Saturday, August 27, 2011

Rick Perry as Elmer Gantry

The summertime parade of pachyderms who would be president seems to have featured a new leader every few weeks. The newest entry into the field of hopefuls, Gov. Rick Perry, has shot straight to the frontrunner position in the latest Gallop Poll.

What about Rep. Michele Bachmann? What about former-Gov. Mitt Romney? What about Donald Trump?

They have all become old news, it would seem. For the time being they are out of style with fickle voters who like to call themselves Republicans. Hey, Rep. Ron Paul is ahead of Bachmann in that same poll.

No need to ask what about former-Gov. Sarah Palin. Which means Palin is mostly a publicity stunt on an endless loop; she’s plainly not going to enter the race for the Republican nomination, but she‘ll surely love it if she is permitted to play a significant role in selecting the ticket.

Who knows what it means for GOP-leaning voters to jump from one elephant to another so quickly? But it seems that 15 months ahead of the 2012 election, which hopeful thumps the Bible with the most passion and authenticity matters plenty. Perry says he's not so sure about evolution.

Like, maybe it's mostly charlatan scientists just trying to get more grants, which is exactly how Perry views climate change science.

Meanwhile, former-Gov. Jon Huntsman says: “The minute that the Republican Party becomes the anti-science party, we have a huge problem.”

But among active candidates, Huntsman is at the bottom of the aforementioned latest poll, so do many Republicans care what he has to say about anything? And, what kind of Christian is he, anyway?

For the Washington Post columnist Kathleen Parker writes:
Even so, in the absence of a better candidate, Romney had a fighting chance to win his party’s support. Then came Perry.

Talk about a perfect-storm, composite candidate. Combine Elmer Gantry’s nose for converts, Ronald Reagan’s folksy confidence and Sarah Palin’s disdain for the elites — and that dog hunts.

Perry doesn’t just believe, he evangelizes.
Click here to read Parker’s piece, “Rick Perry, the Republicans’ Messiah?,” in its entirety.

Parker is spot on with that Elmer Gantry thing. By the way, if you haven’t seen Burt Lancaster’s Oscar-winning performance in “Elmer Gantry” (1960), do yourself a favor and watch it. It’s a film well worth seeing more than once.

Friday, August 26, 2011

High on the Hog's zombie will walk Oct. 1

It seems STYLE Weekly is about to become the promoter of something akin to the old High on the Hog pork and music festival that used to be staged in Libby Hill Park (1977-2006). Its current issue has a full-page ad for an event that might be called “Hogtober” on Sat., Oct. 1.

Click here to visit the volunteer page at STYLE. It's called "Hogtoberfest" in the copy on this page. The weekly magazine is working with the Church Hill Association to put together this day filled with live music on stage, cold beer on tap and pork aplenty.

From a piece, "Big Pig Postmortem," I wrote for Brick in October of 2007 (in its Pete Humes era), here’s a little bit of HOTH history:

Due to the intrusion of an all-day downpour, last year’s edition of High on the Hog, No. 30, was a soggy affair. Two of the bands scheduled couldn’t play under the circumstances. Yet, in spite of the stormy weather, the Bop Cats and the Memphis Rockabilly Band performed using a scaled down sound system. Tarps were lashed to the sides and back of the stage to block the wind-driven rain.

A few party stalwarts danced in the mud with umbrellas. The show went on … but perhaps for the last time.

“It was a Nor’easterner that settled over Richmond,” said the longtime director of matters musical, Chuck Wrenn. “We’ll see what the future brings.”

Meanwhile, there certainly will be no High on the Hog 31 this year. So, the director of matters porcine, Larry Ham, won’t be slathering his Carolina red vinegar basting sauce over slow-cooking pork this Saturday in Libby Hill Park.

Moreover, it seems likely that High on the Hog—which for three decades has served a generation as a reliable reunion party—has probably happened for the last time.


The heavy losses sustained from last year’s fizzler meant the handful of friends/neighbors who have staged and financially backed HOTH since its inception took a bath in red ink ... the rainy day fund was wiped out.

Going back to HOTH’s origins, other than Ham, among Wrenn’s chief co-conspirators have been: Bobby Long, Dave O’Kelly, John Cochran, Randy Smith and Steve McKay. For such veterans last year’s weather had to bring to mind another rainy day, 26 years before. 1980 was the year they significantly enlarged the plan for what had originally been a small annual neighborhood party.

Three rousing rock n’ roll bands played on a flatbed trailer in the cobblestone alley behind Wrenn’s 2808 East Franklin Street back yard for what was the then-largest HOTH crowd ever.

Yet, this was a time when one couldn’t get a permit from the proper authorities for such an event. Amplified rock simply wasn’t allowed at outdoor shindigs in Richmond, most especially on public property. So, in a sense HOTH 4 was flying below, or perhaps above, the radar. For whatever reason the cops on the beat chose not to bust it.

When it suddenly began raining in 1980, rather than lose momentum by shutting off the electricity and clearing the stage—to wait out the downpour—Wrenn broke out his staple gun and large rolls of heavy-gauge transparent plastic. With the help of volunteers an awning was hastily improvised to keep the rain off the stage. A portion of the yard closest to it was also protected, somewhat.

Then, with the electric guitars of Don’ Ax Me ... Bitch wailing in defiance of the chilly rainstorm, the sense of common purpose felt by those dancing in the mud was unforgettable. The full potential of live rock n’ roll music to simultaneously express both lamentation and celebration was realized.

In 1983 HOTH had outgrown its alley venue, so it shifted gears and moved into the park across the street. The throwdown even went legit. Subsequently, HOTH’s rollicking success and noteworthy lack of trouble planted the seeds for Jumpin’ in July, Friday Cheers and the outdoor music festivals that have blossomed since.

The HOTH record for beer sales on a Saturday afternoon still stands at 209 kegs; it was some time in the early ‘90s, according to Chuck. At its peak, it took some 350 volunteers to chop the pork, serve the beer, tend the stage, etc. Each year volunteers got a new HOTH T-shirt for their trouble; extras were sold to the public. There have been 25 different models.

What was a beloved local gospel group, The Silver Stars, holds the record for most HOTH appearances with 10 (1987-‘96). The Memphis Rockabilly Band played the gig seven times (1980, ‘81, ‘84-‘87, ‘06).

“The Silver Stars, we got every year we could ... until they died,” Wrenn recalled.

What were locally-based bands with multiple appearances include: The Bop Cats, The Good Humor Band, Billy Ray Hatley’s bands, Page Wilson with Reckless Abandon and The Wall-O-Matics. Maybe the three most noteworthy national acts were: Billy Price and the Keystone Rhythm Band in ‘83 and ‘85; NRBQ in ‘87; Marcia Ball in ‘01.

Presented with the prospect that HOTH has run it course, a smiling Chuck Wrenn offered familiar advice, “Don’t forget to have a good time.”

Those coveted laminated backstage credentials, which meant free beer to the wearer, will probably be selling on eBay soon. Who knows what T-shirts will eventually be worth?

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Aug. 23,1:51 p.m. EDT

http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6291/212/1600/Zism9b02.jpg

My first sense of it was as a noise. It sounded like my upstairs neighbor’s washing machine had the most unbalanced load ever. The bam-bam-bam noise had a rhythmic quality. But it was louder than ever before. Then I realized I could feel it, too.

As I sat facing my laptop wondering what could make such a noise that the building seemed to be moved by it, I hadn’t accepted that it really was moving.

