Author: Randy Haspel

I would like to offer a heartfelt and blanket apology to anyone I
ever mocked or criticized for having inadvertently cast a vote for
Sarah Palin while trying to register their choice for John McCain as
president. To my lasting humiliation, while casting a vote for Al Gore
in 2000, I am guilty of voting for the mamzer Joe Lieberman. At the
time, I felt it was an inspired choice by Gore. Holy Joe was the
anti-Clinton, and I was thrilled at the prospect of the first Jewish
vice president. Now, Lieberman’s looking more like the Antichrist, and
he has announced his intent to join with the Republicans and filibuster
Harry Reid’s health-care-reform proposal or any bill that contains a
public option, as a “matter of conscience.”

I know this guy believes that he holds up the sky, but how can he
speak of “conscience” when he betrayed his own party, supported the
opposition candidate for president, and was the second Democrat to
speak at a Republican convention, after the nar Zell Miller. Lieberman
means to stand in the way, like George Wallace in the schoolhouse door,
and prevent the Democrats from even voting on their centerpiece issue
on the Senate floor.

All this cranky noise from Lieberman is the continuation of a
pattern of revenge against the party for backing the legitimate winner
of the Connecticut senatorial primary in 2006, Ned Lamont. Lieberman
was re-elected as an independent but caucuses with the Democrats, and
to guarantee that he would play nice, he was allowed to retain his
chairmanship of the Homeland Security Committee. At the risk of
encouraging Jew-on-Jew violence, it might be time for Rahm Emmanuel to
think about slipping a horse’s head under Lieberman’s linens.

If you’ll permit me a couple of ad hominem attacks, Lieberman looks
like the Joker from Batman, and when he speaks he reminds me of the
Saturday Night Live characters from the 1980s, Doug and Wendy
Whiner. Every time he opens his yap, he embodies the term “mealymouth.”
In the latest Quinnipiac poll, even Connecticut voters believe his
views are more in line with the Republicans.

So why continue with this sham? The handy website Opensecrets.org lists Lieberman’s top
campaign contributors. Why am I not surprised that his major donors
include Aetna, Hartford, Pfizer, and Purdue Pharma? Rather than serving
the public or his constituents’ interests, Joe is serving his corporate
masters that got him re-elected.

I long for the days when there was a strong Senate leader like Sam
Rayburn or LBJ, who used arm twisting to assure the success of the
party’s promises rather than fluff and flattery. And who is the Senate
Whip whose responsibility it is to guarantee the votes are there and to
enforce party discipline? Illinois senator Dick Durbin. I don’t think
Durbi or Harry Reid have ever raised their voices. As a result, rather
than a unified party doing the will of the people who put them there,
we have a version of a Democratic Party Fight Club, with the Blue Dogs
peeing on the carpet.

Senator Patrick Leahy has suggested punishing Lieberman by stripping
him of his committee chairmanship, but I think it’s past time to boot
his tuchis from the party, so he can find his true home as a spokesman
for Fox News. Either that, or force him to filibuster and read the
phone book on the Senate floor while people are suffering. Lieberman is
already in bed with the Christian right over their staunch support for
the state of Israel. His ultra-Zionist views allow him to
compartmentalize the fact that the evangelicals’ long-term vision for
the “end times” in the Holy Land is for either the conversion or death
of the Jews.

Earlier this month, comedian Mel Brooks announced the founding of a
nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving the word “schmuck.”
Brooks announced at a rally in Brooklyn that “schmuck is dying.” For
many of us, saying “schmuck” is a way of life. Yet when I walk down the
street and see people behaving in foolish, pathetic, or otherwise
schmucky ways, I hear only the words “prick” and “douche bag.” The
literal meaning of the Yiddish word “schmuck” is a man’s penis, more
specifically, the foreskin. But over the years it has become used to
describe any arrogant, annoying, or disagreeable person. Brooks told
reporters at the first “Schmucks for Schmuck” rally, “You can be a poor
schmuck, a lazy schmuck, a dumb schmuck, or just a plain old schmuck.
We must save this word.”

I have a tip — forgive the pun — for Mel’s campaign:
Take a long look at Senator Joe Lieberman. I think you may well have
found your poster boy.

I suppose it was a coincidence that both the National Geographic and Discovery channels broadcast
documentaries about the CIA’s experiments in mind control on successive nights.
There was nothing on the shows that had not been revealed during the 1975 Church
Committee congressional hearings, where the entire ghoulish laundry list of CIA abuses was unfurled before the
public, but one inadvertent piece of evidence made my jaw drop. It
concerned the CIA’s MK ULTRA program, begun in the 1950s, which
examined the effects of LSD on subjects, witting and unwitting, in an
attempt to create new ways to brainwash adversaries. Among the early
volunteers for the program was Stanford University student Ken Kesey.
Here’s the short version:

In 1953, the CIA killed one of their own and covered it up. An
agency biochemist named Frank Olson, who was critical of the MK ULTRA
program, was surreptitiously given a large dose of lysergic acid in his
coffee by fellow agents and observed through a two-way mirror. Soon,
Olson was debating the weather on Mount Olympus with Zeus and had a
psychotic breakdown, which required sedation and observation by CIA
doctors. Olson was secretly checked into a 10th-floor New York hotel
room to be supervised by an agent, but the chemist allegedly leaped
from a window while his trustee slept. The CIA declared it a
suicide.

