In a few weeks billions of dollars will be bet – some legally, some not – on a single sports event, the Super Bowl. This football game is the crown jewel of the sports betting industry. It generates more action – the largest amount wagered – than anything people bet on all year. The enormous amount of money bet on this one football game is testimony to the long history of gambling by human beings. Among the basic drives in life… food, clothing, shelter, sex and television… gambling is as strong as any.
The oldest gambling paraphernalia, a pair of dice-like gizmos, date back some 40,000 years. “So easy, even a caveman can do it.” Every civilization ever studied shows signs of gambling, games of chance, lotteries and other forms of social wagering. The ancient Chinese, the Egyptians, the Greeks… they all gambled. The Roman soldiers who put Jesus up on the cross were said to have gambled over his clothing.
In more recent times, in the year 1020, the Kings of Sweden and Norway (both named Olaf) actually rolled dice to settle a dispute over a land area known as Hising. Both Kings are said to have rolled double-sixes on their first try and then, when one King tossed another double sixes, the other was instantly declared the winning Olaf when his dice came up a six and a one. Thus, the derivation of the winning roll - seven. Here we are, nearly a thousand years later and I’m sure, somewhere, right now, somebody is rolling a seven and reaching out to collect his winnings!
People will bet on practically anything. Make a statement; chances are somebody will challenge you to back it up with a bet. In England, during the middle ages, gambling was already a national obsession. Historical records show that in the 14th century, when Henry VIII put Anne Boleyn on trial for her head, the public made the lovely, albeit ill-fated Anne a 10-1 choice for acquittal. Imagine the shock. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time the public guessed wrong and was cleaned out by the bookmakers, beaten into the ground by the odds makers, and it certainly wasn’t the last time. The whole history of betting is the story of short-term wins followed by long-term loses. Who do you think pays for all those billion-dollar hotels in Las Vegas?
While an early form of playing cards first appeared in 11th century Turkistan, they were developed into today’s style 200 years later in France. Blackjack became a French favorite in the late 1700s and the game of roulette was also created in France around the time of the French Revolution. Each has done quite well, thank you – for the house, not for the player.
In America, lotteries were used to finance a major portion of our own Revolution and gambling, especially card playing, thrived throughout the expansion of the American territories during the 19th century.
Sports’ betting begins, of course, with horse racing. As long as men have tamed and ridden horses, there have been horse races and as long as there have been horse races, there has been betting on their outcome. In the early years of the 20th century, there were more than 300 horse tracks operating in the United States.
Betting on professional baseball began in the 1880s. It continues to this day despite various and frequent scandals involving fixed games and insiders who have been caught betting on games over which they exerted influence. The urge of the player cannot be repressed, even by the knowledge that the result might be manipulated. In the 1920s college football became a profitable betting enterprise and during the Depression college basketball also became a national betting favorite.
In 1931 the state of Nevada made gambling legal. Las Vegas is the result, or perhaps more accurately, the cause. But, sports betting did not take hold in Las Vegas for another 45 years. Then, in 1976, Frank “Lefty” Rosenthal, the inspiration for the Robert DiNiro character in the movie “Casino,” almost single-handedly invented casino-based sports gambling. Rosenthal opened the first modern sportsbook at the Stardust Hotel. Papa was there, back then. Free drinks, too! It’s been nothing but continuous, unlimited growth since.
The “house” soon developed 2 strategies to insure for themselves a stable profit base. First, they introduced the point spread. It was no longer enough just to pick the winner of a game, the bettor had to correctly gage the minimum number of points by which the winning team would prevail. This alone eliminated the possibility that the house might take a catastrophic loss on a single game. It worked and it’s still working.
Second, the house added what is called the 11/10 "vig," which means a losing bet pays an eleventh dollar for every $10 wagered. This extra, or “vig” goes straight to the house. This system requires that a sports bettor must win 52.38% of his bets in order to break even. Thus, if a bettor makes 100 bets, each of an equal amount, he has to win 53 of them or he is a loser. When you have millions of bettors making hundreds of millions of bets, this slight advantage for the house is enough to guarantee enormous profits. Actually, the house doesn’t much care who wins what. The “vig” is plenty, and besides, most betters bet wrong.
Now, with the advent of the Internet, we have added online betting to the mix. Gamblers can place their wagers online – and offshore – with instant payoffs either deducted from or added to their credit card or cash account. No one really knows how much money is bet on sporting events in the United States every year, but most estimates, including casino wagers and online bets, exceed $100 billion. There is still an underground, illegal sports betting market, especially for the high rollers. Most casinos in Las Vegas have a maximum of $100,000 per bet on a sports event. Caesar’s Palace will take up to $300,000, but that’s the highest. So, where does the really big-time bettor go for really big-money action? Where there’s a market, there’s a vendor, somewhere offering the opportunity.
How many Americans bet on organized sports? Too many to count. Do you include the office pools on something like college basketball’s “March Madness?” Why do so many Americans bet on sports? That one’s easy. Everyone has an opinion and everyone thinks they “know” who will win this event or that event, this game or that game. Sports is one of those areas in life where so many think they have special knowledge. In reality, what they have is an opinion, a favorite, a preference, a rooting interest and a hope. But “special knowledge?” No, they don’t have any, because there isn’t any such thing. Of course, nobody wants to believe that. That’s why Lefty Rosenthal and all who have followed in his footsteps have made out like bandits.
Still, the opinions never die. The certainty with which so many people say – this game is a lock! – thrives and grows, despite losses and more losses. People have their dreams and their illusions. The bookmaker will never want for customers.
And… by the way, a my personal favor to you, Papa says take Oklahoma plus the points against the Florida Gators in the BCS Championship game. It’s a sure thing. Bet the mortgage – cash in your kids college fund – redeem your 401k – The Sooners will lead you to Easy Street! You wanna bet?
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
PAPA... ON THE ILLINOIS SENATE SEAT
Long before he became Vice President or President (the only man to hold both offices without ever being elected to either one of them!), Gerald Ford was asked for his definition of “an impeachable offense” for a President. The question was a good one, and since Ford was a Congressional leader he was an appropriate person to ask. The Constitution specifies only that a President may be impeached for “Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.” Except for Treason and Bribery, the Constitution is silent on “other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.”
Ford said, “An impeachable offense is anything a majority of the House says it is.” He was not joking. Technically, the Senate must act upon any bill of impeachment voted by the House. The Senate has no authority to reject an impeachment without a trial or ignore it altogether. The House will send a team of lawyers to press their impeachment, and the Senate must entertain them. Ford’s plainspoken, unambiguous answer is relevant today, not for impeachment, but with respect to the actual exercise of Congressional power. There is the real possibility of the Senate refusing to seat Roland Burris, the new, interim Senator from Illinois. Can the Senate refuse to seat a legally appointed member? The power of the Congress to accept or reject its own membership is as simply stated in the Constitution, as is the power of impeachment. Both powers are granted… but neither has proper grounds specifically delineated, defined or distinguished from possibly improper, even illegal reasons for exercising either authority.
So, was Ford right? Could the House impeach a President… for any reason, simply by calling whatever their reason of choice might be “a high Crime or Misdemeanor?” Can the Senate refuse to accept the certificate of appointment from the State of Illinois? The answer is: Sure. Why not? Who’s going to stop them? One might say, “Hey, they can’t do that!” But – again – who will stop them?
In 1966 the House refused to seat Rep. Adam Clayton Powell of New York. The reasons, and the merit of them, or lack of same, are not important here. It’s enough that Powell was indeed denied his seat in Congress. He sued. The House sits for only 2 years, and then an entire new House is elected, so Powell asked the federal courts for an expedited hearing. They refused. His lawsuit, therefore, followed normal procedure, at normal speed. It was still in the courts, unresolved, when Powell won a new election in 1968. The new Congress, in January 1969, voted to accept him. Nevertheless, his lawsuit against the previous Congress continued.
The Supreme Court eventually heard the case and voted in Powell’s favor (7-1 with one Justice not voting) – but it took 3 ½ years to get the decision. Since the Congress from which Powell had been excluded had ended already, he received no actual relief from his court victory.
This time around, should the Senate balk at seating Burris, there is nothing to make the Senate leadership justify their refusal. All they need to do is… do it. Once done, Burris will not become a Senator. He won’t get credentials, an office, a desk, a salary… nothing. He may well sue – as Adam Powell did. And he may well win – as Adam Powell did. And it may well take Roland Burris 3 to 4 years to get his vindication – as it took Rep, Powell. And, what will Burris get from such a victory – if and when it comes? He’ll get the same relief Powell got… nothing. So, what’s the point?
Illinois will hold another election in 2010 to fill the same Senate seat. While a legal case initiated by Burris may not be ruled moot (the Supreme Court refused to dismiss the Powell case as moot) in the real political world the issue will be meaningless because a newly, duly elected Illinois Senator will take his or her seat in January 2011.
What’s all the fuss about then? Nothing, really.
Ford said, “An impeachable offense is anything a majority of the House says it is.” He was not joking. Technically, the Senate must act upon any bill of impeachment voted by the House. The Senate has no authority to reject an impeachment without a trial or ignore it altogether. The House will send a team of lawyers to press their impeachment, and the Senate must entertain them. Ford’s plainspoken, unambiguous answer is relevant today, not for impeachment, but with respect to the actual exercise of Congressional power. There is the real possibility of the Senate refusing to seat Roland Burris, the new, interim Senator from Illinois. Can the Senate refuse to seat a legally appointed member? The power of the Congress to accept or reject its own membership is as simply stated in the Constitution, as is the power of impeachment. Both powers are granted… but neither has proper grounds specifically delineated, defined or distinguished from possibly improper, even illegal reasons for exercising either authority.
So, was Ford right? Could the House impeach a President… for any reason, simply by calling whatever their reason of choice might be “a high Crime or Misdemeanor?” Can the Senate refuse to accept the certificate of appointment from the State of Illinois? The answer is: Sure. Why not? Who’s going to stop them? One might say, “Hey, they can’t do that!” But – again – who will stop them?
