Author: Randy Haspel

I understand that television viewership for the Masters golf tournament was up 50 percent, since Tiger Woods decided to participate. Maybe fans thought he would be chased down the fairway by galleries of persistent process servers. But the crowds at Augusta care far less if you cheat on your wife than if you cheat on your

scorecard. That would be unforgivable. So, the drama was minimal, and the right lefty won without a whole lot of suspense. In fact, the final round was so lacking in leader-board thrills that all the new tabloid golf aficionados might have gotten bored, which got me thinking of ways to make the game more exciting for its future survival.

First, let’s get some helmets and a few strategic pads on these guys and have a different golfer tee off every 45 seconds. This forces the athlete to sprint after his shot and hit it again, lest he be struck from behind. Someone slow, like John Daly, can make up for it by out-driving the players in front of him. And none of this “who’s away” stuff either. Everybody hits all at once and races to the hole, while the gallery holds out cups of cold water. And we get rid of both the bulky golf bag and the caddy. Every player gets four clubs: a wood, an iron, a wedge, and a putter, which they must carry in a quiver strapped across their backs. Let them use their skills like my high school teacher, who was a Christian Brother. Because his vows of poverty prevented him from owning a set of expensive clubs, he had one club with a five-way adjustable club-face. By restricting the number of clubs, the need for poofy woods covers with tassels will be eliminated. (What kind of man puts pom poms on his wood, anyway?) Instead of an all-day affair, we could wrap this thing up by lunchtime. The winner will be determined by the combined low score and fastest time, with the least severe injuries.

Because our world is an unruly place, we need to relax the rules on crowd noise. If a pitcher has to throw a strike or a basketball player has to sink a free throw with 60,000 people screaming obscenities at them, let these boys swing away to the sounds of a howling mob and the occasional blast of an air-horn. To be fair, the golfer should receive extra points for striking spectators. And for hitting anyone yelling “You the man,” an instant cash bonus is awarded.

Golfers deserve to get as dirty as rugby players, so we’ll replace the illogically conceived sand traps with the more natural mud trap and let them hack around barefoot in there for a while. The good thing is you don’t need to rake when you’re finished. The surface will just ooze back to level on its own. The rough can be made far more challenging. Rather than merely hitting from tall grass, the rough will be stocked with various rodents and reptiles to really test the courage of the wayward golfer, and rather than fairway trees, we’ll build a few tire fires to obscure the view of the flag. And since obstacles are a treasured feature of miniature golf, there’s no reason a few windmills can’t be erected, along with some giant clown heads with gaping mouths for marksmanship.

Today’s tournament professionals are just not dressing as flamboyantly as their predecessors, who often resembled rental party clowns. As with every other sport, the uniform should be uniform for all. I recall the late Payne Stewart making a fashion statement in his throwback “plus fours,” knee socks, and cat hat, cutting a dashing Gatsbyesque figure. All golfers will therefore be required to wear 1930s attire in tribute to the legendary Bobby Jones, with knickers, argyle stockings, and a proper sweater vest. Then no one in the locker room can object if someone yells, “Where my knickers at?”

There will be no more rain delays. Helmeted men sloshing through a thunderstorm carrying metal sticks only adds to the excitement. And if they wish to call a fairway hazard a “bunker,” allow mercenaries from Blackwater to defend them from the club-wielding hordes. Golf courses take up entirely too much land, so future links will consist of only nine holes while retaining the ability to play 18. The competitors will simply play the front nine from tee to green, then turn around and play the back nine from green to tee. The arrangement becomes particularly exciting when the rounds overlap and the golfers are actually hitting at each other. This way, a player going into the final hole down by four strokes can still win if the leader is disabled and can’t complete the competition.

The presently confusing descriptions of scoring need simplification. The terms ace, eagle, and birdie will remain the same, but, staying with the avian theme, the new word for par is “duck.” A bogey will now be known as a “turkey,” followed by a “buzzard.” Anything over double-bogey is a “grackle.” Finally, under the new rules there will be no more golf jokes, because non-golfers don’t understand the references. They think a mixed foursome is a night with Tiger Woods at the Las Vegas House of Blues. Which reminds me: A mixed foursome has just reached the first green, and while one of the men stood over his putt, his partner noticed something out of place. He rushed to his side and whispered urgently, “The ladies are watching and you must have forgotten your underwear because your testicles are hanging down out of your shorts.”

“I know,” the golfer replied. “It keeps the gnats out of my eyes when I putt.”

See, a non-golfer would find no humor in a joke like that.

Finally, henceforth, anyone winning a green jacket must wear it everywhere he goes, just like Bruce Pearl and his orange sportcoat. If these changes don’t enliven the game, we can always build new public courses inside failing shopping malls. It’s called a “win-win.”

Randy Haspel writes the blog “Born-Again Hippies,” where a version of this column first appeared.

It happened in the 1930s, it happened in the 1960s, and it’s happening again now. The public dialogue becomes so heated in troubled times that demagogues with media access and conscience-challenged politicians pit one group against another for personal or political gain. Those who feel ignored and powerless begin to raise their voices, and the conflict heats and simmers. Sides are chosen, people march in the street and hold rallies. After a series of frustrations, the extreme element becomes the loudest voice of protest and drowns out any chance for dialogue with the other side, and then the rhetoric really turns ugly. As one side demonizes the other, the kettle boils over until some unhinged “law-abiding citizen” decides to alter history, and then somebody gets killed.

