Since 1985, in various formats, SLANT -- an independent voice based in Richmond's Fan District -- has offered its readers original commentary on politics and popular culture, including cartoons and selected sundries. Warning: Sometimes that means satirical content. All rights are reserved.
With our opinions clashing thunderously, we, the beleaguered people, have survived the 2010s. Facilitated by social media, it seems to me that now we're ruled by our stubborn opinions even more than we were on Dec. 31, 2009.
These days, wags like to say we're becoming more "tribal." Along with that, pundits regularly decry the lack of "civility" in the tone of how we're currently interacting with one another. Nowhere is that more obvious than in the realm of politics.
However, on this New Year's Eve, I choose not to hurl any new political opinions at you, dear reader. Besides, this late in the year I'm not sure I have any more 2019 opinions.
Instead, here are links to a selected group of opinionated columns and reports I penned during the decade ending tonight. Souvenirs, if you will, of the times. Maybe the 2010s will turn out to be the last decade in which being published in ink on newsprint will matter.
Why more nostalgia? Who cares about what's in the rear view mirror? Well, to take the next step forward, sometimes it helps to understand how you got here. Happy 2020.
Note: The piece below was originally published by STYLE Weekly in 1999. In part it was prompted by the 13 shooting murders by perpetrated by two teenagers at Columbine HS in Colorado.
*
The Tenth Commandment
According
to the Old Testament, Moses heard directly from God about establishing
standards of civilized conduct. A portion of the instructions Moses is
purported to gotten from God, Himself – known as the Ten Commandments –
is still a news-maker as the millennium winds down.
The Bible tells us there were
several other rules offered by God atop Mount Sinai; rules we hear less
about. If you try reading the book of Exodus, it won’t take long for you
to see why. Some of those other rules are rather Old World – such as
the proper regulation of slavery and burnt offerings.
For the most part the Ten Commandments are to-the-point laws about behavior, covering basic stuff: Be willing to make sacrifices for
what matters most to you. Along the way don’t kill, lie, or steal. Don’t
cheat on your spouse, or perhaps spouses – uh-oh, there's that Old
World thing again. In the last of the Ten
Commandments, Moses said that we ought not to “covet” our neighbors’
goods.
Isn't is curious that after a rather easily understood list of
rules, put in the form of “shalt-nots,” the last rule is against even
thinking too much about a shalt-not? Like, don't allow yourself to dwell
on wanting what's not properly yours.
Covet? Come on Moses, what’s the problem with a little mild coveting? Why not stick to nine rules about actual behavior?
Hopefully,
the reader will permit me the postmodern license to move directly from
the Bible to a Hollywood thriller, in order to help out Moses'ghost with his
answer: In “Silence of the Lambs” (1991) the brilliant but evil
psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter, instructs the movie’s detective heroine,
Clarice Starling – who is in search of a serial killer – that people
only covet what they see, probably what they see all the time.
Bulls-eye! Of
course the ravenous doctor was right about what fuels obsessive
cravings. If one hasn’t seen it, how can one lust for it? Coveting is a festering of the mind; it's a craving for that which one
should not have.
Today, because of the reach of television and the Internet, just about everyone alive can see how
wealthy/powerful people live, day-to-day. One sure thing movies,
sitcoms, soaps, and the celebrity news all do – in addition to telling a
story – is to show us how well off some people are. Then, reliably, the
advertisements chime in to tell us just how to buy the consumer version of the same pleasures and
accouterments the stars in those stories possess.
If you’ve got the dough to buy the stuff, that’s one thing. If you don’t that’s another, because it might spawn some coveting.
We may not have asked for it, but the
lifestyle of a celebrity is constantly sold to us as the good
life -- live like royalty! Wanting that good life is a carrot on the stick that helps drive
our consumer culture.
Therefore, in some ways, it has been good to us. My thesis for today’s rant is that there is a dark side to this
strategy. When powerless/poor people see those same "good life" come-ons and promos they want the good life, too.
Why not? However,
if they are trapped in their modest circumstances and have no hope, they may not
believe the good life is actually available through legitimate channels. So,
instead of feeling motivated to work overtime, to earn more money, the
most powerless among us are left to covet.
Eventually all that
desire for the unobtainable can lead to trouble. I’m convinced that some
part of the violence we have seen from teenagers, in recent times,
stems from their exaggerated sense of powerlessness. In the worst cases,
their impatience boils over while waiting for what they imagine to be
an adult’s prerogatives and awesome powers.
