Author: Bruce VanWyngarden

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At Large Opinion

Of Wanda and Wallabies

Jamie and Kaari Morant (Photo: Courtesy of Jamie Morant)

So, what do beleaguered County Clerk Wanda Halbert and a wallaby have in common? Well, one of them was found wandering around near Lick Creek in Overton Park last April after having escaped the flooded Memphis Kanga Zoo. The other was seldom to be found, as her office struggled mightily for months to get new Tennessee license plates to Memphis drivers. They have in common the fact that both of their stories were among the Top 10 viewed in 2022 on memphisflyer.com.

It’s an odd list, sort of representative of the year past, but also representative of just how easily some offbeat stories can go viral, well, just because. It can be a matter of lucky timing, or maybe a national website picks up a story, or maybe it just gets a lucky tweet from a celebrity.

Consider the human-interest story that Flyer Grizzlies writer Sharon Brown posted in May. She’d spent weeks trying to get an interview with star guard Ja Morant’s mother, Jamie Morant. When Brown finally got the go-ahead, she struck gold. Morant was forthcoming and frank and opened up about her own childhood and how she taught Ja to respect women. Here’s one exchange from the story:

Brown: Ja once said that you are his best friend and that you taught him to celebrate women every day, that he carries with him in his treatment of his sister, his daughter, and other women. Why was it important to you to teach that to him?

Jamie Morant: Treating everyone with respect is important, but as a man you should treat women with the utmost respect. I mean, you came from a woman, right? We see enough of the opposite in the world and I wanted more for my son.

Thanks to a few retweets from national writers and influencers, Brown’s insightful story became the Flyer’s most-read piece online in 2022.

Right behind that story was a clear example of how serendipity can shape readership — and not in a heart-warming way. Arguably, one of the darkest days in Memphis last year occurred in early September, when a young woman named Eliza Fletcher was kidnapped and murdered while on an early morning jog near the University of Memphis. A man named Cleotha Abston was soon charged with the crime, as we reported at the time. But strangely, it was not Abston’s first appearance in the Flyer, as googlers from all over soon discovered.

In a story from 2001, former Flyer reporter John Branston recounted the troubling tale of Memphis lawyer Kemper Durand. Here’s an excerpt:

“Durand was walking to his car around 2 a.m. on May 25, 2000, after attending a party on Beale Street when a lone gunman walked up behind him, took his wallet, and forced him into the trunk. The abductor, Cleotha Abston, drove around and picked up friends then, after about two hours, escorted Durand into a Mapco station to withdraw money from an ATM. A uniformed Memphis Housing Authority officer entered, Durand yelled that he had been kidnapped, and the kidnappers ran away.”

So, it turned out that 22 years before he kidnapped and killed Eliza Fletcher, Abston had kidnapped someone else. No one had publicly made this connection until we noticed Branston’s story getting a lot of web traffic later in September. Abston pled guilty in 2001 and served nearly 20 years before being released — with disastrous and tragic results.

Also scoring in the Top 10 was Toby Sells’ story about a controversial, Democrat-hating preacher from Mt. Juliet, Tennessee, named Greg Locke. Sample quote: “If you vote Democrat, I don’t even want you around this church,” Locke said in a sermon. “You can get out. You can get out, you demon. You can get out, you baby-butchering, election thief.” Yeah, so, he’s a lot like Jesus, and our readers gobbled it up.

Rounding out our top stories of 2022 were a couple that you might have expected to get a lot of traffic: a column (with pictures) that I wrote about exploring the Mississippi River bottom at its all-time low, and another photo feature in which Flyer film editor Chris McCoy posted a bunch of amazing shots of the same phenomenon. Sometimes the bottom can rise to the top, I guess.

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At Large Opinion

Daze of Christmas Past

Photographerlondon | Dreamstime.com

It started with a backache in October. It seemed like a muscle pull or pinched nerve but it wouldn’t stop hurting. I went to two noted local clinics, each of which suggested different possible causes but offered no real relief from the pain. Finally, I tried acupuncture, which alleviated the symptoms enough that I thought maybe I’d turned the corner.

Then things got scary. On December 13th, I was walking my dogs when I noticed my left foot felt weak and a little floppy. I called my physician, Dr. Warren, and got an appointment for three days later. My wife Tatine accompanied me. After a brief check of my vitals and listening to me describe my symptoms, Warren said, “You’re going to the emergency room at Methodist right now.” And so the holiday festivities began.