We are only one delusional psychotic who wants to impress Jodie Foster away from deadly violence. The Tea Party is taking its circus of horrors, with its vitriolic speakers, on the road. Coming to a town near you: roving bands of surly, misinformed, Toby Keith fans — and they’re armed.

I’d like to ask the folks who show up at these rallies one question: Who do you suppose is paying for this cartoon caravan to traverse the nation’s highways, organizing pro-anarchy assemblies for the disgruntled? While the poor, oppressed white people howl about “taking their country back” from the evil, fascist Democrats, they are being financed by ultraconservative billionaire families with names like Coors, Scaife, and Koch. Unlimited funding is available from racketeers like the American Enterprise Institute or Freedom Works, the Tea Party’s sponsors, to set up front groups to organize “grass roots” protests. While the Teabaggers rail against big government and the “Washington elites,” former speaker of the House Dick Armey is behind the scenes stirring the pot and making nice money doing it.

In the 1930s and 1960s, it was the poor and voiceless rising up against the wealthy and powerful. Now, the wealthy and powerful are paying the tab and pulling the protesters’ strings to try and prevent any further progressive legislation from cutting into their personal fortunes. The insane reaction in the wake of the passage of health-care reform, including death threats, vile voice messages, calls for vandalism against Democrats’ offices, and rhetoric alluding to gun violence, is equal to the excesses of any 1960s anti-war protest. Is all this rage really over giving 30 million people access to health insurance, or is there something deeper going on here? Although the leaders of the most recent Tea Party gathering in Nevada urged the crowd to tone down its nastiness (because of bad press), the racist element is still unmistakable. Many of these people believe Barack Obama is attempting to take away their tax money and give it to a drug dealer in Orange Mound for “reparations.”

I have no regrets about my participation in the anti-war demonstrations of the late 1960s, but I do regret being associated with the Weather Underground. The conduct of protesters on the fringes of the argument succeeded only in further polarizing the country. On November 15, 1969, I traveled to Washington, D.C., with 500,000 of my closest friends to march in the Moratorium to End the Vietnam War. As we walked toward the Capitol, I saw throngs of people, including entire families, making their way peacefully to the event. We listened to speakers like Dr. Benjamin Spock and Senator Eugene McCarthy and heard Peter, Paul, and Mary and Pete Seeger lead the crowd in singing John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance.” But right up front, blocking the view of the speaker’s platform, was a small group of Yippie radicals who had staked out their prime real estate in advance and were flying a giant Viet Cong flag.

Whatever your feelings about the war, the North Vietnamese were holding American prisoners. Men I knew from high school were serving in Vietnam, and I understood that if flying the enemy’s flag on the National Mall was repulsive to me, it would be enraging to those we were trying to persuade. The indelible image of the peace march in the collective consciousness was not one of peaceful assembly but of a few deranged hippies breaking windows and taunting police.

Shakespeare said, “The past is prologue,” so I am now able to accurately predict the future: These stonewallers and provocateurs should try to acclimate themselves to fringe status. While the Tea Party Express rolls into town like a pack of demented carnival barkers and fleeces the marks for contributions to help overturn legislation, the calmer majority of the populace looks upon the spectacle like watching bad theater. Men dressed in camouflage and carrying weapons and women holding homemade signs with inflammatory, racist slogans will not sway reasonable voters, just as waving the enemy’s flag did nothing to help end the Vietnam War.

And, by the way, without young people, your movement is doomed. Because they’re making the most noise, the Tea Party goofballs are convinced that they are on a victory march to overthrow the popularly elected government of the United States. They fail to see themselves as others see them and thus will be the most surprised at their utter failure to effect change. Then, the rest of us will really have cause for concern. I pray for the vigilance of the Secret Service. As history makes quite clear: from such political movements violence emerges.

Randy Haspel writes the blog “Born-Again Hippies,” where a version of this column first appeared.

Chief Justice John Roberts is a sanctimonious jackalope. Oh, I’m sorry. Am I in contempt of court? The Supreme Court is deserving of the most supreme contempt for their recent ruling opening the floodgates of unlimited corporate cash into the political system. As if it weren’t bad enough already, with a dozen lobbyists for every legislator in Congress, now the richest corporations can simply buy congressional seats and slip their personal lackeys directly into the office. This bypasses all that pesky business about representative democracy and allows the financial markets to speak. Welcome to the United Corporate States of America, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Peoples’ Republic of China.

The court’s decision, in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, passed on a 5-4 vote along strictly partisan lines, showing what 20 years worth of Reagan-Bush appointees will get you: judges so “business friendly” they are willing to protect corporate expenditures against the peoples’ right to hold free and fair elections.

The First Amendment has long protected the corporation as an “individual” with all the same rights of free speech as a real human, hence that quaint colloquialism “corporate citizen.” But this is the first time the court has interpreted “speech” to mean “money.” The verdict overrules two precedents restricting campaign spending by corporations and unions, including the McCain-Feingold Campaign Reform Act, and states that limiting corporate spending in advocating for a candidate is “governmental regulation of political speech.” The explosion that followed the decision was the sound of champagne corks popping all over K Street in Washington and Madison Avenue in New York.

