Author: Bruce VanWyngarden

Categories
At Large Opinion

Made Ya Look!

Heavy is the head that wears a cap. (Photo: Bruce VanWyngarden)

I’m normally not the kind of guy who likes to draw attention to myself or my politics in public. There are no candidate bumper stickers on my car. I don’t wear political T-shirts, unless it’s something like “Save the Aquifer.” I don’t put up yard signs for candidates, though my wife sometimes does.

I try to keep my professional life and my social interactions separate, but it doesn’t always work. Often, when I’m introduced, people will say something like, “Oh, the Flyer guy. Yeah, I read your column.” Then there’s often a moment of frisson as I wait to check the vibe. I got a bad vibe the other night at a restaurant in Regalia Shopping Center, when the person I was introduced to said, “Oh, yeah … You’ve got a lot of opinions, don’t you?”

Yes, I do. Pleasure meeting you. See ya. Bye.

Anyway, as I said, I try to avoid such situations. So I don’t know what on Earth I was thinking last Saturday when I decided to wear a red baseball cap to Fresh Market. It looks exactly like a Trump MAGA cap, but the text reads:

MADE YA LOOK

BLACK LIVES MATTER

It was a gag gift from my wife and it has hung from my desk lamp at home for months. I can’t tell you why I suddenly thought it was a good idea to wear it.

When I got to the store and started walking across the parking lot, I realized that anyone more than 20 feet away would just assume I was wearing a MAGA hat. The joke only worked if the jokee was facing me and close enough to read the text. Oops. Nonetheless, I persevered, while noting as I grabbed a shopping cart, that the damn hat and people’s possible reactions to it was all I was thinking about.

First stop was at the berries display to pick up my weekly ration of blueberries. There was a Black guy putting out fresh plastic tubs, stacking them neatly. I saw his head jerk my way as he noticed my hat. I stared nonchalantly down at the produce, hoping the dude was reading my hat. He was.

“I like that hat,” he said, laughing. “You had me for a minute.”

“Oh yeah, this hat? Ha ha. It always gets a reaction,” I said, shamelessly. Ha ha. Phew.

I drew a couple of looks from people in the produce section, but no one was close enough to get the joke, so I was either just another dumb-ass Trumper or a fellow patriot, depending on their politics.

At the deli counter, I studied the array of roast chickens, head lowered, as if deep in concentration. The woman behind the counter made no comment. As I pointed at my selection, she handed it to me with an inscrutable smile and said, “Have a great day.” Bupkis.

It was then that I realized the stupid hat was wearing me, instead of the other way around. I might as well have been wearing a white Klan hood with “JUST KKKIDDING” on the forehead. Or a Confederate T-shirt with “I’M A LOSER” on the back. Some things just aren’t funny, even ironically. The MAGA hat has become too loaded with political baggage to be amusing any longer.

I took off the hat and stuffed it in one of my reusable shopping bags in the bottom of the cart. Which is ironic at some level, I suppose.

That evening, being on my own for the weekend, I went to Boscos in Overton Square for dinner. I like to sit at the cozy little bar, and I like their steak sandwiches. As soon as I sat down, I realized I’d seated myself in a combat zone. The Black woman to my left was arguing with a white guy across from her about Trump. “He emboldened people to be racist,” she said. “I can’t stand the man.”

“He did a lot of good things for the country,” the man said.

And so it went for a few minutes. I managed to get my order in, as the bartender rolled his eyes apologetically. Then I watched, unbelieving, as the two protagonists stared at each other silently for a moment, then walked around the bar and hugged. I wish I’d had my hat.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Preacher of the House

Speaker of the House Mike Johnson (Photo: United States Congress, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

After three weeks of turmoil, the Republicans in Congress finally picked a speaker of the house last week. His name is Mike Johnson. He’s from Shreveport, Louisiana, and you could be forgiven if you’d never heard of him. He’s only been in Congress seven years, and his political views are, well, concerning. When asked how he would approach the issues of the day, Johnson responded, “Go pick up a Bible off your shelf and read it.”

At first, I took this as possible good news. After all, the Bible commands that we love our neighbor, care for the poor, welcome refugees, judge not lest ye be judged, and treat others as we ourselves would like to be treated — all good ideas. Looks like there might be some changes in the GOP platform, I thought.

Turns out, not so much. Johnson’s Bible is nothing if not flexible. When asked about last week’s mass shooting in Maine, for example, Johnson’s governing philosophy was put to an immediate test, since, you know, nobody was packing heat in Biblical times.