No. It had to be a garbage truck lumbering down the cobblestone alley, or a low-flying helicopter just overhead.

Then I flashed back onto a time when some kids were playing a noisy game in the alley behind my place. They had found several sets of old metal file cabinets in the alley. So they took out the green drawers and made a few stacks of them, maybe three or four drawers high. Then they started rolling black bowling balls, the big ones with holes that are used in tenpins, at the towers of file cabinets.

The players took turns. When the file drawers tumbled, crash! kaboom! the group cheered. With the racket it made, fortunately, they were playing their whimsical game in daylight hours.

There you have it -- even in a genuine emergency some of us are still able to digress and detach from reality.

After some 15 seconds into yesterday's shaky business it finally dawned on me that maybe it was an earthquake. As I’d never seen/felt one before, I had only movies for a frame of reference.

Suddenly my desire to get out of the old three-story building I was in overwhelmed me. I was on my feet and through the door pretty damn fast for an old goat. When I got close to the alley, I turned around to look back at the building.

Yes, it was moving!

There was dust, or something like it, popping out of its brick walls. The wooden two-story back porch was dancing up and down. It went on for another 30 seconds, or so. I was so focused on watching and trying to make sense of what I was seeing before me, I couldn’t tell if the other buildings on the block were doing the same thing ... it stopped.

Why would it happen to only one building? With my heart still racing, I walked down the alley to investigate.

Instantly, there were others in the alley and on the street. I walked around for about five minutes. If they spoke at all most people said essentially the same thing: "Was your building shaking, too?"

The episode had lasted so long, the better part of a minute, it seemed unlike movie earthquakes. I listened for sirens or other signs of trouble. It was over.

When I went back indoors, I sat back down and checked in on Facebook. I saw posts from other parts of the state, and as far away as New York, all saying the same thing -- “EARTHQUAKE.” It took another five minutes for the wire services to get the story out.

Closer to home, Brad Tucker posted a video on Facebook. It was The Cars’ “Shake It Up.” I laughed and played it. Feeling better immediately, I clicked on “share.”

Then I went back to reading about the hurricane that’s threatening to rearrange the East Coast.

Upon reflection, I thought about the tornado I saw in 1968. It was heading straight for where I was standing, struck still with awe, before it slammed into a huge, low-rise storage building, perhaps a quarter-mile away in an open field.

After a slight pause, to chew up and spit out half of the building, the skittering blue-black funnel turned hard right and here I am to tell the story. That intense scene, 43 years ago, lasted about as long as did yesterday's earthquake.

Didn't go out after dark, but I bet the bars in the Fan were lively. Now I can put another large item on my special list of things I’m glad I’ve seen … but wouldn’t want to see again.

Aug. 23,1:51:04 p.m. EDT

http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6291/212/1600/Zism9b02.jpg

My first sense of it was as a noise. It sounded like my upstairs neighbor’s washing machine had the most unbalanced load ever. The bam-bam-bam noise had a rhythmic quality. But it was louder than ever before. Then I realized I could feel it, too.

As I sat facing my laptop wondering what could make such a noise that the building seemed to be moved by it, I hadn’t accepted that it really was moving.

No. It had to be a garbage truck lumbering down the cobblestone alley, or a low-flying helicopter just overhead.

Then I flashed back onto a time when some kids were playing a noisy game in the alley behind my place. They had found several sets of old metal file cabinets in the alley. So they took out the green drawers and made a few stacks of them, maybe three or four drawers high. Then they started rolling black bowling balls, the big ones with holes that are used in tenpins, at the towers of file cabinets.

The players took turns. When the file drawers tumbled, crash! kaboom! the group cheered. With the racket it made, fortunately, they were playing their whimsical game in daylight hours.

There you have it -- even in a genuine emergency some of us are still able to digress and detach from reality.

After some 15 seconds into yesterday's shaky business it finally dawned on me that maybe it was an earthquake. As I’d never seen/felt one before, I had only movies for a frame of reference.

Suddenly my desire to get out of the old three-story building I was in overwhelmed me. I was on my feet and through the door pretty damn fast for an old goat. When I got close to the alley, I turned around to look back at the building.

Yes, it was moving!

There was dust, or something like it, popping out of its brick walls. The wooden two-story back porch was dancing up and down. It went on for another 30 seconds, or so. I was so focused on watching and trying to make sense of what I was seeing before me, I couldn’t tell if the other buildings on the block were doing the same thing ... it stopped.

Why would it happen to only one building? With my heart still racing, I walked down the alley to investigate.

Instantly, there were others in the alley and on the street. I walked around for about five minutes. If they spoke at all most people said essentially the same thing: "Was your building shaking, too?"

The episode had lasted so long, the better part of a minute, it seemed unlike movie earthquakes. I listened for sirens or other signs of trouble. It was over.

When I went back indoors, I sat back down and checked in on Facebook. I saw posts from other parts of the state, and as far away as New York, all saying the same thing -- “EARTHQUAKE.” It took another five minutes for the wire services to get the story out.

Closer to home, Brad Tucker posted a video on Facebook. It was The Cars’ “Shake It Up.” I laughed and played it. Feeling better immediately, I clicked on “share.”

Then I went back to reading about the hurricane that’s threatening to rearrange the East Coast.

Upon reflection, I thought about the tornado I saw in 1968. It was heading straight for where I was standing, struck still with awe, before it slammed into a huge, low-rise storage building, perhaps a quarter-mile away in an open field.

After a slight pause, to chew up and spit out half of the building, the skittering blue-black funnel turned hard right and here I am to tell the story. That intense scene, 43 years ago, lasted about as long as did yesterday's earthquake.

Didn't go out after dark, but I bet the bars in the Fan were lively. Now I can put another large item on my special list of things I’m glad I’ve seen … but wouldn’t want to see again.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Over-awareness of the camera

Behind makeshift barricades in the basement of a small church there will be 18 people, 17 of which will hostages of a 20-year-old schizophrenic full of sweet red wine and homemade speed. He will have his finger on the trigger of a portable nuclear device.

A little camera and microphone hooked up to a laptop will capture and transmit the hostage-taker's cryptic announcement: "I am the Looney Tunes Bomber, my presentation will be a one-reeler."

The entire nine minutes and 11 seconds of the LTB’s ranting performance will be consumed by a rapt audience that some will estimate to be a billion viewers in its final minute.

After chuckling, “Tha, tha … that’s all folks,” he will set off the bomb.

It will blow Boise, or maybe Baltimore, off the map. The first video of the suicidal bomber’s diabolical stunt will go up on YouTube less than an hour after the appearance of the mushroom cloud.

Somewhere, in Rio, or Tokyo, or elsewhere, a heart will be beating faster in the chest of an abused and angry boy who will be instantly determined to top the LTB’s bloodthirsty audacity.

We are watching a generation grow up with an awareness of the camera that goes far beyond previous generations. And, we are also witnessing a snowballing of the ability of anyone to transmit words and images about love, hate, religion, style and politics, by way of the Internet, to a worldwide audience.

It’s anybody’s guess where the current generation’s insatiable thirst to record and share voluminous records of their everyday lives will lead ... good or bad. We do already know that revolutionaries everywhere are relying on social media in a way that is mind-boggling.

Meanwhile, more and more we are seeing news stories that are tantamount to stunts staged for willing cameras. While it's fashionable these days to scold the press for its tasteless and excessive coverage of certain events, it's not entirely the fault of media executives and editors. The stories they encounter, in some cases, have been planned and packaged by people who are damn good at planting a story.

