A Personal Note

I'll give you a couple of options. You can consider this a belated anniversary valentine, or you can consider it a comment on how life has been the last month or six weeks. Take your pick.
Now, down to business.
Thanks, honey!
Thanks for eight years of this partnership. Thanks for loving my girls, and now our granddaughter. Thanks for buying in to my goofy life, and treating it with far, far more respect than it deserves. Thank you for hanging in with a migraine sufferer. Thanks for learning baseball to details you had never imagined existed. Thanks for your encouragement when I see no point or hope. Thanks for believing when I'm ready to give up. Thanks for doing your job all day and then getting home many nights and helping with mine, too. Thanks for tolerating the calls that come at weird hours and during the birthday parties and other celebrations. Thanks for making room in your house as well as your heart for my kids and the baby. Thanks for enjoying some of the more peculiar of my acquaintances (or at least pretending to), because I love some of these whackos dearly. Thanks for ignoring my devotion to rasslin' and roots music and especially Levon Helm-I know how his voice grates on your nerves, and I really am trying to remember not to play him right after you get home from work. Thanks for trying to smile as I drag you to every Dylan show in a seven state area. Thanks for reminding me not to yell at the television during Red Sox-MFY games after the under-30's have gone to sleep. Thanks for pretending to tolerate cajun/creole food, moroccan food and whatever kinds of critters are skewered on those kabobs from the cuisines of various parts of the world. Thanks for pretending to think it's a good idea to visit those neighborhoods in Chicago that contain the great blues clubs. Thanks for letting me rant when I need to. Thanks for your patience with Zevon and Dickinson and Cash and Grohl and Earle and Snider and Hiatt and Guthrie and Haggard and Lovett and Waits and Kimbrough and Burnside and Willie and all the others you really don't care for.
And for all I've left out, thanks for that, too!
I love you more than I can ever explain.
Me

Tiger, The Women, and Apologies

A young man, married, twice a father, the best (perhaps ever) at his job, wealthy, handsome and as famous as anyone in the world: Awesome!
The same young man, outed as a philanderer, facing the loss of his wife and children, reputation, half his wealth (at least) in a divorce settlement, seriously damaged earnings potential for the future: Stupid, arrogant and sinful.
The same young man, emerging momentarily from therapy, owning his behavior, apologizing profusely to everyone he disappointed and wounded: Hopeful.
Some (any) portion of the Other Women involved in his philandering asking for the young man to apologize to them, women who wanted to be with a famous man they knew to be married, women who demonstrated no restraint or morality themselves: Absurd!
If there are to be additional apologies in Tiger Woods' case, how about Tiger's girlfriends, all, some, or any of them, summon up an attempt at decency themselves, and apologize to Mrs. Woods?
One thing that hasn't been said anywhere by anyone about Tiger Woods is that he forced or coerced anyone into his bed. That being the case, they were, at the bare minimum, willing participants. With a married man. And twice a father.
There is a lot of speculation in the media about Tiger's body language, choice of words, eye contact with the camera, and everything else about his statement last Friday. He brought that on himself. But what must be said is that whatever his motivation, he seems to be trying to get his life together.
We must applaud anyone who makes such an effort.
But there is no sympathy here for any of those who shared in his misbehavior looking to play the victim. They all knew who he is. That's why they made themselves available to him.
Instead of asking for apologies, ladies, how about growing up and making one?

Hey, Pat: Just Shut Up

This is an 80 year old fool named Pat Robertson who has been a boil on the ass of Christianity for a very, very long time. Pat believes that God does very bad things to people.



Pat believes that 200 years ago, some Haitian people made a "deal with the devil" when the French came calling to try to re-enslave the Haitians. Pat believes that God has a very long memory.



Pat believes that God sent an earthquake to destroy one of the poorest, most impoverished areas in the Western Hemisphere and kill as many Haitians as possible.



Pat Robertson couldn't recognize Christianity if it came up and bit him on the ass. This is one moment when I wish that I could see the world the way Pat does. Because if God treated evil people the way Pat thinks God does, I would really love to see what God would do to Pat.




If you have a clearer image of God than Pat (and that wouldn't be difficult), and believe that God identifies with the poor and destroyed of the world, then give to UMCOR or the Red Cross or any other agency that will tell the Haitian people that God is gracious and loving and knows what it means to hurt, and that God's people are in the business of caring for life's victims.

Happy Birthday!