Johnson said it was not the right time to consider legislation. “The problem is the human heart,” he said. “It’s not guns, it’s not the weapons. We have to protect the right of the citizens to protect themselves.” In other words, forget that Jesus-y “turn the other cheek” stuff. Lock ’n load, pilgrims.

On climate change, Johnson will likely be the most vocal climate-change denier to ever hold the speakership. He received a 100 percent rating from the pro-fossil fuel American Energy Alliance in 2022. As, no doubt, Jesus would have.

Johnson worked for years as an attorney for the Christian nationalist organization, Alliance Defense Fund, fighting to ban abortion and gay rights. He called the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade a “great, joyous occasion,” and favors a nationwide ban on abortion. As for LGBTQ rights? “States have many legitimate grounds to proscribe same-sex deviate sexual intercourse,” Johnson says, “including concerns for public health, safety, morals, and the promotion of healthy marriages.”

At this point, it won’t surprise you to learn that Johnson was one of the principal congressional leaders in Donald Trump’s attempt to overthrow the 2020 election, and an enthusiastic promoter of the absurd legal theories used by Trump’s “legal team.”

In sum, Johnson is a boiler-plate, right-wing Republican who checks all the boxes: evangelical nationalist, anti-abortion, anti-climate change, anti-LGBTQ rights, anti-gun reform, pro-cutting Social Security and Medicare, and a pro-Trump election denier. The vote to elevate him to the speakership, a position two heartbeats from the presidency, was unanimous among his fellow GOP congressmen. So much for the myth of “moderate” Republicans.

The guy is a loon. And I haven’t even gotten to the weird stuff yet.

When asked why his wife, Kelly, didn’t come to Washington, D.C., to witness his swearing-in, Johnson said, and I quote: “She’s spent the last couple of weeks on her knees in prayer to the Lord. And, um, she’s a little worn out.”

I can’t even begin to parse that. Why would she pray for two weeks prior to Johnson’s election, which took less than one day? What kind of Jeebus weirdness is this? Even Monica Lewinsky couldn’t figure it out, tweeting in response (and I’m not making this up): “Not touching this.”

Johnson and his wife are in a “covenant marriage,” a Christian construct which makes divorce exceedingly difficult. It’s an institution beloved by misogynists, er, evangelical men, because it makes it nearly impossible for a woman to leave a marriage if she’s not financially independent.

And Johnson’s finances are yet another point of intrigue. From Vanity Fair: “In financial disclosures dating back to 2016, the year he joined Congress, Johnson never reported having a savings or checking account in his name, his spouse’s name, or in the name of any of his children. In his latest filing, which covers last year, he doesn’t list a single asset.” So how is that even possible? How does he pay bills?

And it gets weirder. In the late 1990s, when Johnson was in his mid-twenties, he “took custody” of a 11-year-old Black kid. When he and his wife got married in 1999, they claim to have “taken in” the teen as their own child. The teen doesn’t appear in any of the wedding pictures or current Johnson family pictures that have been released to the media. He is said to be living in California with children of his own. It’s undeniably strange. Johnson has likened the relationship to the one in the movie, The Blind Side. Okay. More to come, I suspect.

Johnson and his wife deleted the 69 (heh) episodes of their fundamentalist podcast within 24 hours of his winning the speakership, but they’ve been archived by an activist group and are reported to be very controversial. I’m not in the prediction business (well, maybe I am), but I’m guessing Mike Johnson will come to rue the day when the national media began to take his personal history off the shelf and read it.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Werewolf of Oman

Photo: Csaba | Adobe Stock

I’ve been a member of an email chain gang for a year or so. The other emailers are, like me, older guys with a little time on their hands. And, like me, they love to discuss (read: argue about) politics. The basic drill is that someone emails an interesting or provocative link to a story from, say, The Washington Post or Vice or The Daily Beast, and the commenting and kvetching ensues.

Everyone in the group is relatively progressive. Nobody likes Trump, and everyone’s biggest fear is that he’s going to snare the GOP nomination and somehow stumble his way back into the presidency. You wouldn’t think six or seven guys on the same side could find that many things to argue about. You would be wrong. For example, a couple of the gentlemen are dead-certain that Trump will win the nomination. They see no way for anybody else in the GOP to take it away from him and they savor being the no-nonsense, realpolitik adults in the room. “Trump will be the nominee,” they say. Period.

Others in the group aren’t so sure. They speculate that the publicity surrounding Trump’s numerous legal difficulties will grow, and as evidence against him becomes more specific and more damning, it will become increasingly difficult for him to waltz to the nomination. The “maybe not Trump” contingent also likes to point out that Trump’s mental acuity appears to be waning of late and that his 90-minute rambles are losing their zip. How, they ask, do you win the presidency with no policy proposals, and with a campaign based on a platform of “it’s not fair”?