Among the many legitimate philosophical differences between conservatives and liberals, there is one issue that we can all agree on: The most corrosive and dangerous element in our presently polarized politics is not the filibuster or attack ads or even partisanship. It’s money. Cash corrupts the process more than any malfunctioning voting machine, and it creates false perceptions among voters about their candidates. I’ll own up to being as gullible as the next guy after being totally fooled by the John Edwards presidential campaign. It’s easy for an advertiser to portray a scoundrel as a loving family man if the participants are in on the scam. What’s to prevent the NRA, or the health insurance lobby, or Wall Street banks and brokerage firms from hiring Oliver Stone to produce campaign commercials that make Super Bowl ads look like QVC? We’ll find out soon enough, in 2012, when we begin electing our public officials, from court clerk to president, like we’re voting for the Video Music Awards.

Even after this onerous decision, the “Father Knows Best” automaton known as John Roberts had the temerity to bristle at the criticism that followed, especially from the president during his State of the Union address. Roberts told University of Alabama law students that the president’s speech had turned into a “political pep rally,” as if that’s not what the State of the Union address already is, and wondered if it was appropriate for the justices to even be there. This pomposity comes from a man who might not even be on the court if George W. Bush had succeeded in getting his gushing groupie, Harriet Miers, confirmed. Roberts was up for the seat of Sandra Day O’Connor when William Rhenquist, for whom Roberts served as law clerk, up and croaked, making the new justice not merely another conservative appointee but the leader of the “Roberts Five”: Johnny, Sam, Tony, Anton, and Clarence. The conservatives always rail against “activist judges” who “legislate from the bench,” until they become the majority and then that’s exactly what they do. Campaign contributions are not the same thing as corporate funding. One is free speech; the other is free speech through an expensive megaphone.

Years ago, people of a certain age will remember that leaving Memphis heading north, it was necessary to cross over the Wolf River. The waterway was then the repository for the city’s raw sewage, and the odor was so god-awful, it was like a barroom bathroom after a rough weekend. Thanks to advanced filtration technologies and citizen groups like the Wolf River Conservancy, the river today, if not pristine, is a far cleaner place. Such is the current state of our public election system — somewhat polluted but generally passable and reasonably dependable. However, what the Roberts court has done is to remove all the necessary filtering devices and allow the sewage to flow unchecked back into the mainstream of the body politic, and it will take years to reverse the course of the sludge that’s rolling in like a special-interest tsunami.

A famous jurist once said in regard to the landmark 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision that desegregated the public schools: “The court in that case, of course, overruled a prior decision. I don’t think that constitutes judicial activism because, obviously, if the decision is wrong, it should be overruled. That’s not activism. That’s applying the law correctly.” That judge’s name was John Roberts, who turned out to be just another self-important, middle-aged white dude in a black robe.

Randy Haspel writes the blog “Born-Again Hippies,” where a version of this column first appeared.

I wanted to say the Winter Olympics “left me cold,” in memory of my friend and master punster Mike Stoker, but I guess I’ll have to wait until they hold the games someplace where they have a heavy snowfall, like Virginia. Though the games got a little slushy at times, the Vancouver Olympics was an entertaining diversion from the usual television fare. But now I’m seeing skaters in my sleep — leaping, twirling, dancing, jumping, racing. I tried ice skating once when I was a kid, but it hurt my ankles. It just wasn’t a Southern thing. My wife Melody and I particularly enjoyed the women’s figure skating, where they spin vigorously and hand-lift one skate overhead. I affectionately referred to these moves as the “Multi-Lutz” into the “Here’s My Vagina.” For the pairs, I added the innovative “Hogback Growler,” and Johnny Weir did the “Nancy.” Melody did get a little annoyed with me when each time a skater hit the deck, I yelled, “Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!” in my best Howard Cosell impression. Boxing on ice should be considered for the next games.

Ordinarily, I approve of any sport where there is the potential for fatalities, but who could have imagined that sliding down an ice chute at 100 mph, feet first and on your back, would produce an injury? I thought this was the reason people attended auto races. This was like NASCAR, only without the car. Then, in addition to a lack of snow for the alpine skiing events, the opening ceremony suffered a mechanical malfunction when one of those giant Fortress of Solitude crystal things didn’t inflate, and some poor schmuck was left standing with his torch in his hand. The mystery of who would be the last torchbearer was disappointing when it turned out to be Wayne Gretzky instead of Gordon Lightfoot. Fortunately, the games themselves were exhilarating, and they managed to get through both an opening and closing ceremony without a single appearance by Celine Dion.

Some of the winter sports are just plain goofy. There is the skating and shooting contest for potential militia recruits. And what is this fresh obsession with curling? For over a week, MSNBC forsook its “Network for Politics” moniker for the “Curling Network.” This is a sport for the truly bored. I’ve been more entertained watching elderly Jews play shuffleboard in Boca Raton. If curling is an Olympic event, then senior shuffleboard should be too.

