Shut Up and Sing!

Suppose you’re an aspiring politician with low name recognition running for Governor somewhere. You schedule a rally, desperate to move the needle of the public’s attention. The last thing your campaign needs are television reporters filming empty chairs for the 11 o’clock news. So you do whatever it takes to put fannies in those seats and since you know that Americans aren’t going to show up to hear some gasbag talk about the minimum wage for an hour, you have to have a whiz-bang opening act.

Now, if you were a liberal politician running in Oregon, or say, San Francisco you might run Barbara Streisand out there. She would say a few vacuous words and then launch into a soaring rendition of “People Who Need People.” If you were a conservative politician running in someplace like Mississippi, or say, Texas you would pack those chairs with Ted Nugent who would bring the house down with his thunderous, “Cat Scratch Fever.” But then, he too would say a few vacuous words. And then all hell would break loose, because, while Babs can be an infuriating, airheaded nitwit, Nugent can be a vicious moron. And the powers that be in the national media who might give a liberal celebrity a pass for some inanity, will rip Ted Nugent a new one.

Conservative reaction to liberal celebrity politicking is usually something along the lines of, “shut up and sing!” Liberal reaction to the relatively few examples of conservative celebrity politicking is more like, “off with his head!!!!” But, in this particular case, they are right. Here’s what Mr. Nugent had to say:

“ A Chicago Communist-raised, Communist-educated, Communist-nurtured, subhuman mongrel like the ACORN community organizer gangster Barack Hussein Obama to weasel his way into the top office of authority in the United States of America.””

There’s plenty of over the top invective here to go around, and frankly, I don’t have a problem with most of it. After all, this is politics and we have a 1st Amendment right to say over the top inflammatory things in the heat of a campaign. But, if a line has to be drawn somewhere, subhuman mongrel would certainly be a good place to start.

Ted Nugent, being a washed up rocker, probably isn’t aware of the history of this phrase, but knowing him, even if he were he probably would still have used it. It’s the exact term used by the Nazis to describe and denigrate the Jews. In order to pave the way for their final solution, they first had to remove the humanity of their victims. If Jews aren’t even human, but subhuman mongrels, then they are ultimately no different than that rabid mongrel dog that must be put down lest he infect someone. To use this hideous term to describe Obama is especially horrible considering the darker chapters of our own national history of race relations.

So, does Mr. Nugent have a 1^st Amendment right to say such things without fear of imprisonment? Yes. But I have a right to denounce him for his hateful ignorance and distance myself from his remarks. If the politician he was shilling for has any brains, he will do the same thing.

Mr. Nugent, shut up and sing!

Wedding Planning Part IV

Another crucial item has been checked off of our wedding “to do list.” This particular benchmark is a new component of the modern wedding industrial complex, hereafter referred to as simply WIC. New though it may be, I am told it is essential, no modern wedding can be had without it. I refer, of course, to the engagement pictures.

According to WIC protocol, not only must a couple hire a photographer to immortalize the actual wedding for posterity, but the engagement announcement as well. This involves the happy couple walking around in fields of wheat, or sitting in a coffee shop, or simply gazing into one another’s eyes longingly, while their overpriced photographer snaps away. Props are encouraged, so the couple brings emotionally significant artifacts from their courtship like coffee mugs from their alma maters, favorite books, or perhaps the ticket stubs from their first movie date. It’s all so incredibly sweet. Meanwhile, our happy photographer pockets an extra paycheck.

Once these essential pictures are in the can, a favorite must be chosen to use for another newly minted must have of modern WIC protocol…the Save the Date postcard, whereby all potential wedding guests must be given 6 months notice of the wedding, lest they inadvertently schedule a root canal on the blessed date. In this, the photographers are in league with the greeting card and high end stationary moguls along with the postal service, since now two mass mailings must be executed; the first to warn people not to schedule anything for July 12^th, 2014 and a second to actually invite them. Why this couldn’t be combined somehow into one announcement/invitation like it had been done for, I don’t know, the past 4,000 years, is not for me to ask. I’m just the guy playing George Banks in this movie.

Happily, I am told that the engagement photos were a huge success and turned out beautifully. Another item has been checked off of the list, and the ball has been moved forward.

Making impressive progress here at Wedding Central.

Snark Fatigue

It has occurred to me recently that I don’t write as many blog posts about politics and politicians as I used to. It’s not that they have all suddenly become reasonable and it’s certainly not the case that they have stopped doing moronic things. Rather, it’s like every time I think to rip into one of them, I sigh heavily and move on to some other topic. How many times can you lampoon a buffoon before it becomes unnecessary?

