An Old New Year

We're into that twilight week of the year known as the taint of the calendar. 'Taint Christmas and it
'taint New Years. Since it's the season to be jolly and the news is so grim, I'd like to tell you about one memorable New Years' Eve. I must preface the story by admitting that Isaac Tigrett and I have been friends since high school. My band used to drive up to Jackson to play at his fraternity parties. I say this both because the event occurred at Hard Rock Café, and it's not my intention to drop names until later in the column. The Hard Rock was Isaac's creation and I was invited to celebrate the New York restaurant's first anniversary and New Years festivities. I was invited to the opening, but I had an anxiety disorder and had trouble enough going to Kroger much less flying to a packed-out gala event with a bunch of strangers. But this time, I was given an offer I couldn't refuse- Isaac was sitting next to me on the airplane. We reached New York and headed for the car rentals where Tigrett tossed two premium credit cards on the counter, turned to me and said, "Do you have any cash? I don't have any money."  I was housed in the same building where Isaac had an apartment overlooking the Hard Rock's Cadillac entrance, so he could watch the lines outside and harass the doorman.

New York at Christmas is beautiful, with lighted ornaments dangling over 57th Street like giant snowflakes. When I first walked into the Hard Rock, I was so overwhelmed, I had to open my eyes wider to take it all in. Several of the old Soul Revue posters from the sixties that I'd loaned Isaac were duplicated and hanging prominently on the wall, and climbing up to second floor, there was a giant picture of Little Richard with the tiny inscription, "To Randy, with love." When I asked Isaac how he got away with making duplicates of what might be considered copywrited material he said, "I just keep doing it until someone tells me to quit." Ernest Wither's iconic photo of B.B. King and Elvis was prominently placed in a double-arched, gilded, antique frame with a plaque above that read, "The Two Kings." I began to feel at home. Even the Bar-B-Q was cooked low and slow. I linked up with a group of my Jackson buddies who had made the trip and joined their party for the celebration. There must have been about seven of us, all single men, and we were Isaac's guests for New Years' Eve. The problem was, we were guests at what turned out to be a private party.

We were seated at a large table on the main floor, while the entire upstairs, and the rest of the restaurant for that matter, had been rented to the actor George Segal and his guests for the night. I loved George Segal in "Virginia Woolf," but he had this other shtick where he'd go on the Johnny Carson show and play the banjo. That would be bad enough, but he played songs like "Alexander's Ragtime Band," and other favorite minstrel songs of the South including, "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown," a real rib tickler. Unfortunately, Segal was the entertainment for the evening. He had hired a trio consisting of piano, bass, and drums. I was just hoping they were being well paid. I showed up in a suit and tie, but the Jackson boys were all in tuxedo. Isaac kept bringing different women over for introductions because every time he did, we all stood in unison like gentlemen. The New York ladies were goggle-eyed. Some laughed, some were bemused, and some stared at us like we were vestiges of some lost civilization. When George Segal began regaling the assembly with "If You Knew Susie," his guests listened in rapt attention while we decided it was time to start drinking heavily. I should add here that I don't drink. Lord knows I've tried to be a proper drunk, but it just doesn't work for me. However this time, the Champaign was flowing and I didn't want to be anti-social, which is another way of saying that I got lampshade-on-the-head, knocked-out loaded.