The games had their share of characters and emotions, like the spoilsport Rusky figure skater and his cheerleader, Vlad Putin, who learned that real men don’t need quadruple jumps, even if they’re dressed in a black leotard with an embroidered snake around their neck. And the Dutch coach who got his skater disqualified should be an object lesson in questioning authority. The story of the Canadian skater who lost her mother was truly touching, although the series of subsequent interviews on every single NBC news or sports show bordered on the macabre. I learned that Shaun White is either Superman or the Tiger Woods of snowboarding. Perhaps I should rephrase that. And the Canadian national anthem is far lovelier than ours and definitely not as tedious as the Russian anthem, which is longer than “Stairway to Heaven.” I understand that Vladimir Putin reared his head and requested that the discarded old Soviet anthem be reinstated, so it’s never too late to join my crusade to change our national anthem from a Bavarian drinking song to the Ray Charles version of “America the Beautiful.” Yes, we can.

The hockey final between the U.S.A. and Canada was the most watched television event in Canadian history, perhaps lending credence to the rumor that Canadians prefer their sexual congress in the canine manner, so they can both watch the hockey game. That’s where the term “Mounties” comes from, by the way. When Canada won in overtime, I was happy for them. Though by the time announcer Al Michaels proffered, “This is a goal that will resonate throughout history,” I had already forgotten about it. Ice hockey’s not my thing, and this looked like another NHL All-Star game, and nobody I knew was broken-hearted that the U.S. won silver. I mean, it wasn’t like the Tigers lost or anything.

Plus, the big hockey win left the Canadians in a good mood for the closing ceremonies. The athletes were dressed in paper smocks that made them all look like colonoscopy patients — or the front row at a Gallagher show. Then, a group of large men pushed giant, inflated beavers onto the ice, accompanied by dancing Royal Mounted Police and checkered-shirted lumberjacks, making the whole thing appear to have been choreographed by either John Waters or Monty Python.

So, finally, it’s farewell to the Winter Olympics until Russia in 2014 (unless President Palin decides to boycott the games) and on to London, 2012, where we can return to real sports like Ping-Pong, synchronized swimming, and bikini beach volleyball.

Randy Haspel writes the blog “Born Again Hippies,” where a version of this column first appeared.

I understood what the National Tea Party Convention in Nashville was all about as soon as I heard the audience’s response to former Colorado congressman and professional xenophobe Tom Tancredo’s wistful reminiscences about literacy tests at the polls. He said, “People who could not spell the word vote or say it in English, put a committed socialist ideologue in the White House named Barack Hussein Obama.”

In one phrase, Tancredo managed to insult blacks, Hispanics, and the majority of U.S. voters, and the crowd’s reaction was startling yet familiar. Tancredo had harnessed the mob’s basest instincts and their instinctive response was manifested in a high-pitched banshee wail that I recognized immediately as the “Rebel Yell.” There’s nothing quite as chilling as being outnumbered in a clamor of Southern yahoos and good old boys when someone lets loose the Rebel Yell. I’ve heard it all my life, and it means “I’ve got my blood up, by God,” and suddenly the air becomes electric with the potential for violence and “outsiders” find themselves in danger. During last week’s Kleagle gathering in Nashville, the Tea Baggers did everything but burn a cross.

And that was before the headliner even showed up. Sarah Palin gave the mob their money’s worth while demonstrating that she could star in the sequel to Mean Girls. As I listened to her mocking tone, her empty, bumper-sticker platitudes, and her irrational personal attacks on the president, accompanied by the howls of her receptive audience, I remembered where I had seen all this before. Palin’s grim visage and set jaw was reminiscent of her true mentor, George Corley Wallace. The Tea Party crowd is the re-assembled Wallace coalition of 1968 that gathered just enough votes to put Richard Nixon in the White House. Their message was the same then as now: Stop the socialists and their ideas about Medicaid and Medicare, crush dissenters, oppose the federal guvment in favor of “state’s rights,” and return the Negro to his proper place in society. But even Wallace, in his declining years, saw the immorality of his lifelong convictions and spent his final days visiting black churches in Alabama, begging for forgiveness. Palin is just getting warmed up.

The former half-governor was a red-meat cornucopia to the angry and fearful, but it doesn’t take Carl Jung to figure out what’s at work here. Palin has a chip on her shoulder like a 2-by-4, and there is a mean-spiritedness that underlies her entire message. She suffers from the inferiority complex of the ruthlessly ambitious but otherwise average. She is in rebellion against those whom she sees as the “elites,” as opposed to “hard-working Americans” like herself. Palin boasts that she never attended an exclusive Eastern university but worked her way through a series of community colleges before earning her journalism degree. She got a gig on local news as a sportscaster; she took music lessons; she entered beauty pageants — all attributes of someone who wants to be in front of the camera. When those efforts came a cropper, she and Todd found God and politics. And when Miss Wasilla became the mayor of Wasilla, the cross-eyed girl became a swan. Palin discovered that, like a one-eyed man in the world of the blind, a fairly attractive person could be a star in the realm of the homely. There just aren’t that many pretty politicians, and the Republican Party is always looking for the next Dan Quayle.