One year ago today, our whole family raced to Jackson to await this little lady's arrival. Today, she enjoyed a good chunk of birthday cake thoroughly. And we all still wait on her moment by moment.

Happy Birthday, Dancing Baby!
I love you!
Granddaddy

Decade? What Decade? Or, 9/10 of the Way There!

Remember The Count from Sesame Street? When he began to count cookies, did you ever hear him point to the first and say, "Zero cookies" the second with, "One cookie" and so forth? I didn't think so.
When you count noses in whatever setting you do that, be it family members at the dinner table, passengers in the vehicle, children in the classroom or worshippers in the pews, have you ever started your count with person zero? Me, either.
Then what in the world are all these people doing with their "End of the Decade" lists of music, movies, historic events and so forth?
Unless we have moved to some sort of base nine numeric system, which would mean the thing would never be called a "decade" in the first place, then we haven't reached the end of anything.
All this nonsense results, of course, from the inability of the world to wait for the actual turn of the century-wait for it-nine years ago. The real "Y2K" disaster was in missing the end of the twentieth century by a full year! The end of 1999 didn't complete anything, and certainly not a century. HENCE THE FREAKING "99" AT THE END OF THE NUMBER!!!
The 100 years started with a "1" at the end of the beginning number-1901-and ended with "00" at the end-at the midnight that lay between December 31, 2000 and January 1, 2001. Which, of course, is then when the current decade began, along with the new century. Just as we never start counting with "0" in other areas of life, so do we not do so when counting years.
I understand that what passes these days for the Great American Press has gotten so lazy that they opt, invariably, for the easy, simple story (decade Top Ten lists in addition to annual Top Tens) instead of covering, oh I don't know, the wars that we're still involved in? But I digress.
Unless there's been some sort of vote that I missed, we still start out counting with "1" and complete decades with "10" or its multiples, and centuries with a "00" at the end of the number.
So let's all just settle down, wait for the appropriate time, and FOLLOW THE STINKING RULES!

Tiger

I don't like golf. Don't play it. Never think about it. Except when Tiger is playing. Tiger playing golf must be what it looked like when Babe Ruth walked up to the plate, John D. Rockefeller sat down to negotiate a deal, or Thomas Jefferson took pen in hand.
We now know that Tiger isn't as good at some of the other parts of life as he is at golf.
What a shock.
A rich, handsome man took advantage of the situation when women made themselves available to him, even though he was married.
What a shock.
I have been at my job long enough to know that people with none of Tiger's advantageous adjectives get themselves into the same predicament on a fairly regular basis.
And yet, a great many wise (heavy sarcasm intended) people want to tell Tiger what to do now. Some say take a break from golf (Hey, Rick Reilly: I genuinely cannot wait until you get caught doing whatever it is you do! Your piety over Tiger is way, way, way past getting on my last nerve). Tiger announced today he will do that. Others suggest he perform the Great American Penance, go on the Oprah Winfrey Show and grieve over his hideousness. No such appearance has been announced. I hope it isn't forthcoming.
Others just want him to appear in public and own the whole problem. I don't think he can do that.
I don't know anything about Florida law, but in Tennessee, if the cops arrive and see any evidence of violence on the person of one spouse, the other is arrested. The last thing Tiger is interested in right now is causing Elin to be arrested. So we will see him when his injuries from (ahem) "the car crash" are healed, and not before.
I am the father of two grown young women. Truth be told, I kind of hope Elin did take the three wood to him. She's entitled.
The rest of us aren't.
May I remind all of us that we are in the season of Advent?
Advent is the time of preparation for Christmas, the birth of our Savior. As in, the One Who Saves Us. As in, We Need A Savior. As in, We Are Sinful. As in, All of Us Are Sinful!
I mentioned Schadenfreude a few posts back. May I suggest that any of us who are taking delight in Tiger's very, very public confessional (not sought, but inflicted), should be very grateful that we are nobodies? May I suggest that the only difference in Tiger and you and me is that we aren't headline news when we screw our lives up? May I remind us all that what Tiger did doesn't matter in sin terms. He decided to make himself God in this particular issue, just like you and I do in our sins. That's why Tiger's behavior, and yours and mine, is sin. And may I remind us all that this is the very season when we of the Christian faith affirm that God had mercy on all of us, took the initiative that we wouldn't/couldn't, and acted to save us in spite of everything?
Good News, Tiger! Good News, Self! Good News, the Rest of You! God knows, but God loves you/me anyway! And in Jesus Christ, wants to save us from ourselves!
Merry Christmas!

