Short Ends

The Madcap Maverick


This is a new series along the lines of the “Letters From My Library” articles that I’ve been writing sporadically over the last year or so. Instead of books “Short Ends” will explore the DVD’s that I’ve managed to accumulate, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

I’ve been a movie buff since I was a kid – I remember going over to my Grandparents house – they were the first in the family to have a color television – just to watch the old movies that Channel 22 would show on Saturdays. The movies were in black and white but the key thing about the set was that it was huge. It was one of those cabinet models that had like a 22” screen. Now a screen that size is basically a computer monitor – back then it was the nearest thing to a theater outside the actual thing. But I’d sit there with a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of ginger ale and watch W.C. Fields, the Marx Brothers, “The Thin Man” series – whatever was on. I remember that was where I first saw “The Great McGinty”, Preston Sturges’ classic. After that I never grew tired of watching movies on a TV set. I know that seeing them in a theater is better, but I grew up a long way from movie theaters, in the middle of Blandford, Massachusetts - population of about 1,000 when I was a kid. You couldn’t walk to the local cinema there, and by the time you could drive anywhere there were other things on your mind when you had the car. I’d see plenty of films in theaters but never lost the taste for hanging out in a nice chair in front of the TV and watching a movie straight through.


As a result, and along with the fact that I’ve always been a collector, I like to keep copies of DVDs around, for just such an opportunity. With a little spare time on a rainy day I’ll pop something in the DVD player and watch one of my old favorites, something that I haven’t seen from a director or actor I like or just take a chance on something I’ve read about or am intrigued by. Comedies, drama, foreign, documentary, action – whatever happens to be the flavor of the moment can end up on the screen. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll end up with something that I really like – and it’ll be those pictures, or directors, or subjects – that I’ll be writing about here.

To start things off I’m going to focus on the aforementioned Preston Sturges – the screenwriter who managed to break through and have the studios allow him to direct – the guy who was the brains behind some of the most entertaining films you’d ever want to see, fitting in to (but also transcending) the “madcap” comedies of the 30’s and 40’s. Sturges blazed the trail for the Tarantinos, Coen Brothers and Woody Allens of the world – and he’s never totally received his due. This article is going to try to tell you why he should.

Even if Sturges had never made a movie he would have lived an interesting life. His mother was the best friend of Isadora Duncan and was present when the dancer was killed as her long, flowing silk scarf got wrapped around a drive shaft on the car she was being driven in, breaking her neck. Sturges’ mother, who to that point had been a bit of a globetrotter (a jet setter before jets) and had left her husband back in the States, never really recovered from the shock. The wealthy man she was married to, not Sturges’ father, nonetheless took a strong liking to his stepson and financed his education and start in life.

 Sturges was a good writer who managed to make a killing on a play he wrote and brought to Broadway. With some money in his pocket he followed his muse to Hollywood where he excelled at turning out fast paced interesting scripts, sort of Aaron Sorkin-like dialogue driven stuff. His first cut at screenwriting remains one of the most extraordinary and influential first scripts ever written. The Power and the Glory is a story about the rise of a business mogul, played by Spencer Tracy. But this only scratches the surface of what made the writing so unique. Sturges actually told the entire story in out of sequence flashbacks, starting from the main character’s funeral. Using a series of vignettes to get at the essence of Tracy’s character’s being, oftentimes telling the tale from the point of view of different narrators, Sturges virtually invented a new way of relating a story on film. While the movie only did limited box office it bowled over critics and other screenwriters alike. Its style is often cited as one of the major influences on Citizen Kane, which was co-written by Herman Mankiewicz, a friend of Sturges.


On the strength of this and a series of strong follow up scripts Sturges was able to go to Paramount and cut a deal that other writers in Hollywood could never have pulled off. Sturges wrote a script that he knew was of the highest quality – no producer would be able to read it and not want to make the picture – one on which he could have made a small fortune by selling the rights. But he took a different route, instead of being paid for his screenplay he traded it for $10.00 and the opportunity to direct the picture himself. This was unprecedented for a mere writer in Hollywood. Writers were (and to a certain extent continue to be) the lowest rung on the Hollywood ladder. While this is by its very nature absurd it nonetheless represented the way the studio system worked – writers were legendarily described by Sam Goldwyn as “schmucks with a typewriter”. Writers didn’t get percentage deals, didn’t get control over their screenplay, didn’t get a studio expense account – didn’t get any of the perks associated with the movie business. (Typical joke – “Did you hear the one about the dumb starlet? – She tried to get ahead by sleeping with the screenwriter”.) They certainly never got to direct. Sturges broke that barrier down – which is the primary reason why the Woody Allen’s and Coen Brothers of the world should be grateful to him.


The movie Sturges got to write and direct was “The Great McGinty”. This story of how a down on his luck nobody turned into a huge political powerhouse (and what happened to him) is one of the great political films in movie history. The scene where McGinty manages to solicit a bribe without ever asking for money is a masterpiece (“See that picture I have of a ballgame there – how many people do you think were at that game?”). Sturges won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay and, more importantly, his success made it possible for him to continue to write and direct a number of other films all while gaining increased independence from the studios.

That independence was put to good use as Sturges built up a coterie of stock actors who would appear in his films time after time. These included people like William DeMarest (who I would first come to know as the cantankerous Uncle Charlie number 2 on My Three Sons), Robert Greig and Joel McRae. These were strong character actors who got to know their director and thus got in tune to deliver ever more solid repertory performances with each go round. This resulted in a string of films that were immensely influential, way ahead of their time in theme, structure and dialogue and incredibly entertaining. They are still eminently watchable and, in addition to McGinty, I have the following Sturges films in my collection, all of which I would recommend:

Hail the Conquering Hero – A would be Marine finds out that he is being shipped home due to a medical condition. Convinced he is a failure he is adopted by a troop of sympathetic fellow Marines who determine that he will be treated as a hero when he gets home – and create a back story to make that happen. Hilarity ensues as the reluctant hero deals with the consequences of fame.

