Convolution

There is so much to say, with so little space to say it. However, I will do my best to voice my opinion without boring you to death. But, I make no guarantees. Since everyone and their brother is putting their two cents worth in on the hot button topic of this country’s flag and it’s national anthem, let me join in.

The President of the United States has decided that since he has so much free time on his hands, and no more pressing issues in either the right or left one, he has decided to stir our collective boiling pot that is our populace a little more. In an address to his “constituents” in Huntsville, Alabama Friday, Mr. Trump decided to take a shot at the NFL, its players, and its team owners. Like the child with a short attention span, off Mr. Trump went railing that he felt the National Anthem and our country’s flag were being disrespected by the players who have used the setting of the playing of the National Anthem to bring awareness in the form of protest by kneeling, and that these players should be “fired.” Secretly, he probably felt they should be put in front of a firing squad if he had his way.

This is the right of these individuals regardless of how you may feel personally. I stated my feelings in a Facebook post when Colin Kaepernick first did this to protest the oppression of certain groups in this country. He later clarified exactly what he meant, thankfully, at a later date. I vehemently disagreed initially because of the words and context he used, and the forum in which he used them. Now, much like the misguided notions of the Occupy Wall Street movement, they meant well, but were unclear as to the whys. Since the President is also unclear as to the whys, let me try to help.

First, the NFL can unfurl all the 100 yard American flags it wants to try to ride the political coattails of the patriotic nature of football and America, it will never have said patriotic connection baseball will. Professional football was founded nearly fifty years after the first professional baseball league, and two years after the symbolic beginnings of the Star-Spangled Banner being played before sporting events in general. The Star-Spangled Banner was played during the 7^th Inning Stretch (another ritual with a misguided understanding of its beginnings), of the first game of the 1918 World Series. However, the Star-Spangled Banner was played periodically at special event baseball games back in the 19^th century. It was customary to have a band in attendance at special games, and the 1918 World Series was no exception. To honor those serving overseas during World War I, during the 7^th Inning Stretch of that first World Series game being played in Chicago, the band on hand broke into a rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. It would not become ratified by Congress as The National Anthem until 1931. The 3^rd baseman for the Boston Red Sox, the Cubs opponent, was a Navy man on furlough named Fred Thomas. Upon hearing the first chords struck, he immediately turned to face the flag, snapped to attention and saluted. The Star-Spangled Banner would be played during every World Series thereafter until World War II. Then it would be played before every game.

After what transpired in 1918, other professional sports procured this tradition as leagues formed. You have to understand, prior to, the unofficial National Anthem was “Hail Columbia,” which is now what is played when the Vice-President makes an entrance. Imagine a song being emblematic of the cliché, “Always a bridesmaid, but never the bride.” If you are not asleep yet, the argument can be made that professional football’s deep patriotic connection stems from all the analogies and terms between war and football. For me, I’ll stick with patriotism being representative of one’s ties to country.

And no Mr. President, these players are not disrespecting their country for kneeling during a symbolic ritual. Much like someone who does not kneel during a church service in protest of the church stance on an issue they may not agree with. I believe no one has been excommunicated for not kneeling. Nor are they disrespecting the American flag. Nor are they disrespecting the soldiers who fought defending said flag and what it supposedly represents. Soldiers active, retired, or deceased, fought defending the values this country’s democracy is supposed to represent, not a piece of cloth. The flag identifies the United States, much like the uniform jerseys worn by the players identify which team they are on.

As far as the “National” Anthem goes, the melody is from British gentlemen’s society tune entitled, To Anacreon in Heaven, Anacreon being a Greek poet whose work frequently focused on the virtues of wine.

As a kid, I stood during the National Anthem because I was asked to, and everyone else did. As a former youth baseball player, standing today brings me back a little to those halcyon days. I like the ritual of it. I like the pomp and circumstance. I don’t like it when some asshole sits, talks through it, laughs, disrupts those around him and draws attention to him or herself. If someone chooses to be quiet and reverent and take a knee to show their displeasure with the country they love, so be it. I don’t have to agree with it.

Considering what our Commander-In-Chief, let that soak in for a moment, has brought to light, I take pause. Last night, I was so incensed as a sports historian, that he would attack my institutions, I became sufficiently incensed as a patriotic American, that I suggested to my son that when we go to Jacksonville to see my Bengals play the Jaguars, we sit during the playing of OUR Anthem in protest of the “leader” who doesn’t understand, misconstrues, and manipulates what our democracy and its symbols and rituals really stand for. My son reminded me we’d be in Bengal jerseys in hostile territory and we might get beat up. Not if everyone else sits too.

Ode to Ootie

My son bears a faint scar on his upper lip. This is his remembrance of Jim Oot. My son got it from Jim’s cat when he was no more than two. He got it on one of the innumerable nights I was fortunate enough to spend time with Jim and his future ex-wife Jill, back in the 1980’s. This particular night we were gathered at his cheesy apartment located across the street from Morristown Memorial Hospital, where my son was born.