After an hour, I was wheeled into a CT scan and then returned to a hallway to await results. Two hours later, the ER physician came out and said, quickly, “It’s cancer. You have a small mass in your chest. We’ll need to biopsy it and see what we’re dealing with.”

Well, merry dang Christmas. Tatine and I sat for a bit, like tornado survivors in a split-open house trailer. What the hell?

The next couple of days were a blur. Family and friends came and went and I put up a smile and a thumb. I then experienced the hospital’s panoply of tubular machines that inhale your body and look at its interior. The cacophonous MRI experience was an hour of bangs and audio distortion that I’ve yet to quite understand. But the good news was that the cancer seemed isolated to a single spot.

We began a series of meetings with doctors from cardiology, neurology, and oncology. The tumor was a thumb-sized growth that had attached to the front of my spine. The plan was for the neurologists to stabilize the spine from the backside with pins, and then when that was done, a treatment protocol for the tumor — once the biopsy came back and we knew what kind of cancer we were dealing with — would be created. So, on the fifth day of Christmas, I got major back surgery and a new Franken-spine. Two days later, the biopsy results indicated that I had a “curable” stage I lymphoma that could be treated with chemo over the next few months, a gift for which I’m obviously quite thankful.

The next three days were what I’ve come to recall as my “disco dreams” period. I was in the ICU and had access to a handy little pump that would allow me to give myself a nice pain-killing sedative every hour during the night. I was taking lots of other pills and the interaction was somewhat psychedelic. My sleep was full of flashing lights and rolling trains and groove music, interrupted on the hour, every hour, sadly, by nurses giving me meds, checking my vitals, taking my blood. My night visitors kept breaking up the party.

After ICU, I was moved to another room to begin my “plugged-in” phase, wherein bleeping tubes dripped medicines into my body and other tubes removed liquids from my body and I felt like a tank being simultaneously drained and filled.

Meanwhile, in the outside world, pipes were freezing, water was being boiled, blackouts were rolling. My family was gathering for meals and holiday rituals and I was watching movies on my laptop, my choices purely whimsical: My Man Godfrey, The Tender Bar, Slap Shot, The Man in the High Castle, some Harry Potter thing. I wanted out. Christmas was coming.

Christmas Eve arrived and after my family left, it was down to my favorite nurse Vitarn and me. I was feeling melancholy. We wished each other merry merry and I turned out the lights. (It was only later that I was gently told that “Vitarn” was really Vita, who signed her name on the white board as “Vita rn.”) Anyway, Vita and I had a lovely Christmas morning together, before Dr. Warren came in, checked me over, and said if neurology approved, I could go home.

By midday, I was good to go and stepping gingerly into the front seat of our car. I will not soon forget the odd pale daylight, how strange it felt being outside for the first time in 12 days, how quiet the traffic-less stretch of Union Avenue seemed to be on this, the strangest Christmas ever.

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Books

Star Power at Burke’s Books

Photo: Corey Mesler


Imagine, if you will, looking up to see famed filmmaker Joel Coen and his wife, actress Frances McDormand, walk into your place of business in Memphis on a random December day. That’s what happened to Corey Mesler, who, along with his wife, Cheryl, and daughter, Chloe runs Burke’s Books in Cooper-Young.

“We were all a little gob-smacked,” says Mesler. “They said they were on their way to California and they were stopping in Memphis for ‘barbecue, antiques, and Burke’s Books.’”

The pair was down-to-earth and friendly, Mesler says. “They couldn’t have been nicer. Once they met all of us and discovered we were a family-run business, Frances said, ‘Isn’t it nice that we’re all doing just we want?’ We loved them. It was almost like we already knew them.”

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At Large Opinion

A Year At Large

Verdict’s out on whether this year was rock bottom, but we did see the bottom of the Mississippi River. (Photo: Bruce VanWyngarden)

It’s long been the custom for Flyer writers to devote their year-end column to the 12 months just past, so I’ve spent the past couple of days rummaging through my 2022 columns.

January — The brutal assassination of Memphis rapper Young Dolph dominated the news for a couple of weeks and put Memphis into an unwanted national spotlight. I also wrote about the increasingly troubling phenomenon of souped-up cars with drive-out tags ignoring all traffic laws with impunity. By the end of the month, I was reduced to writing about the joys of learning a language on Duolingo, just to catch a breather.

February — The new Republican-created Tennessee voting district maps were a joke at all three levels, a mugging of democracy in plain sight. Newly configured districts in and around Memphis, Nashville, and Knoxville were designed to break up neighborhoods and Democratic voting strongholds in urban areas, especially Black communities.