29

December 8, 1980. 29 years without John Lennon in the world. Could it have been so long? It remains tragic for Yoko, Sean and Julian. But we're all poorer for what we lost in that moment, in a still-young life, and for all that hasn't been heard, and never will be, from the spectacularly gifted composer.
John Lennon, Public Figure, was everything we all wanted to be when we grew up. Imagine if those dreams still lived in us...

Midtown Huey's Sunday Night, Part 2

Midtown Huey's Sunday Night, Part 1

Thanksgiving 2009

Counting away...
Kaly has to head any list like this, and probably will for the next...oh, I don't know, rest of my life? Becoming a grandfather is just the coolest thing. I recommend it wholeheartedly. Nobody has ever been crazier about their children than me, but this grandchild thing...it's just different. And awesome.
My girls are home. A year ago, I had no idea where we were headed. But this is a really good place. I'm humbled by the grace that has my household where it is. I am proud and utterly delighted at the young women my daughters have become. Sara is an attentive mother, totally committed to her baby. And God knows, apart from my mother, she didn't have a lot of instruction or example on that sort of thing until Shannon and I got married. Em continues her preparation to teach little children. I couldn't possibly be any prouder of either of them.
The older woman in the house has put up with me another year. That's no small thing. She's also put up with my job for another year. That's a huge thing. This job sucks for the family of the person doing it, but she is as gracious about it all as anyone could ever be asked to be. No kidding, I have been called away on every single holiday, the birthday of every member of the household at least once, and I'm still working with a group that hasn't lived up to even one of about 28 significant promises that were made before I agreed to go there. And she hasn't blown a gasket yet. Well, not over that stuff.
My parents are well, active and able. Most people my age can't make all of that statement, if any of it. What a blessing and a joy. I'm not sure there has been any single part of my grandparenting that's been more fun than watching my Dad with his great-granddaughter. It's just absolutely and utterly the coolest thing I've seen in my whole life. Mom's always been Mom, to the extent of most of us taking her totally for granted. But that's Mom. I knew how she'd be as a great-grandmother, because nobody's ever been better at being a Mom or Grandmother. She sets the example every single day, now, to the third generation in her wake.
I'm grateful for my friends. There aren't many of them, but boy, they are quality. Mike (non-brother, but might as well be) and Dave, I love you both, your wives, and Mike's Bryce. I apologize for my long silences, and your disregarding of them whenever they come. My life is infinitely richer for your presence in it.
In the sibling category, I am also thankful, as always for and to Mike (brother) and Laurie. I love both you knuckleheads, too. We've hung the longest, and I fully intend and expect that to last until it doesn't matter any more.
Thanks, Boss, for these and all other blessings this Thanksgiving!

But most of all for Kaly! Hey, a wise friend once pointed out that Grandbaby Is Life!