Listen, I could sit here all day, every day, and never run out of hilarious things to say about the likes of Al Gore, John Kerry, Nancy Pelosi, John Boehner, Joe Biden, and Michelle Bachman. I mean, those blogs practically write themselves! But the reason that Vaudeville disappeared was that after a while people got bored watching people tripping over ottomans and face-planting into the green bean casserole. Sure, a pie in the face is funny, but after 100,000 pies, it gets old.

Sure, I could rail against President Obama’s latest extra-constitutional shenanigans, or ridicule his latest bone-headed policy proscription, or even make another crack about those ginormous ears, but to what end? Besides, he’s a lame duck and soon the Republic will be free of him.

Basically, I’m sick of making jokes about my country’s governmental dysfunction. It’s starting to become embarrassing. We are the United States of America, for Pete’s sake. I’m getting a little tired of feeling like I turned my back and now suddenly I live in Uruguay. Who are these people running my country? Where did they come from? And what the hell happened to my television? Every channel I flip to features the worst examples of human depravity among us, celebrated in the form of a reality show. So, you hoard every scrap of paper and piece of garbage all of your life until you drive away everyone in your family and your house is stuffed to the rafters with filth, the stench so foul it hangs like a cloud over your entire street? Don’t worry, there’s a TV show in your future. You can become a star. Who says the American Dream is dead?

Unfortunately for those of us tired of politics, we are about to enter another Presidential election cycle. For the next two years we will be inundated with that Super Bowl of dysfunction, that World Series of pandering known as “the campaign.”  We will witness all of the primaries, caucuses, straw votes, straw polls and straw men that make up the candidate selection process. There will be Super Tuesdays and 16,000 televised debates. By the end of it all, I will be about ready to resurrect the Monarchy and install the Earl of Grantham as our King.

But, I am an American, which means that I possess a ridiculously inexhaustible reservoir of hope. Perhaps somewhere out there lives a man or woman who will step up to the plate and offer a sensible leadership alternative. Maybe there’s someone out there who can transcend the muck and mire of left versus right, someone who will run on a platform that promises, “First, do no harm!”

Hope springs eternal.

A Jewel in the Valley

I inherited wanderlust from my mother. If I had my way, I would travel somewhere half of my life, and use the other half planning the trips. And although a 100 mile drive to Staunton, Virginia for a weekend doesn’t exactly qualify as globetrotting, it was a lot cheaper than Paris.

Pam and I celebrated Valentine’s Day at a marvelous Hotel called the Frederick House.  It’s actually more like a Bed and Breakfast, only it is made up of three separate houses that provide over 25 rooms. Our accommodations in the Patrick House were a huge two room suite, beautifully furnished and appointed with everything except a coffee-maker, my only complaint of the weekend.

At this point I should mention what a trooper my wife is. She woke up Thursday morning, the day before our trip with a cold which only got worse Friday, the day of our departure. Instead of just staying at home and resting, she chose to go, figuring that if she was going to be sick all weekend, she might as well be staying in a beautiful hotel. Despite much sneezing and coughing and general icky-ness, she soldiered on, outside, in 30 degree weather, walking everywhere we went without one complaint. What a woman!

Staunton is a small town in the Shenandoah Valley that was once the frontier of our state, since it was where the railroad ended. It was a supply dump for the Confederate army during the Civil War, but oddly no battle was ever fought there which had the happy result of preserving its beautiful Victorian mansions built mostly by rich railroad men. Today it has a population of 24,000 souls, and if our trip experiences are a fair representation, all of them love their city. Everyone we encountered and I do mean everyone, from the owners of the Frederick House, to the guy behind the counter at the visitor’s center, to the guy who drove the 25 cent trolley, to random people on the streets; all were as friendly and helpful as people could possibly be, each of them clearly proud of their town, and for good reason.

We arrived around 3 o’clock on Friday afternoon; 24 hours after the town got pelted with 18 inches of snow. Not only were practically all of the downtown streets plowed but most of the sidewalks as well. I was surprised at how hilly the place was, but despite the tricky terrain, the city government had the streets safe for cars and pedestrians in less than 24 hours.