Later that month, I took in a pup I found abandoned at the Overton Park dog run. I named her Wink and soon discovered she was deaf. The story had a happy ending, eventually, as two women adopted her. She’s now Sasha, and I still get pictures of her.

Also, Marjorie Taylor Greene ranted about Nancy Pelosi’s “gazpacho police” enforcing mask requirements.

March — I urged the Mighty Lights folks to light the M Bridge in Ukrainian blue and gold after Putin’s invasion. It took a minute for them to catch on.

That was followed by a column on the right’s obsession with “wokeness.” Steve Bannon predicted that Ukraine’s “woke” army would succumb to Putin’s manly Russian forces in a couple of weeks. As usual, Bannon got it completely wrong.

March also saw the beginning of the circus surrounding the Supreme Court nomination of Ketanji Brown Jackson. Despite having no real blemishes on her record and more judicial and trial experience than any nominee in decades, she suffered the slings and rubber-tipped arrows of GOP opportunists such as Tom Cotton, Ted Cruz, Lindsey Graham, Josh Hawley, and our homegrown lightweight, Marsha Blackburn, who cleverly asked the judge to “define a woman.”

April — I took a deep dive into the Wordle phenomenon, and how I personally got name-checked as a Wordle grinch.

Right-wingers began whining ceaselessly about saving American schools from “Critical Race Theory,” and Governor Bill Lee first tipped his hand about funneling tax dollars to Hillsdale College to fund 50 right-wing charter schools.

Blackburn once again found a way to embarrass (most of) us by slyly giving a white power symbol while questioning Judge Jackson on the Senate floor.

May — The leak of Justice Samuel Alito’s opinion supporting the overturning of Roe v. Wade was beginning to stir dissent, as American women realized that this SCOTUS was apparently quite willing to overturn the right of women to control their own bodies. I suggested the leak came from Clarence Thomas’ wife, Ginni, but it now appears the leaker was Alito himself.

A shooter in Buffalo murdered 10 Black people in a supermarket, citing as his reason the “white replacement theory” that had been spouted by Fox host Tucker Carlson and other white supremacists for weeks. Many thoughts and prayers were offered.

No uterus, no opinion, right? Well, the Supreme Court released a different opinion, called Dobbs. (Photo: © Mikephotos | Dreamstime.com)

June — Oh, hey, time for another mass shooting, this time at an elementary school in Uvalde, Texas. Thoughts and prayers were immediately issued and everything was fine.

A few days later, after giving a speech at the NRA convention, Donald Trump read the names of the 19 victims of the shooting (mispronouncing many of them). Then, as one does, he danced off-stage to Sam & Dave’s “Hold On, I’m Coming.”

July — Roe v. Wade was overturned and American women in many parts of the country were required to adhere to a religious tenet held by 13 percent of the country’s adults, and six of the nine Supreme Court judges. Conservative activists had spent years working to pack the Supreme Court for the express purpose of undoing Roe v. Wade, and they succeeded. Pundits wondered if women would be able to sustain their outrage until Election Day.

In Memphis, it was 100 degrees or so all month, including one day in which our “feels like” temperature reached a balmy 114.

August — After an investigation, the DOJ became convinced that Trump was lying about not having more classified information stored at Mar-a-Lago and conducted a raid, which uncovered lots more classified and top-secret information. Trump had lied. Shocker.

I wrote about the horrific problems of Shelby County Clerk Wanda Halbert’s office, then I went on vacation for a couple weeks and had a great time. Kinda like Wanda did.

September — Like I said, I went on vacation. When I got back I wrote about license plates, “In God We Trust,” and propping up religion by the state government.

October — I managed to get out a column about being a bird-nerd and getting busted for pot in college. You wouldn’t think there would be a connection, but that’s why they pay me the big bucks to write this stuff. I also commended President Joe “Cheech” Biden for letting all those dope-fiends out of prison.

The next week I went out in a boat on the Mississippi River, what was left of it, and took a lot of pictures of sand dunes that used to be river bottom.

November — Finally, there was good news. The “red wave” that was supposed to crush the Democrats’ power in Washington, D.C., and around the country turned out to be blue. People didn’t forget the Roe v. Wade debacle. People didn’t want to overturn the 2020 election or put Trump’s hand-selected clowns in high office. Huzzah.