Then there are those who raise the possibility that Trump might encounter a major health issue. He and Biden are both of an age when they should think twice before ordering a multi-year magazine subscription. Or buying green bananas. How, they ask, can anyone state with certainty that these two geezers will be the nominees?

Finally, there’s my old friend, “Kevin,” the Sir Lancelot of the group, who delights in swashing the buckles and tugging the short-hairs of the realpolitikers with ire-provoking predictions. His favorite lately is that Trump will at some point realize the jig is up, that Jack Smith and/or Fani Willis have him dead to rights, and that all his lawyers and supplicants have flipped and will provide detailed evidence of his schemes to subvert the 2020 election and conceal top secret documents. According to Kevin’s theory, Trump will then see no way to bullshit himself out of his self-created mess and, confronting the likelihood of prison time or losing his fortune or both, will decide to fly off in his private jet … to Oman. Or as Kevin likes to write: “Trump will become the Werewolf of Oman.”

No doubt it’s a phrase that has a ring to it, but why Oman? According to Kevin, it’s because of a June 30th New York Times story that centers around a multibillion dollar Trump business deal with the government of Oman. From the Times article: “The Omani government is providing the land for the development, is investing heavily in the infrastructure to support it, and will get a cut of the profits in the long run. …

“Mr. Trump was brought into the deal by a Saudi real estate firm, Dar Al Arkan, which is closely intertwined with the Saudi government. While in office, Mr. Trump developed a tight relationship with Saudi leaders. Since leaving office, he has worked with Saudi Arabia’s sovereign wealth fund to host the LIV golf tour and Trump’s son-in-law Jared Kushner received a $2 billion infusion from the Saudi fund for his investment venture. Under its terms, the Trump Organization will not put up any money for the development, but will help design a Trump-branded hotel, golf course and golf club, and will be paid to manage them for up to 30 years, among other revenue.”

Quite the tempting retirement option, you must admit. Trump spends his final years in Mar-a-Oman, golfing, schmoozing, and sending out social media posts about how he was hounded from the country he loves by “crooked Joe Biden and thug Jack Smith and racist Fani Willis.” No foreign policy decisions or immigration messes or economic headaches. Just mid-day tee-times and endless sunshine. Sing it with me, now … “Ahhh-ooooo, Werewolf of Oman.”

Categories
At Large Opinion

A Big Ass City

Put the Big Ass park to good use. (Photo: Marcus Jones | Adobe Stock)

These days, the Flyer staff mostly produces the paper and its web content from home. We communicate on an app called Slack, which is like a never-ending group text. We can upload copy, share photos, and discuss web posts as they’re being edited and loaded onto memphisflyer.com. We can also use Slack for snark, gossip, jokes, emojis, opinions — and did I mention snark?

Sure, we have weekly in-person meetings when possible, just to make sure we’re all still breathing, but Slack is where the daily action is. Last week, Michael Donahue wrote a story for the paper about the seminal Memphis band, Big Ass Truck, which is still performing around town when the mood hits them. The band became a subject of a long, rollicking discussion on Slack, as Donahue reminisced about the first time he wrote about Big Ass Truck — which was in the early 1990s for the Commercial Appeal.

“It was the first time the word ‘ass’ appeared in the CA,” said Donahue, proudly. “I had to get permission to use it. I even wrote about that in my lede for the story.”

So there you have it, folks. Some Big Ass history. (Also, here’s a free business idea for some enterprising Memphis culinarian: Big Ass Food Truck. You’re welcome.)

Speaking of history, some recent Memphis events have reminded me of the story of Hiroo Onoda. Onoda (as at least three of you may recall) was a Japanese soldier who famously refused to surrender at the end of World War II. Instead, he retreated into the Philippine jungles and fought on until 1974, when his aging former commanding officer managed to get orders delivered to him, and Onoda surrendered.

Similarly, some Memphians seem determined to keep on fighting long after a war is over — the war, in this case, being the one to preserve Tom Lee Park as a flat, barren field designed for partying, cooking pigs, and having a big-ass music fest two weekends a year for Memphis in May (MIM). In their eyes, that park has been maliciously redesigned by the Memphis River Parks Partnership (MRPP) as a human-friendly area with trees, grass, wildflowers, playgrounds, basketball courts, walking and biking trails, picnic areas, water features, shaded seating with river views … and did I mention trees?

Some supporters of MIM have retreated into the jungles of the internet, where they lob insults and threats at MRPP and its leader, Carol Coletta, refusing to surrender, refusing to accept reality — or truce papers.

