Aug24

Friday Night Lights Shine on the Friday Night Blues

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In the five years since my last teaching contract renewed and I left education, I have endure a crippling wave of sadness during the first week of “back to school.” That sadness is never more acute and I never have to struggle harder to keep bullets out of my head, poison out of my system, or my car at the top of cliffs rather than the bottom than at six o’clock on the first full schedule Friday of high school football.

If you’ve never taught in a high school, I can’t adequately describe for you how important Friday nights are, especially here in the Southland. Any school with a football team is a beehive all day on Friday as the guys (and a girl or two) walk the halls in their jerseys and the cheerleaders wear their non-dress-code-conforming uniforms to school. The day is spent making plans for who is riding with whom to where and who is bringing the illicit substances to the bonfire or house party after the game.

I used to eat up every moment of it. Every Friday for the fifteen years I taught, I was young again for ten Fridays in the fall and as long as my school’s team managed to stay in the playoffs. The kids used to take me back to the Friday nights when my friends and I were the ones planning. From my freshman year through my junior year, I went to more games than I missed. I even went to a game or two my senior year even though the taste of bile and ashes had replaced the once-sweet euphoria by then, but that’s another story.

Several of my friends of those days were football players and one of my lasting regrets is never having tried to get on the team. I was acquainted with many of the cheerleaders and wrote essays for more than one of them so they could keep good enough grades to stay on the squad. My best buddy at the time, Robby, was first trumpet in the band, so I always sat as close to the band as possible. Another regret is never trying to get in the band. I guess I can chalk up my lack of participation to a few things. Some are gifted with athletic prowess and some with musical talent. My gift was, and is, memory. Some call it a gift; I lean more towards curse and agree with the Absurdist playwright Samuel Beckett when he says

“Memories are killing things. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.”

God knows I don’t miss much about high school, but I do miss Friday nights. For those aforementioned years in education, I got those Friday nights back, especially the few years when my schools were desperate enough for warm bodies to ask me to be an assistant football coach. I have a painfully entertaining story of my first game as a JV football coach which involves me, an away game, and a whistle. Maybe I’ll tell the entire story sometime, but for now suffice it to say we lost the game and the night in general was a cascade of fiascoes one atop another. Actually, that phrase pretty much describes my whole football coaching career. Still, it was a lot of fun.

Now though, I’m a civilian. Here it is 6:30 on the first big football Friday. Oh, I know I could go to a local game anyway, but it’s not the same. Something about plunking down your teacher id and walking in the gate for free just adds a special sweetness to the night. The greatest reward, though, is the smiles on the faces of the boys on the field when they catch sight of you on the track or in the stands. Little Johnny may have been the bane of your existence in second block all year, but come Monday, when you tell him how awesome his one tackle of the night was, you’ll have him in your back pocket. Trust me on that one . . . I know from experience.

Go out and pull for your favorite teams and take care everyone.

Love y’all and keep those feet clean.

Aug15

Child, what have you done NOW?

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Hannah Montana no more.

For any of you out there who HAVEN’T seen, to the left is a picture of Miley Cyrus’ new ‘do.

Wow. Really, Destiny Hope? Why didn’t you just buy the whole hog and get a mullet? Oh, right — your daddy Billy Ray already did that one! Well, why not just shave . . . nevermind, don’t want to be a Britney clone. Hmm.

Apparently, widdle Miwey Cywus is ALLLLL growed up now! After all, she’s got everything a former tween idol of millions needs to prove to the world that she’s “ready for her closeup, Mr. Demille!” Let’s inventory, shall we? Freakish haircut? Got it. Obligatory smattering of cryptically written tattoos, including at least one near a boob, butt, or vajayjay? Check. “Leaked” photo of said starlet taking part in a bong party? Done. Pseudo-stripper routine in front of hundreds of young fans? Mark that one off the list. Wearing a jacket — and NOTHING else — to a major awards ceremony red carpet shindig? Yep. Oh, but Miley dear, just remember — gravity catches up with everyone in the end so you might want to rethink letting the girls run free like that too often.

Shoot! Y’all mix in the child porno-ish mostly naked pics of her that made the rounds of the ‘net a couple of years ago AND throw in a big ol’ honking diamond ring from someone she’s probably going to drop like a bad habit for the next hot thing (I hear Edward Cullen is suddenly available, Miley)? This girl is ready to par-tay with the adults now! To make matters even MORE sweet-juicy-bam-bamesque, she’s JUST 19! At her present rate, she might break currently 26-year-old Lindy-Lo’s time for “complete jettisoning of all self-respect en route to becoming a shameless headline whore!”

What’s a kid gotta do to score some blow in this town?

Now, having just established such a phenomenal category, I must clarify one thing — when it comes to COMPLETE SELF-IMPLOSION by a former female child star, everyone is really competing for SECOND place. The all-time reigning downward spiraling “Champeen o’ the World” belt, trophy, and t-shirt goes to Drew Barrymore. Lindy-Lo is a bad girl and Miley is fast getting there, but neither one of them can touch Drew-baby! I mean, when you are a renowned club hopper by 11, a stoner by 12, riding the white pony by 13, and in rehab TWICE by 14, you are not going to be seriously challenged on the self-destruction front by anything less than a toddler slurping vodka and Red Bull in her bottle and dropping acid off her binky during rave dances. Drew is the EMPRESS when it comes to bad girls.

But I digress.

I realize Miley has “issues.” First off, can you imagine what kind of teasing she must have endured as the child of “Mr. Achy-Breaky-Heart”? Oh sure, It might not be Mozart, but you can line dance to it and for a brief shining moment Mullet-Man was the hottest act going and while one stupid song assured Billy-Ray a place in country music infamy forever, but it also assured little Destiny Hope wouldn’t ever have to work a day in her life even BEFORE she became Hannah Montana. Of course, that’s just what EVERY little girl needs: unlimited funds and access to “hollywood” types while barely out of diapers! Who DIDN’T see this train wreck coming?