December — We learned that the city would be getting a minor league football team called the Memphis Showboats (again). The city went crazy with all-night celebrations for a week. It was awesome.

We were also treated to another episode of the ongoing series, “I’m an anti-Semite,” starring “Ye,” Trump, and another horrible person. Then Trump demanded that we “terminate” the Constitution and make him president again because Elon Musk released an earth-shattering Twitter expose about Hunter Biden’s penis. So far, the Constitution hasn’t been terminated, but there’s always next year. See you in January.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Call Me

Don’t lose my number. (Photo: Stokkete | Dreamstime.com)

Rikki, don’t lose that number
You don’t wanna call nobody else
Send it off in a letter to yourself …

I still remember it: 581-3457. No, that wasn’t Rikki’s number. That was my family’s phone number when I was growing up. In those days, I could tell you the phone numbers of all my close friends, plus those of my grandparents, plus the local pizza joint. I never thought about having to look them up. Everyone had tons of numbers memorized. It was essential. It’s not like you could carry a phone book around with you.

Now? Well, I know my wife’s phone number, mainly because I have to use it in filling out various forms. And I know Jenny’s, of course (867-5309). But I couldn’t begin to tell you my children’s numbers. They’ve all moved around and their area codes are weird now and, well, I don’t have to know their numbers because I can just tell my phone to “call Mary.” This is a good thing. I’ve got four kids and stepkids, meaning I’d have to memorize 40 rando digits with my dwindling brain cells, and who needs that?

Speaking of my brain cells, indulge me please as I ponder for a moment the ancient days of landlines — only we didn’t call them landlines. We called them “telephones.” They were big, clunky plastic things that were plugged into walls or placed in little booths around town. Most families had a single phone shared by everybody, usually in the living room. Later, people began to get “extensions,” so you could get some modicum of privacy, unless your pesky brother in the other room stealthily picked up and listened. College dorms had a single phone in the hallway, shared by every resident living on that floor. You want to sweet talk your girlfriend? Good luck.

Times were tough, I tell ya. If you’re over 40, you can probably relate to much of this. The greatest evolutionary steps of the telephone have happened within our lifetimes.

Remember when voicemail was introduced? What a revelation that was. Everyone left those stupid explicit instructions. “You have reached 901-111-5554, the residence of George and Brenda Caldwell-Williams. We can’t answer the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and phone number after the beep, we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a great day!”

You had to listen to that bilge all the way through every time you called before you could leave a message. Kill me. And lots of people did cute or “funny” answering machine messages, like reading the script together or making little jokes. Kill me again. Faster.

And caller ID? What a game changer! I remember with great pleasure the day we got that device on our home phone. That very night our teenage daughter called and said, “Hey, Mom, I’m at Kathryn’s and I think I’m just gonna spend the night out here, okay?” My wife responded: “Huh, that’s interesting. Our new caller ID says you’re at Brad’s house. You get your butt home right now, young lady!” It was so delicious. Good, good times.

Now caller ID, voicemail, cameras, maps, phone books, and the entire collected knowledge of the human race are built into the noisy little computers we carry with us everywhere. Today that Steely Dan song I cited above would be called, “Rikki, Yo Here’s My Digits.” You’d just airdrop her your number and start sending inappropriate texts.

And it’s not just songs that have had to be reinvented. All of modern fiction and screenwriting have changed to accommodate the new reality of constant interconnectedness. Plots involving letter writing? Nah. Heroine driving a car and can’t be reached? Nah. Hero needs to go to the library to look something up and then meets girl of his dreams? Nah.

These sorts of changes aren’t unprecedented, of course. Art and literature have always evolved to accommodate the modifications imposed by humanity’s inventiveness. The World According to Garp and Casablanca beautifully exemplify the era of their creation, and their truths stand the test of time. Bogart standing on a rainy Moroccan tarmac growling, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” over a cell phone just wouldn’t have the same magic.

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At Large Opinion

Same Old Game

Over the past couple weeks, we’ve seen a fresh incarnation of a game we’ve all become familiar with during the last seven years. It’s called “Will You Denounce This?” The game begins when Donald Trump says or does something that used to be thought of as outrageous. The media then jump into action by asking any Republican they can get in front of a microphone to denounce Trump. As in:

Reporter: “Senator Leghorn, Donald Trump said this week that the United States should bomb Puerto Rico to keep Democrats from making it the 51st state. Puerto Rico is an American territory and Puerto Ricans are American citizens. Will you denounce Trump’s statement that the United States should bomb American citizens?”