After Senator Frank Church’s committee determined that Olson was a
forced participant in the CIA’s LSD experiments, his family filed a
civil suit against the U.S. government for wrongful death. President
Gerald Ford invited the Olson family to the White House and convinced
them, for reasons of national security, not to pursue the case. This is
where my eyes widened, since this was not a new film or one with a
political purpose. The family agreed to settle with the government for
$7,000. The author of the deal and the signatory for the United States
was the president’s chief of staff, Richard Cheney.

When someone says “Cheney knows where all the bodies are buried,”
they are not speaking figuratively. Cheney has been covering up for the
CIA’s nastiness since the 1970s. No wonder he was able to go to Langley
as vice president and rifle through the files with impunity to cook the
intelligence for the Iraq war buildup. They owe him, and his access
goes back to the Nixon years, when he coat-tailed his pal Donald
Rumsfeld into the White House. Under Ford, Cheney and Rumsfeld staged
what became known as the “Halloween Massacre,” usurping the powers of
Nixon holdovers Henry Kissinger and Vice President Nelson Rockefeller
to become Ford’s chief of staff and secretary of defense, respectively.
From his new position of power, Cheney urged Ford not to cooperate with
the Church Committee, arguing that airing CIA atrocities could only
damage the intelligence community. And when the terrible truths became
public testimony, Cheney and Rumsfeld engineered the ouster of acting
CIA director William Colby and had him replaced with George H.W.
“Poppy” Bush. The Secret Service’s codename for Cheney was
“Backseat.”

And what a putrid list of illegal activities it was that Cheney
wished to protect. From assassination attempts, to the domestic spying
and infiltration of the peace movement, to attempts to discredit Martin
Luther King and destroy the Black Panthers, the CIA was so blatantly
beyond the law that Congress passed legislation to rein them in. The
FISA laws (Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act) came from the Church
Committee recommendations, a law that Cheney obviously disdained, then
as now. When Ford lost the presidency, with Cheney as his campaign
manager, to Jimmy Carter in 1976, the Wyoming native ran for Congress
in 1978, serving as the Republican leader on the House Intelligence
Committee before “Poppy” Bush tapped him as his secretary of defense as
payback.

In exile at Halliburton during the Clinton years, Cheney enriched
himself as chairman and CEO until the opportunity presented itself for
him to screen the vice presidential prospects for Poppy’s clueless
son’s new administration. We know now how Cheney spent the next eight
years: attempting to concentrate power in the executive branch. CIA
director George Tenent genuflected before him, and Cheney became the
de-facto head of government and chief protector of manipulated
intelligence. He invaded Afghanistan and Iraq; Halliburton and KBR
became bloated with war profits; and the CIA was marginalized by
mercenaries from Blackwater. His understudy, Scooter Libby, pleaded
guilty to outing a covert agent, and Tenent was given the Medal of
Honor. Everything Cheney said would happen — from the spectre of
mushroom clouds to the effectiveness of state-sanctioned torture
— has been proven dead wrong, yet he still has the temerity to
criticize the military strategy of Secretary Gates and the
president.

I believe Cheney is hanging around just so he can scream “national
security!” if any legal entity should dig too deeply into his
resumé. In 1994, the family of Frank Olson requested an
exhumation of his body for further examination. A new autopsy showed
that Olson suffered “severe cranial injuries delivered by a blunt
object” and was most likely “knocked out” before being tossed from the
window. Since Cheney was intimately familiar with the case and prepared
the original settlement, why do I get the nagging suspicion that he
knew about Olson all along? Now that his officeholding marathon is
over, there is only one additional government agency that Dick Cheney
deserves to be a part of: the federal prison system.

I wouldn’t know an Xbox from a PlayStation if you smacked me upside
the head with one, so I haven’t the slightest idea how “The Beatles
Rockband” game works. I was curious enough to watch some of the
animated videos, however, and they are wonderful. Besides, if I want to
play a Beatles song, I’ll mess it up on real guitar like everybody
else. But it’s amazing to me that 40 years after they broke up, the
Beatles are the hottest, cutting-edge group going. Consider that the
remastered CDs, prepared for release to coincide with the “Rockband”
game, have already sold 2.2 million copies — in a marketplace
that barely sells CDs anymore. They topped the Billboard charts
yet again, and the Las Vegas Cirque du Soleil “Beatles Love” show is
sold out forever.