In 1966 the House refused to seat Rep. Adam Clayton Powell of New York. The reasons, and the merit of them, or lack of same, are not important here. It’s enough that Powell was indeed denied his seat in Congress. He sued. The House sits for only 2 years, and then an entire new House is elected, so Powell asked the federal courts for an expedited hearing. They refused. His lawsuit, therefore, followed normal procedure, at normal speed. It was still in the courts, unresolved, when Powell won a new election in 1968. The new Congress, in January 1969, voted to accept him. Nevertheless, his lawsuit against the previous Congress continued.
The Supreme Court eventually heard the case and voted in Powell’s favor (7-1 with one Justice not voting) – but it took 3 ½ years to get the decision. Since the Congress from which Powell had been excluded had ended already, he received no actual relief from his court victory.
This time around, should the Senate balk at seating Burris, there is nothing to make the Senate leadership justify their refusal. All they need to do is… do it. Once done, Burris will not become a Senator. He won’t get credentials, an office, a desk, a salary… nothing. He may well sue – as Adam Powell did. And he may well win – as Adam Powell did. And it may well take Roland Burris 3 to 4 years to get his vindication – as it took Rep, Powell. And, what will Burris get from such a victory – if and when it comes? He’ll get the same relief Powell got… nothing. So, what’s the point?
Illinois will hold another election in 2010 to fill the same Senate seat. While a legal case initiated by Burris may not be ruled moot (the Supreme Court refused to dismiss the Powell case as moot) in the real political world the issue will be meaningless because a newly, duly elected Illinois Senator will take his or her seat in January 2011.
What’s all the fuss about then? Nothing, really.
Marley & Me
Wanting escape, we tried Marely & Me with Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston. They are beautiful and charming. The dog Marley, played by several dog actors portraying different stages in his life, was a total pain in the ass at every stage and very not charming. The movie is not for kids and not about a family coping with a dog. It is about coping with the challenges of employment in a marriage with two working adults while raising three kids and trying to live fulfilling lives. There is no dramatic conflict except between hope and reality. Interesting and engaging, but whoever decided to market it as a movie about a dog to take the kids to see, should have worked for the Bush administration selling a war.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
PAPA'S INDIVIDUAL SELF-DEFENSE
Years ago, I bought a gun, a handgun, a revolver, a Smith & Wesson that fires .38 magnum ammunition, the ones called hollow-point bullets that are designed to explode upon impact, spin randomly and disperse their charge wildly inside the body of the person you have shot. It’s a particularly damaging kind of ammunition, deadly in more cases than not. I selected a .38 revolver over a .9 mm because it is easier to shoot accurately and simple to load. The ease with which people appear to be shot with a .9 mm pistol – in the movies – is a trick of the cinema, a device of entertainment. If you went to shooting range with a .9 mm and fired it (as I have), aiming with one hand, shooting round after round without stopping, and your target was only fifteen feet away, you would be lucky to hit that target at all, even once. A revolver is much easier to fire effectively. A revolver is also always ready to fire while a .9 mm has to have a bullet in the chamber or else you’ll pull the trigger and nothing will happen.
When you own a gun for self-defense for self-protection and to ensure the safety of your loved ones, you need to be able to use it immediately, as you grab it. Preparation is something you may have no time for. You must, however, be prepared. You must learn how to operate a gun and you must become proficient as a shooter. I do not hunt, and never have. I have no interest in target shooting, although I admit the experience at a shooting range can be quite exciting and invigorating. There is a bit of a high to be had from firing a gun. Some people even like the smell of gunpowder. I do.
Before I purchased my weapon, a friend of mine who owned multiple guns and was an expert marksman gave me a harsh lecture. A man with a biting sense of humor, all pretense of comedy was gone when he spoke about this. “Owning a gun is not fucking around,” he said. He turned popular, conventional wisdom on its head. “People don’t kill people,” he told me. “Guns do.” He went on to say that nothing you might yell at anyone, especially in a moment of intense anger, could kill them. What I remember most is when he gave this example: “I’ll kill you, you mutherfucker!” he shouted, and then added quickly, “That never hurt anybody.” But, he pointed out, a calm and silent person with a loaded gun could pull the trigger and whomever the gun was pointed at might end up dead. No anger, no yelling, but a well-placed bullet to the face or chest… and the result is death. “It ain’t like the movies,” he said. “It’s not clean and, for the most part, when you get shot, on purpose, by someone who knows what they’re doing, you don’t recover.”
“Don’t buy a gun,” my friend told me, “until you have come to terms with the idea that you will kill someone.” Then he told me, “That’s why you’re buying one, isn’t it – to kill someone?” Guns are not meant as a deterrent to violence. Waving a weapon will not stop an aggressor. And the idea of shooting somebody in the hand or foot or leg just to wound them and thereby end the encounter is the kind of nonsense seen only in movies or on TV. In real life, when you point a loaded weapon at a person, you must mean to kill them. “If you can’t do that,” my friend said, “don’t buy a gun.”
I live in the suburbs of major city, a city that has a long history of violent home invasions. Once, those home invasions were unheard of outside the city. That’s no longer true. The suburbs are not immune from this sort of crime. I wouldn’t call it a public safety problem, not where I live, but what was unthinkable thirty years ago, now actually happens even if it is still unusual. Buy a gun – me? I was thinking about protecting my family, my property and myself. I make no excuses for that. If somebody is forcibly entering your home, at four in the morning or four in the afternoon, there’s no time to call the local police and wait for them to respond. If the criminals are armed, you or members of your family may be killed. Even if they are not armed, you or your family may be badly hurt.
Having a loaded gun available if I needed it, made me feel safer, more comfortable, more secure. It still does.
In our legal system we have a fundamental principle regarding the use of deadly force. It’s quite simple. You may use deadly force only when faced with it. Yes, that’s right. In most states, even if somebody breaks into your home in the middle of the night and you confront them – and they are unarmed – you cannot use deadly force without facing legal charges yourself. I know, most people who are awakened and discover a stranger in their bedroom would like to grab a handy gun shoot the sonofabitch and think they would be justified, both morally and legally. But that just isn’t the case. If your life isn’t in danger, you can’t kill someone no matter what law the intruder might have broken first.
Where I live, most people would gladly put their faith in a jury of their peers. I would. Once my friend gave me the parameters for gun ownership, I was ready. Think about it, if you woke up one night and an intruder, a home invader was in your home – in your bedroom - wouldn’t you shot them if you had a handgun immediately available? If you’ve answered “No,” I think you’re not being honest.
For the individual, survival is not only morally justified, it is a prime directive of human behavior, even if it involves killing somebody who you reasonably believe is a threat to your life. Armed or not, a home invader, especially one who is confronted by the homeowner, can and may well kill you. If you, as the victim have a gun, are you really going to take the time to consider the weaponry of your invader before shooing him? I won’t, and I doubt you would either, no matter what you say now, in the light of day, when you face no threat. This sort of reflection is an intellectual luxury reserved only to the safe and secure.
I know the law in my state requires that I use deadly force only when threatened by deadly force. I, however, trust the reasonable thinking of the average person to arrive at the conclusion that anyone who is inside my house, having entered forcibly and uninvited, is indeed a threat to my life and to the lives of my family. I will shoot, and as you would be taught, if you took shooting lessons, I will aim for the center of the torso, the largest part of the body. Miss high, you’ll hit the chest or the head. Miss low and your bullet probably strikes the groin area or the legs. A hit, directly where you aim, in the abdomen, will result in the most painful of all wounds. The chances of disabling the invader are excellent, and as my friend warned me in the beginning, the more you know how to use your gun, the better the odds are you will kill whomever you are shooting. That’s what the gun is for, isn’t it?
Some people I know have guns that they keep locked up. They even sell things called gun-safes. Others have special trigger locks. Before you can use such a weapon, you need a key and the time to unlock the trigger. I know some people who make a point of keeping their ammunition in a different place than where they keep their gun, and some never keep their gun loaded. It’s impolite to ask them, but I always wonder – why have a gun at all?
I keep my revolver in a place where I’m certain small children cannot get to it. Yet, it is immediately accessible to me, especially in the middle of the night. And it is always loaded. Extra bullets are right there, next to it. It has no trigger lock and I purposely bought a gun that has no safety mechanism. I believe my gun is essential to my individual self-defense. I believe a gun is meant to kill people, not to be turned off, and mine is ready to do so if needed.
When you own a gun for self-defense for self-protection and to ensure the safety of your loved ones, you need to be able to use it immediately, as you grab it. Preparation is something you may have no time for. You must, however, be prepared. You must learn how to operate a gun and you must become proficient as a shooter. I do not hunt, and never have. I have no interest in target shooting, although I admit the experience at a shooting range can be quite exciting and invigorating. There is a bit of a high to be had from firing a gun. Some people even like the smell of gunpowder. I do.
Before I purchased my weapon, a friend of mine who owned multiple guns and was an expert marksman gave me a harsh lecture. A man with a biting sense of humor, all pretense of comedy was gone when he spoke about this. “Owning a gun is not fucking around,” he said. He turned popular, conventional wisdom on its head. “People don’t kill people,” he told me. “Guns do.” He went on to say that nothing you might yell at anyone, especially in a moment of intense anger, could kill them. What I remember most is when he gave this example: “I’ll kill you, you mutherfucker!” he shouted, and then added quickly, “That never hurt anybody.” But, he pointed out, a calm and silent person with a loaded gun could pull the trigger and whomever the gun was pointed at might end up dead. No anger, no yelling, but a well-placed bullet to the face or chest… and the result is death. “It ain’t like the movies,” he said. “It’s not clean and, for the most part, when you get shot, on purpose, by someone who knows what they’re doing, you don’t recover.”