The Lady Eve: Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda star in another madcap comedy about a grifter (Stanwyck) and a featherbrained millionaire (Fonda) who court each other on the high seas and rural Connecticut. Considered one of the “500 Must See Movies” by Empire magazine The Lady Eve is probably one of the two or three best examples of the “screwball” comedy genre, and may really be the best of all of them.

Sullivan’s Travels: Many consider this Sturges’ best film – a tale about a film director (the “Sullivan” of the title, played by Joel McRae) who feels making lowbrow comedies is beneath him – and yearns to make films about the true downtrodden masses of American life. When it is pointed out to him that he hasn’t got the slightest idea of what life in the underbelly was like he hits the road with ten cents in his pocket (and less sense in his head). There he meets various misadventures – as well as Veronica Lake. For those of you who don’t know who Veronica Lake is it’s hard to explain how good she looked on film. When the creators of L.A. Confidential wanted to make Kim Basinger a doppelganger of the sexiest film star there was – they made her look like Veronica Lake. When the creators of Who Framed Roger Rabbit wanted Jessica Rabbit to look like the sexiest cartoon ever drawn – they drew her like Veronica Lake. This is Veronica Lake:



She is why God created movie stars.

Any hoo – Sullivan eventually ends up in jail on a road gang. There he finds life’s true underbelly – and realizes a truth that brings him full circle. By the way – the name of the film that Sullivan longs to make about the downtrodden everyman? - it’s “Oh Brother Where Art Thou”. It seems like the Coen brothers do appreciate their cinematic forebears.

Christmas in July – Imagine Mad Men as a screwball comedy.

The Palm Beach Story: How the hell do I describe the plot of The Palm Beach Story? It’s like trying to summarize A Midsummer Night’s Dream, All’s Well That Ends Well or Much Ado About Nothing – suffice to say that Sturges, like Shakespeare, manages to weave a story around a set of circumstances that pushes the limits of believability, but in a good way. Sometimes convoluted storylines kill the story – but when crafted correctly the complexity can actually add to the enjoyment – and it does here. Claudette Colbert and (again) Joel McRae star, along with Rudy Vallee.

The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek: In a moment of patriotic fervor Betty Hutton’s character (named, unforgettably, Trudy Kokenlocker) marries a serviceman due to ship overseas the next day - and proceeds to celebrate at full throttle (as you will). When she wakes in the morning she can’t quite remember her new husband’s name – but he has left her a little present, not to be opened for nine months. The local 4-F boy, who has loved Trudy for years is willing to step up to the plate – but – well, that would be too easy. Instead the convoluted plot tormented the censors with the themes it addressed and called upon some old friends to resolve itself. Sturges may have worried the studios a bit too much with this one as they came to fear what he might do with his vaunted independence.

The Great Moment: And here we come to a Sturges mis-step. The Great Moment is a biopic about the inventor of anethesia, and Sturges intended it to be a serious commentary on how the benefits of science conflict with the system of patents that can tie remedies up in the hands of profit seekers. Talk about ahead of its time – this pre-dates one of the most contentious of our current medical debates. But Sturges left Paramount before the film’s release – and the studio gained control of the movie after he left. When they sent it out for pre-screening some of the comments alarmed the studio hacks – who decided to re-cut a pointed medical social commentary film into, get this, what they thought would end up looking like a typical Preston Sturges screwball comedy. Where Sturges wanted the audience to sympathize with the agony of pre-anesthetic surgery - where patients had to be physically restrained because of the incredible pain involved – Paramount went for laughs. Sturges begged them not to do it - but that’s how the film went out – and forever tarnished Sturges' legacy. There is now a director’s cut that sets the record straight, but at the time all anyone knew was that Sturges had directed a bomb – and, unfairly, it became harder for him to exercise control over his own films. His career faltered.

In the end Sturges didn’t enjoy the type of run where he made whatever films he liked for decades to come. That just doesn’t happen – not every ending is happy. Sturges was reined in by the studios, fell to drinking too heavily, made a couple of unsuccessful films – and died at the Algonquin Hotel in 1959. He’s remembered by true movie fans for the ground he broke, for the paths he blazed and, above all, for the amazing series of films he managed to turn out in the 30’s and 40’s – all of which I’d recommend you see if the opportunity arises. I’d also recommend the book Madcap – The Life of Preston Sturges by Donald Spoto which does a good job of placing Sturges in the context of the times he managed to be so relentlessly ahead of.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umMknapIzu4

Lildis

The Relativity of Winning and Losing

It’s April again which means that my favorite sport walks among us, the Red Sox are playing ball again, Fenway is in bloom and – well, you get the picture – baseball is back. This year is especially memorable for the simple reason that it follows one of the most magical seasons I’ve ever experienced. More than 2007, which couldn’t help but be dwarfed by the titanic events of 2004, (when the Red Sox made history and roared back from an 0-3 deficit to defeat the Yankees and blitz the Cardinals to win their first World Series since before the Kaiser abdicated), last year’s events, following on from the Marathon bombings had an aura all their own. The key words there are “all their own” – the accomplishments are not accompanied by ridiculous references to the “C” word, including “well – this is proof that the (“C” word) is truly gone”.

But even with last year's "improbable dream" victory there are still denizens of the old regime that raise their ugly heads any time they get a chance. This year I’ve heard the tired brigades make themselves known in two ways. One – when the Red Sox play the Yankees assorted yahoos will complain about how the fans of each team consider these to “be the only games that matter”. Here’s Jim Caple’s self-serving “sarcastic” article: http://espn.go.com/mlb/story/_/id/10760695/mlb-sarcastic-salute-red-sox-yankees . Caple’s no fool but he can play one fairly well from time to time – and this is obviously such a time. I’m a Sox fan, I know loads of other Sox fans, I know a few misguided souls who root for the Yankees – and amongst none of them can I find a person who feels this way. I care more about the rivalry my favorite team is involved in, obviously – but the Dodgers- Giants, Cubs- Cards, Phillies-Mets and many others – they’re all just as important and just as good. It’s the media who has created the ungodly hype about Sox-Yanks, not the fans. In truth during much of the last few years the Sox and O’s have had a better rivalry and Baltimore is a nicer place to travel to than the extraterrestrial vehicle that now doubles as a ballpark in the Bronx.