Ah, the early ’90s, how I don’t miss you at all.

So Miley is entering her “rebellious” phase. Wow. Getting engaged, sporting a nose ring and cutting your hair into a bleached reverse fem-mullet is what passes for rebellion these days! Whatever happened to the good old days when kids rebelled by running off to Haight-Ashbury or Soho and “dropping out?” Where is the “screw college I’m going to Europe” attitude of my parents’ generation? Gone, I tell you, all gone! We are the poorer for it. Black leather is no longer a symbol of rebellious adolescence but a dated and tired fashion accessory. James Dean would be appalled.

Anyway, young Miss Cyrus is certainly on the right road to turning heads and garnering more than her fair share of tabloid pages. You heard it here first; she’ll do a Playboy shoot by — or maybe for — her 21st birthday. I certainly wish her the best since we all end up going over Fool’s Hill in our own way and our own time, but if she REALLY wants to break into the big time femme fatale bad girl ranks, I’ve got two words of advice: Sex. Tape.

Love y’all! Keep those feet clean!

 

Aug9

On the Origins of a Vile Institution

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Gloria Steinem famously quipped, “The truth will set you free . . . but first, it will piss you off.” Hopefully, this will stir some emotions in any of my former colleagues who may still read me from time to time. I’m saying what you can’t so print this out and leave where the “right people” can find it. Because, my teacher and librarian friends, TADA! It’s back to school time and that can only mean one thing — days of MEETINGS and, even worse, INSERVICES!!

Never a good sign of productivity ahead.

Probably the most hideous part of any year for a teacher is the “Read the Handbook” Meeting on the first or maybe the second day of school. If you’ve ever taught, you know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s where the principal gathers everyone together in — usually — the library and serves stale doughnuts and OJ or weak coffee. After a little small talk, he or she says, “We’ve revised some policy this summer so if you’ll open your handbooks . . .” and three hours of droning monotone, the verbal equivalent to the Chinese water torture, begins. Geological ages later when everyone is finally released to get rid of the coffee or OJ borrowed earlier, the only policy change is tennis shoes are now allowed on Fridays with “school spirit related” t-shirts — but still no jeans.

Have principals never heard of this wonderful invention called EMAIL? Anyway, no one really cares about the morning meeting because they are all headed in a mad dash to the two or three restaurants to grab a bite of lunch with their respective cliques so they can get back for a “very important and informative inservice” that will last the rest of the day and most of tomorrow.

Beginning of the year INSERVICES! You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. In my 15 years of mediocre teaching, I dreaded BOY inservices and meeting worse than a proctological exam. At least the doctor gives you a little “magic pill” to reduce the pain and degradation of the experience.

So, for the last few years since I “retired” from teaching, I’ve tried to trace the source of these instruments of the devil and I’ve finally found out enough to publish my findings. I hope you help me pass the truth along so others can be as pissed of as we are at the monumental wasting of our time.

Typical BOY meeting

First, we have to consider the birth of the inservice. I’ve concluded from my research that inservices are born out of desperation and/or greed. Some teacher struggling along somewhere puts together a unit or tries a made up classroom management system and — glory be, Jehovah — the dad-blasted thing actually works! It works so well a couple of other teachers on her hall try the idea and, OMG! It works for them as well. This is about the time someone says to the original teacher, “You know, this is SO brilliant! You should write a book or make a DVD lecture series so other teachers all over the world can share in this Red-Sea-parting level miracle of pedagogical genius.” So the teacher does just that very thing and six months to a year later, voila! A brand new educational “idea” is born and marketed as “the next great new thing.”

I was and remain cynically skeptical of any educational “new thing.” I desperately want to see these places where all this amazing teaching and learning takes place. If you dig around long enough, you find the majority of these authors have something in common — their schools aren’t anything like yours. They’ll pitch their goods to “poor” schools because their program was developed “the deep inner city.” Well, technically that’s a true statement but they leave out the part where the school is actually a magnet school or a charter school or something other than a real, live tough as nails inner city school.

Still, all these books would remain on the shelves of professional libraries everywhere for brand new teachers struggling to buy with those first meager paychecks hoping to catch lightning in a bottle if it were not for the second member of this dastardly duo — principals, ap’s, or vp’s. The school or district administration finds these programs and that’s when the trouble starts.

See, here’s the thing about administrators in the majority of schools most people don’t like to talk about — they couldn’t teach. I know of exceptions, but they are exceptions. For the most part, the average assistant principal is a former teacher who was really just not very good in the classroom. Usually, they know this fact about themselves but by the time they get it figured out, it’s four years, a mortgage, a car payment, and a kid or two down the road. They have neither the time nor the money to pursue another career which would need a totally different degree so they scrimp and sacrifice for three semesters and two summers to get their principal’s certificate.

Okay, great for them. I admire them for staying some course, but here’s the problem — once they leave the classroom, they almost immediately forget what it was like being a teacher. To make matters worse, if said AP is good enough at “butts, buses, and books,” he or she is probably going to get a school of her own to run. By this time, you have a person eight to ten years out of the classroom (where they pretty much sucked anyway) but they are making decisions affecting what every teacher in the building is doing!

I once swore I’d never use a lolcatz in my blog, but sometimes you just take what they give you!

In a worse case scenario, you have an ex-coach who’s a likeable enough guy but he majored in PE twenty years ago and will gladly talk your ear off about being the backup running back on his high school’s state championship team or about walking on to the Clemson University football program and he actually got in a game in the 4th quarter of a rout and TACKLED someone! Now this guy, who knows much more about whistles than literature, gets word from the district he has to provide X number of hours of inservice for his teachers. So he picks something based on what he saw at a conference or a seminar somewhere. The package was awesome and the presentation was slick and, after all, IT WORKED FOR THEM!! So, we’ll bring everyone in for coffee and doughnuts and drag them eye-rolling and head-shaking through HOURS of what might be an excellent program — IF our school was LIKE THEIRS!!