“Don’t buy a gun,” my friend told me, “until you have come to terms with the idea that you will kill someone.” Then he told me, “That’s why you’re buying one, isn’t it – to kill someone?” Guns are not meant as a deterrent to violence. Waving a weapon will not stop an aggressor. And the idea of shooting somebody in the hand or foot or leg just to wound them and thereby end the encounter is the kind of nonsense seen only in movies or on TV. In real life, when you point a loaded weapon at a person, you must mean to kill them. “If you can’t do that,” my friend said, “don’t buy a gun.”
I live in the suburbs of major city, a city that has a long history of violent home invasions. Once, those home invasions were unheard of outside the city. That’s no longer true. The suburbs are not immune from this sort of crime. I wouldn’t call it a public safety problem, not where I live, but what was unthinkable thirty years ago, now actually happens even if it is still unusual. Buy a gun – me? I was thinking about protecting my family, my property and myself. I make no excuses for that. If somebody is forcibly entering your home, at four in the morning or four in the afternoon, there’s no time to call the local police and wait for them to respond. If the criminals are armed, you or members of your family may be killed. Even if they are not armed, you or your family may be badly hurt.
Having a loaded gun available if I needed it, made me feel safer, more comfortable, more secure. It still does.
In our legal system we have a fundamental principle regarding the use of deadly force. It’s quite simple. You may use deadly force only when faced with it. Yes, that’s right. In most states, even if somebody breaks into your home in the middle of the night and you confront them – and they are unarmed – you cannot use deadly force without facing legal charges yourself. I know, most people who are awakened and discover a stranger in their bedroom would like to grab a handy gun shoot the sonofabitch and think they would be justified, both morally and legally. But that just isn’t the case. If your life isn’t in danger, you can’t kill someone no matter what law the intruder might have broken first.
Where I live, most people would gladly put their faith in a jury of their peers. I would. Once my friend gave me the parameters for gun ownership, I was ready. Think about it, if you woke up one night and an intruder, a home invader was in your home – in your bedroom - wouldn’t you shot them if you had a handgun immediately available? If you’ve answered “No,” I think you’re not being honest.
For the individual, survival is not only morally justified, it is a prime directive of human behavior, even if it involves killing somebody who you reasonably believe is a threat to your life. Armed or not, a home invader, especially one who is confronted by the homeowner, can and may well kill you. If you, as the victim have a gun, are you really going to take the time to consider the weaponry of your invader before shooing him? I won’t, and I doubt you would either, no matter what you say now, in the light of day, when you face no threat. This sort of reflection is an intellectual luxury reserved only to the safe and secure.
I know the law in my state requires that I use deadly force only when threatened by deadly force. I, however, trust the reasonable thinking of the average person to arrive at the conclusion that anyone who is inside my house, having entered forcibly and uninvited, is indeed a threat to my life and to the lives of my family. I will shoot, and as you would be taught, if you took shooting lessons, I will aim for the center of the torso, the largest part of the body. Miss high, you’ll hit the chest or the head. Miss low and your bullet probably strikes the groin area or the legs. A hit, directly where you aim, in the abdomen, will result in the most painful of all wounds. The chances of disabling the invader are excellent, and as my friend warned me in the beginning, the more you know how to use your gun, the better the odds are you will kill whomever you are shooting. That’s what the gun is for, isn’t it?
Some people I know have guns that they keep locked up. They even sell things called gun-safes. Others have special trigger locks. Before you can use such a weapon, you need a key and the time to unlock the trigger. I know some people who make a point of keeping their ammunition in a different place than where they keep their gun, and some never keep their gun loaded. It’s impolite to ask them, but I always wonder – why have a gun at all?
I keep my revolver in a place where I’m certain small children cannot get to it. Yet, it is immediately accessible to me, especially in the middle of the night. And it is always loaded. Extra bullets are right there, next to it. It has no trigger lock and I purposely bought a gun that has no safety mechanism. I believe my gun is essential to my individual self-defense. I believe a gun is meant to kill people, not to be turned off, and mine is ready to do so if needed.
REVOLUTIONARY ROAD
If you enjoy watching unpleasant people saying and doing predictable things, this may be the flick for you. We lasted fifteen minutes.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
DOUBT
“Doubt” portrays the moral and emotional struggle arising between a priest suspected of pederasty and the nun who suspects him. A younger nun embodies the good conscience and competing moral impulses of the audience, for which the antagonists compete.
What I’m about to say blows the plot line, so those who do not want to skip the first-level tensions of initial encounter -- ought probably read no further.
The promotional clips imply a convent western; St. Francis vs. Bloody Mary, Big Nurse down on the lovable loonies. This, together with Meryl Streep and Phillip Seymour Hoffman in costume and harness is how you build some kind of a gate.
But I expect that the movie will not do much business. It is not made for our C+ culture and D+ national mentality. It is an anti-western. It is a difficult, spiky lesson in moral philosophy.
Formally, the plot moves in grim parody of Tomesian logic: thesis (He did it), antithesis (No, I didn’t) synthesis (In that case …) But in this case, the young nun arrives at no satisfactory, reconcilliatory judgments. She tacks with the wind. As do we. That’s because the arguments acquire and lose force continuously. They tend, but never conclude.
More than religious professionals are at war here. Sentiment defies logic. Intuition thwarts evidence. Sympathy confounds obligation. Integrity repels kindness. Right and wrong switch habits.
Sermon over, we’re navigating personality traits, hierarchical privilege, child psychology, racial tragedy, domestic abuse, institutional corruption, authoritarian pathology, male prerogative, dismayingly rare roast beef – a red and yellow basket of more-and-less poisoned apples and oranges. No picnic.
The fun of the movie is being drawn in through ingenious craft and emotional power, being tempted to indulge this or that emotion or bias, then getting smacked up side your conscience with the consequence of your self-indulgence. Do you want to do the right thing or enjoy your popcorn? Turns out you can’t do both for more than a couple of minutes. That’s why I don’t think Americans will find much here to recommend.
I have worked the same basic formula in writing case study exercises for clients including the Army National Guard (before it became a combat force), an aluminum can manufacturer in Chicago, and a couple of others.
In one case, a supervisor is required to report a plainly bogus sexual harassment claim to HR – with predictably bad outcomes for all concerned. In another, a Guard recruiter is driven by honorable motives to use unapproved methods.
Of all the corporate goop I have written over twenty-odd years, nothing has come remotely close to these ethical-dilemma activities for exciting participant interest – not to mention impassioned, often angry debate. Frame a job-related conflict between immediate decency and longer term imperatives and you’ll create involvement second only to sex – in my professional experience.
But Doubt is not likely to stimulate this kind of debate. That’s because it layers the impulses so subtly, divides and arranges the moral and sympathetic qualities so evenly – that wherever you start out, you will find at least part of yourself lined up against you. I guarantee it. The aftermath will best be experienced internally, or in slower conversation. Or, as in my case, through an unpleasant dream.
The movie opens with Hoffman delivering an admirable sermon as Steep stalks the pews like a predatory stork, eyes alert for inattentive young heads to back-smack. After a few seconds, I told Joan that I feared we were in for a twisty ride because it couldn’t possibly be that simple and where the thing would lead I could not imagine.
I was, for a change, entirely right.
What I’m about to say blows the plot line, so those who do not want to skip the first-level tensions of initial encounter -- ought probably read no further.
The promotional clips imply a convent western; St. Francis vs. Bloody Mary, Big Nurse down on the lovable loonies. This, together with Meryl Streep and Phillip Seymour Hoffman in costume and harness is how you build some kind of a gate.
But I expect that the movie will not do much business. It is not made for our C+ culture and D+ national mentality. It is an anti-western. It is a difficult, spiky lesson in moral philosophy.
Formally, the plot moves in grim parody of Tomesian logic: thesis (He did it), antithesis (No, I didn’t) synthesis (In that case …) But in this case, the young nun arrives at no satisfactory, reconcilliatory judgments. She tacks with the wind. As do we. That’s because the arguments acquire and lose force continuously. They tend, but never conclude.
More than religious professionals are at war here. Sentiment defies logic. Intuition thwarts evidence. Sympathy confounds obligation. Integrity repels kindness. Right and wrong switch habits.
Sermon over, we’re navigating personality traits, hierarchical privilege, child psychology, racial tragedy, domestic abuse, institutional corruption, authoritarian pathology, male prerogative, dismayingly rare roast beef – a red and yellow basket of more-and-less poisoned apples and oranges. No picnic.
The fun of the movie is being drawn in through ingenious craft and emotional power, being tempted to indulge this or that emotion or bias, then getting smacked up side your conscience with the consequence of your self-indulgence. Do you want to do the right thing or enjoy your popcorn? Turns out you can’t do both for more than a couple of minutes. That’s why I don’t think Americans will find much here to recommend.
I have worked the same basic formula in writing case study exercises for clients including the Army National Guard (before it became a combat force), an aluminum can manufacturer in Chicago, and a couple of others.
In one case, a supervisor is required to report a plainly bogus sexual harassment claim to HR – with predictably bad outcomes for all concerned. In another, a Guard recruiter is driven by honorable motives to use unapproved methods.
Of all the corporate goop I have written over twenty-odd years, nothing has come remotely close to these ethical-dilemma activities for exciting participant interest – not to mention impassioned, often angry debate. Frame a job-related conflict between immediate decency and longer term imperatives and you’ll create involvement second only to sex – in my professional experience.
But Doubt is not likely to stimulate this kind of debate. That’s because it layers the impulses so subtly, divides and arranges the moral and sympathetic qualities so evenly – that wherever you start out, you will find at least part of yourself lined up against you. I guarantee it. The aftermath will best be experienced internally, or in slower conversation. Or, as in my case, through an unpleasant dream.
The movie opens with Hoffman delivering an admirable sermon as Steep stalks the pews like a predatory stork, eyes alert for inattentive young heads to back-smack. After a few seconds, I told Joan that I feared we were in for a twisty ride because it couldn’t possibly be that simple and where the thing would lead I could not imagine.
I was, for a change, entirely right.
Monday, December 29, 2008
GLBT
The non-heterosexual community (or most of it) is increasingly designated by the initials GLBT – Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender. The term pertains to persons at-risk for discrimination and abuse by virtue of gender orientation and behavior.