In response to its ongoing conflict with MRPP, Memphis in May announced that it is putting the Beale Street Music Festival “on pause” for 2024. The group had previously announced that it was moving the World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest to Tiger Lane near the Liberty Bowl. And that was that. For a minute or so.

But there’s another group in town that makes Memphis in May seem, well, flexible. It’s called Friends for Our Riverfront (FfOR), and it claims to represent the wishes of the city’s founders as decreed in — get this — 1828. As “heirs” of those fine gentlemanly white landowners, the FfOR Ffolks have filed a legal motion to stop the ongoing construction of the new Memphis Art Museum on the bluff at Union Avenue and Front Street. They say the city’s founders wanted the bluff preserved for “public use,” which apparently doesn’t include a world-class art museum that will be free to the, er, public. For, you know, use.

It’s well past time to move on from this petty silliness. The museum is going to be built, and those opposed to it need to get over it. The park is already built, like, completed. Those opposed to it (the Tom Lee Flat Earth Society?) need to come down out of the jungle and move on.

Time waits for no man. In fact, within about 30 seconds of MIM announcing it wouldn’t hold a music fest next year, MRPP announced a deal with the Mempho Music Festival folks to put on a 2024 festival in, yes, the brand spanking new Tom Lee Park. Will it be just like the old music fest? Probably not. Can it be as good or better? We’ll find out, won’t we? At the least, it’s a better plan than everybody throwing a Big Ass hissy fit.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Mayor Culpa

Paul Young (Photo: Brandon Dill | MLK50 )

What’s the opposite of a landslide? Land that doesn’t move? A stable pile of dirt? A hill? There really isn’t a satisfactory answer that I could find. Whatever you might want to call it, the Memphis mayoral election last Thursday was anything but a landslide. It was more like 17 random stones rolling down a driveway.

Let’s get the doleful numbers out of the way first. There are 373,091 eligible voters in the city of Memphis according to the Election Commission. Of that number, 88,668 voted in the mayor’s race, meaning around 24 percent of us who could have voted bothered to do so. That’s some weak sauce, folks. But it gets weaker.

There were, yes, 17 candidates on the ballot, most of whom had no business being there and had no real chance of winning. Some perhaps entered the race because they were bored and/or just seeking attention; others because they are delusional nutcases; others, who can say? Maybe six of those 17 were legitimate candidates. Of these, four emerged as front-runners in the early polling: Paul Young, Floyd Bonner, Willie Herenton, and Van Turner.

I wrote a column three weeks ago about how I was conflicted because as a progressive I was leaning toward Turner, who has genuine Democratic Party bona fides and had garnered the endorsements of several elected officials whose opinions I respect on such matters. But as a pragmatist, I was leaning toward Young because he was leading in the polling I was seeing and he seemed like a solid guy with business and activist connections and no baggage to speak of. But mainly, I was thinking Young because I was dead set on making sure neither Bonner nor Herenton won — one a cop whose jail had major issues and the other an 83-year-old five-time former mayor whose platform was “I’m Willie Herenton, damn it!”

After that column came out, I got calls, texts, and emails from supporters of both Young and Turner, all of them pitching me on the merits of their guy. In the end, I decided to go with my gut and voted for Turner. He came in fourth, right behind Herenton and Bonner, all three of them drawing in the neighborhood of 18,000 votes. So much for my gut. To sum it up: Young won an election to lead a city of 628,000 people with 24,400 votes, which is 6.5 percent of eligible voters. Ridiculous.

I’m not saying Young didn’t deserve to win. He won, and he did so fair and square, and probably as convincingly as one could, given the system. But the system is absurd — nonpartisan with no runoff. It encourages rather than discourages various loose fruits and nuts to enter. With 17 candidates and a low turnout any one of them could get lucky and stumble into the mayor’s office.

It’s not like we didn’t try to change the system. Not once, but twice, the citizens of Memphis approved IRV (Instant Runoff Voting), also known as ranked-choice voting, a system in which voters select their top three choices in order, the idea being to assure that a winner gets 50 percent of the vote, and that voters don’t have to make calculated guesses like I did when selecting a candidate.

But, as with so many good things in the state of Tennessee, our GOP legislature decided to kick that bucket over and ban IRV in the state. Because … well, because they could. And it would tick off Memphis, so why not?

But enough Election Day replay. Paul Young is the new mayor. He’s put in solid work as president and CEO of the Downtown Memphis Commission. He’s smart. His victory speech was inclusive and inspiring. He’s a family guy, only 44, young enough to walk onstage after his win to the sounds of “Who Run It” by Three 6 Mafia. Which is cool, if you don’t read the lyrics, or at least don’t take them literally. But hey, if hip-hop can get young people engaged in city politics, I’m all for it — anything that can get more than 25 percent of us to the voting booth is a win.