My wife Melody and I were surfing channels on a recent Sunday
afternoon when we came across The Beatles Anthology on VH1. Six
hours later, we wondered how the time flew by so quickly. We concluded
that the first couple of years of Beatlemania were the best and last
innocent times we knew. In 1965, LBJ was sending half a million men to
Vietnam, and by the time the Beatles reached Memphis in 1966, the
emerging evangelical movement was ready to crucify John Lennon for
saying the Fab Four were more popular than Jesus. All those pictures
you saw with people holding signs saying “Beatles Go Home” were taken
in Memphis, where they held a counter-Beatles rally and concert while
the lads played the Mid-South Coliseum. I was there when the cherry
bomb was tossed from the upper balcony, and John Lennon jumped as if he
had been shot.

The Beatles played two shows in Memphis, and there were still
tickets left unsold. Had I known that, I would have attended both
shows. But I saw the Beatles, and despite the pandemonium, I also heard
the Beatles; and it was a religious experience.

So many moments in my life are punctuated by Beatle songs. The first
time I heard “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” I was driving east on Walnut
Grove and immediately took a left on Mendenhall and headed for Pop
Tunes on Summer to buy the single (which I still have in the original
dust cover). I can tell you where I was sitting in Knoxville the first
time I heard “Day Tripper” and wished I was still in a band. Melody
favors “Norwegian Wood” and insists that if I outlive her, “In My Life”
must be played at the memorial service. I was thinking of “Nowhere Man”
for mine, but I figure it’s too self-deprecating, so I’ll settle for
“The End.” And during the multi-year run of my lost and lamented radio
show, “The Psychedelicatessen,” I always started the program with two
Beatles songs, just to begin where it all began. My life would have
been immeasurably less interesting without the Fab Four in it, and I am
grateful.

George Harrison was still alive during the taping of the
Anthology, and there was a scene toward the end when the
surviving three were discussing the impossibility of a Beatles reunion.
Responding to a suggestion that Julian Lennon replace John, Paul said,
“Why would we wish to put him in the middle of this?”

It’s better to “Let It Be” and savor the memories of a remarkable
era. The “Rockband” game offers memories in the making for young fans
who weren’t alive when the Beatles ruled the world, and its popularity
indicates it’s possible a new wave of Beatlemania is in the air. I
don’t intend to start playing video games at my age, but I’m sure happy
that “Rockband” Beatles is there. If I had teenagers, their Christmas
presents would be already chosen.

My new show-biz idea is to start a band called Sons of Beatles.
Ringo has two sons, Zak and Jason Starkey, who are both drummers; Zak,
most notably, with the Who. Consequently, the Sons of Beatles could
have double drummers, like the Allman Brothers. Both Sean and Julian
Lennon are artists and singers, with Julian showing a prodigious talent
for songwriting. Dani Harrison, George’s son, is a singer and
guitarist, and surely one of Paul’s children, maybe James, can be
taught to play bass, if he doesn’t already know how. Put them all under
the control of George Martin’s son, Giles, who was instrumental in
assembling “The Beatles Rockband,” and you have a phenomenon waiting to
happen. I would certainly like to see it, even if they were lousy. But
there’s too much nascent talent there for that to happen. Since Brian
Epstein left no progeny, I will volunteer for the manager’s position.
That’s okay, fellows. You don’t have to thank me.

Before the Bush reelection of 2004, an e-mail went around from the GOP to conservatives that stated, “They
think you’re stupid.” Liberals went crazy attempting to discuss the war and the economy instead of creationism and gay marriage. Well, the time has come to admit it. We liberals really do think far right-wingers are stupid, but more than that, we now think they’re dangerous as well. And as George Bush proved over eight years, there’s nothing more dangerous than an idiot who’s convinced that he’s right.

The discussion of health-care reform has morphed into a carnival
geek show, with every pro-militia, automatic-weapon-toting Tim McVeigh
wannabe out to show that nobody pushes them around. And since I live
among them, in the South, let’s own up to the undercurrent of racial
resentment that flows beneath these demonstrations of public anger.
It’s too simple to say, “Scratch a conservative and find a racist,”
because there are principled fiscal and social conservatives with much
to add to the public debate. But those who hold genuine conservative
principles have allowed their movement to be distorted and corrupted by
a group that could well be called the “new Dixiecrats.” These
propagandized “patriots” allow themselves to be used by corporate
interests and show up at demonstrations howling “facism, communism, and
socialism.” Where were these protesters when Dick Cheney and his
minions came close to establishing a totalitarian state?

I have a theory that’s going to piss off lots of people. I believe
we’re seeing the unintended consequences of private Christian
education. First, let me say that I am a product of Christian education
myself and I am all the better for it, because it helped me to
understand religious faiths and viewpoints other than my own. So it is
not the Christian part of the equation in which I find fault. In 1971,
when the Supreme Court upheld busing to achieve integration in public
schools, it threw the national educational system into chaos. It may
have been a noble ideal, but many considered it “social engineering,”
and in retrospect, it was impractical policy. It led to the
near-complete desertion of public schools in the South by white people.
This, in turn, led to the establishment of private Christian academies
and to the growth of mega-churches. Congregants found all their needs,
from day care and exercise rooms to concert halls and youth sports
teams, met by their church community. The unforeseen result was a new
type of self-selecting segregation based on suburban church
membership.