Leghorn: “Well, President Trump says a lot of things, and I don’t think anything is gained from addressing these ‘gotcha’ questions from the media.”

Reporter: “But Mr. Trump is saying we should bomb one of our own territories, which could kill thousands of American citizens. Surely you don’t condone such a thing.”

Leghorn: “Look, I work for the American people, and the American people are concerned about high taxes, inflation, drag queens, and Hunter Biden’s laptop. The kind of questions you’re asking are irrelevant, premature, and based on speculation.”

Reporter [incredulous voice]: “So you won’t denounce the bombing and killing of American citizens by American armed forces?”

Leghorn: “Well, of course I don’t personally approve of bombing Puerto Rico, but the president is privy to information we don’t have, and he has a right to express his opinion.”

Reporter: “So, if Mr. Trump gets the GOP nomination in 2024, will you support him?”

Leghorn: “It’s a long way to 2024 so I don’t want to play that game, but, as a Republican, I will of course support our nominee. Also, Hunter Biden’s laptop.”

So yeah, that wasn’t exactly what happened recently, but Trump did roll out three doozies. First, he vowed that when he became president again, he would pardon anyone involved in the January 6th attack on the U.S. Capitol. Then, he had dinner with musician Kanye West, who just last week on Alex Jones’ InfoWars, expressed his admiration for Adolf Hitler and his disdain for Jews. Having this guy to dinner was not a great look for Trump. But “Ye” upped the ante and brought Nick Fuentes, a white supremacist, anti-Semite, and avowed Nazi boot-licker who makes Ye look progressive.

When word got out about the dinner, the media began a fresh round of “Will You Denounce This?” And they actually found a few Republicans willing to say that Trump was wrong to host these assholes for dinner, including Mike Pence, Chris Christie, and Mitt Romney. Progress, right?

Not exactly. Before the ruckus ensuing from his dinner could die down, Trump posted the following on his Truth Social network: “With the revelation of MASSIVE & WIDESPREAD FRAUD & DECEPTION in working closely with Big Tech Companies, the DNC, & the Democrat Party, do you throw the Presidential Election Results of 2020 OUT and declare the RIGHTFUL WINNER, or do you have a NEW ELECTION? … A Massive Fraud of this type and magnitude allows for the termination of all rules, regulations, and articles, even those found in the Constitution.”

No one knows for sure what provoked this latest Trump outburst. Perhaps the weirdness of those Hunter Biden penis pictures coming out via a Twitter story? Surely we don’t need to terminate the Constitution for that, do we? I mean, unless that thing was really huge.

It’s tempting to dismiss all this as the ranting of a delusional fool, but bear in mind that this is a man who could still become the GOP nominee — and that most Republicans are still afraid to stand up to a guy who pledges to release convicted January 6th rioters, has dinner with two Hitler-lovers, calls for the overturning of the 2020 election, and says we should terminate the U.S. Constitution.

There’s an adage that you should never play chess with a pigeon because they knock over all the pieces, shit on the board, and then strut around like they won. If the Republicans don’t pick a new king soon, they’re going to need another board. This game is getting old.

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At Large Opinion

Old and in the Fray

Willie Nelson (Photo: Randy Miramontez | Dreamstime.com)

President Joe Biden turned 80 last week. When asked about it beforehand, he said, “I can’t say the age I’m going to be. I can’t even get it out of my mouth.”

I’m not near 80, but I’m old enough to relate to the president’s sentiment. It’s a weird phenomenon, how our bodies keep changing and our brains (and eyes) are always surprised by it. How the hell did I get wrinkles on my knees, for instance? Jaysus.

The president’s comment brought to mind a conversation I had with my paternal grandmother when I was a considerably younger man. We were having breakfast at her house, when, apropos of nothing, she said, incredulously: “Eighty! Sometimes I think, how can I be 80? I don’t feel any different than I ever did.” She was a woman with a flair for the dramatic, including sighing at some point during each holiday season: “This will probably be my last Christmas.” It usually wasn’t. Until it was. Anyway, for some reason, that conversation has stayed with me through the years, and I get it now, Velma.

Age is front of mind nationally these days because it’s possible — though I don’t think Trump will make it through the gauntlet of indictments awaiting him — that the 2024 presidential campaign could feature an 82-year-old Biden against a 78-year-old Trump. Boy, that’ll stimulate the youth vote!