So there you have it in a nutshell — you have to sit through hours of BOY inservice totally irrelevant to your teaching situation while the whole time you are dying a little inside because “Meet the Teacher” night is two days away and yesterday was the first day you could get into your classroom because the waxing and painting crews from the district ran two weeks behind this summer! You have nothing run off that you need and your room is a mess, but your AP found this “great” program at HIS conference or seminar and showed it to the REST of the administration . . .

So here you are . . . miserable, tuned out, and desperately wanting to get your desk in order so you can be ready to do your JOB on Wednesday when the children (anyone remember THEM?) come back.

Folks, you have my sympathy. Know that, as always, I love y’all.

Keep those feet clean and good luck.

 

 

Aug6

“Whoever fights monsters . . . “

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Hiroshima’s “Mushroom Cloud” as seen from the Enola Gay, 6 August 1945.

Sixty-seven years ago today, yesterday local time, a lone Boeing B-29 Superfortress — named Enola Gay after the pilot’s mother — dropped the first atomic bomb used in combat onto the Japanese city of Hiroshima. Three days later, a similar B-29 named Bockscar dropped the second, and last, atomic bomb used in combat onto the Japanese city of Nagasaki. Those two explosions killed over 100,000 people immediately with thousands more dying later of radiation poisoning. Those two explosions also had two other consequences, one intended and one unintended.

They ended the Second World War and they gave ensuing generations the right to accuse the United States of America of crimes against humanity.

The fact some now consider the US government guilty of war crimes is old ground and I don’t intend to plow it anymore. I fully agree the dropping of the atom bombs was a war crime. So were the Holocaust, the activities of Unit 731, the Katyn Forest Massacre, the fireboming of Tokyo, the firebombing of Dresden . . . et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum.  The Second World War was quite simply one war crime after another and the only outcome was who was going to get the tickertape parades and who was going to be hanged. Because the Allies won the war, the Axis military was tried and many of them hanged.

What I want someone to answer to is not the criminality of the atomic bombings but rather the mindset which developed and led to a situation where atomic bombings were the only LOGICAL choice to be made. This vein of thought is not original with me. It is explored in some detail by Dan Carlin in the Hardcore History podcast “Logical Insanity” and I want him to get full credit, but I’d like to capture a few of his main points for my handful of readers to chew over.

Wars have been fought for as long as one group of people had something another group wanted or were located somewhere another group desired to be. Our surviving accounts of ancient battles are sobering reading as historians tell of thousands dying and land turning to mud not with water but with blood. It is all the more somber when one realizes a majority of the casualties of those ancient battles were inflicted PERSONALLY. Up until really the 17th century, the preferred method of warfare involved hacking one’s opponents to quivering bits with some sort of edged weapon, smashing their brains out with some blunt weapon, or poking large holes in them with some sort of pointed weapon. This was all up close and extremely personal. Men were splattered with the blood and gore of every foe killed.

Guns did precious little to clean up warfare; anyone who has seen what a .75 caliber soft lead musket ball can do to a pig carcass will attest to that. The minie ball bullets of the War of Northern Aggression were capable of amputating a limb or a head with one shot. Guns may have increased the distance of killing, but they did nothing to exacerbate the horrors.

All these battles, however, had one thing in common — they took place on a BATTLEFIELD. Strangely enough, battles were almost gentlemanly affairs, especially in Western countries. Lines of poor people would shoot arrows or bullets at other poor people and once enough of their poor had been killed by our poor, the rich people would exchange swords or some other mementos and the defeated general would sometimes be invited to dinner. Period writings commonly referred to spectators of these battles standing off to the sides to see some live action even Michael Bay couldn’t top. Civilians merely watched battles; they were not expect to participate in them.

Two bastards named Gens. Ulysses S. Grant and William T. Sherman changed that forever.

The Union was tired of the not-so-Civil War and Lincoln wanted to finish the matter. In Grant and Sherman, he found the tools. At Grant’s urging, Sherman marched from Atlanta to the Gulf of Mexico burning and plowing a path still visible from the air to this day. Sherman’s “March to the Sea” introduced a new phrase into military lexicons all over the world — total war. He didn’t target only military installations; he burned EVERYTHING, including civilian residences and property. His idea was to make the South howl. The idea caught on. Once war moved from the battlefield to main street, all the rules changed. The thinking went “civilians build the implements of modern warfare; therefore, civilians are viable military targets.”

The Great War saw the zeppelin bombings of London and the first instances of unrestricted submarine warfare. The Spanish Civil War saw air power wipe towns like Guernica off the pages of the atlas. The Second World War doctrine of deliberately targeting civilian population centers was merely the next logical progression. War crimes were no longer abhorrent; they were official — if unspoken and unwritten — policy in ALL militaries.

I want you to think about something Dan Carlin brings up. What if, in 1939, you were the leader of Great Britain, France, or China and you had TWO atomic bombs and the means to deliver them. Germany invades Poland on September 1, 1939 and you can stop the war by dropping one A-Bomb on Berlin and the other on Tokyo. The war is two or three days old but all the Axis leaders are dead so the war stops. Your decision kills 2 million people and destroys two beautiful cities. The entire human cost of WWII was 60-80 MILLION people killed depending on what source you read. Your bombs would have stopped all that.

You would have committed a heinous war crime, beyond a doubt. In the process though, no massacres, no Holocaust, no firebombings, no comfort women, no Soviet “reprisal raping” . . . the list goes on. If we are going to second guess the people who were THERE and had to make — and live with — the decisions, at least let’s put the onus at the front end and look at things differently. When we do I think the question “Did America commit a war crime by dropping the two atomic bombs on Japan?”  will give way to “How do you stop the ongoing string of the worst war crimes ever committed?”

The answer? If it’s not the a-bombs, you tell me what it is then.

As Gen. Robert E. Lee sat astride Traveler surveying the carnage of one of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles, the Battle of Fredricksburg, he is supposed to have said, “It is best that war is so terrible — lest we should grow too fond of it.” Perhaps THAT is the lesson we should take away from the atomic bombings . . . and realize it is a lesson some in power have yet to learn.