            I am sure we were all up to no good, including my son, hence the scar. The apartment was unbelievably hot due to the antiquated heating system that included noisy radiators, and the second floor location. Outside sat Jim’s brand new BMW, a symbol of what was to be his future business success. My friend Dave Bayard, through his already relatively lucrative successful endeavor, provided the foundation and experience for Jim, and they both never looked back.

Dave, and his wife Heather, were almost always a part of the shenanigans we all, including my future ex-wife Darby, engaged in on any given weekend throughout this wonderful, fun, turbulent, tragic, and confusing period of my life. I will try to explain how this triumvirate of couples, each person from various social classes that never mattered to anyone, became a unit of untold joy for me.

Dave owned a house in Madison, New Jersey. Darby, who knew Dave from Madison, was a roommate. Jim and Dave knew each other from their time at Ohio State University. Jim met Jill while in Ohio. Jim and Jill came east so Jim could work for Dave. I started to date Darby. I moved in with Dave and Darby. Dave started to date Heather. Dave and Heather got married. Darby and I moved out. Jim and Jill got married in Syracuse, New York, where Jim hailed from. Dave, Heather, Darby, and I all drove up to the wedding together in Darby’s father’s Olds Cutlass Ciera. I behind the wheel. We almost didn’t make the wedding due to my inability to negotiate an exit ramp, but that’s a story for another blog. Later, Darby and I would marry. Jill was our waitress the night I proposed. It seemed appropriate to have a member of the gang witness. So that’s how it began.

Jim was normally our ring leader/social coordinator. Jim Oot was one of those rare individuals who truly was the life of the party. Jim was Jonah Hill before there was a Jonah Hill. No one that ever met Jim didn’t like him. I liked him from the first night I met him, and he had been friend’s with Darby’s previous boyfriend. Jim transferred his affection seamlessly, never ever judging me, or resenting me. At least that’s how I remembered it. He was that kind of guy. Jim was The Cat in the Hat, and Dave and I were Thing One and Thing Two. Even though Dave was Jim’s boss, the friendship came first, and Jim was one easy person to be friend’s with.

I frequently tell people if I have nothing, I’m giving you half. Jim was the same. Jim often would pick up the tab whether or not he was financially able. And it was hard to tell if he was or not, he never let on. It might diminish the fun that was being had, and Jim could never let that happen. We never got into trouble when we were engaged in some kind of Tom Foolery, but we could have. If Ronald Reagan was the Teflon President, or John Gotti was the Teflon Don, Jim was the Teflon Party Goer. Almost as if he wouldn’t let anything happen to any of us when we were with him.

The countless nights at The Dirt Club in Bloomfield hanging out with the owner, Johnny Dirt (the name he really went by). That’s where we all saw The Whyos for the first time, and later became acquainted with. No, they never made it big, but we loved them. So much so, that the working title for a book that’s a compilation of my blogs is, “Full Moon and an Empty Head,” a reworking of the Whyos, “Full Moon and an Empty Heart.” If memory serves me correctly, and who gives a shit if it doesn’t, I’m on a roll, we all saw The Stray Cats at The Fountain Casino, Joan Jett and The Blackhearts at The Meadowbrook, or was it the other way around? We all made the drive to the Atlantic City Convention Center to see Elvis Costello.

We all often went to dinner together before a night of clubbing. El Bandito was a favorite haunt, where, I suspect, no one who worked there had a green card.  To this day, it remains the best Mexican food I’ve ever tasted this side of Mexico.

Many great memories were made there. The pitchers of Margaritas. The farting afterward. The novelty of the neighborhood home it was situated in, or the not-so-nice-neighborhood. Hey, it was okay, we were with Jim. One night we all went and my father came along. Jim and my Dad hit it off enormously. My father spoke Spanish to anyone with whom he engaged. By the end of the night, Jim and my Dad acted as though they had known each other for years. Jim had that effect, and so did my Dad, so you can imagine.

When I had my motorcycle accident, Jim was not only there to support me, he often treated me as though nothing ever happened. For this I was grateful. When my marriage started to fall apart, Jim never took sides. He emphasized he was friends with both of us. When Darby left, it was Jim who talked me in off the edge amid my hysteria. Embarrassed by my unstable behavior, I fell out of touch. Jim seemed to know I needed to figure out who I was, and who I was to become, on my own. The last time I saw Jim it was 1990. I moved to Florida in 1993.

Social media allowed us to reconnect. I sent him my number, but never heard from him. A couple of years back Jim got sick. I followed his ordeal on social media. I saw the pictures. The horrific operation. I was sad that Jim had to go through this. Jim wouldn’t have allowed someone else to go through what he was enduring if he had any say in the matter.