Another irony is that many of those who are screaming the loudest
are members of the “Greatest Generation,” who have been on the
government teet since 1945. Returning soldiers from the big war were
given the biggest slice of socialism this side of Sweden. It was called
the G.I. Bill. Not only was a college education granted to every
serviceman, low-cost government loans were made available to purchase
homes and start businesses. Now, old veterans with white hair are
hollering “Keep the government away from my Medicare” at town-hall
riots and arguing over phantom health-care rationing and forced
euthanasia.

No social progress has ever been made with the help of the
obstructionist conservatives. The only things the right-wingers have
contributed is free-market Darwinism, Prohibition, and term limits
— after Roosevelt drove them crazy. I used to ask my dad what it
was like when FDR was president, and he said the GOP, the bankers, and
industrialists hated his guts so thoroughly, they refused to refer to
him by name, only as “that man in the White House.” Or, they called him
“Rosenfeld,” suggesting that he was a Jew. Sound familiar? He was also
known as the “poor man’s friend” and called a socialist and a
communist. Even President Eisenhower was called a communist by the
right when he expressed approval for fluoride, a proven dental aid, to
be added to public drinking water. The reactionaries claimed it was a
communist plot to rot the teeth of our children. And now, the factually
challenged believe our current president is a Kenyan Muslim sent here
by sinister forces to rob white people and distribute their earnings to
crackheads and crooked ACORN employees. How did we get so damn
dumb?

Any societal advances — Social Security, the Civil Rights and
Voting Rights acts, women’s economic and reproductive rights, Medicare
or Medicaid — have been accomplished despite the resistance of
the naysayers and defenders of the status quo. Some sort of major
health-care reform is going to pass this Congress, and in a year or so,
it will look so seamless, we’ll wonder how we ever allowed our
rapacious current system to exist for so long. The Republican Party,
under the thumb of the Palin/Limbaugh wing, can’t even bring themselves
to admit there are no “death panels” in the bill, so why even consider
them any further? They lost, so steamroll them and leave them in the
wake of progress once again to sulk and lick their wounds.

In the early seventies, when we used to hang out at Phillips
Recording

Service on Madison, Jim Dickinson told me the secret to gaining

prominence in music: “The best way to make it in the music
business,” he said, “is to start

a good rumor about yourself.” That’s why I took such delight in
watching him create the “East Memphis Slim” persona he continued to
develop. He became the authentic white boy with the blues, with a
sardonic sense of humor and the willingness to step out on a limb for
his art. Yet, he still had the intellectual honesty to once tell an
interviewer, “We all learned it from the yard man.” Sometime after his
work with various Memphis bands and his stint as house keyboardist for
Atlantic Records at Criteria Studios in Miami, Jim’s ever-expanding
credits as a producer became so impressive and his expertise and keen
ear so desired by a new generation of musicians that the reality simply
overran the rumor.

Jim based his theory on Mac Rebennack, a New Orleans keyboardist,
who labored for years in anonymity before creating the Voodoo High
Priest, Dr. John the Night Tripper and rocketing to recording stardom.
Jim turned me on to that record in 1967, and when the opening notes of
the title track began, he said excitedly, “Listen to that. That’s a
cane flute,” displaying his fondness for esoteric instruments. That was
the year I worked with him on our single recording project at the old
Ardent Studio in John Fry’s garage on National. Before Led Zeppelin,
before Cream, even before Moloch, Jim had the idea to record some
white-boy, electric blues, in contrast with the pop fare of the day. He
recruited Sam the Sham’s drummer, Jerry Patterson, Fred Hester on
stand-up bass, and Lee Baker on lead guitar. Jim produced and played
piano. Even though I was away at college and had been absent from the
Memphis scene for a year, I was honored that Jim chose me to sing. It
was one of those sessions that was deferred then abandoned for one
reason or another. I bugged Jim about it for a year or so, but
recording tape was too expensive to save something that you weren’t
going to use.

When Jim crossed paths with Sam Phillips, he took his credo to
heart: “If you’re not doing something different, then you’re not doing
anything.” As a record producer, Jim became the true disciple of
Phillips, both in his approach to recording and the talent he chose to
work with. Jim, always prepared with a quote, once wisely said: “The
best songs don’t get recorded; the best recordings don’t get released;
and the best releases don’t get played.” For his own production career,
Jim also adopted Phillip’s: “Crazy is often good.”