Godspeed, Mr. Mayor. You run it.

Categories
At Large Opinion

The Church of Trump

Photo: Triple I Ventures Llc | Dreamstime.com

“Good morning, folks, and welcome. We’ll begin today’s service with a passage from the scriptures.”

The pastor opens a thick red book and begins to read:

“A very important deadline is approaching at the end of the month,” he intones. “Republicans in Congress can and must defund all aspects of Crooked Joe Biden’s weaponized Government that refuses to close the Border, and treats half the Country as Enemies of the State. This is also the last chance to defund these political prosecutions against me and other Patriots. They failed on the debt limit, but they must not fail now. Use the power of the purse and defend the Country!”

“Amen,” says the pastor. “Thus endeth the reading from the Book of Truth Social according to President Trump. And thus sayeth our Lord.”

“AMEN!!” shouts the assembled multitude, resplendent in their go-to-meeting best: T-shirts with slogans like “Let’s Go Brandon,” “Never Surrender,” and “F—k Joe Biden,” and red MAGA hats and American flag halter tops.

“Now, please turn to page 13 in your hymnals,” says the pastor. As the organist begins the familiar opening strains, the congregation joyously breaks into song:

“Young man, there’s no need to feel down

I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground

I said, young man, ’cause you’re in a new town

There’s no need to be unhappy …”

You’ve probably seen the slogan that’s making the rounds in Democratic circles: “He Lost! And You’re in a Cult.” I saw it on a T-Shirt at Kroger the other day and hoped the wearer was ready for a possible confrontation from a true believer.

Because that’s legitimately where we are: Anyone who is still carrying water for Donald Trump is either in a cult and blindly devoted to an authoritarian wannabe, or is a cynical hypocrite who knows Trump is a lying dirtbag but thinks backing the former president will somehow accrue to their benefit. This would include most GOP members of Congress and the Senate.

In a group email chain that I’m on, a Trumper wrote the following: “Liberals fear Donald Trump because he is a real man, not a ‘woke’ liberal wuss.”

Yes, we fear a “real man” who wears more makeup and hair spray than a Miami drag queen and lives in a fading golf club that looks like it was designed by Carmen Miranda on ’shrooms. Nobody fears Donald Trump, except Republicans. He’s a clown-show, a grammatically impaired, narcissistic man-child who recently said in a speech that President Obama was going to start World War II. This is not a man to fear.

What is to be feared is what would happen if this lunatic got back in the White House. That’s a truly terrifying prospect. Imagine having this deeply flawed individual and his unbridled ego in charge of our military, our judiciary, the CDC, and/or anything else that catches his goldfish-level attention span. We’d have, in the highest office in the land, a man with virtually unlimited power, a man who wants to be president for life, a man who would surround himself with the kind of pandering con-men and yes-men who are currently facing indictments of several varieties — along with their former boss. They would no doubt be pardoned. Attorney General Rudy Giuliani, anyone? Secretary of Defense Michael Flynn? Secretary of State Paul Manafort? A Secret Service made up of Proud Boys? Sure.

Yes, that’s where the true fear lies — in the nagging possibility that there are somehow enough idiots in this country to allow this guy to pull off another Electoral College miracle, à la 2016.

Trump never goes to church, but he has disciples, a floating congregation of dead-head sycophants who see him — almost literally — as the second coming. Even the evangelicals, of all people, see this adulterous, lying, cheating layabout as reflective of their faith — faith, in this case, apparently being the ability to totally ignore reality.

In the Truth Social post cited above, for example, The Donald implores Republicans in Congress to “defund these political prosecutions,” ignoring the fact that the Democratically controlled Senate and presidency would render moot any such bill passed by Congress. But such real-world details don’t matter in the Church of Trump. All that matters is that you click your heels together and believe he won — and that you’re not in a cult.

Categories
At Large Letter From An Editor Opinion

Mayoral Morass

Paul Young (left) and Van Turner (right). (Photo: Brad Vest for MLK50)

“So, who are you voting for for mayor?”

I’ve gotten asked that question a number of times in recent days. I wish I had a resounding answer, but the truth is, I still don’t know for sure.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of possibilities. There will be no fewer than 17 (!) mayoral candidates on the ballot. In case you don’t have them memorized, they are: Carnita Faye Atwater, Jennings Bernard, Floyd Bonner, Joe Brown, Kendra Calico, Karen Camper, J.W. Gibson, Reggie William Hall, James M. Harvey, Willie W. Herenton, Michelle McKissack, Brandon A. Price, Justina Ragland, Tekeva Shaw, Van Turner, Derek Winn, and Paul A. Young.

