patrons of the arts who crowded in to the Ulster Performing Arts Center, in Kingston, New York. It was St.Patrick’s Day, and local radio station WKNY was sponsoring the evening. Ads had been running for weeks prior to the actual event, promoting it as an evening of traditional Irish music, sung by Ireland’s finest singer, Mary Black. The only problem was that it became apparent that maybe no one at the radio station had ever heard Mary Black. Nor had the audience. I first heard Mary Black at a small club called the Pursuit of Happiness, in Liberty, New York. Oh, she wasn’t performing there, but the club was playing a mix tape before the scheduled performer was to go on. A ballad, the likes of which I had never heard before, silenced the chatter and pretty much everyone listened until the song was over, at which time they resumed their chatter. I was so taken with the tune that I inquired of the manager as to who was that incredible singer, and what was that song. I was told that I had just heard Mary Black perform a song called Anachie Gordon, an ancient and sad ballad about a young woman who is forced, by her parents, to marry a sultan, as a means to wealth, when in truth she only has eyes for a sailor named Anachie. And like Romeo and Juliet before them, they suffer the tragic end, together.It was not “Danny Boy” or “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” and nothing that Mary Black has ever recorded is either. Apparently, eager to book an Irish singer for St. Paddy’s Day, no one at the radio station ever bothered to listen to any of her music. They just assumed that Irish singers all sound alike and sing the same old songs, which were actually mainly written in the US. The words to "Danny Boy," for instance, were written by English lawyer and lyricist Frederic Weatherly in 1910. The tune was an old Irish aire called the Londonderry Air, but that is as far as it goes where the origins of the song are concerned. The ad promos for the concert all featured the canned Tin Pan Alley versions of “Irish” songs like those mentioned above, and nary a Mary Black song was even played on the radio.So, come the night. Mary Black took the stage to thunderous applause, and began to sing real traditional Irish songs like Anachie Gordon, but also modern classics like Farewell Farewell and Schooldays Over (written by Richard Thompson and Ewan MacColl respectively) and the crowd was confused. I kept hearing murmuring from around me, wondering when she was going to sing Danny Boy. She never did, of course. What she did do was to open up some folks ears to the true beauty of Ireland and its culture, and she put on one hell of a show. Later, the murmuring hordes bought CDs and cassettes by the handful at the concession table in the lobby. T’was a joyous evening spent.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2012-03-12T10:26:00.001-07:00

When I first started writing columns for theProgress-Argus, I wrote about thingsthat were political in nature. Not because I like politics and am obsessed withthe subject, because I do not, and I amnot. In fact, it seems that politicshave that less than laudatory ability to bring out the very worst inpeople. I wrote about politics becausebalance was needed to counter a columnist whose viewpoint was very hardcore conservative, and the paper wastrying to change their image, an effort that has paid off in a better balanceof thoughts, ideas and opinions. Whenthat columnist left, I was urged to write about more general topics, thingsthat I found interesting. For example,last year’s walk across the United States, where I met so many people of all ideologiesand backgrounds that I have a memory storehouse full of some wild and wacky tales,as well as some ugly stuff.
But nothing I saw on the road, the devastation in Joplin included, was as ugly as what isgoing in this country right now. Aparade of suits are all marching down the electoral runway in hopes of gettingchosen as the nominee for the upcoming presidential election. Each suit, withone notable exception, has a hopeful candidate who is willing to stoop almostas low as a human being can stoop to dig up dirt on the others. Or, they paytheir hired guns to run ads that are just repulsive in nature. It is ugly, andit is making this country look like the laughing stock of the world at a timewhen our image is already in a state of flux.

I’m not here to debate anyone about whether I think thepresident is doing a good job (I do, given what he has had to work with) orwhether his likely opponent would do a good job if he is elected ( I have noidea) but I will say that the entire process is reaching critical mass and ifthe vile rhetoric does not stop soon, or calm down, there may well be ameltdown. You can’t parade clowns aroundand call them dramatic actors. Apparently the human ego is so overwhelmingly strong that it also addsblinders, which prevent those who are acting so foolishly in their pursuit ofthe highest office in the land that they cannot see how foolish they look.

Whether it is trying to legislate things like women’s reproductiverights, or contraception (who in their logical mind would have thought thatcontraception would be a political hot topic in the year 2012? What’s next—repealingthe Emancipation Proclamation?) or still insisting that we have a president whowas born on another continent, it is all too much. We are supposed to move forward, notbackward.

Josh Joffen, a songwriter I know, once wrote a song aboutpolitics, but instead of his characters wearing suits, they lived in the treesand ate bananas. Here are a couple oflines…

“Off in the distance, what’s that I hear? Could it be thisis an election year? There’s fussing and fighting, scratching and biting, allaround the country the fur is flying. Monkey see, monkey do. I am a bettermonkey than you. Let's have us an electionand when we're through, we'll see whogets the biggest banana.”

Sound familiar?

My Interview with Sonny Rollins, 2002

2012-02-20T11:59:00.000-08:00

It was 2002. I was working as the staff writer for the BlueStone Press, a small but excellent newspaper in Ulster County, in the Hudson Valley/Catskills region of upstate New York. A giant of the music world was coming to play a show at Bellayre Mountain. I landed the chance to interview him, as well as see the show for free. Here is the interview as it appeared in the paper that week....

Theodore “ Sonny” Rollins is one of the giants of the jazz world. A genius on the tenor sax, and an unequaled master of improvisation, he has played with all of the greatest jazz musicians of the 20th century and beyond, from Miles Davis to John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk and more. Throughout his long career, he has had periods where he would seem to disappear from the music scene altogether, while he was taking little sabbaticals to get his life and his music together.. He will be appearing at the Belleayre Jazz Festival on Saturday, August 24 at 8 PM. It will almost be a hometown concert for him. Born in New York City almost 72 years ago, for the last 30 plus years he has called Germantown, in Columbia County, home. The BlueStone Press had the rare opportunity to have a chat with this music legend.BSP: Why Germantown? It is like one of your sabbaticals? Well, we’ve been here for almost thirty-two years...we like the less commercial aspects of it. Yes, it’s like a constant sabbatical up here. It’s a little less commercial over here (than in Ulster County) it’s a little more rural. BSP: You seem to be a guy who works at his craft. What percent of your music is work, and what percent is sheer skill? Well, skill and work are sort of the same thing...you have to work to acquire skill.BSP: Are you a baseball fan? I’m reminded of Pete Rose, who was never a really gifted player, but he worked all the time at it. I’m a big baseball fan. In my case I would say I was more of a gifted guy. I had to work hard at the other parts of music. Unlike Pete Rose, I was gifted but I had to work on all of the...there are a lot of other things that are involved in music than what appears on the surface. There are a lot of fundamentals and a lot of skills that you have to develop, especially in the type of music I play, which is not quite like folk music. In folk music you can be gifted and that’s it. In this kind of music, which is very difficult music to play you have to have some kind of skills as well as being gifted. I’m gifted in that I could always play music and I had a natural ear for music and all that, but I had to apply myself and study the rudiments of music. So it’s a little different than Pete Rose in that extent.BSP: In the jazz world today, who impresses you, or who do you like to work with?Well I usually work with my own band but there are a lot of young guys coming up who are good and there’s a lot of people like David Ware on saxophone, and Kenny Garrett and I like James Carter, and...I used to say people like Roy Hargrove and Branford Marsalis, but these guys are getting to be veterans now, so I can’t call them young guys anymore, but the main point that I’d like to make in response to your question is that there are always young people coming up who like jazz and who relate to jazz. What is needed is the opportunity to make a living playing jazz and for jazz to be accepted as something you can be proud of doing and all that. In other words, there’s a societal lack of appreciation for jazz.BSP: It seems like more people are appreciating it now. Did you see the Ken Burns Jazz documentary on PBS?I heard about it, but I didn’t see it.BSP: So you have no real opinion of that?Well I sort of have an opinion of it because a lot of people I know saw it. I’m not going to nit-pick about it... its probably good because it introduced people to jazz and to that extent it was probably okay, I guess. I didn’t see it. I sort of made sure I didn’t see it. From what I understand there was some quibble about some people that were deleted or weren’t included. But in general, any kind of publicity for jazz is welcome. So therefore I have no problem with it, and I’m glad it aired.BSP: Well, and this is good for jazz too, he made the claim that the most influential musician in history was Louis Armstrong. Do you agree?Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. The only doubt is that people didn’t know it already. People in the music field knew that Louis Armstrong was the most influential guy.BSP: Would you put someone like Bob Dylan on that level?Well, I would put Bob Dylan not quite on that level. Bob Dylan, to me, is a great popularizer, a great artist, a great folk artist, and a great artist in that sense, but the reason why I wouldn’t put Bob Dylan on the same level as Louis Armstrong is because Bob Dylan in a way is doing Woody Guthrie...later phases of Woody Guthrie...his voice is a little weathered by age and everything. That’s really what Bob Dylan is doing...not that there’s anything wrong with that. But Louis Armstrong was an original, so people came from Louis Armstrong, whereas Bob Dylan, people come from him too, but he’s not a complete original. I don’t mean to sound like I’m putting down Bob Dylan, because I think he’s wonderful. In that sense, I don’t think he’s Louis Armstrong. Louis Armstrong has had people following him all over the world. Louis Armstrong has influenced the direction of music to a much greater extent. For one thing, jazz is a much more universal type of music than folk is and even in that sense you can say that...not to minimize Dylan...I think he’s great. I’m not a big fan of his... I certainly realize that a lot of people like him and he’s done a lot of good work, and more power to him. I am not in the business of putting down anybody. He’s done a lot of great work and has gotten a lot of accolades for what he’s done.BSP: Critic Dave Marsh once said that Dylan’s biggest contribution wasn’t his songwriting but his voice, which changed the idea of what a singing voice could be. Agree?Yeah, probably so, but you could say the same thing about Louis Armstrong. He changed not only the way a voice could sound but also the styling of singing.BSP: Do you still enjoy performing?I enjoy performing a great deal. It’s something that’s sort of indispensable to me.BSP: Does it ever seem like a job?No. It’s never seemed like a job. I mean sometimes there’s periods when I‘ve run up against a brick wall as far as being able to come up with creative ideas and new things like that. But those periods passed. It’s never a job...the most I could say in that regard or in that sense is that it’s a challenge. Definitely a challenge to be involved with music but no, it’s never at all a job. It’s a sacred calling, as a matter of fact. BSP: Back to Dylan a bit...Dylan and others have said that the music, the words, don’t come from them–it comes from someplace else–they just kind of channel it. Do you feel that way?Definitely! No doubt about it. In fact, when I’m playing at my best, when people really praise my work... I know when I’m playing good... I’m the first one to know if I’m playing good or not. I’m my first critic. When I’m playing at my best, the music is just playing through me, I’m sort of just standing up there and the music is just coming through me, like I’m a vessel. A lot of people ask me this about jazz...how do you improvise and what do you think about? And I tell them, Look, when I’m really at my best and I’m really improvising great, my mind is completely blank. I’m not thinking about anything...the music is just playing itself. This itself is a spiritual thing...people are afraid of the word spiritual, but this is it---this is why music is a spiritual endeavor.BSP: What can we expect at Belleayre on the 24th?Well, I wish I could answer that question. What you can expect is that I, and hopefully my group, will be trying hard to create the transcendental moment. We’ll be trying to do that. Jazz is the music of instant creation...it’s something that you can’t say, “Oh, I’m gonna do this, or that...” No, the music has to take you. I don’t know what I’m gonna be doing, but I’m gonna be trying to reach that point of transcendence.BSP: One last question---any tips for aspiring young jazz musicians?If you want to play jazz music, you have to consider it’s a calling...that you’ve got to be very gifted is number one, but you’ve got to get skilled at it. Also, you have to dedicate your life to it because, also getting back to part of our earlier conversation, jazz is not necessarily going to afford you a nice income, a nice life and a lot of publicity, you’re not going to be famous. You know, this is the way it is, so you have to resign yourself to the fact that you may not be famous. If you love jazz music, you think you have a talent for it and you want to do that for your life, then go for it, but don’t expect anything from it, because you may not get anything from it like a great rock star might get, or a great hip hop star or whatever the current popular thing is, you’re not gonna get that. So if you don’t mind devoting your life to something because you love it, then that’s for you. But these are big questions. Young people write me all the time and say, oh, I love jazz, and I always tell them good, if you love it, good, you can go into it but don’t expect to be a big famous star. If you are, great! If at the end of your life you’re not...you’re not....BSP: Sonny Rollins?...Oh, my, you’re very funny this morning. But, yeah, okay, you know what I mean. I might be famous to an extent, but you’re not really, who should I say...BSP: Did you say that YOU are famous to an extent?Yeah...BSP: Mr. Rollins, all the stuff I’ve been reading, and I’m not a jazz guy myself, and I know about you, but in almost everything I read in getting ready for this interview, the words “greatest living jazz musician” kept coming up, so that must count for something.Well, that stuff, that’s opinion, BSP: Well, its an awful lot of people’s opinion…Well, that’s okay. I accept that and I think its nice, and you know, its okay, but you know, to be a great musician you have to keep working. That’s why I practice every day. There’s never a day when I’m not practicing.BSP: How long?Well, I used to practice over ten hours, but you know years ago I practiced more than that sometimes but unfortunately the exigencies of age and so on have intruded as they will come to everyone’s life, so maybe if I can get a good three hours in I’ll be very happy. For me that’s not a lot because I ‘m coming down from when I used to play all day long, but if I can get two or three hours in then I feel that I have gotten some work in. And I’ve gotta do that to keep sharp...to keep my lip up. You’ve got to practice.

$31,040.47....I said $31,040.47...

2012-02-08T15:46:00.001-08:00

The following is not an endorsement of any political point of view. It is, rather, the story of my recent experience at a local hospital in a nearby county. It is also a meditation on the current system as we have it in this country.I had what amounted to a large boil, in a tender spot. I went on a Monday morning to the ER at this particular hospital, where the abscess was deemed serious enough for me to be admitted overnight to have it treated. I was admitted, and on Tuesday morning underwent surgery to have the abscess excised and drained. I then remained, at the doctor’s orders, in the hospital, on an IV drip (antibiotics and saline) for three nights, until Thursday afternoon, when I was released, with printed instructions for treating the still-open wound. I was also given phone numbers for the wound care branch of the same hospital to make follow-up visits. I do not have medical insurance. I am self-employed, and cannot afford the pricey premiums that insurance companies charge. The last time I did have health insurance was ten years ago, and when I needed surgery on torn cartilage in my knee, the insurance company refused to pay the surgeon, after the fact, citing a “pre-existing condition” as the reason for denying payment to the surgeon. One bitten, twice shy, I guess, describes me.I called the wound care building, where I was told that the hospital’s Chief Financial Officer (CFO) had determined that to be treated by the wound clinic, I would have to leave a 250 dollar deposit. I told the woman on the phone that I did not have that much money and she said she would leave a message with the CFO to get back to me. That never happened. What did happen was that the receptionist at the wound clinic called the CFO of the hospital (in effect, her boss) and stated in no uncertain terms that I need to be under their care until my wound was completely healed. It was only then that the CFO relented, and I am now getting the proper care. The amount of stress associated with this little episode, which took a couple of days to resolve, was enormous. My only real option would have been to return to the ER and have the wound checked out there, which would have been an unnecessary use of emergency facilities at the least.This is the kind of system this country has given us. Will someone please remind me why there is so much opposition to having a “socialized medicine” type of system? We go to school. We call the police. We call the fire department. We visit the library. We drive on the roads. We do all of these things, and we pay for them through our tax dollars. That is how it is for medical care in almost every country in the world. For every super-power it certainly is, except for one: the United States. We don’t get a bill in the mail for our math class last Thursday, or for the arrest of a criminal, or for having a fire put out. We do get bills for $31,040.47 for having a boil drained, though. Is this the system that so many are fighting to keep? And if so…why?

Take It From Dr. King......

2012-01-08T12:40:00.000-08:00

It’s one of those holidays that seem to slip by us, almost unnoticed.
For some, it’s just another day. For others it’s a day off. There is even a segment of society who dislike the holiday and all that it stands for. But for many, it honors the life and achievements of a special human being---a man whose very name brings a flood of images and words to our thoughts.
We all know the story of Martin Luther King---man of God, man of peace, a man for all people. An orator against whom all others are judged. A martyr, who died as he lived, fighting the good fight, preaching non-violence and equality, trying to make this world a better place where all people of all colors and creeds can live together in peace and harmony. He wasn’t original. He followed the lead of the biblical Jesus, but more importantly of a modern giant named Gandhi.
Many people still don’t know the story of Mohandas K. Gandhi, who almost singlehandedly gained independence for India, a country colonized by the British. He did this not with guns and weapons, but without them. He did it by mounting a campaign of nonviolent resistance to British rule. It was, among other factors, violent acts against unarmed and peaceful civilians that ultimately made the British look like thugs and bullies and soon England was offering independence to India, as a way to save face. Then, as now, religion also played a factor as Muslims and Hindus clashed, resulting in the creation of Pakistan, in the northern part of India. But things still weren’t peaceful, and in 1948, Gandhi was assassinated as he walked to a prayer meeting, shot three times by a Hindu fanatic who objected to his tolerance of Muslims. Murdered, in cold blood, for the perceived crime of being tolerant.
Dr. King was a follower of the ways of Gandhi. He tried to bring people of all colors and religions together, in peace. Utilizing the methods of non-violence practiced by Gandhi, the scenario in the United States played out much as it had in India: black citizens, who were then called “Negroes”, were brutalized in public by police, sometimes with dogs and billy clubs. Sometimes they were blasted with high pressure firehoses. Little black children were barred from going to school with white children, and the governor of Alabama made a public display by standing in the schoolhouse door to block two girls from entering. Bullies don’t like to be embarrassed, or to be made to look bad, and when they are, they often lash out. The racists and segregationists were made to look bad to the point where one of them picked up a high-powered rifle one fateful day in Memphis, Tennessee, in early April, 1968.
We are big on symbolism in this country. Holidays are symbolic. We honor dead presidents, old religious traditions, even explorers whose very “accomplishments” are suspect. Yet, in the case of the flesh and blood Dr. Martin Luther King, we have a man who walked among us and who spoke to us, and whose speeches are recorded on tape and film for us to watch over and over again. A man who was brutally and coldly murdered in front of us. That’s reality.
So let us ensure that his birthday, January 15, is more than just a symbol. Let it be a reminder that we still have a lot of work to do in his absence.
Dr. King, we honor you, and your sacrifice.

On Life, Death, Baseball and Lynn Samuels

2011-12-27T19:23:00.000-08:00

End of the year stories often end up as lists of the "best of this", and the "worst of that", and so on. In fact, though it is common practice for most newspapers and magazines to run their own big fat editions with bloated versions of the ten best, and worst lists, these editions are usually just boring retreads, and barely readable.
It wasn’t any list that had a lasting effect on me this year. It was, sadly, two deaths,of two completely different types of people that really gave me pause to think about the very nature of both life and death.
Life: it's not just the physical actions of breathing, eating, walking, loving, and sleeping. Life is best defined as the maximizing of each waking moment, doing things that are fun, and that make you, and other people happy. For some people, myself included, in my childhood and early adulthood,the game of baseball WAS life itself. I lived it, breathed it, even once rode my bicycle 22 miles to play in a Babe Ruth League baseball game, having forgone a trip to Las Vegas with my dad, just to get my turns at bat. Later, I tried out, unsuccessfully, for the New York Mets and the Philadelphia Phillies. A blown out shoulder and less than stellar running speed were my undoing, but my passion for the game was as strong as ever. This was evidenced by the dozens of Yankee and Mets games I drove hundreds of miles to attend. I almost always brought a glove with the hope of catching a foul ball hit into the stands. After all, catching a foul ball was akin to winning the lottery to a kid. At the very first baseball game my dad took me to, in 1971, the New York Yankees were playing the Washington Senators. My dad and I had seats in the upper reserve section behind home plate in the old Yankee Stadium. A foul ball was hit right at my dad, who had his hands held in the basket position ready for that as-precious-as-gold bit of horsehide and yarn to settle itself into them. I still remember how my pulse raced and how all sound seemed to hush as the ball arced its way up, and then down…smack into the single, meaty hand of some hotshot who stuck his arm up right in front of my dad’s waiting grasp. For the rest of the game all I could think of was that baseball and all my dad could do was keep asking the guy to give up the ball so I could have it for a souvenir. I think he even offered him 20 bucks, but it was not to be. Ironically, it wasn’t until many years later that I finally got a foul ball, hit by Bobby Murcer, that bounced into the stands and pinballed around the floor under the seats until it bumped up against my foot, where I skillfully bent over and picked it up. No pulse racing, no hand reaching over to grab it—just me and a baseball. And the thrill of a lifetime.
It was with that thrill still somewhere in my memory that I read the sad story of Shannon Stone, a good and kind man, a fireman, and father, who had taken his young son, Cooper, to a Texas Rangers baseball game this past July. At the game, another good and kind man, a ballplayer named Josh Hamilton, tossed a foul ball to Shannon Stone, for his son. His throw was a bit off and when Shannon Stone reached to catch it, he toppled over a railing and fell many feet to the concrete floor below. As he was being carried out on a stretcher, still conscious, he was asking that people take care of his son, who was now alone a deck above. Sadly, Shannon died from his injuries, leaving what should have been a beautiful memory for his son, Cooper, as a nightmare instead.
What struck me so about this incident was the reaction of Shannon’s mother, SuZann Stone. Recalling the joy that her own son had once felt when her husband, Al, caught a foul ball for Shannon himself many years earlier, she was intuitive enough to realize that there was another victim of the tragedy---Josh Hamilton. Hamilton, understandably, had stopped tossing balls to fans. SuZann related to a reporter what she had written in a note to Josh Hamilton. She said, “Shortly after the accident, there was some discussion about whether foul balls should be thrown into the stands to the fans. I wrote to Josh Hamilton, and I said: ‘Please, don't stop throwing those balls. Because that's so important. That's why daddies bring their little boys to the ballgame... for memories like that. Please don't stop.’"
Her grandson was dead. Josh Hamilton was traumatised. But SuZann Stone knew that life is more than flesh and blood. Hopefully she got the message clear to the heart and mind of Josh Hamilton. She sure got through to me. Life is so much more than the physical actions that make it work.
Death: There were a lot of celebrity deaths this year, Amy Winehouse being the most egregious case of a life wasted, pun inferred but not intended. It wasn’t Winehouse whose passing really bothered me, though. It was the Christmas Eve heart attack death of Lynn Samuels. If you lived in New York anytime in the last 40 years, you knew who Lynn Samuels was. Her New Yawk Jewish accent sounded like exaggerations of both aspects but it was her real voice, a one of a kind sound that was immediately recognizable and definitely NOT for radio, which is, in this ironic world, exactly where it would be heard for decades.
She was crude and crass. She leaned politically left but opined the other way at times. She loved alt-rock but her last theme song was ABBA’s poppy little ditty "Nina Ballerina". She lived alone, comparing herself to a bag lady at times, but it all seemed to be an act to the casual listener. To real fans, as I was, she was the real deal. We knew. Of course, radio isn’t the largest medium, and save for Howard Stern and a few others, it is more of a pleasant distraction, even for real fans. And so when Lynn Samuels lost her regular weekday gig and was moved to weekends several months ago, I didn’t make the effort to listen to her as much, and I am sorry for that. When her co-worker, Alex Bennett, made the announcement, via Facebook on Sunday that Lynn had passed away sometime early Saturday, it came as a huge shock. As details hit the press, about Lynn not responding to a cue for her show, broadcast from her home on an ISDN line, and how Sirius radio sent someone to check on her, only to find her dead of an apparent heart attack, all alone, I became even more pensive.
She used to talk of retirement. She loved and yet hated the city, or what it has become, and had travelled a lot in search of a place to retire in comfort. The list seemed to be down to either Scottsdale, Arizona or Charleston, South Carolina. Callers were encouraging her to move, to get out of New York and do her show from her new digs where she would be comfortable, but she always had an excuse. I figured that the move to weekends would probably be the last straw before she left for her golden years in a sunny clime. Instead, she breathed her last in a cramped apartment in Queens, in a neighborhood that she called little Ecuador. I’m not sure that she knew what life was all about anymore. Maybe I don’t have it exactly right, but dying alone in a cramped apartment isn’t life. It isn’t even death. It’s just sad.
There is no big conclusion to be drawn from these deaths. People die all the time. But it is how they died that makes the lives they lived more or less meaningful in our minds, or at least gives us a little insight into their world. Shannon Stone died while trying to make his son happy. Lynn Samuels died alone in a place she despised. She made the choice, of course, but that doesn't change the sad ending to her story.
So as the year ends, there are no lists. Instead, I leave you with a quote from Bob Dylan, who said in his Academy Award acceptance speech: "...bless you all with peace tranquility and good will."
And to that I add life---heavy on the life, to us all in the new year.

The Freedom of Speech: Ours to Lose

2011-12-22T07:37:00.001-08:00

Is it “Freedom of Speech” or “Freedom of Speech…as long as you don’t say too much?”
The Internet has sure changed the game, hasn’t it? Where once responsible writing and journalism were the expected behavioral norm, now, it appears that with the increased exposure and freedom, and by extension greater power, come greater irresponsibility.
It may have been intended to be funny. Someone with too much time on his or her hands thought that declaring that musician/philanthropist Jon Bon Jovi was dead at age 49, a few days before Christmas, was somehow a good idea. On its face it was shocking and terrible news—a man who, by all accounts is a good man, a generous public figure and a husband and father with a fine reputation both in his community and in the world community---was dead of mysterious causes. Deeper thought about it only makes the fraud worse---he has a wife and children who might have been browsing the web—what would their reaction be if they had, for whatever reasons, not seen him all day? Imagine the panic that would have set in. The man also has literally millions of fans and admirers, including a lot of very young teenaged girls, especially, who might have reacted badly, and who might have injured themselves, or worse.
It’s not the first time that something like this has happened on the internet---it’s just the most recent. A recent court ruling states that so called “bloggers” (“blog” is short for “web log”) are NOT subject to the protections of the First Amendment to the Constitution where journalists are concerned. In short, just because you go online and write a regular posting (your humble columnist is among this group) does NOT make you a journalist. When you work for a newspaper, or magazine, or radio and TV, and some internet sites, you are protected (your humble columnist was also a newspaper reporter in New York for years, and as such was subject to those very same rights) as long as you are careful to check your facts and be able to back them up. As a reporter, it was my job to tell the story of whatever I was assigned to cover, from local town board meetings to criminal activity. As a columnist here, (writer of opinion pieces that incorporate facts with my own thoughts) I still must adhere to the rules of journalism. I am free, as everyone is, to voice my opinions, but the facts that inform them must be valid and true, or I, and more importantly, the newspaper, could be subject to lawsuits for libel.
Bloggers on the internet have no such restriction, excepting themselves. Oh, it is possible to sue someone for libel, but after the fact it is akin to prosecuting someone for stealing your car and wrecking it. You make them accountable eventually, but the damage is done. A car is a car, but a reputation is altogether different, and if someone ruins it by writing blatant untruths, it can ruin a life, or lives.
Our freedom of speech is maybe our greatest freedom. To exploit it in such stupid ways is the real crime because too much abuse might make it go away, and if that happens, we are no better than those we deride for their more restrictive societies.
So, happily, may Jon Bon Jovi live forever, and the same wish to our First Amendment rights.

Kramden on Kristmas

2011-12-13T11:16:00.000-08:00

It was a much bigger deal when I was a kid. Early on, I remember big trees with a truckload of presents for my sister and myself, all crammed under the lights and ornaments and fake snow, which smelled awful and tasted worse. Then, after tearing through the gifts, wrapping paper covering every square inch of the living room, we would run out into the real snow of the Adirondack mountains and make snow angels and forts and we could see the smoke rising from every chimney in Brainardsville, New York. It was pretty special.
Then life happened and as we got older our family fell apart, so Christmas was kind of awkward, and became something to be endured rather than celebrated. One part of the day was spent at my dad’s, where I lived, and the other at my mother’s, where my sister lived. Those Christmases were not fun, and I would have rather just not bothered. But that was a long time ago, and a million miles away. These days, I don’t really celebrate the day, but a strange thing has happened. I really appreciate the day. Not for religious reasons—I’m not religious—but for the outpouring of infectious goodwill and joy that I see it brings to other people. I like the music—Christmas songs have the most beautiful melodies—Do You Hear What I Hear?, God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen, Oh Holy Night, those tunes are timeless and achingly beautiful, and modern Christmas songs like Happy Christmas(War is Over) by John and Yoko Lennon, and I Believe in Father Christmas by Greg Lake are also big favorites.
I also used to like to watch the classic Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer on television. The man who wrote it lived near my house in upstate New York. His name was Romeo Muller, and he looked exactly like the Santa character on the show. In the summers he would drove around in a big convertible car and it always seemed like High Falls, New York was Santa’s summer home because we would see Mr. Muller in his car.
Maybe my favorite Christmas memory, though, is a small part of another old television show. I was an avid fan of the Honeymooners, and watching Ralph and Alice and the Nortons was a nightly event for years. Though there were only thirty nine shows made, and one of them was a Christmas show, called The Night Before Christmas. In that show, as usual, Ralph does something stupid, and has to do a mea culpa at the end, while pacing the floor, nervous at what Alice is going to say. This time though, the story line ends with a happy note, and Ralph gets to wax philosophical rather than apologetic. To this day it remains my favorite meditation on the season, and I can repeat it from memory. And thanks to Youtube, I can now watch it anytime I want to, which is often.
Ralph: "You know something, sweetheart? Christmas is -- well, it's about the best time of the whole year. You walk down the streets, even for weeks before Christmas comes, and there's lights hanging up, green ones and red ones. Sometimes there's snow. And everybody's hustling some place. But they don't hustle around Christmastime like they usually do. You know, they're a little more friendlier -- if they bump into you, they laugh, and they say 'Pardon me' and 'Merry Christmas.' Especially when it gets real close to Christmas night. Everybody's walking home; you can hardly hear a sound. Bells are ringing; kids are singing; snow is coming down. And boy, what a pleasure it is to think that you've got someplace to go to. And the place that you're going to has somebody in it that you really love. Someone you're nuts about. Merry Christmas."
My sentiments exactly. Merry Christmas, everyone.