When Segal rejoined his party, the trio began playing some cool jazz and I was suddenly hoisted from my seat from behind and propelled toward the stage. The musicians eyeballed each other warily, but the boss wanted his buddy to sing. I ran through the rolodex of songs in my head and came up with Ray Charles' "I Gotta Woman," and the crowd woke up. The bass player said, "Hey man. That was great. let's do another one." He was sort of a goofy looking guy with a big smile, a childlike face, and a baseball cap that he wore backwards. I chose B.B. King's "Rock Me, Baby," because it only has three chords and I didn't want to confuse the musicians. We got such big applause that George Segal bounded down the stairs and told the band to take a break. My new musical pal turned to shake my hand and said, "I enjoyed that. My name's Jaco Pastorius." I was sitting next to the bassist for the jazz-fusion group Weather Report and one of the greatest innovators in the history of the bass guitar. He turned to the drummer, "This is Jim Keltner," who had only worked with everyone from John Lennon to Elvis. The frail-looking gentleman at the piano with the receding hair and braided ponytail was Bob Dorough. Only recently, a friend had given me a tape of his early be-bop music and I gushed, "Mr. Dorough, we sure know you in Memphis." He slipped his arm around my waist and asked, "Would you like to get to know me better?" I politely declined and somehow managed to crawl back to my room at sunrise, still amazed that George Segal had hired some of the finest musicians in the world to accompany him on "Ain't She Sweet." The following New Year's Eve, George Segal didn't play at the Hard Rock. I did. But that's another story.

The Purge

If nothing else, Facebook was certainly interesting last week. After the horrible carnage in Paris, people changed their profile pictures to the French flag or superimposed the vertical red, white and blue stripes over their faces. We were united in solidarity with the French in their grief and anger. Then, in the aftermath of the attack, it was discovered that one of the soulless killers had a Syrian passport and had registered as a refugee in Greece.When the topic of refugees from the Syrian civil war being resettled in this country, all hell broke loose. Thus began "the great unfriending." Generally speaking, a new strain of xenophobia exploded onto social media. The most common sentiment was that this was all a plot for ISIS to infiltrate this country and kill Christians and, of course, it's Obama's fault. The ignorance and racism on Facebook was appalling. An exact quote from my comment section said, "All you liberal lesbians and out in left field democrats can take a flying fuck. Our gutless president needs to pull his head out of the sand and to be like France." He got unfriended. In fact, a social media critic claimed, "It was the largest unfriending week in Facebook history."

Of course, the crassest and most repugnant remarks came from the clavern of GOP presidential candidates. Dr. Ben Carson compared the refugees to "mad dogs." Marco Rubio said, "We can't background check them. You can't pick up the phone and call Syria." And Donald Trump out-uglied everybody. A month ago I wrote that it was never proper to use Hitler reference when discussing American politics, but Trump has gone flat-out Nazi. Saying, "we're going to have to do things that were frankly unthinkable a year ago," Trump favors a database to track Muslims, surveillance of mosques, warrantless wiretaps, and ID cards proving religious affiliation. A Black Lives Matter activist was beaten and kicked at a recent Trump rally. Asked if Muslims should wear some sort of identifying badge, he shrugged it off but didn't rule it out. Obama countered with, "perhaps ignorant racists should wear special ID badges too." Trump's new applause line, "I would bomb the shit out of them," is a sentiment held by many, but not exactly what you want to hear from the potential leader of the free world. He's still trying to find a "humane way" to round up 11 million Mexicans. I don't know, but it sure sounds like Germany in the 1930s.

While every GOP candidate is rattling a sabre for more wars with other people's children, Congress passed a bill that forces every refugee from Syria to be personally screened by the head of the FBI. Half the governors in the country, all but one a Republican, have put out the sign that says, "Syrians not welcome here." Contrast that with the sentiments expressed by French president Francois Hollande. After the bloodiest terrorist attack on French soil, Hollande said it was France's "humanitarian duty" to help refugees landing on European shores. Hollande proclaimed that France would accept 30,000 Syrian refugees and spend 53.3 million dollars to develop housing for them. Since the US pledged to stand with France, aren't we fortunate to have a Secretary of State that speaks the language fluently? And do you remember when John Kerry was mocked by the Republicans for being "too French?," Or the "Freedom Fries," and the "Cheese eating surrender monkeys?" Germany has offered to settle 800,000 refugees. The US is accepting 10,000 with hysterical resistance. Isn't it ironic that in seventy years, Germany has transformed from Nazism into a beacon of hope for the world?