But even more annoying to me is “the Red Sox are at risk of returning to their historically losing ways” banter that starts up whenever the Sox hit a slightly purple patch. Please morons – the Red Sox do not have a history of losing ways – at least not in the memory of anyone under 50. That’s the whole freakin’ point. Winning and losing is relative - and if you measure only against championships won - well then - nobody's a "winner". But that's not the only, or even the best, way to measure winning and losing. The Red Sox, even before they started collecting trophies at the end of October, had not been losers for a long time. It is for that reason that the fan base became tortured – not because we were losing – but because we were winning – we were good, often really good, but just couldn’t win the final game played at the end of the year. The quandry was how this team could be so competitive, provide so many incredible moments, field such a dazzling array of stars, come so unbelievably, tantalizingly, excruciatingly, close - and not win even one championship. Now, because baseball is what it is – here come the stats to make you understand this on a “scientific” level.

From 1967 until last year there were 46 years of baseball played. I pick 1967 as a starting point because that is when the modern Sox era began, the” Impossible Dream” year when I was 4 years old and can first remember the remote stirrings of my long lasting mania as I stumbled around trying to pronounce “Conigliaro”, Petrocelli” and “Yastrzemski” (and settling on Tony, Rico and Yaz). During that period of time the Red Sox have had only 6 losing seasons. That equates to having played .500 or better 85% of the time. Nobody has had more. The Yankees during that time have had winning seasons 82% of the time (yes, they’ve won more total games, big freaking deal). Winning seasons matter because it means that at some point during a winning year, well after opening day, there remains a chance that your team will win it all. From 1967 to 2003, for all but 5 years (and even, sad to say, during one of the losing years since there was a split season), the Red Sox gave me hope during the summer.

That is what was difficult – not that we were losing – we weren’t. It was that we won, and won consistently, that drove you nuts. Here are some other numbers to digest; Dodgers (76), Cardinals (70), Athletics (61), Orioles, Giants, Tigers (57), Braves (54), Angels, Mets (48), Twins (47), Pirates, Royals (44), the freakin’ Marlins (24). Those are the percentage of winning seasons that each of those teams had over the same span of years. That includes some of the most dominant teams of various eras, the Weaver O’s, the LaRussa and the Herzog Cards, the Braves teams that won the NL East for over a decade straight. They all had less winning seasons than the Red Sox. Here are some other numbers associated with those teams: Yankees (7), A’s (3), Pirates, Mets, Tigers, Orioles, Twins, Dodgers, freakin’ Marlins (2), Royals, Giants, Braves, Angels (1). That’s the number of World Series won by these teams (other teams, like the Blue Jays, Diamondbacks and Reds, won as well, but you get the point and none of them had a better percentage of winning seasons than the Red Sox). I really didn’t mind any of those teams winning – even the Yankees. I figured, after they beat us the Yankees could win and, well – whatever. They’re supposed to win. OK – the Angels and Marlins winning before the Red Sox did – that mattered a bit. How the hell could the Marlins have two winning seasons in their entire history and win the World Series both times while the Red Sox, having winning year after winning year, didn’t have even one Series trophy to show for it? But – someone has to win and once it wasn’t us – like I said – whatever.

The numbers that did aggravate were these: Astros (58), White Sox (50), Rangers, Expos/Nats (43), Cubs, Indians (37), Padres, Brewers (34). These are the winning season percentages of some of the teams that, along with the Red Sox, hadn’t won World Series up to 2004 (and, other than the White Sox, haven’t won since). When commentators (sometimes supposed “experts”) call the Red Sox “historic losers” this is the crowd they are associating them with. No – no – no numbskulls. The Sox were the winningest team by certain measures – these (with the, at least to me, unexpected exception of the Astros, who turn out to be a tortured franchise) are the dregs of baseball. Losing season following losing season, never giving more than a fleeting hope to their fandom, cashing their TV rights checks and retreating back to their holes, these teams embarrassed their fans rather than lifting them to the stratosphere only to have the fuel run out just as they were about to go into orbit. These teams didn’t win 85% of the time, they didn’t succumb to Lonnie on two days rest, to a season cut short by strikes, to a Game 6 high followed by a Joe Morgan bloop, to Dent, to Mookie, to Boone. These teams were comedies, the Red Sox a tragedy. Yeah we’ve won three in ten years now and can be a bit overbearing – piss off, we’ve earned it.

And I am aware that everyone is entitled to their opinion. But to hearken back to the Red Sox “losing” past when they get off to a slow start is not an "opinion" - it's ridiculous. It is ignorance hiding as an opinion. What losing past? At least know what you’re talking about when you bring these things up. Those not aware of history are doomed to repeat it. They are also doomed to get a beer dumped on their head if they spout that nonsense while I’m standing next to them. The reason the litany of near misses hurt so much wasn’t because the Red Sox were bad most of the time – it was because they were good so much – just not quite good enough. And here I’ll use the “C” word only to put it in context – the Red Sox and their fans were never cursed, they were blessed, just not blessed with a championship. We knew, despite triple crowns, impossible dreams, homers off foul poles, Dave Henderson, Morgan magic and cowboys upping – championships don’t always follow even the seemingly most perfectly scripted seasons. That’s why last year was so special and that’s why stumbles are small stuff, and true fans don’t sweat the small stuff.