My Friends Steve

2011-12-13T07:03:00.001-08:00

I want to tell you about my friend Steve.
But first, I must mention that I have never met him.
This summer, while walking across the country, I received a friend request on Facebook. From my friend, Steve. I did not recognize his name, but a quick scan of his profile told me than he was a young man from right here in Jackson, Georgia. I accepted his request and we began a brief correspondence. He told me how he had been inspired by the story of my walking across the country, and how I was directly responsible for him joining the same gym of which I am a member. We had a brief dialogue about how to lose weight, and he told me how he had lost a certain amount of poundage. I encouraged him to keep it up, and gave him some tips about dietary changes he needed to make. And then we gradually lost contact, and by the end of my walk I had all but forgotten him.
Back in Jackson, life continued. Across the street from my place of business, a nondescript triangle of grass and dirt in the middle of an intersection began to change, transformed by hardworking men into something quite different. The early word I had heard was that it was to be a memorial park to fallen soldiers. I didn’t pay it much attention until it was close to completed, and the black marble slabs that would eventually contain the names of soldiers were in place. To be honest, I had thought that the world didn’t need yet another tribute to dead soldiers. But I admired how pretty the thing was becoming.
When it was almost complete, I noticed that each day, a man with a cane would linger around the park, watching the men who would eventually sandblast the names into the marble. It is a very intricate process, with rubber stencils with the names and information already on the stencils, computer generated, I suppose, and then adhered to the stone with something sticky. I was fascinated, and dismayed at the number of soldiers whose names were on those slabs of marble. I approached the man with the cane and asked him if he had lost someone on the wall. He informed me that he was actually waiting to see his own name engraved. He showed me where his name was on the stencils, and it was then that I realized that the park wasn’t for the dead as much as it was for the living, and that it was a beautiful tribute not to martyrs, but to the brave men and women still with us, and able to appreciate the deserved tribute.
I looked at his name. It was the same name as my young friend Steve. I asked about the coincidence, and the older man told me that my friend Steve was his son, Steve Junior. I related our brief correspondence of the summer and he stopped me in my tracks and proceeded to tell me some very nice things that his son had told him about me. It was good to hear that I truly had had a positive impact on a young man.
So Steve the elder now has his name proudly displayed, honoring his service to our nation. And I still have not met young Steve, but yesterday I did receive the following message from him on Facebook:
“Hey Mr. Jim, my Dad was diagnosed yesterday with stomach cancer...we were supposed to go to the Atlanta VA tomorrow but they don’t have any beds available.”
It is Christmas time, folks. Please, in addition to the flatscreens and expensive toys that are going to be gifted this year, please remember to send out some prayers and good thoughts for my friends, Steve. Both of them.

The Day John Fogerty Spoke to the Vietnam veterans

2011-12-12T15:57:00.000-08:00

We call them by the generic and overused but righteous name of “hero” now. They fight for us, keeping us free and safe from evildoers. They put it all on the line, and sometimes, sadly, they lose it all. As a Veterans Memorial Park across the street from where I write this says, “All Gave Some, Some Gave All”. In 2011 , soldiers are somewhere on the pedestal next to Jesus and Mom and Pop. It wasn’t always that way though, not by a long shot. I’m talking about soldiers---the men and women who fight for this country and do not question their orders.
They used to be called “babykillers”, “thugs”, “murderers”, and more. They were spat upon in airports, attacked, and castigated, and after their particular war, the conflict in Viet Nam, often had a hard time returning to a society that treated them like outcasts. And many of them had been drafted into service, against their will, where they did honorable jobs doing very dishonorable acts. And some gave the title of soldier a bad name: witness the My Lai Massacre, and other atrocities. War itself is an atrocity, though, and it was a time where the divide between the young , anti-war and politically left leaning students and the older, pro-war factions fromtheir parents’ generation were at greater odds than ever before. The summer of love, Woodstock, and several political assassinations, along with the daily body counts from the war had rocked the world like never before.
And speaking of rock, it was rock and roll music that was the soundtrack for the era, and the war, and groups like the Doors, and Crosby, Stills and Nash provided the music that will forever be associated with that time and place. Certainly hindsight helps—Apocalypse Now, for instance—Francis Ford Coppola’s use of the Doors still resonates, as did Billy Joel’s Goodnight Saigon, with the line, “we passed the hash pipe, and played our Doors tapes…”
There was one act, though, whose songs really burned themselves into a nation’s soul, no matter which side you were on: Creedence Clearwater Revival. John Fogerty, he of the odd hair and flannel shirts---wrote songs as tuneful and smart as anyone, and the general appeal of his music meant that he had fans on both sides of the aisle, much as Bruce Springsteen would have a few years later. I’ve known many the diehard rich Republican who loves the song called Fortunate Son, even though it is directly and pointedly about his party, and not in a good way at all.

And so it came to be that more than a decade after the Vietnam war had ended, the soldiers, now veterans, were still being called baby-killers. Slowly, though, as information gradually came to light---information about some of the sinister misdeeds that the powers that lead had conjured up, information about the use of chemicals like Agent Orange and other health damaging substances, and conditions at home, the collective consciousness of the country began to change, and the plight of Vietnam vets, many of them homeless and unable to help themselves, became more and more clear to the general public. Someone came up with the idea of holding a concert, as a way to welcome home the Vietnam vets in rousing fashion, and as a way to say, “Mea culpa” and try to at least begin a healing process.

It was to take place in Landover, Maryland, on the perfect date: the 4th of July, 1987. The Vietnam War had been over for some 13 years, but the veterans who had fought in it, and who had been so publicly demonized for their part in a war that the United States had no right even being involved in, were still carrying a lot of baggage. Emotionally, it was still a very rough time. Physically it was even worse for many, with crutches, canes and wheelchairs all in abundance, as the vets walked, rolled and hobbled into the Capital Center for a benefit concert to honor them, and to raise to help homeless vets.
The lineup for the concert was impressive. Among those who were scheduled to perform were Lou Gossett Jr., Peter Fonda, James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Linda Ronstadt, James Ingram, Anita Baker, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Richie Havens, , and John Fogerty.
Fogerty especially was a surprise because he had rarely played in public for many years, being held almost prisoner of a draconian contract that would not allow him to play any of his own songs, classics which he had recorded with Creedence Clearwater Revival (CCR). He had recently released an album, Centerfield, containing all new material, his first in ten years, and he was just beginning to make public appearances in support of it. He even had early legal problems with the new album because of one song, called Zanz Kant Danz, a less than thinly veiled jab at record company honcho, and the source of Fogerty’s misery, Saul Zaentz. Zaentz, who owned Fantasy Records, CCR’s label, sued Fogerty for plagiarizing himself, a novel concept, claiming that The Old Man Down the Road, one of the new songs, shared a chorus with Run Through the Jungle, a classic CCR song that, while written by Fogerty, was copyrighted by Fantasy Records. Lawsuits went back and forth, with Fogerty winning reimbursement for his attorneys fees, and Zaentz getting a bit of redemption for his defamation of character suits due to Zanz Kant Danz (Zanz kant danz but he’ll steal your money,” the lyrics read) and another song called Mr. Greed.
The concert, called the Welcome Home Concert, was meant to be a feel good event. Veterans were admitted free. It was broadcast on HBO, who opened their signal to all for free. Various speakers like Lou Gossett Jr, who had played a Vietnam pilot in a film, and who came of age in the 60’s, addressed the crowd, as did many artists, writers, poets and others.
It was John Fogerty, though, who took things up a notch. After a slightly strange introduction by Peter Fonda, “Here is a guy who believes in his music…I believe in his music…and that belief has cost him over the years…but he’s refused to sell out…..so for some of the most KICKASS (nods head) ROCK AND ROLL ANYWHERE… here’s JOHN FOGERTY!”
Shortly after this, you could hear a sound man say loud and clear: “This is gonna blow your mind!”

Fogerty and band hit the stage, and broke into the opening notes to the new song Old Man Down the Road, playing them over and over until it almost seemed that he had forgotten the words. It was widely becoming known that he would not play any CCR songs due to his legal troubles with Fantasy, and Saul Zaentz. But then the band slowed down and gradually just stopped playing, leaving a feedback drone in the air which suddenly and skillfully turned into the introduction to Born on the Bayou, a Creedence standby. The audience, who had been sitting on their hands for the most part, went nuts. The song finished without a word, and was immediately followed by Down on the Corner, another instantly recognizable classic from the CCR oeuvre, and then, after huge applause, Fogerty spoke.
“I just want to tell you something real short…and sweet. I’m talking to the vets here….I myself have gone through about twenty years of pain…and I finally faced that pain. I looked it in the face and said well… You got a choice…you can do it for twenty more years or you can say, well, that’s what happened. You can’t change it that’s just what happened. So I’m telling you guys, it’s what happened…you got the shaft. You know it, we know it. It’s reality. So drop it. In fact, send me a letter…Berkeley, California…but you promise me something…you send the letter--- you drop it in the box and then you drop all that shit you been carrying around. Is that a deal? And get on with it buddy.
The applause that followed this impromptu little sermon wasn’t as vigorous or as loud as it had been for the music. I recall sitting and thinking that he was somewhat off base, comparing his legal contractual problems to those very real and very onerous issues that the vets were facing, and that it was not going to make him look like anything more than a spoiled musician who had lost touch with reality. But the music…the music that he played, both before and after his little speech was so profound in its power and beauty that all was forgotten and tacitly forgiven. As I listened to my recording of that day many times over the years, though, I still always felt a little embarrassed for Fogerty every time the speech part played. I wondered if anyone else ever thought about it, or felt the same way as had, or was everyone just caught up in the moment, and had disregarded it completely?
Then I discovered several posts on Youtube of the segment, and the commentary following them is divinded and telling. I was not alone in feeling both the power of the music and the doubt as to whther Fogerty shold have said what he said.
Samples: Richmullinax said: I was there for this, 7/4/87 and it was one of the best rock-n-roll experiences of my life. He had a strict policy of NOT playing CCR tunes, except for the induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame the previous year and one other guest appearance a few years previous. We had NO IDEA he was going to pull this stuff out! NO ONE expected CCR material! The sound guy in the back ground was right. it DID blow our minds!
A newspaper reviewer added the following in the days after the concert: That blunt advice (Fogerty telling the vets to drop it and to get on with life) marked the only time that the participants in the concert…didn't coddle the veterans, and it came as a bracing tonic amid the prevailing blandness.

From some veterans themselves came bitterness:
“I guess it’s easy for someone who was not even there to casually say ‘Hey, just forget it’ I doubt it is that simple John.” said one, using the name blackbeltpatriotism, as a comment to a blog entry in 2010.

Said another, treehot16: “I always liked CCR until I saw this clip. Still like the others in the group, but Fogerty has no idea what he is talking about. Been forty years, but the pain is still there. Thank God for the VA. I’m still alive.
Randymemphis said: Yes, I reckon he could have held back his thoughts on this one. Never tell someone how or what they should feel, If you have never walked in THEIR shoes.
So, opinions were divided. Some felt Fogerty, who had joined the reserves back in the 60’s as a way to avoid getting drafted, should have kept his mouth shut. Some people resent being told how to feel about an issue, especially when they are knee deep in it. Others feel, as I do, that once a certain amount of time has passed, that it is time to move on. We mourn our dead, adjust, and move on. That is exactly what I think John Fogerty was saying on that day almost 25 years ago. Then too, the Vietnam war was the most recent conflict. Now, in 2011, we have several wars of more recent vintage to ponder, and we have thousands more dead, and it still goes on and on. It may never stop.
But as long as wars are fought, and powerful music is made, I hope that common sense thinkers like John Fogerty will still be around to keep it real. And as long as soldiers continue to fight for the right to speak freely, the circle will remain unbroken.

The murder should NOT be televised...

2011-10-25T08:14:00.000-07:00

Recent world events have gotten me to pondering the responsibility of the very institution of which I am a part. I am referring to the media, and in particular those outlets that report the news of the world.
I was appalled this week to hear of the killing of Moammar Gaddafi. For a country who are interested in democracy, summarily torturing and executing someone is not a very good first step, but it is what happened. What was more appalling to me was the media, who felt the need to broadcast various videos that were shot with what appear to be camera phones. They did not just show photographs of a deposed dictator’s dead body, but live action of Gaddafi being punched, dragged to the ground by the hair, kicked and stomped, and most revoltingly, sodomized with a long knife, as he shrieks and falls to his knees in agony. At times the camera is so close to his bloody head and face that I’m surprised his blood didn’t smear the lens. It is also possible that his murder was filmed as well, but the video is very jerky and there is a constant rat-a-tat of gunshots all along so it is impossible to tell exactly which shots might have been the fatal ones. It was so brutal, this video, that I can’t imagine that the last thoughts of Gaddafi were not bprayers for it to be over. I know that was what I was thinking as I watched this nonsense.
I was also appalled last week to see a similar lack of scruples from a couple of so-called media outlets. With the trial of Cr. Conrad Murray going on in Los Angeles, a picture of a dead, post autopsied, and nude Michael Jackson was shown to the courtroom, and a photograph of that image was broadcast around the world. Apparently the concept of human dignity has escaped some of these entities, whose goal now seems to be to shock, instead of inform. One was an internet website, but the other, sadly was a major TV network, who I thought would take the high road, but didn’t.
I, and the world, do not need to see this. It serves no useful purpose to show Michael Jackson, who brought so much joy to the world, deprived of his last bit of dignity. For many the image of his lifeless and naked corpse, sprawled on a table, will be the image that comes to mind. I certainly hope that his children did not see it.
As for Colonel Gaddafi, he was an evil man, but that is why there are procedures in place to deal with crimes against humanity. They, at least in theory, keep the world from taking a backward step as we supposedly become more civilized.
There was a time when media was more responsible, and more selective and thoughtful in what they presented. There is the famous story that reporters knew that President Kennedy was bedding down starlets left and right, but that out of respect for the first lady, they did not use that information to hurt him. Those days of restraint are sadly gone, and it is a free for all. Paparazzi line up for big money shots of celebrities, and when they get them it is all over the internet and airwaves. The former King of Pop dies of a drug overdose and we get to see him stripped, literally, of all dignity. And a dictator is violently tortured and killed on video.
Just tell me want happened. I don’t need to see it.

Cobb Redeemed

2011-10-13T08:32:00.001-07:00

Call it redemption…sort of.
When I was a boy, I had two heroes. Wild West lawman Wyatt Earp was one of them. I loved the stories of the old frontier, and how the Earp Brothers and Doc Holliday had tamed Dodge City and made life there as safe as your grandmother’s kitchen. But the Wild West was another world for me, and seemed out of reach and reality. What was closer to my heart was baseball, and my first real hero was Ty Cobb, from Royston, Georgia.
Cobb was a legendary baseball name, and I often heard my grandfather, who had played minor league baseball in the early years of the century, and who had seen Cobb play, talk about his exploits. Later I read as much as I could about the man, and a dog-eared copy of a 1952 biography by a man named Gene Schoor was my prized possession for a long time. Schoor’s book, though, was written for younger readers, and therefore was sugarcoated. It was another book, by a writer named Al Stump, that drove it all home, and told the story of the man’s life in more vivid detail and first introduced to me the reality that Cobb was possibly psychotic, was definitely racist, and had allegedly even killed a man. and made me lose all respect for my boyhood hero.
Stump had spent time with Cobb in the last year of Cobb’s life, 1961. He had access to Cobb that few had had before, and painted a vivid and extreme picture of a man prone to violence, a paranoid and sick individual who told Stump, on the record, that he had killed a man by slashing his face with the barrel of a pistol, until the man had no face left. Stump also related how police in Detroit had found an unidentified body in an alley a few days later, a crime that was never solved.
It was all too much, and my interest in Cobb, the baseball player, was destroyed by the information that Al Stump had given me in his 1994 book. I never thought about Ty Cobb again in the same way.
Until last summer, when I visited the Cobb family crypt in Royston, Georgia. It was a belated pilgrimage for me, to be sure, but when I realized that I only lived about 90 minutes way, I felt it was time. I went, driving past the hospital that Cobb had built for the people of Royston, past the signs proclaiming Royston the home of the world’s greatest baseball player, to the crypt, in a quiet little cemetery just down the street from the hospital, and where Cobb is interred with the remains of his beloved mother and father. And the thoughts of all of the evil things that Al Stump had told us in his book ran through my head. I peered through the smudged glass of the crypt door at the very spot where my hero’s bones lay, about 5 feet from me, and just sighed a sad sigh. My hero, the murdering racist paranoid villain.
Then, last month, Smithsonian Magazine published an article, entitled “The Knife in Cobb’s Back.” Years of research, painstakingly vetted, proved to the world one fact: Al Stump was a liar and a thief. It turns out that not only did Stump make up most of the vile stories about Cobb’s evil ways, (the police in Detroit have no record of a body or even an injury from the night that Stump says Cobb killed a man) but that he also stole hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of Cobb’s possessions after his death, to sell for his own enrichment. He also forged many letters from Cobb, and tried to pass off as genuine, fake Cobb owned items like dentures, duck decoys and corncob pipes.
The real damage, though, and the one that Cobb likely would have been most upset about, was the damage to his reputation, which was something that Cobb had worried about in life. He was a proud man by all accounts, and to have history blinded to his real achievements, by a liar and a thief, is a crime that needs correcting here.
The Georgia Peach may not have been anyone’s idea of a model citizen, but he was one helluva ballplayer, that’s for sure.

A letter from a fan....but not of mine!

2011-10-05T15:12:00.000-07:00

I just got the following email as a response to my column in the Jackson Progress Argus. I’ll leave out the name of the sender to protect the ignorant.
Don't like death penalty in Jackson? Take your happy butt back to New York. How would you feel if it were one of your family members? Or are yankees in New York so use to violence they accept it ? What is your business in Jackson so I can be sure not to frequent? We forgive and forget, just don't offer up another chance.
Something about this letter really ticked me off. It is certainly indicative of the backwards mentality that pervades the area. I thought about this for a few minutes and then fired off the following response. Was I too harsh?
You obviously dont forget, since you call me a Yankee,a reference to a time when your lovely state of Georgia, and others, committed the ultimate act of treason by seceding from the United states of America. And yet, y'all still fly that ugly confederate flag as if a symbol of something good, instead of the vile rag that it is.
As for the death penalty, Ill allow that the family of the slain security guard (that is what he was doing that night, moonlighting at a Burger King) might want the death penalty. As bible thumping, so called "Christians" (read: hypocrites), you should be of the opinion that all life is sacred, even that of Mr Davis, a man whose very guilt is in question. By the way, you are terribly behind the times. The violence here in Georgia is far worse than in New York--much more violent and senseless. Id tell you what my business is but you might want to drive by and shoot out my windows, or set it on fire. That IS how y'all do it down here, isnt it?
Life in the south. That is what Troy Davis should have gotten, if anything. This shoot/kill first ask questions later attitude that is all over this state, and this part of the country, is so sickening and repulsive that I don’t know how a lot of these people don’t make themselves sick. Just last year the sheriff of Butts County, a “man” named Gene Pope, tried to kill a fellow who had stolen a truck, and which was surrounded by state troopers. He blew out the windshield of the truck but somehow missed the man driving it. He, or his deputies, did manage to shoot a trooper in the chest and arm, though. The repercussions: none. He was lauded as a hero for trying to blow the guy’s head off. Pope himself was interviewed by reporters and lamented the fact that he had missed the guy. In more civilized parts of the country he would immediately have been removed from office pending an investigation. Not here, where, among white folks, he is a hero. Among black folks, though, the perception is different, and most of them steer clear of commenting, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at the ridiculousness of this kind of thing happening in the year 2011. I have to agree.

A Murder by Any Other Name

2011-09-22T07:35:00.000-07:00

So now little Jackson, Georgia is on the national map, with CNN, FOX, ABC, CBS and NBC and many more news organizations all converged, just 7 miles from where I write this. They have converged on Jackson not because someone here found a cure for cancer or because a huge industrial complex is being built that is going to help thousands of Georgians get jobs and get off of the welfare and unemployment rolls. Not for any positive reason at all. They all converged to cover a murder.
The death penalty---if ever a sentence could be construed as “cruel and unusual” the death penalty qualifies. It’s been said that war is the lowest form of human behavior, and yet in war, which I heartily am against, there is at least a cause, right or wrong, that is being fought for. Thousand, nay, millions have died in wars over the centuries, for a cause they believed in.
There is no cause being fought for in the death penalty. It certainly isn’t “corrective” or “rehabilitative” except in the sense of making sure that the condemned will never do it again. The simple fact that they are in prison already pretty much guarantees that though, doesn’t it?
I never met Troy Davis, nor would I want to, to be honest. It does not sound like he was a very nice guy early in his life. He probably committed a lot of crimes. I don’t know. At the end of his life his public statements sounded very intelligent and thought out. If he was the one to utter them , then I’d say that he made the most of educating himself while in prison and might have been able to contribute something to society.
With all due respect, the murder that he committed, allegedly, had nothing to do with intentionally killing a cop. The officer in question, Mark MacPhail, was not on duty at the time of his killing. He was moonlighting as a security guard at a Burger King restaurant. A fight broke out in a parking lot nearby and Mark MacPhail left his job at Burger King to intervene. Shots were fired, Mark MacPhail was killed, a tragedy to be sure. In the middle of a fight, things happen in the heat of the moment, and I’m sure that was the case on that night.
In court a lot of people testified against Mr. Davis. Later, 7 of them, whose testimony was key in his conviction, recanted their statements, infusing the case with enough doubt that at the very least the death penalty should have been taken off the table, and Mr. Davis should have been left to live out his days in prison. But it wasn’t, and the masses of reporters and media people converged on our little county.
As I said, war at least has a cause, right or wrong. To walk a man or woman into a chamber, strap them down in a chair, or on a gurney, or to a pole, or to let them stand on a scaffold with a rope around their neck, blindfolded, and to then either pull a switch, or drop pellets into a bucket full of acid, or to signal a group of people to all fire bullets into the heart of the condemned, or to give the word to release the trap door so the condemned can fall until their neck snaps, and they die, or to just inject a lethal cocktail of drugs into a shaking arm, all in front of a group of witnesses…is about as barbaric as it gets. We are a supposedly the most sophisticated of creatures. Last night, in a prison in Jackson, Georgia, we were barbarians.

Ten Years.....

2011-09-04T13:03:00.001-07:00

It was ten years ago this weekend that the unthinkable happened, and the words “New York” and “terrorist attack” became forever and inextricably linked in the minds and hearts of the world.
I remember that Tuesday morning clearly. I was returning from delivering a truckload of corn to some farm stands in Monticello, in upstate New York. The Ellenville Public Library was on my way back to the farm in Accord, where I worked summers for Saunderskill Farm. I stopped in the library to look for new books, as I often did. Everyone in the library was standing around the one computer that had the Internet, and I could see that a live video feed was on the screen of the World Trade Center in flames and I recall the smoke pouring into the sky as the image I saw that day. The second plane had just hit but the reality of the situation was still almost too big to grasp. No one flies jet planes into buildings. It’s just not civilized.
I returned to the main farm stand and it was as silent as a tomb in the place, except for a radio broadcast describing the events, and I listened to a newsfeed telling us that first one building was gone and later, the other. I don’t remember anyone actually working, just people standing and walking around in shock. This was, after all, only about 90 miles away from where we lived and worked and enjoyed the bucolic setting that living in the Hudson River Valley offered.
In the years since that day, a lot has gone on. The mastermind of the attack is in prison, the leader of the group that sponsored the attack is dead, and from the rubble of those two buildings, finally a new building is risen, over a thousand feet now and still growing. Something positive, something to look forward to.
But, sadly, in those years it seems that the amount of hatred and fear in the world has grown too. People are afraid of their own shadows. Politicians squabble and name-call like little children in the schoolyard. Common decency has been replaced by paranoia and at times it feels like we are re-living the Witch Hunt era. Or the McCarthy era. And it stinks.
It stinks because we are better than that. We are a nation of do-ers, not a nation of name-callers, neighbor-haters, or ”shoot first ask-questions later” haters, to use current parlance. We achieve. We lead, by example, in ideas, and in deeds. We endure because the world knows quality when they see it. Why else would so many risk so much to come here, legally or otherwise?
Despite the miserable state of this country right now, due in large part to the negativity mentioned above, I am still proud to be an American. I am proud to stand for our national anthem, lousy song that it is, and I still say the pledge of allegiance on occasion. “One nation indivisible”, the original words by Francis Bellamy read.
Pogo said, "We have met the enemy and he is us."
It’s time to show Pogo he was wrong. And that Mr. Bellamy was right.
It’s been ten years, enough time to mourn. It’s time now to unite, as people, as neighbors, as human beings, and as a nation, indivisible. I’m on board. You?

Kathy M's last day....

2011-09-03T15:46:00.000-07:00

A recent entry on my blog dealt with the suicide of a woman, and friend, here in my town. It also dealt with the very unkind things that her co-workers at the Butts County Library had to say, after her death, which was by gun, traditionally a very unusual method of suicide for women.
According to the folks at the library, Kathy Mims was “a sociopath,” said label placed on her forever now, with no chance for her to refute, or confirm that “diagnosis.” It seems to me that she was just a terribly sad and lonely woman, just divorced from her state trooper husband after decades of marital hell. Loneliness plus booze equals bad ending. I wondered if there were other factors, because I had spoken to people who knew her, and they felt that she was going to be okay once the newness of her divorce had worn off.
Without even trying, I managed to find out a little bit of information about her last day alive.
According to the cleaning lady for her landlord, who I encountered on a walk to the library, ironically passing Kathy’s apartment, Kathy spent a lot of time coming and going from her flat, and apparently had been drinking a bit. Not to excess, but enough to make it noticeable. At one point Kathy asked to speak with Judy, the landlady. Judy was not at home, and Kathy told the cleaning lady that she needed to talk to Judy about something not terribly important, either that day, night or the following day. She stressed that it was not any big deal, and that was that. The cleaning lady told me that after Kathy’s suicide, when the police went into Kathy’s place, she had everything neatly arranged and it was very clean and tidy. That in itself means nothing because Kathy was noted for being rather fastidious.
I thanked the cleaning lady for the info and went on. The very next day I was mailing a package at the post office, and was making small talk about my walk with the clerk, whose name was Judy---the very same Judy who was Kathy’s landlady. We talked about Kathy, and that day. Kathy did indeed get in touch with Judy and she told her how much she enjoyed living at her place. She also told Judy (and I assume this was the reason Kathy wanted to talk to her) that she had been fired from the library, which was why she was not working that day. I guess she wanted to let Judy know that the rent was covered and to not worry. She actually seemed to be okay with the firing and told Judy that she was going to try to get a job at Barnes and Noble, a place she had worked previously, and had liked. Judy was not under the impression that Kathy was in a suicidal mood.
Later that night, though, she returned to the house that she had shared with her ex-husband. She aimed a gun at herself and pulled the trigger.
I only write this because I liked Kathy, and her dry and wicked humor. The odd reactions from her co-workers have been unsettling, and I think I know why. It seems that they had to put up with a lot of grief from Kathy, due to drinking problems, last minute sick calls and so on. I can understand that. I can also understand why no one there told me that she had actually been fired. The guilt that the head librarian must feel cannot be understated. I hope he doesn’t let it linger too long. He had to make a tough decision, and he did.
So, Kathy Mims, I bid your ghost goodbye, and hope that if a small part of you still lingers in the ozone of our lives, it is at peace.

Last Bow for the Clown?