The truth is that the US has resettled more immigrants than any other country. Since 9/11, the US has admitted 859,629 refugees. Of that number, three were convicted of planning attacks on targets outside the United States, none of them successful. This country has one of the most thorough vetting processes for immigrants in the world, but how do you stop someone who is both suicidal and homicidal? These savages aren't the huddled masses yearning to be free. They are well financed zealots who can afford an airline ticket and a visa. They aren't the desperate refugees who walked from a war zone in Syria all the way to Europe with their babies and grandmothers looking for sanctuary from the hell they escaped. Before Facebook, most people kept their idiotic opinions to themselves until they were drunk. Not any more. Right-wing media spews misinformation as a business plan. You might hear some Fox News quotes from an angry uncle this very week. Before sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner, we should be mindful of what the holiday is for. Once, we were accepted as refugees into this country by the indigenous population. No wait, that didn't go so well. Just shut up about the Muslims and eat your turkey sandwich.

Hill On Wheels

Congratulations Tea Party. You set out to destroy the presidency of Barack Obama and ended up destroying the Republican Party. It's not that they don't deserve it. Pick your idiom: "Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas;" "reap what you sow;" "chickens coming home to roost." They're all appropriate descriptions of what happens when a radical fringe takes over the organization that first gave them succor. In this case, the "Freedom Caucus," the far right wing of the GOP, made public fools of themselves twice in one week. Firstly, by not being able to choose a leader of their own party and secondly, their grotesque performance at the so-called House Select Committee on Benghazi. The current chaos in the Republican party could be the parting practical joke by former speaker John Boehner, who couldn't abide the Tea Party in the first place. He appointed the seven obscure, back-bench, malevolent mad-dogs  to the committee and sent them off to do battle with Hillary Clinton. Big mistake.

Committee Chairman Trey Gowdy had been whipping the steeds for months in anticipation of their much-publicized and nationally televised showdown with Hillary Clinton, but only the horses' asses showed up. I'm sorry. I know better than to criticize someones looks. That's Trump's bailiwick. But doesn't Trey Gowdy look like someone squeezed his head in a vise? The GOP's feral beasts tore into Sec. Clinton for eleven hours, unprecedented in American history. MSNBC's Mike Barnicle said if the Benghazi Committee had "been in charge of the Watergate hearing, Richard Nixon would have finished his term." Speaking of Nixon, Trey Gowdy has captured the crown as the sweatiest politician to appear on television since, well, Nixon. I was hoping an aide would hand him a towel. The attacks on Mrs. Clinton were so viscous, this was the first Congressional hearing with a cut-man. The seven Republicans took turns releasing their unbridled rage at the president or anyone in his administration. Their tormented hysteria, compared to Hillary's unflappable demeanor, made the Secretary look absolutely presidential. This Republican display of "Clinton psychosis" may well have elected her  president. Nice one, John Boehner.

Although the perpetually damp Gowdy insisted the hearing was not about Hillary but gathering the facts about Benghazi, nothing new emerged from the previous eight congressional investigations. All along, Sec. Clinton has admitted that there was a well documented security breach and has accepted responsibility for the tragedy. One must only Google "Khobar Towers" to find the moral equivalency. Still, one by one, the frothing mini-mob had to get their licks in and hope for that cable news moment when they force Hillary to confess to the killing of Ambassador Chris Stevens. After all, she had previously murdered Vince Foster. The "Freedom Caucus" acted like a bunch of frustrated prosecutors grilling a witness. All that was missing from the eleven hour harangue was the cigar smoke and a naked light-bulb hanging from the ceiling. I think they forgot that Mrs. Clinton is a lawyer too. Like Whitewater led to Lewinsky, Benghazi led to emails. You and I both know that nobody emails anymore. The Secretary could be reached by secure cable or phone at any time. This seventeen month, 4.2 million dollar inquisition was a forum to hurt Hillary Clinton politically and nothing else. Even Trey Gowdy said the hearing produced no new information while former Nixon aide John Dean said, "It's really embarrassing what the Republicans have done here."