Jul28

Thoughts on the London Olympics Opening Ceremony

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The Olympics always bring memories to me. The earliest one I can remember was the 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games. Papa Wham and I actually watched the “Miracle On Ice” when our ragtag group of amateur hockey players defeated the mighty Soviet juggernaut and for a minute, yes, we all DID believe in miracles. I also have distinct memories of Sarajevo ’84 and looking back at how beautiful the city was then it’s hard for me to imagine how devastated it would be fifteen years later.

I remember Mary-Lou Retton capturing all our hearts. I also remember little Kari Scruggs bravely vaulting on her broken foot to assure the gold medal for the women’s team. I watched Kurt Angle when he was a “real” wrestler; that gold medal he wears to the ring is real, you know. I saw the unbelievable happen as Roulon Gardner beat the unbeatable Alexander “The Experiment” Karelin to win wrestling gold.

In short, I really love the Olympics and getting to watch the opening ceremonies last night with Budge and the other half of our family at Deuce and Cam’s house was about as good as it gets. Long before the parade of nations ended, I thought about blogging what I felt, so here, in no certain order, are my musings on the XXX Olympiad’s opening pageant.

  • I quickly got sick of hearing how “No one could possibly top the scope and spectacle of Beijing.” Danny Boyle can stand proudly because this opening was every bit as spectacular and beautiful as ’08 AND he accomplished his vision all while dealing with labor unions AND volunteers who really were volunteers, not conscripted peasants worrying about getting shot if they messed up.
  • Was I the only one who — whenever anyone mentioned Danny Boyle’s name — kept wanting to belt out “The pipes, the pipes, are calling?”
  • Brazil does not produce ugly women. No female rating less than a 9 on the International Hottie Scale was walking in their entourage. I’m convinced the place is like ancient Sparta only instead of the elder warriors, a group of gorgeous supermodels are on call at the hospitals to inspect each newborn girl for completely overboard hottness and any who don’t measure up are sent to Puerto Rico.
  • Staying with the hottness theme, I don’t have a homosexual bone in my body, but Daniel “007” Craig is one fine, fine looking hunk of manhood.
  • Why does every other country’s costume show something to do with their culture or heritage or the way the world views them while OUR made in China United States costumes look a lot like military uniforms, right down to the fatigue pants and bere- . . . oh, I get it.
  • His Royal Highness Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh looks extremely fit and well for approaching 92.
  • Speaking of the Royals, I think it was right sporting of Queen Elizabeth to go along with the festivities and allow an effigy of Her Royal Highness to skydive behind Mr. Bond into the stadium. Also, she’s not much for long speeches is she? “I now pronounce the Games of the XXX Olympiad open.” Sits. Poker face.
  • Those poor people banging on all those drums have GOT to have sore arms this morning.
  • I hope everyone sitting at home poking fun at the tiny delegations of countries like Burkina Faso and Tonga realized at some point those folks were IN THE OLYMPICS while they — armchair critics they are — never will be.
  • Anyone else wonder how many people soiled themselves when all the pyrotechnics blew up near the end? Worst part was just about the time you got your sphincter back on the chain, the bloody things went off again!
  • Whoever designed the Olympic Flame Cauldron needs to be knighted or raised to the peerage or something. That is the most beautiful flame holder in any Olympics I’ve ever seen. I just wondered how many times some guy was running around in the dark making sure all the “petals” were placed and attached correctly.
  • Anyone else think it was kind of Matt Lauer and company to cover Sir Paul’s quavering opening bars of “Hey, Jude” as being “choked up?” Paul isn’t a bass or a baritone and as anyone who heard Pavarotti or Domingo sing late in their careers knows higher pitched male voices don’t weather age as well as the lower registers. Still, “Hey, Jude” sung and played by the man who wrote it isn’t a sight to be missed. I hope Ringo was at the show and somewhere John and George were smiling.
  • Those youngsters need to brush up on their “na, na, na, NA, NA, NAAA . . . NA, NA, NAAAAA, Hey Judes!!” Sing it like you mean it kids and while you’re at it, learn if you’re a guy or a girl and sing at the right time!!
  • I’ve got to get some music by The Arctic Monkeys. That “Come Together” cover rocked.
  • BTW, where the crap was Sir Elton John? WTH?
  • Why can’t we Americans act like we’ve been somewhere before and walk in gracefully waving instead of lampooning around and snapping pictures non-stop on our cell phones? Really, people?! You’re in front of the Queen AT THE OLYMPICS for pete’s sake, show some respect.
  • How is it one of the probably four white girls in all of Zimbabwe has won 7 of the 8 medals in the country’s history? I may be wrong, but I’m betting she’s an immigrant or, worse, a colonial left over.
  • Why did so many of the countries have a taekwondo fighter, a judoist, or a shooting sports participant as their flag bearers? Were they afraid someone was going to run out and take the Armenian flag or something?
  • Speaking of the flags, Glastonbury Tor — the little green hill with all the flags on it? It’s a real place. Google it.
  • Finally, was it just me, or did anyone else hope the whole time the steel workers were “forging the ring” someone would pull a master prank and project a huge red eye on top of one of the smokestacks while hacking the sound system to boom out “One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them …” After all, J.R.R. Tolkien was about as British as they come even if he was born in South Africa.

Enjoy the Olympics everyone! They really are one of the few times the best things about this crazy world actually come to the front and displace all the violence and sadness we see in the news every day.

Love y’all and keep those feet clean.

Jul23

Julius Caesar Act III scene ii

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One would have to be in a coma or outer space to have missed the monumental scandal surrounding Penn State’s football team. In brief, for my sub-rock dwellers, former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky was accused, then convicted of multiplied multitudes of sexual assaults on young boys who came to Penn State’s campus to participate in Sandusky’s Second Mile football camp. If every accusation against Sandusky — not just the ones he was convicted of — is true, he is likely to be one of the most prolific pedophiles since Giles de Rais.