So, what is it that one does in Staunton, Virginia for two days, you might ask? Here goes, and try to keep up:

1. Had a terrific dinner at Aioli’s, a Mediterranean restaurant, a short walk from our room.
2. Went to a play, Shakespeare’s As You Like It, performed by a superbly talented group of actors and musicians at the Blackfriars playhouse, a Globe Theatre replica built back in 2001.
3. Took a tour of the Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library and birthplace.
4. Walked through the newly redecorated Stonewall Jackson hotel.
5. Toured two Museums
6. Took a trolley ride around and through the city with stops at the most memorable buildings and homes.
7. Walked the length of Beverly Street, the major boulevard in downtown, and probably the biggest reason that Staunton was voted by Smithsonian magazine as one of the best small towns in America. Beautiful, clean and entertaining.
8. Took in a movie at one of those old downtown movie theatres that only has a couple of screens, and tons of legroom!
9. Had a fabulous lunch at the Clocktower, and delicious lasagna at Emilio’s.
10.  The Frederick House provided breakfast each day, which was amazing. The menu was printed on the back of their coffee mugs and featured only 6 choices, but the four that we tried were perfectly prepared.
11.  Attended a glass blowing demonstration at a place called Sunspots.

My best story of the weekend involved me losing my gloves. I absentmindedly left them on the seat beside me during my first trolley ride. An hour later we stood at the trolley stop hoping that we would get the same driver and trolley as before. When I got back on, three women were sitting right next to the gloves and asked me if they were mine. They seemed so relieved that I had found them. If that had happened in downtown Richmond, in an hour’s time those gloves would have already been exchanged for crack!

So, once again Pam and I discover another jewel of a town in the Valley. How blessed we are to live in this state?

The Curious Case of Michael Sam

 A few days ago the sports world was repeatedly beaten over the head with the “very important news” that Michael Sam, star linebacker of the Missouri Tigers and hot NFL prospect, had openly declared his homosexuality. We were assured by breathless sports reporters and talk show hosts that this was “huge” and consequently just had to be talked about ad nauseam for three days. In much the same way as Jason Collins, a washed up seven foot tall basketball player, was canonized a year ago when at the end of his career he went public with his sexual preferences, sports fans now know every detail of Mr. Sam’s life. He appears to be a great guy.

Of course, if Michael Sam gets drafted and makes an NFL roster he will by no means become the first homosexual to do so. He will just be the first one we have known of beforehand, which I suppose is newsworthy…I guess. Maybe it’s just me, but the only thing I would care about as an owner or general manager of an NFL team would be…can he play? Actually, that’s not entirely true. I would also want to know what kind of character he possessed. Was he an arrogant, trouble making egomaniac in college with poor work habits? If so I would pass. By all accounts Mr. Sam was a model citizen. He was also Defensive Player of the Year in the mighty SEC last year, so if I need an undersized outside linebacker who can get after the quarterback, I would pick him in a New York minute.

Listening to sports talk radio the past three days has been like peering into a petri dish full of something terribly noxious yet unidentifiable. Some guys are opposed to an openly gay man being inside an NFL locker room, some squeamishly so. Other guys thought that it would change the entire culture of the locker room, forcing everyone to walk on eggshells for fear of saying something politically incorrect. Still others didn’t care one way or the other. I count myself among that group.

And yet, there was one objection that kept coming up to which every single talking head I listened to was unanimous in their condemnation. Every host from the national shows and two of the three local guys were condescendingly dismissive of anyone who brought up the question of how appropriate it was to have a homosexual man walking around a locker room full of naked men. Wouldn’t that be weird and borderline sketchy? Anyone who dared broach this topic was subjected to a withering smack down by the snarky host, the primary point being something along the lines of, “Dude, just because someone is gay doesn’t mean that he gets all turned on by the sight of a naked guy. That’s insulting!!”

Ok. Humor me for a second. Let’s do a little thought experiment. Suppose in the distant future of sport in America, it becomes acceptable for men to play traditionally women’s sports. A young, handsome and strapping 20 year old man would then be allowed to roam the locker room of his predominately women’s tennis team. Our straight young man would be showering with Maria Sharapovas as far as the eye could see. Would anyone have a problem with that? I mean, besides his girlfriend. What’s the difference between this hypothetical and the real situation that Mr. Sam will be presented with this summer? As a heterosexual man, I am naturally attracted to women, especially the female form, and in the case of lithe, athletic 20 year old tennis players, double-especially. Mr. Sam has shared openly his preference for men. He will be surrounded by 40 of the most physically fit and elite male forms known to exist on this planet. Are we being asked to believe that this is a total nonissue? If the tables were turned, I can say without hesitation that my wife would not at all be happy with my presence in a locker room full of naked women, even if I never acted inappropriately, because…it’s just wrong and dangerous for a man to subject himself to that sort of temptation. Not because men are uncontrollable ass grabbers, but simply because it isn’t appropriate or healthy. End of thought experiment.