Schadenfreude

I'm not a big fan of things German. My aunt was one of those people whose family braved the barbed wire and Russian rifles when word circulated in East Berlin that a wall was going up (to be taken down 20 years ago today, oddly enough).
But it's time to dust off a great German word: Schadenfreude.
It is usually translated as "enjoying the misery of others" or some such similar phrase.
And boy, have I got it these days.
Jay Leno has turned into one royal stinkbomb at 9 pm Central Time on NBC. I couldn't be happier.
Now, some feel the need to bring up the recent turmoil surrounding David Letterman in this conversation. Well long story short, Dave apparently acted like an idiot, and he should have known better. But then again, the best President of the United States of my lifetime behaved worse than Dave, and he was in a job just a bit more significant than late night comedian.
I am enjoying Leno's loser-dom for one simple reason: disloyalty.
Is there a single human trait that is worse than disloyalty? I'm not aware of what it is. And I'm not talking about disloyalty in the sense of a Nixonian, enemies list, I'm right no matter what I do, America: love it or leave it kind of crap.
I'm talking about basic gratitude.
Common decency.
Grateful for food on your table kind of stuff.
A little history: Jay Leno couldn't get arrested prior to David Letterman's creating Late Night, with the blessing of, and at the behest of, Johnny Carson. Dave gave that ugly goof Leno, with his irritating accent and act a career. And kept it going with routine appearances on his, Dave's, highly rated and highly reviewed program.
And Leno repaid that extravagant gift with a craven act of piracy against his friend, Dave, and the god of Late Night Television, Mr. Carson.
Johnny wanted Dave to succeed him. Common knowledge. Dave wanted the job. Obvious. And Leno connived and schemed, plotted and planned, to snake the thing out from under the man to whom he owed everything.
Leno got his prize. Dave went to CBS to host The Late Show.
Johnny's Tonight Show became, under Leno, the lamest hour on television. Jay cribbed everything he did from Dave, Howard Stern and anyone else with a creative bone, which Jay never had. See, he didn't have Dave to make him look good any more. Instead, he staged such a bland program that middle-America was thrilled.
Dave just kept winning Emmy awards.
Then Jay got turned out. NBC wanted to keep Conan O'Brien. He brought in the young viewers. The ones the advertisers want.
Jay had an old audience.
That was in the good old days. Now he has no audience.
Apologies to John Lennon, karma isn't always instant. Sometimes karma, like revenge, is best served cold. Now, NBC has wrecked 9 pm every night, has damaged the ratings in every market where local news follows Leno, and 10:30, the sacred Tonight Show, has tanked as well.
Letterman, at long last, stands as the King of Late Night.
I'm thrilled.
Not at O'Brien's plight. I think he's a good guy, and he was funny on Late Night. Haven't seem him since he moved to 10:30, and won't.
But Jay Leno deserves every bad thing that happens to him. Cancellation won't be humiliating enough to suit me. Of course, he wants to go back to Tonight. It's the only place his alleged humor can draw flies.
You just don't spit in the face of a person who gives you a life and a career.
Ever.
Schadenfreude, Jay.
'Cause payback's a bitch!

The Conversation

Kaly (waking up from her nap, heard on the baby monitor): la la la, la la la, la la la.

Grandparents: (giggling on the couch in the den)

Kaly: la la la, la la la, la la la.

Granddaddy (unable to wait any longer): Ah-ooo (think howl of Carol in Where the Wild Things Are)

Kaly: (sudden silence)

Granddaddy (halfway up the staircase, and a little louder): Ah-ooo

Kaly: (giggling)

Granddaddy (at the bedroom door, louder): Ah-ooo

Kaly: (laughing out loud now, like great-uncle Mike [think Eddie Murphy's laugh if you don't know Mike])

Granddaddy (at the now open bedroom door): Hi!

Kaly: (total laughing meltdown)

Granddaddy: Do you want to get up?

Kaly: Yeff!

Granddaddy: (lifting her out of the crib) Let's go see Grandmommie!

Kaly: Yeff! (melting into laughter again)

Granddaddy: (hiding around the corner of the bookshelf at the den door) Let's get Grandmommie!

Kaly: (vigorous nodding)

Granddaddy: (leaning around the corner of the bookshelf before jumping back) Where's Grandmommie?

Kaly: (giggling)

Granddaddy: (leaning out again) Where's Grandmommie?

Kaly: (breaks out laughing)

Granddaddy: (jumping out into plain view with the baby) Grandmommie!

Kaly: (arms out for Grandmommie, laughing her head off) Yeff!

[Playing ensues, with Grandmommie and Granddaddy being climbed, lots of laughing, baby being tickled and tickling back]

Granddaddy: Are you hungry? Do you want some bites?

Kaly: (nodding hugely) Yeff!

Grandmommie: Kaly, you want Gabba Gabba?

Kaly: Yeff!

Granddaddy: (returning with a jar of Bananas and Strawberries while Grandmommie turns on the tv to Kaly's favorite show) Bites! Bites! Bites!

Kaly: MMMMM!

[Fade out: grandparents feeding the baby while they enjoy DJ Lance Rock and his friends on Yo Gabba Gabba]

Life is Good!

Mr. Tony is on the radio!

Does Curb Your Enthusiasm speak to your life as closely as it does mine? Do you have even a passing interest in sports? Do you know what PTI stands for and watch it daily? Are you a big timer? Are you a little who wishes to be a big timer?
Get over the iTunes bias, and subscribe to The Tony Kornheiser Show podcast.
Mr. Tony is the doppelganger of Larry David. He is wonderful. He is paranoid. He is totally and completely out of touch with real life. And he is hysterically funny.
You should be listening to him every single day of your life.
What will you get out of it?
Hypochondria.
Whining.
Social Climbing.
Sports (occasionally).
World Wide Wilbon.
D.C.
Bruce Springsteen tickets. (Thanks, Nils)
Bedtime.
No flying.
Off Monday Night Football.
The littles.
Hoda and Kathie Lee.
Night of Quarterbacks.
Here Comes Tony's Mailbag. (Thanks, Darius)
I Need a Driver.
Dana Bash needs a sandwich.
Old Guy Radio.
Get with the program! iTunes. Podcasts. Audio Podcasts. The Tony Kornheiser Show.
Thank me later!
Remember, it's all for the kids!
And if you're out riding your bike tonight, please wear white.