Sandusky preyed on these young boys for two decades, but in the end, he is not the only monster in this scandal. Penn State’s athletic director and the school president were found by an independent investigation to have covered up the accusations and kept the entire series of events under wraps for that same twenty year period. As a result of their complicity, the NCAA today imposed the most severe penalties on a university sports program since Southern Methodist University received the “death penalty” in 1985. Penn State — one of the proudest and most storied football programs in the history of collegiate football — is banned from post season play (no bowl games) for four years, is fined $60 million dollars ( roughly the gross receipts of one year of Penn St football), loses 20 scholarships for four years, must spend five years on probation, and, most crushingly to the school’s historical legacy, must void 111 football victories. Essentially, the NCAA is saying in the eyes of the record books, Penn St went 0’fer for the last 14 years. The final penalty — voiding the wins — does something even more painful to the Penn St family, it drops legendary coach, the late Joe Paterno, from the #1 position of all time Division 1 wins.

Joe Paterno, who died of lung cancer (or a broken heart)  in January, was a football coach at State College of Pennsylvania for 61 years, over 40 as the head man. To put that in perspective, he was coach for more years than my parents have been alive until their next birthdays. JoPa was more than a coach; he was an institution. Over six decades, he made his mark by “winning the right way.” Penn St was never seriously investigated by the NCAA because no one saw a need. The entire country knew that JoPa ran a squeaky clean program. Other massively famous college coaches such as Bear Bryant, Barry Switzer, and Pete Carroll are all known to have cut corners in their programs so they could consistently be on top. JoPa made his reputation by NEVER cutting corners. In 61 years, Paterno graduated more of his players than most other big time football programs. He always claimed he was more interested in molding young men in to adults of character than he was wins and losses. When he became head coach in 1966, he announced his “Grand Experiment” to blend academics and athletics in ways no other major college sports program ever had. In large measure, he was wildly successful and through the years, his players and former players breathed his name like something holy.

Besides being the winningest coach, JoPa was also known as a tremendous benefactor and philanthropist for the university. Over his years as coach, Paterno and his family gave MILLIONS of dollars to Penn State, not just for sports, but to further academic excellence as well.  In 1997, Penn State recognized Paterno’s contributions to the university’s academic programs by renaming the school’s library — the heart of any academic institution — after the coach.

Unfortunately, none of that matters anymore.

See, JoPa wasn’t just a coach, he was an educator, and educators at all levels from preschool to undergraduate college live by a code. Doctors have the Hippocratic Oath. Lawyers have the oaths before the Bar Associations. Teachers have a three word phrase — in loco parentis — Latin for “in the place of parents.” Educators are given charge of parents’ most important and beloved possession, their children. We (and I say we as I taught for 15 years) are supposed to guard those young people as if they were our very own. In many cases, we spend more time with those young people than the parents do. For coaches, this is especially true.

For all his speaking of a Grand Experiment, for all his claims of “winning the right way,” and for all his wonderful acts of giving, Joseph Paterno — head football coach extraordinaire — forgot in loco parentis. As a result, AT LEAST 56 young men lost their innocence to a predator on his watch. He kicked the can on down the road by telling his boss the AD and HIS boss the school president what he knew, but educators have a higher calling. We don’t just WIN the right way, we DO THE RIGHT THING. He did what he thought was all he needed to do — he fired Sandusky and told what he knew, but that’s where he stopped. Once JoPa saw his information had been ignored, he had a DUTY to tell that story until someone listened and acted. If that meant going to the police himself, that’s what his duty as an educator demanded, but he didn’t.

Sadly, for all the good Joe Paterno did, none of it will likely be remembered and what is, will be forever tainted by the scandal. All his good is now eaten up by ONE bad call. A generation of players will remember him fondly, but the lasting legacy he had worked so hard to set up is dashed. His beautiful statue was ripped off the wall of Beaver Stadium and placed in cold storage, perhaps forever. He is no longer the winningest coach. A lifetime of good undone by a wrong decision. JoPa was a good man who made a bad choice.

I fear that Antony’s funeral oration for Caesar may ring true for JoPa as well:

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Love y’all, and keep those feet clean.

Jul12

They Say It Never Rains In Upstate South Carolina

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Actually, what “they” say is, “Seems it never rains in Southern California.” Still, I think it’s apropos, especially considering the rest of the chorus of that Albert Hammond one-hit wonder goes

Seems I’ve often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But girl, don’t they warn ya
It pours man it pours

Well the last three weeks, it has POURED. Literally and metaphorically. I’m talking frog-strangling, log-floating, fish-choking deluges of biblical proportions and at the moment, Father Noah is awol and they’s nary an Ark in sight. I mean, I’ve been through some rough patches in my life. It happens to us all. I understand that. The Bible says the Lord makes it rain on the just and the unjust alike. We all take our turn in the barrel as the old crude joke punchline says. Here lately though, I think I’m getting my rain and someone else’s monsoon to boot.

Let me give you, my beloved readers, a quick rundown on the last three weeks around Chez Wham.

