Worse than Boring

Oh well, another opinion poll says President Joe Biden has a ho-hum job approval rating. Nonetheless, I've learned that there are many things in new millennium life that are worse than being bored by another corny Biden speech. 

For instance:

• Think back to before Jan. 21, 2021, to remember what it was like to watch MAGA cultists at a rally lapping up every crazy word of that day's meanspirited rant by then-President of the USA, Donald Trump. It was galling. 
• Think back to before Jan. 21, 2021. Then remember what it was like to watch elected Republicans genuflecting, as they pretended to buy that day's gusher of lies by then-President Trump. It was depressing. 
• Think back to before Jan. 21, 2021. Then try to recall the awful feeling of what it was like to live with no hope for a brighter day. No hope that dangerous national problems can be addressed, since the federal government's only mission is to pleasure the wealthy class.   

The list of horribles could go on for many more column inches, but I think my point has been made. So, yes, there are plenty of things worse than having a calm, predictable president who actually seems to care about ordinary people.  

-- 30 --

50 Years Ago: Discover the Fan

Fifty years ago an ad hoc group of 21 merchants along the commercial strip just north of most of VCU's Fan District campus cooperated for a one-time-only promotion called Discover the Fan. It should be noted that none of the participating businesses are still there today.

On April 14, 1973 a lingering cold spell left town and warm breezes brought in a bright spring day. For that Saturday afternoon the 800 and 900 blocks of West Grace Street, and environs, were packed with an unprecedented amount of foot traffic. Hundreds of helium-filled balloons and free prizes donated by the merchants were given away. The street was not closed and the vehicular traffic was slowed to a crawl all day. There was live music on-stage.

Motorists traveling toward the West End were treated to an unexpected scene, given the neighborhood's then-bohemian image. (Grace Street was a busy one-way street heading west in those days.) On that Saturday there were thousands of ordinary people milling about having a good time. Many of them acted like tourists on a lark. Kids with balloons were everywhere.

The illustration below is a scan of a handbill done by yours truly. With its list of participating businesses it provides a snapshot of the area in what was probably the zenith of the hippie age. Some of the characters who ran those businesses were rather interesting people. (H/t: One-on-One co-owner Fred Awad came up with the name for the event.)

At this time I had been the manager of the Biograph Theatre for a little over a year and the Discover the Fan promotion itself was my project. I convinced my fellow merchants to chip in and promote our oddball collection of businesses as the equivalent of a hip shopping center in the middle of town. Many people helped put it together and worked on aspects of it, but the happening couldn't have come about without the help of Dave DeWitt and Chuck Wrenn (the Biograph's assistant manager), which was significant.

Below is a piece about this event from that era. It was penned by the late Shelley Rolfe:

Shelley Rolfe’s
By the Way
Richmond Times-Dispatch (April, 16, 1973)

It was breakfast time and the high command for Discover the Fan Day had, with proper regard for the inner man, moved its final planning meeting from the Biograph Theater to Lum’s Restaurant. Breakfast tastes ran a gamut. Eggs with beer. Eggs with orange juice. H-hour -- the operations plan had set it for noon -- was less than three hours away. Neither beer nor orange juice was being gulped nervously.

Terry Rea, manager of the Biograph and the extravaganza’s impresario, was reciting a last-minute, mental things-to-do list. There was the vigilante committee, which would gather up the beer and soft drink cans and bottles that invariably infest the fronts of the shops in the 800 and 900 blocks of W. Grace St., focus area of the discovery.

The city police had promised a dragnet to sweep away the winos who also invariably litter the neighborhood. The day had bloomed crisp and sunny, the first dry Saturday since Groundhog Day. “I knew it wouldn’t rain,” Rea said with the brash confidence of the young. “Lots of young businessmen around here,” a beer drinker at another table said. The free enterprise system lives.

REA WAS assigning duties for the committee that would rope off two Virginia Commonwealth University parking lots that would serve as the setting for a fashion show and band concert. The committee to blow up balloons, with the aid of a cylinder of helium [sic]. One thousand balloons in a shrieking variety of colors. “If we only get 500 kids... two to a customer,” Rea said cheerfully.