2011-08-24T07:48:00.001-07:00

I must have not been paying attention, or had been sidetracked by work, so I missed the news that Jerry Lewis had been ousted as the host of the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon, held each Labor Day weekend. He has hosted the event since 1966, and has raised countless millions of dollars for that very worthy cause. It seems wrong that he has basically received the television version of a pink slip.
As a child, probably starting with the very first telethon, I watched that thing. I know I was the one in our family who always insisted that we call and make the donation each year. I would dial the number on the phone while we were watching, wait for the operator to take our information, and then I would proudly say the amount of our donation, which was always ten dollars (hey, it was a different time) and wait for the operator to say thank you.
I would stay up all weekend watching that thing. I’d delight when an obscure performer would play something great at three AM, and I’d feel like it was played just for me. I was thrilled when Dean Martin and Jerry resolved their differences and had their big reunion on the telethon. I wouldn’t understand until many years later the rather sleazy undercurrents that ran in the Vegas entertainment world back then, the Rat Pack mentality and all that grown up stuff. I was a kid, and I got to watch a lot of top-notch (I thought) entertainment and all I had to do, or wanted to do, was make a little donation and sit back with my popcorn and snacks and enjoy it.
Then I started to get older, and my family fell apart. I still watched the telethon, even videotaped some of it, or rigged audio cassette players to record people I liked. Then gradually my interest faded away completely until I no longer watched at all. By the time I was 25, I was done.
Not so Jerry Lewis. Like a bunny on a battery commercial, every Labor Day Jerry would be out there, hustling, working it, getting those donations, making practically every year better than the one before. He seemed ageless. I’d see the news clips sometimes, when he would be singing his song, tears running down his face. I’d hear the jokes about how he was a national treasure in France, but a joke here. I’d hear the awful quips that some comedians made about “Jerry’s Kids” and I would never find them funny. How could I? I was too involved emotionally. A respect and a love for a guy who puts it all out there for the good of others doesn’t fade easily, if at all.
So now, it seems, the clown has made his last bow. In a world where athletes get to do a farewell tour of sorts after they announce they are retiring, after reaping the millions of dollars that fans pay them to hit a ball or something similar, it seems patently unfair and unjust to just dump a guy who has done so much for this world. Say what you will about his movies, or the era that spawned him. Hell, say what you will about France. The only thing I want to hear about Jerry is that he will be coming back for one last song. If he does, you know where I will be this Labor Day weekend.

KM Column for the Jackson Progress-Argus

2011-08-18T11:32:00.000-07:00

I recently walked across the country, a trek that took me the better part of 5 months. Upon my return, I learned the sad news that a friend of mine here in Butts County has decided to end her life, back in April, when I was still in the early days of my walk. Needless to say, this was terribly disturbing news, since I had sent her, and her co-workers a funny postcard back in June, and was visiting their workplace to see if they had liked it. I had seen no indications of any kind of depression when I last saw her in March. She was recently divorced, has just moved into her own place, and all seemed well.
What I found to be more disturbing, though, was the attitude of one of her co-workers. When I visited the place where they worked, this particular worker (someone that my friend never liked, and she told me so privately) took great and obvious delight in telling me the sad news. She also went out of her way to tell me that after my friend killed herself, the place where they work called in a counselor, who recommended a book called, (and this is telling) The Sociopath Next Door. This person then went so far as to put on a great big grin and tell me how much the book helped her get through it once she knew what the signs of sociopathic behavior are. She added tha5t my friend did indeed show all the signs.
I’ve known true sociopaths. My friend was not one of them. My friend had a lot of problems, including alcoholism, which was, as I understand it, directly involved in her demise , so any diagnosis of anything else must be filtered through that fact. For a counselor, who did not know my friend and who obviously did not talk to her, to make a summary judgment that she was a sociopath is unconscionable and unprofessional. And for this co-worker to go out of her way to slam the memory of a good and kind woman of wit and knowledge and humor and compassion is even worse, on a human level.
I just walked the better part of three thousand miles. I saw sights many people will never see. I met people, in places so wide ranging and wonderful that I will never forget. I talked with them, shared experiences with them, got to know them. With one exception (a rent-a-cop with an attitude in a gas station in Walnut Grove, Alabama), they were all truly wonderful people and I didn’t get a bad vibe or feeling from any of them. Then I return to my home city, and hear vicious words spoken about a friend of mine who took a drastic action one night in April, and put an end to a tortured life…a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
Life is too short for this kind of bitterness. I wonder if the coworker saw signs of herself in that book….because speaking ill of the dead….just is not right…and not what human beings do.
Rest in peace, my friend.

Kathy M checks out....

2011-08-17T15:47:00.001-07:00

I want to cry.
Back in Georgia, after five long months walking across the country. I want to cry.
I want to cry, not because my knee is hurting, or because my heart is not here, but in another place. Not for any of those reasons.
I want to shed a tear for Kathy.
She was my librarian, and my friend.
This is the story of Kathy M, and is also the story of how people can be so…callous, so unfeeling, that they generate an aura of pure pettiness.
Before I left on my walk, I walked to the library, back in mid March. My purpose: to meet Kathy there, for there were clandestine activities afoot. She was going to “fix” my library card.
A couple of years ago my car caught on fire, just like in the movies. It burned completely, leaving a frame and a Hershey’s Kiss shaped piece of aluminum sitting in the dirt. With a swipe of a rubber boot from a firefighter, it went sailing into the woods. Also gone, via inferno: my four new library books, just checked out that morning. Total fees due: 137 bucks. I couldn’t see paying that much for something that was not my fault, so I let it go. And with it my right to take books out of the library.
That didn’t stop me from going to the library, though, and browsing, chatting with the librarians there, and buying a zillion used books. While they were all professional, there were two, Billye and Kathy , who were really friendly, and who you really wanted to deal with at the counter when checking out books. They were both in their early 60’s, both very liberal in their politics, and very willing to spend a few minutes chatting away. Kathy was especially so, and we formed a kind of bond. She told me that she was going through a rough divorce from an abusive husband, and she needed to move. She told me she was an alcoholic, trying hard to stay sober, and for the most part I think she did, because I never once felt like she was inebriated to even the smallest degree.
When I was getting ready to leave on my walk, I asked for her address so I could send her a postcard from the road. She insisted I send it to all five librarians, and even went to the trouble of writing all their names down. She even included the name of one librarian, Diane, that she could not stand because she was always trying to get people in trouble.
She asked me why I never checked out any books, and I told her the story of the fire and the lost books. She told me to come back on a certain day, at a certain time, and she would fix my situation. The head librarian might not exactly approve, but he would be gone later. I promised to return. And, as promised, she did fix up my card so it would work again, no questions asked. A lovely gesture from a very nice woman.
So today, just back from the long adventure, I went to the library. I found a used book to purchase, and approached the desk. A young librarian, recognizing me, welcomed me back, and in hushed tones, asked me if I had heard what had happened to Kathy. I replied that I had not, and she was almost crying when she told me that Kathy had passed away. When I asked how, she told me that Kathy had gotten very drunk, back in April. She had then taken a bunch of pills, and had then put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. I was stunned and very upset at this news, and paid for my book while in the spinning thoughts haze of bad news that enveloped me. The librarian was very very sorry she told me so much detail but felt that since Kathy and I were friends, I ought to know.
I walked around. I saw another book that piqued my interest—a library book this time---and decided to test out my new card, courtesy of Kathy. I approached the desk, and instead of the young and friendly gal it was…the dreaded Diane who stepped forward.
We spoke of Kathy, and her decision. Diane completely blew my mind when she told me that the library had brought in a counselor to talk to everyone. She added that the counselor had recommended a book for the rest of them to read, called, and I could not believe my ears, “The Sociopath Next Door.” She smiled and said it really helped her to understand the nature of sociopaths. I replied that Kathy was not a sociopath at all, just an alcoholic. She stood firm in her belief that Kathy, who had gone out of her way to help me, and who had made sure I sent a postcard to ALL of them so as not to hurt feelings, was an uncaring and devious lunatic. And she made it a point to be as jolly as she could be whe reiterating how much the book had helped her. And she made me see exactly why Kathy couldnt stand her.
Rather than debate the psychological aspects of a woman who had obviously had a lot of problems, and who had applied a drastic, permanent solution to them, with a cold and spiteful human being, I thanked her and walked out of the library, my checked out book in hand. Checked out thanks to a friend who took a few minutes to help me.
So, Kathy M, you ought not to have done that. But you did, and I’m sorry for your pain, and that the new apartment you took across the street from the library, did not bring you the peace you so longed for. And I am sorry you had to work with someone so unfeeling and so cold. She must have recognised herself in a book recently……

The last summer of Joey Martin...

2011-08-15T05:33:00.000-07:00

To the locals it was a big deal. To friends it was a puzzling, and bigger deal. To the family, it was a heartbreak, and to make it worse, it was unsolved. Biggest deal of all: find out what happened to Joey. As someone posted on Facebook today, a blurb from a television show about the case:
"In 1996, teenaged Joey Martin sneaks out of his bedroom window to watch a comet from a cabin in the woods-and disappears. Despite multiple leads, there is no sign of Joey until 2008 when a young detective uncovers the shocking story of Joey's fate."
And so it was, back in 1996, that Joseph Patrick Martin, fifteen years old then, and I guess one could say still fifteen years old, left the planet and entered into the collective consciousness of thousands of people who never met him in the flesh.
I lived in Joey’s town, then. I was just beginning a teaching career, working in the Hudson Valley’s Rondout Valley School system, the very district that Joey (and myself had, years earlier) attended. A small, farming and industrial community in the beginnings of its own death throes as big employers closed their doors and fled town. A small town with not a lot to do if you were a teenager with a wild hair.
Several comets had passed over in the years prior to Joey’s disappearance: Kohoutek, Halley’s, and, in 1996, Hale-Bopp, were all very interesting and visible, and when Joey left his house on that cold evening to go look at the comet with “friends” it would have not been an unusual event, given the dearth of entertainment available in Kerhonkson, New York.
So he left. Originally the people he was supposed to meet said that he never arrived, and the search began. For over a decade the search continued on some level, but family, friends and the law were stymied, and other than a few posters, annual vigils and other more or less symbolic acts, the trail went cold.
Then, in 2008, a cop revisits the case and talks to one of the two people that Joey was supposed to meet that night. An adult, this guy now lived in Brooklyn. He unexpectedly opened up the cold dead organ he called his heart and spilled his conscience all over the table. A few court appearances and trials later and the case was solved. Two scumbags, supposed “friends” who murdered a kid as revenge for a small weed rip-off, or something trivial. It doesn’t seem like the punishment fit the crime for Joey. But it did for the miscreants who killed him, and then shared a table and prayers with his family in the days and months after his “disappearance” and who got to live lives of their own for a while. They got to laugh, date, work at a job, make money, go fishing, get laid, all the things that young men do, while Joey’s bones lay crammed under a big rock in the woods, and later scattered in trash bins all over New York City. Their punishment is apt: prison sentences---loooong ones, and a life sentence with the label of “murderer” in front of their names. They will never be free of that, and every day that they look at their situation, they know how and why they are there.
When I was teaching I often got to substitute for an 8th grade English teacher named Buddy Clark. On his desk, neatly and forever tucked in a corner, was a vocabulary textbook, with the plain paper bag book cover still on it from the last student to use it. Written on that cover was a small note: To Mr. Clark: Have a good summer! Your friend, Joey Martin.”
Im guessing that Mr Clark still has that book somewhere, and that it still has that cover with its message.
We still have our memories of a nice kid, forever fifteen, as well. Rest in Peace , Joey, if you can.

Hungry and outta luck in Tampa....

2011-08-13T09:41:00.000-07:00

Put on your boots…it is going to get messy.
In typical fashion, with the big Republican National Convention scheduled for Tampa Bay next year, the basic rights of American citizens have been shoved aside in an attempt to make the picture as rosy as can be.
Im talking about a story that appeared in the paper this week, here in Tampa. It would seem that a permit is now required to feed homeless and hungry people. Can you imagine? After six years of doing good work, a married couple, Dennis and Nancy Holt, along with a loosely organized church group, have been feeding the homeless in a city owned parking lot, at 7 AM, daily, giving out bagels, OJ, coffee, and more. Now, the city says they have to secure a permit to feed human beings in need of food. The police actually moved in last weekend and shut down the Holts’ impromptu breakfast buffet. They were told they needed a permit to feed the homeless. Only one problem to that: there are no permits available to feed the homeless. Apparently it is a gray area, according to another volunteer “feeder” who was ordered to stop several years ago, and who took the issue up with the then-mayor. That mayor took it upon herself to order the police to leave the feeders alone. Now, however, it is a different mayor and a different time.
One excuse that has been put forward is that the city of Tampa has not enacted the same tough anti-panhandling laws that others have put into place, and as a result the homeless population here has swelled to large proportions. That may well be, but it does not address the simple fact that people have to eat. Not allowing volunteers to feed hungry people isn’t going to make them go away. It is just going to make them hungrier and more likely to commit crimes, or even more likely to get sick or die. The early hour that they are being fed should not have much effect on traffic, and since they are basically being handed food and beverages, and then leave, the amount of time spent on the site is minimal. PLUS it has been going on for six years with no problems. If it was anything more than bureaucratic nonsense that was getting in the way, there is a good chance that no one would even be aware of this story.
It happens all the time. A bunch of suits and big money fat cats come to a city. The city wants to put on the best face possible for the national media that follows those fat cats. Thus, the poor, the homeless, the mentally ill are scooped up, swept under the rugs, so to speak, and everything appears to be shiny and new. Except for the fact that they are still there, and out of sight, which means out of mind as well. It doesn’t matter if it is a Republican Convention, a Democratic Convention, a Shriners Convention, or any other large deal.
It is possible that someone privately will allow the Holts to carry on, on private property, but who wants the publicity or the hassles from the city?
I wonder if the city will adapt some of the signs that are all around the zoos and Busch Gardens. “Do Not Feed the Homeless”.
These are human beings. People. Hungry people down on their luck.
Shame on you, Tampa.

A Gift from MItt

2011-08-12T17:14:00.000-07:00

A lesson for Republicans: don’t try to fight a battle of wits when you are unarmed.
Case in point: Mitt Romney, former governor of Massachusetts, and he of the perfect hair and magic underpants. At the Iowa State Fair, where it can be inferred that tens of thousands of regular folks go for good times and cheap entertainment, old Mitt shows up on his campaign trail and immediately sticks his foot in his mouth, alongside the sno-cones and fried dough. He also ably demonstrated the ever-widening chasm and the disconnect between the haves and the have-nots in this country.
“Corporations are people!” he exclaimed.
Ummmm, no, they are not. People are people. Corporations are large entities established for many reasons, including as a way to shelter “people” from liabilities. The other ways they differ from human beings are many and well known.
Suffice it to say that a statement like Romney’s only goes to further show the disdain that the right has for the common man and is part of the reason that the middle class has almost disappeared in this country.
They have allowed corporate greed to replace common decency. For some inexplicable reason, they choose to lionize the criminals who run these corporations, and whose every word seems to be covered in greasy slime as they lie, twist and spin and basically run roughshod over the laws of this country. They have managed to turn this country into their personal Monopoly game, and the bank is just about empty for the majority of us less skilled or devious players. Suits and haircuts like Romney, Newt Gingrich, that moral hypocrite, and others, bring nothing to the table that will help feed the average American.
What is sadder still: despite the obvious scorn for the common man, the right will still convince millions of voters that they are the good guys. If people actually thought about what was being said, and questioned it, as a brave spectator did in Iowa when he heard the drivel coming out of the former governor’s mouth, then there would be no contest. Still, if Romney is the front runner for the Republicans, then he may well have just handed the President his second term in office. On a golden platter.

Laugh til it Hurts!

2011-08-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

Well, when you're down in the dumps, nothing beats a night at a comedy club.
I wasn't in the dumps, but if I had been, Id be declaring myself cured at this moment. All because of a very cool and relaxing night out at the Improv, in Ybor City, a cool retro-Cuban section of Tampa, Florida. Now, I AM aware that most people have been to a comedy club at some point, including myself, and sometimes the humor is run of the mill, sometimes transcendant, and sometimes you will see something you have not seen before, as I did this night.
Tonight, I experienced the strange and over the top world of Pretty Paul Parsons.
I've seen them all in one way or another---George Carlin, Rodney Dangerfield, Steven Wright, Woody Allen, Richard Pryor, and so on, but never have I spent a night saying, "Oh, no, he didn't" as many times as I did this evening. Following stellar sets by Jim Choquette and Susan Saiger, the sixty something Parsons, clad in a navy blue jumpsuit ambled onstage. He then began to rattle off jokes like this one:
Oh, hell, this is a family blog, and I cant repeat that one. Well, the one about the bald headed....crap, I cant tell you that one either. In fact, about the only one I can repeat here has more to do with racist attitudes than hilariously perverted shots at every group from Catholic priests to farmers and goats. And I wont repeat it here either. His act went on and on, each joke more vile and hilarious than the one before, with a few clunkers thrown in for good measure, almost a relief from the sidesplitting laughter of the ones previously told.
This isn't intended as an advert for Paul Parsons. It's not even an advert for the Improv. The full house this evening tells me that they dont need my help, and neither does Pretty Paul Parsons, or Susan Saiger or Jim Choquette, for that matter.
What it is, though, is an advert for comedy, that incredible gift to us all. In a world where every damned thing seems to be involving war, violence, poverty, and all of the other sorry situations we hear about every day, we need all the laughs we can get.
Next time you are tired of the world as it is, head out for an evening at a comedy club. You dont have to see a Pretty Paul Parsons, or any other established stars. The MC for the show tonight,a local guy whose name I did not get, sadly, was almost as funny on his own level as Parsons was. Funny is funny, no matter who is preaching it.
Laugh like hell, groan just as loudly, and enjoy life. Its a gift.

Happy Birthday, Sir.

2011-08-04T10:22:00.000-07:00

Today is the president’s birthday. Marilyn Monroe will not be singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to him, but we all should be.
He has done a remarkable job of moving the country forward when so many are trying to hold it back.
Putting party politics aside, when someone is elected to the highest and most important office in the land, maybe in the world, for that matter, he should be given the respect and cooperation due him, or her. Almost since day one the party that was defeated has been resisting his efforts to fix the huge mess that was here. They scream that he is spending the country into oblivion, and yet, in the corporate world that backs that party, it is common practice and knowledge that you have to spend money to make money. They scream that he is soft on illegal immigration. They scream when he tried to reform health care, even though he left their beloved insurance companies involved in the mix. They trot out the same old candidates and their old and backward ideas for the next election. The only time you heard a good word about the president uttered by that party is when he did something that they could relate to: he authorized the use of deadly force against Osama Bin Ladin. After Bin Ladin was killed, then all of a sudden old Barry O wasn’t so bad. Then, that memory faded pretty quickly and it was back to the same old same old.
No president is perfect, and no president is going to please everybody, but this man is doing a fine job of fixing a lot of broken stuff and should be given credit where it is due. Even Franklin Delano Roosevelt wasn’t loved by everyone, even after pulling us out of the Depression and creating a New Deal that restored confidence in the US and made us a super-power once again. We elected him four times. Need I say more?
So, today, as the president celebrates half a century on this planet, lets give him a break from the ridiculous name calling and rhetoric and just wish him a happy day, allow him to enjoy it with his lovely family, and as a gift, cut him the slack he needs to do the job we elected him to do. Its always easier to do good things when you have the backing of the people.

The Agony of the feet.....

2011-08-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

It is still a form of culture shock sometimes, for me, living the life of a poor American. That is to say, a typical American. The haves and the have-nots all live here, and to many the difference is hard to tell.
I never feel the divide as strongly as when I try to get that most basic and fundamental right of all---health care.
Yesterday, while visiting friends in Mammoth Lakes, California, an outwardly upscale but basically typical American town, I had the need for a doctor. Because after finishing a 2800 mile walk, my foot was very badly swollen and I began to worry that a severe infection was going to possibly cost me the foot if left untreated. My hostess took me to the local clinic, where it was announced by the receptionist that just to get in to see the doctor would be anywhere from two hundred to almost four hundred dollars. Of course the dreaded question was asked, “Who is your insurance provider?” and they received the same dreaded answer, ” I have no insurance.” It was also announced for the second time that payment was expected at the time of service. We couldn’t justify that kind of money, nor did we have that kind of money and I opted for the old standby—the Emergency Room at Mammoth Hospital. There, I received a brief checkup that consisted of a blood pressure check, a temperature check (where a gizmo was swiped across my forehead and I was told that I had no fever) and that was it. After a few minutes an X-ray tech took me in and three x-rays were taken of the foot. A doctor then came to see me, asked me a few questions, looked at the X-rays, and after a short while told me that I had a stress fracture, would need no antibiotics and basically if I just took ibuprofen and didn’t do too much walking it would heal. And that was it.
This all happened before any mention of payment, or insurance. When I told them that I had no insurance, there was no big gasp, or exaggerated reaction. A woman from the billing office came in and ran down some options for me, and I will try to make payments as I can, in installments. Where I have a problem is that no one could tell me how much the bill was. A cursory checkup, three e-rays, and a non-prescription should only run me a hundred bucks or less.
Back to that divide that I mentioned. It has happened many times in the past as well. It is almost as if the insurance companies have managed to make their “product” so desirable and such a symbol of status that those of us who can’t afford it are mere peasants. I actually feel ashamed and embarrassed to tell the receptionist that I have no health insurance. In reality, I am very angry that insurance companies have all of the power that they do, because insurance at its most basic level is just you, the consumer, paying money on speculation that something is going to happen. You pay your money, and nothing happens. You keep paying money, and nothing happens. Then, when something DOES happen, the insurance companies dont want to cover it because it means they dont get to keep all of your money. It is so fundamentally screwed up that it is almost criminal.
So we go through life hoping we don’t get sick, or hurt. Yesterday I went to the medical office with nothing more than a broken foot, a slightly broken foot at that. I will undoubtedly receive a bill for 4 or 5 hundred dollars for a medic, albeit a very pleasant and kindly medic, to tell me what I basically already knew. In all of the avenues of American life, the medical arena seems to be the one where we get the very least value for our money. Let me re-phrase that: we do not get our money’s worth.
And its one aspect of daily living that makes me ashamed of this country, My friends from other countries who are here now still lament what they left, and I cant say I blame them. Do we need to make that tradeoff? I think not. Health care should not bring a feeling of shame.

Overeaters Anonymous: the meeting

2011-08-02T19:58:00.000-07:00

So tonight Jim, formerly large fellow, attended an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.
I was visiting the local library in a small town near where I am staying on the west coast. The meeting was being held there and I was invited to attend. I accepted. I had envisioned that the meetings were a big group of people , or a group of big people, all there to cry on each other’s shoulders. Maybe that is the case in some places, but this is a small town and there were only a couple of people there, and I made three.
There is a format to the meetings, which open, and close. with the serenity prayer, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the power to change what I can and the wisdom to know the difference.” It is the standard prayer used at all so called twelve step programs, from the original Alcoholics Anonymous to Narcotics Anonymous and so on. A list of the tenets of the group is read, and focus is given on one or more of them, almost as a reminder. Small donations are voluntarily offered up for expenses and then, after the formal part of the meeting is taken care of, it is open floor time. This is where the attendees introduce themselves, tell what their problem is, i.e. “I’m a compulsive overeater” and go on to relate things that happened to them over the time since their last meeting. This evening, a lovely, not overly large woman told about how she has been waking in the middle of the night and has been making peanut butter on toasted bread. It is a habit she has been visiting for a while, and I can relate. I used to wake at odd hours in the night and eat a bowl of cereal, and I would also, at times make a peanut butter sandwich. I related this at the meeting and a dialogue of sorts opened up.
While I have heard that some of these type meetings can turn overtly religious, with a “higher power” being recognized in all of us, and before which we are all powerless, I did not feel it was brought up too much or too strongly this night. Granted, there were only three of us there, but what did happen was that a nice, and I feel productive three-way discussion opened up.
The meetings are a way to find that shoulder if one is needed. They are a place to commiserate with others in the same boat, and to find solutions through talking about what is going on. For a species of animal that can express ourselves through speech, we waste our voices on so much crap sometimes that we don’t hear the things we need to hear. We speak but do not listen. Here, people do listen, even small groups of three.
That can’t be a bad thing. It could come off too “churchy” for some people, but it does put everyone in the same frame of reference. Higher power? To me it is my brain, and the nature that created me. To others, it is God, or another deity. No matter. The problem to be solved is still the same—an addiction. And this approach is at least an attempt to work with it, and any step in the right direction is a good step.
Im glad I went. And I even get it that there were no coffee and donuts. That is for the “Cops Anonymous” meeting.

Trump: The Joke

2011-04-11T14:42:00.000-07:00

We have an interesting world right now. Countries long under the rule of cruel dictators in the Mid East are rebelling, with mixed results. Democracy looks good but they are finding that it is a tough job getting there. Once they do, though, they can enjoy all the great entertainment that we have here in the good old United States!
For example: They will get to elect their own leaders. One of their own will run for office against another of their own, and they will choose between them. That person will take office and for most of his or her term will suffer the slings and arrows of abuse and criticism and worse from the losing party, or candidate. And nothing much will get done because of all the squabbling.
My friend Josh Joffen wrote a brilliant song called “Monkey See Monkey Do” about all the silliness that springs forth during this whole process. An example: “Off in the distance, what’s that I hear? Could it be this is an election year? There’s fussing and fighting scratching and biting all around the country the fur’ll be flying, raising quite a ruckus for miles you can hear the sound. And when they’re finally finished there’ll be nothing left to pass around.”
Well, our monkeys are starting to come out of the trees, and not surprisingly, most of them carry a Republican card in their ape suits. One of them, Donald Trump, is a bit more of a monkey than the rest.
Trump, who, of course, is promoting yet another version of his trainwreck Apprentice television show, has been making the rounds of talk shows and has been making headlines by telling the world that he thinks that President Barack Obama was born not in this country, but in Kenya, and cannot produce a birth certificate proving his American birthrite. Well, Mr. Trump, no one can produce an original birth certificate, only a certified copy. Various statements by people at the hospital in Hawaii where he was born, as well as newspaper announcements of Obama’s birth, have pretty much put the argument to rest. Even Bill OReilly argued with Trump over the issue, to no avail.
And of course, Trump, who is not a stupid man, knows that no publicity is bad publicity, and has actually pulled into second place in polls asking who Republicans would vote for, for President in 2012. Only seasoned politician Mike Huckaby is ahead in the polls. The only trouble is that Trump is not going to run. I’d bet my life on that fact because to run for an office like President of the United States takes a few things: ego (of course, Trump has this times a million), smarts (again, Trump has them ) and credibility. Here is where Trump falls way short. By continuing his “birther” rants on every possible stage he can land on, he has pretty much blown any credibility has had out of the water. And the recent polls showing that 51 percent of the Republican party are also “birthers” means that this country has really fallen down in the IQ levels. It also means that it is going to be a landslide victory in 2012 for Barack Obama. The lineup for the Republican Party is a combination of un-electables like Newt Gingrich, who will probably be busy seducing his 4th wife, or is it third?, or Sarah Palin, who went from mayor of a small Alaska town to a national punch line overnight.
A bigger punchline is Donald Trump. Let’s hope we never have to hear the joke more than once.

Jack Hardy Remembered

2011-03-12T13:51:00.001-08:00

Jack Hardy died yesterday. Most of you won’t know Jack Hardy, or his music, but if you were anywhere near the New York City folk music scene in the past 35 years, you sure did. He seemed to be everywhere. He certainly was an influence to a tremendous number of the talented young writers and singers who emerged from that scene. People like Suzanne Vega, David Massengill, Shawn Colvin, Lucy Kaplansky, Richard Julian, John Gorka, Nikki Matheson, Rod MacDonald, Josh Joffen, the Roches and many more all learned at his feet, sometimes literally in weekly songwriters’ get-togethers at Jack’s apartment in the village, where ideas and songs were tossed back and forth, and challenges were issued. One time someone, I think Jack, challenged a brilliant young guy named Richard Meyer to write a song about the Teapot Dome Scandal. (Don’t know it? Look it up!) and Meyer came up with an absolutely stunning song called “The January Cold” about not only the scandal, but the humanity of the corrupt presidency of Warren Harding.
Later, Jack was instrumental in starting a combination magazine/record called first The Coop, and then the Fast Folk Musical Magazine, a roughly monthly 12 song vinyl LP combined with a magazine that was the first place that many people would get exposure to the artists listed above, and others like Dan Bern, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, Tracy Chapman, and more. Each year Fast Folk concert revues were held at places like the Bottom Line and the home base for the scene for a while, the retro and rather tacky looking Speakeasy. I went to many shows at both and had a blast.
My personal experience with Jack Hardy was somewhat limited to brief “hello”s at his gigs, with one kind of remarkable (to me) exception.
WNEW radio DJ Pete Fornatale, a folk fan who would delve into the Fast Folk library often, played a song by a man named Ray Lambiase, called Free Men, and he mentioned that it was on Great Divide Records. I somehow found a phone number for the record company, and gave it a call one day. Jack Hardy himself answered the phone. I told him who I was and why I was calling. He asked me all kinds of questions, about how a young guy in Kerhonkson, New York, in the Hudson Valley, knew about the record, and how I had heard an FM signal that shouldn’t have reached where I live (I had jerryrigged my cable TV signal to my receiver, before such a thing was really known) and we talked for about a half hour about which musicians I liked and my own experiences. He then told me that he had a copy of the record sitting there and asked me for my address. I gave it to him and asked him how much the record was and where I should send the money, and he told me, in his raspy voice, “My treat.”
Later I got to meet the great man at another Jack-propelled event called “A Gathering of the Bards” at a lake near Monticello, New York, where I played catch with a Nerf football with John Gorka and walked in on another singer in the shower with his girlfriend. Such were the times.
So it was with great sadness that the news of Jack’s passing came to me via an email from some folk music site. Quick flashes of what I related above came back immediately, and then the songs I loved best by the man himself---Tinker’s Coin, Elevator, The Children, Síar ón nDaingean (West of Dingle) and many more. One song, called I Ought to Know, is one of my ten favorite songs of all time, a challenge to us all to learn the really important stuff in history, much like Howard Zinn’s People History of the United States, but without a single fact given, only a laundry list of what the singer ought to know but doesn’t. It certainly made me look up all of its references. I am including the full lyrics here. Hopefully anyone reading this will do as I did. You ought to know about this stuff. And you ought to know about Jack Hardy. I’m glad I did.