Needless to say, I support the squashing of all gender discrimination and abuse. Not only is there nothing wrong with being GLBT, but I believe that same-sexers have much to contribute from their special vantages. I hope they are encouraged to express themselves fully and often -- as equally advantaged citizens. Certainly, one hopes to hear more from this group than from, say, Italo-Americans.
However, I don’t know why Bisexuals get equal billing. Gays surely merit recognition for the many at-risk aspects of being Gay. Lesbians the same. Transgenders may need our sympathy and protection most of all.
But Bisexuals? People are not persecuted because they are Bisexuals. They are persecuted because they are part-time homosexuals. It’s not as though gay bashers get on them for crossing over and poaching our women or gentlemen. No, as long as they do opposites, they are pretty much all right. It’s only when they go same-wise that they catch it.
True at-risk communities get in trouble because of: 1. characteristics they cannot shed such as physical features, national origin, or swishing, 2. beliefs they should not have to relinquish however distasteful these beliefs are to the rest of us: deep religious convictions, political preferences, or 3. voluntary group behavior which does not harm others, like dressing up funny.
Most Gays, Lesbians, and Transgenders fit snugly into category One; they face risk because of how God made them. Some may locate themselves in category 2, having made purely personal choices to look or be G. or L., especially while still in college. In Gay Pride parades, category 3. takes the stage.
The same broad scheme covers B’s operating in Q. mode – functioning as G’s and L’s. Otherwise, they are not at risk. They simply wind up with more options than most people. This is no curse which hangs about their necks like an hormonal/genetic albatross, attracting arrows. We should all be so lucky.
I remember a brief period decades ago when light skinned African-Americans were represented as seeking their own identity – as mulattoes. A couple of people wrote articles about it and then it blew over. The mulatto identity idea suggested an impulse to duck the more reviled darker identity. As I remember, this attracted little support except from the M’s who wrote the articles.
I’m not judging. In the face of actual, physical anti-Semitism, I might very well suggest that blue-eyed atheistic Jews get a category of their own. When fascism comes, who knows what I will pretend to have been doing all my life? I try to have no illusions.
Nor do I consider myself an expert on same-sex politics or resistance strategies. But in this case I remain curious.
Do Bisexuals really require their own designation? If so, how come?
Do B’s really wish to separate themselves from their wholly fish and wholly fowl fellows? If so, why can’t they be happy as part-time G’s and L’s?
Do they consider Bisexuality especially snappy?
Has the B been added to GLBT not by B’s themselves – but by 100% G’s, L’s, and T’s as a means of building the base with or without the Two-Way community’s consent?
I know that some of Papadablogger’s readers may have more important things to do than think about this. Still, I’m on the lookout for those who have thoughts on the subject, or better yet, answers to the questions above. In this spirit, I will return filled with hope to the Comments box in the days ahead.
Needless to say, I support the squashing of all gender discrimination and abuse. Not only is there nothing wrong with being GLBT, but I believe that same-sexers have much to contribute from their special vantages. I hope they are encouraged to express themselves fully and often -- as equally advantaged citizens. Certainly, one hopes to hear more from this group than from, say, Italo-Americans.
However, I don’t know why Bisexuals get equal billing. Gays surely merit recognition for the many at-risk aspects of being Gay. Lesbians the same. Transgenders may need our sympathy and protection most of all.
But Bisexuals? People are not persecuted because they are Bisexuals. They are persecuted because they are part-time homosexuals. It’s not as though gay bashers get on them for crossing over and poaching our women or gentlemen. No, as long as they do opposites, they are pretty much all right. It’s only when they go same-wise that they catch it.
True at-risk communities get in trouble because of: 1. characteristics they cannot shed such as physical features, national origin, or swishing, 2. beliefs they should not have to relinquish however distasteful these beliefs are to the rest of us: deep religious convictions, political preferences, or 3. voluntary group behavior which does not harm others, like dressing up funny.
Most Gays, Lesbians, and Transgenders fit snugly into category One; they face risk because of how God made them. Some may locate themselves in category 2, having made purely personal choices to look or be G. or L., especially while still in college. In Gay Pride parades, category 3. takes the stage.
The same broad scheme covers B’s operating in Q. mode – functioning as G’s and L’s. Otherwise, they are not at risk. They simply wind up with more options than most people. This is no curse which hangs about their necks like an hormonal/genetic albatross, attracting arrows. We should all be so lucky.
I remember a brief period decades ago when light skinned African-Americans were represented as seeking their own identity – as mulattoes. A couple of people wrote articles about it and then it blew over. The mulatto identity idea suggested an impulse to duck the more reviled darker identity. As I remember, this attracted little support except from the M’s who wrote the articles.
I’m not judging. In the face of actual, physical anti-Semitism, I might very well suggest that blue-eyed atheistic Jews get a category of their own. When fascism comes, who knows what I will pretend to have been doing all my life? I try to have no illusions.
Nor do I consider myself an expert on same-sex politics or resistance strategies. But in this case I remain curious.
Do Bisexuals really require their own designation? If so, how come?
Do B’s really wish to separate themselves from their wholly fish and wholly fowl fellows? If so, why can’t they be happy as part-time G’s and L’s?
Do they consider Bisexuality especially snappy?
Has the B been added to GLBT not by B’s themselves – but by 100% G’s, L’s, and T’s as a means of building the base with or without the Two-Way community’s consent?
I know that some of Papadablogger’s readers may have more important things to do than think about this. Still, I’m on the lookout for those who have thoughts on the subject, or better yet, answers to the questions above. In this spirit, I will return filled with hope to the Comments box in the days ahead.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Two Jean Shepherd Stories
TWO JEAN SHEPHERD STORIES (Contained in an email correspondence between Fang Harrison and Valentine Marofsky)
STORY NUMBER 1 (sent by Fang Harrison to Valentine Marofsky)
The Man Who Told A Christmas Story
What I learned from Jean Shepherd.
By Donald Fagen [a New York City musician and co-founder of Steely Dan.]
Updated Monday, Dec. 22, 2008, at 10:04 AM ET
If you know Jean Shepherd's name, it's probably in connection with the now-classic film A Christmas Story, which is based on a couple of stories in his book In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash. He also does the compelling voice-over narration. On Christmas, TBS will continue its tradition of presenting a 24-hour Christmas Story marathon. There are annual fan conventions devoted to the film—released 25 years ago this Thanksgiving—and the original location in Cleveland has been turned into a museum. But long before A Christmas Story was made, Shepherd did a nightly radio broadcast on WOR out of Manhattan that enthralled a generation of alienated young people within range of the station's powerful transmitter. Including me: I was a spy for Jean Shepherd.
In the late '50s, while Lenny Bruce was beginning his climb to holy infamy in jazz clubs on the West Coast, Shepherd's all-night monologues on WOR had already gained him an intensely loyal cult of listeners. Unlike Bruce's provocative nightclub act, which had its origins in the "schpritz" of the Catskills comics, Shepherd's improvised routines were more in the tradition of Midwestern storytellers like Mark Twain, but with a contemporary urban twist: say, Mark Twain after he'd been dating Elaine May for a year and a half. Where Bruce's antics made headlines, Shepherd, with his warm, charismatic voice and folksy style, could perform his most subversive routines with the bosses in the WOR front office and the FCC being none the wiser. At least most of the time.
I was introduced to Shep, as his fans called him, by my weird uncle Dave. Dave, who was a bit of a hipster, used to crash on our sofa when he was between jobs. Being a bookish and somewhat imperious 12-year-old, already desperately weary of life in suburban New Jersey and appalled by Hoss and Little Joe and Mitch Miller and the heinous Bachelor Father, I figured Dave was my man. One night, after ruthlessly beating me at rummy, he put down the cards and said, "Now we're gonna listen to Shepherd—this guy's great." The Zenith table model in the kitchen came to life midway through Shepherd's theme music, a kitschy, galloping Eduard Strauss piece called the "Bahn Frei" polka. And then there was that voice, cozy, yet abounding with jest.
He was definitely a grown-up but he was talking to me—I mean straight to me, with my 12-year-old sensibility, as if some version of myself with 25 more years worth of life experience had magically crawled into the radio, sat down, and loosened his tie. I was hooked. From then on, like legions of other sorry-ass misfits throughout the Northeast, I tuned in every weeknight at 11:15 and let Shep put me under his spell. Afterward, I'd switch to an all-night jazz station and dig the sounds until I conked out. Eventually, this practice started to affect my grades and I almost didn't graduate from high school.
Listening to Shep, I learned about social observation and human types: how to parse modern rituals (like dating and sports); the omnipresence of hierarchy; joy in struggle; "slobism"; "creeping meatballism"; 19th-century panoramic painting; the primitive, violent nature of man; Nelson Algren, Brecht, Beckett, the fables of George Ade; ; the codes inherent in "trivia," bliss in art; fishing for crappies; and the transience of desire. He told you what to expect from life (loss and betrayal) and made you feel that you were not alone.
Shepherd's talk usually fell into one of four categories. Fans of A Christmas Story will be familiar with the basic comic tone of his Depression-era tales, elaborations on his experience growing up in Hammond, Ind., a Chicago suburb in the shadow of the U.S. Steel Works on Lake Michigan. These stories featured his manic father ("the old man"); his mother (always standing over the sink in "a yellow rump-sprung chenille bathrobe with bits of dried egg on the lapel"); his kid brother, Randy, and , bullies, beauties, and other neighborhood types. While the film preserves much of the flavor of Shep's humor, not much remains of the acid edge that characterized his on-air performances. In the film, the general effect is one of bittersweet nostalgia; on the radio, the true horror of helpless childhood came through.
Then there were the stories culled from his three years in the stateside Army during World War II (a juvenile ham radio and electronics freak, he was assigned to the Signal Corps). The third hunk of material was informed by his adventures in postwar radio and TV. He seems to have done every possible job, from engineer to sportscaster to hosting live cowboy music broadcasts. Finally, there was the contemporary stuff, comments on the passing scene.