Disguising hate speech is Palin’s forte, but even she surpassed the gag threshold by rhetorically asking Obama supporters, “How’s that hopey, changey thing workin’ out for ya?” The mob went wild when she said that we needed a commander in chief and not a “law professor speaking at a lectern.” Although Palin was likely referring to Obama’s professorial “elitism,” judging from the Rebel Yell, her Southern audience probably took it in another way. See, in Tea Party world, they don’t like it when our Negroes go off to study law and start believing they know everything. But Sarah mindlessly continued to stoke the resentments of her all-white audience, and they responded like a crowd at a monster truck rally.

The degree of racial animus varies throughout the South, but nothing much has changed in the way of visceral attitudes. In Memphis, where there is racial voting parity, public jibes are now couched in prosaic phrases, because it’s not acceptable any longer to be openly racist (unless you’re former mayor W.W. Herenton, who makes up his own rules). In Nashville, they have no such restraint. I never witnessed more blatant racism anywhere than in my decade of living in the Music City. So it was appropriate that the Tea Party Convention was held at Opryland. The conventioneers have convinced themselves that they are the “real” Americans and the true “patriots” upon whose shoulders falls the duty of purging the government of subversive elements. So did the Dixiecrats, the McCarthyites, and the Wallace devotees. The only difference now is that the reactionaries have a pretty face to follow straight to hell. After a season of slander and worse, this bunch has revealed its true nature, and just like Johnny Nash, “I can see clearly now.” But don’t attempt to disguise yourselves as “fiscal conservatives” or “small-government libertarians” when you’re nothing more than another movement in a long line of misinformed lynch mobs. If knowledge is power, then knowledge of history is the power to avert bullshit when you see it coming. There’s an enormous mudslide on the way.

I recognized another certain sign of aging tonight: The Grammy Awards no longer piss me off. When I was a worshipper at the altar of pop music, the annual music awards show was always my opportunity to vent at the establishment. Every time they gave another award to Henry Mancini instead of, say, the Kinks, I had the chance to rage against the machine. But the machine has shifted gears, and the world of popular music is in an upheaval for which the industry is still groping for answers. I stopped following the pop charts around the time cassette tapes came on the market, so my soundtrack has pretty much remained unchanged for the past 30 years. But I still keep an eye on it, and this year’s awards were perfectly satisfactory. Some talented people won, and when the awards ended, my heart was filled with like.

I mean, how can you not like Lady Gaga? Not only is she outrageous and provocative, she’s also seriously good. She opened the show in a futuristic, tight-fitting costume that gave new meaning to the term “cleavage.” Strutting in front of the now obligatory flying wedge of dancers that Michael Jackson hath wrought, Gaga was flung into a fiery kettle and emerged face to face with Elton John, with whom she performed a stunning duo on twin pianos covered in what appeared to be severed arms from the “Thriller” video. For some unknown reason, they were both covered in soot and wearing outlandish sunglasses. I don’t know what the effect was supposed to be, but between Lady Gaga’s outfit and Sir Elton’s latest fright wig, they both looked like they just stepped out of the cast of Cats. The performance set up the evening’s theme of incongruous duets.

As scintillating as was the Gaga-John partnership, the pairing of America’s sweetheart Taylor Swift with America’s ex-girlfriend Stevie Nicks was nearly excruciating, and that was just the singing. It looked like “take your daughter to work” day at the Grammys. Mary J. Blige, who has a nice voice, and Andrea Bocelli sang an operatic version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” for Haitian relief, which inspired me to write a short poem:

Mary J. Blige might be Queen of the Scene,

But she’s no Mavis Staples, if you know what I mean.

The tribute to Michael Jackson proves that you can grow tired of anything after a while. The 3-D video may have looked nice in the Staples Center, but in my living room it just caused retinal burn. And the kids are adorable, but enough already. (I’ll still probably buy the damn film though.) Also, I know Maxwell is supposed to be the next big thing, but singing “Where Is the Love” with Roberta Flack will invariably draw comparisons to Donnie Hathaway … not a great idea. Flack, who was either drunk or done, was just awful, which is heartbreaking to a man who once wept through an entire, early-’70s Roberta Flack concert at the Mid-South Coliseum. I understand how hard it is to sing live, but somebody ought to tell her.

The evening’s longest performance belonged to Recording Academy president Neil Portnoy, who bragged about the association’s good deeds and solicited donations for Haitian earthquake relief before the screed turned into Portnoy’s complaint, where he scolded the listening public over illegal downloading and file-sharing. It’s fun to watch the “industry” so hapless and lost after their decades-long stranglehold on the entirety of the muzic bidness. It was also nice that Jim Dickinson and Willie Mitchell were recognized in memoriam.

Either CBS or WREG Channel 3 seriously screwed up the ending of the show. I suspect I know which. After showing a series of local commercials and no-snow closings, the station had a Heidi moment and blew the entire presentation for Album of the Year. They returned to Taylor Swift’s thank-yous already in progress and eliminated at least four minutes of network feed. It was like reading a mammoth novel and finding the final chapter torn out or listening to a CD that’s missing a few tracks. Aside from the mutilated ending, this year’s Grammys were pleasant. It was justifiable that “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” won Song of the Year for Beyoncé. But it’s obvious that the real song of the year was submitted far too late for consideration. Everyone knows it’s got to be “Pants on the Ground.”