I OUGHT TO KNOW by Jack Hardy, RIP
I ought to know more than I know
I ought to know where this road goes
I ought to know great literature by heart
the history of art
this I ought to know

I ought to know more than 1492
I ought to know what the Buffalo Bills do
I ought to know more than the quarterback's wounded knee
what happened at Sand Creek
this I ought to know
but I don't

I ought to know about the sacrifices made
I ought to know ration stamps, air raids
I ought to know more than George C. Scott
and John Wayne get shot
this I ought to know

I ought to know what the drinking gourd means
I ought to know more than "I have a dream"
I ought to know about the back of the bus
and the crack of billy clubs
this I ought to know
but I don't

(chorus:)
I don't know nothing about nothing
but I'm proud to stand upright
I don't know nothing about nothing
but my future looks so bright
illumined by the light
laugh-tracks, soundbites
and a replay to get it right
I ought to know

I ought to know the songs of Joe Hill
I ought to know Trotsky, Marx and Hagel
I ought to know about the Haymarket hangings
and the H.U.A.C.
this I ought to know

I ought to know about Oliver Cromwell
I ought to know about the Gnostics and St. Paul
I ought to know what Jesus really said
and who the preacher takes to bed
this I ought to know
but I don't

I ought to know what's buried in the landfill
I ought to know about the clear-cutting bills
I ought to know about pipelines and schemes
what extinction really means
this I ought to know

I ought to know for whom the bell tolls
I ought to know the pride and prejudice of polls
I ought to know if the grapes of wrath are union
picked by Victor Jara's hands
this I ought to know
but I don't

Gambling: Time to Outlaw Video Slot Machines!

2011-02-06T13:58:00.001-08:00

Gambling. A nasty habit, and one that I have visited before as a topic for columns. In those columns I was railing against those video slots that are “for entertainment purposes only” in every gas station in the state, so it seems. My contention was that the places that have them are paying cash as a prize, and we all know that it is a practice that is illegal. It still goes on. I have seen it with my own eyes.
After my last piece about the machines I received some very strongly worded letters from the dear readers of the JPA. These readers stated that gambling was an individual choice and that it was not the job of government to regulate those things that hurt no one. My contention was that, because I was once briefly associated with those machines in a seedy little underworld web that is constantly trying to evade detection by the police, I know of what I speak, and that the machines are programmable to only pay limited jackpots and are fodder for weak-minded individuals who have addictive personalities. Same response: “No harm, no foul”, as long as the laws are followed. Well, the laws are not being followed and are regularly broken with impunity. I saw it as recently as three days ago at a local gas station. But that’s not my battle here---the police do what they can against tricky proprieters who make payments in restrooms where video taping is illegal. My concern is that the very people who should not be gambling---the poor, those on public assistance, those barely able to feed their families---are seduced by the machines. And now medical evidence backs me up. A recent 60 Minutes piece on CBS detailed the fact that gambling is addictive and that the very worst facet of the addiction is those very gambling machines I have been trying to get outlawed.
What once was a casual activity, with big and very legal casinos in a limited number of states like New Jersey and Nevada, has now grown to a disturbingly large number. Casinos or gambling establishments are now in 38 states and looking to expand to even more. What once was an occasional entertainment is now pervasive and all too easy to have access to and people are losing money and their assets at alarming rates. Those on the side of the casinos say what some readers have said---it is a personal choice. Medical professionals say something else: the machines are indeed addictive and they have the studies to back it up.
Here is how it works: the machines, which used to be called One Armed Bandits, and had a lever on the side that you would pull, could only go fast enough to allow the player to pull the lever several hundred times in an hour. The new video slots, such as seen in gas stations, have no lever and are all button controlled. Money in, push push push. At a rate of up to 1200 games an hour! The combination of speed and the little rewards are exactly what creates the addiction, and the manufacturers of these machines know that. The machines are set to pay a little bit, small amounts, occasionally, giving the false impression that the player is winning, when in actuality they are losing and throwing their money in faster than they can count it out. This actually creates a chemical situation in the brain that is terrifyingly like that of crack cocaine addicts and when some players are in the “zone”, as it is known, they actually could not remember their own children’s names. They also suffer from similar shakes and other conditions akin to withdrawal from a chemical addiction.
The government has stepped in to regulate alcohol, tobacco, and medicine. It is time to do something to help hard working Americans to keep their money. Outlaw video slots now. Let the gamblers play legal lottery, or better yet spend their money on viable products and services that help us all to exist.

Rock IS Dead.Long Live ROCK!

2011-02-06T12:55:00.001-08:00

I am in mourning. I think it is official that something that I really love is dead.
I’m talking about rock and roll music.
You know the scene from countless movies and television shows where a couple are at a dance, or a wedding, or some social event, and the band strikes up a mellow tune, and one of the couple looks at the other, and says, “Listen! They’re playing our song…?” Well, in my mind’s eye I see two old people slow dancing to Stardust or another classic in the Cole Porter/Hoagie Carmichael style. And that is the way it used to be.
Then along came rock and roll. Born from the marriage of rhythm and blues and jazz numbers of the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, rock and roll began as a near-novelty, arguably first with a song called Rocket 88 and then with danceable tunes like Rock Around the Clock. Then along came Elvis Presley, a white boy singing like a black man, and the glue that held it all together was set. Little Richard, out of Macon, Georgia, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and many others came along and all of a sudden “playing our song” meant something a little different—a little more bounce and swagger that brought it all home.
The songs themselves were often silly, simple and were mainly about love and automobiles. Even the Beatles, who first came to the world’s attention in 1963, were mainly singing about the same things, albeit with a different accent and with fresh sounding chords and melodies.
Then Bob Dylan went from folk music to electric and it was Katie bar the door, as complex lyrics and songs that were not the usual three minutes long hit the airwaves, and on Dylan’s watch, everything about music and society changed in 1965. Some say that it was the final nail in the coffin for manufactured, fabricated tunes from the old Brill Building group, like Carole King, Neil Sedaka and Neil Diamond, who sat in offices and wrote songs on demand. All of a sudden lyrics about “Einstein disguised as Robin Hood” and “Googoogajoob, I am the walrus” were sung to heavier melodies and it was then that rock and roll really became an art form. This art form grew and insinuated itself into the public consciousness even more, and after, with the help of punk rock, surviving the disco era and the techno era and even the recent hip hop era, rock and roll, now usually just called “rock” has finally and probably been undone by something that I had thought was dead itself: manufactured music, done for money, and with no soul, no heart and with a clear eye on just making as much money as possible.
I’m talking about American Idol. To my mind, this “talent”-show-on-steroids is symbolic of all that is wrong with music, and by extension, art, today. Nothing about the show is creative. Indeed, when some of the hopefuls try to express some individuality, they are often harshly criticized for straying from the melody or for being “pitchy”, a word that may be the only thing creative to come out of this show. The most damaging and insulting aspect of the show really began a couple of season ago when the “judges” began telling these young people, many of whom were very talented singers, that they should be doing one style of music or another, instead of what they liked to do. This is no different than telling Leonardo Da Vinci to focus on comic book art, or telling Marlon Brando that soap operas are his future. How dare they!!!
So the death knell has rung for rock and roll. That American Idol and other factors (the internet and corporate greed among them) helped put the last nail in isn’t their fault, but there are about five generations of mourners who have lost the love of their lives. A sad time it is indeed. Long live Rock!

Walking the Walk

2011-01-19T14:02:00.001-08:00

Well, there goes another year. People died. People were born. Countries waged war on other countries and as always, innocent people got killed. In Haiti, an earthquake turned an already starving, under-developed third world country into something closer to a Stone Age civilization, and after the appropriate initial outpouring of sympathy and charitable telethons, it was quickly forgotten by all but a few.

In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.

The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…

A Parable: The Boy and the Butterfly

2011-01-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

A boy found a small, delicate cocoon that had been battered by the strong winds and rains and the sun. He watched as from the cocoon a tiny, equally delicate butterfly emerged. A precious thing of beauty she was. But she was very, very fragile and the boy didn’t realize just how fine and delicate she was. He reached for her, grabbed her with his strong hands, wanting to admire her fine features and the wonderful colors of her wings. Being so delicate, when he picked her up, in his excitement he grasped her too tightly and damaged her wing, making it almost impossible for her to fly. He brought her home, into his room, and found a small glass box in which to keep her so he could admire her. He really loved to look at her and see just how truly amazing she was. But he could see something sad about the butterfly. She wanted to take to the air, to do what butterflies do, but because her wing was damaged and because the boy was keeping her in a glass box, she could not flex her damaged wings and fly as she was born to do. She was grateful that the boy had rescued her because there were many large birds around that liked to eat butterflies just like her. But now she was injured and her life was sad.
She spoke to the boy. She asked him to please let her go free, to grow stronger and to be free to fly where she wanted. The boy knew that with her hurt wing she would never be able to do what she wanted to do. He gave it much thought and decided that he would help her to be the best butterfly she could be. He found her old cocoon which was badly damaged by the elements. He carefully unravelled the fine silk and just as carefully wrapped it around the beautiful, tired and damaged butterfly.
“This will heal your wing,” he said to her. “You rest, heal, and when you are ready you will emerge from this new cocoon stronger and better and even more beautiful. You know where my house is, and where my garden is. If you want to come back and make my life a more beautiful one, you will always be welcome.”
And he walked away.

Time to do Something about GUNS

2011-01-10T09:58:00.001-08:00

So we now have another tragedy involving guns. A nutcase in Arizona shoots 19 people, including a United States Congresswoman, a high ranking judge, a child, old people, young people. There is practically no segment of society that he missed, is there?
It amazes me that in this society tin which we live today, with the illiteracy rates at high levels, the unemployment levels at higher levels than anytime in recent memory, the political rhetoric more nasty than ever before with Americans hating on Americans like no time since the Civil War (quaint term—“civil” war) that random crackpots like this guy in Arizona could just waltz in to a gun shop six weeks ago and legally purchase a handgun. Yet, that is exactly what happened. And it isn’t like he came out of nowhere---the police were aware of his history of making vague threats on social networking websites and yet, his name was never placed on any watch lists for handgun sellers to peruse and make a determination that maybe, just maybe, this guy was a little off kilter and shouldn’t own a gun. Why wasn’t his name put on a list like that? Because there isn’t one. Unless he had a prior felony conviction, this (alleged) murdering swine took six lives and ruined another 13 because he was able to just walk into a store and buy an instrument of mass murder. If his name had been Abdul or Ahmed, it is possible that he would not have been able to board an airplane for a vacation in Cancun, or anywhere, because there is a very good chance that his name would have been on a terrorism watch list.
I’m not here to debate the second amendment, a clause to the Constitution of the United States that, despite the claims of the NRA and gun owners, responsible and otherwise, is vaguely worded at best. I am here to state empirically that not everyone should be allowed to own a gun. In most, if not all states, to go out in the woods and hunt a deer with a rifle requires a hunting license. To get that license you have to take rifle safety classes in most states and pass an test proving a minimal competence with the weapon. Yet, anyone, in many states, like Arizona, like Georgia and others, can just walk into a pawn shop or a sporting goods store and walk out 15 minutes later with a killing machine. This has got to change, people. I have seen people in the aforementioned pawnshops, people that I know to be thuggish and aggressive, buy a Glock while I am browsing the used DVD racks. They have come in, picked out a weapon, filled out the minimal paperwork, and paid for and walked out the door with gun in hand before I have even found a movie to watch. This has got to change. With great power, (the power to kill in an instant), comes great responsibility—and it is the duty of the government of the states and the country to make sure that anyone who wants to buy a gun has to meet some kind of standards. We license drivers, electricians, plumbers, hunters, anglers, and more. Time to require licenses for ALL guns, and the ability of the gunowners to prove to us all that they deserve such great power.

New Year's Column

2011-01-09T12:26:00.000-08:00

Life and almost death in Jackson, GA

2010-12-09T15:16:00.000-08:00

I had quite the experience today. I was sitting at my computer in my place of business, just “vegging” in front of the keyboard, when the door burst open and a woman I have never seen before entered. She was frantic, and was pleading for help at the salon next door. She said there was an old man in the chair over there and he was having some kind of attack and couldn’t breathe, and that the ladies over there needed help moving him to a more comfortable spot so that he might be able to get some air. I immediately ran over to the salon, and sure enough there was a very pale, older gentleman in some kind of terrible situation. His eyes were rolled back a bit and he appeared to be out of it, and almost out of time.
Now, I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I do know that when someone is in the kind of trouble that this man (I’ll call him “John”) was in, you need to remain calm and think things through. The ladies at the salon were begging me to do something to help him get air, but when I asked him several times if he could breathe, his eyes focused on me for a second and he said, in a weak voice, that he could breath. And then his eyes closed and he became unresponsive. One of the stylists began to cry and hugged him and was kissing him on the head and pleading with him not to leave us. I held his hands and asked him to squeeze my fingers if he could hear me. His eyes were still closed but his grip tightened on my hands and it was the best feeling to know that he was alert and responsive. Then, in the middle of all of this, his eyes opened and he did a very curious thing---he yawned. At first I thought he was opening his mouth wide in an attempt to get air but, no, it was indeed a yawn, which he repeated a moment later.
We kept at him, talking to him and keeping him awake as best we could, until the paramedics arrived, which was only a few minutes later. His wife had been called and she arrived shortly afterwards, and she rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. The last time I saw him he was sitting up slightly in the back of the ambulance, much more alert and talking. I don’t know what happened to him but it was a scary situation.
It got me to thinking about life, and death, and how I want to go out, if I ever do. I have NO plans to ever die, and I figure that all of my losing Megamillions lottery tickets must have some cosmic significance, and that my “lottery” winning will be 500 year life span here on earth. Or not. But if I do go out, I want it to be somewhere that is not a beauty salon, and I don’t want a stranger from next door holding my hand, unless she looks like Morgan Fairchild…
“John”, you had us all scared. I hope you made a full recovery.

Jackson C. Frank Remembered

2010-12-05T14:17:00.000-08:00

On March 31, 1954, gas fumes and coal dust buildup, a deadly brew if ever there was one, ignited, and a fireball flew down the corridor of a wooden annex attached to the main building at the Cleveland Hill School in Cheektowaga, New York, a suburb of Buffalo. In a room at the end of the annex, thirty one 6th graders were practicing their rhythm sticks. The door was open and the fireball blew into the room. Thirty minutes later the entire annex was burned to the ground. Fifteen students were dead and the rest were all burned in various degrees. The worst burned of these children was a boy named Jackson C. Frank. This is his story.
The fire had really done a number on young Jackson. His parathyroid glands, which regulate calcium in the body, had shut down, causing large amounts of calcium to settle in his joints instead of passing out of the body in the usual way. This resulted in a stiffening of his arms, legs, back and hips that was excruciating and permanent. Recovering from his injuries, young Jackson learned how to play the guitar, as part of his physical therapy, and he became quite proficient. He began to write songs.
In 1964, he received an insurance settlement of $80,000, a large amount for the time. He decided to take a trip to England to buy cars. While there, he began to make the rounds of the folk clubs where he had the good fortune to befriend a young American singer/songwriter named Paul Simon. Simon, just arrived on the scene himself, liked Jackson’s music so much that he brought him into a recording studio and recorded a full album’s worth of songs, including one called Blues Run the Game. Columbia-EMI Records released the album in August, 1965, and it quickly became known as a classic, and Jackson C. Frank’s future looked very promising.
Then, life happened. After a successful round of performing around Europe, Jackson began exhibiting unusual behavior, later diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, and soon found himself broke and unemployable, both causes for Her Majesty’s Government to send him back to the states, which they did.
Back in the US, Jackson settled into a mundane lifestyle, playing the odd gig, living in and out of psychiatric hospitals, but mostly hanging around the village green in Woodstock, New York. In 1983, he decided to take a bus to New York City to find Paul Simon and get some money from him. There he was picked up by city officials and periodically institutionalized, spending ten years, mostly on the streets but for short periods of time in places like Creedmore. It was a demoralizing existence.
It was at the end of his ten year stretch in New York that our paths crossed, when a mutual friend got a letter to me that Jackson had written to him, asking for help. Unable to do anything, he asked me if I was willing to try. I said yes.
A few days later I drove to New York and met Jackson. He was old, obese, crippled, and in pain. I made arrangements to get him the help he needed, got him out of the city, back to Woodstock, and to a near normal existence for a while until his ailments got to be too much for him, and he needed to be placed in a supervised situation. With help from old royalties due him from various musicians’ performances, his needs were met. A couple dozen new recordings emerged, whetting the appetites of a growing legion of fans, and by the year 1999, his last, he was a full fledged cult legend, his influence acknowledged by people like Paul Simon, Al Stewart, Counting Crows and Sandy Denny and many others .
We would play music together and I like to think his last years were happy ones. He died on March 3, 1999, of pneumonia.
The blues run the game, indeed.

Keep Away From My Junk

2010-11-29T14:44:00.001-08:00

“We have met the enemy, and he is us”---Walt Kelly, via Pogo
When those people who hijacked those planes nine and a half years ago flew them into those towers and got their misguided point across, they had no idea what they really had wrought. How could they have known that what they really were doing was planting a seed of paranoia that still grows at a fast and furious rate all these years later.
First, our knee-jerk reaction was, correctly, to attack al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, a move that our then-president apparently decided was too difficult, and instead opted for invading Iraq, a famously incorrect and ill-advised move that got rid of a despotic dictator who had no connection to the attacks of 9/11, trashed the infrastructure and centuries of antiquities of one of the great civilizations of the world, and did nothing to help our country get cheaper oil or gas, the prices of which actually rose by more than a little bit.
Then, we find out that the “war on terror” brought us the shameful news that certain agencies and public officials had made the decision that it was okay to use torture in special cases, such as those involving terror suspects. Well, you know something, folks? It’s NOT okay to torture another human being, no matter what they are, or have done. That was why the Geneva Conventions were created, to try to keep a very uncivil act---war---from being any more barbaric than it already is.
Those hijackers also probably didn’t know that they were going to make life very difficult for good, decent practitioners of their own religion, since the less intelligent denizens of the land have decided that it is okay to vilify an entire belief system based on the misdeeds of a relative handful of radicals. Well, folks, that’s NOT okay either.
And now we have the current Big Controversy: the intrusive and invasive tactics of the TSA at our airports. I never thought I would find myself agreeing with Tea Party members, or Republicans, or even Democrats. It appears that NO ONE wants to have their naked body seen by a total stranger in a remote location or be patted down or groped by a different total stranger in front of a line of fellow travelers, who are also strangers.
This latest issue is the one that comes across as something to protest, and that is because it has the possibility to affect them personally, unlike waterboarding, or being threatened or intimidated for wearing Muslim traditional clothing.
I want to fly safely as much as the next person. The stated purpose of the TSA is to prevent would-be terrorists from bringing weapons or explosives aboard. The tally of terrorists caught at the airports by these methods to date: zero. So, am I feeling safer because of this? No. These full body scans of old ladies and little kids are ineffective, a violation of privacy, and just are not necessary. This is where the remaining vestiges of common sense have flown out the window. A friend of mine who works for TSA in Greenville, S.C. told me of having to pat down a flier who set off the machine when she passed through it, necessitating a hands-on search, only to discover that the alarm was from the new artificial hips that the woman---Betty White by name---had recently had put in. To her credit, Ms. White was very cordial about it, but in truth, she never should have been patted down. Folks: it’s NOT okay to search Betty White! Or me. Or you.
A solution: bomb sniffing dogs. They cost about five thousand dollars each, which means that 40 dogs could be purchased for the cost of one body scanner. And dogs, which are used to great effect in Israel, can detect much more than those scanners can.
Let’s not be our own worst enemy, folks. We already have enough.

Thanksgiving...

2010-11-21T12:49:00.000-08:00

In some ways it is the greatest of holidays. Greater than Christmas, greater than Fourth of July, greater than any others. It’s not because of the big meal promised and enjoyed. It’s not because of the football games. It is because it is a day for us, as Americans, to take stock of what we have---no matter how meager---and give thanks. Doesn’t have to be to a god, doesn’t have to be to any person or entity. Just be thankful and grateful for what we have.
It is the last chance we have to give thanks before the orgy of consumption that immediately follows, and lasts until January. And when it is over, we walk away from the table and know we have work to do because taking stock also involves seeing what we don’t have, and where we need to fix the things that need fixing.
It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to happen overnight. But if we want it bad enough, it will happen.
We can change things. We don’t need presidents, senators, congressmen or politicians to do it for us, because time and time again they have let us down. Promises made give way to reality all too often, and every year it’s more of the same.
We don’t need them. We need us, and we need each other. We can make change. It doesn’t have to be as Americans, but just as citizens of the world. We have to get off our lazy backsides and get out there and do something. Taking charge of our own destinies is the only way that we can ensure that things will get done.
Being that it will be Thanksgiving, the first image that comes to mind is one of food. It is at this time of year that we often are made aware of the sad truth that in a world with enough food to feed every single human being on this planet, millions and millions of people go to bed hungry, including over 17 million children in this country alone. Proof that not everyone is created equal, despite what a piece of paper somewhere says.
It is time to change that. It is time to begin caring for and about each other. Being responsible for, and caring for others is the purest kind of love, and in recent years it seems that that love has vanished from the foreground. It’s time to change that. One of the great hypocrisies of the last century is this notion of being more holy, more Christian than the next guy and then acting in exact opposite ways. How some people can look at the misery of others, and not want to do something to help a fellow human being, especially when they have tremendous resources to do so, is beyond my level of comprehension. I hope it is also beyond yours too.
So, watch the football games, enjoy your lovely dinners with family and friends, and then go out and fix your country, and your world. Change things. For yourself, for your family, for your community.

America, America, Man Sheds His Waste on Thee

2010-11-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

We are living on this planet as if we had another one to go to.
— Terri Swearingen
Keep Our Butts Beautiful —Bumper Sticker seen in Jackson, Georgia

You people should be ashamed of yourselves. The guilty know who they are. Those of you who are not guilty, feel free to join me in chastising those who are, because this affects all of us.
I’m taking a break from healthcare and other political issues to focus on something that really hit me hard this week. While taking a little five mile walk between Jackson and Flovilla, training for a planned cross country trek next year, I noticed that there were an awful lot of soda bottles and cans in the ditches along Highways 87 and then 42. As I looked a little closer I could not believe the absolutely massive amounts of trash that people throw out of their cars and trucks, and it’s not just cans and bottles I am referring to, but the entire gamut of garbage. There were pieces of furniture, old baseballs, food, an entire rotisserie chicken, still in its bag, various birth control devices, (and on the other side of that topic several dirty diapers), syringes, little baggies that I hear are used for packaging marijuana (these must have blown in from Griffin, since I have it on good authority that no one in Jackson smokes the evil weed), various business signs that have toppled, rotted and were never re-erected, cups, plastic bags from stores that are not even in Butts County, medicine bottles, clothing, shoes, hats, auto parts, tools (thanks for the wrench, whoever threw it in the grass near American Woodmark), broken plastic pieces that could have been anything, and much more general refuse and junk.
It is understandable that on occasion napkins and pieces of paper will inadvertently blow out of a car window when a passing truck stirs up the air, but they usually break down when it rains. (A note to the state: those losing scratch-off lottery tickets need to be made of a less hearty paper—there were more of them blowing around than any other single item I saw). The junk I passed was deliberately tossed out.
I have also noticed many times that cars and trucks will pull up in store parking lots and even in front of restaurants, doors will open, fast food soda cups and containers and bags will be covertly deposited on the asphalt, while a trash can often sits feet away. Are we that lazy that we can’t be bothered to dispose of our refuse the proper way? I can’t count the times I have gone shopping, and in the store’s parking lot not seen at least one folded up and taped up dirty diaper. To me this is the nastiest act of all, and all I can say is, “You know who you are, and you are a pig.”
I realize that inmates from the prisons are trotted out every so often to clean up the garbage, but, in truth it is not their job to pick up after non-incarcerated slobs. It is the duty of every American, not just in Georgia, but everywhere, to be responsible citizens. That is what we allegedly teach our children in school and at home. What kind of example are we setting by opening the window and tossing our trash out on the highway? A dog won’t soil where it lives, but people do. Who is more evolved?
Beautiful Butts is beginning to look more like butt-ugly to me.

What a bunch of shit...

2010-11-12T16:38:00.000-08:00

This is a column about a word. It’s a word that I cannot put in the text of the column itself, but if I am worth my salt as a writer, I should be able to maneuver around that little barrier.
Many years ago, comedian/wordsmith George Carlin performed a routine called “The Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television.” The “heavy seven,” he called them. To be sure, four of them are indeed “heavy” by anyone’s standards, and would be considered vulgar by just about everyone. Of the other three, one of them, a synonym of “bosoms” is just plain crude. Another word, slang for being “ticked off, ” is actually in common usage on television these days and really isn’t what I would call a dirty word.
When WBAI radio in New York played the Carlin routine on the air in 1973, they were taken to task in a case that went all the way to the Supreme Court, where it was determined that the bit was, although indecent, not obscene. That decision lead to the current practice of allowing the use of certain words over the airwaves after a set time in the late evening. The heavy four mentioned above are out completely, but the “bosoms” synonym has been uttered a few times during prime time that I have heard, and the word for “ticked off” is all over the TV and radio, all the time.
Which brings me to my word. It is not what I would call a terribly pleasant word on its face. In fact, you wouldn’t want it on your face. It’s not, however, what I would call a dirty word. I have heard everyone from small children to one hundred old men use it. You, the reader, have used it, I can almost guarantee. Oh, sometimes you might drop your toast butter side down and say, “Shoot” but I can almost bet the farm that when you dropped the hammer on your toe, or slammed your finger in the door, it wasn’t “shoot” that you yelled. It was my word.
It’s not a sexual word, unless you are REALLY sick. It’s not anything that causes some kind of improper thoughts to form, nor is it a cruel word. When we hear something that we don’t agree with, we say, “That’s a lot of bull….” When we step in a pile of it, we often even say the word with two meanings in mind---one describing it and one of anger. Same word, two different uses. How bad can it be?
There is even a TV show on CBS called “$#*! My Dad Says”, starring William Shatner, who has been around a long time and who has appeared in some shows that are really a bunch of… well, you know. I’m not sure how the general public pronounces “$#*!” but I’m fairly certain the context leads them to say my word. I suspect that the use of it by CBS in their title is the first step to the word being more widely used, and that’s fine by me.
All kidding aside, words are just sounds we utter. Their meanings might make some of them objectionable, but my word isn’t one of them. I guess it’s a matter of “Freedom of Speech” as long as you don’t say certain words.
Well, shit.

Veteran's Day

2010-11-01T10:47:00.001-07:00

It’s coming up on Veteran’s Day. When I think of Veteran’s Day, my mind immediately goes to my father, Clement J. Abbott, who served for two years in Korea during that conflict in the early fifties. He came through it okay, didn’t suffer from any obvious signs of what is now called “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” but which was originally called “shellshock,” and went on to live a very productive, if somewhat short life.
I never talked about the Korean War with my dad, and he never offered up much information to me, or anyone. I guess war is something that is so awful that once you’ve been in one and make it out the other side, you tend to want to not bring it up if at all possible. Some things are best left buried.
That’s too bad, in a way. Sometimes terrible things need to be out there so everyone can see just how terrible they are. For instance, consider the case of our former Vice President. If Dick Cheney, who pushed President Bush hard to go into Iraq, had ever spent one second in combat, instead of applying for, and receiving five or six deferments, maybe the idea of sending young American men and women in to battle wouldn’t have been so appetizing. It kind of reminds me of that “reality show” Undercover Boss, where the heads of big companies take on the role of an employee for a while. They often learn pretty quickly that working in the trenches isn’t too appealing.
My dad got as far as the rank of Sergeant, with three stripes over one stripe. Since he died about 12 years ago I can’t ask him what he did in the war, but old photos that he took show a scene quite a bit like the set of MASH—a lot of tents and barracks in a valley, a lot of Army trucks and vehicles around, very dusty and sandy looking. There are also a bunch of photos of his buddies at some kind of club, apparently in Tokyo. Some of them have attractive young Asian ladies on their laps. I’m certain that the guys with the girls on their laps were the single ones, of course. Later, I wonder what they told their kids when they were asked ,”Daddy, what did you do in the war?”
Seriously though, and all politics aside, Veteran’s Day is a day to remember all the soldiers who fought for this country. I even think of the men and women who are overseas now, putting it all on the line for whatever cause their leaders have sent them over there to fight for. The politics of war are ugly, and often wrongheaded. War itself is ugly. In this world, you always hear about “survival of the fittest” and so on, and that as humans beings we are the most evolved and most successful of the primates because we have the ability to cooperate and get along and make concessions. We have these precious intellects that should make us smarter than we are, and one would hope that those intellects would allow us to be able to avoid ever firing a shot at another human being.
Until that day comes though, we still have men and women fighting for us, for their families and for their country. Honor them, as I do today.
Thank you for your service.