In between, he'd sing along to noisy old records, play the kazoo and the nose flute, brutally sabotage the commercials, and get his listeners—the "night people," the "gang"—to help him pull goofy public pranks on the unwitting squares that populated most of Manhattan. In one famous experiment in the power of hype, Shepherd asked his listeners to go to bookstores and make requests for I, Libertine, a nonexistent novel by a nonexistent author, Frederick R. Ewing. The hoax quickly snowballed and several weeks later I, Libertine was on best-seller lists. (Shep and sci-fi author Theodore Sturgeon eventually codged together an actual novel for Ballantine Books. I owned a copy.)
Hilarious as Shep's tales could be, one sensed a tough realism about life that ran counter to the agitprop for the Leisure Revolution that the media were serving up in those years. With the Soviets flexing their muscles and the constant specter of global nuclear war, the government was going to fantastic lengths to convince everyone that things were just peachy. From Bert the Turtle's exhortations to "duck and cover" in the face of an atomic blast to the endless parade of new products hawked on the tube by Madison Avenue, Americans were feeding themselves a line of hooey that was no less absurd than the most hard-core Maoist brainwash. "Relax, life is good," we were told. "Your government and Walt Disney have got the future well in hand." To skeptical Mad magazine-reading little stinkers like myself, it was this mendacity on the part of adults that was the most sinister enemy of all.
Because Shep made it clear he was just as dazed, enraged, and amused as you were, that he noticed what you noticed, he established himself as one of a handful of adults you could trust. (Others were Mailer, Ginsberg, Vonnegut, and Realist publisher Paul Krassner.) Night after night, Shepherd forged the inchoate thoughts and feelings of a whole generation of fans into an axiom that went something like: "The language of our culture no longer describes real life and, pretty soon, something's gonna blow."
Toward the beginning of the show, Shepherd frequently read news clippings that listeners, his "spies," had sent in. These were mostly odd little fillers he called "straws in the wind," indicators of the prevailing mood. Once I mailed Shep an article from our local Central Jersey paper about a guy who, after being fired for some petty infraction, got loaded and tossed a Coke bottle through every store window in the local shopping mall. A couple of nights later, I'm listening to the show and Shep does his usual bit: "So, this kid sent me a piece ..." and ACTUALLY READ MY CLIP ON THE AIR! Wham: I had connected. My life as an independent consciousness had begun. I remember scurrying down to the "TV room" and announcing this amazing event to my parents. Having always considered both Shepherd and my uncle Dave to be half-cracked, they were greatly underwhelmed.
As grateful as I am that Shep was there for me during those crucial years, my idealization of Shepherd the Man was not to survive much longer. In December of 1965, I came home from my first year of college for Christmas break and noticed that Shepherd was going to be appearing at nearby Rutgers University. On a frosty night, I drove my used Ford Galaxy to New Brunswick, where I sat on the floor with a congregation of Rutgers students and watched Shep walk into the spotlight to enthusiastic applause. He had neat but stylishly long hair and was wearing a green corduroy sports coat with the collar up over a black turtleneck T.
Onstage for almost two hours, he had the young audience in his pocket from the downbeat. But, for me, something wasn't right. On the radio, speaking close to the mic, he was able to use vocal nuances and changes in intensity to communicate the most intimate shadings of thought and feeling, not unlike what Miles Davis could achieve in a recording studio. Live onstage, he spoke as though he'd never seen a microphone in his life, trying to project to the back of the room. Moreover, he blared and blustered like a carnival barker, as if he had the scent of failure in his nostrils and was ready to do anything to get the crowd on his side. It was obvious that the guy I thought was so cool had a desperate need to impress all these people, whom I assumed to be casual listeners at best.
In truth, even at home, listening on the radio, I'd noticed a strain of grandiosity creeping into Shepherd's routines. Apparently, he'd originally come to New York with the idea of being a stage actor or making it big on network TV. But it's easy to imagine mainstream producers and network execs being put off by Shepherd's contrariness and intrinsic marginality. Supposedly, when Steve Allen retired as host of The Tonight Show, he'd suggested Shepherd as a replacement. NBC ended up giving the job to the eccentric but more cuddly Jack Paar. In any case, as the years rolled by, Shepherd rankled at being confined to the ghetto of radio and must have come to see his crown as King of the Hipsters as a crown of thorns.
What I saw that night at Rutgers wasn't pretty. In the studio, his occasional abuse of the lone engineer on the other side of the glass could be seen as the petulance of an artist trying to make things work on the fly. But, incandescent under the gaze of all those kids, his self-indulgences looked more like straight-up narcissism and his "hipness" was revealed as something closer to contempt. By the end of the show, he'd crossed the line between artist and showman and then some. No longer wanting to meet the great man, I left before the reception, scraped the ice off my windshield, and drove home. Anyway, the cool early '60s were over and the boiling, psychedelic late '60s had begun. Shepherd was no longer part of my world.
Not long ago, in the absence of any books, films, music, etc., that seemed to give off any light, I started looking back at some of the things that used to inspire me as a kid, including some of Shep's old shows, now available on the Internet. Hearing them almost a half-century down the line has been a trip. Despite the tendencies I've already mentioned (plus the gaffes one might expect from a wild man like Shep ad-libbing before the age of political correctness), much of the stuff is simply amazing: The guy is a dynamo, brimming with curiosity and ideas and fun. Working from a few written notes at most, Shepherd is intense, manic, alive, the first and only true practitioner of spontaneous word jazz.
I've done a little catch-up research: Shepherd stayed on at WOR until 1977, when the station did a makeover. His books, collections of stories based on the same material he used on the air, sold well. He had a successful career on public television and continued to do his bit on stage into the '90s. And, of course, there was the collaboration with director Bob Clark on A Christmas Story. But I'm sorry to report that the narcissism thing kept getting worse as he got older.
Like a lot of fine-tuned performing artists, Shepherd increasingly exhibited the whole range of symptoms common to the aging diva. He became paranoid and resentful of imagined rivals, whether they were old ones like Mort Sahl or upstarts like Garrison Keillor. At the same time, he disavowed all his radio work, claiming that it was just a temporary gig on his way to some fanciful glory on the stage and screen. He even seemed to want to kill off his childhood, insisting that all those stories and characters were pulled clean out of his imagination. Old fans, for whom he had been almost like a surrogate father or big brother, were often met with derision when they approached him.
He didn't drink himself to death like his pal Jack Kerouac or OD like Lenny Bruce but gradually succumbed to that very real disease of self-loathing and its accompanying defenses. Disappointed in the way the world had treated him, he retired to Florida's west coast and died in 1999.
Although Shepherd almost never divulged details about his private life, he wasn't shy about giving us a bit of unflattering self-analysis, as this attests:
Protective coloration is extremely important in our lives. ... [W]e are in the weeds all the time because we find it better down here in the weeds. ...
Look at me. ... I am not at all what I appear to be. ... [T]his is merely a mask ... that more or less covers up the real me that's underneath. The real me is a saber-toothed tiger. I couldn't dare go down the street the way I really am. I'd get shot in five minutes. They'd have me in a wagon with a bunch of Doberman pinschers.
To an adolescent back then, long before a therapeutic vernacular had entered the language, this was reassuring news. It's possible that Shep's greatest lesson to the gang wasn't just "things are not what they seem" but rather "things are not what they seem—including me."
Copyright 2007 Washingtonpost.Newsweek Interactive Co. LLC
STORY NUMBER 2 (Sent by Valentine Marofsky to Fang Harrison)
Victor’s Story:
I just had lunch with Victor who told a wonderful story about Jean Shepherd.
Victor was a fan in the 1950s much as you and Don Fagen were. It was adolescent idolization.
Years later Victor was an associate Dean of Continuing Education, Liberal Arts Division at NYU. There he inherited Richard Brown who ran a course on theater. Brown was supposed to bring famous names as a draw for the course, but thought that he was more interesting than Robert Redford, etc. The strange this was, Brown was more interesting than his guests. After looking at Robert Redford for a few moments, what else is there.
As part of the program Victor was trying to find other personalities who could draw famous people from different walks of life to give courses similar to Richard Brown's. One day Brown or some other course giver told Victor that Jean Shepherd was scheduled to be the evening's guest speaker. Victor was invited to dinner with the host and Shepherd prior to the course being given. Victor was going to ask Shepherd to host another such a course, and Shepherd (who had been told of Victor's coming invitation of employment) was very much in favor.
The problem arose as soon as Victor joined Shepherd and the host at dinner because it was apparent that Shepherd in person was a boor (see Dan Fagen's similar impression at Rutgers). Even worse, at the course given that evening, which Victor was obligated to attend after the dinner, Shepherd alienated the audience almost immediately and did nothing to remedy his awful impression. He was so full of himself that he was unbearable on stage. After about an hour, the audience could take no more of Shepherd and an insurrection was brewing.
Then someone from the audience shouted out, "Do your ....... routine."
Shepherd, knowing that the audience was hostile and restive (he was not stupid) gladly agreed and launched into his bit from the radio show.
After that was finished someone else shouted out, "Jean, do your ........... routine."
Shepherd happily complied and the audience enjoyed the final hour of the presentation in excellent humor.
This, I'm sure you will agree, is such a better story than Fagen's at Rutgers.
P.S. - Shepherd did not get the job as a host at NYU School of Continuing Education, Liberal Arts Division.
STORY NUMBER 1 (sent by Fang Harrison to Valentine Marofsky)
The Man Who Told A Christmas Story
What I learned from Jean Shepherd.
By Donald Fagen [a New York City musician and co-founder of Steely Dan.]