The good
news is that kids grow up. Most of our children won’t shoot up their
schools because of frustration with having so little say-so over their
schedule. The bad news is that for most of the world’s underdogs their
sense of powerlessness is something that isn’t going to dissipate so
easily.
In the so-called Third World, the longing for
First World goods and options is festering as you read this. Meanwhile,
the aforementioned powerless folks aren’t thinking about where to shop for
knockoffs of what they see flaunted on screens. A hundred years ago, 50
years ago, the world's underclass wasn't wired into the rest of
civilization. Now it is. It sees what we brag about the most. Today the
underclass knows exactly how soft life is for the well-off.
History
isn’t much help here because it tells us the unwashed masses have
usually had to take what they wanted by force. How much longer we can
rely on the gentle patience of the world’s hungriest millions is
anybody’s guess. In the meantime, perhaps the other side of “thou shalt
not covet” is “thou shalt not flaunt.”
Just think about
how many American movies and TV shows are about rich people doing as
the please. If the wisdom of the ages — the Ten Commandments — suggests
it's smart to discourage destructive cravings in the shadows, perhaps it
would also be smart to stop promoting such trouble with our brightest
spotlights.
Bragging was never cool. Now American's
braggarts, who flaunt their wealth, are asking for the sort of trouble
that will eventually splash onto all of us.
Jan. 24, 1991:
Bright sunlight lit up the thin coating of freezing rain that had
painted the city the evening before. In the crisp air, Roscoe Swift, a
slender middle-aged man, a freelance artist/writer, walked at a careful
but purposeful pace on the tricky sidewalk.
The ice-clad trees along the
street were dazzling, as seen through Swift's trusty Ray-Bans. The
woolly winter jacket his girlfriend, Sally, had given him for Christmas
felt good.
Since
the freelancer couldn’t concentrate on his reading of the morning’s
Richmond Times-Dispatch, he left half a mug of black coffee and a dozing
cat on his desk to walk to the post office. He hoped the overdue check
from a magazine publisher was waiting in his post office box.
Anxiously,
Swift opened the box with his key. It was empty. He shrugged. An empty
box had its upside, too -- there were no cut-off notices in it. With his
last 20 bucks in his pocket, the freelancer hummed a favorite Fats
Domino tune, “Ain’t That a Shame,” as he headed home.
Before the end of the workday Roscoe had to finish an 800-word OpEd
piece and drop it all off on an
editor’s desk in Scott's Addition. With the drum beat for war in the air
he wanted to focus on the inevitable unintended consequences of any
war. Yet, with the clock ticking on his deadline he was still at a loss
for an angle.
The country was still mired in an
economic recession. With the national debt climbing an invasion of Iraq
was looming. War seemed all but inevitable. Pondering what demons might
be spawned by an all-out war in Iraq he detoured a couple of blocks, to pick up a Washington Post and
a fresh cup of coffee.
Approaching the 7-Eleven store
Roscoe noticed a lone panhandler standing off to the left of the front
doors. The tall man was thin and frail. He wore a lightweight denim
jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. Snot was frozen in his
mustache. The whites of his heavy-lidded eyes were an unhealthy shade of
pink.
When Roscoe had run the Fan City Cinema, in the '70s, he had determined his policy should be to never
in any way encourage panhandlers to hang around on the sidewalk in the
neighborhood surrounding the theater. The rigid policy had lingered well
after the comfortable job had faded into the mists.
On
this cold day it wasn’t easy for Roscoe to avert his eye from the poor
soul’s trembling outstretched hand. Not hearing the desperate man’s
hoarse plea for food money was impossible. When there are always so many
lives to be saved in our midst, Roscoe wondered, why do we have to go
to the Middle East to save lives?
Inside the busy store
Roscoe poured himself a large coffee. Black. Fretting profusely, he snapped the cup’s
lid in place. It was one of those times when the little Roscoe with
horns was standing on one of his shoulders, while his opposite, the one
with the halo, was on the other; both were offering counsel.
Roscoe's
longtime "policy" caved in seconds later. Still, he decided to give the freeloader
food, rather than hand over cash to perhaps finance a bottle of sweet
wine. It might change my luck, he thought as he smiled.