Early voting started last week and Election Day is October 5th, so we all need to figure it out soon, obviously. I’m going to run through my thinking process here. You are free to take it or leave it.

By process of elimination, I can get rid of 11 candidates, either because I’ve never heard of them, or I’ve heard of them and can’t imagine voting for them for mayor. Looking at you, Judge Joe Brown.

That leaves six possible candidates for my vote (your mileage may vary): Floyd Bonner, Willie Herenton, Michelle McKissack, Paul Young, J.W. Gibson, and Van Turner.

Though the mayor’s race is technically nonpartisan, Bonner appears to be the candidate supported by the Republican Party. You probably received a flyer from the self-proclaimed nonpartisan group, The 901 Initiative, recently. The “grades” that the (anonymous) group posted for all mayoral and city council candidates make it clear who they’re backing. Their roots are showing. The fact that many candidates didn’t participate in the survey didn’t stop the group from giving out (mostly bad) grades on those candidates’ policies. This is some bogus crap.

Bonner is a cop and probably a decent guy, but 55 people have died in Shelby County Jail on his five-year watch and I don’t trust Republicans these days (or that A- they gave Bonner), so I’m going to pass on ol’ Floyd.

Then there’s Herenton, who was elected the city’s first Black mayor in 1991 and won reelection four times. After winning his fifth term in 2007, he resigned in 2009 to run for Congress. He lost that race and ran unsuccessfully for mayor in 2019, losing to current Mayor Jim Strickland. Now 83, he’s back again, with a platform that can be basically summed up as: “I’m Willie Herenton and they’re not.” He’s refused to participate in any forums or debates with other candidates, preferring to sit back and trust that his loyal base will come through for him. Sound familiar?

Here’s the thing: With so many candidates in the race, getting 15 percent of the vote might be enough to win, and some early polling has shown Herenton in that ballpark. I voted for Herenton three times, but he’s not getting my vote this time around.

And speaking of polling … here’s the latest (September 7th) from Hart Research and the nonprofit TN Prospers: Young (20 percent); Bonner (19 percent); Herenton (13 percent); Turner (9 percent).

Gibson (5 percent) and McKissack (3 percent) are long shots. I’ve worked with McKissack and like her, but neither she nor Gibson appear to have gained enough traction to win this thing, so I’m not going to vote for one of them and possibly help swing the election to Herenton or Bonner.

So what about Paul Young? He worked for Shelby County Mayor Mark Luttrell, then headed the city’s Division of Housing and Community Development, and now is CEO of the Downtown Memphis Commission. Of the top three in that poll, Young wins my vote, hands down.

But … I’m vacillating because lots of smart progressives I know and respect are supporting Van Turner, including three who endorsed him last weekend: DA Steve Mulroy, County Mayor Lee Harris, and Congressman Steve Cohen. I’ve voted for these guys and I trust their judgment, but as I stated above, I don’t want to vote for someone who can’t win and thereby help swing the election to Bonner or Herenton.

So, as much as I like voting early, this time around I’m going to wait a little longer, hoping to see some more polling before I head over to Mississippi Boulevard Church to cast my vote. At this point, you might say I’m Young and restless.

Categories
At Large Opinion

A September Morning

Nearly 3000 people were killed in the 9/11 attacks. (Photo: Kentannenbaum | Dreamstime.com)

As the early sun climbed into a cloudless sky, the city went about its business as usual. At the Starbucks on Union, a line of commuters waited for their tall cappuccinos. Joggers were jogging, cyclists were biking. Birds were singing high in the grand oaks of Midtown. Memphis was beginning a September Tuesday, and a beautiful one it was.

And then we started hearing the news, the horrible, unbelievable news that transfixed the country and forever altered the course of American history. It began with a kaleidoscope of images and speculative reporting. A plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. Was it a terrible accident or terrorism? Nobody knew. Stay tuned. We’ll have more as the story develops. Then, 18 minutes later, a second plane struck the other WTC tower and the intentional nature of the attacks became apparent.

We’d barely begun to let the enormity of these events sink in, when we learned that yet another airliner had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Then, we watched in stunned disbelief as the tallest buildings in New York City collapsed upon themselves, one after another, killing thousands in a slow-motion horror movie.

By the time we’d learned of a fourth plane crashing in the middle of Pennsylvania, it seemed the chaos and carnage might not end soon. Were there more attacks coming? What the hell was happening?