Updated Monday, Dec. 22, 2008, at 10:04 AM ET
If you know Jean Shepherd's name, it's probably in connection with the now-classic film A Christmas Story, which is based on a couple of stories in his book In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash. He also does the compelling voice-over narration. On Christmas, TBS will continue its tradition of presenting a 24-hour Christmas Story marathon. There are annual fan conventions devoted to the film—released 25 years ago this Thanksgiving—and the original location in Cleveland has been turned into a museum. But long before A Christmas Story was made, Shepherd did a nightly radio broadcast on WOR out of Manhattan that enthralled a generation of alienated young people within range of the station's powerful transmitter. Including me: I was a spy for Jean Shepherd.
In the late '50s, while Lenny Bruce was beginning his climb to holy infamy in jazz clubs on the West Coast, Shepherd's all-night monologues on WOR had already gained him an intensely loyal cult of listeners. Unlike Bruce's provocative nightclub act, which had its origins in the "schpritz" of the Catskills comics, Shepherd's improvised routines were more in the tradition of Midwestern storytellers like Mark Twain, but with a contemporary urban twist: say, Mark Twain after he'd been dating Elaine May for a year and a half. Where Bruce's antics made headlines, Shepherd, with his warm, charismatic voice and folksy style, could perform his most subversive routines with the bosses in the WOR front office and the FCC being none the wiser. At least most of the time.
I was introduced to Shep, as his fans called him, by my weird uncle Dave. Dave, who was a bit of a hipster, used to crash on our sofa when he was between jobs. Being a bookish and somewhat imperious 12-year-old, already desperately weary of life in suburban New Jersey and appalled by Hoss and Little Joe and Mitch Miller and the heinous Bachelor Father, I figured Dave was my man. One night, after ruthlessly beating me at rummy, he put down the cards and said, "Now we're gonna listen to Shepherd—this guy's great." The Zenith table model in the kitchen came to life midway through Shepherd's theme music, a kitschy, galloping Eduard Strauss piece called the "Bahn Frei" polka. And then there was that voice, cozy, yet abounding with jest.
He was definitely a grown-up but he was talking to me—I mean straight to me, with my 12-year-old sensibility, as if some version of myself with 25 more years worth of life experience had magically crawled into the radio, sat down, and loosened his tie. I was hooked. From then on, like legions of other sorry-ass misfits throughout the Northeast, I tuned in every weeknight at 11:15 and let Shep put me under his spell. Afterward, I'd switch to an all-night jazz station and dig the sounds until I conked out. Eventually, this practice started to affect my grades and I almost didn't graduate from high school.
Listening to Shep, I learned about social observation and human types: how to parse modern rituals (like dating and sports); the omnipresence of hierarchy; joy in struggle; "slobism"; "creeping meatballism"; 19th-century panoramic painting; the primitive, violent nature of man; Nelson Algren, Brecht, Beckett, the fables of George Ade; ; the codes inherent in "trivia," bliss in art; fishing for crappies; and the transience of desire. He told you what to expect from life (loss and betrayal) and made you feel that you were not alone.
Shepherd's talk usually fell into one of four categories. Fans of A Christmas Story will be familiar with the basic comic tone of his Depression-era tales, elaborations on his experience growing up in Hammond, Ind., a Chicago suburb in the shadow of the U.S. Steel Works on Lake Michigan. These stories featured his manic father ("the old man"); his mother (always standing over the sink in "a yellow rump-sprung chenille bathrobe with bits of dried egg on the lapel"); his kid brother, Randy, and , bullies, beauties, and other neighborhood types. While the film preserves much of the flavor of Shep's humor, not much remains of the acid edge that characterized his on-air performances. In the film, the general effect is one of bittersweet nostalgia; on the radio, the true horror of helpless childhood came through.
Then there were the stories culled from his three years in the stateside Army during World War II (a juvenile ham radio and electronics freak, he was assigned to the Signal Corps). The third hunk of material was informed by his adventures in postwar radio and TV. He seems to have done every possible job, from engineer to sportscaster to hosting live cowboy music broadcasts. Finally, there was the contemporary stuff, comments on the passing scene.
In between, he'd sing along to noisy old records, play the kazoo and the nose flute, brutally sabotage the commercials, and get his listeners—the "night people," the "gang"—to help him pull goofy public pranks on the unwitting squares that populated most of Manhattan. In one famous experiment in the power of hype, Shepherd asked his listeners to go to bookstores and make requests for I, Libertine, a nonexistent novel by a nonexistent author, Frederick R. Ewing. The hoax quickly snowballed and several weeks later I, Libertine was on best-seller lists. (Shep and sci-fi author Theodore Sturgeon eventually codged together an actual novel for Ballantine Books. I owned a copy.)
Hilarious as Shep's tales could be, one sensed a tough realism about life that ran counter to the agitprop for the Leisure Revolution that the media were serving up in those years. With the Soviets flexing their muscles and the constant specter of global nuclear war, the government was going to fantastic lengths to convince everyone that things were just peachy. From Bert the Turtle's exhortations to "duck and cover" in the face of an atomic blast to the endless parade of new products hawked on the tube by Madison Avenue, Americans were feeding themselves a line of hooey that was no less absurd than the most hard-core Maoist brainwash. "Relax, life is good," we were told. "Your government and Walt Disney have got the future well in hand." To skeptical Mad magazine-reading little stinkers like myself, it was this mendacity on the part of adults that was the most sinister enemy of all.
Because Shep made it clear he was just as dazed, enraged, and amused as you were, that he noticed what you noticed, he established himself as one of a handful of adults you could trust. (Others were Mailer, Ginsberg, Vonnegut, and Realist publisher Paul Krassner.) Night after night, Shepherd forged the inchoate thoughts and feelings of a whole generation of fans into an axiom that went something like: "The language of our culture no longer describes real life and, pretty soon, something's gonna blow."
Toward the beginning of the show, Shepherd frequently read news clippings that listeners, his "spies," had sent in. These were mostly odd little fillers he called "straws in the wind," indicators of the prevailing mood. Once I mailed Shep an article from our local Central Jersey paper about a guy who, after being fired for some petty infraction, got loaded and tossed a Coke bottle through every store window in the local shopping mall. A couple of nights later, I'm listening to the show and Shep does his usual bit: "So, this kid sent me a piece ..." and ACTUALLY READ MY CLIP ON THE AIR! Wham: I had connected. My life as an independent consciousness had begun. I remember scurrying down to the "TV room" and announcing this amazing event to my parents. Having always considered both Shepherd and my uncle Dave to be half-cracked, they were greatly underwhelmed.
As grateful as I am that Shep was there for me during those crucial years, my idealization of Shepherd the Man was not to survive much longer. In December of 1965, I came home from my first year of college for Christmas break and noticed that Shepherd was going to be appearing at nearby Rutgers University. On a frosty night, I drove my used Ford Galaxy to New Brunswick, where I sat on the floor with a congregation of Rutgers students and watched Shep walk into the spotlight to enthusiastic applause. He had neat but stylishly long hair and was wearing a green corduroy sports coat with the collar up over a black turtleneck T.
Onstage for almost two hours, he had the young audience in his pocket from the downbeat. But, for me, something wasn't right. On the radio, speaking close to the mic, he was able to use vocal nuances and changes in intensity to communicate the most intimate shadings of thought and feeling, not unlike what Miles Davis could achieve in a recording studio. Live onstage, he spoke as though he'd never seen a microphone in his life, trying to project to the back of the room. Moreover, he blared and blustered like a carnival barker, as if he had the scent of failure in his nostrils and was ready to do anything to get the crowd on his side. It was obvious that the guy I thought was so cool had a desperate need to impress all these people, whom I assumed to be casual listeners at best.
In truth, even at home, listening on the radio, I'd noticed a strain of grandiosity creeping into Shepherd's routines. Apparently, he'd originally come to New York with the idea of being a stage actor or making it big on network TV. But it's easy to imagine mainstream producers and network execs being put off by Shepherd's contrariness and intrinsic marginality. Supposedly, when Steve Allen retired as host of The Tonight Show, he'd suggested Shepherd as a replacement. NBC ended up giving the job to the eccentric but more cuddly Jack Paar. In any case, as the years rolled by, Shepherd rankled at being confined to the ghetto of radio and must have come to see his crown as King of the Hipsters as a crown of thorns.
What I saw that night at Rutgers wasn't pretty. In the studio, his occasional abuse of the lone engineer on the other side of the glass could be seen as the petulance of an artist trying to make things work on the fly. But, incandescent under the gaze of all those kids, his self-indulgences looked more like straight-up narcissism and his "hipness" was revealed as something closer to contempt. By the end of the show, he'd crossed the line between artist and showman and then some. No longer wanting to meet the great man, I left before the reception, scraped the ice off my windshield, and drove home. Anyway, the cool early '60s were over and the boiling, psychedelic late '60s had begun. Shepherd was no longer part of my world.
Not long ago, in the absence of any books, films, music, etc., that seemed to give off any light, I started looking back at some of the things that used to inspire me as a kid, including some of Shep's old shows, now available on the Internet. Hearing them almost a half-century down the line has been a trip. Despite the tendencies I've already mentioned (plus the gaffes one might expect from a wild man like Shep ad-libbing before the age of political correctness), much of the stuff is simply amazing: The guy is a dynamo, brimming with curiosity and ideas and fun. Working from a few written notes at most, Shepherd is intense, manic, alive, the first and only true practitioner of spontaneous word jazz.
I've done a little catch-up research: Shepherd stayed on at WOR until 1977, when the station did a makeover. His books, collections of stories based on the same material he used on the air, sold well. He had a successful career on public television and continued to do his bit on stage into the '90s. And, of course, there was the collaboration with director Bob Clark on A Christmas Story. But I'm sorry to report that the narcissism thing kept getting worse as he got older.
Like a lot of fine-tuned performing artists, Shepherd increasingly exhibited the whole range of symptoms common to the aging diva. He became paranoid and resentful of imagined rivals, whether they were old ones like Mort Sahl or upstarts like Garrison Keillor. At the same time, he disavowed all his radio work, claiming that it was just a temporary gig on his way to some fanciful glory on the stage and screen. He even seemed to want to kill off his childhood, insisting that all those stories and characters were pulled clean out of his imagination. Old fans, for whom he had been almost like a surrogate father or big brother, were often met with derision when they approached him.