A precedent-setter in this area occurred 32 years ago with the shameful cooperation that developed between news-gatherers for television and the Iranian "students," who demonstrated on a daily basis in front of the American embassy during the hostage crisis (1979-81) that sabotaged the presidency of Jimmy Carter.

Now we know that much of the feverish chanting and fist waving was done on cue. Now we know the camera shots were pushed in tight because the angry horde yelling, "Death to America!" was only a dozen souls deep.

Today, it seems cultural and religious grievances are routinely becoming more heated, here and abroad, by provocative or slanted news coverage. Moreover, much of the reportage these days actually seems designed to inflame situations being covered.

On top of that, in America, the press scrutiny of angry anti-government firestorm being stoked by some for political gain is surely helping to push some alienated militia types, who see Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh as a hero, closer to the edge.

Speaking of McVeigh, the future’s bomber in the church basement has already seen how plenty of sullen murderers have been made into celebrities by the press. So, he will be confident that the television networks and online newspapers would not turn down a live broadcast of an on-going hostage situation.

Sadly, even if they could see they would be magnifying the reach and power of our wigged out terrorist, it’s hard for this scribe to believe the mainstream media would be able to deny him his last terrible wishes. Several movies have been made using this same basic hostage-holding hook.

Can’t you hear the executives explaining their decisions? If we didn’t cover the story in real-time, the other networks were going to, etc…

-- 30 --

Friday, August 19, 2011

Eric E: Jukebox of Americana

Note: After attending the memorial ceremony for the man known to his many fans as Eric E., eight years ago today, I wrote the short piece that follows for what was then my new blog:

RICHMOND, VA (August 19, 2003): The horns wailed as they entered the Arthur Ashe Center. At about 12:30 p.m. a brass New Orleans-style procession playing "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" led the family, friends and fans of the late L. Eric "Rick" Stanley into the memorial ceremony.

It was a service for the deejay known to his local listeners as Eric E. Stanley died on August 12, 2003.

The program billed the occasion as a "celebration of life." What followed the procession, two hours-plus of music and colorful Rick Stanley anecdotes with a somewhat restrained dose of old-time religion, lived up to the billing.

Many of the faces in the crowd of approximately 1,500 were familiar to anyone who has followed the live music scene in Richmond over the last 20-some years. Interestingly, for a city reputed to be trapped in habits that separate blacks from whites, Stanley once again demonstrated his unique ability to appeal to both sides of Broad Street.

Eric Stanley, who was 53 when cancer took his life, was the host and producer of the Bebop, Boogie, & Blues Review, a radio show of his own invention that was heard most recently on WJMO-105.7FM on Sunday nights. As well, he was a promoter/producer of many live shows.

Stanley's bright-eyed daughter, Erin Stanley, closed her remarks with her father's trademark radio sign-off: "Gotta go ... gotta go."

Tears flowed – of course they did – but the overall mood in the room was decidedly upbeat. Stanley's presence was symbolized throughout the cavernous space by photographs and other traditional remembrances on display, which included his own harmonica – a Hohner Pro Harp, a 10-hole diatonic with black cover-plates.

For the recessional the musicians played "When the Saints Go Marching In" to lead the gathering into the sunlight.

Those who were so disposed went to the closest restaurant/bar, Dabney's, where a lively reception ensued, and lingered. No doubt, it was a crowd Rick Stanley would have enjoyed being a part of.

His silent black harmonica was there.

*

Note: A year-and-a-half before that ceremony I wrote this profile of Stanley for a
Fifty Plus, local magazine.

Eric E: Jukebox of Americana

By F. T. Rea


FEBRUARY 2002: Richmond’s Eric E is a jukebox of colorful anecdotes about American music. Push any button and out comes another of his takes on some aspect of the music he has found in his midst. Then you get a set that might include a mix of Jazz, Blues, Rock ‘n’ Roll, Rhythm & Blues, Zydeco, Rockabilly, Country & Western, Hip Hop, Soul, Gospel, or Du-Wop. You name it.

Otherwise known as Eric E. Stanley, Eric E has made a lifelong study of American working-man’s music styles and the connections between them. His understanding of those integral connections -- synapses between genres -- lies at the core of his own authentic style.

All that said, Stanley is on the air, again, with a better-than-ever version of his trademark radio show: the Bebop Boogie & Blues Revue. He’s back after dodging a bullet that came at him out of blue -- prostate cancer. After a routine test alerted him to his situation, he was basically out of the game for a year.

With that ordeal behind him, what comes out of his listeners’ speakers on Sunday nights, between 7 p.m. and midnight, is the Eric E jukebox of Americana. His free-association decision of what recording to play next can be as improvised as a jazz musician landing on just the right note and quirky pause to justify the experimental riff he just played.

Seamlessly, Eric E moves from Jimi Hendrix to Patsy Cline to Muddy Waters to Li’l Ronnie and the Grand Dukes to Stanley Turentine, all, without worrying about why.

In an age of ubiquitous ticky-tacky radio programming, Stanley’s variety-oriented ideas can’t be packaged into a standard format. Thus, his current arrangement with WJMO, 105.7FM, allows him to do as he pleases with the five-hour block of time. He not only hosts the show and selects the music, but he also arranges for the program’s underwriting. In effect, Eric E. is his own boss.

The product, the Bebop Boogie & Blues Revue, is an utter delight. Typical of the Eric E style, he also does the commercials live. With no canned hype, the ads come off more as endorsements than intrusions. At this writing, BB&BR’s five sponsorships, one for each hour, are the Richmond Jazz Society, Plan 9 Music, Kuba Kuba restaurant, the Commercial Taphouse, and Creole Arts.

“If you advertise with me, I’m going in your business,” says Stanley. “If I haven’t been in the place, I don’t accept the ad.”

The Path to Radio

As a child, Eric Stanley spent as much time as he could at his aunt’s restaurant, a spacious old log-house with a stone fireplace. The Hilltop Restaurant, located on US Route 1 in Ashland, catered mostly to a rural black clientele. In the summer he’d cook hamburgers and do what he could to seem useful.

The Hilltop featured live entertainment, mostly acts from what was known as the Chitlin’ Circuit. Down in the basement, Stanley’s uncle poured off-the-record shots of liquor. Fascinated with the raw music and the natural scene surrounding it, Ricky -- a skinny kid with glasses -- soaked up all he could from traveling bluesmen such as Jimmy Reed and Elmore James.

Sometimes Reed would baby-sit for precocious Ricky (who tended to ask too many questions) when his aunt and uncle were running errands for the business. “I remember it from the late '50s to early '60s,” says Stanley with his easy smile. Of the legendary Reed, Stanley recalls: “He’d give me a quarter for the vibrating [lounge] chair, drink whiskey from a little bottle, and play his guitar.”

Stanley’s favorite hit tunes from his childhood? Off the top of his head he answers, “‘In the Still of the Night,’ ‘It’s All in the Game,’ and ‘Twist and Shout,’ the Isley Brothers version.”

During his high school days, playing drums and harmonica in bands, together with performing as a dancing drum major, Stanley leaned that he enjoyed performing in front of a crowd. That yen would resurface.

In 1968, after Stanley finished Virginia Randolph, he went on to study advertising at Virginia Commonwealth University for a couple of years. For the next nine years he was away from the Richmond area, for the most part, studying Early Childhood Education at Bowie State College in Maryland and working as a day-care teacher in Washington. It was during his period in D.C. that he fell into broadcasting.