“I need more people,” said the balloon task force leader.

Twenty-one businesses were involved in the project. Each of them had contributed prizes, and gift certificates had been put into plastic Easter eggs. An egg hunt would be part of the day, and Rea had a message for the committee that would be tucking the eggs away: “Don’t put them in obvious places, but don’t put them were people can get hurt looking for them.”

“We talked about doing this last summer but we never got it together,” Rea said. There had been fresh talk in late February, early March, and it had become airborne. The 21 businesses had anted up $1,500 for advertising, which was handled by Dave DeWitt, proprietor of a new just-out-of-the-Fan, small, idea-oriented agency.

“Demographically, we were aiming for people between 25 and 34,” Rea said. There had been newspaper advertising and spots on youth-oriented radio stations. “We had a surplus late in the week...” Rea said. The decision was made to have a Saturday morning splurge on radio station WRVA. “Hey,” said a late arrival, “I heard Alden Aaroe talking about it.”

“We wanted people to see what we have here,” Rea said. “People who probably close their windows and lock their doors when they drive on Grace Street and want to get through here a quickly as possible.”

Well, yes, there must be those who look upon the 800 and 900 blocks as symbolic of the counterculture, as territory alien to their visions of West End and suburban existence. Last November the precinct serving the 800 and 900 blocks went for George McGovern, by two votes. Not a landslide, but, perhaps, a trend.

NOON WAS approaching. Rea and DeWitt set out on an inspection tour. Parking lot ropes were being put into place. Rock music blared from exotically named shops. The balloon committee was still short on manpower. An agent trotted out of a shop to report, “They’ve got 200 customers ...” And how many would they normally have at this hour of a Saturday” “They wouldn’t be open,” Rea said.

Grace Street was becoming clogged with cars It would become more clogged. Don’t know how many drivers got out of their cars, but, for a while they were a captive audience making at least vicarious discovery.

Also much pedestrian and bicycle on the sidewalks. Merchants talked of espying strangers, of all ages. A white-haired woman held a prize egg in one hand, a balloon in the other. A middle-aged man had rakishly attached a balloon to the bill of his cap.

The fashion show went on to the accompaniment of semijazz music and popping balloons, most of them held by children. Fashions were subdued. A dress evocative of the 1840s. Long skirts. Loudest applause went to a man who paraded across the stage wearing a loud red backpack. Everybody’s urge to escape?

ON GRACE STREET a sword swallower and human pin cushion was on exhibition. No names please. “My mother ...” he said. He wished to be identified only as a member of “Bunkie Brothers Medicine Show.”

Discounted merchandise on sale included 20-yesr-old British Army greatcoats and a book fetchingly titled “Sensuous Massage.” Sales resistance remained firm.

On Harrison Street a sidewalk artist was creating. A wino, who had somehow escaped the dragnet, lurched across the sidewalk art muttering. “Free balloons ...” In a shop a man said, “I want the skimpiest halter you have ... for my wife.”

On an alley paralleling Grace Street, a man holding a hand camera and early on a VCU class assignment was directing actors. One stationed in a huge trash bin. “Waiting for Godot” revisited? The second, carrying a an umbrella in one hand, popcorn in another, approached the bin. A hand darted out for popcorn. “I ran out of film!” screamed the director.

Everything was being done again. The actor in the bin emerged, seized the umbrella and ran. “Chase him,” from the direct. Actor No. 2 did a Keystone Kop-style double take, jumped and ran. A small crowd that had gathered applauded.

LATE IN the day. Traffic still was at a saturation level. Early settlers said the territory hadn’t seen such congestion since the movie, “Deep Throat.” Rea spoke of objectives smashingly achieved. Euphoric talk from him on another day of discovery in September. City Hall would be petitioned to block off Grace Street.

The writer, Rolfe, lived only a few blocks away from the Biograph, so he was actually quite familiar with the cinema I ran and the surroundings he described. This was a day in which many things could have gone wrong, but didn't, so it was remembered fondly. Some of the merchants said they set new records for business in one day. 

