Court Dates for Trump (so far)

Trump's RICO expression.

On Monday, Aug. 28, 2023, in Washington, D.C., it's expected that U.S. District Judge Tanya Chutkan will set the date for what many observers are calling the most significant criminal trial in American history. That trial will consider the Justice Department's case against Donald Trump, to do with alleged actions he deliberately took to overturn the last presidential election results in several states.

However, since the former president is also a defendant in other cases, both criminal and civil, Chutkan is going to have to find a hole in Trump's crowded calendar for court ordered appearances. 

Highlights of Trump's upcoming ordeals in various courts are listed below: 

• Trial date set in New York City: Oct. 2, 2023. This is the business fraud civil lawsuit filed by New York Attorney General Tish James. Financial mismanagement and malfeasance by Trump's company are alleged.
• Trial date set in Atlanta: Oct. 23, 2023. At this writing, this case, Kenneth Chesebro's, will be the first of the RICO cases Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis will present. Other members of the RICO 19 group that Willis charged on Aug. 14 may also try to separate their cases from Trump's request for a trial date in 2026. So there's no telling how many defendants will eventually follow Chesebro to ask for a swift trial. 

• Meanwhile, in D.C., Special Counsel Jack Smith has asked Chutkan for a Jan. 2, 2024, trial date. That, while Trump's attorneys filed a request to begin his D.C. trial sometime in April of 2026. (At this desk, it's not known whether Chutkan appreciated the snicker imbedded in Trump's request. Don't forget, the judge has already warned Trump that if he continues making “inflammatory” cracks about the case she might have to accelerate the process.)

• Trial date set in NYC: Jan. 15, 2024. E. Jean Carroll won $5 million from a jury in a defamation civil lawsuit against Trump earlier this year. Afterward, Trump kept on talking trash about Carroll, so here we go again. Meanwhile, on the primary calendar, the Iowa caucus' process will also happen on Jan, 15, 2024. 
• Trial date set in NYC: Jan. 29, 2024. Trump faces yet another civil trial that targets his notorious business practices. This federal lawsuit accuses Trump himself and his company of fraud.              
• Trial date (proposed by Willis) in Atlanta: Mar, 4, 2024. The second RICO trial (for the defendants who want to slow-walk it) is still in flux.
• Trial date in NYC: March 25, 2024. Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg has charged Trump with 34 felony counts of falsifying business records connected to Trump’s efforts to conceal his extramarital affair with a porn star.
• Trial date in Fort Pierce, Fla: May 20, 2024. Smith has charged Trump with hording national security papers at Mar-a-Lago, plus eight additional charges to do with Trump's alleged efforts to obstruct the government's legit efforts to recover those classified materials.

Thus, I'm predicting Chutkan will pick a trial date sometime in February of 2024. Stay tuned... 

-- 30 --

Fulton County Mugshots w/captions No. 4

Mugshot No. 4:

Beyond the fringe. Beyond the 

crazy zone. Beyond the pale.

Fulton County Mugshots w/captions No. 3

Mugshot No. 3:

"Breakin' rocks in the hot sun

I fought the law and..."

Fulton County Mugshots w/captions No. 2

Mugshot No. 2:
A look his
wives have seen.

 

Fulton County Mugshots w/captions

Mugshot No. 1:
Lost Soul.

 

A Confluence of Evils

We've all known people who seem to hate government at all levels -- local, state and federal. The government they hate the most is the one that most recently made them angry. 

Of course, the majority of the government-haters probably aren't all that dangerous (I hope!). Unfortunately, some of them are stockpiling weapons of war and getting more dangerous every day. Some are loners. Some are members of bad boys groups. 

And, we've all encountered people who crave power. Some of them are merely tyrants who operate within their own sphere of influence. They simply take pleasure from bending people to their will. Others must have political power, Rather than hate government they covet access to the levers of power governments possess.

In their travels in the past those two antiestablishment factions weren't usually answering to the same boss. However, for the time being, it appears they are and MAGA cult leader Donald Trump is directing this confluence of evils. 

No one knows how long Trump can keep those two different camps harnessed and cooperating under the Republican banner. Meanwhile, we already know some foot soldiers in those two camps are crazy as hell and they're "standing by," awaiting the signal from Boss Trump. 

However, given election trends over the last five years, Trump's lieutenants must have deduced that winning a majority of the votes in most fair elections in the future is going to be out of reach. Nonetheless, using money, propaganda and the threat of force to create fear, they mean to seize control of those aforementioned governmental levers of power. ASAP. 

-- 30 -- 

Words and art by F.T. Rea.

The Coldest Warrior

Note: The piece below this note is an OpEd I wrote for Richmond.com 24 years ago; did the Nixon illustration back then, too. The piece was published to coincide with the 25th anniversary of Nixon's 1974 resignation. So the anniversaries mentioned in the first graf date from 1999.

*

August 9, 1999: August is usually a slow month for news, especially political news. So we are spoon-fed anniversaries to contemplate: Hiroshima’s 54th; Woodstock’s 30th; it was 25 years ago that Pres. Richard M. Nixon took the fall. The entire culture shifted gears the day Nixon threw in the towel.

The brilliant strategist, the awkward sleuth, the proud father, and the coldest of warriors had left the building. August 9, 1974 was a day to hoist one for his enemies, many of whom must have enjoyed his twisting in the wind of Watergate’s storm. It was the saddest of days for his staunch supporters, whose numbers were still legion.