Congratulations, Mr. President

Dear Mr. President,
Congratulations on being named the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. You now stand with a number of the most remarkable women and men in human history. I hope and pray you will now go out and earn it.
You campaigned, victoriously, on twin themes of hope and change. The nation endorsed that vision. So, now, has the Nobel committee.
I did not vote for you in the Democratic primary. I'm almost seven months older than you, and I'm still not sure people my age should be in charge of anything, much less be left in charge of the whole world. It's just a little hinky. But age notwithstanding, I listened and watched, and by election day, I enthusiastically cast my ballot for you.
You see, I want every American to have access to quality health care. I want us out of Iraq. I want Guantanamo closed. I want us out of Afghanistan. I want us talking to Iran, North Korea and all of those other people we had been accustomed to just bombing, or planning to bomb. I want the banks regulated. I want business watched like a hawk. And I want our civil liberties protected.
These are some of the things you named as your priorities as a candidate. I liked the laundry list. Clearly, folks in Oslo, and all over the world liked the vision you described.
As you know, we hadn't had a lot of hope in the world in a long time. Oh, say, eight years. You seemed like a breath of fresh air. We need the hope you talked about. We certainly need change from where we were and where we were headed.
Again, the whole world is longing to emerge from our own mini-Dark Age of ignorance, arrogance and fundamentalism.
So I encourage you, in the strongest possible terms, to take our endorsement, and that of the Nobel committee, and that of the tumultuous crowds that have followed your travels around the world, and fight for what you invited us to believe in.
The Republicans are not your friends, and they never will be. You cannot depend on them or wait for them. The same applies, increasingly, to the Blue Dogs. You're the boss. They aren't. Look up Lyndon Johnson, circa 1964-1965. "Get on the bus, or we'll find somebody to take your seat who will." It is time for some party discipline, even if we are Democrats.
If I may be so bold, sir, get health care done. Stop these perverse and illegal wars. Make it clear that we are part of the human race and know it.
Many, left and right, are saying that you received the Nobel Peace Prize because you are not George W. Bush. Granted, that is a good start. But it is time to act on your promises, your vision, in such a way that at the end of your term, the Nobel committee will be as proud of your selection as they are hopeful with it today.
Yes We Can?
Only with your leadership!
From one middle-aged white southern male (that's redneck to you and me): Git'er done!

Polanski

I don't get it.
Why is Roman Polanski's situation even being debated?
The man drugged a 13 year old girl. He had sex with her. He had anal sex with her. She repeatedly asked him to stop. He did not. These seem to be the stipulated facts of the case that Polanski acknowledged in his plea bargain, in return for being allowed to plead guilty to a lesser charge. (He was originally charged with heavier crimes, but in our legal way of doing business, he pled to a reduced charge. That does not change the facts of the case, that he owned in the plea agreement.)
He was to get no jail time. Simply a period of psychological evaluation prior to sentencing. 42 days into that process, word got out that the judge was likely to throw out the plea agreement and require some serious jail time. At that point, Polanski fled to France, where he had resided ever since. That's from 1978 to 2009.
At that point, he became a fugitive. Fleeing is a crime. That makes two crimes.
Roman Polanski was 43 years old when he raped the 13 year old child.
Some people who appear to be adults argue that since Polanski is an artist, he is somehow a victim of prosecution for his art. Huh? He isn't charged, and never has been charged, with making seditious films. He raped a 13 year old child.
Some have suggested that he should be given a pass given the brutal murders of his wife, Sharon Tate, and their unborn child at the hands of the Manson Family. Huh? Elie Wiesel survived Nazi Germany's concentration camps. He has spent his life working for peace and justice in the world. John Walsh suffered the kidnapping and murder of his little boy, Adam. He has spent the last 20 years working to catch criminals who perpetrate such crimes. Nowhere in the world is a victim of crime given license to commit crime. Polanski raped a 13 year old child.
To state the obvious, the only reason that Roman Polanski was ever offered a plea deal under the circumstances of his crime was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever able to flee the US during such a prosecution was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever afforded the protection of the French government for 30 years was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. To somehow argue that he is being mistreated for being an artist is just stupid.
As it is to argue that since he suffered crime, he should be excused for committing crime.
As the theme song to a police drama told us every week back when Polanski committed his offenses, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time..."
And I wonder whatever happened to that Baretta guy, anyway???