-- 30 --

The Handbill War of 1982

This clipping is from Throttle's July 1982 issue.

Note: In 1982, to crack down on the posting of unauthorized notices on fixtures in the public way, the City of Richmond tweaked its City Code. With a particular focus on the Fan District, policemen began pulling handbills promoting rock 'n' roll shows off of utility poles and charging the person(s) they saw as responsible for posting the flier with misdemeanor. 

Plus, the cops also threatened to also bust any other entities they thought would benefit from the handbill's message with violating the new statutes. So, in theory, a club owner and band members could all be busted for posting the same handbill where it ought not to be.

*

On June 28 of that same year, David Stover, a professional photographer and part-time usher at the Biograph Theatre, admitted in court he had posted a promotional handbill on a utility pole. The General District Court judge, R.W. Duling, ordered him to pay a $25 fine.

It should be noted that in the early-'80s Richmond’s live music scene was probably the liveliest it had been in decades.

Stover’s misdemeanor conviction surely sent an obvious message to his band, The Prevaricators, that they needed to find another way of spreading the word about their gigs.

In the weeks before Stover’s court date others in local bands had been fined for committing the same crime. The convictions made most clubs and bands suddenly afraid to depend on a what had been a reliable, essential tool to promote their shows.

As the manager of the Biograph, I had also been using the same sort of handbills on a regular basis for 10 years to promote that repertory cinema’s fare, in particular the midnight shows. In the last few years advances in xerography had made the cost of a short run of little posters much more affordable. 

My instincts were to not accept a ban on that traditional, integral avenue of promotion without putting up a fight. It felt to me like the City of Richmond was not only trampling on my freedom of speech rights, it was trying to undermine the Fan District's nightlife scene.

In other words, I suspected they were unhappy about the content of some handbills. Given such thinking, I decided to go on stapling Biograph fliers to preferred utility poles and just let the chips fall as they may.

It wasn’t long before one afternoon a uniformed policeman showed up at the theater with a flier for “The Atomic Café” in hand. That was the movie we were playing at that time. The cop told me he had removed it from a pole in the neighborhood. 

When asked, I admitted to putting it up. He issued me a summons. It wasn't an unfriendly exchange. 

It seemed to me then that the crackdown had been spawned in a pool of resentment some property owners in the Fan felt toward VCU’s growing presence. I supposed it was easy for them to figure that the university's art school was partly to blame for the band scene and much to blame for the posters trumpeting that scene. 

Note: Due to procedural delays, it took over four months for my day in court to arrive. Which was fortunate, because I used that time window to assemble what would be my case -- both the argument and the evidence.

*

It should be remembered that in 1982 the look associated with punk rock -- how the anti-establishment kids dressed, as well as their art -- was grievously off-putting to some cultural conservatives. The same went for the sound of properly amplified contemporary rock 'n' roll music. Thus, in a larger sense, this episode was part of an all-too-familiar culture clash being warmed over from the 1960s.

Consequently, the leaders of the Fan District Association of that era were determined to rid the neighborhood of the handbills that promoted edgy happenings in their Fan District. Conveniently, City Hall proclaimed that outlawing handbills would help with the growing litter problem in the city.

All of which made me start reading about similar situations in other parts of the country. In particular, cases that involved using existing fixtures such as utility poles, as kiosks. I found some useful precedents that backed up my thinking. Plus, with a fresh passion I began to study political art and outlaw art, in general, down through history. 

Scheming about how to present my argument in court filled my head for the next four months. First, I wanted the court to see an essential context -- our society tolerates all sorts of signage on utility poles, because the messages are considered useful and the practice works.

Then, I wanted to convince a judge that once you considered all the handbills in the neighborhood around VCU, as a whole, it could be seen as an information system. It was a system that some young people were relying on for useful information, just the same as others might rely on newspapers obtained from a box sitting on public sidewalk. 

After all, what right did the newspaper company have to block any part of the public sidewalk with its box full of information, including a lot of advertising? What allowed for that?

One person might read the entertainment section in a local newspaper. Another person might look to the utility poles in their neighborhood, to read the posters touting live music shows or poetry readings. Some would trust the information found in a newspaper. Others might put more faith in the handbills posted on certain poles they walk past regularly. 