A friend was hosting a radio program with commentary about prison life. He helped her with the project and began playing some jazz here and there to broaden the narrowly focused show’s appeal. That led to Eric Stanley’s first program of his own, a 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. gig on WPFW-FM.

Color Radio

In 1979 Stanley returned to Richmond, and in 1982, while managing a Reggae band, Awareness Art Ensemble, he found his way to Color Radio. “I got involved with Color Radio because Charles Williams, of the Good Guys band [bass guitar], called and told me they were starting a station on Continental Cablevision and I should get involved,” says Stanley.

Color Radio (1982-84) was the sound heard behind cable television company’s static color-bar test pattern on Channel 36. The station was started by alternative music enthusiasts who were, for the most part, neophyte broadcasters. Some had had experience at college stations.

The sound traveled by phone line from a makeshift studio over Plan 9 record store in Carytown to Continental, which sent the signal out on its lines. The DJs were invited volunteers -- several were musicians -- and they essentially played and said whatever they liked.

The eclectic, spontaneous style Stanley developed then is what he has used when he could ever since. He dubbed his show, “The Frontline -- 360 degrees of Ba-Lack Music.” Stanley closed each show with what has become his signature sign-off as Eric E, the performer: “Gotta go … Gotta go.”

From WANT to WVGO

In the radio business some things change fast, others never change. One day you’re the toast of the town. The next week your front door key doesn’t work because the station’s locks have been changed; you’ve been sacked. Eric Stanley, like anyone who has hung around for any time in the radio biz, has been buffeted about by a variety of stations through all sorts of changes in ownership and format.

The story of how he came to his present gig on Sunday nights picks up in 1988, when WRNL, 910-AM, hired Eric Stanley to host an oldies midday show. Later, he expanded into Saturday nights, with an R&B-oriented oldies show.

In 1990 Harriet McLeod, popular music writer for the Richmond News Leader wrote:
Stanley, music director since January, has set out to make it [WRNL] Richmond’s funkiest radio station, adding to the oldies format B-sides, album cuts, tunes that never charted in the era when sales in black-owned record stores, and often sales of black artists, weren’t counted for the charts. Stanley draws much of his playlist from a personal collection of 5,000 albums, singles, tapes, CDs.
His move to WRXL-FM marked the beginning of the Bebop Boogie & Blues Revue, which Eric E hosted on Sunday nights. Although it was Blues-based, this time he got the freedom to do something closer to what he had done with his Color Radio show. At this point he called his format “free-form.”

Among other things freeform meant taking risks in stride. In speaking of two of his favorite musicians, Miles Davis and John Coltrane, Stanley says, “The ones [musicians] who got the most respect took chances.”

His next move, in 1992, was to WVGO, 106.5-FM. The new station positioned itself as an alternative to "classic rock" and took the Richmond market by storm. Soon Stanley was recognized widely for his amazing crossover success: in other words, a black radio personality appealing to a white audience. Suddenly he was everywhere; hosting live events for the station and the darling of local entertainment writers.

On the air Eric E pushed the envelope, even for a station with a so-called “alternative” format. In addition to his “almost anything but opera” style of presentation he made a point of playing the recordings of local acts, too; such as Boy O Boy, the Good Guys and Theories of the Old School.

In 1994, having acted as DJ/host of a blues night at Mulligan’s Sports Bar for five years, he moved his act to Memphis Bar & Grill in Shockoe Bottom. There he played records and presented live music on Wednesday night for two years. But in October of 1995 the wind shifted in the market once again. Eric E and WVGO went their separate ways. And the next year he moved his live version of Bebop Boogie & Blues Revue to the Moondance Saloon. At this point he was also busy doing voice-overs for commercials and acting as a consultant and/or executive producer for several area bands' recording projects.

Diagnosis and Recovery

Over the years the resourceful Eric Stanley has worked a number of jobs to fill in and around his show business activities. It was in one of those situations that he suddenly learned of a totally unexpected problem. A screening for prostate cancer, conducted through his workplace, Haley Pontiac, revealed that he had no viable option to surgery, which took place in July of 2000.

Since this meant no work for a lengthy spell and his insurance was inadequate to cover all the ramifications, money problems loomed, not to mention the natural worry about his prognosis. Although these were dark days, there was a shaft of light at the end of the tunnel.

Enter two friends: Marilyn Marable and Lee Pillsbury. Overnight they organized a benefit show at Alley Katz, a Shockoe Bottom live stage. The all-star lineup included; Plunky & Oneness, Rene Marie, Jazz Poets Society, Bio Ritmo, The Deprogrammers/Good Guys (a combination of the two bands), Car Bomb, Inc., The Nighthawks, Helel, and Fighting Gravity.

Of the night of the Alley Katz extravaganza, Stanley says: "The most humbling thing was when they put that benefit on."

Today, cancer free and undergoing no cancer-related treatment, he laughs at an unflattering photograph of a somewhat wan-looking Eric E that accompanied an article about the benefit. "When I saw that picture of me I thought I was dying."

Since then the American Cancer Society has approached him about acting as a spokesman for the organization, speaking to groups of men on the importance of testing.

“Since I’m exercising and eating better, I may be healthier than I was,” says the ever upbeat Stanley. “Last year, I was diagnosed and treated for cancer. Thanks to God, a real good woman [the previously mentioned Marilyn Marable], a good doctor, and the mojo [a green bag of mysterious herbs, bone powder and who-knows-what? he picked up in New Orleans years ago] I keep in my pocket, I'm still here and laughing at you."

Sunday Night Live

Now that Eric E is back in the saddle, the last Arbitron ratings book [as of this writing] reported that the Bebop Boogie & Blues Revue had already shot to a close second to WCDX-FM, Power 92, in his time-slot, among listeners in the 25-to-54 demographic.

So instead of complaining about how lame radio in Richmond can be, the reader is advised to tune in to Eric E for an escape from the ordinary. On top of its entertainment value, his show is not unlike a class in music history. Yes, Stanley sounds very much the professor as he explains, for example, how Muddy Waters put together the traditional electrified blues ensemble of two guitars, drums and harmonica, with piano on occasion.

In fact, Professor Eric E is teaching a class, American Music: Blues, Hip Hop, Jazz, and Rock 'n' Roll, at St. Catherine’s School this semester. So the young ladies on Grove Avenue, nestled up to the Country Club of Virginia, are learning how Chuck Berry took Country & Western songs and gave them a Blues shuffle-beat in order to become a Rock ‘n’ Roll pioneer.

Those private school students will also be exposed to Eric E. Stanley’s well-honed thoughts on the power of music to reach across cultural barriers. Of music’s ability to bring people of different backgrounds together he says: “Many times it’s the hammer that breaks the wall down.”

From the Hilltop Restaurant, by way of countless hours of platter-spinning air-time, Eric Stanley, 52-years-old on February 26 (a birthday he shares with music legends Fats Domino and Johnny Cash), is at the top of his game, again.

Meanwhile, as the former hamburger flipper and dancing drum major would no doubt say at this point, “Gotta go … gotta go.”

-- 30 --

-- Photo by Al Wekelo

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Central Time

This morning a friend’s post on Facebook recalled Sen. Wayne Morse, who was one of just two senators that opposed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution in 1964.

The memory of Morse speaking out against giving the president a blank check to wage war is still vivid. Watching Morse on TV, when I was 16, I was amazed at his nerve for going against the all overshadowing LBJ. And, I had no sense whatsoever the president could be ginning up an excuse to launch a massive invasion. They were calling Morse a kook, but I remember being puzzled and wondering why he sounded so reasonable.