Trying
to max out the bang-for-the-buck aspect of his gesture, Roscoe settled
on a king-sized hot dog, with plenty of free stuff on it -- mustard,
chopped onions, relish, jalapeno peppers, chili and some gooey
cheese-like product. Not wanting to push it too far, he passed on the
ketchup and mayonnaise.
Outside the store, Roscoe found the starving panhandler had vanished. Roscoe looked up and down Cary Street but saw no sign of the poor soul.
So,
the crestfallen philanthropist took the meal-on-a-bun with him as he
walked, softly singing a Buffalo Springfield song, “For What It’s
Worth.” With his strides matching the beat he kept to the sunny street,
to avoid the sidewalk in the shade.
There’s somethin’ happening here, What it is ain’t exactly clear. There’s a man with a gun over there, Tellin’ me I gotta beware. I think it’s time we stop, children, what's that sound, Everybody look, what's going down.
A
line from that song’s last verse -- “paranoia strikes deep” -- suddenly
snapped an idea for the OpEd into place, which launched an instant
mini-mania. The freelancer picked up his pace and began whistling a
jazzy version of “For What It’s Worth.”
Back in
his office/studio, rather than waste money, he tore into the feast
he had prepared for a beggar. It seemed the food scared, or perhaps offended, the
cat, who fled. Between sloppy bites the freelancer wiped his hands off.
About an hour later the heartburn started.
Eventually, it got brutal. Roscoe pressed on. He wrote about the way
propaganda always works to sell war -- every war -- as glorious and
essential to the everyday people, who risk their lives. That while the
wealthy, who rarely take a genuine risk on anything, urge the patriots
on and count their profits.
Thinking of the war in Vietnam that thinned his generation out, he wrote:
After the war the veterans were largely ignored, even scorned.
Roscoe lamented the popular culture having gone wrong, so there was no longer a place for anti-war protest songs. Feeling righteous, he asked:
Where are today’s non-conformists? Today's questioners of authority?
With time to spare, the freelancer finished the job and turned in his work at 4:20 p.m. He even managed to pick up the overdue check for $200 he was owed. An hour or so later his sour and noisy stomach began to calm down during his second beer at the Bamboo Cafe.
Sally showed up with a smile and joined the group gathered at the elbow of the marble bar. When
Roscoe recounted the tale of breaking his rule and buying the stuffed frankfurter he got a laugh. He explained how the old Buffalo Springfield song gave him an idea for his OpEd piece.
Roscoe's small audience groaned on cue when he finished it off with, “Sometimes it's a thin
line that separates heartburn and inspiration ... for what it’s worth.”
Today VCU played hard on defense. The home team, Wichita State, played harder and smarter at both ends of the floor. One statistic speaks to that smarter observation -- the Shockers had 15 assists to the Rams six assists. Final score: WSU 73, VCU 63.
Overall, as a unit, the Rams aren't a good passing team. Most teams have weaknesses. Passing the ball is probably VCU's biggest.
Some observers would call the Rams' passing "sloppy," which is fair enough, because sometimes it is. Sloppy passes are mostly inaccurate and or ill-timed. But some passes that lead to turnovers should be blamed on the receiver of the pass, if he doesn’t step toward it, to fend off the opponents trying to steal it, or if he doesn‘t do enough to provide a timely target for the passer.
Thus, the passer isn’t always the only culprit. However, since the passer is the decision-maker he logically gets most of the blame for turnovers. Now I’m going to show my age by reminding readers that passing was a bigger part of the game in bygone days. As basketball has evolved styles have changed.
Yes, I’m thinking that over the last quarter century kids on the playground
and in high school have generally put less emphasis on learning and
applying the subtleties of passing a basketball aggressively, yet
precisely. Nonetheless, when you get to the elite college men’s basketball programs you still find the most successful teams usually do have a decent passing game. My guess is that has more to do with recruiting top talent than great coaching in practice sessions.
Anyway, these days, for many college teams only their point guard is an accomplished playmaking-style passer. VCU's problem is that while their starting point guard, Marcus Evans, is clearly one of the best five all-around basketball players on VCU‘s 2019-20 team, he's just not a confident passer.
Too often Evans seems to be battling his instinct to score first, pass second ... which leads to awkward moments of indecision and some of his ill-advised passes. Against Wichita St. he had zero assists and five turnovers.
Coach Mike Rhoades‘ team surely needs Evans on the floor for 25-to-28 minutes a game, because he's an important leader. His defensive game is stellar. While he isn’t a great long-range threat, he is a pretty good scorer. His ability to draw fouls is almost uncanny at times and he has an excellent touch at the charity stripe. Yet, he's simply not a natural point guard and the good opposing coaches have noticed it.