Moreover, the only reason privately owned utility poles had ever been allowed to impose on public property, in the first place, was that electricity and telephone lines had been seen as serving the commonweal. So, why not use the bottom of the same poles as kiosks?   

Somewhere along the line, I told my bosses it would cost them nothing in legal fees. A couple of my friends who were on the theater's softball team, who were also pretty good lawyers, would handle the defense.

To gather plenty of good examples of handbills to use as evidence, we had an art show/contest at the Biograph (see flier above). On October 5, some 450 fliers, posted on black foam core panels, were hung in the theater’s lobby. In all, there were probably 40 or 45 artists represented. 

A group of friends acted as impromptu art expert judges to select the best five of the show. Naturally, there was a keg of beer on hand to grease the wheels of progress. Two of the handbill art show judges from that night also served as expert witnesses at the trial. They were: Gerald Donato and David Manning White. 

Donato was an art professor at VCU; White was the retired head of the mass communications department at VCU. The best 100 of the handbills from the show were later taken to court as evidence.

One of Phil Trumbo’s Orthotones (later Orthotonics) handbills was named Best in Show. Most people who knew much about the handbill artists in the Fan probably would have said Trumbo was top dog, so it was a popular decision by the judges.

*

Thus, on November 5, 1982, I witnessed a fascinating scene in which an age-old question — what is art? — was hashed out in front of a patient judge, who seemed to thoroughly enjoy the parade of exhibits and witnesses the defense attorneys put before him. The room was packed with observers, which included plenty of gypsy musicians, film buffs and art students wearing paint-speckled dungarees.

Trumbo testified at the trial as a handbill expert, to explain how to make a handbill and why they were used by promoters of entertainment. He also described how the music and art associated with the bands and clubs were all part of the same milieu.

My defense attorneys attacked the wording of the city's statute I was charged with violating as “overreaching.” They asserted on my behalf that it was my right to post the handbill, plus the public had a right to see it. The prosecution stuck to its guns and called the handbill, “litter.”

The judge was reminded that history-wise, posters predate newspapers. Furthermore, we asserted that some of the cheaply printed posters, a natural byproduct of having a university with a burgeoning art school in the neighborhood, were worthwhile art.

At a crucial moment Donato was being grilled by the prosecutor. The Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, William B. Bray, asked the witness if the humble piece of paper in his hand, the offending handbill, could actually be “art.”

“Probably,” shrugged the prof. “Why not?”

The stubborn prosecutor grumbled, reasserting that it was no better than trash in the gutter. Having grown weary of the artsy, high-brow vernacular being slung around by the witnesses, the prosecutor tried one last time to make Donato look foolish.

As Warhol’s soup cans had just been mentioned the prosecutor asked something like, “If you were in an alley and happened upon a pile of debris spilled out from a tipped-over trashcan, could that display be art, too?”

“Well,” said the artist, pausing momentarily for effect, “that would depend on who tipped the can over.”

Donato’s punch line was perfectly delivered. The courtroom erupted into laughter. Even the judge had to fight off a smile.

The crestfallen prosecutor gave up; he had lost the case. Although I got a kick out of the crack, too, I’ve always thought the City’s mouthpiece missed an opportunity to hit the ball back across the net.

“Sir, let me get this right,” he might have said, “are you saying the difference between art and randomly-strewn garbage is simply a matter of whose hand touched it; that the actual appearance of the objects, taken as a whole, is not the true test? Would you have us believe that without credentials, such as yours, one is ill-equipped to determine the difference ordinary trash and fine art?”

A smarter lawyer might have exploited that angle. Still, the prosecutor’s premise/strategy that an expert witness could be compelled to rise up to brand a handbill for a movie, a green piece of paper with black ink on it, as “un-art” was absurd. So, Donato, who was a wily artist if ever there was one, probably would have one-upped the buttoned-down lawyer, no matter what.

Perhaps the question should not have been — how can you tell fake art from real art? Any town is full of bad art, mediocre art and good art. Name your poison. The better question to ask would be about whether the art is pleasing to the eye, thought-provoking or useful.