Some random stuff mostly about here in Georgia.

2010-10-30T11:59:00.000-07:00

Some random thoughts…
It’s a small wonder that things are the way they are in Georgia. The state brings in oodles and oodles of money through the oodles and oodles of Georgia Lottery games and tickets, cash that is earmarked for the educational coffers. Yet, the state continues to flounder in the bottom rankings nationwide when it comes to education, and teachers’ salaries. Low paying jobs and poor academics are a result. Where exactly is the money going? Some accountability might be nice, people!
Then comes this week’s election. As the late folk singer Phil Ochs once sang, back in 1969, “It was a used car dealer’s election and the choice was rather small.” Man alive! What the heck was that all about? I swear I almost heard campaign ads saying, “Candidate A is less corrupt than Candidate B, and thus deserves your vote!” It is indeed a sorry state of affairs and the future looks to be just more of the same. While I recognize that there seems to be a determined effort by the southern states to maintain a separate sense of identity, all of this rebellion against “Obamacare,” a “coulda been better but at least it’s a step in the right direction” law that was passed to at least ensure that some form of health insurance is available to all Americans, is counter-productive. Unless someone has a better idea of something that works and is practicable, (Actually Medicaid for all fits that bill, but it takes the blessed insurance companies out of the blessed equation, so it’s a no-go there) then all this swimming against the tide is going to do is make everybody tired.
Locally, nothing much has changed. We can now begin to put the final nail in the coffin of the Wal-Mart or no Wal-Mart discussion, since one is opening soon in Locust Grove, barely five miles from the Butts County line. It actually seems to be the smartest move for that company, since they’ll get spillover customers from Tanger Outlets and the other stores in that area, including a lot of traffic that stops by from Interstate 75. It doesn’t help Butts County much, but will offer some employment opportunities for those ambitious enough to drive the whole fifteen minute drive from Jackson.
Finally, I have to question some strange police behavior that I witnessed last week in the Third Street area near Bank of America, and near my own place of business. It was late afternoon, and a Georgia State Trooper, in one of those blue and orange sporty little numbers, was zooming out of the BOA lot with lights a’blazing. Five times I counted him blasting through the late day traffic and pulling vehicles over. After the fourth time in a half hour I hopped in my car and took Second Street down to Covington Street, where he had pulled over his latest victim in the United Bank parking lot. I pulled into the sandwich shop lot across the street and watched. He was talking to the driver and then left without ticketing him. Afterwards that driver pulled into the sandwich shop lot next to me so I inquired as to why he was pulled over. He told me that it was because his windows were, according to the officer, tinted too darkly, a charge he disputed.
The reason I question this police behavior is because with all of the crime that goes on in other areas and on the interstate, and because we have two very visible and constantly present police departments here in Jackson, it seems to be a big waste of taxpayer money for a state trooper to be killing time worrying about tinted windows, especially when he wasn’t issuing tickets. Better use of taxpayers’ money, especially in this day and age, is encouraged.

Eat healthy, Play Harder, Live Longer

2010-10-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

One of my first columns addressed the issue of physical fitness, something that seems to be lacking in a disturbingly large segment of the population, not only nationally but on a local level especially. It’s an issue worth revisiting, especially in light of a chance encounter that I had today at Fitness USA, where I work out most days about 90 minutes.
My workout consists of mainly the elliptical machine, a torture device if ever there was one. There are three of them in the gym and I usually use the first one, but this day it was occupied so I took the middle one. I glanced over at my neighbor, a man I figured to be roughly my age (50) that I see occasionally at the gym. I saw that he had been on the machine for about 25 minutes and was already nearing three miles, which is tremendous. I got started and tried to keep pace with him, but it was a huge struggle, and I am a longtime user of those machines. When his time was almost up, I looked at his numbers and congratulated him on his workout. That was when he informed me that that he had just turned 70 years of age, and that he usually aimed for seven miles in 70 minutes, the maximum time the machine allows. I’ve done the elliptical for two years and I’ve only been able to make it to seven miles twice, and just barely when I did. I told him he should be good for another fifty years at least. He shrugged that off and said that he needed to eat better to maximize his health. We talked a bit and he finished—made his seven miles with a few seconds to spare—and left. I soldiered on for another 30 minutes, all the while thinking about what he had said about eating better.
I’ve been conscious of diet for a while now and have noticed something as I make the rounds of grocery stores and gas stations locally---almost everything on the shelves is so loaded with crap that it’s not worth eating. All of the potato chips, candy, pastries, soda, processed meats, the fast food in every one of those places with a drive through window, etc. are poison, people. Look at the ingredient labels of everything you buy. Odds are that they will include high fructose corn syrup, a cheap sweetener that has been proven to trick your body into feeling like you are still hungry, so you eat more. Soda is full of the stuff, as well as caffeine, which is, as we all know, terribly addictive. Caffeine in its pure state is awful tasting stuff, so the decision to add it to soda couldn’t have been for flavor enhancement. Think maybe, just maybe, we’ve all been tricked into an addiction by clever advertising and an addictive chemical? Oh, no, those billion dollar soda companies wouldn’t do that, would they???
Those labels will also include other things almost as bad, and yet we just eat them and suffer the consequences later. It’s time to take action, on an individual level as well as a personal level. While it’s fine to enjoy a barbecue once in a while, there are a lot of folks in this country who enjoy a barbecue every day, and as I watch them waddle and jiggle down the sidewalks of this and other towns, huffing and puffing, I envision their overworked hearts, surrounded by masses of gross, yellow fat, ready to give out. How is this country going to compete in the global market if we all drop dead from obesity before we get to finish college?
Each week I read the obituaries and note how young so many of the deceased were when they passed. I know for certain one name I won’t see there anytime soon: Charlie Holloway, retired military man, who I chanced to meet at the gym today, and who inspired me to hit 7.1 miles for the first time ever. Mr. Holloway, I salute you!

What I Don't Like About Georgia ,Part one

2010-10-15T06:08:00.000-07:00

Several months ago a caller to Hello, Butts County left a message saying that it sounded like I don’t like the way things are in Georgia, and that everyone should chip in and buy me a one way ticket to Europe. I’m still waiting for that ticket.
As for how I feel about the way things are done in Georgia, the caller was absolutely correct. While I obviously like the state of Georgia (I do live here and make a living here) I don’t like a lot of what I see here. I see a state with a lot of problems in critical areas. In the “Smartest State “ nationwide rankings, Georgia comes in at a shameful 41st, joining several other southern states in the bottom ten. In the Forbes Magazine’s rankings of healthiest states, Georgia does even worse, coming in at number 43. So in health and education, it ain’t a pretty picture, folks. Can you begin to understand why I don’t like what I see in Georgia?
Did you know that Medicaid, a federal program regulated by the states, is only available in Georgia to people who make less than $14,000 annually? In Vermont, you can make as much as $42,000 and still qualify for Medicaid. This disparity is mostly because of the people you elect. The ones you keep electing in a rotation, year after year. They do the very best they can to represent themselves while the ship of state, with all its passengers, goes floundering around, lost at sea. They just do not care about your basic well-being. Another reason I don’t like the way things are done in Georgia.
As for education and all that follows: It’s a form of child abuse to shove kids through the school system, (a school system that should be one of the best based on the amount of money pumped into it by the state lottery) and then turn them loose with nothing to offer them. They emerge, blinking in the sunlight, with a sub-par education and are left to fend for themselves. The percentage of college bound high school graduates is low and the percentage of those who do go to college and don’t finish is abysmal, about 40 percent, or close to half. With an unemployment rate of ten percent, they end up doing menial tasks or take up a life of crime. I’m not sure that there is any relevance but a quick note here: a friend of mine moved to the Atlanta area. He has been here a few years now and recently told me that he can’t believe how senseless and violent the crime here is compared to where he is from. He is from the BRONX! Home of violent crime! Is this something that Georgians can be proud of??
Speaking of “pride” there is another issue I take umbrage with: the Confederate flags that I see a lot of people flying or stuck to the bumpers of their trucks. Never mind the racist insinuation of that flag in general but there is another aspect that is also disturbing. I hear a lot of Georgians calling themselves true “Americans “ while waving their Confederate flags around. Don’t they know that people who fought under that flag were traitors to the United States of America? They wanted out so bad that they made their own country. It is actually a form of treason to be flying that old rag. You can be southern and proud of it without that old relic. No real American wants to see it.
What I do want to see is the south that I heard about as a kid---hospitable and friendly, caring about each other, all sweet tea and gravy. I know it’s a fantasy but does it have to be such an impossible one?

My Daze at Schrade Cutlery

2010-10-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

My days as a bellhop at the Granit Hotel came to a sudden end one day for no good reason. Michael Hopson, one of the three owners of the hotel, would randomly fire younger staff on a whim. I recall an incident where bellhop Matt Harris, blue eyed and blonde, curly haired like myself from Napanoch, was summoned to Hopson's office to deliver an ice cream cone to him. When Matt presented the ice cream to Hopson, he did it with a flourish. Hopson, apparently without any kind of appreciation for the efforts of Matt to entertain, fired him on the spot. Later that same week I was sitting on duty on the stool at the bellhops desk when Hopson passed by. "I thought I fired you," he said. I said, No, I think you mean Matt Harris." He said, "Well, you're fired too."
Since Passover had just ended and it was very slow at the hotel, I didn't really care, so I collected my final paycheck and departed. I had been thinking about leaving anyway so it was no big deal to me, really. The very next day I went to Schrade Cutlery, located then at 30 Canal Street in Ellenville and applied for a job in the knife manufacturing business. I was accepted for a job that same day, after a brief interview. I was quickly led to my new area, given a pair of safety glasses and some gloves and give a short expanation of what I was going to be doing. I still can't believe that after all these years---32, in fact---I can recall almost everyone who worked in my department.
The supervisor was an elderly redneck kind of character named Leo Hansen, from Walden, New York. The assistant supervisor was Frank Ficsor, from Napanoch. Their job, and ours, was to take various blades and springs that were in basically almost the first stage of the process, having just been stamped out from large sheets of metal and heat treated by dipping them in molten lead pots in the department next to ours. My job was basically taking bunches of springs, which are the spine of a pocket knife, and grind them, in groups of ten, by hand, shining up one side of the spring and cutting down the amount of metal on them. Other jobs involved both hand sanding and machine cutting of both springs and blades. There were two women, Christine James and Barbara Waite, who worked all day just putting the blades and springs on pins and flattening the ends to hold them all on as a group. Eddie O'Dell was the porter whose job it was to bring finished boxes of product to the next department in the process. There were guys like Tony Garcia, Al Murdock, Jimmy Bruce, Vernon Stevens, Keith Hymes and a guy named John from Plattsburgh, New York, near where I was born. The work was hard and mostly was what is called "piecework," which meant that you got paid a certain amount for every hundred pieces you did. If a job paid seven dollars per hundred and you did two hundred in an hour then you made fourteen dollars an hour. It was always a battle to keep from making too much money because if you did it consistently you would get a visit from Beverly Buley, who would re-calculate the job and you would end up making less money per hundred. If you did that you risked making the other guys angry because it then meant that if a certain part was re-assessed too low it no longer had any appeal to them and was no longer a viable money maker. Frank Ficsor, even though he was technically management, did a remarkable job of making sure that no one got too out of hand with the money making aspects. It was acceptable to average around fifteen bucks an hour but if you got going too much more above that it would arounse suspicion and prices would go down. Frank Ficsor was a great boss, (he took over as supervisor after Leo retired, shortly after I came on board) in that he would let us get a head start on jobs, and if we did happen to have burned through several hundred pieces in an hour we could go take an extra long break outside, to let things even out a bit. The lead pot guys, mostly black, were usually outside in the sun cooling off from the heat of their department. I mention that they were black only because I am mentioning that on the side of one of their big machines they had a huge sticker that said, "THIS IS WALLACE COUNTRY" in reference to the racist Alabama governor. Funny stuff, funny guys, especially Lou Wright, who once replied to being called a spearchucker, "Hell no, I got me a rifle."
Across from our department was another one run by Bill Pomeroy, from Kerhonkson. His porter there was named Tom, and old Tom had a small and apparently side business going selling knives. To prevent theft the company made it very difficult to get one's hands on finished product. They did offer us a great price on knives but there were always some guys who still wanted to rip off the company and Tom was one of them. He's dead now and the place is out of business so I'm not getting anyone in trouble, but Tom used to sell finished knives by the handfulls to we fellow employees. He would make the rounds with his pushcart, taking orders secretly and by the end of the day you'd have your knife foe a pittance. I remember once Tom got caught by management. He was fired immediately and yet a month later was rehired because he had been there so long and knew his job so well that the company figured that the would just have him back and would keep a better eye on him.
My job was very physical. I began to notice that my fingers were becoming misshapen and hurt all the time. I spent a year and a half at Schrade. It was tough work, honest work, and as I write this all these years later it still is the toughest job Ive ever had. Were it not for the boring repetition and the fact that I was also teaching myself to be a musician as well, and my hands were becoming disfigured, I might have stayed on a little too long. I had had enough though and decided that I needed to move up in the world. I felt like I was wasting my intellect and needed to do something else. I left Schrade at the very end of 1979, after which my friends and I took a trip to Florida. When I returned in mid January, I started my first go-round at college.

Never Take Anything for Granit

2010-10-10T17:30:00.001-07:00

A mile from my house in Kerhonkson, a hotel beckoned. The Granit. A big resort, with all kinds of buses and limousines pulling up each weekend and people walking all over the place, taking in the country air, not to mention a little abuse from local drivers who felt that the roads were only for cars, not “city Jews” as they were often known, at least in some circles. I do recall an incident where a friend of mine was driving his Jeep, open top type as two ladies were stepping gingerly along the lane he was driving in. He stopped his Jeep. “Ladies,” he said, “do you see those power lines up there?” He gestured upward with a pointed finger. With question marks on their faces as they glanced upward they said, “Yes….” And with that he raised his volume and said, loudly, as he began to pull away, “That’s where they’re going to be pulling you down from if you keep walking in the middle of the road.”
I knew the Granit Hotel fairly well. As a child I used to ice skate there and occasionally would play tennis when guests weren’t using the courts. In 1975 when Chuck Wepner was training there to fight Muhammad Ali I was there every single day after school, and got to know Wepner, who was Sylvester Stallone’s inspiration for Rocky, on a first name basis, although he tended to call me “kid” more than “Jim”.
It would be the Granit Hotel that would be the locale for my second job, working as a bellhop. Our jobs were to meet guests as they came in, carry their luggage to their rooms, make sure they were comfortable and if necessary, provide room service if they called for anything that we were able to provide.
The manager of the bellman’s desk was a man named Jim Kroot. He wore bad suits and had been in the same job at a place in NYC called the Hotel New Yorker in Hell’s Kitchen. A nice guy with a perpetually confused look, he was easygoing and clueless about what his bell hops were doing half the time. At various times they were outside smoking weed or sneaking booze from the cabanas out near the pool.
The hotel in those days was run by three families---the Cohens, (Milton and his wife, whose name escapes me,) Michael Hopson and Henry Zabatta. Mrs. Cohen was in wheelchair for unknown reasons and would often be seen tooling along through the lobby chit-chatting with guests. Bellhops and staff were generally ignored with a purpose.
I recall an incident that could have ended in disaster. Bellhops and staff were allowed to eat dinner or lunch with leftover food from the kitchen after the guests had been served. One day, I was in the bellhop’s little office eating some chicken, rather greasy. I heard the bell ring out at the desk, and ran out, looking for a napkin or towel to wipe my very greasy hands on. It was Mrs. Cohen, who said, “I am late for my hair appointment and need help getting to the salon.”
The salon was about 50 feet away, but it was down a 4 or 5 step stairway and she needed me to hold the plastic handles on the chair and lower her down to the salon level. I frantically looked for a towel but couldn’t find a single thing with which to clean my hands. And when Mrs. Cohen said, “Now” she meant it. I gave up the quest for the towel and took Mrs. Cohen’s wheelchair by the handles and guided it towards the salon. So far so good. As we reached the steps she instructed me to just tilt the chair back a bit and hold tight to the handles as I lowered her, step by step. Each step brought a little more slippage of my hands from the chicken grease and by the next to last step I basically had no grip on her at all. She hit the bottom with a little bigger bump than she was used to. She looked at me pathetically as I apologized. I opened the door for her and she glided on in. I was done for the day so it was up to another bellhop to get her out of there later.
Occasionally things in life happen that we have no explanation for. What follows is one such occurrence.
I was still fairly new as a bellhop---no more than a month on the job. I was in the back room behind the bellman’s desk when Mr. Kroot called for me. I came out and there were customers, a man and his wife, mid-forties in age, waiting with their luggage. They had requested that “Jimmy” be their bellhop. Now, I had never seen these people before, so I’m still wondering all these years later how in the hell they knew my name or to ask for me. I grabbed their single, large suitcase and escorted them to their room.
Later that evening the phone rang. It was my friends who requested “Jimmy”. They needed a bag of ice in their room. A bag of ice was about a buck and a half or so. I grabbed the ice and headed up to the fifth floor where their room was. I knocked on the door and the husband’s voice called out for me to come on in. I opened the door, and there, directly in front of me on the bed, sat Mrs. Guest, naked as the day she was born, except for a see thru chiffon type garment. Mr. Guest was standing off to the side, with a smile on his face. I did a Ralph Kramden-esque “Humanahumanahumana” and as quickly as possible set the ice down and didn’t even wait for the money or my tip. Perhaps the sight of the rather attractive Mrs. Guest in her natural state was my tip. Later, when they left after the weekend was over they again requested me and tipped me a crisp twenty dollar bill for one suitcase. I don’t know how or why it all happened , but looking back, I treasure that moment as one of the strangest and coolest things that has ever happened to me.
My bellhop career lasted for several months until late spring of 1978, after Passover, when things died down and I decided to go for a real, adult job. I was going to be a knifemaker.

I was a Teenage Dishwasher At the Rainbow Diner. Were YOU???

2010-10-09T14:29:00.000-07:00

When I was 17 years old, my friend David Porsi got hired to work at a tool retail shop called Hershey Tools, owned by a nice man named Julius Herschowsky, in Kerhonkson, NY. His hiring there meant that he was going to leave his gig as a dishwasher at the Rainbow Diner, at the top of Kerhonkson Hill on Route 209. It was owned by an elderly couple, Ramona and Henry Bendell and was open 24 hours a day. I rushed over the two mile trek on my bicycle to the diner and met with the Bendells, telling them that I was a friend of Dave’s and that I was interested in the dishwashing job that was open. They hired me on the spot and told me I could start the next morning.
The next day I showed up at 6 AM and was introduced to the night cook, an older woman named Sarah, with a headful of black hair and a disdain for young dishwashers. The first hour of every morning was going to be hell, as a tired Sarah would go on a daily rant about the idiots who came in during the night, mostly truckers. I just gathered trays full of dishes and washed them, in three sinks—one for washing, one for rinsing and one for disinfecting. The silverware was done differently. It was placed in a galvanized bucket full of a very strong bleach and water solution and shaken vigorously in a rotating motion for about 30 turns, then dumped and refilled with hot water and disinfectant. Another 30 rotations and the silverware was deemed clean and sent out for use again. I was skeptical that the process worked but save for a few stubborn bits of eggs on some fork tines, they looked good.
At 7 AM Sarah’s replacement came in. Anna Pagliaroni was her name and she was a large jolly woman with a large family and even larger bunch of stories to tell. I enjoyed her immensely and discovered that I knew a son of hers, Tim, from school. Occasionally I would stay longer than Anna’s shift and would have to work with , and for, a cook who I will call only Ron. Ron would come in for the late afternoon and evening shift and was often fairly in his cups. Several times customers got their orders cooked by a 17 year old dishwasher, but since no one complained, I guess I did alright. My cue to take over was usually when Ron was so drunk that he would drop hamburgers on the floor right before replacing them on the buns and serving them. There was also a weekend cook named Don, a rotund man who lived alone and who later was discovered to be a pedophile.
We had a couple of waitresses there who were memorable, Sherry , a lovely woman, was one, and there was also Darlene. Sherry’s husband had been killed in a tragic fire several years earlier at the Pine Grove Resort Dude Ranch when the staff quarters caught on fire, killing him and others, to the best of my recollection.
I recall a customer of special note as well. The brother of legendary local State Trooper Doug Dymond, Dennis Dymond was somewhat impaired in some way. This was understood by all and not a factor as he went about his business, which included coming in for coffee every morning at the same time. In fact , you could set your watch by “Diner Dennis” as he was affectionately known.
Dishwashing being an “off the books” type of job, Mrs. Bendell, when it was paytime, would call me over to a little closet just off the kitchen area. In there, with her back to the outside world, she would carefully count out my small stipend for each week’s clean dishes. It was almost comical in the amount of secrecy she did the payment under.
The job went along fine until one winter morning, on Easter Sunday, when a rather large snowfall hit the area. I had been told to expect a busier than normal Sunday and that I should be there by 4 AM. Not having a car, and no way to ride a bike that far in the snow. I had to wait til the roads were cleared. I arrived at about 8 AM to find Donnie Williams, a local kid, already hired in my place. No amount of pleading could convince the Bendells to hire me back, so I wrote it off as a lousy job I wouldn’t miss and moved on to my next adventure: a bellhop at the Granit Hotel.

Last Thoughts on Kerhonkson

2010-10-05T17:32:00.000-07:00

As Kerhonkson slowly dies, it occurs to me that there are a couple of different courses of action that can be taken. One is to maintain the status quo. A friend of mine commented earlier that, in her opinion, and I agree with this, the blame falls mainly on the collective populace of the town. They might be making changes but at such a glacial pace that you can’t see it from outer space. I doubt adding a menu item at the Rainbow Diner counts for much….
The trouble is that, like in a bad marriage, people become accustomed to just getting through the day and that would appear to be the case here. A collective apathy, like much of what has stricken the country, is occurring on the local level, and unless someone makes the decision to step up and change things, they will remain the same.
And what is the current status of Kerhonkson? Of course, any comments about Kerhonkson must, by necessity, include Wawarsing, a section of Accord, Napanoch and Ellenville, since they are all at least part of the Town of Wawarsing, and ultimately anything administrative has to be approved by the Town Board in Ellenville, where the Town of Wawarsing government is housed. As I visited all four of those villages recently I was dismayed to see that the once busy former Jamesway, formerly Whites, formerly Grants, formerly Ames ( I think) Plaza looks like it is a radioactive “stay out zone” with what appears to be a flea market in its place. From a lifetime of experience I know that when a place reaches flea market status the body is almost cold…and they tend to look like flea markets, cheap, trashy garbage masquerading as merchandise once you can get the mildew smell out of it. It’s not funny, but the flea market/auction subculture is a strange cycle of buying and reselling that makes no sense but keeps a certain group of people busy. Years ago I worked for a couple of summers and winters with Vic Zolinksy at Trader Vic’s Napanoch Auction Barn. His faithful followers were buying the same items over and over, selling them to each other and then having Vic sell them again at the auction. A strange, probably unique American experience that would, if it wasn’t so pathetic, be funny.
So, I digress again. Kerhonkson is in the flea market stage. Same old crap every day, same unemployment, same ugly and abandoned buildings, same drug problems, same everything. Almost ready for a new bridge that connects…what?
Reader David Witkus had a great idea to turn what is left of Main Street into a type of culinary row, refurbishing or rebuilding the remaining buildings to house cooking schools for local teens. Free tuition as long as they promise or agree to operate restaurants on the street after they have graduated. Money certainly would be problematic (Where the HELL is all that tax money going????) but it’s possible that someone with the capital would be able to seize the moment and build something memorable. Heck, they could even name the thing after themselves: Schoonmaker Row, or Kortright Korner, or any number of well to do families who have a vested interest in keeping their hometown alive.
Another reader reminded me of the fact that there is another resort, Soyuzivka, on Foordmore Road. It caters to Ukrainians, but has been a thriving and good neighbor to the area. Maybe expanding the Ukrainian theme would help the town a bit--some shops and restaurants with a touch of Ukrainian heritage, perhaps? Down here in Georgia, there is a town called Helen, which has a Bavarian theme going on, amongst beautiful scenery, no more so than Kerhonkson, and the place does extremely well with tourists, especially during Oktoberfest time. The beer and bratwurst are great. Why not adopt something similar in Kerhonkson, playing up Minnewaska as aprt of the mountainous area.
Of course all of this is speculation. Previously I had floated the idea of a grand hotel being built on the mountaintop, but someone reminded me that a large section of the mountain was declared “forever wild” by the Town of Wawarsing. I don’t know if the area above Kerhonkson is part of that but I’m sure someone will tell me.
C’mon folks…let us put our heads together and figure out how to revive this lovely place before its too late.

The Kerhonkson Conumdrum: Death of a Village Pt 2

2010-10-04T14:26:00.000-07:00

In my last piece I recounted coming home to Kerhonkson after a long absence and finding out that it looked like parts of a third world nation. A friend commented: I believe that the problem Kerhonkson has always had exists in its residents, collectively. If the majority were so inclined to productively change their community - it could be done. For a plethora of reasons it has not been done, and currently if anything is being done...it remains at a snail’s pace. Your blog on Kerhonkson was, unfortunately, correct to a very large degree.
Well, I’m sad that she agrees with me, since she has been there through it all. But since it seems to be the consensus that the place is close to dead, what can be done to resurrect it? Too many blogs and even traditional media use their space to list and lament problems in an area but never come up with solutions. Let’s dare to be different here.
It’s obvious that the area itself has many strengths—it offers beautiful scenery, is a very large village if you realize that Kerhonkson itself runs from roughly the Lake Minnewaska entrance on Rt 44-55 all the way to Palentown Poad and the former Peg Leg Bates Resort, now owned and operated by another group of people. That is a distance of 15 or 16 miles, plus it runs from Wawarsing to Accord, another 5 or so miles on Rt. 209. It’s a big area, and the mountains, especially the Shawangunk Mountain that Minnewaska is part of and the ridge along its top that runs to Ellenville, along which were the old shacks and huts that housed the denizens of the huckleberry industry of days of old, offer a great resource if rules and regulations can be moderated to accommodate some sort of industry or business up there. Years ago Marriott wanted to put a hotel at Lake Minnewaska. That idea was voted/shouted down. So why not move the site of a nice big hotel to the very top of the mountain, among the scrub pines and granite, keeping it as environmentally friendly as possible, accessible from Rock Haven Road near 44-55? The place could be called Mountain Top Hotel, and if landscaped properly and new, "green" methods of waste disposal were handled in an intelligent way, it could be a huge boon to the area, offering jobs and bringing sorely needed money into the local economy. And who knows what it might lead to?
Local farm stands are another example. The most beautiful and prosperous of these is definitely Saunderskill Farms in Accord, but others are doing well and there is room for more, especially in the Kerhonkson area. Burd Farms on 209 has a nice little stand but it could be bigger and offer more produce and baked goods. Other small, roadside shops and markets of specialty items like maple syrup, arts and crafts (local, not mass produced crap)and more. Look at Woodstock for an example, with a few constraints. Woodstock is Woodstock. Kerhonkson is Kerhonkson. There's a great creek that runs through town. Make use of it! Put a nice restaurant over looking the water somewhere. Clear the crappy looking old trees and woods and open it up. People will come, industry or no industry.
Another suggestion is to play up the fresh water that the area produces. I recently brought back a few bottles of out of the ground pure goodness from Upper Cherrytown Road. Someone shold bottle this stuff for the tourist trade. Doesn't have to be a huge production, but water that pure can get top dollar as a specialty item for tourists. Nice bottle, fancy label, sell it in town, and a lot of cash will flow like that water. People come to the Catskills for the scenery. Let's give them a show. (Of course we don’t tell the tourists exactly where the water comes from---can’t let that cat out of the bag, cuz it needs to be left alone for the locals who already drink it).
C’mon, people. A few of you read this blog, and more read my facebook page. Gimme more ideas so I can submit them to the proper authorities. There is no need for all of this to get bogged down in beaureaucratic red tape, as I’m sure it will, per the usual way of things getting not done in Kerhonkson, but for the town’s sake, let’s try.