He didn't drink himself to death like his pal Jack Kerouac or OD like Lenny Bruce but gradually succumbed to that very real disease of self-loathing and its accompanying defenses. Disappointed in the way the world had treated him, he retired to Florida's west coast and died in 1999.
Although Shepherd almost never divulged details about his private life, he wasn't shy about giving us a bit of unflattering self-analysis, as this attests:
Protective coloration is extremely important in our lives. ... [W]e are in the weeds all the time because we find it better down here in the weeds. ...
Look at me. ... I am not at all what I appear to be. ... [T]his is merely a mask ... that more or less covers up the real me that's underneath. The real me is a saber-toothed tiger. I couldn't dare go down the street the way I really am. I'd get shot in five minutes. They'd have me in a wagon with a bunch of Doberman pinschers.
To an adolescent back then, long before a therapeutic vernacular had entered the language, this was reassuring news. It's possible that Shep's greatest lesson to the gang wasn't just "things are not what they seem" but rather "things are not what they seem—including me."
Copyright 2007 Washingtonpost.Newsweek Interactive Co. LLC
STORY NUMBER 2 (Sent by Valentine Marofsky to Fang Harrison)
Victor’s Story:
I just had lunch with Victor who told a wonderful story about Jean Shepherd.
Victor was a fan in the 1950s much as you and Don Fagen were. It was adolescent idolization.
Years later Victor was an associate Dean of Continuing Education, Liberal Arts Division at NYU. There he inherited Richard Brown who ran a course on theater. Brown was supposed to bring famous names as a draw for the course, but thought that he was more interesting than Robert Redford, etc. The strange this was, Brown was more interesting than his guests. After looking at Robert Redford for a few moments, what else is there.
As part of the program Victor was trying to find other personalities who could draw famous people from different walks of life to give courses similar to Richard Brown's. One day Brown or some other course giver told Victor that Jean Shepherd was scheduled to be the evening's guest speaker. Victor was invited to dinner with the host and Shepherd prior to the course being given. Victor was going to ask Shepherd to host another such a course, and Shepherd (who had been told of Victor's coming invitation of employment) was very much in favor.
The problem arose as soon as Victor joined Shepherd and the host at dinner because it was apparent that Shepherd in person was a boor (see Dan Fagen's similar impression at Rutgers). Even worse, at the course given that evening, which Victor was obligated to attend after the dinner, Shepherd alienated the audience almost immediately and did nothing to remedy his awful impression. He was so full of himself that he was unbearable on stage. After about an hour, the audience could take no more of Shepherd and an insurrection was brewing.
Then someone from the audience shouted out, "Do your ....... routine."
Shepherd, knowing that the audience was hostile and restive (he was not stupid) gladly agreed and launched into his bit from the radio show.
After that was finished someone else shouted out, "Jean, do your ........... routine."
Shepherd happily complied and the audience enjoyed the final hour of the presentation in excellent humor.
This, I'm sure you will agree, is such a better story than Fagen's at Rutgers.
P.S. - Shepherd did not get the job as a host at NYU School of Continuing Education, Liberal Arts Division.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
RELAPSING AND REMITTING
How about: Relapsing and Remitting Narcissistic Empathy Deficit Disorder?
Say you’re trying to give directions over the phone. A third person interrupts repeatedly. She wants you to suggest a different route – not knowing that the other party has reasons for avoiding this alternative route.
After you hang up, she says, “How come nobody ever listens to me?”
This individual suffers from RRNEDD. In other words:
In the press of the moment (Relapsing and Remitting) the self-involved (Narcissistic) third person fails to understand 1. The direction-seeker’s priorities, and 2. The bad impression she has made on you (Empathy Deficit Disorder.)
I mention this in connection with an article in last week’s New York Times: Psychiatry’s Struggle to Revise the Book of Human Troubles.
It’s struggling, all right.
Psychiatry faces many challenges as it attempts to update the DSM, or Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The new edition, DSM-V, is a guaranteed best seller, so that, at least, is not among Psychiatry’s problems.
But a plateful remain.
According to the article, Psychiatry must fend off drug companies bent on bribing contributors and editors to hype conditions ripe for treatment by patented medicines. Otherwise, the DSM-V will come out with Prozac Deprivation Syndrome and Hypovaliumism.
Another challenge reflects Psychiatry’s ignorance of its subject matter. It does not know exactly what anything is, or what causes it, or more often than not, what to do about it. As the article points out in the words of a perceptive actual psychiatrist, “ … this is not cardiology or nephrology.”
However, the DSM does serve as a means of getting people paid. It does so by attaching a number to each diagnostic label, such as RRNEDD. This number, say 897.9, triggers the insurance company’s reimbursement (or denial) mechanism, allowing mental health care to function.
The New York Times article explores the skeptical view of the above-quoted doctor who has authored a book which summarizes Western Civilization under the title, “ Before Prozac.” He’s concerned that identifying people as having “obsessive-compulsive” disorder may impose a negative impact on their self-perception if and when they hear about it.
Also, the current approach may not give some gender permutations the encouragement they deserve.
I could see that this article was no mere exercise in industry cheerleading. That’s probably why it wasn’t in the Science section. Still, for another objective viewpoint I visited Iris, my childhood chum and on-call psychiatrist. Not having cracked the DSM for a long time, I asked her to fetch hers and together we vetted.
I was quickly reminded that Psychiatry has set itself a noble task in attempting to categorize the whole of human experience for purposes of reimbursement. This is one of its most daunting challenges -- struggling to encapsulate every facet of what goes on day by day.
My eye fell quickly on the pot section. I read sadly about Cannabis Dependency, with its compulsive and destructive aspects. “But what,” I wondered, “is meant by 305.20 Cannabis Abuse?” Turns out, this condition comprises driving high, getting busted, smoking at work, arguing about smoking dope with spouse or parents, and toking up in the presence of minors.
Nor does Psychiatry go easy on legal agents, as evidenced by 292.89, Caffeine Induced Sleep Disorder. Armed with a degree and a number, you can get reimbursed for telling people to cut down.
Oppositional Defiant Disorder involves arguing with adults, disregarding authority, blaming others for your own fuck-ups, being annoyed and annoying, and showing an angry, resentful, or vindictive side. To qualify your psychiatrist for reimbursement, these tendencies must get in your way.
The same goes for 312.89 Impulse Control Disorder, 301.50 Histrionic Personality Disorder, and 302.89, Frotteurism, or touching people on the subway. My favorite is Factitious Disorder, or making up disorders.
Psychiatry is struggling to do its best. With all the challenges it faces, it can use some help. I don’t intend to stop with RRNEDD. I’m taking notes on other troublesome manifestations, too.
I urge readers to join me in this practice and send your notes to Pappa. When we have enough, I’ll give them all numbers and forward the whole batch to Psychiatry.
Say you’re trying to give directions over the phone. A third person interrupts repeatedly. She wants you to suggest a different route – not knowing that the other party has reasons for avoiding this alternative route.
After you hang up, she says, “How come nobody ever listens to me?”
This individual suffers from RRNEDD. In other words:
In the press of the moment (Relapsing and Remitting) the self-involved (Narcissistic) third person fails to understand 1. The direction-seeker’s priorities, and 2. The bad impression she has made on you (Empathy Deficit Disorder.)
I mention this in connection with an article in last week’s New York Times: Psychiatry’s Struggle to Revise the Book of Human Troubles.
It’s struggling, all right.
Psychiatry faces many challenges as it attempts to update the DSM, or Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The new edition, DSM-V, is a guaranteed best seller, so that, at least, is not among Psychiatry’s problems.
But a plateful remain.
According to the article, Psychiatry must fend off drug companies bent on bribing contributors and editors to hype conditions ripe for treatment by patented medicines. Otherwise, the DSM-V will come out with Prozac Deprivation Syndrome and Hypovaliumism.
Another challenge reflects Psychiatry’s ignorance of its subject matter. It does not know exactly what anything is, or what causes it, or more often than not, what to do about it. As the article points out in the words of a perceptive actual psychiatrist, “ … this is not cardiology or nephrology.”
However, the DSM does serve as a means of getting people paid. It does so by attaching a number to each diagnostic label, such as RRNEDD. This number, say 897.9, triggers the insurance company’s reimbursement (or denial) mechanism, allowing mental health care to function.
The New York Times article explores the skeptical view of the above-quoted doctor who has authored a book which summarizes Western Civilization under the title, “ Before Prozac.” He’s concerned that identifying people as having “obsessive-compulsive” disorder may impose a negative impact on their self-perception if and when they hear about it.
Also, the current approach may not give some gender permutations the encouragement they deserve.
I could see that this article was no mere exercise in industry cheerleading. That’s probably why it wasn’t in the Science section. Still, for another objective viewpoint I visited Iris, my childhood chum and on-call psychiatrist. Not having cracked the DSM for a long time, I asked her to fetch hers and together we vetted.
I was quickly reminded that Psychiatry has set itself a noble task in attempting to categorize the whole of human experience for purposes of reimbursement. This is one of its most daunting challenges -- struggling to encapsulate every facet of what goes on day by day.
My eye fell quickly on the pot section. I read sadly about Cannabis Dependency, with its compulsive and destructive aspects. “But what,” I wondered, “is meant by 305.20 Cannabis Abuse?” Turns out, this condition comprises driving high, getting busted, smoking at work, arguing about smoking dope with spouse or parents, and toking up in the presence of minors.
Nor does Psychiatry go easy on legal agents, as evidenced by 292.89, Caffeine Induced Sleep Disorder. Armed with a degree and a number, you can get reimbursed for telling people to cut down.
Oppositional Defiant Disorder involves arguing with adults, disregarding authority, blaming others for your own fuck-ups, being annoyed and annoying, and showing an angry, resentful, or vindictive side. To qualify your psychiatrist for reimbursement, these tendencies must get in your way.