Then any viewer can be the expert witness. However, when it comes to great art, maybe it still depends on who tips over the can.

*

The next day the story about winning the handbill case was draped stylishly across the top of the front page of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Here are excerpts of that article:

‘Atomic Café’ handbill case is still clouded
By Frank Green
Sat., Nov. 6, 1982  

...Richmond District Court Judge Jose R. Davila Jr. dismissed a charge yesterday against Terry Rea, the manager of the Biograph Theater, who allegedly posted handbills advertising the movie “The Atomic Café” on some utility poles in the Fan in June…

…The case concerned the seemingly simple issue of the allegedly illegal posting of a handbill. But before it was over, the proceedings touched on topics that included free speech, soup cans, and nuclear energy, and invoked the names of such diverse personalities as Andy Warhol and the city‘s public safety director.

Rea’s attorneys, John G. Colan and Stuart R. Kaplan, argued the city’s ordinance was unconstitutional because it violated Rea’s right of freedom of speech…

…“The city, GRTC, VCU, churches, the Boys Club and all the candidates use the public’s utility poles to post their signs. They know as well as the general public that there is nothing pretty about a naked pole. Handbills pose no danger to anyone. Is free speech only for some?” Rea asked in a handbill he had printed up before yesterday’s trial.   

Later that Saturday Richmond’s afternoon daily, the Richmond News Leader, carried a story about the trial. Here are excerpts of that article:

Art or litter? Judge rules handbills not in ‘public way’
by Frank Donnelly
Nov. 6, 1982

One man’s art may be another man’s litter, but the real question was whether it blocks the “public way.”

Terry Rea, manager of the Biograph Theatre in Richmond, was charged in June with obstructing a city sidewalk when he posted handbills on utility poles in the Fan District.

Rea’s attorneys, eliciting testimony on mass media and art from several professors at Virginia Commonwealth University, argued yesterday that the city law limited their client’s freedom of speech.

However, Richmond General District Judge Jose R. Davila, Jr., said the issue came down to whether the posters obstructed the public way, and he ruled that the commonwealth’s attorney’s office failed to prove they did.

Davila dismissed the charge against the manager of the theater but stopped short of finding the city law unconstitutional, which also had been requested by Rea’s attorney’s.

The city now must decide whether to find a better legal argument to defend the city law or to revise it, officials said. The law is used by the police to combat excessive advertising in the public way, which is defined as any place open to the public, such as a street or sidewalk.

“The poles were perfectly clean this morning,” Capt. Robert T. Millikin, Jr., said about the possible impact of the decision. “Between you and me, I don’t know what they’ll [sic] going to look like between now and tonight.”

For the last year, Fan District residents have complained to police about the unsightliness caused by posters on trees and utility poles, Millikin said... 

Rea said he always has relied on handbills as an inexpensive but effective way to advertise movies at the theater, which specializes in the showing of avant-garde movies...

...David M. White, a former VCU professor of mass communication and author of 20 books on the media, said handbills are a unique form of communication. The theater could advertise in newspapers but the cost was prohibitive, he said.

Jerry Donato, an associate VCU professor of fine arts, said that posters in the Fan District contained both art and messages. “The Atomic Cafe” posters, which contained the slogan, “A hot spot in a Cold War,” criticized the use of nuclear power, he said...

...Before the trial, Rea had argued, “The handbill posted in the public way is a unique and vital form of communication. Production and distribution is direct, swift and cheap.”

That message was printed on a handbill.

*

Three years later, Richmond once again passed new laws forbidding unauthorized fliers on utility poles. Another crackdown ensued.

This time it spawned a reaction from several of the Fan District’s handbill artists, musicians and promoters -- activists who called themselves the Fan Handbill Association.

Eventually, this political issue prompted me to design a two-page, twice-a-week "magazine," SLANT, which was made to be stapled to utility poles. There were cartoons, blurbs/brief articles and ads. And, I wrote about the handbill controversy. 

But that’s another story for another day.