Lildis ("Lildis, Lildat")

Getting Some Skin in the Game

There are conversations you have that you remember – often for no particular reason – and they just sort of seem to stick with you. For example, I distinctly recall one time when I was away on a school trip to Washington D.C. and I was assigned to room with three other guys.  We all hailed from different parts of the country. One of them, a really nice kid from Oklahoma, did not know who Johnny Carson was because he had never watched television after 8:00 PM. He explained that his family considered anything later than that to be sinful (presumably because it was in prime time and controlled by the networks). That blew my mind. It was on the same trip that another student, this one a black kid from New York, again a really nice guy, told us all that he knew “Rappers Delight” from beginning to end. He knew all the lyrics and performed it cold while we were being bussed from one venue to another. It was the first time I’d ever heard rap music. I remember both of those conversations - one where I felt so much more worldly than the other guy and the other that showed what a bumpkin I was. Of course, what I was really finding out was that it was a big world and I had a long way to go before I could pretend I knew any of it. Still - there were some things I was pretty sure I knew then and that I remain pretty sure I know now, truths that don't change, or, if anything, become more true. One of those things was the subject of a conversation I had some time back that has likewise remained clear in my memory, for whatever reason.

It was one of those bull sessions I remember having when I was in college. This one was about school nicknames – I went to Stonehill, where, at the time, we were the Chieftains. I couldn’t understand, and still can’t, why “Chieftains” was considered an inappropriate nickname. I also don’t understand why “Chiefs”, “Warriors” or “Braves” are offensive to Native Americans. A “Chieftain” could just as easily (and knowing Stonehill, probably did) refer to an Irish Chieftain. The other names are equally multicultural. “What’s the big deal”? we all asked. Still, within a few years all colleges would be asked (and most would agree) to drop any name that could be seen to even remotely be associated with Native American culture. Stonehill’s now the “Skyhawks”. Blah.

There was general dissent about whether “Indians” should be off limits. Some thought it was racial and so didn’t make sense, others said it was as neutral as “Canadiens”. Everybody seemed to agree the Cleveland Indians “Chief Wahoo” mascot was funny, but that if they were Native American it would piss them off to see that as the way they were depicted (see above for proof). I don’t think we even considered whether the Chicago “Blackhawks” name was off-limits, but I think back then we thought the insignia was pretty cool. We might change our mind now.


But out of that whole conversation the one thing I can remember everyone agreeing with was that “Redskins” was way over the line. “How the hell can the Redskins get away with that and colleges can’t call themselves “Warriors”? Didn’t know how then, don’t know how now. Actually – I do know how. The Redskins had a lot more money riding on retaining their name than did Stonehill. Or UMass (“Redmen” became the “Minutemen”), Springfield College (“Chiefs” became “Pride”) or Marquette (“Warriors” became “Golden Eagles”) so they have just pretended that “Redskins” is not offensive. They’ve insisted, against all reason – that any Native American (or anyone else) who takes offense at the name “Redskins” is just “overly sensitive” – or just not smart enough to get the nuances of the meaning behind the name. I didn’t think that was the general consensus back in the day – we were all pretty sure that “Redskins” was over the top. The opinions were pretty blunt –and just so there’s no mistaking things let’s get this right out in the open – one of the comments I distinctly remember someone saying during that whole conversation was “Redskins is just the same as calling the team “N*****s” or expecting everyone to sing “Hail to the Darkies””.

I thought that made sense then, and I think it makes sense now. “Redskins” has nothing to do with being courageous, a leader or a combatant. That attaches to “Brave”, “Chieftain” or “Warrior” and I thought it was silly to remove those terms from the nickname lexicon. But “Redskin”, let’s face it, ties in to a racial characteristic and that’s it. No one’s calling their team the “big noses”, “slant eyes” or “Aryans”. Just because the Washington football team has more money at stake doesn’t mean they get to ignore common sense. They’ve tried to bribe (I mean “hire”) Native Americans to act as lobbyists for the continued use of the name – and only made themselves look foolish. This is sometimes known as the “some of my best friends are…” defense – usually a sure sign of having been caught with your bigotry showing.

The recent trend among people who think the nickname has outlasted its day in the sun has been to just stop using the term “Redskins” in everyday conversation or print – some just say “Skins”, which I view as a cop out. Others resort to the term I used above and just say “the Washington football team” or “the Washington professional football team”. But I think that there should be some punishment meted out until the powers that be for the franchise smarten up. They should be called some type of derogatory term – maybe one that has a local connection, that hurts only themselves.

Yup.

Until they agree to change the name voluntarily they are the Washington “Congressmen” to me.

Lildis

Hypocrisy: Parts One and Two

Part One – “Your Winnings Sir”
 Just sitting here thinking about the latest fad in the UK – the “inquiries” into the behaviour of some of their deceased and nearly deceased celebrities, seeking to bring them to account for sexual misadventures from decades ago.  The latest poster boy for this craze is a slimy looking fellow by the name of “Jimmy Savile” who hosted various music shows and earned a degree of celebrity for himself in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s.  Other targets include Rolf Harris (singer of the hit song “Tie Me Kangaroo Down” and, I gather, host of certain TV shows) and William Roache, the most iconic of the stars of Britain’s longest running soap “Coronation Street”.

It’s not that I find the alleged behaviour of these men acceptable – indeed it is extremely distasteful.  However – during the times these offenses took place this sort of activity, far from being the subject of public scorn was the object of popular acclaim.  “Teenage groupies” were routinely reported on, held up as one of the “perks” of stardom and exalted as the sign of a society finally relaxing their centuries old sexual inhibitions.  Now that everyone has sobered up after the party they are looking for someone to blame for the mess.  It reminds me of nothing so much as the famous scene in “Casablanca” where Claude Rains, pressed for a reason to shut down Ric’s Café Americain declaims that he is “shocked, shocked to find that gambling is taking place on the premises”.  This is followed immediately by an employee approaching him to hand over some cash with a polite “your winnings sir”.

 And I still wouldn’t have a huge problem with this except I think I smell more than a wee bit of selective prosecution here.  It seems to me that the Brits are having a go at primarily their “B” list celebs, while overlooking a few inconvenient truths about the culture that pervaded all of British celebrity at the time.  Have a look at the lyrics to “Stray Cat Blues” by “Sir” Mick Jagger’s group, (I believe they are called the “Rolling Stones”):

I can see that you're fifteen years old
No I don't want your I.D.
You look so rest-less and you're so far from home
But it's no hanging matter
It's no capital crime

Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat
Oh yeah, don'tcha scratch like that
Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat
Bet your mama don't know you scream like that
I bet your mother don't know you can spit like that.