We never had to go anywhere to have a good time with Jim, as the night of the Cat Scratch attests. Dave and Heather oddly were not there. We had been playing music, Jim and Jill sharing their new album purchases, and Darby and I had brought the newest additions to our collection to the apartment for Jim and Jill’s listening pleasure. My son Cory loved Jim and Jill’s cats. One of the cat’s did not reciprocate. When Cory casually strolled out of the master bedroom with blood pouring from his lip and all over the front of his clothes, we were all in a state of shock except of course Cory. Jim rose from the couch like he was shot from the proverbial cannon, slip-sliding in his stocking feet across the laminate wood floor, looking like some kind of spastic version of Randy Newman’s “Simon Smith the Amazing Dancing Bear.” Jim’s attempt to severely punish the cat went for naught. No body was the worse for wear, particularly Cory. All that remains today of that night is the faint scar.

Today, I have a scar. It isn’t visible. It is on my heart. Jim Oot passed away yesterday at the age of 62. Thankfully, my scar will heal. Thankfully, I’ll carry the great memories for the rest of my days. Yesterday, they came up from the recesses of brain, stored away for safe keeping these last 28 years. Thank you for letting share a few here.    

It’s Clear to Me . . .

           

Like many Americans, I am appalled by the recent events in Charlottesville, VA and subsequent response from our commander-in-chief. I do not know a lot about Donald Trump. Most of us regular people don’t either. But I am confident I know enough to write the following. I am not going to cite my sources. This is an Op-Ed piece, not an academic article. You naysayers will have to trust me. Also, if it was academically written, there would not be any need to cite sources like the Huffington Post or Info-Wars. Please give me a little credit here.

            A friend has said I no longer need to defend what I know, or apologize for what I write may offend others sensibilities. I will tell you this. I have formed my opinions by drawing on thousands of hours of research, hundreds of books read, and analysis of current events drawn from multiple sources, thus creating a body of knowledge in order to formulate theories in a socio-historical context. I spent the better part of yesterday researching what transpired in Charlottesville, and the President’s reaction and commentary to it.

            This is what I do know about Donald Trump. I know that his grandfather was born in 1869, and immigrated from Germany at the age of 16. His grandfather’s name was Frederich Drumpf. He immediately anglicized his name to Frederick Trump. My immigrant paternal great-grandfather did the same, ironically, about around the same time.

I know that Donald Trump was a major player in the United States Football League, owning the New Jersey Generals along with Walter Duncan and Chuck Fairbanks, who also served as head coach. I know he claimed to sign Herschel Walker. I know he did not. Walter Duncan did.

I know he claimed in a 2014 interview with Michael D’Antonio, to be “the best baseball player in New York when I was young.” He was not. Granted, he was scouted while in high school by the Boston Red Sox and the Philadelphia Phillies. However, Ken Singleton and Ed Kranepool were also high school baseball players in New York City during the same period. Both had pretty decent pro careers. Trump claims to have eschewed a baseball career, instead wanting to go to college so he could join in his father’s real estate empire. I think there may have been a concern over his savage heel spurs that kept him from serving in the armed forces. A little sarcasm never hurts to lighten the dark and somber mood that has engulfed every American.

            I know that his casinos had to file for bankruptcy. I also know this is a very difficult thing to do, unless of course you overspend. I know he is a real estate success. But I also know at least 26 businesses with the “Trump” name have failed. Some have been real estate ventures. Real estate can be a high risk/high reward endeavor.

I know there have been business successes outside of real estate. Well, two; “The Apprentice,” and “Celebrity Apprentice.” Both are “reality” television programs. I know Donald Trump can be entertaining. I have listened to his interviews on Howard Stern over the years.

I know his books have met with success. I have read “The Art of The Deal.” I guess the title is channeling Sun Tzu, and his 5^th century BC military treatise, “The Art of War;” somehow equating dealing in real estate is similar to warfare. That thinking belongs to those sports pundits who equate playing a football game is also like warfare. I do not know how many people have died consummating or losing out on a real estate deal. The same can be said for football game casualties.

            What I took away from this literary work is that Donald Trump firmly believes P.T. Barnum was right. A quote attributed to Barnum, though no evidence to confirm it states, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” I have heard an addendum “. . . and two to take him.” You be the judge. I certainly don’t want to be accused of telling any of you learned masses what to think. I’ll leave that up to the media.

If you have followed Donald Trump’s ascension in the political arena like I have since June of 2015, I think you’ll agree Barnum’s credo has its place in this rise that culminated in being elected to the highest political office one can attain in this country. Along the way, I have read his rabble-rousing speeches. I have read his vitriolic “tweets.” I have heard his offering to pay the legal fees of his constituents if they were to physically assault those who opposed him. His bombastic hubris was evident. The goal was to win the nomination at all costs, regardless of the inaccuracies, misquotations, and hate-mongering needed to sway the majority of the 70% of Americans who are ignorant and uninformed. I believe, though I can’t prove it, the other 30% of the informed were split between both parties, though the popular vote has indicated differently, regardless of your stance on voter fraud, that’s not the point here.