In 2016, Trump, at 70, was the oldest president ever elected, until Biden set the new age mark of 78, in 2020. By way of comparison, Ronald Reagan, who was 69 when elected in 1980 and addled by dementia by the time he left office eight years later, was previously the oldest elected president and the oldest to ever hold the office. The only reason Biden gets asked about whether he’ll run for re-election is because of his age. Is it a fair question?

Consider this list: Paul McCartney, Judi Dench, Morgan Freeman, Bob Dylan, Barbra Streisand, Pope Francis, Nancy Pelosi, Dustin Hoffman, Harrison Ford, Billy Dee Williams, Bernie Sanders, Anthony Fauci, Ralph Lauren, Martha Stewart, Quincy Jones, George Takei, Al Pacino, and last but not least, at 89, Willie Nelson. All are in their 80s, and all are still working and productive. I could have added dozens more, including many non-celebrities I know personally. But, with the possible exceptions of Bernie, Nancy, and Morgan Freeman (who, after all, has played POTUS three times), none are likely qualified to handle the rigors of the highest office in the land.

Neither is Trump, for that matter. In fact, given the choice, I’d prefer almost anybody on that list above, but that’s another story.

On the occasion of Biden’s birthday, The New York Times published a piece that looked at his health prospects, were he to win in 2024, citing 10 experts on aging: “Mr. Biden, these experts agreed, has a lot going in his favor: He is highly educated, has plenty of social interaction, a stimulating job that requires a lot of thinking, is married, and has a strong family network — all factors that, studies show, are protective against dementia and conducive to healthy aging. He does not smoke or drink alcohol and, according to the White House, he exercises five times a week. He also has top-notch medical care.”

The article also stated: “It is true that older people tend to decline physically, and the brain also undergoes changes. But in people who are active, experts say, the brain continues to evolve and some brain functions can even improve — a phenomenon experts call the ‘neuroplasticity of aging.’”

The conclusion was that Biden’s odds of getting dementia before leaving office in 2028 were about one in 10. By contrast, the public has never gotten a health report from any of Trump’s doctors that Trump didn’t edit, so that’s sort of a crap shoot.

But 2024 is still a ways off, and anything that happens in the next 18 months — from a health crisis for either man to an indictment for Trump — could alter the course of history. I hope both men stay healthy, but I can’t help but think that it’s well past time to turn the page on geriatric candidates for both parties. Unless maybe Willie Nelson is interested.

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At Large Opinion

Hail Mary #8

Did you hear the big news?

Memphis is going to get a USFL team! The USFL, in case you’re not familiar with the latest iteration (I wasn’t), is a professional football league that had its debut season last spring with eight teams, all of which played their games in Birmingham, Alabama — which is weird, since the teams were supposedly affiliated with other cities. The Philadelphia Stars take on the Pittsburgh Maulers in Alabama in April? How does that setup not draw huge crowds?

Anyway, next spring, according to a newly signed agreement (obtained by the Daily Memphian via an FOIA request) between the city of Memphis, Liberty Stadium managers Global Spectrum, and the USFL, Memphis gets a piece of this sweet gridiron action. The new Memphis Showboats will play in the Simmons Bank Liberty Stadium, along with the possibly mighty Houston Gamblers, who will also call Memphis their home field. (When the Gamblers and the Showboats hook up, will both teams wear home uniforms? Tune in next spring and find out!) The Showboats will mostly be made up of players from the now-defunct Tampa Bay Bandits USFL team, which folded after one season.

Dear reader, you may be forgiven if you are less than enthralled. I am myself extraordinarily underwhelmed. They should have called this team the Memphis Deja Vu because we’ve all been here before. Memphis is no stranger to start-up, wonky-league football teams, having been home to no less than seven through the years. Let me refresh your memory, in case you don’t still have the souvenir jerseys: Memphis Southmen, WFL (1974-75); Memphis Showboats, USFL (1984-85); Memphis Mad Dogs, CFL (1995); Tennessee Oilers, NFL (1997); Memphis Maniax, XFL (2001); Memphis Express, AAF (2019). This list doesn’t include the Memphis Pharaohs, an Arena League team that played in the Pyramid for a season in the 1990s.

Suffice it to say that all Memphis professional football teams should be required to have the words “The Short-Lived” above the team name on the jerseys. Two years for a Memphis pro football team is an “era.”