In August of 1964 I had no idea that I would eventually view Morse as a saint. In August of 1966 I was in boot camp. The short story below draws somewhat on the experience I had on my way to Great Lakes, Illinois, 45 years ago, this month.

*

Central Time
Fiction by F. T. Rea

August 16, 1966: Roscoe Swift sat alone in a day car slowly rattling its way into Central Station. The solitary sailor had spent the last hour turning the glossy pages of Playboy and contemplating infinity. As the train lurched he glanced out of the window at Tuesday morning, Chicago style.

Roscoe had sequestered himself from the marathon poker game in the club car. The stepped up call for wild cards and split pots, by the various dealers, had finally driven him from the table. His resolute grandfather had schooled him to despise such frilly variations on the already-perfect game of poker.

“Gimmicks like that were invented to keep suckers in the game,” was the old man’s admonition.

This was hardly the day Roscoe wanted to invite the sort of jinx that might be set in motion by disregarding absolutes.

In the magazine’s lengthy interview section LSD pioneer Timothy Leary ruminated on his chemically enlarged view of the so-called Youth Movement. Professor Leary called the current crop: “The wisest and holiest generation that the human race has yet seen.”

The subculture forming around psychedelic drugs in that time was opening new dimensions of risk for 19-year-old daredevils. Roscoe wondered if he would ever do acid. His friend Bake had tripped and lived to tell about it.

There was a fresh dimension to the conflict in Vietnam that month, as well. The Cold War’s hottest spot was being infused with its first batch of draftees; some 65,000 were being sent into the fray, like it or not. Until this point it had been the Defense Department’s policy to use volunteers only for combat duty.

Also, on the home-front, quakes of change were abundant: A 25-year-old former Eagle Scout, Charles Whitman, climbed a tower on the University of Texas campus and shot 46 people, at random, killing 16; comedian/first amendment martyr Lenny Bruce was found dead -- overdosed and fat belly up -- on his bathroom floor; news of songwriter/musician John Lennon’s playful crack -- “We’re [the Beatles] more popular than Jesus Christ now” -- inflamed the devoutly humorless; and reigning Heavyweight Champ, Muhammad Ali, bent all sorts of folks out of shape with his widely reported quip -- “I ain't got nothing against them Viet Cong.”

Since leaving Main Street Station in Richmond, Virginia the morning before, Roscoe had traveled - via the Chesapeake and Ohio line - through parts of West Virginia, Ohio, and Indiana, on his way to Illinois.

Taking leave from the airbrushed charms of September’s Playmate of the Month his mind kaleidoscoped to the sound of his girlfriend Julie’s laughter.

As a preamble to Roscoe’s departure for basic training he and Julie had spent the weekend in Virginia Beach, trying their best to savor the bittersweet taste of war-torn romance, black and white movie style. As luck would have it, the stately Cavalier Hotel’s central air conditioning system went on the blink the Friday they arrived.

Since the hotel’s windows couldn't be opened that meant the sea breeze was unavailable for relief from the heat wave. Nonetheless, they stayed on, because the hotel itself, a stylish relic of the Roaring ‘20s, meant something. After two years of catch-as-catch-can back-seat romance, this was where they had chosen to spend their first whole night together.

That evening they stretched out on the bed and sipped chilled champagne. With the hotel-supplied fan blowing on them at full blast, suddenly, a good-sized chunk of the ceiling fell onto a chair across the room.

After Roscoe mischievously reported the strange problem to the front desk -- “I hate to sound like Chicken Little, but perhaps you have a safer room?” -- Julie suggested a barefoot stroll on the beach to cool off.

Walking in the surf, neither of them had much to say. An hour later Julie and Roscoe were happily soaked as they returned to the hotel. With a little snooping around the pair discovered the door to the Cavalier’s indoor pool was unlocked. As it was well past the posted time for the pool to be open and the chlorine-smelling room was nearly dark, they reasoned that the facility was at their disposal for a little skinny-dipping.

*

Stepping off the train, Roscoe was two hours from another train ride. This one, aboard a local commuter, would finish the job of transporting him from Richmond’s Fan District - with its turn-of-the-century townhouses - to a stark world of colorless buildings and punishing grinders: Great Lakes Naval Training Center was his destination.

In the last month Roscoe had listened to plenty of supposedly useful yarns of what to expect at boot camp. Concerning Chicago, he could recite facts about the White Sox, the Cubs and the Bears; he had seen the movie about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow and the big fire; he thought Bo Diddley was from Chicago. One thing was certain, Seaman Recruit Swift knew he was further from home than he’d ever been.

Outside the train station on the sidewalk, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away” -- a novelty tune on the summer's Top 40 chart -- blared appropriately from the radio of a double-parked Pontiac GTO.

After laughing at the ironic coincidence of the music, Roscoe, Zach, Rusty, and Cliff - comrades-at-arms in the same Navy Reserve unit in Richmond for four months of weekly meetings - considered their options for killing the time between trains, and they spoke of the ordeal ahead of them.

“That’s it, man.” Rusty explained. “The Navy figures everybody eats Jell-o, so that’s where they slip you the dose of saltpeter.”

“Get serious, that’s got to be bullshit,” said Zach. “The old salts tell you that to jerk you around.”

“OK, Zach, you can have all my Jell-o,” Rusty offered.

“Not even a breeze; what do y’all make of the Windy City?” asked Cliff. “It’s just as damn hot up here as it was in Richmond.”

A couple of blocks from the station the team of eastern time-zoners, outfitted in their summer whites, stopped on a busy corner to scan the hazy urban landscape. Finding a worthwhile sightseeing adventure was at the top of their agenda.

Answering the call, a rumpled character slowly approached the quartet from across the street. Moving with a purpose, he was a journeyman wino who knew a soft touch when he could focus on it.

In a vaguely European accent the street-wise operator badgered the four out of a cigarette, a light, two more cigarettes for later, then a contribution of spare change. When the foul-smelling panhandler demanded “folding money” Roscoe turned from the scene and walked away. His pals followed his lead. Then the crew broke into a sprint to escape the sound of the greedy beggar’s shouts.

Rusty, the fastest afoot, darted into a subway entrance with the others at his heels. Cliff was laughing so hard he slipped on the steps and almost fell.

As Roscoe descended the stairway into the netherworld beneath the city, he was reminded of H. G. Wells’ “Time Machine” and observed, “I guess this must be where the Morlocks of the Midway would live; if there are any.”

Zach smiled. No one laughed.

The squad agreed that since they were already there, and only Rusty had ever seen a subway, a little reconnoitering was in order. Thus they bought tokens, planning only to look around, not to ride. Roscoe, the last to go through the turnstile, wandered off on his own to inspect the mysterious tracks that disappeared into darkness.

Standing close to the platform’s edge, Roscoe wondered how tightly the trains fit into the channel. As he listened to his friends’ soft accents ricocheting off the hard surfaces of the deserted subway stop, he recalled a trip by train in 1955’s summer with his grandfather. Roscoe smiled as he thought of his lifelong fascination with trains. Unlike most of his traveling companions, he was glad the airline strike had forced them to make the journey by rail.

Walking aimlessly along the platform, as he reminisced, Roscoe noticed a distant silhouette furtively approaching the edge. It appeared to him to be a small woman. She was less than a hundred yards down the tracks. He watched her carefully sit down on the platform. Seconds later she slid off, disappearing into the dark pit below.

Although Roscoe was intrigued, he felt no sense of alarm. Not yet. He didn’t wonder if it was a common practice for the natives to jump onto the subway tracks. He simply continued to walk toward the scene, slowly taking it in, as if it were a movie. When Zach caught up with him Roscoe pointed to where the enigmatic figure had been.