While doing all this listening and reading over the next 17 months I grew uncomfortable with what was transpiring, and the lack of awareness by so many. Trump’s campaign was masterful. It reminded me of a similar approach by someone during their rise to power. Make the masses afraid, make them angry, offer them a solution irrespective of how misdirected in terms of the greater good. It’s was all in the way you say it.

 I was reminded of a scene in the movie “The King’s Speech.” The royal family is watching newsreel footage of Adolf Hitler addressing a throng in German. A young future queen Elizabeth askes her father, “Daddy, what is he saying?” Her father replies, “I don’t know, but he’s saying it rather well,” or something to that effect. When Donald Trump won the election, my discomfort grew to genuine concern. There was an historical blueprint for what had occurred. Members of a conservative faction elected to public office, seize the majority, get a man elected who reflected said conservatism.

When the boldface lies began I wrote them off to typical political grandeur. When the late night or early morning tweets over nothingness started, I questioned our new President’s mental stability. I bristled at his lack of reverence for the office he occupied. I cringed at his inability use the English language, and the lack of a vocabulary he stated he possessed. I was appalled that he admitted to not reading books. I felt it laughable he received his information from Fox News and Entertainment instead of the dozens of White House resources available to him. I remained silent as my conservative friends insisted I give him a chance. And with each passing day I saw this new President name individuals to high ranking posts of departments their political stances were in direct conflict. I have been of the mind that our political system has been broken for over 16 years. And now I watched as it grew worse still. Hyperbole was not going to fix it. If you yell louder, it doesn’t make it right.  

These last few days the President has said some things which are true, which is a pleasant surprise for me given his track record.  Donald Trump is right when he stated that we should not attempt to rewrite our history. America has been on an anti-confederacy bender of late. Most recently in Charlottesville a protest was to take place to oppose the taking down of a statue of Robert E. Lee. Allan West is correct that Lee graduated from West Point. He is correct stating that Lee served the nation admirably in the Mexican War. But Allan West neglected to mention that General Lee believed in states rights above the union of states. Had the confederacy won, America would have been easy pickings for several countries looking to impose their influence, Great Britain and Spain to name two. If Lee was being honored for his service during The Mexican War, great. But he wasn’t. He was honored for his service to the confederacy, as were the 100-plus statues that abound below the Mason-Dixon line. But this isn’t about statues. And if you think it is, you’ve been living out of this country for the last fifty years. Statues and other symbols representative of another era of history are just the conduits for something much more ominous. It reared its ugly head in the worst way in Charlottesville, and the president is laying blame in an equally vile way.

Donald Trump is right when he says that there were people in Charlottesville just to protest the removal of this statue. However, there were also others there. Neo-Nazis were there. White Supremacists, or Nationalists like they euphemistically like to be called, were there. The Ku Klux Klan was there. Note, that while the original KKK was based in the South, the revival in 1915 began in Indiana, the home state of the current vice-president. Those poor folk that were just there to protest the removal of a statue found themselves, rightly or not, aligning with these hate groups. For this they should be vilified, not excused by the President of the United (for now) States. Once they saw what was emerging they should have gotten out of Dodge.

The President is right when he states that not all in opposition to these hate groups were peacefully assembled. This is not a Ghandi or Martin Luther King moment. Passivity’s ship has sailed when it comes to dealing with Nazism. For a President to spread blame, reference George Washington and Thomas Jefferson out of context to state his case for preserving history, inquire as to whether not they had a permit, and to not denounce the hate groups mentioned is appalling. And don’t tell me of the semantical bullshit that was inferred is the same. I was hoping he’d say or act . . . well, Presidential. Richard Nixon would have, whether he meant it or not. Ronald Reagan would have. George H. W. Bush would have. Even George W. Bush would have had the wherewithal to. Conservatives all. Not the current President. By the way, I voted for all but Nixon and the current charlatan. Just in case you thought I was seeing this from only one point of view.

The President said he was waiting for all the “facts” before making a statement concerning Charlottesville. This would be a first. Patience and thoughtful contemplation are not the current President’s forte if you haven’t been able to tell by what he tweets. The President’s supporters have been quick to point to Lincoln was a Republican, and the Democrats the architects of Jim Crow laws. Again, if you are new to this planet, the planks for both parties platforms have changed quite a bit over the last 150 years. An empty call for unity isn’t going to cut it. Who in Washington will have the guts to tell Donald Trump he blew it this time. Not the Neo-Nazis or the KKK,. They lauded him. Wrap your brain around that.