Reportedly, the prime mover for this latest Excellent Adventure in Football Fantasy is FedEx founder and chairman Fred Smith, who, bless his heart, has wanted a professional football franchise for his home city for decades. Remember the Memphis Hound Dogs, the city’s well-funded 1990s Hail Mary pass at the NFL? Smith was part of that ownership group, along with cotton magnate Billy Dunavant, billionaire Paul Tudor Jones, and Elvis Presley Enterprises. Despite the undeniably rockin’ name and lots of money, Memphis lost out to the Jacksonville Jaguars and Carolina Panthers, who had the good sense to choose cat names.

Smith then became part of the ownership group of the (obligatory “short-lived” descriptor goes here) CFL Memphis Mad Dogs, who entertained the city, sort of, for one season. Oh, Canada.

Anyway, at last week’s announcement, when Smith and Memphis Mayor Jim Strickland posed awkwardly, jointly holding an orange-ish football and wearing too-small Memphis Showboat hats, it had a kabuki theater, been-here-done-this feel. Lord help us. Who’s fired up for April minor-league football, y’all? Show of hands.

By all accounts, the city’s financial commitment to this silliness is fairly minimal: some minor upgrades to the stadium and providing office and practice space to the team — which is apparently going to be the Pipkin building. The last time most Memphians were there was when we were driving through to get Covid shots in 2020. Good times!

It should be noted for historical purposes that the original USFL lasted three (whoo!) entire seasons (1983-85). Three consecutive Heisman Trophy winners signed with the league, including Georgia senatorial candidate Herschel Walker (who said last week he would rather be a werewolf than a vampire). The league played its games in the spring for two seasons, but one influential team owner pushed relentlessly for the league to shift its games to the fall. “If God wanted football in the spring,” the owner said, closing his case, “he wouldn’t have created baseball.”

The ensuing move to a fall schedule doomed the league, which could not compete for fans or TV eyeballs with the NFL and college football. The owner whose business acumen destroyed the original USFL? It was New Jersey Generals owner Donald J. Trump. A stable genius, even back then.

Go Showboats.

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At Large Opinion

Ripple: Surfing the Red Wave That Wasn’t

Photo: Ryan Carpenter | Unsplash

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow …
— Robert Hunter

“I’m like Roger Stone, only nice.”

I awoke from a dream the other night in which I’d just uttered these words. To whom, I don’t know, nor do I know the context — just that I’d said to someone that I was like political sleazeball Roger Stone. Only nice.

I can only credit this to the political brain fog in which I’d spent most of my waking hours over the preceding couple of weeks. I watched CNN, MSNBC, and Fox on rotation each night. I relentlessly doom-scrolled my Twitter politics feed. I read countless analyses in The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Washington Post. I scoured websites for new polls and approval ratings percentages.

The conclusion was the same everywhere: The GOP’s messaging on inflation and crime was striking a chord with the electorate. Roe v. Wade was yesterday’s news; that fervor had peaked and faded, replaced by anxiety over the rising cost of groceries and gasoline. Nobody was worried about a “threat to democracy,” even if President Biden made a speech about it. It was the economy, stupid. As it ever was.

Everyone was on board with this, from the addled fever dreams of Tucker Carlson’s brain to the thumb-sucking commentariat of the great Gray Lady. The future was Republican, folks, and this election would be a nightmare for progressives. A “red wave” would sweep the GOP into control of the Senate and the House of Representatives. The only question was how much of a margin they would get. The next two years would then feature a parade of contrived impeachments, investigations of Hunter Biden’s laptop, blockages of judicial appointments, anti-LGBTQ and anti-transgender legislation, and more anti-abortion measures.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the blowout: Namely, everyone got it wrong.

On election night, the red wave was a brief ripple in still water, stirred by the early returns in newly gerrymandered Florida. But it didn’t sustain. Instead, we had an historic blue blowback — an unheard-of mid-term election in which the opposing party lost ground. State legislatures and governorships were flipped blue. The Senate stayed firmly in Democratic hands. Which party would win the House was still unknown as I write this, but it’s obvious that neither party will have enough of an edge in Congress to control much of anything.

So what do we take from this? First and foremost is the fact that polling is broken. It’s useless. We need to stop using polls as the basis for news stories and analysis. A recent Times story reported that, on the average, only one in 29 people takes a call from a pollster. A poll based on the 1,000 responses (from 29,000 calls!) of the oddballs who actually answer unknown calls is in no way indicative of the public sentiment on anything. It’s another reason polls entirely missed the surging youth vote. People in their 20s don’t answer unknown numbers. Hell, they barely even talk on their phones to their parents. Adding to the chaos, the GOP flooded the media with bogus polls that had Republicans ahead, further skewing the narrative.