With each new revelation of death and destruction came a queasy fear, a growing sense of awareness that the United States was no longer a safe haven, isolated from the bloody but distant terrorism that plagued the rest of the world. We too were vulnerable — at the mercy of an evil that seemed too deep to comprehend, too much to take in on that sunny September morning.

We called friends and family, no matter where they were, seeking assurance that they were okay, seeking affirmation that they too had seen the news, had shared — were sharing — the nightmare on everyone’s television.

The events of September 11, 2001, became a Pearl Harbor moment for all of us old enough to experience and remember the day. Anyone who lived through it can tell you where they were when they got the news. I first heard about it in my car, on Drake & Zeke’s morning radio show. They were at first discussing the incident as though it might have been an accident, maybe a private plane? No one knew. Soon, I’d switched to a more news-oriented station, and by the time I got to the Flyer office 15 minutes later, everyone on staff had gathered around a television.

“So,” said one Flyer reporter, after an hour or so, “I guess we’re not gonna go with that ‘Nightlife in Memphis’ cover story for tomorrow.”

It really wasn’t meant to be funny, but it somehow broke the spell, reminding us that we had a job to do, and that that job had changed. We cobbled together a reaction story and somehow got the paper to the printer a day late. And “9/11” became a number that would be forever etched in our brains.

Now, it’s 22 years later. Most college students weren’t even born in 2001. They studied 9/11 in high school history classes, just as my generation studied World War II. I don’t remember ever getting emotional while reading about Pearl Harbor in my history books, and that’s because I didn’t live it. I didn’t feel it. It was no more real to me than the battle of Gettysburg.

My father’s generation lived it and felt it. My dad, a Navy man, drove around Hiroshima in a jeep not long after the atom bomb fell, a thing that seems insane and impossible, looking back on it. But I know it happened because I saw the square, brown-tinted photos of the city, his jeep, and his ship docked in Hiroshima harbor in a weathered scrapbook he kept in a drawer.

That generation is mostly gone now, along with their emotions and memories of Pearl Harbor and World War II. Most of you reading this carry the emotions and memories of living through 9/11, another day that will live in infamy. Don’t keep them stuck away in a drawer. Share. History does have a tendency to repeat itself.

Categories
At Large Opinion

Age Before Duty

A striking resemblance. (Photo: Barol16 | Dreamstime.com)

Did you see the latest Mitch McConnell moment last week? For the second time in recent weeks, the minority leader of the Senate just “froze,” seemingly unable to move or speak for almost 30 seconds after hearing a reporter’s question. An aide came forward, grasped his arm, and asked if he heard the question. McConnell mumbled, “Yes,” but continued to stand motionless for a bit longer.

The 81-year-old McConnell fell and suffered a concussion in March, and was subsequently away from his job for several weeks. The reoccurrence of a freeze moment renewed questions about his ability to continue to lead the Republicans in the Senate.

The New York Times interviewed two neurologists who viewed video of the incident and said it could have been a “mini-stroke” or “partial seizure.” A spokesperson for McConnell’s office did not share any further details about the incident, including whether or not the senator had seen a doctor. McConnell has continued to insist that he will run for reelection. Ironically, that was the very question that sent the senator into his second freeze.

There have been similarly troubling incidents with Senator Dianne Feinstein of California. Now 89, the senator missed 91 votes over the course of several months last winter and spring due to medical issues with shingles, facial paralysis, and encephalitis. She returned to the Senate in April, but appeared confused when questioned by reporters. “I haven’t been gone,” she said. “I’ve been here and voting.” Nope, sorry, Dianne. You’ve been gone. Feinstein, like McConnell, is insistent that she will finish her term, which ends in 2025.

If you watched or read any right-wing media, you’d quickly get the impression that President Joe Biden is in worse shape than either McConnell or Feinstein. There are countless memes and deceptively edited videos on social media and conservative cable channels that show the 80-year-old Biden as a gibbering, dementia-ridden geezer. Fox News hosts ride this horse on a daily basis: Biden is too mentally incompetent to be president. We can expect this drumbeat to only get louder as we enter the election year of 2024.

Judging from the unedited videos I’ve watched of Biden speaking in impromptu situations in recent weeks, he does not appear to be mentally impaired. He talks in complete sentences and seems to have a grasp on the issues he’s discussing. He misspeaks occasionally, but the man does have a lifelong stuttering problem. His probable opponent for the presidency, Donald Trump, is only two-and-a-half years younger and is himself no stranger to verbal gaffes.

For the record, I don’t think we’re sending our best people for this job. It’s like we have two old guys climbing rickety ladders to a third-story window and voters are hoping their guy doesn’t fall off first. I think the Democrats’ old guy is by far the saner choice, but making long-term plans with people at these candidates’ ages is fraught with peril. Just ask Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Oops. Sorry. Maybe ask Feinstein or McConnell? Oh, wait, never mind.