In the end, the Benghazi hearings turned out to be an eleven hour commercial for the Clinton campaign. No one likes to see a bunch of angry men screaming at a woman. In the final grueling hour, Hillary began to cough. I thought we were seeing a recreation of the filibuster scene from "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington." At long last, Rep. Elijah Cummings demanded the hearings come to a close saying, "This is not what America's about. We're better than that." No, we're not. The butt-scratchers still think Hillary is part of some shadow conspiracy to overturn the Constitution, confiscate their guns, and make everyone wear black pajamas. I may have to re-calibrate my opinion of Hillary. After her debate performance, and now her escaping from that right-wing coven of ghouls unscathed, I think we should start getting used to the phrase "Madame President." Alabama Congresswoman Martha Robey, after being told that  Sec. Clinton returned to her Washington home following the Benghazi attacks asked, "Were you alone (at home)?" "I was alone," Clinton said. "The whole night" asked the inquisitor. "Well, yes, the whole night," Clinton laughed along with all the spectators, proving Hillary would have to get caught with a teenage intern to stop her now.

One Man

It is amazing to see how one single man is able to create such joy. He attracted thousands upon
thousands of people of all races and religious backgrounds to galvanize around a common ideal. His followers clapped and cheered with the ecstasy that comes with the release of long held pent-up emotion and everyone seemed so happy. A record number of people watched him this week on national TV.  Even longtime doubters who had previously lost faith are returning to the fold in record numbers. No, I'm not talking about Pope Francis. I'm talking about Justin Fuente.

Did you see that game? I haven't seen a shootout like that since Waco. Of course, I'm talking about the Memphis Tigers' 53-46 win over Cincinnati last week. It was all you could ask for in a football game- forty-five thousand screaming fans, lots of scoring and suspense, thrilling long runs and acrobatic catches, and a key interception to end the game. What a way to make their national television debut. The Liberty Bowl wasn't packed out but I'll bet it will be soon. The Fuente coached Tigers were 7-17 after the first two seasons. Now they've won eleven in a row and are averaging almost fifty points a game. I'll leave the stats to Geoff Caulkins, but most impressive for me is that the Tigers are 4-0, the only team in the nation with such a record. The last time the Tigers went 4-0 was in 1961, and risking the revelation of my decrepitude, I was there.

My father took me to the games of the then Memphis State University in Crump stadium when I was still a child. That's where I first learned to hate the Confederate flag. Ole Miss would come to town with lots of swagger and would take over the Peabody Hotel. They were drunk and obnoxious and treated Memphis like a home game. In the stadium, they would wave a sea of Stars and Bars and sing "Dixie" after every touchdown with Colonel Rebel smiling from the sidelines. The roar of that "Hotty Toddy" cheer still rings in my ears. It was among the first uses of public profanity heard in the south and parents covered their children's ears before the revolting Rebel fans yelled, "by damn." The Memphis side of the stands responded with thundering chants of "Go to hell Ole Miss, go to hell." Dad didn't object so I guessed it was alright in this context. What amazed me most was my father's reaction to a Memphis State touchdown. Not ordinarily a demonstrative man, he would leap to his feet, look at me and holler, "Whoo Hoo Hoo," several times in a row. I always found it interesting that he had such enthusiasm when it wasn't even his school. He just adopted the Tigers and passed the custody on to me.

Billy "Spook" Murphy was coach in 1961 and the quarterback was the "Golden Boy," James Earl Wright. I always smiled when I thought of what his monogrammed shirts spelled. Wright was injured and the torch was passed to Central High graduate Russell Vollmer. Both men have been inducted into the Tennessee Sports Hall of Fame. With Vollmer as quarterback, the Tigers went 26-3-1 in three seasons. Any old-timer can see the comparisons to Paxton Lynch. There's a problem, unfortunately, with Coach Fuente. How you gonna keep him down on the farm after he's seen the national spotlight? There's no question that he's already in demand at major colleges with huge football budgets, but since this is Fuente's team, wouldn't it be nice if he stayed in Memphis and built a powerhouse? Of course anything can happen, and like most fans, I'm not looking past the University of South Florida. But with an electrified fan base in Memphis, Ole Miss better watch their ass next time they come to town. Oh yeah, the Pope was a winner too.