I’m dating myself, but it seems like only yesterday when Jim and
Mary Lindsay Dickinson lived off White Station Road and entertained a
group of Bohemians, hipsters, bluesmen, musicians, and magicians in
their living room nightly. There was very little recording going on in
Memphis once the famous labels closed, but the camaraderie among
artists was such that it’s strange how some of your fondest memories
arise from times when you believed you were suffering the most. I
valued Jim’s opinion so much that, like a little brother, I still
sought his approval for whatever I was doing musically.

Jim would tell you what he thought and was not one to idly hand out
compliments. That’s why receiving one from him meant so much. I
participated in a garage band reunion a couple of years ago. I did some
shtick that was a throwback to the old soul revues when the singer
would chime, “I once heard a friend of mine say …” and then sing
snippets of various artists’ songs. On the changeover, I was walking
offstage, and Jim was stepping up when he said, “Hey man, that was
great.” Those few words made my night. Some time later, I got a call
from David Less, whose label released Jim’s albums. He said Jim wanted
to know if I’d be interested in coming down to Mississippi and singing
some backup on his latest solo effort. I sang harmony vocals on one
song, and when I was done, Jim wrote me a check. “What’s this?” I
asked. “You’re actually going to pay me?” Jim laughed and said, “That’s
the way we do it these days.” I reminded him of our 1967 recordings and
told him how pleased I was that it only took him 40 years to call me
back. But I would have done it for free.

I can see by the way the North Mississippi Allstars have conducted
their careers thus far that Cody and Luther’s parents taught them well.
Aside from his extraordinary talent, the other quality Jim had in
abundance was integrity. He leaves a void in the vanguard of
contemporary music production that is impossible to fill. Even after I
heard he was in ill health and had bypass surgery, I assumed if anyone
could kick a heart attack’s ass, it would be Jim. The man had an air of
invincibility about him. His “East Memphis Slim” creation had come full
circle, and he was gaining the respect he desired as a producer with
every passing day. It was as if he was almost where he wanted to be.
Not quite, but almost. A whole generation, raised on the ’50s music
played by Dewey Phillips and Rufus Thomas and with an appreciation for
the absurd and the eccentric, is beginning to fade from view. Jim has
already achieved legendary status with a generation of musicians
inspired by his adventurous productions. For many more who knew him
well or those who only knew him by reputation, the loss of James Luther
Dickinson is like losing a piece of Memphis itself. =

In the name of all that’s holy, will some elected

official entrusted with the public’s safety — man or
woman,Republican or Democrat, local, state, or federal — please find
the conscience or the ‘nads to stand up to the telecom industry and propose legislation
banning cell-phone use while driving? Is this a
difficult call to make? Nothing is more enraging than to be held up
in traffic by some grinning, oblivious, self-absorbed fool, yammering
into a cell phone with one hand on the wheel and the other up to an
ear, while angered drivers maneuver to pass on the left and right.
Don’t they still teach driver’s ed in school? And if so, whatever
happened to “both hands on the wheel”? At the risk of sounding
curmudgeonly, I believe that cell-phone use is a prime contributor to
the breakdown of civility in society, but using the dastardly devices
while driving a car is simply stupid, and deadly.

Now we discover that, according to The New York Times, the
National Highway Traffic Safety Administration withheld hundreds of
pages of research confirming the deadly results of cell-phone use in
cars “because of concerns about angering Congress.” The research, begun
in 2003, estimated that cell-phone use by drivers caused 240,000
accidents and nearly 1,000 fatalities in the previous year, and we
would never have heard about it had not the Center for Auto Safety
petitioned for the findings under the Freedom of Information Act.
Clarence Ditlow, the center’s director, said, “We’re looking at a
problem that could be as bad as drunk driving, and the government has
covered it up.” Why am I not surprised that the Bush-era Transportation
Department, under Secretary Norman Mineta, decided to quash the report
as “inconclusive”? The Bush team caved in to every other corporate
interest with political donations in hand, why not the cell-phone
industry too? Ditlow added, “No public health and safety agency should
allow its research to be suppressed for political reasons.” Can I get a
witness?

There are currently 14 states that ban texting while driving (which
is like outlawing mixing cocktails behind the wheel) but only six that
forbid yakking on the phone. The movement to ban texting grew after the
April 29, 2009, incident involving a bus driver in San Antonio who was
captured on film while he texted his way directly into the rear of
several vehicles stopped at a red light. Tennessee has a texting ban,
but although we have crash statistics, there is currently no effort to
ban hand-held devices while driving. There is some irony in the fact
that, as a nation, we mourn the brave soldiers, now over 5,000 in
number, who have sacrificed their lives in the Iraq and Afghanistan
wars over the past eight years, yet we barely swallow hard over the
nearly 40,000 traffic fatalities on our nation’s roads annually. A
University of Utah study comparing 40 volunteer drivers of a “virtual
car” discovered that drunk drivers did better than cell-phone users and
that chatting on the cell was the equivalent of registering a .08 on
the breathalyzer.