That sounds awfully close to a confession to me – but Jagger is (probably deservedly) a Knight of the Realm – not facing the rest of his life in prison.  Making a one-time tryst or even a few the subject of a criminal trial thirty years plus after the fact may appear to provide justice – but, as much as the actions of so-called adults during that time make me cringe now – I know that really isn’t the case.  What is going on here is sensationalism and a forlorn attempt to renounce a time that was indulged in by the same society that now seems to want to collectively deny it ever happened.  It is doing that by very selectively stoning iconic old men.  I seem to remember something about who was entitled to cast such stones – and I really don’t see too many such people wandering around.

 Part Two:  Duck, Duck, Goose

 When I decided to write about the recently suspended Phil Robertson I knew I would be flayed alive by one side of the controversy or another.  My whole point in bothering to address the situation is to show that I don’t understand why there are “sides” in this at all – somehow a weird rich guy from Louisiana has managed to become a political cause, but I believe I can show in three easy steps that Robertson is not worthy of being either a conservative poster boy or a liberal target.  He’s just a guy who said some stupid shit and should be treated as exactly that. 

First of all – let’s dispense with the conservative outrage that Robertson has somehow been denied his “first amendment rights”.  The first amendment protects the right to freedom of speech and the press.  Last time I looked Robertson had absolutely no problem speaking freely.   Boy, did he ever speak freely.  In fact, he spoke freely in the press – GQ magazine to be exact, thereby completing a first amendment doubleheader.  You or I don’t get to speak in GQ – I get this stupid ass blog and most anyone who reads this will only get to call me a jerk on my Facebook page.  But Ole Phil – he spoke just about as freely as you can imagine.

 What I hear most often complained about is not that Robertson was unable to speak freely – but that he was unable to speak freely without consequences.  Here’s the thing – ain’t no amendment that guarantees that.  Here’s what the first amendment actually says:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

 See – it says “Congress shall make no law” not “A&E network shall make no law”.  Congress has to let you talk – A&E can pretty much tell you to shut the f*** up.  A&E pays the bills and if they want to tell Phil to take a little down time, well in the battle of competing “rights” here, they pretty much win out.  We’ll talk about their motivations for doing that in a bit but let’s all agree that, much as McDonalds has the right to tell the guy working the drive thru to take the Burger King crown off and head home without facing a “free speech” argument, A&E gets to tell the “patriarch” of America’s favorite redneck clan to go work on his tan if they want to.

 I’ve also heard people say that “if you don’t want to hear the answer, don’t ask the question”.  Try telling that to the cop who pulls you over and asks how fast you think you were going.  But really, this is another one that is really easy to deal with.  A&E didn’t ask the question – GQ did.  A&E is simply reacting to something that they did nothing to instigate – again they are within their rights to do that.  But why they are doing this goes to the second of the points I want to make.

 A&E did not tell Phil to go off camera for a bit because they are a bunch of granola crunching, dashiki wearing, McGovern voting flower children left over from the sixties.  It should surprise absolutely no one that major networks are actually run by some fairly large corporations – and fairly large corporations (other than perhaps some that make ice cream) are usually staffed by more than a few Republicans.  A&E is, in fact, owned fifty-fifty between the Hearst Corporation and Disney.  That would be Hearst as in William Randolph Hearst and Disney as in Walt Disney, neither of which was known as pansy assed liberals, and it’s pretty safe to say that their companies continue that legacy.

No, A&E acted as they did not because they’re a bunch of pinko’s – but color was involved.  That would be the color green, as in “greenbacks”.  A&E shut Phil down for that most conservative of reasons – it might possibly have unbalanced their budget if they kept him on.  This is why liberals should take no great joy in Robertson’s suspension – this hasn’t been done because A&E has such a huge concern about gay rights or a tremendous aversion to the Jim Crow South.  It’s been done to avoid a potential impact to A&E’s balance sheet.

And here we come to where the whole “Duck Dynasty” horseshit really pisses me off.  You see, I can understand A&E acting based on the bottom line – they’re a corporation – that’s what corporations do.  But it turns out the Robertson’s signed a contract at the inception of this so-called “reality” show agreeing that they would not talk about these type topics.  Phil wasn’t blindsided by this – he agreed specifically not to do it.  In other words the Robertsons agreed at the outset of their precious reality show not to be realistic. It’s all been a scam – designed to make their business more profitable and to project not the reality of their lifestyle and beliefs, but a carefully doctored and sanitized version of what they’re about.  We shouldn’t be surprised.  Phil Robertson and his family no more represent middle America than Snooki represented New Jersey.  We all know it – let’s just say it - reality TV is like watching a bad intersection during an ice storm – and you just saw a crash. 

 Finally, and this is in fairness to Phil Robertson himself, what he actually said deserves to be look at on its own merits.  Robertson said some fairly strong things – but they should at least be considered on a rational basis – tested for whether they actually are offensive, or whether they have something to contribute to reasoned dialogue.  The Robertson family, in their statement, said “Phil would never incite or encourage hate”.  Here’s what Phil actually said when asked what he thought was "sinful":

 “Start with homosexual behavior and just morph out from there. Bestiality, sleeping around with this woman and that woman and that woman and those men."

 So this is the simple test I would ask you to take concerning that statement:

 We all know gay people.  I don’t know or care whether you condone their lifestyle, but tomorrow, just to see how loving Ole Phil’s words are, tell me whether you would be willing to walk up to one of your gay acquaintances and say “Hey Joe (or Carol) I just wanted to let you know that I consider your behavior to be the same as when someone has sex with a dog”.  If your answer to this is “no” then I say Phil has flunked your test, not just mine.  Oh – and Phil also said that pre-civil rights era black people (who would not, I assure you, have been referred to as “black people”) were actually happier before they were burdened with such things as “equality”.  So, as another little test of Phil’s loving nature, go up to any African American you know and say “Tyrone, I believe you would be happier if you would just stop drinking out of the same water fountain as me – really”.