It’s wondrous how quickly the Transportation Security Administration leaps to the task of preventing an attempted act of terror that’s already happened. The Shoe Bomber incident ensured that the flying public would forever tiptoe through security in its stockinged feet. Next, a couple of half-assed, bathtub chemists made certain we’re not allowed to take a bottle of water on a plane. Now, we have what the press has dubbed the “Underpants Bomber,” though I much prefer the more accurately descriptive, “Taint Bomber.”

Following the TSA’s logic, the next step is for everyone to fly naked.

The Taint Bomber hid malfunctioning explosives in his briefs, giving new meaning to the term “Great Balls of Fire.” Now, the cry is for all airports to install full-body X-ray devices, which fulfills every young boy’s fantasy of being Superman and having X-ray vision. I could give a damn if some “professional screener” sees me in my underwear, but if I were a woman, I might be concerned that the man behind the curtain may be enjoying his job a little too much, especially if he is entrusted with the saved images that will be used to provide evidence to the authorities.

The American public sheepishly goes along, tolerating anything for the illusion of safety. The new rule about not being able to go to the bathroom during the last hour of a flight will certainly need to be revisited after passengers start peeing on the floor. And, no books? What the hell are you supposed to do on one of these flying disease incubators — meditate? (And if you do meditate, someone might mistake you for a religious extremist, and the next thing you know, you’d be getting a full-cavity search.)

As terrible as the potential disaster on Christmas Day may have been, the shameless exploitation of the terrorist action by the GOP, not to merely politicize the event but to attempt to fund-raise because of it, is repugnant. Say the word “hijacker” to a Republican, and he begins to salivate over the possibility of bashing the president on national security — especially the disgraced, future convicted felon, Dick Cheney. The now worst former vice president in American history issues missives that seem intended more to harm the president than to prevent future attacks. In fact, Cheney and a handful of hawks almost seem to be wishing for a domestic cataclysm on Obama’s watch so they can say, “See? We’re not the only ones who allowed an egregious lapse of security to cost American lives.”

I have come to the conclusion that Congress, on both sides of the aisle, is a bunch of whores (my representative excepted). The difference is that the Republicans are particularly nasty and syphilitic whores and thus a danger to the common good. The torture party’s credibility on national security is shot and can’t be restored by a “Democratic” airline disaster.

Who wants to endure the humiliation involved with airline travel anymore? This is why things like high-speed rail are so important, not just to offer an alternative to the airline monopoly but to ease chaos at airports and decrease highway traffic. Want to know why we are light years behind the Europeans and Asians in the development of high-speed rail? Fifty years worth of cash from the airlines to Congress, muscle from a corrupted Teamsters Union, and cheap gas, which stopped the railroads in their tracks, so to speak.

I would much prefer riding in a 300-mph bullet train than spending two hours of useless screening before being herded onto another austere and tension-filled flight. Yes, the Madrid bombings proved that trains can be as vulnerable to terrorist attack as planes, but if a bomb detonates on my mode of transport, I’d rather already be on the ground.

The system in place should have prevented the latest violent Islamic extremist from boarding a flight in Amsterdam, but the system failed. The Obama administration, clearly flustered, attempted to explain that he was not on the “no fly list” but rather the “watch list,” which contains half a million names. Bulletin: We have computers now, so rather than harassing millions of passengers at their point of origin, wouldn’t it be wiser to invest in more computerized file-sharing between the airlines and governmental security agencies? The TSA’s current hands-on approach is only succeeding in infuriating passengers and disrupting air travel — exactly al-Qaeda’s intentions. The Taint Bomber made it through security undetected and someone must accept responsibility, but the real question is why this known suspected jihadist, whose own father warned of his radical intentions, was allowed to purchase a ticket on a domestic airliner in the first place?

After Vietnam, I measure a war’s nobility of purpose by asking two simple questions: Would I give my life for it? Would I ask my daughter or son to give theirs? The answer concerning the war in Afghanistan on both counts is “no.” I don’t understand the logic of committing 30,000 more troops to a guerrilla war that can’t be fought with a standing army. The British have already tried that, not only in Afghanistan but in another tussle known as the American Revolution, with similar results. I don’t believe that the president, as a student of history, will repeat the mistakes of Vietnam, yet here we are again, facing an enemy that can be a merchant by day and an insurgent by night, defending a corrupt government that lacks popular support, and sending in an enthusiastic general who is requesting more troops to “complete the job.” Only his name is McChrystal, instead of Westmoreland.

While the real enemy, Al-Qaeda, has an estimated presence in Afghanistan small enough to be defeated by the Tennessee National Guard, their legions have purportedly crossed into Pakistan, so it’s hard to know who the enemy is in Afghanistan. The Taliban were a nasty bunch, as attested by news footage of them whipping women in the streets and blowing up ancient Buddhist statues, long before we invaded. But the purpose for removing them was because they were harboring Osama bin Laden and friends, not for being religious extremists. I realize that the U.S. must keep a force in the region to prevent the murderous conspirators who attacked us from regaining a foothold, but history and the Mossad have proven that terrorists are better fought with special forces trained for that purpose.