Roscoe shrugged, “What do you make of it?”

To investigate the two walked closer. Eventually they saw a gray lump on the subway tracks.

Zach asked in a hushed voice, “Could that be her?”

When the unmistakable sound of a train began to report from the tunnel’s void, what had been a puzzle was solved.

Roscoe screamed at the woman, “Get up!”

The scene took on a high-contrast, film noir look when the tunnel was lit up by the oncoming train’s light. The two desperate sailors waved their arms frantically as they ran toward the train to get the driver’s attention. The woman remained clenched into a tight ball, ready to take the big ride. Suddenly the brakes began to screech horrifically, splitting seconds into shards. Metal strained against metal as the train’s momentum carried it forth.

Roscoe's senses were stretched to new limits. Tiny details -- angles of light and fragments of sound -- became magnified. All seemed caught in a spell of slow motion and exaggerated intensity.

The subway train slid to a full stop, about ten feet short of creating a grisly finish. Roscoe and Zach sprang from the platform and gathered the trembling woman from the tracks. They carefully passed her up to Rusty and Cliff, who stood three feet above.

Passengers emptied from the train, as well as the driver. Adrenaline surged through Roscoe’s limbs as he climbed back onto the platform. Brushing off his uniform, he listened to the conversation between the driver and the strange person who had nearly been splattered about the area.

The gray woman, who appeared to be middle-aged, spewed thank-yous and explained her presence on the tracks to having “slipped.”

In short time the subway driver acted as if he believed her useful explanation. Zach pulled the sweaty man aside to point out another angle on the truth. Roscoe began to protest to the buzzing mob’s deaf ears, but stopped when he detected a second feminine voice describing what sounded like a similar incident. He panned the congregation until he found the speaker. She was about his age.

Filing her fingernails with an emery board -- eyes fixed on her work -- she told how another person, a man, had been killed at that same stop last week: “The lady is entitled to die if she wants to. You know she’ll just do it again.”

As she looked up to inspect her audience, such as it was, Roscoe caught Miss Perfect Fingernails’ eye. He shook his head to say, “No!”

The impatient girl looked away and gestured toward the desperate woman who surely had expected to be conning St. Peter at the Pearly Gates that morning, instead of a subway driver. “Now we’re late for our appointments. For what?”

Roscoe watched the forsaken lady -- snatched from the Grim Reaper’s clutches -- vanish into the ether of the moment’s cheerless confusion. Shortly thereafter the train was gone, too.

“Well, I don’t know about you boys,” said Roscoe. “But I’ve had enough of Chicago sights for today.”

On their way back to daylight Roscoe listened to his longtime friend Zach tell the other two, who were relatively new friends, a story about Bake: To win a bet, Bake, a consummate daredevil, had recently jumped from Richmond’s Huguenot Bridge into the Kanawha Canal.

“Sure sounds like this Bake is a piece of work,” said Cliff. “You said he’s going to RPI this fall. What’s he doing about the draft?”

“This is a guy who believes in spontaneity like it’s sacred,” said Zach. “Roscoe, can you imagine Bake in any branch of military service; draft or no draft?”

“If he can hack being told what to do at art school, I’ll be surprised.” observed Roscoe.

“Hey, man, I’m not so sure any of us belong in the service,” Rusty volunteered.”

“I hear you.” Cliff concurred.

Upon rejoining the others from their Virginia contingent at Central Station, the four sightseers found a legion of additional boot camp-bound sailors from all over the country. For the men assembled, a two-year active-duty hitch in the Navy Reserve was preferable to rolling the dice on what the busy Selective Service system might dish out.

Rusty and Zack eagerly rehashed the morning’s bizarre adventure: “One of them told me there’s been three suicides in Chicago’s subways this summer,” reported Zach. “Could it be the heat?”

“I still had no idea what they were doing when I saw these two fools hopping off the platform, right in front of that train,” Rusty chuckled. “Hey, I couldn’t see squat on the tracks.”

“She’s probably standing on the roof of a skyscraper, right now” Zach theorized. “And, I’m sorry, but I’ll let some other hero break her fall.”

*

Aboard the train from Chicago to Great Lakes Roscoe sat by the window considering the unseen dimensions of his new role - a GI sworn to stand between what is dear to America and its enemies. Only days before, as he walked on the beach with Julie, he had felt so sure of being prepared for the task.

Yet as he sat there, with miles of unfamiliar scenery streaming by, Roscoe felt waves of trepidation washing over his easy confidence. On top of that, he wished he had gotten a little bit of sleep during the trip.

With their destination only minutes away the four Subway Swashbucklers opted to get in a few hands of stud poker; to accommodate Roscoe, wild cards weren’t suggested.

Sitting on an ace in the hole, with a king and ten up, Roscoe called Zach’s fifteen-cent-bet. There were no pairs showing and the bettor had just drawn a jack to his queen.

Cliff mentioned that the Treasury Department had announced it would no longer print two-dollar bills. “And, I heard boot camp pay comes in the form of -- what else? -- two-dollar bills.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Zach challenged. “I bet it’s bullshit.”

“Maybe we’re going to get the last of the deuces,” said Rusty. “And, I’ll take any of them you don’t want.”

Roscoe’s mind wasn’t on payday or the poker game. He was daydreaming about Julie; smiling on the beach, teal-colored eyes glistening, sun-streaked hair livened by a gust of wind.

Roscoe grappled with his thoughts, trying to pull them together: memory, urges, and anticipation all marching to the steady beat provided by the tracks. It occurred to him there was something more than mere distance between his seat on that train and what had been his life in Virginia.

“If time has borders, between one age and the next, it might be thicker at the border?” Roscoe asked no one in particular.

Rusty, the dealer, batted Roscoe’s oblique remark away, “So, are you calling Zach’s bet, or what?”

Expressionless, Roscoe stared at his fourth card, a queen. He pulled out a cigarette. Nodding toward Zach’s hand -- a pair of jacks, showing -- Roscoe flipped his up-cards over, face down. “OK, even if saving the Queen of the Subway from certain death doesn’t count for shit, anymore, there are certain standards that still don’t change; not for me.”

Rusty shrugged, “Meaning?”

“So, this disposable hero won’t pay a cent for a fifth card to fill an inside straight,” said Roscoe, lighting his cigarette. “First hand, or last, it’s still a sucker’s bet. And, I’ll sit the next hand out.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Rusty laughed. “But we’ve probably got time for just one more hand. Sure you want to quit now?”

Roscoe took a big drag of the filter-tipped Kool and drank in the moving picture of Illinois that was streaming past his window. The railroad ties were clicking monotonously. He thought about how movies depict motion by running a series of still pictures through a projector. However, with the memory picture of Julie he’d just conjured up it wasn’t frozen like a still. Nor was it in full motion. The image moved ever so slightly, capturing what amounted to a single gesture.

After receiving their last cards Cliff and Rusty folded, too. Zach smiled broadly and raked in the pot. Cliff gathered the cards and began to shuffle; preparing to deal the next hand.

“You in, Swift?” inquired the dealer. “The game is seven-card stud. The ante is still a quarter.”

“This time let’s make it 50 cents,” suggested Rusty, sliding two quarters into the center of the makeshift card table.

“Last hand? I’m in,” said Zach.

Roscoe blew a perfect smoke ring, which he studied as it began to float out of shape. He promised himself that no matter what happened to him, he would never forget that smoke ring.