  1. I lost or misplaced or had my iPod stolen. It was old, but it was mine and it had all my iUni podcasts on it.
  2. Budge’s pool, or as I like to call it “that godforsaken swamp in my backyard,” has eaten chemicals like I eat wintergreen Lifesavers. I hate that pool.
  3. Daddy had to go to Charleston to have a heart cath because his last nuclear stress test wasn’t what it should have been. Turns out he has a touch of heart damage at the bottom of his heart so he’s going to have to add some heart medicine to his daily regime.
  4. My nephew, Mason, had a horrendous allergic reaction to an antibiotic he was taking and for three days, Nick and Sissy though they were going to have to hospitalize him. He was head to toe red welts. He’s better now, but it was terrifying.
  5. Mama’s home healthcare nurse sat her down and explained that her C.O.P.D. has reached the terminal stages. She’s not going down without a fight, but I’m afraid most of the fight has gone out of her. I’m looking at life without my Mama sooner instead of later.
  6. Budge has been gone for two weeks this summer in the midst of all this mess going on and anyone who knows me KNOWS how well I do when I don’t have my Budge around to moderate my moods for me.
  7. Our DSL and phone lines had to be replaced because they were slowly giving up the ghost. Some people might say home internet is frivolous; those people are not teachers.
  8. The pastor on staff at church whom I was always closest to and would have turned to in the midst of all this mess was dismissed from the staff for good cause. To quote Forrest, “and that’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
  9.  I got a surprise from the IRS in the form of a tax bill to cover a mistake I made two years ago. Uncle Sam wants about $3000 of “his” money back. People in Hell want ice water, too. One more payment a month.
  10. Three of four tires on my beloved Honda Element have picked up nails or screws in the shoulders beyond the range of the tire company’s ability to safely patch them. The fourth tire was already patched. I don’t have road hazard protection on them. Lately, I’ve been riding around with an air compressor in the back.
  11. The back porch at the Ancestral Manse (Mama’s house) caught on fire and burned 1/4 of the structure. It’s now unsafe to walk on, much less get Mama’s wheelchair up or down. Estimated cost to replace? Somewhere in the $1K to $3.5K range depending on lumber costs.
  12. JUST LAST NIGHT, I was washing clothes and the sink and both tubs started gurgling like a demon had possessed them. I went in our bathroom to see what was wrong and met an inch of water standing in the floor with more coming from the porcelain throne. It was all thick with lint and suds. Septic tank’s full after 16 years. Cost to get it pumped? At LEAST $350. Might as well be three million.

Now I didn’t tell you all that to get pity and I don’t want anything from anyone. I just had to get all this off my chest or I was going to explode. I’m a talker and sometimes I just feel better getting everything out. Kind of like squeezing a boil.  It has LITERALLY been from one thing to another this entire summer. Like I said before, poop happens. I know everybody’s got troubles. I also know that misery loves company and, sweet brothers and sisters, I could use some company right along now.

Still love y’all and try to keep those feet clean!

Jun29

Asterisks Don’t Tell the Whole Story

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My all-time favorite player! Squeaky clean, awesome player, plenty of homers, great guy . . . no Hall of Fame. That’s a crying shame.

I’m a baseball fan from way back. Some of my earliest, clearest and fondest childhood memories are summer nights playing catch with Papa Wham after supper then going in to get a shower before stretching out — Papa on the couch, me on the floor — to watch the cellar dwelling Atlanta Braves of the late ’70s and ’80s play ( and most likely lose) a baseball game via the original incarnation of Ted Turner’s TBS SuperStation on the only TV set on Weathers Circle with cable instead of “rabbit ears”. I’ve watched the game all my life. The fact my beloved Budge is an extremely passionate and knowledgeable baseball fan figured highly in my decision to marry her. I just love the game.

Keep them out? I don’t think so.

Unfortunately, a huge span of my best baseball fan years occurred in what’s now labelled “The Steroid Era.”  Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, and Barry Bonds, along with a multitude of other MAJOR stars and superstars, admitted or were otherwise implicated in the use of “performance enhancing drugs” throughout the 1990s and early 2000s. Now the vast majority of those PED tainted players have retired from the game I cherish and several of them finished their careers with statistics gaudy enough to guarantee them entry into the holy halls of Cooperstown’s Baseball Hall of Fame, but steroids are still haunting them.

Rafael Palermio, great numbers but not so good at telling the truth.

Consider this, seven of the top fifteen players on the All-Time Home Run List, including Barry Bonds at the top of the pile, are tainted by proven or alleged steroid use. Roger “The Rocket” Clemens is the only person in baseball history to win 7 Cy Young Awards as the greatest pitcher of the year, but he has a dark cloud of allegations hanging over his head that at least some of those 7 awards are the result of steroids. Because of the scandal, a lot of baseball purists have conducted what I think amounts to a statistical witch-hunt and cried out that NONE of those implicated in steroid use should EVER be admitted to Cooperstown.

I think that’s a load of crap myself. Sure, I’ll concede to purists a ball hit off a “juicer’s” bat will most likely fly farther than one hit by a “mere” major leaguer. As Shakespeare said though, “There’s the rub!” They still have to HIT THE BALL.

Villain or hero? Where would baseball be without his ’98 season.

According to polls by USA Today, ESPN, and Sporting News, hitting a baseball thrown by a major league pitcher is THE hardest feat in team sports. A several pitchers in the history of “The Show” have been able to consistently throw the little white ball with stitches on it in excess of 95 mph. More than one — Nolan Ryan and Randy “The Big Unit” Johnson come to mind — routinely surpassed 100 mph. At that speed, the hitter has around 0.4 seconds to find the ball and put his bat on a trajectory to intercept that ball. Hitting a baseball is so difficult anyone who can consistently do it 1 out of every 4  at-bats can make a good living in the major leagues, those who can hit .300 for a year are awarded with dump-truck loads of money. The one in a million, literally, who can hit safely 40 times out of a hundred for an entire season stands to get awards and buildings named after them. Steroids might make the ball fly farther, but they don’t slow the rock down on its way to the plate.

Baseball people also forget just how much the game owes those “juicers,” particularly Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. In 1994, the Major League players went on strike. The entire post-season — including the World Series — was cancelled. The work stoppage went on into the 1995 season. Fans were pissed off and I was one of them. These guys get millions of dollars to play a kid’s game and they are gripping about not getting enough? Anyway, baseball was in a black hole bunch of trouble after the strike. Estimates show attendance at games and television ratings dropped 20% in one year. Baseball was on life support.

Not my favorite person, but he could seriously damage a baseball and that’s not just due to steroids.

Then came 1998 and “The Great Home Run Chase.” Sosa and McGwire lit up the scoreboards with homers and people who swore they would never watch another baseball game again plopped back down on the sofas and tuned in to see if a 40+ year old record could fall. When it did fall in September with Big Mac’s 62 home run, baseball was back in the high life again.