A Reflection on Health Care

I woke up Wednesday morning to my daughter's screams. She was shrieking from the pain in her side. She hadn't felt well for several days; by Wednesday, it could no longer be ignored. We sought aid from the hospital that bears the name of the denomination that I have served for 25 years, my father has served for 50 years, by uncle has served for 30 years, and my grandfather served for 54 years.
Sara was there for six hours. She was barely examined. She was, for the most part, ignored. Then, at 2:30 pm, with no explanation whatsoever for what was causing her pain (which had not subsided), the nurse came in with her discharge papers and wished us well. We asked to see the doctor. He came in with a thoroughly condescending smile on his face, and told us, graciously but pointedly, to get out.
You see, Sara is a sinner. Her sin? She has no health insurance.
My daughter works an average of 46 hours a week at a local restaurant, for $2.14 an hour plus tips (and if you eat at restaurants and don't tip the waitstaff, your tongue should fall out). Those fine folks terminated her health insurance last fall when Sara was eight months' pregnant. They said she wasn't working enough hours to qualify for insurance. Which was interesting, given that they made out her schedule each week. My guess? Someone was ordered to cut costs, so they did.
Another family in our church has incurred an incredible amount of medical neglect. That neglect has caused significant damage. One of the doctors in that instance dropped a tirade on his patient, screaming at her that if she had better insurance, she'd have gotten better care!
Other families in our church have lost their insurance when the business closed. There are few scarier places in life than finding yourself unemployed and uninsured when you are several years away from qualifying for Medicare, or have young children, or you or your spouse already have health issues.
Shannon and I do not use the Annual Conference insurance program. The Conference program penalized us in ways we cannot afford for Shannon using brand name insulin rather than generic insulin. When there is no such thing on God's green earth as generic insulin. Fortunately, we have access to her collectively bargained program, that of the Mississippi teachers' union. But as good as it is, we can't put Sara on it, as she is 23 and not in school.
In Sara's case, we are fortunate. My father is still somebody within our little world. So this morning, he was able to call on a friend and former church member of his to get Sara examined, diagnosed and treated. She has a respiratory infection that, left untreated, could have gone into pneumonia and killed her. But she's going to be alright, because Dad knows somebody.
How many people don't know somebody?
How many people are being left to suffer and die because they are inunsured, and, therefore, in the eyes of far too many medical professionals, untreatable?
How many people are suffering needlessly, and becoming sicker than they should have to, because they don't even seek medical care, knowing they are uninsured and can't pay?
How much more expensive is it for all of us for the poor and indigent to show up at The Med when they are at death's door, bur never should have gotten so sick in the first place?
How much of the exorbitant premiums that we all pay are due to the expenses of those uninsured, whose "care" has to be covered somehow?
How long will the greatest and wealthiest nation in the world allow tens of millions of its people to suffer misery, physically and emotionally, over health care?
Do those who wring their hands over the prospect of "Death Panels" run by the government (which do not exist in any of the plans being considered) not understand that the insurance companies are, by their refusal or approval of procedures or tests that doctors deem necessary, acting precisely as the kinds of boards that they fear?
I don't know what the answer is. I wish I did. I just know that there has to be something better than the way we are (barely) functioning now.
Again, Sara will be alright. I'm thankful for that. But as we consider our church family, our community and nation, there are an awful lot of people who cannot say tonight that their loved one will be alright.
Because they don't know.
Because they cannot afford to see the doctor.
And may God have mercy on all our souls if we continue to accept this perverse and unjust system with our silence, selfishness and inaction.
With prayers for God's just future to come speedily,
+Bro. Joe
(from the September edition of our church newsletter)

Edward Moore Kennedy, 1932-2009

We all know his failings, one horrific, others, things he should have been above.
We all know his family's tragedies, almost more than can be counted or believed.
But since Ted Kennedy entered the United States Senate in 1962,
If you have worked for a paycheck, and especially a minimum wage paycheck,
If you have worked in a safe environment,
If you have been fairly treated in your workplace,
If you have needed health insurance,
If you have sought redress after being discriminated against in any way,
If you have voted easily and without challenge,
If you love someone who has special needs,
If you have borrowed money to go to college or graduate school,
If you have purchased a home,
If you have had a problem with a landlord,
If you have been to public schools, and sent your children and grandchildren to public schools,
If you have treasured your individual liberties,
If you have lived in this nation, and this world,
you should say a prayer of thanksgiving for the life of Ted Kennedy, and another for comfort for his family.
He was, simply, the greatest Senator in our nation's history.