It’s not that I don’t trust the president’s judgment in listening to the military’s eternal call of “more troops” or McChrystal’s veracity, although he was involved in the cover-up regarding the death of Pat Tillman, but I choose to believe Secretary of Defense Robert Gates. This is a man who deserves one of those Medals of Freedom that George W. Bush used to hand out like prizes from a Cracker Jacks box. Gates is serving his third president during wartime, having been retrieved from academia to rectify the worldwide chaos wrought by Donald Rumsfeld & Co. Having served as head of the CIA, he could have comfortably remained president of Texas A&M but chose to serve the country again by redirecting the strategy in Iraq and staying on as defense secretary under Obama to focus on Afghanistan. Through it all, Gates’ primary concern has been for the troops, both in the field and after they return home. If this genuine patriot and public servant believes that more troops will now bring this war to a faster conclusion, then I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Several major differences exist between today’s wars and Vietnam. For starters, today’s soldiers are volunteers, while the Vietnam War was fed with draftees who were forced to fight or face jail. The war in Indochina was expanded by LBJ primarily over the issue of the size of his balls. He famously said, “I’m not gonna be the first American president to lose a war.” Nixon and Kissinger had the same missile-headed reflexes and cost millions of more lives. Afghanistan under the Taliban, however, was the staging ground for the 9/11 attacks and deserving of retaliation. Now, Obama has the delicate task of extracting us from this morass. No one can accuse him of bait-and-switch on this issue. He campaigned on the promise to bring the focus of our national security back to the region that still endangers us. If the Gates-McChrystal strategy succeeds, I suggest we never again commit troops to any country with a “stan” in its name.

It’s too bad the Obama haters didn’t listen to his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in Oslo. They would have heard the president describe the use of arms against an unprincipled enemy as “just,” in defense of the citizens he is sworn to protect. He also reminded the “effete” Europeans that the conservatives are so eager to loathe, that their freedoms over the last century have been purchased with large doses of American blood. Obama said something even Dubya could love: “There is evil in the world that must be confronted.” This sober, thoughtful, and historic speech should forever put to rest the wing-nuts’ insistence that Obama is somehow un-American or acting on behalf of dubious forces beyond our borders, but it won’t. They have become so engulfed by hatred and misguided outrage, orchestrated by right-wing, self-serving, borderline seditionists, they can’t see that the man standing before them is the legitimate commander in chief. And no one is blinder than he who won’t see.

The recent death of the actor Gene Barry brought a wash of memories over me about the time he visited Memphis. Barry was starring in the lead role of the hit TV western Bat Masterson, the legendary Dodge City lawman, and was to be the featured attraction at the Mid-South Fair’s annual rodeo. Barry’s series was among TV’s top-rated shows when he was booked for the fair appearance, guaranteeing a large segment of the audience would be his young fans. I’m certain Barry thought his Memphis stop would be a breeze, but then he never expected to encounter Sputnik Monroe.

The professional wrestler with the skunk-like white streak in his hair was already the second-best-known face in Memphis, after Elvis, when he decided to seek even more public outrage by going to the fairgrounds to stalk Gene Barry. Robert Gordon, in his vastly entertaining book, It Came From Memphis, got the scoop from Sputnik himself. Sputnik explained: “I read in the paper where Gene Barry was coming to the Mid-South Fair and I went out there [intending] to hit him in the nose for copying the way I dress. I was born and raised in Dodge City, Kansas, which is the cowboy town of the world. Gene Barry was the star on Bat Masterson and dressed like I dressed, with a homburg and a vest. I figured if I jerked him off a horse and hit him in the nose … I’d get a national reputation.” In Sputnik’s world, such were the just desserts for impersonating a cowboy. The police kept Sputnik at bay, Barry’s appearance went smoothly, and the Hollywood cowpoke probably never appreciated his near-miss with meeting mayhem in Memphis.

The following morning, my sister Susan and I attended Temple Israel Sunday School. We returned home to see a sleek town-car in the driveway. My mother told us we had a visitor, and when we walked into the living room, my jaw dropped. There was Gene Barry himself, sitting at the dining room table having Sunday brunch. When my father asked if I knew who this was, I replied, “Sure, it’s Bat Masterson.”

The New York-bred actor, born Eugene Klass, was the brother-in-law of one of my father’s business associates in California. When he learned Barry was coming to Memphis, his kinfolks called my mother to ask if there was a good place for a nice Jewish TV star to get some lox and bagels without being mobbed by fans. “For that,” Mom replied, “he’ll probably have to come to my house.” So there I stood, age 11, trying to process the sight of Bat Masterson sitting with my parents and spreading cream cheese on a toasted bagel.

Barry was gracious in the extreme and offered rodeo tickets to my sister and me. When he heard I was an aspiring guitarist, he insisted that I play for him. I had gotten through “Don’t Be Cruel” and “The Battle of New Orleans,” when Barry said that he wanted to play along. So, I fetched a pair of bongo drums (which I had acquired as a result of my admiration for Maynard G. Krebs). With bongos firmly clamped between his knees, Gene Barry and I set off into a strange, rollicking medley of nearly every folk and rock song I knew. After the laugh-filled jam session, the handsome actor cheerfully suggested that we take the show on the road. He withdrew a publicity photo from an attaché case and signed it, “To my pal Rand, from his pal Bat.” Then after expressing his gratitude to my parents and bidding farewell, Barry opened the front door to find a half-dozen neighborhood kids who had somehow found out about the visit. He was generous to the last child, before taking the wheel and heading off to some glamorous hotel suite.