Personally, I don’t see what the huge uproar is about steroid use. It’s dangerous to the user and it helps in healing, but does it make someone a better ballplayer? I don’t really think so. Besides, what’s the difference between the steroid abuse of the 90’s and the cocaine epidemic of the 70’s and early 80’s? People forget just how many ballplayers from THAT era have admitted to using the Peruvian Marching Powder, but no one would think of putting asterisks by their names or taking them out of the HOF.

These guys were trying to play better ball and hit more home runs, which is what they were being paid to do and what fans were paying to watch. They weren’t shooting up in front of kids who admired them. Truthfully, if Congress had kept its collective nose out of it, the whole thing would have passed just like the cocaine debacle did. Unfortunately, America LOVES a good scandal, even if it costs their icons everything.

Oh, and lets lease not bring up “character issues.” The majority of baseball’s heroes were “characters.” Babe Ruth was known to show up to games with colossal hangovers. Mickey Mantle struggled mightily with alcohol and was an inveterate womanizer. As far as role models go, if I had a son, I would MUCH rather him view Mark McGwire as a role model than one of the HOF’s founding members.

Keep him in but not let in “juicers”? Where’s the justice in that?

I’m talking about “The Georgia Peach” Ty Cobb. Ty Cobb was a marvelous baseball player, but he was one of the most odious human beings to ever put on baseball spikes. He was racist, a bigot, and an outright dirty player, but he smiles from a bust in Cooperstown.

So instead of making the Steroid Era superstars out to be villains and denying them their rightful places in the Hall of Fame, judge them by what they contributed to the game. If not for their tape measure homers and gaudy pitching stats, baseball might have died out by now. These guys aren’t evil; they aren’t even particularly awful. In reality, they are modern day heroes, the kind that are hard to find.

Love y’all and keep those feet clean.

Jun27

What If They’re Right?

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Religious Subject Matter Disclaimer: My atheist and agnostic readers might want to skip this post since I realize many view me as a nut job or fanatic for discussing something as “archaic” as “Christianity” but think of me what you will; my motto has always been “Better to be hated for who you are than loved for who you’re not.”

Egypt’s new President, Mohamed Morsi. How will his election affect the Middle East and beyond?

I was raised Pentecostal and steeped in the hope of the imminent Rapture of the saints and return of Jesus Christ to Earth to judge the quick and the dead. I was a devoted student of prophecy to the point that I honestly never figured my loved ones nor I would die because we would be “caught away” to spend seven years in Heaven while the Great Tribulation raged down here on Earth under the command of the Antichrist.

Well, times of personal tribulation proved to me all my loved ones will not be in the Rapture — most of them have already gone by the grave. Same destination, just a different bus. In any event, my present church doesn’t emphasize prophecy or eschatology the way my former church did so I haven’t kept up with every website and article like I used to. Still some events earlier this week touched off my prophecy radar more strongly than anything has since the 9-11-01 attacks had so many of my colleagues buzzing about the end of times. The event that sent me checking up on some old sources was the election of Mohamed Morsi as the new President of Egypt.

So what? Why would one election in the midst of a slew of revolutions and general political upheaval in a traditionally volatile Middle East cause me to sit up and take notice? One simple reason: Mohamed Morsi is also one of the highest ranking members of the Muslim Brotherhood.

The Muslim Brotherhood is the granddaddy of all Pan-Islamic movements. Its mission statement, according to the MB English language website is

“God is our objective; the Quran is our law, the Prophet is our leader; Jihad is our way; and death for the sake of God is the highest of our aspirations.”

Three goals of the Brotherhood are: 1) Installation of Shari’ah (Islamic religious law) as the CIVIL legal system 2) Unification of all Islamic Arab states under the banner of Allah and 3) Liberation from foreign (read Western) imperialism.  Again . . . so what? You may be wondering, “Dude, why does this concern you at all? What’s Egypt got to do with anything?” Well, it’s not Egypt necessarily that I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about Israel.

Since the 1978 Camp David Peace Accords, Egypt and Israel have been at peace. Understand that from 1948 until 1978, the two nations were at one another’s throats and fought four serious conflicts: The Israeli War of Independence, The Suez Crisis, The Six Day War, and The Yom Kippur War. The enmity between these two nations goes all the way back to Genesis. Egypt was Israel’s bitterest enemy for 6,000 years. Now, however, Egypt is the ONLY Arab nation that recognizes Israel as a nation having the right to exist.

What worries me is new President Morsi — despite calming words to the contrary — will eventually renege on the Camp David treaty. You have to realize just how badly the Arab nations HATE Israel. I won’t get into the 6,000 year history of blood and fire between Arab and Jew, but NO member of the Muslim Brotherhood is going to stand for peace with Israel indefinitely. The rest of the organization won’t let him, and if Egypt breaks the treaty with Israel, that little nation will once again be surrounded on all sides by water and hostile nations. Israel will be backed into a very tight corner and since 1948, backing Israel into a corner has NOT turned out well for the attacking nations.

This is how Israel responds to being backed into a corner.

So here’s what all this means. The Middle East is a tinderbox in the best of times. Israel’s existence is the main catalyst for the friction. The United States is Israel’s ONLY consistent ally and we’ve cooled towards her significantly over the last few years. If Egypt turns on Israel, it will be a matter of WHEN, not IF the Arab countries invade Israel just as they did in 1973. War will engulf the Middle East and the United States will NOT intervene for one simple reason . . . the Samson Protocol.

It is the worst kept secret in the world that Israel, thanks to the French and Mossad, has full nuclear weapons capability. Make no mistake, Israel will NOT give up one inch of her land. Before she will admit defeat, she will initiate the Samson Option and threaten to use medium range ballistic missiles to turn every Arab capital from Riyadh to Cairo into smoking glass parking lots. Then, things get real ugly. Russia jumps up in anger, China comes in . . . it’s all just a mess until one voice speaks up.