Jim Dickinson, Part Two

In response to a couple of questions, your humble blogger is back to gather you kiddies around the rocking chair to relieve you of your ignorance. (Please remember, ignorance isn't bad unless it's willful. It just means you don't know. And some things, you need to know.)
Jim Dickinson wasn't God, but he certainly was about God's work.
How does a body go about explaining Jim Dickinson?
Jim was one of those rich souls who was born old. Not in the rigid, dead-to-the-world sense, but in the wise, seen-it-all-twice sense. In the "I remember everything" sense. He was a rocker. And a Bluesman. And a crooner. And country and jazz and...well, you get the idea. The music was in his bones. Then again, if it isn't in your bones, what the hell are you doing being from Memphis?
The city cannot be separated from Jim Dickinson. He loved it, just as an awful lot of us do. That would be the ones who don't sit around afraid to go downtown, whining about the former/future Mayor, the City Council, the School Board and whatever else you've got, no matter how much all that deserves to be whined about.
Memphis' sole excuse for existing is the music. You either get that or you don't. God help you if you don't.
Jim got it. He lived it. He preached it. He played it. He produced it. Jim was the music!
When he sat down with Lee Baker, Sid Selvidge and Jimmy Crosthwait and they became Mud Boy and the Neutrons, miracles happened. When he decided to make a solo album, a good 1/3 of the wonder was finding out what songs he had unearthed to include. Dixie Fried, Free Beer Tomorrow, Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger, Killers from Space and Dinosaurs Run in Circles...if you want to get Memphis, get those discs and wear them out as quickly as you can. Then you'll know.
He was a piano player. Like Lincoln was a President. Jim Dickinson at a keyboard could haunt your soul. He did it on The Rolling Stones' Wild Horses. He did it on almost all of the cuts on Dylan's Time Out of Mind. Dylan has been crazy powerful and prolific since crossing paths with Jim in 1997. I'll go to my grave believing that's no accident. That's Dickinson.
On The Bob: there's a line in his song I Feel a Change Coming On from the new album Together Through Life: "Some people say I've got the blood of the land in my voice." Long before Bob had totally blown his voice out, Dickinson had the roar, the earth-shaking, never smooth, instrument of apocalypse that was his voice. Listen to Mud Boy's Shake Your Money Maker or Money Talks, complete with his childhood experience of Rev. Robert G. Lee's Payday Someday sermon, the judgement of God delivered bluntly and as an End Time lecture to a beat you can dance to. Make that, you have to dance to.
Jim nurtured musicians. Look at his boys. Luther and Cody are ridiculously gifted musicians. They paid attention. They learned well. The North Mississippi All Stars are an experience every single time out. I'm getting redundant, but if you're not in the audience whenever the All Stars play the Home Town, you have no soul and you need help. Immediately.
But the sharing was never confined to the family.
Big Star, Calvin Russell, The Radiators, Mudhoney, Beanpole, Alex Chilton, Paul Westerberg and a thousand others, all found their music better after passing it through Jim Dickinson's hands. Not for Jim, the neurotic "Mine is the only" or "Why should I help anyone else" approach to art and life. Never Ever.
Mose Vinson was my point of contact. Jim's work with Mose taught me about the man.
Mose was an old man when I met him. He came to live in one of our retirement homes. He had gotten too well to keep his Medicaid in the nursing home where his niece had dumped him after his stroke. One of God's great saints, Mary Lee Moore, called me to her office to back up her judgement that the old man wasn't capable of living independently. When she asked the standard questions, the old man grunted, monosyllabic at best. Finally, divinely inspired and seeking any response from him, she asked, "What do you like to do?" The head lifted off the chest, the voice became strong, the one good eye fired to life, and the man said, "I play the piano!" Mary Lee being Mary Lee, she challenged him: "You can't play the piano; you're half dead." A smile played across the old man's lips. "You got a piano?" was his question. We led him into the dining room, to the pathetic old excuse for a piano that some Sunday School class had dumped on us when they bought something nice and new. Old hands became young on the keyboard. He ripped into Howlin' Wolf's .44 Blues. When he was done, our mouths were hanging open, and he was claiming to be the real composer of the great Blues standard. Later, Jim Dickinson told me that the Wolf may well have taken the song from Mose at Sun Studios.
Mose had been used his whole musical life. Sam Phillips had hired him at Sun Studios. To be the janitor. That way, any time a piano player was missing, Mr. Sam could have Mose sit in. Ike Turner often wasn't in shape to play when he actually showed up for a recording date at all. That sort of problem wasn't rare in the old days. But the janitor had to be functional. And God only knows how many of those incredible Sun sides actually featured Mose Vinson on piano, regardless of whose name was listed on the label. Mose certainly never got paid for any of that work. Somewhere along the way, Mr. Sam did credit Mose with a few sides, but they were never released until they were included in Bear Family's fabulous box, Sun Blues. Yeah, the Germans know their Blues. Who'd a thought?
Jim Dickinson gave Mose his moment in the sun, no pun intended. Jim produced, for Judy Peiser and the Center for Southern Folklore, the only album that ever carried Mose Vinson's name, Piano Man. Jim talked Mose through the recording. It sounds like two old friends sitting and talking in the parlor, around the piano. They even play some four-hand piano on the cd. Jim and Judy threw a cd release party for Mose. He was a star, if only for that night. Because Jim Dickinson said he was important.
Jim was a real-life Yoda. He spoke his own language. He saw and heard things others couldn't fathom. He lived richly and always saw the possibilities. He told Chuck Prophet, "You can burn out, but you can get lit again. I've seen it happen."
I knew Jim Dickinson just slightly, and that, only because of Mose. But I love him. I pretty much adore him. Jim was pretty much everything I'd love to be when I grow up. On several occasions, he'd spot me at one of his performances, and he'd ask, "Reverend, how's the Good Work going?" I'd say to him, "You ought to know. You're the one doing it."
I believed it when he was alive. I sure believe it now.
There's your lesson on Jim Dickinson.
Now you know something that matters!