 You see unless Phil, or any of his defenders, has the balls to say what he said to the face of the people he targeted, then his speech wasn’t really about being true to the Bible, or his religion, or the “truth” as he sees it.  It was simply the rantings of a privileged rich jackass who, unlike you or I, doesn’t have to worry about the consequences resulting from his speech.  And yes, if he were here, I would say that to his face.

The Greatest Calls

Recently an old friend of mine posted the “Iron Bowl” call from this year’s Auburn-Alabama game on Facebook.  For those of you who don’t know the story Alabama and Auburn, both battling for a shot at the national championship, were tied with only one second left on the game clock as Alabama lined up to try an improbable 57 yard game-ending field goal.  Just in case, Auburn had positioned a player in the end zone to try and run the ball back and score a touchdown in the event the kick came up short.  But really – what are the chances of someone running back a kick from one end of the field to the other on the last play of the game?  A million to one, right?  (So – you’re saying there is a chance…)  Anyway – listen to the call as this play unfolds:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GKmkD1pUG0

An instant classic – but only one of many great calls that go along with these sorts of things.  Here is a partial list of some of my favorites.

“The Giants Win the Pennant!, the Giants win the Pennant!”

No two teams had ever finished tied at the end of the National League baseball season until, in 1951, the New York Giants improbably raced back from 11 games out to catch the Brooklyn Dodgers and set up a three game playoff for the NL title.  For you non-American readers the winner of the league title is said to win the “pennant” – a mythical flag denoting you have conquered all the other teams for that year.  The Dodgers, who at that time had never won a World Series (the next stage of the competition) look poised to advance to the Fall Classic as they held a three run lead in the last inning as the Giants tried vainly to come back. Then a rally started – one run came across and two men were on base as Bobby Thompson came to the plate to face Dodger pitcher Ralph Branca.  Two runs still separated the teams – things still looked grim for the Giants – in New York a high school kid skipping school turned on a reel to reel tape recorder to capture Russ Hodges, the Giants announcer, calling the last outs of the season.  What he captured is the only known recording of what has become the most iconic baseball call of all time – “The Shot Heard Round the World”:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrI7dVj90zs

Here’s Your Ball Game Folks…

There is a great Brent Musburger call of the pass Doug Flutie threw to beat Miami on the day after Thanksgiving in 1984, but I prefer the local radio call, which captures perfectly the mood of those who had watched Flutie’s career at BC.  There was, even amongst those who knew just how good he was – who had seen him take a school that was lucky to get one win a year out of the likes of Holy Cross or William and Mary and transform it into a nationally ranked program, a reluctance to fully believe what we were seeing.  He’d beaten Penn State, Syracuse, Clemson, gone to bowl games, shot to the top of the Heisman trophy race – but – Miami?  I mean – those guys were like a pro team, coached by Jimmy Johnson, Bernie Kosar at QB, defending national champs – on national TV – a football program that even now commands national coverage via such films as ESPN’s 30 for 30 documentary “The U”.  It’d be nice just to stick with them for a while – but he couldn’t actually lead BC to victory – could he?  Listen as the announcer's voice goes from a matter of fact, "he uncorks one towards the end zone" to the football equivalent of the "Hallelujah Chorus".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeExa2R2nf0

I Don’t Believe What I Just Saw

So we had a few people over to watch the first game of the World Series – it was supposed to be much more personal, but the Red Sox had been swept by the Oakland A’s so it was an all California Series pitting the heavily (really heavily) favoured A’s against the Dodgers.  The Dodgers were at even more of a disadvantage because their best player – MVP candidate Kirk Gibson, was injured and couldn’t play.  His legs were unable to hold him up in any meaningful way as his Achilles tendons were shredded.  Nonetheless, as the first game of the Series neared a climax Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda checked to see if Gibson could haul himself to the plate to make one appearance if the Dodgers had the tying or winning runs on base.  Gibson went underneath the stands where he practiced swinging the bat against a practice tee.  “Thwack!” would go the bat and Gibson would grunt with pain.  “THWACK!”  “AAAARGH!”.  Finally word came back – “He thinks he has one swing in him”.  So Lasorda put him in, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, to face the best pitcher in the game, Dennis Eckersley.  He could hardly stand up.  So we’re sitting around, eating pizza, having a couple of beers, when someone says – “Hey – they put Gibson in – this might be interesting”.  So we watched the game – and this happens:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U157X0jy5iw

That was the amazing Vin Scully on that call – and we’ll get to Vin.  But his wasn’t the best call that day – Vin knows that on TV the pictures often do the best talking.  On radio though there was this magic call by Jack Buck – who can’t believe…

http://www.hark.com/clips/bglrsvypyl-kirk-gibsons-1988-world-series-home-run-call-by-jack-buck

…what he just saw.

 Vin the Poet

Scully was doing TV work on the night Gibson hit his home run.  That was 1988 and it was amazing that Scully was the Dodgers play-by-play announcer that year – after all, he had started with the Dodgers when they were in Brooklyn back in 1950.  In the many years since 1988 no one has ever been better than Scully as the Dodgers regular announcer.  Of course, no one has been worse.  That’s because Scully is still at it – in 2013, - sixty-four years after he first called a game at Ebbets Field.  Scully has many great moments behind the microphone, but only one that I know was published, more or less, as a piece of poetry.  His call of the last half-inning of Sandy Koufax’s perfect game in 1965 was transcribed and published, on its own, as a poem.  His descriptions of the crowd, the batters, the players in the dugout and on the field painted a word picture so vivid that there really was no reason not to view the extemporaneous call as exactly that – poetry.  Here is the actual broadcast of that half-inning, as it happened.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJdli-ONL-8

Who Stole the Ball?