I understand that there now exists a “culture of the cell phone”
that will be difficult to alter. I carry a cell phone, but I don’t
answer it if I’m driving, and if I need to make a call, I pull in
somewhere and stop. It’s not that I’m not smart enough to multi-task,
it’s that I realize that driving today’s roads requires complete
attention, if only to protect yourself from some Suburban Assault
Vehicle drifting into your lane because the driver is on the phone.
Unless you’re a doctor or a fireman, there is no phone message so
urgent that it can’t wait a few minutes to be answered safely.

In Europe, cell-phone use is already banned while driving, so why
does it always take this country so long to enact the obvious? Oh, I
forgot, we disdain European culture. The Old Country takes the matter
so seriously that there is a kit for sale that includes a paint-ball
gun for drivers to mark the cars of violators when the police aren’t
around. Of course, anyone shooting another car with a paint-ball gun
around here would have their heads blown off with a real gun. The
effete Europeans don’t allow guns in cars either, but at least in this
country, we’re able to report a real shooting by using the cell phone
that’s already in our hands.

“The pure products of America go crazy.”

— William Carlos Williams

Only days ago, we were discussing the crackdown on dissent in Iran,
a world mired in an economic slump, a pending congressional showdown on
health care, and the Argentinian adventures of South Carolina governor
Mark Sanford, and then suddenly all that talk stopped.

Michael Jackson died.

In another of those “where were you” moments, my wife rushed in with
the news, and we settled in to watch the sad pageant of grief and
shock. It takes a person of enormous influence to halt the 24-hour news
cycle, and the filmed reports of people pausing worldwide to
acknowledge the loss proves Jackson was such an individual. Love him or
hate him, this artist’s contributions to popular culture are
immeasurable.

Jackson had become a touchstone in people’s lives. Multitudes grew
up with him. Can it really be 25 years since the release of
Thriller? I always place myself between the bookends of Elvis,
who was 12 years older than me, and Jackson, who was 10 years younger.
It’s curious that shortly before Elvis’ death, just before a major
tour, he was bloated almost beyond recognition with the effects of
narcotic painkillers, while Jackson’s most recent appearances showed
him looking confident, if frail. So, even though Elvis died at 42 and
Jackson at 50, Elvis appears forever older in my mind, while Jackson
remains eternally young. Coloring these images is the memory of Jackson
emerging as the leader of the Jackson 5 at age 10 — so commanding
as a singer, polished as a dancer, and gifted as a musical prodigy,
that he made a good singular argument for the existence of God.

I confess to being an unabashed Michael Jackson fan — the only
other artist of the age who belongs in the same category with Elvis and
the Beatles — since I saw him on The Ed Sullivan Show in
December 1969. When the Beatles appeared on the same program in 1964,
it was barely three months after the assassination of JFK, and they
brought joy to a grieving nation. The Jackson 5 appeared on our TV
screens eight months after the murders of Martin Luther King Jr. and
Robert Kennedy and gave particular solace to young, black Americans who
gained a new source of pride and inspiration. The corporate,
white-dominated music industry sprang into action and offered the
Osmond Brothers as a squeaky-clean alternative. The Jackson 5 got a TV
variety show; the Osmonds followed on their heels. A Saturday-morning
cartoon series was created around the Jacksons; the Osmonds had one
within weeks. The Jacksons put Michael forward as their child leader;
the Osmonds focused on Donny. It was the old practice of mediocre white
artists ripping off black performers that dated back to before Pat
Boone recorded “Tutti Frutti.”

Jackson’s talent drew so much attention at such a young age, you
knew he would be a major adult artist if he could only survive the
pitfalls that befell so many other child stars before him. Jackson’s
1979 Off the Wall solo LP, produced by Quincy Jones, was all the
evidence needed to know that the cute little boy had grown up. The
Jacksons stopped at the Mid-South Coliseum for their “Triumph” tour in
July 1981, after Off the Wall had been released. Portions of the
Memphis show were recorded for the follow-up Jacksons effort, the
double-album Live, and though the show was critically hailed, it
was clear that it was time for Jackson to step out on his own.

No one could have predicted the massive response to Thriller,
but something happened to Jackson afterward. Off the Wall and
Thriller essentially were rhythm and blues records, but the
international hysteria over Jackson grew so far and so fast, it was no
longer sufficient to cross over to a pop audience. He needed to
dominate the scene, and he did. Jackson brought in Eddie Van Halen to
play solos on guitar-based rock songs with a harder edge and soon
became the “King of Pop.” But by the time Bad was released,
Jackson had begun his sad transformation from a vibrant, young black
man into an old white woman. I believe it was to make himself more
race-neutral to his expanding international fan base, and the stories
of Jackson being teased by his father for his classic negroid features
are now legendary. But all his cosmetic surgeries and eccentricities
never compared to his lasting creative contributions to music and
dance.