James Luther Dickinson, 1942-2009

Our "celebrity culture" is a royal load of crap, because any society in which Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and any number of teenaged vampires are followed breathlessly from moment to moment deserves to be blown up. Filming your sex acts, not wearing underwear in public and teen angst over who is dating whom are not bases for choosing objects of worship.

That said, I have been thrilled to meet exactly three legitimate celebrities, truly accomplished people, in my life: Sam Phillips (not the woman who sings; the Real One), Stan Musial, and Jim Dickinson.

Jim Dickinson was Memphis Music. His resume is being widely rehearsed in his obituaries. Would Bob Dylan have had this late-career renaissance if he hadn't crossed paths with Dickinson during the recording of Time Out of Mind? Could he?

Would Alex Chilton have become, well, Alex Chilton without Dickinson at the board for those Big Star albums?

Would Furry Lewis, Bukka White, Son House and so many others hold their hallowed places in American music history without the efforts of Dickinson and several other young white boys in the 1960's to find them, get them performing again, and fight for their just due?

Would the Beale Street Festival have been conceived without the Blues festivals Dickinson staged and performed in at the Overton Park Shell?

Would anyone care about Wild Horses without Jim's piano?

And there is still the film scoring with Ry Cooder, the upbringing of the North Mississippi All Stars, the performances all over creation (Brownsville with Luther and Cody at the dedication of Sleepy John Estes' cabin, all the times at the Memphis Music and Heritage Festival, hundreds of others that I was privileged to hear), the gift to Mose Vinson of finally giving him an album under his own name, and so much more.

Jim was Memphis Music. Jim was American Music. And I'm sick that he's gone.

But as he left his own epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."

Amen, brother! Amen!

Differences

Country Club: charges dues
Church: offers chance to give gladly to God's work

Country Club: exists for members' enjoyment
Church: exists to change the world

Country Club: members are to be served
Church: members are to serve others

Country Club: private playground to ensure members don't have to associate with anyone below an acceptable income status
Church: public Body of Christ intended to bring together people of all incomes, races, ages, genders, backgrounds

So why is it so often impossible to tell the difference in a Country Club and a church?

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]