Thus, in my view, it’s time to make a lineup move. The starting five needs to lose Mike’L Simms and Bones Hyland should become the starting point guard. I’ve seen enough to believe Bones is a gifted natural point guard. From here on, unless/until another adjustment must be made, I’m saying Rhoades' starting five should be: 1. Hyland, 2. Evans, 3. Jenkins, 4. Vann, 5. Santos-Silva.
As a freshman Bones very much needs the additional playing time to develop into a better all-around college player. While that process plays out having a better passer at the point will immediately give VCU a better chance at winning games, especially against top shelf teams, such as No. 13 Dayton. The Rams have two games coming against the Flyers.
At 9-3 VCU now has 19 games left on its regular season schedule. The Rams probably need to win 14, maybe even 15, of those remaining games to be a likely invitee to the NCAA tournament. If the Rams continue to turn the ball over like they have so far this season, we may be looking at a NIT postseason, rather than NCAA.
Now I hope Coach Rhoades agrees with me about starting Bones.
Here's a piece I wrote for Style Weekly's Back Page in the summer of 1999. I don't remember what the title I suggested was. The editor of that page, Rozanne Epps, changed it to "Do Unto Others."
Do Unto Others by F.T. Rea
The
Ten Commandments have made an unexpected comeback this season. In the
wake of recent teen violence, we have heard from pundits and legislators
alike who say that posting this excerpt of the Bible on public school
walls will help potentially dangerous students avoid running off the
tracks.
OK, what’s the harm?
Well,
when the guy across the street claims the Koran says it better, what do
you say back to him? Next, the lady down the block says that the I
Ching is more to the point. And so forth …
Ultimately,
I’ve got to believe that the Supreme Court is going to have a serious
quarrel with the notion of displaying selected portions of the Old
Testament in public schools.
So
regardless of the good intentions of those who would put the law
according to Moses in the classroom, the First Amendment and a mile of
legal precedent tells us: The state can’t establish one particular
religion.
Yet I do
sympathize with those who want to introduce children to the concept of
absolutes. And, I wholeheartedly agree with those who observe that
morality seems to be evaporating out of modern life.
The
essential line between a healthy desire to improve one’s lot in life
and in being so greedy that you’re a menace to society is getting more
blurred all the time. Without morality, I’m not sure it is discernible.
Without morality perhaps the only perceived downside to theft, or any other crime, is getting caught.
If it’s ethical guidelines that are scarce, why not look to history?
Right
beside the Ten Commandments, put up a copy of Hammurabi’s Code. After
that, maybe we toss in some Aristotle. In short, let’s bring the basic
rules of all major religions and philosophies into the classroom. Some
of us may be surprised to see how similar the ethical precepts are.
In the name of “citizenship studies,” let’s put the history of ethics and laws in the classroom as a course of study.
I’m
sure it would be possible to design a streamlined course that would
offer second or third graders a basic overview of the subject matter. A
subsequent look at the same kind of material might be offered in high
school, with greater detail and more opportunity for discussion.
As
long as we don’t tell students in public schools to pray, or we seek to
raise one faith over the other, religion itself can’t be taboo. As we
all know, much of the history of art and literature can’t be told
without picking through religious relics.
Now, I’m proposing that the
actual tenets of the body of thought be examined as well as the
artifacts.
The approach
of the course would be to focus on the original purpose of particular
precepts, together with the way religious canon has become custom and
law through the ages.
If
the reader is concerned that we must include every faith or philosophy,
including such aberrations as devil worship, never fear. When we study
art history we don’t cover every artist, or art movement, in a survey
course.
Therefore only the religions and philosophies that have had the
most impact on the tides of history would need to be covered.
As
the 20th century winds down, this scribbler is not at all confident
that most children in the United States have much of a grasp of the
classic concepts of right and wrong — much less why. And let’s face it,
some kids draw a bad hand when it comes to parents.
Good
parents or not, for many children the buzz of popular culture is so
loud and prevalent that it overwhelms all other information.
Please
don’t confuse me with those aboard the “Hollywood is evil” bandwagon.
Nonetheless, I am comfortable saying that TV, pop music and the mass
media in general aren’t good either. While they aren’t intrinsically
good or evil, as they compete to make a buck they will jam pack a
child’s head with sights and sounds.
