Keeping Track

 Sometimes when you work in an office like this one (gestures widely to the corner of the room in which his computer sits) you have to make tough editorial decisions. As many of you are aware, this blog is a wholly owned and run subsidiary of the right half of my brain. Which doesn't mean that the executive functions don't periodically interfere with the creative process. Quite the contrary. What you are reading currently was generated some days before, and kept under lock and key until the one just before it reaches the light of day. This explains why periodically  you might be reading along, amused to some degree, but thinking to yourself, "Didn't Jon Stewart cover this on Monday?"

I won't apologize for my OCD. This is how I can ensure that the steady stream of clever bits come out on a daily basis. Mister Stewart, for whom I have unending admiration, sits behind his desk once a week. And there's his podcast. And a myriad of other things I'm sure, but I'm just this one guy and a computer. I don't have guest hosts or a staff of writers. I don't have reruns, though I expect that some of you may wonder about that after you've read my umpteenth screed about mass shootings or that kid at school that I just can't seem to come around to my way of thinking. 

All of this is to say that there are times, like today, that I find myself with an editorial dilemma. Hooking up to Al Gore's Internet this afternoon, to my surprise, I discover two celebrity deaths are in the news. One after another. In no particular order, Chuck Mangione and Hulk Hogan. I am in the business of documenting such transitions in popular culture, so my first instinct was to connect these two with the passing of Ozzy Osbourne because conventional wisdom suggests that stars die in threes. Wags such as myself might wonder if it isn't tens or eights and we're just not able to absorb that kind of carnage, but no matter: Here we have two humans who existed on a similar plane of my consciousness and now it is my duty to report on them. 

Not my duty. My calling. 

Chuck Mangione was the sound of my first two years of high school. He was the softer sound of jazz that followed my introduction to bands like the one fronted by Maynard Ferguson. After reveling in Feels So Good, my high school band took on his next year's release Hill Where The Lord Hides as part of our halftime show. For those two years, this was the soundtrack of my life, albeit supplemented by Foghat and Boston and Blue Oyster Cult. Chuck's music is completely evocative of that moment in time for me. 

A similar sensation occurs in me when I hear the roar, "Whatcha gonna do when Hulkamania runs wild on you?" Hulk Hogan, nee Terry Bollea, was such a breakthrough star in the first major wave of professional wrestling that he got himself a part in Rocky III. Hulk's heyday occurred just a few years after that of Chuck Mangione's, but they occupy disk space in a very similar file. I can't say that I was ever a Hulkamaniac, but I was impressed by the gusto with which the Hulkster approached his vocation. His was an outsize presence in a field full of outsized presences. 

And now they're both gone. I will say that they both, in their own way stomped on the Terra, though Chuck did so much more lightly than Hulk Hogan. And Mister Mangione had the good taste not to tarnish his image by showing up at last year's Republican National Convention and struggling a bit with his pre-ripped T-shirt. But they will both be missed by yours truly. 

Unless by some unforeseen circumstances they rise from the dead in the space of time it takes for us all to reach this post in the stack. In which case, my traditional farewell will work just as well as a greeting from beyond: Aloha.  

Low

 I played tuba for six years. Perhaps more to the point: I played Sousaphone for six years. It was only on rare occasions that I was afforded the mild novelty of playing an actual tuba. For those of you uninitiated, they are roughly comparable instruments in the noise that they create, but John Philip Sousa requested that a "marching version" of the low end of the brass family be generated such that it would wrap around the player rather than having to strap a concert tuba to a musician's chest and hope they didn't tip over. 

That distinction made, I can say that I embarked on my low brass career based on a pair of whims. The first of these was the story of my father who "played" tuba/sousaphone in high school band. The quotations are there to denote the fact that he didn't so much play as carry his instrument. He was recruited by a pal of his because it was necessary to have seven sousaphones to be able to spell out BOULDER on their bells. Presentation is everything. So my dad took the gig, and happily appeared in a number of parades and in the yearbook photo showcasing all the members of the Marching Panthers. 

I was a legacy, of sorts. 

The other anecdote that figures in here is the part where I went to a high school football game with my older brother while I was still in elementary school. I was struck by just how much fun the Pep Band was having at everyone's expense, including their own. This goofy behavior was most evident in the antics of the tuba players. Something about lugging that beast around and attempting the impossible feat of remaining discreet while wearing a great chunk of brass and fiberglass. It seemed like a pretty good time. 

Besides, as I mentioned, I was a legacy. 

The problem was that, unlike my older and younger brothers, I had not begun my formal instrumental music training in elementary school. I had years of piano lessons that allowed me to read music and understand just how easy most tuba parts were, but I had no idea how to blow in one end of one of those things to make noise come out of the other. Let alone music. 

So that summer I began my study of the bass clef and the mechanics of Embouchure. Those first few months under the tutelage of the high school band teacher who was in charge of both the marching band and the pep band, should I make it through playing in junior high first. 

Initially, it was suggested that I switch from tuba to baritone, a less cumbersome instrument. And not at all what I had in mind. After some false starts, we were able to find not one but two sousaphones tucked away in the back of the auditorium. I was allowed to keep one at home to save my father from the hassle of having to drive me and my instrument to and from school in order to practice. "You couldn't have chosen the piccolo, could you?" He once asked me on one of those occasions when transporting my choice was the only option. 