What else do we take away? Well, simply put, Donald Trump is finished. Done. Toast. After the party’s third election loss in four years, GOP leaders have suddenly found the “courage” to begin rejecting the Big Orange. Almost every nutjob he endorsed lost, from coast to coast. The electorate rejected MAGA, rejected election denial, rejected the removal of abortion rights, and rejected Trumpism.

Trump won’t get the message for a while. His ego won’t let it happen. But watch how the winds blow over the next few days. Hell, watch how Lindsey Graham blows over the next few days. When Trump loses Lindsey, he’ll know it’s really over. Even Mike Pence has found some measure of rectitude, albeit only after six years of obsequious toady-ism.

These election results have given me hope, a thing that’s mostly eluded me over the past six years, when it seemed darker, autocratic, even violent forces were on the rise, inevitable. It’s all making me feel a bit like Roger Stone, only nice.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Sacred Cows

Photo: Kelvintt | Dreamstime.com

On the front page of last Wednesday’s Commercial Appeal, there was a fascinating story by reporter Katherine Burgess about a cow sanctuary in nearby Arlington. The farm is run by a Hindu nonprofit organization and now has almost 200 Gyr cattle, or as they are sometimes called, sacred cows.

Hindus from all over, even India, have made pilgrimages to the farm for worship. Burgess quoted Purushotham Tandu, the spiritual advisor at the organization: “The cow has many healing capacities. When you go close to the cow, it will vibrate on certain frequencies. We have certain frequencies. So whatever unwanted emotions, it will take and will replace with good emotions and cosmic energy.” Okay.

When it comes to religion, I’ve been a devout agnostic for decades. I am from Missouri, after all. This is not to say that I haven’t experienced certain inexplicable feelings at times, emotions that seem somehow spiritual, connected to something beyond the pale of this physical world. These occasional mysteries remind me to keep my options open, even though a formal “faith” eludes me.

Atheists and true believers have a lot in common, actually. You have to have faith to be an atheist. There’s no proof that God doesn’t exist, so atheism is just another faith-based belief system. Conversely, those who proclaim there is a god, are standing only on their faith to make that assertion. (The preceding is brought to you by every late-night dorm discussion I had in college.)

Now, when it comes to feeling the spiritual power of a Gyr cow, well, yes, I’m certainly agnostic. But who knows? Might be worth a trip to the ’burbs to find out. They’re pretty impressive-looking beasts. Who knows what harmonic frequencies they may have tapped into?

Oddly, there was another religion story (also by Burgess) on the front page of that Wednesday paper. This one was about Christ Church Memphis, a large local Protestant congregation that had just voted by a 90 percent to 10 percent margin to leave the United Methodist Church. I was raised in the Methodist Church, so I was curious why this denomination had decided to sever ties with the mother ship.

Sigh.

It seems the Christ Church Memphis folks don’t approve of the current LGBTQ-acceptance policies of the United Methodist Church, which is letting LGBTQ Methodists (gasp!) get married to one another. And they’re even allowing some of them to become members of the clergy. The horror! What would Jesus do?

Ninety percent of Christ Church members seem to think Jesus hated queers and wouldn’t let them become members of his church. And, to be fair, they ought to know, right? I mean, “Christ” is right there in the church’s name, so these people are obviously true followers of Jesus’ teachings.

Except for maybe they’re not.

Here are a couple of Jesus’ thoughts they may have overlooked: “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Also this: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.”

So, the good folks at Christ Church have obviously made a couple addendums to those teachings, like, “Nuh-uh. Jesus wasn’t talking about them gays when he said those things. And even if he didn’t condemn them, we do! And this is our church, dammit!”

Jesus.

As a certified agnostic, let me toss out some free advice on religion, okay? If your church judges people of a certain creed, gender, or sexual identity as inherently evil, you need a new church. If your preacher preaches chastity and fools around with the congregation’s teenagers, you need a new church. If your preacher drives a new Mercedes and lives in a gated mansion, you need a new church. If your preacher condemns abortion as murder and then endorses Herschel Walker for senator, you need a new church. If your preacher is a MAGA Trumper, run! You really need a new church, and maybe a little remedial study of the true tenets of Christianity.

Here’s the bottom line, straight from Jesus: “Do unto others [all others!] as you would have them do unto you.” It’s the closest thing to a sacred cow you’ll find in the Bible. Take it in. Breathe it. Feel its frequency.