-- 30 --

Oxymoron of the Day: Honest Conservative

Photo of Clarence Thomas from WaPo

In today's political world, when you say someone is a "dyed in the wool conservative," hasn't it become understood that means they are also a total cheater? Like, given all of what we've recently learned about Justice Clarence Thomas, isn't it redundant to declare that he's a dishonest conservative?

Thus, because that term has become an oxymoron, I suppose it's now pure sarcasm to label anybody in today's red-cap-wearing MAGA cult an "honest conservative." Ha!

Of course, calling ex-President Donald Trump a "dishonest conservative" is so damn over-the-top inadequate on one hand, and obviously inaccurate on the other, it sounds like the punchline to a joke. Trump has probably gushed more provable falsehoods, on the record, in public, than any other American in history. 

Moreover, Trump's peculiar brand of politics has little in common with any of history's most celebrated modern conservatives: William F. Buckley? Barry Goldwater? Claire Booth Luce? James J. Kilpatrick? Ronald Reagan? George Will? Peggy Noonan? Well, I could go on, but I have to think you've already gotten the point. Trumpism is one hundred percent about whatever best serves Trump's urges and whims. 

The Democratic Party simply wouldn't have him, so for the most part, Trump is a Republican by default. And, the Republicans who hated on President Barack Obama the hardest, recognized pretty quickly, after Trump's infamous escalator ride, that his knack for attracting and motivating racist voters was stronger than anyone else in 2016's presidential field. 

Thus, seven years ago, Trump happily flushed the Republican establishment's style of conservatism down the toilet ... and that was that. And, ever since, it's been plain to see that honesty is simply excess baggage to Trumpist politicians and commentators. To them, lies are usually more entertaining to their followers than the truth, anyway. 

Therefore, Justice Thomas' dishonesty is very much in style with political throwbacks in the GOP who can shrug off the blatant dishonesty with practiced ease.   

A Lucky Break

Note: The Central Basketball Alliance lasted three seasons: 1980-81, 1981-82 and 1982-83. Personnel-wise, the CBA was an off-shoot of the Fan District Softball League, with some of the same characters. But its once-a-week games had none of the accompanying lively social scene the FDSL enjoyed at Chandler Ballfield. 

It was just men's basketball teams playing games against one another, according to a printed schedule. The players were mostly in their 20s and 30s. The league's teams were sponsored. The referees were paid. The gyms were rented.  

A Naturals shooter and hapless defenders.

A Lucky Break  

*

During the month of March, each year, the season for the men's basketball conference tournaments and the NCAA men’s basketball tournament is a blessing. The surprises and suspenseful moments of the games help get basketball junkies, like me, through those last tedious days of winter.

Of course, to be a junkie in full bloom one must still play the game. Since I quit playing basketball in 1994, I suppose I’ve been a junkie in recovery. Yes, I’ll always miss the way a perfectly-released jump shot felt as it left my fingertips. Nothing in my life has replaced the satisfaction that came from stealing the ball from an opponent, just as he stumbles over his hubris. It's especially nice when, as a result, you get an uncontested layup -- providing, of course, you don't miss the snowbird. 

Every March, as my favorite teams are eliminated and my brackets crumble, I cling to the notion that by the time of the Final Four games, the warm spring weather will have arrived ... and baseball season will already be underway. 

Although I enjoyed playing basketball more than baseball and softball, in my sorely missed playing days, baseball was my first love in sports. The years I spent covering college basketball, as a writer, helped to soothe my basketball jones.

Since the improvisational aspect of basketball has always appealed to me, from a seat on press row it's fun to watch particular players who have a special knack for seizing the moment. If it's a player you've seen plenty of, sometimes, from the expression on his face, you can sense what he's about to do, sort of like it was when you played and knew your teammates' moves so well. 

While basketball is in some ways a finesse game, more than a power game like football -- injury-wise -- if you play enough of basketball there are some brutal truths it will inevitably serve up. And, although I’ve heard people claim that we can’t remember pain, I have not forgotten what it felt like to dislocate my right ankle on the afternoon of April 20, 1985; I was undercut finishing an out-of-control, one-on-five fast break.