Eventually I made it to the big time: High school band. As a sophomore, I was one of only two tuba players who could actually play their instrument. Two others were primarily seat fillers, and when it came time to fill out the rest of the line to spell out BOULDER, ringers were brought in from other sections who were such clever musicians that playing tuba was easy. 

I tried not to take this personally. By the time I was a senior, I was designated Section Leader. And I was elected Pep Band president. Local tuba player makes good. Somewhere in there I harbored dreams of attending Stanford and playing with their infamous not-quite-marching band. That didn't happen. 

After I graduated high school, I hung up my tuba. Or rather I left it in the laundry room of my parents' house until one day it was suggested that I "do something" with it. A certain amount of shame kept me from toting it back to my junior high school from whence it came. Instead I carted it to a used music shop where they looked it over and figured they could use it. As a lamp. 

Sometimes I harbor fantasies about going back to my roots and getting my chops back into shape for one last blast. 

Just to say that I could. 

Lingering

 Did you ever wonder

what forever felt like?

Sometimes it's the line

at the DMV.

Others it feels like

Christmas Eve.

I'm not talking about 

that kind of forever. 

I'm talking about time

spent together. 

It could be in that line. 

It could be the night before.

I'm talking about the collection

of moments and stories.

All of the places where

we held hands. 

All of those moments that

we hold dear.

Walking, talking, sharing

and talking some more.

Wishes that have not come true,

at least not yet. 

Hoping to get more time

to spend with you. 

Forever. 

The Difference

 For a guy who was recently handed sixteen million dollars because two big media companies didn't want anything to interfere with their merger, the convicted felon certainly seems ungrateful. 

There's a clue there: convicted felon. A businessman who has run six of his projects into bankruptcy, most of those were gambling resorts. Someone once suggested to me that only really bad gamblers are in Gamblers Anonymous. If you're good at it, why quit? 

This same bad businessman was impeached not once but twice in his first term as "president." As much as he might have wanted us all to take his misdirection and follow his pointing finger at anyone and everything else aside from his own impotence, the facts remain the facts. 

Which is why his go-to strategy is to make stuff up. He might be a dream improv partner, but having him for a boss seems at best to be a short-term proposition. If you're going to march into battle for him, you can be assured that he will be in some safe location watching it all unfold on cable news. 

The real challenge seems to be one of projection: He can't distinguish between prosecution and persecution. When he gets left behind or chastised for being a failure, he will generate "what if" scenarios that put the spotlight on anyone else. To wit: "I’m looking at the large amount of money owed by the Democrats, after the Presidential Election, and the fact that they admit to paying, probably illegally, Eleven Million Dollars to singer Beyoncé for an ENDORSEMENT (she never sang, not one note, and left the stage to a booing and angry audience!), Three Million Dollars for 'expenses,' to Oprah, Six Hundred Thousand Dollars to very low rated TV 'anchor,' Al Sharpton (a total lightweight!), and others to be named for doing, absolutely NOTHING! These ridiculous fees were incorrectly stated in the books and records. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO PAY FOR AN ENDORSEMENT. IT IS TOTALLY ILLEGAL TO DO SO. Can you imagine what would happen if politicians started paying for people to endorse them. All hell would break out! Kamala, and all of those that received Endorsement money, BROKE THE LAW. They should all be prosecuted! Thank you for your attention to this matter."

Thank you. Now shut up and sit down. The truth of the matter is that the only guy caught misusing campaign funds is the guy who was convicted on thirty-four counts of fraud for the way he bungled the payment of hush money to a porn star in hopes of keeping her quiet about their coupling while his wife was pregnant with his son.

If you're looking for a reliable reverse barometer, look no further than Mar-A-Lago. Next up, he's going to sue his old pal Rupert Murdoch for the story printed in The Wall Street Journal. The whiner-in-chief wants ten billion dollars for that one. Maybe if he wins that one he can buy himself a casino. Or a yogurt stand. Just get him out of politics.

Can You Tell Me How To Get Funded?

 Any cursory rummaging about our household would provide evidence that funding for broadcasting on NPR and PBS comes from us, the listeners/viewers. I am speaking about the tote bags, water bottles and baseball caps that have been sent to congratulate us for our largesse. Hanging on to these bits of swag make us feel as though we have contributed, at least in some small part, to the elevation of the discourse in this great land of ours. 

Of course it only occurs to me now that programming on Amazon Prime is made possible from donations from viewers like us as well. Hey Bezos! Where's my tote swag?

While waiting for the realization that I could be waiting for a very long time for my Prime tote bag to sink in, I would like to point you all in the direction of the Abominabill, the thing that creeped through Congress and tore up our nation's safety net in order to assure that (checks notes) Jeff Bezos gets a tax cut. Part of the wreckage strewn about in that furious butchering of programs that had been put in place over time to support those most vulnerable and in need was a billion dollars of support for the Corporation For Public Broadcasting. 

It would seem that Republicans have all the baseball hats they need, thank you very much. 