Of course while there is a place for the classic restraint and poise of Scully (and that place is Los Angeles, where basketball announcer Chick Hearn did the same for the Lakers) there is also a need for the unrestrained belt it out joy of the event epitomized by no one more than Johnny Most, the chain smoking, coffee swilling, acid gargling announcer for basketball’s Boston Celtics.  Johnny is who I grew up listening to – and this is his most famous of many great moments.  The final play of the 1965 NBA semi-finals – the Celtics only up by one point as Philadelphia looks to inbound the ball under their own basket.  Can anything be done to stop Wilt Chamberlain from scoring to destroy the Celt’s drive for a seventh straight championship – can any person step up?  Well, there is one guy – but before that let’s just put Johnny Most in perspective – Johnny was what’s called a “homer” – he was a fan of the team he announced for, and he let you know it.  So before leading in to the famous call from 1965 listen to classic Johnny telling the Detroit Pistons how much he “appreciates” their efforts on the court against the Celts – that goes right in to the call that now resides in the Basketball Hall of Fame.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu8Da3pe9h0&list=PLA8CCC946F4536EF4

I Don’t Speak Argentinian, But

I think this guy is pretty happy…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wVho3I0NtU

I’ll Tell Ya – I Gotta Lump In Me Throat From That…

Dublin, 2007.  With Ireland’s usual rugby home ground under re-construction at Landsdowne Road the Gaelic Athletic Association had offered its 80,000 seat stadium Croke Park to the Irish Rugby team to host its “Six Nation’s” matches.  The only difficulty – one of those games is against England, and Croke Park is the site of the brutal massacre of Irish civilians by a British armoured vehicle – holy ground, typically not open to “foreign” sports.  Before each Six Nation’s match the anthems of the countries are played – what would happen when the English anthem “God Save The Queen” is played at Croke Park – will it be booed?  Shouted down?  Will a riot break out?  Irish fans respectfully wait through the song, leading the English announcer to ask “What was the fuss about”.  Then the Irish anthem is played – listen, and watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQ6-bYixpYE

Oh, by the way, Ireland 43, England 13.

The Band is On the Field

California and Stanford play “The Big Game” every year – and in 1982 it really was something big.  Stanford’s all-everything quarterback John Elway led his team to a touchdown to give them a lead with only four seconds left to play.  All Stanford had to do was tackle the ball carrier on the kickoff and the game was theirs.  But there is a rule in American football that harkens back to its rugby roots – you can only throw the ball forward once per play – but you can throw it backwards as long as you aren’t tackled – and Cal did exactly that.  The Stanford band forgot the rule and wandered on to the field thinking the game was over – and paid the price - (watch the trombone player get crushed at the end of the play). But the play continued and, after conferring, the referees made their ruling - listen to the emotion in the voice of the announcer as he realizes that the California Bears have pulled off what is forever to become known as “The Play”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nC55Kv2sKM

Yes, Yes I Do.

And then there is this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYscemhnf88

Letters From My Library III - My Shlabotnik

The World Series is over, the Red Sox have won, my sleep pattern is beginning to return to normal (sort of) and I can get back to going through my books to add to the “Letters From My Library” series.  So this will no doubt leave the multitude of readers out there who have been waiting for this moment greatly relieved. 

Cue laughter.

Actually this submission is all about that topic – laughter.  It’s also about the phenomenon that I call the “Shlabotnik Effect” after the fictional baseball player “Joe Shlabotnik” who was Charlie Brown’s favorite player in the “Peanuts” strip.  No one knows why Charlie Brown chose Shlabotnik as his idol, he only played in the minors, was as far from famous as you can get and would never be noticed even in a roomful of baseball fanatics, but – and this is the key part – he did choose him and Shlabotnik thereafter belonged to Charlie Brown even if no one else could appreciate why he would have him as a favorite.

We all have Shlabotniks.  If you’re a music lover you have bands or singers who no one else seems to appreciate, but which you are convinced are separated from the Beatles only by virtue of the fact that the rest of the world hasn’t yet caught on to the brilliance that you, you who have had the vision to discern this unique talent, have been witness to for years.  For art lovers it could be a painter, for film lovers a given actor – and for book lovers it is an author who you discovered and think is really good – but seemingly hasn’t become recognised for the genius that he is.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my personal Joe Shlabotnik of writers, Mr. Jay Cronley.

I first discovered Cronley when I was about 13 years old.  The library in my hometown of Blandford, Massachusetts (population about 1000 people back then) would receive a regular delivery of books from the regional library consortium.  Now, before getting in to the genius of Cronley I think I need to mention the venerable Porter Memorial Library.  Here’s a picture of the building taken back shortly after it opened:

And here it is today:

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About the same, except the open space with the rocking chairs has been enclosed.  I show the pictures only because I could, if I had lived in any number of other small towns throughout the United States, have posted almost exactly the same picture, of a very similar building, and the library would often have the same name.  There is a “Porter Memorial” in Machias, Maine, another one in Georgia, and scores of others that go by different names all through the country.  I think they are the most important buildings in these towns.  The fire department is up there, but only because if you didn’t have one the library might burn down.

Anyway – on the shelf this one week is a book with a picture of a dumb looking football player and the title of “Fall Guy”.  I decided to take a flyer and give it a read.

Good decision.

“Fall Guy” is essentially about a hotshot football recruit who gets in to a major institute of higher learning, where, in addition to his duties as a halfback, he is expected to take a full load of challenging courses – like “Theory of Golf 15” which has the following exam:  “When your golf ball is in a trap you may (a) move it (b) replace it with a clean golf ball (c) hit it (d) pour chocolate sauce on it and eat it with graham crackers.”  Before settling on this academic goldmine the player had been recruited by a load of schools back east “like Notre Dame, and Pitt, and Ohio State and Holy Cross, wherever that is.  It must be a school for monks and nuns.  They must be a dog of a team”.  Through the entire sordid college football factory process the book follows our hero’s progress – or, lack of the same.  Fall Guy was the first Cronley book I ever read and it retains a soft spot in my heart.  I didn’t know it at the time but Jay Cronley had a day job – he was (is) one of those sportswriters who exist in one of the “mid-major” markets.  In his case it’s Oklahoma.  He must like it there, because he’s managed to make himself a local legend and also into one of the country’s great writers on the lost sport of kings, horseracing.  There is a great history of these writers, guys who kind of like writing in Tulsa, or Springfield or Dubuque.  They have a nice life for themselves, are the first thing everyone in town looks for when they grab their paper in the morning, and they don’t feel like they need the validation of a massive national following to know they’re good.  If you know of Bill Bryson, writer of travel books, and lately books on nearly everything (literally) – his dad was probably the greatest baseball writer of his time – and he never left Iowa.  That’s what Cronley is when he’s not cranking out side-splitting novels – the local guy everyone can’t wait to read. There are worse things to be.