If
we expect all the busy parents in the real world to teach their
offspring to see the vital connection between their acts and the
inevitable consequences, we are indulging in wishful thinking.
Furthermore, if we expect children to pick up a clear sense of morality from popular culture, we are simply fools.
There
is no set of instructions as to how to go about injecting morality into
a secular society. In the past, like it or not, much of that sort of
thinking came from the dominant religion in a region seeping into every
fabric of the culture. So the parents were never expected to do the job
alone.
Can there be any
doubt that a society hoping to prosper has to find an effective way to
instill in its young citizens an awareness of, and hopefully a respect
for, its collective sense of right and wrong?
Finally, if it isn’t done in the schools, then where and when?
Note: Carl
W. Hutchins (1924-2006) was a professional boxer in his youth. He
claimed to have been a contender in his day. Most people called him
“Piggy.” This piece that follows was written shortly after his 2006 death (references to dates have been updated).
Piggy Hutchins was known by three generations
of Richmonders. They were mostly locals of a certain stride -- folks who ate,
drank and shared their lives in his restaurants. Piggy’s most loyal patrons tended to use his dives/eateries as a clubhouse … except when a
feud kept one of them away for a while.
After
a pleasant chat with Piggy, his older brother, Pete and a nephew, Bill, gave
me a tour of the decidedly suburban split-level facility. That entailed the
restaurant itself, the after-hours club on the upper story and the
basement tavern. Along the way they explained that Piggy was really looking for an
idea more than someone else to put on the payroll. He had advertised the
job to attract someone who'd give him a new scheme.
Well, I needed money enough to jump-start my creative juices. That soon spawned a concept of how to use the basement space. Live music and comedy. So we went back upstairs.
Like
characters in a Damon Runyon story, we sat at the main table to cut
a deal over draft beer and coffee. Right
away, Piggy liked it that I volunteered to take on the promotional
costs and booking duties. He liked it even better that I wanted only a cut -- 20 percent -- of the bar receipts. No guarantees. Plus, of course, I would get tips as the bartender on duty.
Meanwhile, as I went on with my plan I could tell Piggy
liked telling his colorful war stories to a writer. Piggy's other brother, Sonny, a former stock car racer, stopped by and joined us. As it
happened, I left the place that afternoon nurturing an absurd notion that
became the Underdog Room. For three nights a week, I presented stand-up
comics and live music in the basement, which had a boxer's heavy bag
hanging in it, leftover from when Piggy still worked out and trained
young boxers in that space.
To kick off the Underdog
Room era, I booked the Vibra-Turks. Some of them were usually known as
the Bop Cats. Other had been in Li'l Ronnie and the Bluebeats. Anyway, the Vibra-Turks were: Mike Moore (bass); Gary Fralin
(keyboard); Lindy Fralin (guitar); Stuart Grimes (drums); Jim Wark
(guitar). In one way of looking at it, we had a band with a fake name
playing in a room with a fake name.
Nonetheless, a bunch of handbills on poles and good
break, publicity-wise -- the RT-D featured a story about it -- helped to flush out enough barflies
and aging scenesters to make for a good-sized opening weekend audience. When Piggy came
downstairs to take check it out he liked the look of the crowd. He even seemed pleased with the
Vibra-turks, but some members of his staff members remained skeptical about
the direction of things.
On Thursdays it was comedy
night. Usually seven or eight comics would show up. My old friend, John
Porter, served as the emcee/recruiter. The performers split the cash
from a cheap cover charge and drank beer for free. Hoping to establish
to new venue, several of the the area's comedians stopped by to do a few
minutes on most Thursdays.
On Friday and Saturday
nights a band played, usually the same band on both nights. The bands
would take what came in at the door, but as the weeks wore on, getting
my Fan District nightlife friends to venture into Henrico County grew
more difficult. As the take at the door shriveled, from one week to the
next, I gradually ran through the established acts I could easily
persuade to give the Underdog Room a try.
To make matters more fractious, some of
the comedians seemed to rub Piggy's confidants who ventured downstairs the wrong way; to say
they didn't get the jokes is an understatement. After almost four months
of it, I came to my senses and bailed out.
Leaving
Palookaville on good terms, I limped back to the Fan. It had been fun
working with the comedians and musicians in such an off-the-wall
situation. And, getting to know Piggy, to the extent that I did, was
like living in a low-budget film noir picture from the late-1940s.