Better to burn out than to fade away: Kerhonkson, New York is a dying place...

2010-10-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

I went home this week. To Kerhonkson, New York, a small town in the Hudson Valley in the fringes of the Catskill Mountains. It is, sadly, a town that is as sick and dying as a town can be without being called a “ghost town” and that’s a shame.
I grew up there. When my family moved south in 1968 from Brainardsville, NY, an even smaller town on the northern edge of the Adirondack Mountains, we were excited. Kerhonkson was exciting. It was bigger, more lively, and had a cast of characters that would rival those anywhere. The Granit Hotel was a mile from my house and was one of the few of the Catskills hotels still thriving, and had a great set of tennis courts and stuff to do. Ten miles up Samsonville Road, Peg Leg Bates ran a country club that everyone was welcome to but that catered mostly to blacks. It was not unusual to see 30 to 40 chartered busloads of folks up from New York for a great weekend of good food and entertainment. Jobs were readily available in the hotels and in nearby Ellenville, where other hotels like the Nevele and the Fallsview stood. The famous Schrade Cutlery knife factory was running on Canal Street and Channel Master and VAW were right up the street. In Napanoch, a mile north of Ellenville, the Eastern New York Correctional Facility, formerly an institution for juveniles with behavioral problems, employed hundreds of corrections officers.
In Kerhonkson, there were many stores and shops to check out. There were Aversano’s, Lipton’s, and Lytwyn’s, (later Sirico’s) Markets for food shopping, Marty Shuster’s Pharmacy, and much more. The Cassino Restaurant was open and busy, as was the Rainbow Diner run by Henry and Ramona Bendell. Nick Previll’s Shell Station offered good service. Tom Gewant sold Fords at his dealership and the mechanics around town were all mostly reliable. It was a pretty typical small town in a nice section of the state of New York, and a good place to live.
Kerhonkson, if you’ve never been there, is located on Route 209 as it runs north and south from the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge on the Hudson River to parts south and ends (I think) in Pennsylvania. The Rainbow Diner, Aversano’s and other businesses were located on 209 and there is a street called Old Minnewaska Trail that runs perpendicular to 209 and off of which runs Main Street, just over a steel bridge that spans the Rondout Creek. Main Street housed the Fire House, the Post Office and several more shops and markets, as well as McGillicuddy’s Tavern and a bunch of apartment buildings. It wasn’t a wealthy town by any stretch of the imagination but it was a happy place to live and things were good.
There were many characters around town and the surrounding hills. Up on Shawangunk Drive, Fletcher, Earl and Nellie Mae VanWagener lived in a small house together—siblings, they were born in the house and would eventually die in the house. Nellie Mae would be the last to go, a tough mountain woman who chopped her own firewood, shingled her own roof and took no crap from anyone. In her bedroom closet she kept a rifle hidden in a cardboard tube. And she wasn’t afraid to shoot first and ask questions later. She had been a part of the once flourishing blueberry picking industry that existed on the mountain that stretched from Kerhonkson to Ellenville. She would eventually die alone in her small ramshackle house, with dozens of cats running rampant inside and out, stubborn to the end. A fall had broken her hip and because she had refused to wear a life alert button that friends had acquired for her, she was unable to call for help. She died a terrible death in the same house that she was born in. She was cremated by the county, having died intestate, and her ashes were spread around her beloved property by myself and a woman named Donna Spano, who had also looked in on Nellie once in a while, as I had, frequently having to take her shopping when her old car finally died and she couldn’t afford another one. At one point Nellie, who was on a limited income, complained that her light bill had approached six hundred dollars the previous month and she wasn’t able to pay it. She usually had a bill of around thirty five dollars, using very little electricity, but it had spiked for an unknown reason for a month and she was worried about how to pay for it. I called Central Hudson and when they looked back through her records noted to me that she had not missed a payment or been even late with one since 1948. And they couldn’t help her. I think eventually they relented whe nit was discovered that her freezer had gone wacky and was burning up the juice at a furious rate. Donna (or I) made arrangements for a used but good fridge/freezer combo to be delivered to her at no charge.
Jigs Crose was another character. I only met him once and have a vague memory of that encounter but he was famous around town for his ability (?) to chew and eat a shotglass with no obvious ill effects.
Another guy I recall from my childhood was a mentally challenged man named Art Decker, who dressed like a hillbilly and rode a very old bicycle around town all the time. He usually had drool on his mouth and didn’t smell too great, and little girls were warned to stay away from him. I write this cautiously, not wanting to libel the man, but it was a concern in our circle of families and friends,
Other people and events are recounted in a nice new book called Closed Until Further Notice , written by a local author and resident Art Stockin. More a memoir and recollection of a lot of the author’s acquaintances than a history of the village itself, it is nonetheless a very interesting look at the area and its people. Proceeds from it go to help rebuild the village.
Kerhonkson is a tough place to describe in a brief piece like this one, but if one word could do it, for me it would be “home.”
And when I recently visited Kerhonkson again this past week after a 4 year absence, I felt the pain from a double edged sword through my heart when I saw not only the decrepit state of my old house on Foordmore Road, but Kerhonkson itself. The bridge connecting Main Street to the rest of the town had been torn down and is finally in the last stages of being rebuilt. During its absence the fire department has had to take long detours just to get to short, as the crow flies, distances away. Main Street now consists of three buildings, the rest having been torn down. The Granit Hotel had been sold to a Korean concern and is now the Hudson Valley Resort and is facing serious financial problems, leaving it, along with the former Peg Leg Bates Resort and the Pine Grove Resort Ranch, a “dude ranch” for city folks who want to ride horses and get a little country in them, as the last functioning resorts in the area.
The job market in the area now consists mostly of corrections officers and yard sales. I know it’s an exaggeration but folks, there ain’t much there. Channel Master left town long ago. Schrade Cutlery, which employed hundreds, went out of business several years ago, as did VAW. The Nevele and Fallsview Hotels finally folded, the last of the famous Catskills Borscht Belt hotles to fall, although up in Sullivan County a few still hang on.
I guess as long as there are criminals the prisons will always need guards, but what does it mean when guarding bad guys is the cottage industry of a region? I used to think that we shouldn’t be spending money to build more prisons all the time but it also occurs to me that as a society we keep producing criminals so as a society it is our responsibility to keep them off the streets and focus on producing more good citizens. Better schools plus better parenting equals better people equals less need for prisons.
But I digress.
So my hometown is dying. It’s a sad but true commentary that nothing lasts forever but dammit, it’s a vital and lovely place and can’t be left to rot. Post 9/11 incursions of city folks changed the face of the area forever with their big city money. Houses that once were selling for $80,000 all of a sudden became half million dollar homes as asking prices, usually a place to start as you bargained it down, became starting points in bidding wars for the wealthy who wanted out of the city. The tax base shot up at record speed and only the wealthiest locals could keep up. Here’s an eye opener: A friend in Rosendale, NY, about 10 miles away, has a small house on .18 of an acre. She and her husband pay around 4200 bucks annually in taxes. That’s like adding 350 bucks a month extra to your rent or mortgage payment. Down here in Georgia another friend has a big house, on a lake with 8 acres, and pays about 1200 dollars a year in taxes. The job situation here in the south is pretty dire, but at least the taxes aren’t criminally high.
So I went home. I’m glad I did. And I’m sad that I did. I often harbor thoughts of moving back but to what? I guess time will tell.

The Dumbing Down of America

2010-10-01T16:07:00.001-07:00

George Carlin once did a bit about the corporate control of America and how those corporations own everything, including the schools. He concluded that the reason that education in this country is so inferior to other countries is because the powers that be don’t want a citizenry that can think for itself and make informed decisions about anything other than what to have for lunch on any given day. And he may be right.
As I walk around town, not just here in Georgia, but even back in my hometown of Kerhonkson, New York, (a small town the size of Jackson) where I just visited this week, I see signs, literally and figuratively, that are disturbing,. The very basics of our educational system are falling by the wayside and it’s something that needs to be corrected immediately. I’m talking about our rapidly failing ability to read and write properly. It’s everywhere.
A friend recently put an ad in her local paper in north Georgia. She was looking for a job, and phrased the ad that way. She also gave her qualifications and described her “skill set” and left her phone number in the ad. Calls started coming in….from people who did not read the ad properly and who were looking for a job, not offering one. It happens all the time.
Another friend recently took on the task of reading and rating entries in a youth writing challenge sponsored by Positive Impact Magazine. The contest is open to school children of all ages. To her dismay, she discovered that the best writing came from children in grades four through six, and that they wrote on a higher level than the average high school student. It’s just one person’s observation, but it is indicative of a greater problem that has helped drop this country’s status in the world rankings further and futher down the list. This country is getting dumber. Why is that?
I was a school teacher for six years. I taught all subjects, but the one I stressed and focused on most was reading. If you never learn another subject, you must learn to read. Reading, and writing, are the keys that open all doors. Don’t know how to make an apple pie? Read the recipe. Don’t know when the Civil War was? Get a book and READ.
And write. The simplest errors are often the ones that stand out the most. As a writer, when I see a sign that says, “Puppie’s for sale” or “free kitten’s,” I cringe. Folks, apostrophes are possessive, as, “The puppies are Larry’s. ” It’s a small error but just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the dumbing down of America. When the signs say, “Puppy’s for sale,” then I get even more worried.
In an era where everyone has a blog and technology and internet use has increased a million-fold, lazy habits become more and more commonplace. “Texting” has created a whole new language, adding to the mess. Audio books have reduced the number of actual books read, and the country as a whole seems to be dumbing down and getting lazier. In the meantime, our competition in the world market seem to be sharpening their collective axes and are just waiting for us to get to the point where they can chop our heads off and take over as the dominant world power, if they have not already.
It’s not a simple solution to regain our position as a world superpower overnight , but learning the basics all over again would be a good start. Readin’ and writin’ people! Do it!

A Man of Character, Who Knocked Me on my Ass

2010-09-17T12:38:00.000-07:00

I stood in a boxing ring for the very first time. I was wearing a plastic mouthpiece, headgear that made me feel like a pilot in a jet plane and big, pillowy gloves, inside of which were a pair of shaking hands wrapped in gauze and tape. The guy on the other side of the ring, wearing no headgear but the same big sparring gloves, asked me if I was ready. I nodded my head and he said, in a much louder voice, “Time!” And we started our dance.
Although the next short bit of time seemed like an eternity, I’m pretty certain that only about 60 seconds elapsed. The man kept telling me to jab, jab, jab. I jab, jab, jabbed, connecting with his bobbing head a few times, eliciting a “nice shot” response once or twice. He jabbed back, connecting more frequently, eliciting only grunts from me, and a few wild jabs back in self-defense. When one of my wild jabs connected pretty good, he turned up the heat and in a few seconds a shot to my solar plexus had me on the canvas, sucking wind and wondering, humorously, if death was around the corner. Time!, the voice said again. A minute later, once I had regained my wind, a gloved hand reached down and helped me to my feet, where I was wobbly but no worse for the wear.
“Nice job, “ said Floyd Patterson, who only a year and a half earlier had retired from his own boxing career after losing for the second time to Muhammad Ali, and who had just knocked me down. “I laid it on you a little to see if you’d turn away but you hung in there. There’s hope…” he said, laughing a little.
And so my boxing career began, and I faithfully visited Floyd’s house and gym almost every day for about a year, until a cyst in my wrist became too large and painful, and I stopped.
Floyd Patterson was one of those rare human beings who dragged himself up from a bad childhood and made himself, through sheer willpower, into a two time heavyweight champion, although he was the size of a light heavyweight. After his retirement, he opened up his training center (a three story barn on his property in New Paltz, NY, 12 miles from my house) to local kids, where he let them come every weekday and train, work out and spar, often with him. The charge for all of this expertise and experience: 20 bucks a month to help heat the barn. Countless young people came through Floyd’s barn, and many of them went on to have respectable careers in the pugilistic world, while others continued their own paths. I can say that, good or bad, their experience at Floyd’s was only beneficial. Life is all about choices, and Floyd Patterson equipped many young people with the skills and character that they needed to be able to make good choices.
As brutal and as savage as the idea of beating people up is, there is a certain dignity, decorum and class to boxing that mixed martial arts will never have. Floyd Patterson personified all three of those qualities, and it was an honor to be knocked down and later trained by him. Many, many years later, I stopped by his house, after not having seen him in 20 plus years (and I didn’t delude myself that he even knew my name---just called me “kid” back then) to get an autograph for a friend. It was 11AM and Floyd answered the door himself. It had been rumored that he was slipping mentally, but he invited me in, asked me right away how my wrist was, and signed a photo for my friend, a standard boxing pose. When I thanked him, he said, “You want one too?” He rummaged through his briefcase, found a great shot of himself landing a flying hook on the great Ali back in 1975, and said, “This is my last one.” And signed it, without ever asking my name, “To Jim Abbott, from your friend, Floyd Patterson.”

Lying For A living

2010-09-10T06:55:00.000-07:00

The date was November, 2001. It was roughly two months after the attacks on the World Trade Center and I was going to do something I had never done before: I was going to audition for something. I was gonna try to get into a class on the art of acting.
The class was to be called “Lying For a Living” and was to be conducted in Los Angeles by the late and great Marlon Brando. The name of the class echoed what Brando had referred to his profession in an interview years earlier. Auditions for the classes, which were free, and which would feature guest instructors, big names from the film world, had been announced in a small item in the New York Daily News that same morning. They were being held at an off-off Broadway theater in lower Manhattan. I was visiting friends in Brooklyn, so it was only a 30 minute subway ride into the city.
It was a cold and wet day, the kind of cold and damp that penetrates to the bone. When I arrived the line went nearly around the block, with all sizes and shapes of future thespian hopefuls talking acting techniques and practicing soliloquies. It was interesting watching them all, since I had no experience at all in any kind of performance, except for a chorale gig as a small kid in school, where I soloed on “Edelweis” in front of a hall full of patient parents. As I stood quietly, I began to lose patience, and body heat. I Was not alone and after a while the recitations stopped and the slightly annoyed tones of voice began to get more annoyed. The doors were supposed to open at 11AM but it was nearing noon when the first applicants were allowed in. Once inside, we were obliged to fill out several pages of short autobiographical info, given a number and made to wait. As we were only allowed in three at a time, and were kept inside of a lobby, it was a mystery as to what was going on beyond the door that, one at a time, we were herded like lambs to an uncertain future.
I entered the door. Bright lights glared, and the unmistakable sounds of an audience were present through the lights and the nerves. I was also aware that a video camera was mounted on a tripod and pointed in my general direction, and that there was a man behind it. The more interesting man, though, was sitting in a cheap lawn chair, decked out with full beard and turban and looking for all the world like Osama Bin Laden, complete with a small American flag poking out of his turban. Two months post-9/11, I should have been offended but due to nerves was more confused than angry. I stared at him.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, in a British accent. I stammered some kind of dumb remark, which he ignored. He shook my hand, introduced himself to me as Tony Kaye, (director of the classic film American History X) and we were off. He asked me what special talents I possessed. I told him I played guitar, and within seconds a cheap Yamaha acoustic guitar was in my hands. Kaye told me that he wanted me to play a song. I thought, “This is gonna be easy,” since I am proficient on the guitar, until he said, and the lyrics to the song are, “Marlon Brando ate my car.” Those were the only words. My frozen hands weren’t as limber as they usually are but I began to fingerpick a folksy sounding pattern, and started singing the one line that he had provided me, changing the melody for each line, until he finally told me to stop. From the darkness there was a loud burst of applause from about 30 people who were sitting watching, unseen. Thirty seconds later I was out the door and back out on the street, shellshocked.
In the end, Brando didn’t use anyone from the auditions for his classes. He picked random passerby off the streets and that was that. Kaye’s video of the auditions and the classes is tied up in legal wrangling and might never see the light of day.
Weirdest day of my life, and one of the most fun.

Carlin's American Dream

2010-08-23T16:04:00.000-07:00

I recently saw a video of a 3 minute bit by the late, great George Carlin. Being George Carlin, the language was too salty for a public newspaper, so I have done a bit of editing and have cleaned it up for publication. Since no one could say it better, the Man himself should have the last word. Here is what he had to say about the American Dream…
There’s a reason education stinks, and it’s the same reason that it will never be fixed. It’s never going to get any better, don’t look for it, be happy with what you’ve got , because the owners of this country don’t want that --- I’m talking about the real owners now, the big wealthy business interests that control things and make all the important decisions. Forget the politicians. They are irrelevant. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. You don’t. You have no choice! You have OWNERS! They own you. They own everything. They own all the important land. They own and control the corporations. They’ve long since bought and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the state houses, the city halls, they got the judges in their back pockets and they own all the big media companies, so they control just about all of the news and information you get to hear. They spend billions of dollars every year lobbying to get what they want. Well, we know what they want. They want more for themselves and less for everybody else, but I’ll tell you what they don’t want. They don’t want a population of well informed, well educated people capable of critical thinking. They’re not interested in that because that doesn’t help them. That’s against their interests. That’s right. They don’t want people who are smart enough to sit around a kitchen table and think about how badly they’re getting railroaded by a system that threw them overboard thirty years ago. They don’t want that! You know what they want? They want obedient workers, people who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork, and who are just dumb enough to passively accept all these increasingly lousy jobs with lower pay, longer hours, reduced benefits, the end of overtime and a vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it, and now they’re coming for your Social Security , your retirement money. They want it back so they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street, and you know something? They’ll get it, sooner or later because they own this stinking place! It’s a big club, and you’re’re not in it! By the way, it’s the same big club they use to beat you over the head with all day long when they tell you what to believe, what to think and what to buy. The table has tilted, folks. The game is rigged and nobody seems to notice. Nobody seems to care! White collar, blue collar, it doesn’t matter what color shirt you have on. Good honest hard-working people of modest means continue to elect these rich pigs who don’t give a crap about you. They don’t care about you at all and nobody seems to notice. Nobody seems to care. That’s what the owners count on. The fact that Americans will probably remain willfully ignorant of the way they are being shafted everyday, because the owners of this country know the truth. It’s called the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it.
Right on target, George. Rest in Peace.

Time to Get Rid of all Religions

2010-08-18T02:56:00.001-07:00

The recent debate (?) over the proposed building of a mosque near Ground Zero in New York has brought out the very worst in people, and has also revealed the blatant and utter hypocrisy , a word that seems to be very apropos down here in the south when I listen to private conversations among my church going acquaintances. Too much fried food has apparently blocked the arteries and blurred the memories of all of the mosque’s detractors. So I will remind them here of this basic first truth in the history of this country (a country in fact stolen by Europeans, but that’s another column): the Pilgrims left England and came over to the New World for one reason: freedom of religion. The United States was created by these people and the right to practice the religion of their choice is guaranteed in the very constitution that so many use to defend their right to own those silly guns that you keep in their sock drawers, and that allows them to say just about any nutty thing they want to about our duly elected president, without fear of repercussion.
Apparently freedom of religion doesn’t include Muslims. The men who flew those planes into the World Trade Center happened to be Muslims. So are Muhammad Ali, Yusuf Islam (formerly Cat Stevens, composer of Peace Train)and many other men and women of dignity and peace. Should we wish death and destruction on them as well? This anti-Muslim hysteria is just the latest episode in the never ceasing battle between religious factions. My god is better than your god, or this religion is a gutter religion, or this holy book calls for the death of this group of people. It’s time to say it:
Organized religions need to go. Plainly and simply they have caused, or have been the reason for most of the wars in this world’s history and have been responsible for more deaths than in these wars than any naturally occurring disease. Every single one of them is the creation of human beings with their own agendas. Christianity? It wasn’t even started by Jesus, whose existence historically is dubious, but by a group of people who heard a legend and decided to run with it. Islam was based on the teachings of a man named Mohammed. Mormonism? Look up the story of Joseph Smith and decide for yourself. The Jewish religion, 4000 years old, began as more of a unity of a culture whose entire civilization were enslaved. The point is that not one of these religions was created by God, but by people, and because of the problems they have caused, they all should go.
I’m not religious. I don’t believe a word of it, to be honest, and without having a dog in this fight can only offer up a question for you to ponder, and I hope you do. If there is a god, and if you believe that that god created you and knows your every thought, then why do you need to have religions? What is the purpose of a church? Great place for bake sales, admittedly, but not much else. Any tenet you may have with a god, real or unreal, is between you and him. Some human being wrote the following: “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. “ Wise words for all people , whoever really said them. Much better and certainly truer to the spirit of God that so many of you worship than “Kill all the Muslims.”
You are your own religion. Believe in yourself and your family. And may the senseless wars cease.

A Tale of Two Women

2010-08-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

This is a tale of two women. They share two things in common: they both have long hair, and they are both from Butts County. That’s where the resemblance stops.
Their names don’t matter. For obvious legal reasons, I can’t use their real names, but I will call one woman Ms. Jones and the other Ms. Smith. They are both real people and are both, to a degree, friends of mine.
I’ll start with Ms. Smith. She grew up almost literally dirt poor, surrounded by the rusting metal hunks of trailer park homes and the constant odor of cigarettes, booze and decay. She is not traditionally pretty, and her teeth are less than perfect—far less, in fact. Her parents were both alcoholics and her mother bears the telltale “chicken lady” appearance that chronic crystal meth users develop, toothless, thin and gaunt. Her father works for a local contractor when he can, but her mother wanders the streets, back and forth to the local store for smokes and booze. A pretty depressing world, and young Ms. Smith could hardly be blamed for falling into a cycle of alcoholism and addiction, given the role models she had at home. The poor girl hardly stood a chance.
Ms. Jones, on the other hand, grew up in a nice home. Pretty—extremely pretty, in fact, she had her choice of careers, and of who she dated. She found a guy she really liked and soon found herself pregnant with what would turn out to be a beautiful child. She also found herself in college, studying hard in pursuit of what can only be described as one of the most noble of professions. Degree in hand she achieved her goal when she was hired at a nearby school as a teacher and shaper of young minds. Her life was set.
Ms. Smith, on the other hand, had it rough. With her poor background, and imperfect appearance, the best she could do was a minimum wage gig at a local convenience store, where what money she did make was then taken by her parents for their vices. Then ownership of the place changed hands and soon Ms. Smith, who had been doing a surprisingly good job, was out of work.
Then life pulled one of its nasty little tricks. While Ms. Smith was being let go from the only job she had ever had, Ms. Jones, well paid educator, with a bright future, nice car and house, made the decision that she just had to try crystal meth. Just one time. One auto accident and charges of erratic behavior later, all of a sudden Ms. Jones found herself out of a job and with a sick craving for a drug that would soon leave her not only selling her child’s toys and computer for meth money, but frantically looking for hair products that would fool DFCS when they tested her hair for signs of meth use. Her good looks were beginning to fade. Her child had been taken away. Then earlier this summer she was arrested at a roadblock for possession with intent to distribute a large amount of crystal meth. Life in the gutter, life in the trash, life almost over.
Ms. Smith, on the other hand, took the high road and moved out of her addicted, leeching parents’ trailer and in with good relatives in a neighboring county. She never did fall into the vicious cycle of addiction. Instead,she showed what true character is all about: she found another job, met a nice young man and is thriving. Things are good.
Isn’t life funny that way?

2010-08-05T10:19:00.001-07:00

It’s 7:00 AM in Jackson. I drive down Third Street on my way back home after a good, early morning workout at Jake Hiett’s Fitness USA gym on Covington Street. I see a few like-minded people---there is a tall, older white man in jogging shorts and a tee shirt, walking briskly down the sidewalk near the CVS. As I approach the Piggly Wiggly an older black woman is also walking briskly, listening to music on some kind of portable device. At least we middle aged to older folks know that a good walk gets the blood pumping and makes us ready for the day ahead. Oh, the young ones will find out soon enough….
There are also others walking around—lost souls, burned out from too much booze or drugs the night before are slowly pacing the same sidewalks as the walkers getting their exercise. Opposite ends of the spectrum but still all part of the same community.
Even though it’s just seven in the morning there are already two cars being worked on at Chuck’s Tires, and a lot of people are coming in and out of the “Pig.” Jackson is busy early. It’s the same story in other small towns and cities---working people trying to make the rent. And trusting our leaders to lead us the way we deserve to be led.
Almost two years ago this country elected a president who had more promise and potential than any president in recent memory—maybe since the days of John F. Kennedy. He was preceded by a man who managed to almost overnight make this country the laughing stock of the world. Now our new president has a tremendous job to do making our country respectable again, but he has had to battle untold forces within his own country, a Republican party who seem lie with every breath and whose members seem determined to drag this country back to the stone age. He has handled his job fairly well, certainly much better than his predecessor, and while not perfect, has certainly done an admirable job of winding his way through the mess he was left to clean up. A house can be torn down in minutes but takes much longer to rebuild. So it goes with countries. These things take time, sometimes lots of it, and you have to spend money to do these things.
I read a lot of magazines and online newspapers and watch a lot of news reports. I see political leaders and hopefuls here in Georgia spouting silliness on television about how they will turn down any stimulus money headed for Georgia, or they will proudly exclaim that they will protect Georgians from the dreaded “Obamacare” and other programs designed to help the average American. In the next breath they will say that the economy here in Georgia hasn’t improved. You can’t have it both ways, folks. The federal government isn’t going to force feed its medicine to little Georgia, like a mother has to with a child’s cough syrup. If your leaders are shortsighted to the point of wanting to cut off YOUR nose to spite your face, it’s up to you to find leaders who have vision and who really want what is best for all of you. A governor who goes to Dubai looking to bring jobs to Georgia (and only manages to secure up to 300 high-paying jobs over the course of a ten year period) is really just looking for a nice vacation. Thirty jobs a year? C’mon, Sonny. Leave already.
Back in Jackson, a truck from Dave’s Corner Lot rolls by with a customer’s car in tow. Hard working people, dealing with the cards, or cars, they have been dealt. I hope for all our sakes we get a better hand soon…..

My Confession to an unsolved crime.....

2010-07-17T07:39:00.000-07:00

Keeping it real: I once committed a crime. I’m here to confess. Here’s what happened…
Recently the literary world lost an icon with the passing of Jerome David (J.D.) Salinger. If you went to high school in this country you almost were forced to read his classic novel of teenage disillusionment, The Catcher in the Rye, featuring the anti-hero Holden Caulfield. After huge praise was heaped on Salinger for writing what many call the great American novel, he retreated into the shadows, shunning celebrity and all its trappings and rarely appearing in public. His reputation as a recluse and hermit gradually grew to epic proportions and he became almost legendary for his ability to avoid being photographed.
Ever the seeker of unusual things to do, I decided I would try to get a picture of the elusive author. I figured that it would be relatively simple to find him—Cornish, New Hampshire, where he lived, is a small New England town and how hard could it be to find one house? I drove across the bridge over the river that separates Cornish from Windsor, Vermont and made my way to the Cornish Town Hall, where I could just take a look at the tax records for the area and would get the address. A nice man in the assessor’s office asked me why I was there and when I told him he said the following, slowly and deliberately: “When someone pulls into Mr. Salinger’s driveway, there are two people in town who know about it…Mr. Salinger and myself. I’m also the police chief. I’m not going to help you. Do not bother Mr.Salinger.”
I had no intentions of bothering Mr. Salinger—I just wanted to get a discrete picture of his house, and the man himself if he should happen to be outside. I crossed back into Windsor and stopped at a Goodwill store there, where a bunch of older ladies were gabbing away, in that quaint way that older ladies gab. New England is often like the South in that regard, just with a different accent. Figuring that since they were roughly as old as Salinger, they might know where his house was. They politely directed me to the Vermont Craft Center down the street, and I was informed that Salinger’s wife, Colleen O’Neil, displayed and sold some “very cute” spool dolls that she made herself. At the Craft Center I was shown the spool doll collection, found a really cool red, white and blue one. Ten bucks later I was out the door with my treasure, which incredibly included an unexpected bonus---a tag with not only Colleen O’Neil’s name on it, but incredibly her address, and by default, her husband’s address. Back into Cornish I went, a quick stop at the post office to ask generally where the road was that I was looking for and within five minutes I was staring at J. D. Salinger’s house. Careful to park on the side of the road, not on his property, I snapped a couple pictures—one of his mailbox AND his trashcans (which I didn’t dare peek into) and one of his house.
As I walked up and down the road trying to get a better view of the house, I noticed that seemingly every tree had an orange “No Trespassing “ sign. So did one telephone pole. A furtive glance to the left and one to the right, and I sprung into action. I hereby confess: I stole J. D. Salinger’s “No Trespassing” sign from the telephone pole, where it no right to be.
Don’t you love irony?

BillboardsagainstObama.com column

2010-07-07T15:50:00.000-07:00

I’m going to call it like I see it. Or like I saw it yesterday, as I drove the interstate towards Atlanta, hiiiiigh up on a pole, a sign that said “God isn’t a Socialist.”

The sign was paid for by a group that calls itself, “BillboardsagainstObama.com.