It was his personal oddities that fueled the tabloid fodder, and
Jackson became a target for opportunists. I believe that Jackson was an
emotional man-child attempting to surround himself with the only group
of people he felt he could completely trust: children. Only Jackson
could have been naive enough to admit in a documentary that he shared
his bed with young boys in a nonsexual, innocent manner, like a
childhood sleepover, and expect people to understand. Even his trust in
children was betrayed when the boy he tried to help with medical
expenses and emotional support filed criminal molestation charges
against him. After the young man and his mother were proven to be
grifters and Jackson was acquitted of all charges, Jackson was forever
burdened with suspicions of pedophilia and became an object of
ridicule. This ordeal led the former Jehovah’s Witness into the world
of prescription meds, painkillers, and “boutique” doctors.

All the questions swirling around Jackson’s sudden death have yet to
be answered, but there is an object lesson in the latest saga of
Scottish singer Susan Boyle. The only thing we English-speaking
followers of pop culture enjoy more than placing a hero on a pedestal
to be worshipped is to rip them apart when we realize they are not gods
after all. In the aftermath of this tragedy, songwriter Don McLean’s
lyrics about Vincent Van Gogh seem most appropriate to Michael Jackson:
“This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.”

Amid all the political vitriol of the past week, it’s heartening to report the huge initial response we’ve received
to our petition drive to officially change the state of Alabama to “Alobama.” People all over the world are writing in to endorse the idea that since Alabama is the cradle of the civil rights movement, it is only fitting that their citizens honor our first African-Americanpresident by formally renaming the state in his honor.

We, of course, realize that the name change will cause some
inconvenience, especially at the DMV and official state buildings. But
only one vowel has to be altered, and our studies show that thousands
of people can become gainfully employed changing “a’s” into “o’s.”
Hiring will be under a federally run public agency like the Works
Progress Administration. Any map revisions can be incorporated in the
next generation of cartography.

Alobama would lose its alphabetical advantage to Alaska, but it’s a
small price for historic change. In return, Obama-loving municipalities
throughout France and Germany have agreed to build bistros and
rathskellers all over rural Alabama to introduce European cuisine to
the natives. It will be a foie gras meets cheese-grits international
smorgasbord. We predict European tourism will increase tenfold,
especially during the year-long Obamafest planned to coincide with the
name-change celebration. It will be like Oktoberfest, only with Earth,
Wind, and Fire playing instead of the oompah bands (and Mountain Dew,
endive, and bratwurst in the dry counties).

Understandably, the state’s land-grant universities have to be
treated with the sensitivity deserving of their legendary heritage. The
former University of Alabama will be permitted to sell its supply of
red sweatshirts, and, in honor of Bear Bryant and that song by Steely
Dan, they will be allowed to retain the nickname “Crimson Tide.” We
would prefer, however, that the school colors be changed to crimson and
mauve to reflect the new multiculturalism and the football cheer “Roll
Tide” be replaced by “Roll Tide of Hope.” The phrase “Go Bama” is
permissible, but the second syllable must be pronounced “bomma.” Since
Auburn University can’t decide whether to call their mascots Tigers or
War Eagles, a decision has been made for them. There are already too
many schools using Tigers, and we wish to de-emphasize the
glorification of war, so to reflect the new patriotism, their sports
teams will now be known as the Auburn Bald Eagles. Since nobody knows
what a Blazer is anyway, UAB can remain the same, with commendations
for their “green” theme.

We pledge not to alter the state flag, even though it’s the same
design as the Confederate battle flag, only with different colors and
without the stars. It is a bit too antebellum, however, so the
committee recommends adopting a companion flag with the Obama “O” logo,
with the rising sun in red, white, and blue. Since the existing flag
looks like a big, red “X” anyway, we will simply rededicate it in honor
of the late Abdul Malik Shabazz, known internationally as Malcolm X. To
assuage the concern of local citizens, we have been assured by the
Nation of Islam that they will construct enough mosques statewide to
accommodate all the new Muslim transplants, so that no one has to be
inconvenienced.

We further believe, to further the state’s new, pacifist image, that
flying an “X” flag next to an “O” flag will also represent kisses and
hugs. Henceforth, the Alobama license plates will read, “Land of the
Tolerant.” That “Heart of Dixie” business has to go in favor of “I
[Heart] Big Government.” The official state song will be changed from
“Stars Fell on Alabama” to Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.”
With the international attention this will receive, I can promise you
that Birmingham will become the new bangers-and-mash capital of the
South, and Muscle Shoals can reopen its studios to record choral-group
socialist anthems from the Republic of Georgia.

Even George Wallace grew a conscience in his declining years and
publicly rebuked his racist past. The old segregationist, who once
stood in the school door, begged forgiveness for his sins before going
to visit Old Scratch. Likewise, Alabama’s day of redemption has come.
Petitions are presently circulating in the state, and we look forward
to the governor’s support. It is hoped that the state legislature will
address the name change, but we are prepared to have the name “Alobama”
recognized by the World Court, as advised by our council from the ACLU,
like Ceylon was changed to Sri Lanka.