And the reactionary right is doing everything in its power to keep any "woke ideology" for seeping into the households of this great land of ours. Like that Ken Burns fellow who insists that slavery was a bad thing. Why couldn't he just stick to baseball? 

Down on Sesame Street, things have been a struggle for some time now. HBO Tyrannous Maximus was airing new episodes on their streaming service and allowing PBS stations to show the old ones after they had been properly drained of their newness. When that contract expired, Netflix O Rama swooped in and agreed to pump money in to The Children's Television Workshop in order to keep Big Bird in his nest. It might be Elmo's World, but somebody's got to pay the rent. Oscar is going to be even grouchier than usual when he finds out that the Federal Government wants his trash can to go condo. 

I won't bore you with stories about how many people I know who learned to read thanks to Cookie Monster and got early math help from The Count. I won't tell you that Public Broadcasting isn't periodically ripe for satire. It is. But it's ours. 

And we need to keep it funded. And protected. 

Flying High Again

 I don't believe it is that difficult to understand the success of the latest iteration of DC comics biggest star. 

Superman, ideally, is for all of us. I have read in a number of different places about how the notion that Superman is "woke" is nothing new. This is the story of a foster kid who grew up believing in the inherent goodness of those around him. He became the walking, talking, flying safety net that we all need. 

What I am about to do is discuss plot points of a popular movie and if you are sensitive to the outcome of the fictional account of a "metahuman" whose basic information is probably better known than most characters in The Bible, then please feel free to come back to this post after you've given the movie a chance to work its magic on you. Then feel free to argue or agree. 

Or you can simply take my word for it: We need Superman right now. 

Here we go: Very early on in James Gunn's adaptation of this legend, we learn that Superman is under fire from the United States Government for intervening on behalf of a country that is being invaded by a strongarm dictator from a hostile neighbor. Just who is this clown who wears his underwear outside his tights and why is he inserting himself into the matters of diplomacy? In an interview that takes place between young lovers Clark Kent and Lois Lane, Clark insists on behalf of his later ego that the answer is simple: Because people were going to die. 

His response was not that of a dispassionate alien observer, but of a human being who chose to stop other human beings from suffering regardless of how it made him look. Public opinion causes Superman's popularity to plummet as politicians and oligarchs such as Lex Luthor (think hairless Elon Musk) seek to manage worldwide economic strategy without considering the lives of those in the way. 

At one point, Supes and his gal pal Lois sit and discuss the challenges of being "the good guy" while an alien invader keeps members of "The Justice Gang" busy just outside their window. The challenge of handling a glowing beast from another world is dismissed when Clark/Superman says, "Oh, they've got this." 

We need Superman for the really big messes. The ones that take a standup guy in a cape without any moral quandaries. Truly psychotic billionaires who seek to rule the planet by any means necessary who jail their political enemies in distant prisons without any sort of due process need to be dealt with by someone who truly understands truth, justice, and the American Way. The Human Way. 

It doesn't matter that he came here as an alien. An immigrant. Superman sees the potential for good and works tirelessly for those ideals. He won't be compromised. It sounds corny, and that may be why the past few versions of this story have skewed into darker territory, hoping to mine the frailties of this adopted Son of Krypton. 

It's not corny. 

It's Super. 

Badlands

 Last week I flippantly suggested that Tulsi Gabbard has evidence connecting Barack Obama to The Teapot Dome Scandal. I made this little jape at the expense of the Director of National Intelligence after she did her very best to obscure the train wreck her boss is currently experiencing in real time. Director Tulsi would like us all to believe that President Obama committed treason back in 2016. The challenge currently is just how much attention we should all give Tulsi's sideshow. Any sort of comment just gives more oxygen to a wildfire of falsehood.

One that should be extinguished on its own, but unfortunately there are far too many bitter and mistreated MAGAts who need fresh meat. So why not go ahead and dangle Teapot Dome in front of them to see who bites first?

If you're not up on your 1920's government corruption, it was a scandal that occurred during Warren G. Harding's administration. It seems that his Interior Secretary, Albert Fall, leased a number of oil reserves at very low rates without any sort of competitive bidding. Two of these locations were in California, but the third was in the nefariously named Wyoming locale of Teapot Dome. Investigated by the Senate, it turned out that Secretary Albert accepted bribes from the oil companies. Fall went to prison. Nobody who gave him the bribes was convicted of any crimes. 

It wasn't until Watergate that our country had anything like it to compare. In what might be considered a stroke of luck on his behalf, Warren G. Harding died before all of the evidence came to light. His successor, Calvin Coolidge managed to keep his nose clean of all this mess and went on to be elected to his own term as President. Calvin managed to squeak on out just ahead of the Crash of 1929. All the money Albert Fall had made was gone after serving a year in prison. Harding is the guy who gets all the blame for The Great Depression. 

All of these guys, it should be noted, were Republicans. 

Which is probably why Tulsi hasn't bothered to spread the rumor I helped create. Oh, and Watergate? That was theirs too. Interesting, since Tulsi wasn't always a Republican. She chose to move on over to the Dark Side. Director of Intelligence? That's kind of an ironic title, right?