He smiled, “OK. Deal me in.”

* * *

All rights reserved by the author. Central Time with its accompanying illustration are part of a series of stories called Detached. Two remaining stories, set in the '70s, will be inserted, eventually. Links to the six others which have been finished are below:

Dogtown Hero
A Perfect Rainy Day
Gus the Bookstore Cat: The Film
Maybe Rosebud
The Freelancer's Worth
Cross-Eyed Mona

Monday, August 15, 2011

McDonnell's next move, and then some

The governor of Texas, Rick Perry, has thrown his hat into the ring for the top of the GOP's 2012 ticket. As he hits the campaign trial he exits a stage that has served him well -- he's the outgoing chairman of the Republican Governor's Association.

Virginia's Gov. Bob McDonnell will soon take Perry's spot as the RGA's chairman. And, from what he says in an interview with James Hohmann for POLITICO, it seems McDonnell may have his eyes on a bigger prize, too.

While most office-holders in either party have traditionally avoided expressing any interest in the vice presidential nomination, prior to it being offered to them, McDonnell seems almost eager to not serve out his term as governor.

With solid poll ratings as a swing state governor, McDonnell is already drawing attention as a possible GOP prospect for vice president in 2012. And in an extended interview in his office here, the Virginia governor expressed interest in the No. 2 spot on the national ticket.

“I’d be very interested. It is a swing state. I’m not asking for the call. I’m not looking for the call. As I’ve said many times, I’ve got the best job in America,” he told POLITICO. “But I think anybody who is in public life, if a presidential nominee called him and said, ‘I need your help to win,’ it would be a tremendous honor. … We’ll see. It’s going to be seven, eight, nine months before any of these decisions are made.”

Click here to read the entire piece at POLITICO.

Boilerplate Promises

Since 1980 every Republican presidential hopeful has campaigned on shrinking the size of government and exercising greater fiscal responsibility. Each promised to pursue that course. Including Ronald Reagan, it’s difficult to name the Republican president since then who came anywhere close to living up to those boilerplate promises.

For the last three decades Republican propagandists have been good at churning out such promises. They know what the voters like to hear. They also know that if they keep repeating the accusations that evil but spineless Democrats are always for expanding government and pursuing fiscal irresponsibility that some of it will stick.

In 2000 we had a Bible-thumping governor of Texas campaigning on those same useful promises and accusations. Once elected, Pres. George W. Bush reneged by expanding government like nobody’s business and borrowing large money to underwrite two wars.

Remember when the Bush administration told us deficits no longer mattered? Take a look at this eight-year-old prescient piece in the New York Times. When you read it, you'll cringe at remembering how easy it was for Bush to run his scams.

At this point, unless he self-destructs, Gov. Rick Perry looks to be the most likely GOP nominee in 2012. So, we have another Bible-thumping governor of Texas promising the same warmed-over stuff as did his predecessor in Austin.

Perhaps Yogi Berra said it best, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

Another evergreen promise that every Republican running for president must repeat is that they will push for a closer adherence to the language of the Constitution and they have promised to nominate conservative Supreme Court justices.

Unlike their ceaseless promises to run a leaner government and balance the books, to the best of their ability the Republican presidents since Reagan have lived up to their promises about appointing justices.

There you have it. Talk about it as they may, living up to promises about money has been difficult for Republican presidents. Maybe impossible is a better word than difficult. But when it comes to packing the Supreme Court with hardcore right-wing ideologues that’s been quite doable. Given the chance, it will be again.

And, so it goes…

Monday, August 08, 2011

A House Divided




Note: The piece below by Travis Charbeneau (1945-2011) was originally posted at SLANTblog in 2008. Although it was written three years ago, not surprisingly, it has words that speak to today's political/cultural hurly-burly. Travis died on Aug. 5. The video above presents a solo performance on lap steel guitar by him.

*

A House Divided

Never mind the issues, recent presidential elections have all degenerated around the "Culture Wars." Even now the McCain campaign has finally resorted to exploiting once again a looming threat of "the Other." Why does this old trick still work? Because the "threat" is real.

The Culture War probably began during the Renaissance, when science first butted heads with the Church. But the modern front opened with post-war "Beatnik" ferment over 50 years ago. The Beats brewed the "Hippie" stew of the Sixties for the huge Baby Boomer cohort, and nothing has been "the same" since.

Of course, "the same" -- the American Fifties -- is just what alienated non-conformist Beats from mainstream culture, creating Counter Culture v.1. By the time of Counter Culture v.2, perhaps 1965, Hippies were on their way to making the rejection of mainstream values their prime directive. By 1974, following the assassinations of the Kennedys and King, and the debacles of Vietnam and then Watergate, our two opposing cultures were locked in a permanent state of conflict. Every candidate since Nixon has played the demagogue with it.

Upset by ever more rapid change, mainstream culture longs for "the same" Golden Age we enjoyed under Eisenhower: a globe-dominating national security state built on cheap energy, credit card consumerism, the nuclear family, a traditional "Sky God," and unapologetic corporate conformity, racism and sexism.

CC v.3, the counterculture in midlife, consists of those Boomers who managed to spurn Yuppiedom and still "grow up," pay those orthodontia bills and save for the kids' education. These folks, and those of the X and Y generations who follow them, retain a sufficiently crucial level of idealism (or, if you will, naiveté) to dream still of progressive change: peace, civil rights, an accommodation with materialism and technology.

Add to this list a confrontation with new realities that diehards of "the same" ignored to the peril of all: Ike's forewarned "military-industrial complex," now in full power, nuclear terrorism, frightful environmental challenges, global economic competition, multiculturalism, expanded realities of "family," and technological challenges of a thousand stripes. The Culture Wars skirmish on all these fronts and reliably appear at every election, recently in nearly equal proportions.

Of course, the Great Mandate for all life on Earth is "change or die." Plants and animals, so far as we know, accept this without complaint. But, mainstream or countercultural, humans hate change. When it's "too much, too fast," we suffer from what futurist Alvin Toffler in 1970 termed "Future Shock."

It took centuries for us to accept a Universe that was not centered on the Earth. We still resist Darwin's 19th century assertion of a Universe that is not centered on man. And, by "we," I refer particularly to Americans, now unhappily bringing up the rear of post-industrial civilization. It is beyond ironic that America was once blamed for inventing modernism and inflicting Future Shock on the world! Feudal nations still hate us for it. And yet, where once we were leaders, Americans are now sliding backwards by nearly every measure.

The peculiar tone of America's Culture Wars provides the most likely reason. A current history would almost certainly show mainstream culture, despite howls of protest and doom, as having dominated the field in policy, even as the counterculture dominates pretty much everything else: the arts, media, academia, environmentalism, and, most important overall, the discomforting-but-necessary adaption to change.

Barack Obama is one amazing indicator that this evolution is still in motion. Longer term, if we get one, should prove that counterculturalists are no longer off-the-grid, penniless bohemians. The countercultural faithful possess not only whatever wealth they themselves have been able to save from pre-9/11 America, but legacy wealth from "The Greatest Generation," who profited most from the post-WW2 American hegemony. Old Hippies can still make a lot of mischief, including a "mainstreamed counterculture."

Alternately, already future-shocked Americans could become even more reactionary. Continuing Culture Wars fuel the seductiveness of "End Times," a traditional value which neatly resolves everything in obliteration. As H. G Wells said, "History is a race between education and catastrophe."