So here’s to the state which in the future will be known as “The Big
O” — and the destiny that awaits you in the New World Order.
Already, in keeping with the state’s refreshing new post-racial
attitudes, the Birmingham City Council has voted unanimously to rename
Birmingham International Airport after Alabama’s two most distinguished
and colorblind citizens. Henceforth, everyone will be flying into the
Helen Keller-W.C. Handy Memorial Airfield in Birmingham, Alobama.

Yes, we can.

In my career as a vagabond musician, I suppose I’ve spent a full third of my life working in bars and restaurants.
I’ve seen some ugly incidents and brutal violence over the years, but
it seldom included me. When a fight broke out, the band’s policy was to
keep playing unless the combatants rolled onto the bandstand, at which point, all bets were off. I have used my guitar or
microphone stand as a weapon. I’ve turned my head to witness
percussionist Skip Ousley catch the fist of an enraged person in
mid-swing, right before it reached my face. We performed countless
times at the Enlisted Men’s Club at the Millington Naval Air Base,
where there were 200 men and four women and a brawl erupted every 10
minutes. I’ve watched teeth fly and blood flow, but nothing quite
compared to the beat-down of an inebriated patron I witnessed at an
all-night club in Little Rock called the Apartment.

We were taking our break in the parking lot when a drunken fool was
thrown out of the front doors by the club’s immense bouncers. The drunk
sprang up and attacked the two men, as drunks do, causing one of the
bouncers to begin smashing the idiot’s head with a lead-filled police
slapper while screaming, “You done fucked up now, Bobby Gene!” When the
other bouncer pulled a gun and began waving it in the air, we dove for
cover behind the parked cars, while the drunk continued to fight on.
After a dozen more hard blows to the head, the bleeding man struggled
into his pickup and managed to lay rubber leaving the club. I had to
get back on stage and reassure the freaked-out crowd that the danger
was over — and play some dance music. Midway through our second
song, Bobby Gene returned, only this time with a shotgun. There was
some sort of standoff outside, and the police arrested him, but it was
one of the few times in a club that I have been really afraid.

The common denominator in all of the incidents I witnessed through
the years was alcohol. Yet, the Tennessee legislature overwhelmingly
passed new laws allowing handgun-carry permit holders to bring their
weapons into bars and restaurants, supposedly for self-protection. On
behalf of musicians, bartenders, managers, hosts, waitstaff, cooks,
cashiers, and busboys everywhere, I’d like to ask our distinguished
state legislators a question: Are you people fucking crazy? Are you so
deep in the pockets of the National Rifle Association that you are
willing to let someone die to keep the endorsements and contributions
coming? Any fool can see that if this vote becomes law, a lot of people
are going to be killed. The only people who should have guns in places
that sell alcohol are the owner and the security guard, just like at a
liquor store. Anything else is inviting a disaster.

Governor Phil Bredesen has made the principled stand against this
outrage by vetoing the bill, but there are powerful forces aligned
against him, and the General Assembly is prepared to override. The
bill’s sponsor, Republican representative Curry Todd of Collierville,
is a former police officer and should know better, but a cursory
examination of his voting record shows he wants handgun permit records
to be closed to the public, and he favors allowing loaded long guns in
vehicles and the elimination of the thumbprint requirement for gun
purchases. No wonder the NRA Political Victory Fund, which contributes
to the campaigns of sympathetic legislators, gave Todd a grade of
A-plus.

The curious thing is that there was no demand for this bill. It is
entirely political and driven by the NRA’s mission to expand carry
rights into every area of public life. A fear-based campaign has
already begun by the Tennessee Firearms Association and the NRA to urge
their members to contact legislators to override Bredesen’s veto, along
with a blatant threat to the political futures of the police and law
officials who stood with the governor.

The gun-toters’ argument is always the same: Carry-permit holders
are law-abiding citizens who must pass a rigorous course in the use and
safety of a handgun before being granted a license to go strapped to
Kroger’s, and they are our first line of defense when the armed thugs
start to invade Applebee’s. Bullshit. In the past, someone had to show
a legitimate purpose for carrying a weapon before being granted a
permit. Now, anyone with a pulse and no felonies who can manage to act
right for a few hours of training and keep from drooling over the
paperwork has a gun in the glove compartment.

The last fatal shooting in a Memphis bar or restaurant came from
someone who was well-trained in firearm use and licensed to carry: an
off-duty policeman who became enraged after a few drinks and shot two
people. Oh, I take it back. It was that hothead in Cordova who killed
the father of two children in a parking lot outside a restaurant for a
perceived insult toward his wife. He had a carry permit too, proving
that what a handgun often does is turn a small man into a
self-perceived badass. Add alcohol to that mix, and what used to be a
fistfight will now become a shooting.

This is one of those “contact your congressman” times for sane
people in Tennessee. For your own self-defense, tell them that this gun
legislation is a really bad idea.