While I'd love to say the ball went in the basket, I don't remember that part. What I do remember is flopping around on the hardwood floor, like a fish out of water; literally, out of control. Take it from me, dear reader, popping your foot off the end of your leg hurts way too much to forget -- think James Caan in “Misery” (1990).

But this story is about another injury. On March 4, 1982, my then-34-year-old nose was broken during the course of a basketball game. In that time, the Biograph Theatre, which I managed, had a men's team in a league called the Central Basketball Alliance. Other teams were sponsored by the Track, deTreville, Soble’s, Hababa’s, the Jade Elephant, etc. 

The morning after my nose was bashed in by an opponent’s upwardly thrust elbow, while I was coming down from a failed attempt at snatching a rebound, I went to Stuart Circle Hospital to have the damage checked.

My nose wasn’t just broken, it had been split open at the bridge in three or four directions. The emergency room doc used Super Glue and a butterfly clamp to put it all back together. This was before such glue had been approved for use in this country, so he asked me not to tell anyone what he had done; I hope the statute of limitations has run out.

After getting an X-ray I was waiting around in the hospital lobby to sign some papers and my grandmother -- Emily “Villa” Collins Owen -- was wheeled by. She was stretched out on a hospital bed. As I grew up in her home and was still very close to her, it had the same panic impact as seeing one’s parent in such an abrupt context.

We spoke briefly. She said she was feeling a little weak from a cold and had decided to spend the night in the hospital. She lived just a few blocks away. Pretending to ignore my gripping sense of panic, I calmly assured Nana (pronounced Ny-nuh) I’d be back during visiting hours, to see how she was doing.

That evening I took my then-12-year-old daughter, Katey, with me to see Nana. The doctor came in her room and told us she’d be fine with a good night’s rest. Katey and I spent a half-hour making our 83-year-old Nana laugh as best she could ... feeling a little weak.

Six decades before this she had trained to be a nurse at that same hospital, which has now been converted into condos. Nana died later that night; it was in the wee hours of the morning that followed. When the phone call from her doctor came, the news sent a shock-wave through my being unlike anything else, before or since. 

As that news sank in I realized that had luck not interposed a fate-changing elbow to my beak, Katey and I may not have had that last precious visit with Nana. Knowing my grandmother, I'm not at all sure she would have let anybody know she was in the hospital. At least, not right away.

Which means I have to say the palooka who elbowed me in that CBA game did me a favor. Perhaps in more ways than one.

You see, in order to keep playing in the Biograph’s games in that season, I needed to protect my nose while it healed. So, I got one of those protective aluminum nose-guards I’d seen players wear. It was a primitive version of the clear plastic masks in use today.

As a kid, I saw future-NBA great Jerry West wearing such a broken-nose-protector when he was playing his college ball at West Virginia. It impressed the 12-year-old version of me to no end; I marveled at how tough and focused West was.

So, wearing what was to me a Jerry West mask, I played the rest of the CBA season -- maybe five more games. Now I have to believe that period was the best basketball I played during  my CBA days. Maybe not wanting another whack to the nose made me a little more careful. Maybe more purposeful, too, which is probably a good trait for a point guard to have.

Anyway, it apparently was just what my game had been needing. Our team didn’t lose another game that year; the Biograph Naturals won the league’s championship. 

In looking back on those weeks after my grandmother's death, I can easily see that in testing my nerve, patterned after the way West had tested his, I was living out a boyhood dream. It appears some of the game's lucky breaks can best be detected in the rear-view mirror. 

*

Fan League Hall of Fame

Dennis Johnson

After a dozen summers of organized play, the Fan District Softball League established its Hall of Fame in 1986. The first class was elected by the 12-team outfit’s designated franchise representatives/captains. To be eligible then one had to have retired from play and be considered to be among the league's founders.

Ten names were tapped for the first class of Hall-of-Famers. The induction ceremony took place at the league's All-Star game at the Columbian Center in the Westend. The same procedures held true in 1987, when six new names were engraved on the plaque. 