The same goes for 312.89 Impulse Control Disorder, 301.50 Histrionic Personality Disorder, and 302.89, Frotteurism, or touching people on the subway. My favorite is Factitious Disorder, or making up disorders.
Psychiatry is struggling to do its best. With all the challenges it faces, it can use some help. I don’t intend to stop with RRNEDD. I’m taking notes on other troublesome manifestations, too.
I urge readers to join me in this practice and send your notes to Pappa. When we have enough, I’ll give them all numbers and forward the whole batch to Psychiatry.
Leo Durocher's Bid Was Foul
Sometimes There Was Magic
NYTimes.com - December 23, 2008
On Old Cassette, Barber’s Voice Brings to Life Game He Missed
By RICHARD SANDOMIR
No one broadcast Johnny Vander Meer’s second consecutive no-hitter in June 1938, but that did not deter fans from telling Red Barber years later how much they enjoyed his call.
Barber should have called it, at least for symmetry’s sake.
He was then in his final season with the Cincinnati Reds (his storied run with the Brooklyn Dodgers started the next season) and behind the Crosley Field radio microphone for Vander Meer’s first no-hitter on June 11 against the Boston Bees.
But because the Dodgers, Giants and Yankees were in the last season of a five-year ban on radio broadcasts from their stadiums, Vander Meer’s no-hitter at Ebbets Field on June 15 was a witness-only event, unheard on any airwave. So while Vander Meer was making history in Brooklyn, Barber was home in Cincinnati, being called by exhilarated fans who knew that his home number was listed under his wife’s name.
Forty-one years later, Barber came to the annual meeting of the Florida Association of Broadcasters. They presented him with their Gold Medal. He recalled a prayer about the “changes and chances of time,” then offered his listeners the gift of time passed.
“Something no one has,” he said. He later added, “It’s going to be yours.”
Rome Hartman attended the broadcasters’ conference, which he recalled being held in Orlando, Fla.
“It was so extemporaneous that everyone was in awe,” said Hartman, a former sportscaster who was then general manager of a radio station in West Palm Beach. “He had it in his mind because he didn’t read it off any script. It came out of his memory.”
The first part of his gift, preserved in a cassette tape bought by Hartman after the conference but forgotten in a box of memorabilia for many years, was Barber’s vivid recap of the first eight innings. “Suddenly, this thing became alive,” Barber said.
Barber’s recapitulation of the game is a reminder that Vander Meer, no matter the sensation he caused with his first no-hitter, was an afterthought early on in the Brooklyn game. It was the first night game at Ebbets Field, and 38,748 fans, well beyond capacity, had jammed in. “They must have been in the aisles and hanging from the rafters,” Barber said.
The second part, which lasts just over three minutes, is Barber live — yet 41 years late. He calls the bottom half of the ninth as if it were being played before him, with Vander Meer facing the bases full of Brooks with one out.
“Now,” Barber said, “on the brink of greatness, unprecedented greatness, he’s gone wild.” With Reds Manager Bill McKechnie at the mound trying to calm Vander Meer, Barber said: “There’s no one warming up in the bullpen. It’s going to be Vander Meer going all the way. It has to be. He pitched a no-hitter four days ago at Cincinnati against Boston, and tonight is his night. His father and mother are here. The girl he’s going to marry. They’re all here. And this crowd is now for him. They’ve turned their backs on their ball club, the Dodgers. They want him to do it.”
Barber, who died in 1992, was 71 at the time, 13 years past his firing by the Yankees. His lyrical voice rose excitedly during the half-inning and sometimes lowered as if he were telling Cub Scouts a ghost story. He spoke rapidly and clearly, describing the runners on base and the Reds’ defensive setup. And when he said Vander Meer’s name, the syllables were transformed by Barber’s Mississippi roots into the gentler-sounding “Van-da-me-ah.”
“Ernie Lombardi, ‘Big Schnozz,’ sitting back of the plate, ready to give the sign,” he said. “Koy up. Vander Meer pitches. It’s a strike. No balls, one strike. The score is six to nothing in favor of the Reds. But the score is not the story. The story is Vander Meer!”
Bob Edwards, a Sirius XM talk show host, talked to Barber every Friday for 12 years on National Public Radio’s “Morning Edition”; he remembered Monday that at a public radio conference in 1983, Barber surprised attendees by recreating the bottom of the ninth of Game 4 of the 1947 World Series. Brooklyn’s Cookie Lavagetto broke up a no-hitter by the Yankees’ Bill Bevens with a pinch-hit double and won the game for the Dodgers.
“It was the only good thing that happened at that conference,” Edwards said, adding, “He was a showman. When he was a kid, he wanted to be in vaudeville.”
With two outs and shortstop Leo Durocher facing Vander Meer, the tinkling glasses in the banquet room were muted. His audience of broadcasters was quiet.
“Durocher swings, and it’s a hard line-drive going down the right field and it’s foul just by a couple of feet in the right-field corner,” he said and his audience exhaled loudly — “You had to catch your breath,” Hartman said — and applauded. (The New York Times article the next day said Durocher’s foul went into the right-field stands.)
Then, the conclusion: “It’s no balls, two strikes, three on,” the old Redhead said. “It’s a high fly ball going to medium center field. Harry Craft comes under it, sets, and takes it, and it’s a double no-hitter for Vander Meer.” A brief pause, and, finally: “Thank you.”
NYTimes.com - December 23, 2008
On Old Cassette, Barber’s Voice Brings to Life Game He Missed
By RICHARD SANDOMIR
No one broadcast Johnny Vander Meer’s second consecutive no-hitter in June 1938, but that did not deter fans from telling Red Barber years later how much they enjoyed his call.
Barber should have called it, at least for symmetry’s sake.
He was then in his final season with the Cincinnati Reds (his storied run with the Brooklyn Dodgers started the next season) and behind the Crosley Field radio microphone for Vander Meer’s first no-hitter on June 11 against the Boston Bees.
But because the Dodgers, Giants and Yankees were in the last season of a five-year ban on radio broadcasts from their stadiums, Vander Meer’s no-hitter at Ebbets Field on June 15 was a witness-only event, unheard on any airwave. So while Vander Meer was making history in Brooklyn, Barber was home in Cincinnati, being called by exhilarated fans who knew that his home number was listed under his wife’s name.
Forty-one years later, Barber came to the annual meeting of the Florida Association of Broadcasters. They presented him with their Gold Medal. He recalled a prayer about the “changes and chances of time,” then offered his listeners the gift of time passed.
“Something no one has,” he said. He later added, “It’s going to be yours.”
Rome Hartman attended the broadcasters’ conference, which he recalled being held in Orlando, Fla.
“It was so extemporaneous that everyone was in awe,” said Hartman, a former sportscaster who was then general manager of a radio station in West Palm Beach. “He had it in his mind because he didn’t read it off any script. It came out of his memory.”
The first part of his gift, preserved in a cassette tape bought by Hartman after the conference but forgotten in a box of memorabilia for many years, was Barber’s vivid recap of the first eight innings. “Suddenly, this thing became alive,” Barber said.
Barber’s recapitulation of the game is a reminder that Vander Meer, no matter the sensation he caused with his first no-hitter, was an afterthought early on in the Brooklyn game. It was the first night game at Ebbets Field, and 38,748 fans, well beyond capacity, had jammed in. “They must have been in the aisles and hanging from the rafters,” Barber said.
The second part, which lasts just over three minutes, is Barber live — yet 41 years late. He calls the bottom half of the ninth as if it were being played before him, with Vander Meer facing the bases full of Brooks with one out.
“Now,” Barber said, “on the brink of greatness, unprecedented greatness, he’s gone wild.” With Reds Manager Bill McKechnie at the mound trying to calm Vander Meer, Barber said: “There’s no one warming up in the bullpen. It’s going to be Vander Meer going all the way. It has to be. He pitched a no-hitter four days ago at Cincinnati against Boston, and tonight is his night. His father and mother are here. The girl he’s going to marry. They’re all here. And this crowd is now for him. They’ve turned their backs on their ball club, the Dodgers. They want him to do it.”
Barber, who died in 1992, was 71 at the time, 13 years past his firing by the Yankees. His lyrical voice rose excitedly during the half-inning and sometimes lowered as if he were telling Cub Scouts a ghost story. He spoke rapidly and clearly, describing the runners on base and the Reds’ defensive setup. And when he said Vander Meer’s name, the syllables were transformed by Barber’s Mississippi roots into the gentler-sounding “Van-da-me-ah.”
“Ernie Lombardi, ‘Big Schnozz,’ sitting back of the plate, ready to give the sign,” he said. “Koy up. Vander Meer pitches. It’s a strike. No balls, one strike. The score is six to nothing in favor of the Reds. But the score is not the story. The story is Vander Meer!”
Bob Edwards, a Sirius XM talk show host, talked to Barber every Friday for 12 years on National Public Radio’s “Morning Edition”; he remembered Monday that at a public radio conference in 1983, Barber surprised attendees by recreating the bottom of the ninth of Game 4 of the 1947 World Series. Brooklyn’s Cookie Lavagetto broke up a no-hitter by the Yankees’ Bill Bevens with a pinch-hit double and won the game for the Dodgers.
“It was the only good thing that happened at that conference,” Edwards said, adding, “He was a showman. When he was a kid, he wanted to be in vaudeville.”
With two outs and shortstop Leo Durocher facing Vander Meer, the tinkling glasses in the banquet room were muted. His audience of broadcasters was quiet.
“Durocher swings, and it’s a hard line-drive going down the right field and it’s foul just by a couple of feet in the right-field corner,” he said and his audience exhaled loudly — “You had to catch your breath,” Hartman said — and applauded. (The New York Times article the next day said Durocher’s foul went into the right-field stands.)
Then, the conclusion: “It’s no balls, two strikes, three on,” the old Redhead said. “It’s a high fly ball going to medium center field. Harry Craft comes under it, sets, and takes it, and it’s a double no-hitter for Vander Meer.” A brief pause, and, finally: “Thank you.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