And don’t talk to me about the supposed third-party candidates. Robert Kennedy Jr.? Loon. Cornel West? Loon. Who else you got? Tulsi Gabbard? Loon. None of them have a chance to do anything other than possibly throw the election into chaos. And we already have a pretty good shot at that happening with just two candidates. 

Trump polls as the most-disliked politician in America, blathers like a narcissistic fool, and is built like a pierogi — not exactly the picture of mental or physical health. But his base doesn’t care what he says or does or looks like. Trump could freeze in the middle of Fifth Avenue for an hour and it wouldn’t matter.

Biden has good cases to make on the economy, unemployment, prescription drugs, infrastructure, abortion rights, LGBTQ issues, and the environment. His policies are in line with the majority of voters, according to most polls. But even so, all it will take is one McConnell-like moment for the president and the hounds of hell will be unleashed, the news filled with “Is Joe Biden too old?” stories. At that point, the Democrats can release all the Bikin’ Biden videos in the world and it won’t dispel the fact that he’s 80 and looks his age. It’s going to be an interesting year, I’m afraid. 

Categories
At Large Opinion

“Mr. 69”

A fond memento of a subpar round (Photo: Bruce VanWyngarden)

I used to play golf with three other guys every Sunday at the Links at Galloway. We always paired off, with the same twosomes competing against each other. The matches were spirited but friendly. There was betting, but if you won five bucks, it was a big deal. We were semi-decent golfers but nobody was going to set the course record. An 80 was a respectable score, and anything in the 70s was considered a very nice round, indeed. We played from the white (middle) tees and there were no gimmes (conceded putts), to eliminate any arguments about when a putt was “good.”

One Sunday in the fall of 2013, I shot a 69 — one under par. This was a big deal to me, something I’d never done before and have never done since. My pals were all excited and rooting for me during the last couple of holes. There were high fives all around when I sank that last putt, and I bought beers in the clubhouse afterwards.

The following week, my playing partner, the painter John Ryan, found a small trophy at a junk store and engraved it with “Mr. 69.” It still sits on my desk, and I still smile at the memories it evokes.

This was all brought freshly to mind last weekend, when a former president of the United States made the following announcement on Truth Social: “I am pleased to report, for those that care, that I just won the Senior Club Championship (must be over 50 years old) at Bedminster (Trump National Golf Club), shooting a 67. Now some people will think that sounds low, but there is no hanky/lanky. Many people watch, plus I am surrounded by Secret Service Agents. Not much you can do even if you wanted to, and I don’t. For some reason, I am just a good golfer/athlete — I have won many club championships, and it is always a great honor.”

That is truly the saddest paragraph I’ve read in a long time. And no, I’m not talking about the fact that Trump thinks “hanky/lanky” is a thing. It’s sad because the man just assumes people will think he is lying — and, of course, he’s right. Bedminster is a professional-level, 7,500-yard, par 72 course, one where professional golfer Phil Mickelson barely broke 80 a few weeks back. The idea that the lumpy 77-year-old Trump could shoot five under par at Bedminster is as ludicrous as the weight and height (6’3”, 215 pounds) he gave Fani Willis last Thursday.

One could maybe give Trump the benefit of the doubt if it was a handicap tournament. (A handicap in golf is your established average score. If a golfer averages an 82, for instance, their handicap is 10 at a par 72 course.) In a tournament where handicaps are applied, if that golfer shoots a 77, his net score would be 67, but no golfer with integrity would then claim that he shot a 67. One suspects that Trump, if the score he claimed to shoot is true, won by using his handicap. But who knows anything at this point? I mean, this is the course where Ivana, aka mother of the three children Trump pays attention to, is buried, so there’s already some weirdness afoot.

But what really makes this so sad is that it appears Trump won his club championship in the stolid, sworn-to-silence company of Secret Service agents rather than enjoying the camaraderie of some pals cheering him on to victory. “For some reason, I am just a good golfer/athlete” is one of the most disconsolate sentences ever written. I can’t help it if I’m good, he says, “for those that care.” Yeesh. Poor Donny.

Even sadder for Trump, is the fact that he’ll never beat the record of the greatest golfer to ever lead a country. I’m talking, of course, about former Korean dictator Kim Jong Il, who in 1994 at the age of 52, shot 38 under par, with 11 holes in one. And it was the first time he ever played! Fittingly, Kim Jong Il died 17 years later at age 69, which is under par on every regulation golf course in the world. For some reason, he was just a good golfer/athlete — the original “Mr. 69.”