What a load of malarkey. There is a better term for it, has to do with male bovine excrement, but since this is a family paper, I’ll stick with the Irish. Always a good bet, and they have public health care, by the way…

So there was the sign, proudly announcing to the world that Georgia proudly lives up to the reputation held by most of the rest of the nation—a reputation for being so far to the right as to be ridiculous, willing to blow off their noses with their silly guns just to spite their faces..

When in the course of American history has any group taken the steps to try to denounce a sitting president in such a cowardly way? Freedom of speech is a right, of course, but This socialist label that they try to pin on him does him, and socialists a real disservice. The sign should correctly read, “Obama is not a Socialist” and to be fair, should also say that God isn’t affiliated with any political party. I know—I checked. He is not on any lists that I can find…

But it would seem that the Republicans have decided to claim Him as their own. I would ask that they produce proof of their claim. It’s my understanding that socialist concepts have something to do with a sense of community taking care of community---in other words, caring for each other, instead of having a society that rates people by how much money they have. People caring for each other, treating others the way they would want to be treated. Sounds a lot more like the concept of God that I was taught at a young age than the kind of people who would torture, lie, humiliate, segregate and discriminate, grab up as much of whatever they can as fast as they can, liked a bunch of fat pigs on some of those game shows, speeding down the aisles of a supermarket with a shopping cart. And wasn’t there something in the Bible about Jesus trashing the moneylenders? You would think, “Like father like son,” wouldn’t you?

I propose that the billboard, and it’s sponsoring website are wrong. I would suggest that everyone step back and take a long deep breath, if you still can, with all of the nasty pollution in the air, and look at how ridiculous this whole charade has become. Snarky and deceptive billboards are not the answer to any of our problems. Thoughtful action after thoughtful debate will do it, and cooperation from the citizens of what used to be a great country will go a long way toward solving the huge set of problems that began thirty years ago when we stupidly elected a mediocre, mob-backed actor for president.

If the tact of the right has had any real impact, it has successfully made the word ‘socialism” sound evil. Maybe it is, when run in the Lenist-Marxist way, (see Russia) but when all anyone really is talking about is health care for everyone, how can that be a bad thing? Ask yourself this question: If providing services like health care and police and schools and firemen and libraries and highway maintenance, etc. is so bad, why aren’t people from France, England, Canada, Denmark, and a good portion if Europe clamoring to come here? Why are they so darned happy?

Wanna see the end of this country as a democracy? Keep up the hate talk. Learn to say, “Ich bin ein Republican!”

Raymond Parks, Rest in Peace (and Thanks for NASCAR)

2010-06-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I was browsing the shelves at my local library and I stumbled upon a book called Driving With the Devil, written by a man named Neal Thompson. I checked it out of the library and took it home and that evening read the entire thing from cover to cover. A fascinating tale of the sometimes nefarious origins of NASCAR, the book also explained a few things to me about life in Georgia and the old south---I didn’t know that the red clay soil that lies under us all is really only good for growing cotton and corn, for instance, and I never knew that that same corn happened to be the perfect strain for making moonshine whiskey. Someone had to transport that moonshine from the remote stills located in the north Georgia mountains, and it took some skillful driving to evade the federal agents who were constantly trying to bust up the stills and seize the whiskey. Some of those skilled moonshiners and drivers would become an integral part of one of the most beloved sports on the planet.

One of them was a man named Raymond Parks, who is the focal point of Thompson’s book. A moonshiner at a young age, he was smart enough to evade the authorities for a number of years, was finally caught and sent to prison for 9 months in the mid 1930’s. Following his release he returned to moonshine for a while, and after racking up a small fortune got out of the game. He invested in a fleet of cars that raced in many of the small tracks around the south, and in December, 1947, , as reported in the NY Times, “Parks was among some three dozen racing figures who gathered at the Streamline Hotel in Daytona Beach to create the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing under the direction of the driver and race promoter Bill France Sr.”

In 1948, a Parks-owned car, modified by mechanic Red Vogt in a garage that still stands at Linden and Spring Streets in Atlanta, and driven by war hero Red Byron, won the first series of races under the NASCAR banner. In that and subsequent years many of the drivers were men who had gotten their start running ‘shine all around the state of Georgia, a fact that the France family tried to keep buried when NASCAR took a more family-friendly turn in later years.

Reading the book, it came to me as a surprise to find that Parks was still alive.

A little research revealed that he was still, in his 90’s , in the liquor business, albeit legally this time, in a shop at Northside and 17^th Street in Atlanta. I also discovered that he still came to work every day, fully dressed in a suit and tie. I was doing a lot of courier work at the time and passed by there every day, never knowing what, and who, was inside. I purchased a copy of the book and headed to Northside Drive to see if I could get an autograph. I knocked at the office door on the side of the building and was greeted by a very tall, impeccably dressed southern gentleman, who invited me in with a wave of his hand. I had heard that Mr. Parks was suffering from the early stages of dementia but it was nowhere in evidence on that day. He graciously signed my copy of the book with his name and the numbers of his winning cars in those early races. Afterwards he gave me a little tour of his two rooms full of historical and impressive NASCAR memorabilia, which included the winning trophy from that very first race in 1948. Some of that collection has since been donated to a museum.

Raymond Parks died on Sunday, June 20, at the age of 96. He was the last surviving member of the group that convened in Daytona to basically create NASCAR. It was an honor and a privilege to meet him. On behalf of racing fans, thank you , Mr. Parks.

Father's Day...

2010-06-17T13:17:00.000-07:00

The letter, dated January 10, 1928, sent from Chateaugay, NY, reads, To: Mr. Thomas Abbott, Detroit Mich.
Dear Sir, I am just writing this letter to inform you I am alone in the garage business now. Ross Mellon has been put out of the firm and Jordan also has left me. Do you think you would ever feel like coming to Chateaugay? If so I wonder if we couldn't make some arrangements. Will you please let me know just what you think?
Very truly yours, Jerome Casier
Eighty one words of almost no significance to anyone, except me. And my entire family.
With Father’s Day upon us, I recently was feeling a little nostalgic. I decided to dig through a box of old photos and papers that was left in my possession after my dad died about ten years ago. I had occasionally looked at the pictures, a lot of which were of his father---my grandfather, a man my sister and I called Papa, but whom I barely knew. I had never really looked at the old newspaper clippings and letters. This week I stumbled upon the above missive and it blew my mind when I realized what it was.
I was born and grew up in upstate New York, near a small town called Chateaugay, a village the size of Mayberry, RFD, 7 miles from the Canadian border. Things could have been a lot different…
My grandfather, Thomas Charles Davies Abbott, was born in Liverpool , England. When he was a young man he came to the United States, carrying a cheap suitcase full of clothes and a head full of dreams. While it would be romantic to claim he came in through Ellis Island, in truth he first went to Canada, where he actually served in the Canadian Army during World War I. At some point he met and befriended a mechanic from Chateaugay, NY, but after the war ended he settled in Detroit, where he worked as a mechanic on automobiles. Then one day in early 1928 he received a letter from his buddy in Chateaugay, inviting him to come to NY to work together in a gas and service station. That letter, and his decision to cast his lot in NY, would change the lives of more people than he could have ever imagined. Because when Thomas Abbott made that move, he set off a chain of events that went something like this: he eventually met my grandmother, Elsie Ives, and married her. Together they had my dad, Clement and his brother Charles. My dad and mom had me and my sister Carmen, and my uncle Charlie and his wife Dorothy had five kids of their own . I have a daughter, my sister and her husband have two children, my five cousins have many children between them and now grandchildren are popping up, and it goes on and on. A seed delivered in an envelope 82 years ago took root and has become a tall and strong family tree that is showing no signs of getting weaker.
I knew my grandfather only as a strange little man who fixed televisions in his old age. Though we lived only 5 miles away, I was only inside his house one time, in 1969, when he invited us in to watch the first moonwalk. He was distant and smelled like pipe tobacco. I don’t remember ever saying much to him because he was so uninviting to the attentions of children. If he was here now, though, I would say this to him: Thank you, Papa. Thank you for picking up your mail that day in 1928, and thank you for coming here and for deciding that this was a good place to settle down and raise a family.
As a Guy Clark song called Emigrant Eyes goes, “My grandfather’s days are numbered but I won’t let his memory die. He gave me the gift of this country and the hope in his emigrant eyes.”

ONE THEY WOULDNT PUBLISH

2010-06-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

Interesting place, Butts County. Small town living that looks like a step back into the fifties. Unfortunately, it seems that we really are fifty years behind. Remember “Romper Room?” I gaze into the looking glass….

…and I see a quick-draw sheriff who fancies himself a gunslinger and who by golly is gonna save this town, no matter what. Remember a situation a few months back when a jerk up near Atlanta decided to steal a truck that was left idling in a parking lot, and drove off, just as the owner had jumped onto the back in an attempt to stop him? As state police followed the stolen truck down the interstate, with the situation under control, and the owner hanging on and communicating via cell phone, the little caravan passed through Butts County, where Sheriff Gunslinger and his gunslinging deputies were lying in wait. Several shots were fired at the truck, blowing out the windshield but somehow missing the driver completely. What wasn’t missed, though, was a state trooper, who fortunately was wearing his vest, which stopped a bullet. Sheriff Gunslinger was later quoted in this very newspaper, expressing dismay at not blowing the thief’s head off. What did he think was going to happen to a truck going 60 miles an hour once the driver has his head blown off? Does that truck then roll over and kill the man hanging on the back? Or does it just swerve out of control and kill innocent people, maybe even Sheriff Gunslinger? Unbelievable. In most other parts of the country, this guy would have been out of a job and possibly in jail in about three seconds. Here, he gets to be on TV and even gets a chance to take a shot at another vehicle a few months later. Please stop him before he kills someone.

I also see another sad similarity to the fifties. According to the last census, there are almost 20,000 citizens in Butts, roughly 70 percent white and 30 percent black. Yet, when I recently visited the courthouse in town to take care of a business matter, I was one of only three white faces among the approximately 50 or so people crowding the room and the steps leading out to the sidewalk. I returned a couple weeks later to see if that was a fluke or business as usual. Sadly, it looked the same. Why is this?

I also see an apparent unwillingness by your elected officials to have a Wal-Mart, or any other big box store, anywhere in the county. As a small business owner a Wal-Mart might hurt me some, or it might not have an impact at all. No way to tell. That said, though, the bigger picture shows me a lot of people, young and old, who need jobs, and who don’t have cars to go to Spalding or Henry Counties. Say what you will about Wal-Mart’s employment practices, they do hire a lot of folks who would be considered unemployable anywhere else---people with criminal histories, those who never got past high school, or even people whose general physical appearance isn’t likely to get them on a magazine cover. These County Commissioners who keep getting elected are not looking out for everyone’s best interests. Even the Amish gradually accept progress. We ain’t Amish, folks. It’s almost 2010, but not here in Butts County.

eARLY COLUMN ABOUT HEALTH INSURANCE CRAP

2010-06-05T16:39:00.001-07:00

You Want Death Panels? You Got 'Em!

by Jim Abbott

Recently former (love the sound of that!) Alaska Governor Sarah Palin made the statement that President Obama’s health care reform would lead to the creation of “death panels,” with the government making life and death decisions for us. Well, here is some news for Mrs. Palin. Those death panels are already here, lurking in plain sight. We just call them by a less menacing name: health insurance companies.

A friend of mine has a son, who unfortunately got leukemia, an insidious disease that is often successfully treated by giving the patient a bone marrow transplant. If successful, the healthy bone marrow begins producing healthy blood cells and the patient will live a normal life, providing they don’t get hit by a truck.

The family had what they thought was a good family insurance plan with Blue Cross. Twelve hundred dollars a month, but they felt it was worth it for coverage for their entire family. You can probably figure out where this story is going: Blue Cross would pay for the procedure itself, but not for the doctors or anesthesiologists. It’s like getting your car fixed but not paying for the mechanic’s labor. In the end the family had to cough up over five thousand bucks in deductibles and co-pays.

This is just one of a million horror stories about our current health care system, where private insurance companies are the real death panels. They use the generic term “pre-existing condition” as an excuse for not paying your claim. With a simple stamp, “CLAIM DENIED,” they often sentence curable people to death, or worse. Realize this: the primary job of insurance companies is to take in as much money as possible and to pay out as little as possible. This they do to perfection.

All of this blather about socialized medicine and other services being close to communism is a scare tactic. It is the right’s way of trying to create yet more fear in the land, and that is just WRONG, people. True socialism (look it up) is something that this country will never embrace but certain aspects of it are already here, and most people have never given it a second thought. When you visit your local library, when you pack your kids off to public school, when the police arrest the guy who stole your lawnmower, when the fire department puts out your burning house…these are all forms of socialism. Why should your health not be as important as your house, your belongings, or your kids’ education? These are services you pay for with tax dollars. Raise taxes a little more, cover everyone. No more “haves” versus “have-nots”.

If, as my colleague Ralph Watson stated last week, “the primary role of government is to protect the citizens under their care,” then I can think of no more basic protection than providing us all with a health care option that is available to every American, regardless of status. How to pay for it? It will pay for itself. Approximately thirty percent of the money that goes into insurance companies for health care coverage goes straight into the pockets of its executives and employees. Confusing and unending paperwork (due to there being so many different insurers, all with different forms) costs doctors and healthcare providers an estimated three hundred billion dollars annually in time and expenses. Having a single payer (the government, who would definitely be a more compassionate source than for-profit insurance companies) would dramatically reduce the waste and cost. A healthy population makes for a healthy workforce, which makes for a healthy economy. Who wins? We all do.

column for June 9, 2010

2010-06-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

A few random thoughts:
Why is it that when I allow myself to get in a political discussion with someone from the right, and I ask them a specific question, the response inevitably sounds like one of those scripts that gets read to you by the “expert” appliance repairman over the bad phone connection from New Delhi, India? Example: Question--“Why is it that our tax money pays for schools, police, fire departments, libraries, highways, parks, and other services, but you don’t want to have it pay for health care for everyone?” Answer: “ That bleeping Obama is trying to turn our country Socialist, and we won’t stand for it!” Second question: “What is the temperature outside?” Answer: “ That bleeping Obama is trying to turn our country Socialist, and we won’t stand for it!” C’mon, folks. You’re not that dumb! Think for yourselves!
Can we all now agree that a Wal-Mart will never pop up in Butts County? Now that a new “Wally World” is being built just ten miles up the road in Locust Grove, there wouldn’t be much financial logic for the company to put one here in our little community. (Not that there ever were enough people for a Wal-Mart here anyway.) Sure, we lose all of that tax revenue but the county keeps its small town charm. If folks want to toss curses in the direction of the county commission for screwing up, they should have done it when Tanger Outlets was allowed to slip away years ago. For those of you who still want to shop at Wal-Mart, it’s literally up the road. Ten miles is about a 15 minute trip on Rt. 42 (except if, and this seems to happen to me everytime I take that trip, the world’s oldest, blindest, most intoxicated phone texting grandmother is on the road at the same time) so if you are too lazy to drive for fifteen minutes, then you didn’t really want to go anyway. Also, once the new road widening project is completed, the trip will be much smoother.
It’s nice to see some nameless individuals who are often seen walking the sides of the road where Routes 23 and 42 fork off to the south. These people are carrying garbage bags and are cleaning up other slobs’ messes. It’s a real heroic task you are performing, so thank you. It’s a shame you even have to take your own precious time to do what you do. The worst offender/item is old scratched-off lottery tickets. Possible solution: The state should come up with a plan to give a free ticket for every 20 losing tickets. Sure, stores would need to keep them stored somewhere but I can guarantee that you wouldn’t see any more of those darned things blowing around the streets. Also, the state should adopt the deposit and redemption laws for beer and soda cans and bottles. It works wonderfully in the northern states like New York, where there are people who often redeem hundreds of dollars a day in bottles and cans. And you won’t see any of those cans and bottles all over the roads either. A nickel per can or bottle is much more than the aluminum would pay at a recycling place and the glass, which pays nothing now, would be a nickel profit.
Just clearing out the clutter! Next week, back to saving the world from ourselves!

Art column--May 26, 2010

2010-06-02T14:38:00.000-07:00

“I ain’t got time for no art”
That’s what the woman said to me a couple weeks ago when I asked her if she was going to check out the great Fine Arts Festival that was being held on Third Street, next to the fire station. A depressing string of conversations with other people that same day usually ended with a variant on what the first woman said. “I ain’t got time for no art.” And that is a shame.
What exactly is life about? Is it just getting up each day, slamming down a gallon of coffee before going off to work, then coming home at night too tired to do anything but sit in front of the tv and vegetate? Repeat the process the next day, and the day after that, ad infinitum?
For many people, sadly. that is indeed what life is about. In the ugliness that is the daily grind, there needs to be room for beauty, for pleasant distractions to make us think a little outside the box. That is what art is for, and that is what we all need to make room for in our lives. “No time for art?” No way.
What is art? Sure, it is, like what was admirably represented at the festival, paintings and sculpture. It also is photography, music, the written word, film, dance, even television at its best is art. Consider the finale of the series LOST, which aired this past week. If you were fortunate enough to have seen the show, and the finale, you saw television writing and production at its finest---thought-provoking, moving and powerful enough to have people still discussing it a week later.
The movies you watch and the music you listen to are art, sometimes. Unfortunately, as with anything else, a lot of it is just product, done to make a fast buck without concern for any artistic merits. It is the same with books and television, but if you dig a little deeper you will find some wonderfully creative people and things that will resonate for a long time. For every corporate creation there are some wonderfully talented and innovative people who are playing in clubs, coffeehouses and even just in their own living rooms, and who never get the recognition that they deserve because they don’t have a SONY or American Idol Inc. backing them.
Ever seen an art sale at a local motel or in a parking lot, out of the back of a truck? That stuff is usually just mass produced junk designed to fill a space on your wall because the dull colors match your drapes. Check out some estate sales and yard sales and you can find some real art there. Or stop at the next Fine Arts Festival you see advertised. You don’t have to buy anything, just take it all in and talk to the people who actually created it.
Or, you can do the very best thing of all: make your own art. Write a story, draw a picture, paint a scene, make up a song. Create something that makes other people happy.
Years ago I met a man who owned a painting that he spent a fortune for. I asked him why he would spend that kind of money for a painting and his answer said it all: “I like to look at it.”
No time for art? Rubbish, I say.

A column they wouldnt publish here in GA

2010-06-02T14:36:00.000-07:00

What is it with all these Tea party rallies? What exactly are they protesting? I have figured out that the Republicans grand plan to get back in power is to just throw so much nonsense out there that it will confuse the majority of the country and the chips will fall where they may come election. There used to be an old joke bumper sticker: “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.” And so it has come to pass that apparently, a Republican has actually read something and took it to heart. They certainly didn’t read the health care bills---all they did was complain that it was too long. Maybe they are waiting for the Cliff Notes version, or the comic book---oh wait, Bush is gone.
OK. So these little groups of mostly older, wealthy white men are ticked off that our President and government managed to get health care insurance a possibility for 32 million citizens who can’t afford it now. They protest and complain that taxes are going to go through the roof to pay for all this stuff, and yet taxes have actually gone DOWN for 88 percent of the population this year. So what is the basis for their argument??
Let’s get down to brass tacks, as Ross Perot used to say. The President is a black man, and that simple fact is just plain not acceptable to these groups of privileged malcontents. If it was a white man running things I can assure that the argument would be different. This paper is afraid to run columns about racism but when it is so patently obvious that it is still rearing its disgusting ugly head in this country, in this day and age, all decent Americans should be as angry about it as I am.
These Tea Party folks are not the new America. They are a bunch of relics from an era best left behind and they, and the rest of the right, should be ashamed of the junk they spew. I actually heard a conversation the other day in the aisle at a local grocery store that was so vile and repugnant that I can’t repeat it here, except to say that the N-word was used several times as was the phrase “someone oughtta blow that…away.” What?? In 2010?
And that is the real danger of what the right and their ilk are doing. When enough venomous talk gets out there, sooner or later some lunatic picks up a gun and does the unthinkable. This man, this good man that the majority of people elected to office, cares about us. He has a monumental task ahead of him and any crap like thebile that the idiots on the right might vomit out is counterproductive at best, seditious at worst, and gets really tiring after a while. Reading columns from righties calling the President a Socialist and addressing us as Comrade is just so much more bullshit as well, especially since “Comrade” was used in a communist context historically. Whatever the case, it is time to ignore all this crap and let the president do his job, which he has amazingly been doing, and doing well through all the brown fog that the republican machine is polluting the airwaves with.

Cleaning up the Mess

2010-06-02T14:15:00.001-07:00

I had not planned on having any debates with my right wing colleague, Mr. Mauldin, but his column of December 16 bears commenting on.
Mr. Mauldin, sincere as he may be, does himself and other right-leaning people a great disservice by bringing the discussion to gutter level with his "tree-huggers and hippies" reference.
To say that the above mentioned feel that they have to educate others, that is, the right, on how to conserve is actually, in all likelihood a true statement, since the political right, whose big guns are often the heads of big, greedy corporate concerns, does not care a bit about what they are emitting, dumping and spewing into the air and water.
I witnessed this myself years ago when I was a member of the Clearwater Group in the beautiful Hudson Valley.
Our great Hudson River had gotten so polluted by Monsanto and Tuck Tape with PCBs (polychlorinated biphenyls), mercury and other poisonous substances that it was deemed no longer healthy to eat any of the fish that were caught in the river. Through the efforts of terrible tree huggers like Pete Seeger and others, awareness of the situation was heightened and the situation was dealt with in the courts and slowly the river has turned around.
Darn hippies probably can even bathe in it now, hmmm?
Mr. Mauldin also mentioned his displeasure at new laws passed taxing corporations by measuring their greenhouse gas emissions.
He uses China and India -- hardly poster nations for clean air (remember the recent Olympics in smog-filled Beijing?) -- as examples defending his opposition.
I would invite Mr. Mauldin, or anyone, to lock himself in a room with only those greenhouse gasses to breathe for just five minutes. If he was able to walk out, I would grant him his veto on the new tax laws.
The atmosphere belongs to all of us, not just industry.
What does coal do when it burns? What does anything do when it burns? It emits carbon and other noxious elements into the air.
A little science here: When the air is full of junk, rain falls through it and brings it to the ground. It seeps into the soil and water supplies and we drink it, or our cattle get it in the grasses and food they eat. If we haven't already developed lung cancer, leukemia or some other ailment, the food supply will kill us. It will happen, and the more that irresponsible countries like China and India, whose populations total seven times that of our country, keep spewing this stuff, the sooner it will happen. A sponge can only hold so much water and the atmosphere can only hold so much pollution.
I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said, "Annoy a liberal: Work hard, be successful, be happy".
Tree-hugging hippies have to work hard, too. Cleaning up the mess left by the big corporations is a tough gig, but someone has to do it, for all of our sakes.

Immigration column/Arizona

2010-06-02T14:04:00.001-07:00

he recent passage of a law in the State of Arizona allowing police and other law enforcement officials to pull over or detain anyone who looks like they might be an “Illegal alien” is an abomination unto itself, and should be repealed immediately.

What the heck is this country coming to?

The people running the show in Arizona have short memories. The United States wouldn’t be in existence if a bunch of European pilgrims had not come here, made the decision that “this is ours for the taking” and then did just that, killing, raping and ultimately stealing the land from the natives whose land it was for centuries.

In true capitalist fashion the white man tricked and fooled the natives out of their property. Trading blankets for land was a bargain indeed, since the blankets were infected with smallpox and other diseases, and the tribes were nearly wiped out.

Later, we decided that, “Oops, we did a bad thing and got called out for it, so let’s make reparations. We’ll give them a little land for themselves, call them reservations. Let them have their own laws and that will make it all better. “

What a crock.

All of that said, reality is now there is a ridiculous paranoia in this land. The dreaded Mexican menace is taking over “our” country. My God, build fences, install motion sensors, arm guards at the borders, keep these Indians out! Yes, folks, Mexican s are “Indians” too. Natives in what is now this country were Cherokee, Sioux, Apache, Comanche, Pima and many other tribes. To the south, Mayans, Incas, Tainos and other tribes were the rightful landowners. Who knows what might have happened if Columbus and his ilk had landed in Cancun?

The United States is a country that people want to come into. These days their sanity might be in question, but on the whole the standard of living here is better and there is a chance to make a life for oneself here. Let them come. Let them stay, let them work, let them become part of our economy and our communities.

We grant Cubans and others asylum. There is no asylum for Mexicans -- only harassment and deportation. They risk their lives to come here. Let’s reward that gamble with citizenship, or at the very least green cards or work permits. It will help this country.

“They’re taking our jobs!” cry the brave patriots. Yes, darn it, I was unable to get that great job I wanted selling oranges by the interstate, or the other gig I wanted throwing pine needles around those big houses in Alpharetta, or deep-frying stuff for rich Americans.

If anything, these workers who come north from Mexico are the victims of the real criminals, the corporations who hire them and pay them substandard wages and mistreat them in many ways. Show me any job of substance that is being done by an illegal Mexican alien and I’ll show you a bigfoot flying an UFO.

What is going on in Arizona is patently illegal and wrong. Narrow-minded politicians are targeting brown-skinned people with no probable cause. We have a Constitution and it’s being spit on.

We stole this land and now don’t want to let anyone else come and play! That’s the way it is. Shame on Arizona, and shame on us.

Dear Mr President...

2010-06-02T14:03:00.000-07:00

Dear President Obama: Apparently you need to update your GPS settings: It appears that the “ Main Street ” that you kept mentioning while you were campaigning has been re-routed, and has now merged with Wall Street. What gives?
I realize it’s still early in your administration, but in one short year you have managed to disillusion just about everyone who gave you support and votes. Republicans say that you are too radical, and Democrats say you are too Republican.
When you promised healthcare reform, we had high hopes that the leeches known as health insurance companies would feel the door hit them in their collective behinds. Instead, your plan is going to mandate that every American has to buy their “product” or face big fines and penalties. I didn’t vote for that, and neither did anyone I know. The current health insurance situation is the worst example of a pre-existing condition, and needs to be healed, but your plan is not the answer. Medicaid for everyone is. In every other major country in the world health care is guaranteed by law for their citizens. Here, people lose their homes and lives to overwhelming medical debt. What gives?
When the banks and insurance companies and their unethical and illegal practices almost crippled this nation, instead of punishment, they got bailed out, first by TWPE (The Worst President Ever) and then by you. Instead of reformers, you have filled your cabinet with the very people who got us into this stinking mess. What gives?
The war is another area where you have really disappointed. Why send 30,000 more troops into that hellhole? Polls show that as much as 70 percent of the American populace want us out of Afghanistan , and yet you make an announcement, which could have been delivered with a phony Texas drawl, and you sound suspiciously like TWPE.
A couple of decades ago Russia , whose military might rivaled ours, got their heads handed to them in Afghanistan . Our military is tired, and the lessons learned in Vietnam have been forgotten, apparently. What gives?

Yes, that area was where the planning for 9/11 took place. You said that there are plots currently being hatched in Afghanistan by al-Qaida to attack us again. With what? They used up their one shot at catching us off-guard when they grabbed those planes. We are vigilant now, and will remain so. There are not enough al-Qaida remaining to warrant such a large troop surge.
Mr. President, you have a great opportunity here to help the average American, instead of making our lot worse. With all due respect, and as boxing trainer Angelo Dundee once said to Sugar Ray Leonard during a big fight, “You’re blowing it, son.”
Halloween is over. It’s time to take off your Republican mask and be the progressive agent of change that you represented yourself to be. You are beginning to make us think you want to be the TWPE. We are losing the right to call this country the greatest in the world and to be able to back up that claim.
Change? That's what I have left in my pocket.
What gives?

WalMart column

2010-06-02T14:02:00.000-07:00

Wal-Mart: The name is synonymous with retail shopping---the picture of successful capitalism run amok.

Over the last 20 years Wal-Mart has spread its stores faster than just about any major retail chain in any category, with the possible exception of Subway, which recently took over the lead spot from McDonald’s for most locations in the United States.

One place that Wal-Mart has not invaded, as you all know, is Butts County.

And what of that? Depending on who you are talking to, Wal-Mart either tried to come in and was voted down, or they never wanted to come here even though people wanted them.

Stewart Voegtlin assures me the story of Wal-Mart being voted out by the County Commission is one of the great Butts County myths, and that according to Wal-Mart spokesmen, there simply aren’t enough people in Butts County to support a large store like theirs.

I know how the myth machine works and sometimes, if enough people believe a myth, it tends to become accepted as fact.

As a small business owner, and also as a Butts County resident, I have mixed feelings on the subject. As a retail store owner, I know a Wal-Mart in the county would likely put a big dent in my sales. As a consumer who often needs certain products, I have to go out of the county since Butts simply doesn’t have the stores here where I can buy them. I don’t like having to drive all the way to Griffin or McDonough to buy anything but have to out of necessity sometimes.

Why have a Wal-Mart here?

The pros: They have a large selection of products which is convenient, to be sure. They hire a lot of people who might not be able to get a job anywhere else, due to things like past criminal history, physical appearance and other reasons. They would pay a large amount of taxes, which the county could use to offset all the non-profitable church properties that pay no taxes at all.