"The same" never is. Unless the culture at large shifts to managing, rather than denying change, it will be "End Times," as defined by actual time, not Revelations. Our divided house could fall from economic mismanagement, imperial overstretch, environmental decay, civil unrest, or as-yet-unforeseen disasters.

If the lights go out, counterculturalists will be able to say, as we did with Vietnam and Watergate, "we told you so." And, as with Vietnam and Watergate, there will be no satisfaction in the telling.

*

Click here to visit Travis' web site, where you can read more of his work.

Friday, August 05, 2011

Perspective Shapes Meaning

After decades of driving automobiles, mostly small station wagons, over the same city streets, nine years ago your narrator switched to using his then-29-year-old bicycle as his primary ride.

It was quite a change.

At first I was shocked at how soft my legs had gotten. It had been years since I’d done much riding. It was a decision made in summertime. Then the weather began to change. It had been even more years since I had ridden in the dead of winter. Once my legs were in a little better shape, I was reminded again and again of what a great deal that white Azuki ten-speed was when I bought it in 1973 at Dee‘s Bike Shop.

Perched on the Brooks leather saddle, exposed to the elements and staying alert for signs of physical threats, I began to notice things mostly ignored rattling around town in motorized metal boxes on wheels. The perspective I had regained felt good. It was once a view of life I had appreciated quite a bit, so it was like an old friend had come back to town.

As an automobile expands our range, it also seals us off. While time can reveal new truths, in order to see more deeply into selected memories, it seems others must fade away entirely.

After going a full year on the bike I had a confidence in myself that I couldn’t remember having lost, but it was nice to have a measure of it back. Some time after that I came upon an accident involving several vehicles. As I negotiated my way around the debris on Floyd Avenue, near the post office, the sobbing of a young woman caught my attention. She was seated at the wheel of one of the wrecks. Her desperate hands clutched her face.

When I came within a few feet of her mangled small SUV, the sound of utter despair pouring out of her caught me off-guard; her crying pierced my practiced detachment. Although I didn’t know her, for a few seconds my heart raced. If I’d been in a car I probably wouldn’t have seen or heard her.

Pedaling away it dawned on me that it had been a long time since I had been that close to a woman crying inconsolably. Pedaling harder I pushed the haunts that were surfacing back into their storage place.

A few days later riding across a small bridge over the expressway, a car nudged me too close to the railing and I glanced over at the traffic going by under the bridge.

Whoa!

The sense of being up high and uncomfortably close to the drop-off flipped a caution switch in this old goat’s head.

After a deep breath I enjoyed a private laugh at how much I'd changed over the years, with regard to heights. The daredevil boy who had once climbed the WTVR tower for grins had been body-snatched long ago.

Crossing the bridge the bicycle chain churned smoothly, sounding precisely as it always had. I wondered if I’ll ever get too scared to ride my bike across such bridges. Maybe I’ll even be afraid to ride at all, one day, I chuckled. After all, for a good while I’d been too scared to get close enough to a woman to hear her cry.

Now that bicycle is gone. It was stolen yesterday, so my perspective on it has changed. It had outlasted a marriage, three live-in girlfriends and nine motor vehicles.

Upon realizing the bike was missing I felt that familiar numbness creep over me -- the feeling I get when I‘m coping with the news of a death. As I walked around the lower Fan District looking through alleys for the stolen bike, of course I dwelled on favorite memories to do with the departed. I’ll share just one of them:

In the mid-70s I went for a ride in a gentle summer rain, which was not an unusual thing for me to do then. There’s a pretty good chance I had smoked some pot before I took off. As I rode east, away from my Fan District home, the rain came down harder. To complete the picture I was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a pair of Converse All-Stars.

The complete scene has remained fresh; I can vividly remember riding fast and fearlessly down the hills on East Franklin Street, just past the Richmond Newspapers building. The rain felt great falling onto my bare skin. As it was a Saturday there were no cars on the road. Flying toward Capitol Square I trusted my bike, absolutely.


Yes, I've thought of that afternoon's wild ride a thousand times. Now, like it or not, my perspective on it has been shifted into a new gear.

-- 30 --

-- Words and photos by F.T. Rea

Thursday, August 04, 2011

Stolen bike in the Fan

My bicycle was stolen from my backyard this morning.

Been walking around the lower Fan looking for it. It's a 38-year-old white Azuki. Black cheap saddle. Quick release rims. It has a black luggage rack on the back. The gray handlebar tape is frayed. It's beat up looking; the front brake cable is broken going into the lever.

So, someone may be using it as a way to wheel their collection of junk around in the alleys.

Here' a shot of how the bike looked in 1984; like the rest of us it has aged, but this is better than just imagining what it looks like. (Yes, that is a pair of Parker Field seats behind the bike.) Remember, now it has a luggage rack on the back.

If I left it unlocked (which I probably did), the black U-type (Kryptonite) lock may still be in its frame on the bike, as show above.

Now I'm going out, again, to look for my old friend.

Contact: ftrea9@yahoo.com.

Monday, August 01, 2011

Cave or the economy walks the plank


Lower tax rates for the wealthy is not a new priority for the GOP. I’ve heard them talk about how important it is to cater to the most wealthy among us, tax-wise, all my life. Hey, I’ve heard throwback conservatives talk against Social Security all my life, too. In that respect, there’s nothing really new in what is being said in Congress today, regarding the so-called debt ceiling crisis.

Some new wave extremists in Congress are pretending to be expressing fresh ideas, which sort of makes those of us who know a little history have to choose between seeing them as ignorant or dishonest.

Although tax rates for millionaires are lower now than they have been in anybody’s lifetime, they aren’t low enough for the Tea Party. Even though big oil companies are profiting in eye-popping numbers, oil company executives recently told the Senate they still need huge tax breaks. None of them would answer a question posed several times: How much money would you need to make, before you would testify here that you no longer need your subsidy?

So, the Tea Party insists no loopholes for big corporations can be closed. One guess, dear reader, as to who has to make up for the dough that isn't being collected from Exxon's and BP's monster profits.

Ever since programs like Medicare and Medicaid were launched ultra conservatives have been wanting to truncate or eliminate them. Ever since the EPA was set in motion, the same basic group of people who abhor regulation in any form has been trying to hobble or eliminate it.

Like, who needs clean air, anyway?

On top of all that, it's long been true that Republicans loathe cuts to the Defense budget.

These battles between liberals and conservatives are old hat. Depending on the times and the mood of the nation, each side has taken turns having the upper hand, which has been integral to our system. Each time the pendulum has swung, it has allowed different political leaders to put some of their ideas in play.

What’s new are the tactics.

The Tea Party caucus in the Republican Party is acting like a band of hostage-taking terrorists right now. Having kicked in the back door, they are threatening to plunge the nation‘s economy into default unless they get their way, 100 percent. The pretense that they are negotiating is window dressing, to characterize it charitably.

Make no mistake, without the threats of the Tea Party caucus of the GOP there would be no debt ceiling crisis. And, I don't doubt these Ayn Rand-worshipers are sincere and quite proud of themselves. They stand ready to do it again the next chance they get, no matter how this monkey business gets settled.

This ticking clock wired to a doomsday bomb exists for one simple reason -- the Tea Party could never get their most extreme demands passed through Congress in the normal way legislation is created. Forget Democrats, the Tea Party wouldn’t be able to get enough Republicans to vote their way without this bomb threat stunt.

So, to change metaphors, a clique of zealots has seized the ship of state by force. They are issuing their demands that must be met before the deadline, or America's economic future walks the plank.

And, so it goes…

-- Art and words by F.T. Rea.