Nobody knows who he is or where he will come from. Ignore anyone who tells you differently. Whoever he . . . or maybe she . . . is will step up with a plan and — somehow or another — accomplish what NO ONE ELSE in history has been able to do: bring total peace to the Middle East. This person is the Antichrist prophesied by Daniel and John the Revelator. He will take over the world THROUGH PEACE. It’ll be a false peace, but peace nonetheless.

Now I realize it may seem farfetched to think that one Egyptian presidential election is going to directly usher in the reign of the Antichrist, but if you buy into Pre-Tribulation, Pre-Millenialism views of the Last Days, SOMETHING has to touch off everything . . . why not this? If you wonder what Pre-Trib, Pre-Mill means, read or look up synopses of the Left Behind series of books by Tim LaHaye and Terry Jenkins.

You know, this may all be smoke and mirrors in my mind. I don’t know. I have several very intelligent pastor friends who think Pre-Trib, Pre-Mill is a complete butchering of Biblical interpretation. I can’t completely answer that. What I can say is this: the US is waning in influence, Europe is in chaos, China is on the rise, the ice caps are melting AND December 21, 2012 is just around the corner. To quote Billy Joel, “You may be right; I may be crazy,” but just humor me and ask yourself one thing . . .

What if They’re Right?

Love y’all. Keep those feet clean and get your burquas washed.

Jun22

Stalking in Stereo Sound

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Budge loves Adele. If I try to talk to her when “Set Fire to the Rain” is playing, I get a look that’ll curdle milk and a shush that would make Nancy Pearl blush with pride. Since I don’t like getting snapped at by my beloved, I usually sit quietly and listen to the song. It was during one such session that I decided Adele is the latest artist to add music to the long and storied list of stalker songs.

Now, everybody knows what a stalker song is, right? You know, one of the songs your ex dedicates to you on the late night radio romance show that sends you scurrying in a mad dash down to the police station at the butt crack of dawn the next morning to file the restraining order? Stalker songs!

Some of the more popular stalker songs masquerade as being romantic ballads. Take U2’s “I Will Follow” as an example. On the surface, the jerk finally realizes he should have paid attention to the chick when she was sending him the “come get me” signals. Now though, she’s moved on. What does he do? He lets her know right up front, “If you walkaway, walkaway
I walkaway, walkaway…I will follow …” Not a healthy response to rejection.

Still, U2’s little ditty is mild compared to some of the masters of shade watching. I remember Def Leppard coming out with “Two Steps Behind” when I was in high school and thinking, “Wow! What a cool love song!” Once I realized though that the “shadow” he sings about — “you can run, but you can never hide / From the shadow that’s creepin’ up beside you,” — is actually HIM, the song took on a newer, more sinister slant.

Now,  I realize guy stalkers are the ones who garner the most press, but they aren’t the only ones who put out stalker songs. The fairer sex has its share of scorned lovers who want to get even. I mean, look at how the girl in Carly Simon’s hit song takes catching the object of her affection with someone else: “You belong to me / Can it be, honey, that you’re not sure / You belong to me?” Guys, if a girlfriend says that song tells exactly how she feels about you, it MIGHT be time to pull the trigger on that move to Europe you’ve been contemplating. Of course, if your ex takes her cues from Blondie, moving overseas won’t matter because “One way or another [she’s] gonna find ya / [she’s] gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha!”

Dude, if she dedicated “Someone Like You” to you last night on Delilah’s show, you MIGHT want to leave the lid on that pot!

What trips me out the most though is seeing how long and flourishing the history of stereo stalkers has been. For example, if you get past the funky organ and funny name, “96 Tears”, which I always thought was an upbeat little tune, turns really dark. How would YOU interpret the stanza:

Since you left me you’re always laughin’ way down at me
But watch out now I’m gonna get there
We’ll be together for just a little while
And then I’m gonna put you way down here
And you’ll start cryin’ Ninety-six tears

I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a lead in for a Criminal Minds episode if ever one existed! I can see the voice over and pull-away shot of the girl struggling, chained to the wall of a dark basement right now.  Of course, one might expect stalkerish or otherwise odd behavior from a guy who legally changed his name to a piece of punctuation.

What concerns me most, however, are the people who don’t realize a stalker song when they hear it. NO SONG illustrates this more clearly than that wedding standard, that classic “ode to eternal love”, that promise of constancy. Yep, I’m talking about the one, the only “Every Breath You Take” by the Police. I have attended two weddings (against my wishes, mind you) where this was the song played at the altar for the lovely couple.

Did no one in the wedding planning stages ever think to LISTEN TO THE LYRICS? This isn’t a song about a happy relationship blossoming into ripe old age with grandchildren around the rocking chairs on the front porch! This is a ballad to insanity and obsession! I can’t believe it wasn’t the theme song to “Fatal Attraction.” Just look what the guy says in the first stanza:

Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break, every step you take
I’ll be watching you

He ends EVERY stanza with “I’ll be watching you!” Who is this guy? Santa Claus? If I go to a wedding and see “EBYT” on the program, I’m praying they include that part about speak now or forever hold your peace, because I’m standing up on the pew and screaming “Dude, you are marrying a Glenn Close clone! Fly you fool! Fly!” Notice I said, “Dude” because even though the song is about a guy watching a girl, no guy gets to pick out the music at his wedding so the bride has to be the mental case.

Gentlemen, we have found him, now we just have to bring him in.

So, after all that explanation, I’m back to Adele. I don’t know WHO screwed this girl over, but I can tell you she isn’t happy about it. I can’t say for certain because I haven’t listened to all of her music, but all the songs I have heard have, “stalker chick revenge” written all over them. I mean, if a girl was singing to me, “For me, it isn’t over . . . ” in a smooth calm voice after she has “turned up out of the blue uninvited” because she “couldn’t stay away [she] couldn’t fight it” I am on the first thing smoking to Tristan de Cunha and I’m not looking back.

First though, I’m gonna swing by the house and pick up my bunny rabbit. Know what i mean?

Love y’all and keep those feet clean!