I kept up with Barry as a secret pal, but when Bat Masterson was finally canceled, my interest waned, and I never did like Burke’s Law much. Sputnik Monroe continued to wreak havoc in and out of the ring for another decade and cemented his legend in Memphis history (while personally defending my young ass in the process, but that’s another story).

Barry continued his successful career in movies and television and was nominated for a Tony Award for his performance in the original La Cage aux Folles on Broadway. His death at the Motion Picture Home in California at age 90 last week reminded me how quickly life passes. Although I am older now than he was when I met him, I still vividly recall a rugged-looking man with a big laugh asking my father to pass the lox and an actor completely at ease in the company of my family, playing the bongos with abandon and a smile.

When my e-mail in-box became filled with ads from every merchant from whom I’ve ever purchased anything, offering
steep discounts and free shipping, I knew that the holiday shopping
season had arrived. Every news outlet was talking about Black Friday. I
understand the day after Thanksgiving is when retailers are supposed to
“go into the black,” but as a history buff, I can’t help but think of
the original Black Friday on October 25, 1929, when the stock market
crashed, leading to the Great Depression. This year, I decided to stay
in bed.

The news footage of the crowds that camped out in front of big box
stores and rushed the entrances at dawn was enough to discourage me.
Police were called to restore order at a local Toys R Us when a crush
of people caused one shopper to wave a taser and threaten those around
her. Voices could be heard saying, “Don’t tase me, Ho, Ho, Ho!” People
wait all year for these “doorbuster specials.” They get the family
involved and plot out strategies and logistics. If not for the
early-bird sales, many could not afford these gifts. But for me,
fighting a frenzied mob for an electric, Japanese hamster at 5 a.m.
sounds only slightly less appealing than dipping my face in the
deep-fryer at Wendy’s.

Then comes “Cyber Monday,” a recent creation designed to encourage
online shoppers to begin early so they don’t end up at “Glitch
Thursday,” when the retailer screws up your order, it doesn’t arrive in
time for Christmas, and you end up giving your loved one a catalog
photo of the gift they were supposed to get.

Speaking of “holidays,” I would expect the opening volley of the
annual “War on Christmas,” sponsored by Fox News, to be fired any day.
Usually, Bill O’Reilly kicks things off about a conflict over a
crèche at a post office somewhere, or some such symbolic thing.
I heard a woman say last season that if a merchant wished her “Happy
Holidays,” instead of “Merry Christmas,” she would void her sale and
take her business elsewhere. I don’t suppose a delicatessen was on her
list of shops, but isn’t that attitude a bit like the Taliban? Since my
neighbors think I’m strange anyway, I was thinking of erecting a large,
inflatable Ganesha, the Hindu Elephant God, in the front yard. I mean,
anybody can blow up a Walgreens Frosty the Snowman, but Ganesha is the
“remover of obstacles.”

I heard that my rabbi doesn’t approve of Jews having Christmas
trees, but we’re getting by on a technicality, since our tree isn’t
even real and folds up in the attic the rest of the year. Since we’re a
bi-tradition home, I always get out the acrylic, electric Chanukah
menorah, where, on each of the eight nights, you switch on another
pastel-colored bulb. I am, after all, a Reform Jew.

I wish I could get more exited about Hanukkah, but it’s a minor
holiday commemorating a military victory in the 2nd century BC. As a
child, it paled against the festiveness of Christmas. While our
Christian friends were given bicycles and ponies, we were getting mesh
bags of chocolate coins to celebrate the miracle of one day’s worth of
Temple oil lasting for eight nights. As far as miracles go, I thought
the “Let there be light” one was far more impressive. If it were a
holiday of great significance, you would think that after 2,000 years,
they could agree on how to spell it. Hanukkah was, however, the world’s
first holiday that celebrated energy conservation.

I saw one catalog selling the ultimate in mixed-faith metaphors: the
Chanukah spinning top, called a “dreidel,” with pictures of Santa on
the sides. Could this be a sneaky attempt at conversion or another
Obamanite plot of world-wide ecumenicism?

I know I’ll radiate a more seasonal glow as the time draws nigh,
then on Christmas Day I can erupt in good cheer like an overstuffed
pinata. The family will gleefully unwrap its presents and hunker down
for Blue Tuesday, when everybody exchanges everything they received for
store credits and gift cards. When all the caroling stops, no one wants
to miss an after-Christmas bargain. Until then, the traffic is
impossible, the crowds are surly and pushy, and I’m having a difficult
time adjusting to life in a world without Ed McMahon. Ask not for whom
the jingle bell tolls, especially if you’re Dick Clark. “Hey-o!”

By the way, is it all right to say “Happy Holidays” if you’re
referring to Lincoln’s birthday, Valentine’s Day, and Passover?
Finally, why do people pray on Good Friday but shop on Black Friday?
It’s not a riddle. I’m just asking. Now get out there and help heal
this sick economy by joining our new, grass-roots, holiday initiative:
“No electric gerbil left behind.”