The cons: Wal-Mart is infamous for the damage they do to small mom and pop businesses. They also have a reputation for questionable employment practices, long lines at the registers with an insufficient number of cashiers on hand, and, if you compare prices on certain items, ridiculously high prices at times. (Compare the prices of meat at Wal-Mart to those at Webbs, Ingles, and “the Pig” and you’ll find that you’ll get a better bargain here.) Wal-Mart makes their money not by offering any real bargains but by sheer volume; hence the large number of stores all over the US.

When the annual lists appear of richest Americans, Bill Gates is usually on top.

But if you carefully scan the rest, you will find three members of the Walton family, founders of Wal-Mart. They are individually listed each with roughly $19 billion in wealth, which, when combined is more than Mr. Gates’ total. Bill Gates is well known for his charitable works and for spending his money for the greater good. Wal-Mart is known for invading rural areas, screwing up the local economy and then when the chips are down, leaving behind a ghost town. Is that what we want for Butts County?

Health reform column

2010-06-02T14:01:00.000-07:00

So we have some kind of health insurance reform.

I should be excited, since I have not had health insurance for so long I can’t even recall when I last had it. It makes me sad, because I am 50 years old -- that certain age when TV doctors and real ones all say you should get the works done on the plumbing and every other part of the machine.

What I do recall is when I last had health insurance I was working for UPS in New York, where I tore some cartilage in my knee while exiting the truck on an icy day. Because I was not yet a permanent employee, only a seasonal helper, I was not covered. Four months later I was hired for a permanent position, but having my knee throbbing constantly made work difficult to say the least. The only light at the end of that painful tunnel was the fact that when I reached my six month mark at UPS my health insurance coverage would kick in and I could get my knee fixed. I limped, walked, and hopped through six months of sheer hell (working at UPS is probably more physical than most people’s workout regimen) and in November I was able to have the necessary surgery to fix the knee. Blue Cross gave the go-ahead and I was as good as new soon after.

A month later, the surgeon’s office informed me they had not yet been paid and the insurance company had reviewed my case and denied the claim on the basis of a pre-existing condition. And they wanted me to pay to the tune of six grand.

That’s my health insurance horror story. It’s minor, but it is certainly illustrative of the past, and current situation in this country full of people who deserve better.

Now we have health insurance reform and stories like mine and others will hopefully stop being told.

It’s a lousy plan: Not health care reform at all but more a regulating of the insurance giants whose job was always to get by not paying claims if they could. This plan will immediately give them about 30 million new customers, so they should stop crying and acting like they are having their teeth pulled out. It is a start.

Right-wingers scream that their grandchildren will be paying for it, but in the long run it seems the plan will save money, not cost more.

Watching C-Span’s coverage of the debates leading up to the vote was educational, especially in the House of Representatives, where the suits were arguing like kids in a sandbox fighting over a shovel. Some had great points, but others, from both sides, seemed clueless about even the most general facts and were just spouting party propaganda. It’s depressing that these boobs are who we elected to represent us.

On the other hand, the fact that the entire plan was so massive and complex shows that someone, and we have to give President Obama credit for this, cares enough to put such a huge effort into getting this done for our citizens. I want to thank them for at least taking the first step to making sure all of us are on equal footing when it comes to that most basic and personal issue: Health and well-being.

Now, what is this I hear about immigration reform?

Us and them??

2010-06-02T14:00:00.000-07:00

This column dropped into my lap: A strange encounter at a local business the other night that made me uncomfortable and somewhat ashamed of where I live. There are some terrible people among us, and what is sad is that they don't know how terrible they are.
On our way home from work the other night, my wife and I stopped at a gas station on Highway 42. As I walked in, I noticed a somewhat attractive, middle-aged woman at the counter, paying for some merchandise. There was no hint of any tension or trouble. I grabbed a drink and paid for it, and went out to pump some gas.
Before I could get to the pump, the woman crossed my path in her truck, stopped, opened her passenger window, and directed the following words of wisdom to me, a perfect stranger. She said, "We have got to do something to stop these hadjis from taking us over. They are controlling everything and we've gotta put a stop to it."
Well, heck. I had no clever retort for her. She had stopped so suddenly, I assumed there had been a problem in the store with her transaction. In her mind it was righteous indignation; she needed to vent on someone and I was the closest moving object. I am ashamed to say that I didn't immediately tell her where to go. What I really am ashamed of is that I didn't tell her this: Those "hadjis" are friends of mine.
I’m not sure what a "hadji" actually is. It used to be the name of the brown-skinned sidekick of my cartoon hero, Johnny Quest, when I was a kid, but somehow I don't think that is what she meant. The two gentlemen who now run that gas station are J.J. and Vijay. They are there for up to sixteen hours a day, working hard, seven days a week. They did come from India many years ago but are now American citizens and they have spent a lot of money that they worked hard for to get that gas station.
On the other hand, if "hadji" means "hard-working, polite, nice Americans who have a gas station on Highway 42" then I want to be the first to extend a hand of friendship to J.J. and Vijay and say this: "Welcome, friends."

2010-06-02T13:57:00.000-07:00

I am going to tell you all a dirty little secret.

You know those video slot machines in all of the local gas stations and convenience stores? The ones that are usually in the back, under signs that say “We do not pay cash—don’t even ask” or something similar? Those machines can and do profit the establishments that have them upwards of three or four thousand dollars weekly, and guess what, folks? It’s all tax free.

Here’s how it works. Businesses that have the machines generally don’t own them—they are owned by companies who split the profits on a 70/30 basis, with the lion’s share going to the store. As for the law prohibiting cash payouts---it might as well not exist. No cash payouts equals no players. Some store owners even make deliveries to bring players their winnings at home or pay out cash in store restrooms, where they are safe from police videotaping. By law, tickets printed out cannot have amounts of more than five dollars, representing winnings for a single play of the machine, as stated in the Georgia gaming code. The fact is that the game machine companies set the computer to print out whatever they want it to print out. If a player wins a hundred bucks, the machine prints out twenty tickets of five dollars each, thus not breaking any laws on the surface.

Why do these store owners go to lengths to make sure players get their money? Because they want to keep them coming in. It is huge money. Ever see a gas station with no gas, almost empty shelves and five or six game machines? Think candy bars are keeping them in business?

If you ask a gas station or store owner if they pay cash, they will all tell you, “No, it’s against the law.” And I am here to tell you, because I have had the machines in the past, is that they are lying. The players won’t come in if they hear a place isn’t paying cash. When one is able to get the machines, which isn’t easy due to the illegality that surrounds them, you become part of a little clique, and you share info about certain players, like which ones you need to try to attract or who to watch out for.

The dirty little secret is this: Players are throwing their money away. The machines are run by a computer program that is set to “win” about 80 percent of the time, usually only a quarter or 50 cents. Big wins are few and far between. I had several players who lost well over 400 bucks in an hour. One even went out the door complaining that she had just gambled away her light bill and rent money. That was when I decided to get rid of the games. Some people are too simple to understand that they are throwing away their hard earned dough.

A recent police raid on several businesses was laughable. The machines were “seized” and the money in them confiscated. The funny thing was that the seized machines were never seized at all. After a few weeks, notices proclaiming them seized were taken down and the machines went right back into play, with the only effect being that store owners were now more wary about which customers they paid out to. The seized machines from one gas station ended up in my shop, stickers still attached, when management changed hands and the new owners didn’t want those machines in their station. The reason: They had their own.

Butts County: Outlaw those things for the sake of your citizens. You aren’t getting the tax money you should from them anyway; so what is the point?

Two weeks later I wrote the following, after the paper printed some pretty vicious stuff from a reader who apparently took unbrage...

A reader suggested I take a pill to alleviate my anxiety over the illegal use of those nefarious video slot machines [See Tom Eads’ Letter to the Editor; Progress-Argus 3/31/10 - Ed]. I say, “I took a pill, and by golly, nothing changed.”

The machines are still around and the owners of the places that have them---all of them---are still paying cash and running what are essentially illegal gambling establishments, reaping huge profits that don’t get taxed .

After my column on the machines I received a personal visit from a high-ranking local law enforcement official. He was pleased that I had written about the subject and we had a chat about what can be done, including having the establishments declared to be illegal gambling establishments and seizing the entire property and charging a huge fine.

Mr. Eads, in his thoughtful letter, commented that it isn’t the job of government to legislate people’s behavior. And yet, government does indeed do just that---seatbelt laws, speeding laws, drinking laws, and others all are put in place for our own good.

Sociologists will tell you that if people are let loose with no restrictions, bad behavior will increase in intensity and frequency. It is indeed the job of government to look out for those among us who do not know any better.

In my opinion, Butts County is a poor county. The people here, especially African-Americans, seem to live substandard lives when compared to many of the other citizens. I speak on a daily basis with a lot of people, black and white, generally poor, and it is very disheartening to hear their view of life here.

They talk of not having much opportunity to get ahead, given the state of things. So they gamble, hoping for that one-in-a-million big strike. In fact, gambling, whether legal as in the lottery, or illegal, as in those vile machines, seems to be the state sport, given the number of discarded scratchoffs I see blowing around the local landscape.

Money does not flow as freely up north as it does here. It is hard-earned by hard-working people. Money tossed away into gambling machines is making lazy store owners wealthy, to the point that their actual business is neglected. I know this from experience. Located near my place of business is one such establishment. The shelves look like the place was looted and never restocked, gas is often not available and the place teems with the poor and uneducated playing lottery, playing numbers and of course playing, sometimes two at a time, the slot machines.

Why bother actually stocking the shelves or filling the tanks when you can sit back and count the dough thrown away by suckers? When is a gambling establishment not a gambling establishment? When it is wearing a gas station mask.

Gift of Life

2010-06-02T13:56:00.002-07:00

Christmas is almost upon us, and 'tis the season for gift giving.
Here's a little secret: You have been given your gift already, as I have, and let me tell you, we don't really appreciate this precious thing we all have, a precious thing called life.
As much as we treat this planet like our own private landfill, what most of us do to our bodies is something even more disgusting and shameful. Whether you believe that a supreme being created you, or that your body is just the latest phase of an ongoing evolutionary process, it is the ultimate sign of disrespect to whatever process got us here that we try to kill ourselves slowly.
As someone approaching 50, I have become aware of the failings of the human body, marvelous structure that it is---cut your finger and it fixes itself!---and I have also started to look outside myself as I try to get in good shape to make sure I get every minute I can out of this world.
What I see is a lot of people who have let themselves go to the point where I wonder if they are going to keel over later tonight. Fat people, drunk people, smokers hacking up gross hunks of stuff that they then spit out on the sidewalks; drug-addicted souls smoking, sniffing, shooting up whatever they can scrape off the floor, all manners of slow suicide, often by sick people who can't help themselves. And I haven't even mentioned the slowest, most insidious way we are killing ourselves: Death by food.
This is the South---home of the best BBQ, the best fried food, and not coincidentally, the most obese and unhealthy states in the country. A recent study found that of the 50 states, Georgia is number 43, joining Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, South Carolina, Louisiana and Kentucky in the bottom 10. The healthiest states were the New England group. The Union wins again…
As I have mentioned, getting older and becoming more aware of these things has also heightened my awareness of how easy it is to let yourself go, and how hard it is to fix the problem. But you can do it, and if you have any small amount of self-respect, you will do it.
Join a gym today. If you can't afford it, do something free: Start walking for a half hour each day. Eat more vegetables. Stay away from greasy, disgusting fried food. Don't look for anything nutritious in a fast food restaurant or in a convenience store, because there is nothing nutritious there. Read labels and learn about what you are putting in your mouth.
You know what you have to do. It's all over the TV, on shows like the Biggest Loser and Dr. Oz. Fat, unhealthy, wheezing souls on their last legs, looking for a quick fix. It ain't happening, folks. You have to take matters in your own hands and honor the gift you have been given, instead of destroying it.
There is a saying that in return for a life, a death is owed. What you can do is delay payment as long as possible. Have a happy and safe holiday season, people, and hopefully we'll see each other at the gym in the next year, and not another funeral for a 45-year-old who dropped dead of a heart attack.

Socialism column

2010-06-02T13:53:00.000-07:00

ou wake up in the morning. Your restless night’s sleep over; your brain suddenly re-boots and all of the stress of the day before is back in an instant. Immediately your body starts to react to it and your health begins to slowly but steadily deteriorate from it.

You must live in the United States, where the almighty dollar is worshipped. You have trouble living a happy life because you just don’t have enough of those dollars to handle all of your obligations. You watch while elected politicians and their corporate cronies rake in big money and wave their capitalist flags in your face, breaking laws and laughing about it. They have friends in very high places.

You get in your beat-up old car that cost you five hundred bucks to fix, and go out looking for a job, since you lost yours last week when things got slow. No matter; it didn’t pay all that much anyway and there was no health insurance or 401K attached to it so the first time you got sick they probably would have fired you, since you hadn’t been there long enough to get sick days or a vacation, which you have not had in many years, except for that two weeks a year you got when you worked for the factory.

That job was okay, but then they shipped their work to Mexico where labor was cheaper, so they closed the place down. Out you went, on unemployment for six months, which is how long it took you to find another job that paid somewhere near the same money.

Then you had the baby and when she got sick you and your husband were out of work so much that you almost lost everything you had trying to keep your heads above water keeping up with the doctors and medicines, but, despite the best care you could afford, she didn’t make it.

While your life was happening, big banks and insurance companies were robbing the public blind, and when they got found out they got a nice big bailout from the government. A sweet reward for very bad behavior. “Too big to fail,” they called it. That’s the way it is here in the United States.

Then came a new regime in Washington, similar in a lot of ways to the old one but different enough to make some people begin to scream about the dreaded “Socialism.” You’ve heard about it, vaguely, in reference to medicine. Not good, is what the voices on the radio said.

Imagine a place where you had free health care, free child care, a retirement system that was far better than Social Security, free college for all your kids, paid sick days, six weeks of paid vacation every year (my goodness, a week every two months!), a good job re-training program if you lost your employment, paid parental leave for both parents if you have a child, and free senior care for later in life.

That is what Socialism is. That is what the big players in this country have told you is evil. Why? Is it because it costs more in taxes to provide all of that to you, which it does? Is it because it’s a big trick to make you slaves to the government, which it isn’t? No. They don’t like it because it means that the government looks out for people instead of corporations. It means less money in their pockets and more in yours. People would actually be more equal, a scary proposition for them.

How many of you would you be willing to pay more taxes to get rid of all of the stress in your life that you have because you don’t have all of the things mentioned above? I’m betting most of you would, if you knew the truth.

Imagine that.

Bob Dylan column

2010-06-02T13:52:00.000-07:00

Genius. Technically it means someone with an IQ of 140 or higher.

It’s not just the brain we are born with; there is also the factoring in of a certain amount of self-discipline and striving to improve one’s intellect, or their talents in one area or another.

Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking are geniuses in the traditional sense, just as Michael Jordan was a genius basketball player and Muhammad Ali was a genius in the ring. We appreciate their abilities and recognize them as such.

During a TV broadcast from the White House the other night it occurred to me there is an entertainer out there who, besides being a genius in his field, is also a national treasure and he should be appreciated while we still have him around.

Bob Dylan was born Robert Zimmerman in 1941 in Minnesota. His family was not well-to-do, but his working class upbringing in that part of the country would not stop him from pursuing a career in music.

At first, he became caught up in the life story of rail-riding folksinger Woody Guthrie, who at that time in early 1960 was hospitalized in New Jersey with Huntington’s Chorea. Dylan hitched rides across the country to visit his hero, succeeded, and began playing many of Woody’s songs, as well as many traditional blues and ballads as he made his rounds throughout the clubs of New York and elsewhere. He was considered a terrific mimic, but that was it. He did none of his own material and it never looked like he was going to be anything more than an idiosyncratic interpreter of others’ work.

This is where the genius part comes in.

Somewhere in his Midwestern brain, all of those influences -- Guthrie, Hank Williams, Little Richard and others -- coalesced, and almost overnight songs like “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” “Masters of War,” and others were flying off the pages of his typewriter.

The timing of Dylan’s blossoming was in sync with the height of the civil rights movement. Dylan’s eloquence quickly made him the musical face of the movement, but he was still an artist in transition. While the folkies embraced him as their own, he tired of being pigeonholed and began writing songs of another type, long, and some say “chemically influenced” masterpieces like “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” “Desolation Row” and hundreds more. He faced hostile audiences around the world in the mid-sixties for going electric but it did not stop him. In the 1970s he released Blood on The Tracks, still one of the greatest albums ever made, and he has continued to record and tour since then, winning an Oscar and several Grammies in the last decade alone. This year marks the 50th anniversary of his arrival in New York. His influence on popular music and culture in the past half century rivals that of Shakespeare in his time and cannot be denied.

The other night he performed “The Times They Are A-Changing” at the White House, in the faces of the very people he was singing about: “Come senators and congressmen, please heed the call. Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall, for he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled—the battle outside is ragin’. It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls for the times they are a changing.”

Strong stuff for a little Jewish kid from iron ore mining country.

Immigration column

2010-06-02T13:51:00.002-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, a reader called Hello, Butts County to inform us all that illegal immigration has destroyed the health-care industry in this country. I regret to inform you that the health-care industry in this country has, like many other institutions here, actually been destroyed from within by that good old byproduct of unregulated capitalism. Yes friends, I’m talking about greed.

I like telling stories, so here is one: A long time ago, around 1982, before things got so out of control, I went to a dentist. He was recommended to me by a teacher friend who told me that the dentist, a few weeks after doing work on his teeth, had actually given him money back, with the comment, “You can pay your union dues.”

So I went. Had work done. A little later, got money back. Huh? How’d that happen?

Here’s what was going on: Dr. So and So was charging 200 bucks for a root canal. Fair enough, but when he saw that my insurance company was willing to pay a maximum of 400 bucks, that’s what he billed them. He then split the extra two hundred bucks with me, as he had with my teacher friend before me, and who knows how many others. As far as I know, he wasn’t even breaking any laws. Since the insurance company was willing to pay that much, he was well within his rights to charge that much. What he did with the difference was up to him.

That was one little dentist in one little place in upstate New York, a small fish in a big pond. If you multiply him by thousands, or maybe even tens or hundreds of thousands of health-care professionals over the last 30 years, all billing the insurance companies for extra money, and then for extra services, the numbers increase exponentially.

Time passed. Insurance companies quickly began realizing that too much money was bleeding out of their hands, into the hands of the doctors and hospitals who were billing them for aspirin at the rate of 10 bucks a pill, sometimes, as well as five-dollar Band-Aids, 10,000 bucks for an overnight stay in a hospital, and so on. You get the picture. Insurance companies seemingly didn’t even look at the bills and ask, “Isn’t 10 bucks for an aspirin too much?” They just paid it, and passed the cost along to us later, like a store owner who has to raise prices to make up for shoplifters.

No one begrudges health-care professionals the right to earn a great living -- they work very hard to get where they are and they perform an important and life-saving service, but there is no law that says that the doctor always has to be the first guy on the block to have the yacht AND the Ferrari. At least not in his first year of practice.

Medical fraud is the biggest reason the health-care industry in this country has gone to the dogs. The doctors and hospitals (not all, of course, but some) overcharge the insurance companies. The insurance companies raise their premiums to keep their profit margins status quo and they raise their co-pays to ridiculous levels. Employers can’t afford to provide health insurance for free anymore, so they start taking the premiums out of your pay. Now you have less money for everyday living. It is all connected. Six degrees of fraud and deception.

Illegal immigration has nothing to do with it. While some illegal immigrants do seek and receive medical care here, they have nothing to do with the destruction of the health-care industry in the United States.

And you can take that to the bank (if your dentist is like mine was.)

Column following State of the Union address

2010-06-02T13:51:00.001-07:00

Never have so many looked so foolish.

I was prepared to slam President Obama in the days leading up to his first State of the Union address. But his speech last week hit it out of the park, and it was truly enjoyable to see all of those fat cat Republicans sitting on their pudgy, un-calloused hands, putting on their best Cheney-esque scowls and shaking their collective heads when they disagreed with something they heard, which was often.

Still, invigorating and full of promise as the speech was, I have reservations about which “union” the president was referring to.

It’s hard to believe that any of the senate members have ever known what regular life is like for the vast majority of this country. Two unions, divisible…

In one union everyone wears an expensive suit, drives a Mercedes or BMW.

They “work” behind a desk, live in houses with so many rooms that the state of Wyoming could move in with room to spare. Family meals are often prepared by “the help” and dinner discussions revolve around stock investments and their next vacation in St. Barts, or skiing in Aspen.

When they get sick, the doctor comes to them.

Their kids’ college education is secure.

That union is in good shape thanks to huge government bailouts and they even get their yearly mega-bonuses as well. All this while they complain about the president spend-spend-spending us into extinction.

Then there is the small matter of the other union, comprising about ninety-nine percent of the country.

They wear jeans and overalls, work in farms, factories, fast food joints, and supermarkets, and make less in an hour than what the suits might spend for a martini at the club. Stock is just part of chicken soup.

They live in mobile homes, cheap duplexes or big empty new houses that they were conned into buying with fancy language and small print and are now on the verge of losing to foreclosure.

Their houses are empty because they have sold what furniture they had to try to make that mortgage payment, or they never had enough money left to buy any furniture after the closing on the house. They drive used cars, or buy a new one and have a monthly car payment that is as much as their rent.

When they get sick, they can’t get treatment because they don’t have money for it, and they suffer in silence.

When it gets cold, and the cost of heating their homes is so high that they can’t afford it, they suffer in cold silence.

They can’t take a vacation where it is warm because while oil and gas prices have risen to stupidly high levels, their paycheck has not increased at all. Instead, they stay home and read about how the other union spends their holidays in St. Barts and Aspen.

Even schoolteachers are being made to work several days a year for free. Can you imagine?

They elected a president who they thought was like them, from humble beginnings, who worked hard and made good, and who promised change. The only change thus far is what is in their pockets. And they suffer in silence, but not for long.

Dogs bite back when cornered. The majority of regular people in this country feel cornered. They will bite back, because they are not happy with the state of their union.

Good speech, Mr. President. As they say, though, actions speak louder than words. See you next year.

Graduation column

2010-06-02T13:50:00.001-07:00

This column is for all of the fine young men and women who will be graduating this week. Congratulations on a job well done. In a world where there are so many distractions and speedbumps in your way, you have persevered.

Take a breath, and feel good about yourself. You've earned it. You are not, however, finished. You have a world to save.

The world you are heading into is just as full of obstacles, so you want to be as prepared as possible to take on all challenges. This means college, of course, and lots of it. Just a generation ago, there was still a chance to make a life without much education beyond high school, but the growing world and the fierce competition in it demand more and more. Now, even an associate degree isn't enough, and a bachelor's degree is essentially the bare minimum that is needed to get you in on the bottom rung of many companies.

This isn't your parents' world. This is your world, and if you don't like what you see, don't like what the future seems to be holding in store for you, then it is up to you to do something about it. Take charge of your destiny. One look at the current state of affairs in this world is enough to tell you that it's broken, and needs fixing. It's up to you, youngbloods, to get it straightened out.

This you will do, first by observing the world in a clearheaded manner, free from booze, drugs, and other pollutants that fog the mind and prevent wise decisions. You will then make your own informed opinions based on what you see and hear with your own eyes and ears, not what some talking head says on the television or radio or even in Internet blogs, which are the worst of all. Our precious freedom of speech has allowed way too much nonsense to be spewed by all sides, making your job even more difficult. But you will use the great minds that you have developed over the years to filter out all of the junk coming your way, and you will act on what you have determined are the problems and ailments of society.

To do this, you will be required to travel. I meet too many people every single day who have never been out of Georgia -- too many people who don't know how vast and varied this world is. I've been fortunate enough in my life to have visited many lands, including Africa, Europe, Canada, the West Indies and more. Don't just take it from me, see for yourself. It's a big world, and every place has its own characteristics that make it unique. Visit these places, and learn from what you see. You'll be all the better for it.

I don't want to put too much pressure on you, though. You know what you have to do. The other thing that is a must, though, is the most important: Live for yourself at the same time you are saving the world for everyone else. Whether you believe in God, or evolution, or the stork, you are lucky to be here for this shot at life. So make the most of it, and have fun, be careful and most importantly, have a great life!

Facebook column

2010-06-02T13:49:00.001-07:00

It’s official: Facebook is scary good.

When I first heard about Facebook it was from a guy in England (kinda the way it should be) telling me I should set up a Facebook account because it was going to make the world a much smaller place, even better than MySpace was at the time.

So I dutifully set up my account, threw up an old handsome pic of myself and waited. And waited.

Impatient, I began searching for people from my past. At first, it was just old school classmates, since I still have my old yearbooks around and used them as reference material to figure out just who I might want to have be my friend (again).

A slight problem presented itself immediately: I had very few friends that I cared to find again, and the ones that I did had fairly common names.

One thing about Facebook now is that if you are looking for someone with a fairly common name, you might well end up having to search through several hundred accounts looking for just the right Robert Johnson.

Then there was another problem: Deciding just how much you want people to see. As someone who recently turned 50, and who has had a fairly adventurous life, I decided to undertake a huge project: Scanning every pre-digital photo I have and putting them, if not all, then most of them, on Facebook, along with at least some apt description so people will know what they are looking at. Once the pix (Facebook jargon) were up, all of a sudden people began wanting to be my friend. Old shots of an intact Main Street in Kerhonkson, NY, now almost completely torn down, have elicited the most response, as have a lot of old family pix of my dearly departed dad and sister, both gone too soon.

Another great (if you can call it that) result of this new toy is that I have, much to the chagrin of my wife, re-friended almost every girl and woman that I dated, back to when I was a 17-years-old, pimply high school kid. I must admit that this is the most enjoyable, if somewhat creepy, aspect of Facebook: “There she is, and there is the guy she ended up marrying and having kids with. Oh, those kids are homely. I wonder what our kids would have looked like…” and other, similarly immature thoughts run through the mind. ”Wow, did she pork up. Glad I got away from that when I still could!” You get the picture.

Seriously, though, Facebook is a blast. I have really enjoyed chatting with old friends and even some foes. I even was recently friended by someone I helped send to jail many years ago. They wrote to thank me for doing it, since it helped them get on the right path, a path they have not strayed from for 14 years. That alleviated some guilt I had been carrying around for a long time.

Mostly though, Facebook is just plain fun. I welcome any of my readers to track me down if they so desire.

Wanna be my friend?

First column for the Jackson Progress argus

2010-06-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am, as you can see, Jim Abbott. What you can’t see is, as radio man Paul Harvey used to say, the rest of the story. Although the wonderful Stewart Voegtlin had given me mention a couple weeks back, lauding me for having the “guts” to write a left leaning column in Butts County , I think I should tell you a little bit about myself since I will be coming into your homes on a more or less weekly basis.
I am not from Georgia . I was born in a small town in the Adirondack Mountains, in extreme upstate New York, four hundred miles north of New York City (I am surprised at how many Georgians don’t realize that New York is a very large state, comparable to Georgia, and like Georgia, is mostly all rural ) and lived most of my life in a small town in the Catskill Mountains, also upstate. Through a lousy set of circumstances, I was adopted, had a decent little kid life for a few years and when I was eleven my adopted family disintegrated in divorce and acrimony. For some reason I ended up with my father, who was gone most of the time, so I was pretty badly neglected, and basically had to raise myself from the age of twelve.
I did manage to get through high school, and later four years of college. In my 49 years I have been a dishwasher, a knife factory line worker, a rat breeder (!), machinist, postal clerk, deck hand on a tourist boat on the Hudson River, a UPS auditor, dog control officer, a schoolteacher, a newspaper reporter, (before that I had a 103 mile paper route for eight years, in the Catkills, where I hit an unbelievable twenty seven deer with my various cars over that time). I have also been an independent contractor/courier, taxi driver, music buyer for a book and music store, and now am a beauty supply store owner here in Jackson . I mention all this as a pre-emptive measure, so when one of y’all disagrees with me, as I am sure you will, you can call Hello Butts County and say, “Tell Jim Abbott to go back to breedin’rats!”, for example.
I grew up, as it were, in a Republican house, and when I registered to vote I did so as a Republican, often thinking that Democrats were just a bunch of tree-hugging do-gooders who were not realistic about the state of the country or the world. But then I noticed that Republicans, including those in my town’s Republican Club, of which I was a member, were by and large rather mean-spirited. Oh, they weren’t rude in public, but rather in the informal talk that went on at various functions that I attended, including some at a fairly high level, state-wise. I also noticed that there seemed to be an attitude of “haves” versus “have nots” and I watched and listened as they would make cruel comments about less fortunate people in our small town, a town roughly the size and makeup of Jackson, and I decided I had had enough.
That was 15 years ago. I still have not actually hugged a tree, but I do appreciate that they provide life supporting oxygen, are integral in maintaining the natural balance of the atmosphere and land, and sometimes are just nice to look at. Even right wingers will have to admit that beauty isn’t always reflected in a bank account, and that it shouldn’t take guts to speak out against things that are wrong..