Next up I spotted the book “Screwballs” which is what they based the movie “Major League” on, even though I don’t think Cronley was ever credited.  No matter – it is a screamingly funny take on a bunch of misfits who manage to confound everyone and turn in to a winning team.  I now counted Cronley as batting two for two. 

I didn’t get any more Cronley’s from the Blandford library (I’d moved away to college) but I kept him in mind when browsing bookstores.  I was patient, and over the coming years, as people awaited the latest Vonnegut, Updike and Irving release (myself included) I added to the mix waiting for the next Cronley.  And I was richly rewarded.  Here are the other Cronley’s I have in my collection:

Good Vibes – Here’s the scenario – a guy who never had a bit of luck in his life, but loved a good day out at the track, gets on the hottest of hot streaks – for every race on the card he seems to get the winner.  So he lets the bet ride through the day – bankrolling a small initial bet through each successive stage – letting the whole thing carry over – and watching it grow – and grow – and grow.  Can he keep it going , and will the lucky streak carry over into real life?  Cronley, as stated above, is one of the country’s top writers on horse racing.  In the 1920’s this would also have made him one of the most important people in the country.  Today, however, the atmosphere that attaches to the track is almost entirely lost, appearing only briefly at the Kentucky Derby and the other triple crown races so long as the chance of a horse actually winning the elusive three legs remains alive.  You can still get a sniff of the old glory days if you go to Saratoga in August, or to the Breeders Cup – but there was a time when horse racing was, at the very least, the third most popular sport in the United States, right up with baseball and boxing.  Cronley obviously yearns for those days and he expertly conveys the allure of the sport of kings in this book.  But it remains hilarious throughout.  Even the dedication is funny:  “Funding for most of the research involved here was provided by a modest Daily Double grant one fine spring afternoon in 1978 at Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs, Arkansas.  A horse named Rambunctious Road made this novel possible by winning the first race.”  There is also this perfect description of the type of food you typically get at your average, run down racetrack – “the hamburger was tough because it had a thin slab of frozen ice in the middle, plus it was little, plus it was lousy”.

I’ve had that burger.

Walking Papers:  John Grape has been served with divorce papers and finds he is looking at losing everything in the proceedings.  But he hatches a plan to totally remake himself, new nose, hair, chin – lose about 50 pounds, - look like a completely new man.  He would change his voice, his name, his address, create a past history for himself. Then – to get everything back – he would remarry his ex-wife, who wouldn’t even know it was him.  He manages to pull off the identity change, manages to meet up with the ex-wife, manages to dodge or pay off the people looking to track him down for alimony, explains the makeover to his daughter – and puts the plan into operation…

Quick Change – This is Cronley’s Gatsby in my opinion.  It has all the elements of his work that I like – the outrageous scheme that could never – okay, just might – hmmm, really could if things broke perfectly – work.  It has the tortured sidekick, the baffled authority figures, the witty repartee – everything.

And, in one of the two movie versions, it has Bill Murray. 

The plot is this – dressed as a clown Grimm walks in to and proceeds to rob a bank by holding all the people inside hostage.  Using a trick he manages to exit the bank with the money and his accomplices.  Then things get tough – he has to get to the airport in New York. As anyone who has tried to do this can attest – this ain’t always as easy as it seems to be.  Braving private cars, taxi’s, public transport and the peaceful neighborhoods of 1980’s New York (har har) Grimm races to get away to a tropical paradise before the law closes in. 

Funny Farm – OK – so, in the movie version, Chevy Chase is a big comedown from Bill Murray – but the premise of this one is nearly as funny as Quick Change’s.  In order to “get back to paradise” a couple from the city decide to buy a farm in the sticks.  Imagine “Green Acres” on drugs.  In this one you get to read about unhelpful telephone operators, rigged bingo games, runaway dogs, alcoholic postmen, unlicensed sheriffs – you know, the usual.

Cheap Shot This is my second favorite Cronley.  If you want to steal something without having to worry about the cops – why not first steal the cops?  That’s the premise of this book – a group of burglars kidnap the night shift of the local police station and pack them in to a van before breaking in to the nearby museum and loading a second van with the loot.  Only problem is – they’ve got two identical vans and can’t remember which is which – open the one with the paintings – they’re millionaires.  The one with the cops – they’re dead.  How do you figure out the one to open?

In the course of this misadventure the gang manages to pick up a couple of “common” criminals to put in the van with the cops, an unwilling driver, some seriously dysfunctional security guards and, being a police story, a doughnut salesman. 

Shoot – Couple number one is having marital difficulties but, when faced with a crisis, just might be able to see their way through to a reconciliation.  Couple number two has a difficulty with commitment but, because of a shared career interest, might just have found that special someone.  Except that couple number one has each hired a contract killer to rub out the other.  Couple number two?

They’re the killers. 

Can things work out for our star crossed lovers?  Well, in Cronley novels things don’t always work out completely smoothly but they tend to, shall we say, “partially resolve”.  There are a lot of novels like the ones Cronley writes, a surprising number of them written by sportswriters like Rick Reilly (Missing Links) or Dan Jenkins (Semi-Tough).  But Cronley is the writer I find most consistently funny – even though I am admittedly biased as he is, after all, my Shlabotnik. 

As a matter of fact I think everyone should have a Shlabotnik.  They belong to you more exclusively than the more widely popular writers, or bands or artists would.  A Shlabotnik (or, probably more appropriately the lower case “shlabotnik” if I want to turn this in to a non proper noun) is like a favorite sweat shirt – maybe not much to look at for others but something that is comfortable to you, appearances be damned.

Thanks Jay Cronley.