I wish Michael Sam every success in the NFL. And I eagerly await one of my hipper friends explaining to me why my thought experiment is terribly flawed.

The Grammy's Salute to the Beatles

It was my very first television memory. All six of us were gathered around our jumpy RCA victor black and white TV that Sunday night 50 years ago. I was two months shy of turning six years old. My brother Donnie was 15 and about to have his life changed by those four boys from Liverpool. My parents were about to be horrified.

Ed Sullivan, looking an awful lot like Richard Nixon with his five o’clock shadow, spun around and shouted, “The Beatles!!” I was mesmerized by the spectacle of the thing. The volume and intensity of the screaming girls was actually a little scary. I glanced at Donnie and Linda. They were both nodding their heads in rhythm to the music. Paula’s expression was wild eyed excitement, not unlike what one would expect on Christmas morning. Mom and Dad stared at the screen as if they were watching someone killing a living thing. They were both destined to hate their music, but what they really didn’t like were their haircuts. Thanks to Ed Sullivan, a generation gap was introduced into the Dunnevant home.

All of this comes to mind after watching the Grammy’s salute to the Beatles special the other night. It was easily the best two hours I’ve spent in front of my television in quite a while. The musicians selected to perform their songs were all wonderful. Towards the end, Ringo performed a three song set followed by Paul who absolutely nailed “Get Back,” I Saw Her Standing there,” and “Birthday.” Here were two guys in their 70’s still having fun playing rock & roll. It was a joyous night.

My wife often accuses me of being out of step with contemporary music. She is correct. The music I most enjoy all seems to have been originally recorded 30-50 years ago. “You have to keep up with the new acts honey,” she says. “If you don’t, you’ll get old!” I must admit that I was introduced to a few of them watching this show and was mightily impressed. But when your first introduction to contemporary music was the Ed Sullivan show on a February night 50 years ago, it’s a hard act to follow. Transformational talent doesn’t come along every day, and when it does it has a tendency to ruin you for whatever follows. There were thousands of classical musicians from 300 years ago who have completely vanished from history, so ordinary and unremarkable were their works. We still celebrate the likes of Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach because they were special, transcendent talents. Similarly, the vast majority of current popular music will be a mist 300 years from now. Not so the Beatles.

But my wife is right. Maroon 5, Imagine Dragons, Dave Grohl, John Meyer, Keith Urban, John Legend and Alicia Keys were all fantastic, immensely talented performers. I probably should tune in more often. It’s bad enough that I am getting old, it would be a crime if I start acting old.

Just don’t ask me to give Hip Hop a listen….not gonna happen.

I Got This!

Alright, listen up. I’ve got big plans for Valentine’s Day weekend, plans that will be severely inconvenienced if this Snowmageddon materializes. I don’t ask much of the weather. When winter comes I expect it to be cold and miserable with a lot of cold rain and yes, even the occasional snow storm. But when I hear weather people throwing out words like “historic” and “massive” I become concerned.

See, I came up with this epic plan to take Pam to Staunton after school on Friday for the weekend. There’s this awesome Inn called the Frederick House, dinner reservations at an Italian restaurant called Aioli, then Shakespeare’s “As You Like It” at the Blackfriars playhouse after dinner. I’ve got it all planned out. So, this snow thing will just have to wait. Don’t you see?

The best part is, once we get to Staunton, everything is within walking distance of the Inn. The problem will be driving from Richmond to Staunton, a distance of 108 miles, through what is predicted to be anywhere between 4 and 30 inches of snow. I’m not kidding. Our intrepid weather forecasters are sick and tired of being so embarrassingly wrong all the time, so this time they have all decided to cast a wide net. Yes, somewhere between 4 and 30 inches should cover it gentlemen. Thanks for the heads up!

It’s Valentine’s Day, and this year will be the 30^th time I have celebrated it with Pam. This is no small thing. 30 years is a long time and worthy of grand gestures. So, I am bound and determined to do this thing. It will be an adventure, much like our 30 years together. Will we make it there in time for our dinner reservation? How many 360’s will we do before we make it to Charlottesville? Will we make it over Afton Mountain? If I wrap the Cadillac around a tree will Pam insist on a divorce? If we do make it there in one piece will Pam be so traumatized by the trip that I end up sleeping on the couch?

It was the pioneer spirit of adventure that built this great country. Well, sometimes we have to channel our inner pioneer. The results of such courage are the stuff of which great memories are made.

I got this.