However, by 1988, a few of those who had been inducted into the Hall had un-retired ... more power to them. So, that year, eligibility to the Hall was opened up to anyone who seemed deserving. Those already in got to vote, as well. Nine new members were selected. The meetings to select new inductees were always quite lively, as were most FDSL meetings. The voting process was probably no more twisted than any hall of fame’s way of choosing its memberships.

For 1989 six additional names were picked. The class of ‘90 added seven new names, and in ‘92 the last five names were tacked on. In all, 41 players and two umpires were selected. 

As for what bias may have existed, well, the list does appear to lean somewhat in favor of guys who made significant contributions to the league's lore in its early years. The mistakes that were made were in leaving some guys out who should have been considered. 

Those men who were inducted into the FDSL’s Hall from 1986 through 1992 are as follows: Ricardo Adams, Herbie Atkinson, Howard Awad, Boogie Bailey, Yogi Bair, Jay Barrows, Otto Brauer, Ernie Brooks, Hank Brown, Bobby Cassell, Jack Colan, Willie Collins, Dickie deTreville, Jack deTreville, Henry Ford, Danny Gammon, Donald Greshham, James Jackson, Dennis Johnson, Mike Kittle, Leo Koury, Jim Letizia, Junie Loving, Tony Martin, Kenny Meyer, Cliff Mowells, Buddy Noble, Randy Noble, Henry Pollard, Artie Probst, Terry Rea, John Richardson, Jerry Robinson, Larry Rohr, Billy Snead, Jim Story, Hook Shepherd, Pudy Stallard, Durwood Usry, Jumpy White, Barry Winn, Chuck Wrenn.

 

It's fair to assume all of them deserved it. 

One thing is for sure: If you put all 43 of the Hall's members in the open grassy field across Woodrow Avenue from the ballfield -- a veritable no-man's-land -- let's say in a summer twilight of 1981, as your time machine floats in toward the scene, the sound you'd hear would be laughter. 

Note: As an organization, the Fan District Softball League lasted 20 years (1975-1994), which was a wonder in itself. There are plenty of true stories from those years that are only believable to those of us who knew the people.

-- Words and art by F.T. Rea

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This man is not a conservative

This man is not a conservative. Trump is a fascist. 

This man is not a Republican. Trump is a conman who preys on Republicans. 

This man is hardly a Christian. Trump brandishes an upside down Bible and uses the faith of true believers like a tool.

This man is not for law and order. Trump is now dealing with the fruits of his law-breaking in New York, Georgia, Florida and D.C.; he praises wicked MAGA cultists who attacked cops on Jan. 6, 2017, and he uses threats like a mob boss.  

This man is not trying to make America great. Trump is a documented swindler who encourages law-breaking, violence and chaos, because strife facilitates his agenda.  

This man's tactics and goals match those of history's most notorious fascist leaders. Accordingly, "fascist" is precisely the word that best labels Trump's political style. 

This man has never been a conservative in any stretch of the word's meaning. In truth, Trump is a full-fledged fascist (see brief definitions below).

*

Dictionary.com definition: 

A fascist is someone who supports or promotes fascism—a system of government led by a dictator who typically rules by forcefully and often violently suppressing opposition and criticism, controlling all industry and commerce, and promoting nationalism and often racism.

vocabulary.com definition: 

"A fascist is a follower of a political philosophy characterized by authoritarian views and a strong central government — and no tolerance for opposing opinions."

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Boss Trump facing the music

Ex-President Trump has never looked more like a sullen mob boss than he did this afternoon, as he pussyfooted his way into the courtroom, surrounded by lawyers, guns and what protection money will buy. 

There he was at the appointed time, complying with what he had been ordered to do by a New York judge. The powerlessness and disappointment Boss Trump was feeling was etched on his face: where was the riotous MAGA crowd gumming up the works and scaring the hell out of his enemies? 

For the first time in his career of getting over on the suckers who trusted him, Donald J. Turpitude is facing the music. With his history, no doubt, being in Manhattan for this first bitter dose of justice was a return to the setting for many of his crimes down through the years.      

Yes, it looks like Trump is taking the fall. And, it's happening in torturous slow motion to the most deserving guy in the USA. The smartest rats are preparing their exit from sinking ship as you read this.  

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