Either way, Richard Nixon’s departure from D.C. left a peculiar void that no personality has since filled in anything close to the same way. For the first time since his earliest commie-baiting days, in the late-‘40s, Dick Nixon suddenly had no clout. 

Upon Nixon's departure, concern for social causes went out of style for a lot of young Americans. It was time to party. Soon what remained of the causes and accouterments of the ‘60s was packed into cardboard boxes to be tossed out, or stored in basements.

Watergate revelations killed off the Nixon administration’s chance of instituting national health insurance. On top of that, many people have forgotten that he was also rather liberal on environmental matters, at least compared to the science-doubting Republicans who have followed. Although he was a hawk, Nixon was moderate on some of the social issues.

Nixon's opening to China and efforts toward détente with the Soviets are often cited as evidence of his ability to maneuver deftly in the realm of foreign affairs. No doubt, that was his main focus. Still, at the bottom line, Nixon is remembered chiefly as the president who was driven from office. And for good reason.

Nixon’s nefarious strategy for securing power divided this country like nothing since the Civil War. Due to his fear of hippies and left-wing campus movements, Nixon looked at ex-Beatle John Lennon and instead of a sarcastic musician, in his view Nixon saw a raw power to galvanize a generation’s anti-establishment sentiments. Fearful of that imagined potential, the sneaky Nixon administration did everything it could to hound Lennon out of the country.

Nixon deliberately drove a wedge between fathers and sons. To rally support for his prosecution of the Vietnam War, he sought to expand the division between World War II era parents and their baby boomer offspring. The families that never recovered from that time's bitterness were just more collateral damage.

However, Nixon’s true legacy is that since his paranoia-driven scandal, the best young people have no longer felt drawn into public service. Since Watergate the citizens who’ve gravitated toward politics for a career have not had the intellect, the sense of purpose, or the strength of character of their predecessors. We can thank Tricky Dick for all that and more.

So weep not for the sad, crazy Nixon of August, 1974. He did far more harm to America than whatever good he intended.

Some commentators have suggested that he changed over that period, even mellowed. Don't buy it. The rest of us changed a lot more than he did. On top of that, Nixon had 20 years to come clean and clear the air. But he didn’t do it. He didn't even come close. In the two decades of his so-called “rehabilitation,” before his death in 1994, Nixon just kept on being Nixon.

So, spare me the soft-focus view of the Nixon White House years. Tricky Dick's humiliating downfall should be a lesson to us all -- he surely got what he deserved.

-- 30 --

Right and Wrong ... and Whatever

Note: 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. Doesn't matter now. The editor of that page, Rozanne Epps, changed it to "Do Unto Others," which now sounds almost sarcastic. Today, 24 years later, swimming in a sea of disinformation and hate-driven politics, I suppose I would write it somewhat differently, too. 

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?

-- 30 --

Viewing the Greater Good as Nostalgia

The Constitution's first 10 amendments are known as the Bill of Rights; it's a list of the basic rights of a citizen. Thus, among other things the Bill of Rights appears to recognize that protecting every person's dignity is a worthwhile pursuit for a Democracy. 

Yet, "majority rules" is at the heart of democracy; as a principle it appears to recognize that what's seen as best for the community is sometimes more important than any one individual's rights and desires. 

 

As those two basic vantage points often conflict with one another, an orderly society needs governments to strive to serve the greater good. It needs laws and courts to settle arguments, establish guidelines and set absolutes. 

 

As well, society has had customs and it has had standards of morality. However, in the current age, millions of so-called "conservatives" seem to think that caring about their neighbors' interests is old hat. 

Collectively, the MAGA cult appears to believe that most liberals are only pretending to care a lot about the commonweal. That's because, the cultists seem to think that no one really cares about humanity more than they care about satisfying the desires of good ol' Number One.  

It says here that Trump's January 6th terrorists and their admirers view crafting a sensible political agenda, a platform designed to benefit the greater good as a nostalgia trip. To most of today's Republicans, serving society's greater good pretty much became too yesterday the day Trump was sworn in. 

After all, wasn't the turn to the crazy right the GOP made in 2016 powered by gathering and focusing the hateful reactions to Obama's two terms in the White House? To be clear, I'm talking about bitter reactions to enduring eight years of having a Black president?

It's far too soon to say if the Republican Party has begun to recover from its anti-democracy MAGA era. So, Biden still likes to use this spot-on quip: "This isn't your father's Republican Party." 

In 2023, that old saw packs more punch.    

-- 30 -- 

Words and Art by F.T. Rea

The Contrast Is Real

In my view, contrast, as a theme, should be at the heart of the Democratic Party's campaign message for the upcoming season. Spotlighting the contrast between the USA's two major political parties presents the D's strong suit in a flattering context.

Examples of the contrast are everywhere one looks. Whether we're talking about the nation's voters or their elected officials, the difference between the Republicans and Democrats is dramatic.    

Aiming to have a brighter future, it's fair to say Democrats generally think the government should facilitate problem-solving. However, gloomy Republicans seem to think most big problems cannot be solved, only managed.  

So, Democrats think about the future. Republicans think about the Gilded Age.  

The old hat saying alleging that there wasn't a "dime's-worth-of-difference" between the two national political parties may have been apt decades ago. Saying it now is totally out of touch with reality. 

Here's another easy contrast: When it comes to infrastructure, Democrats think worn out bridges should be repaired or replaced BEFORE they fall down. Democrats also think low unemployment is a good thing, which is another reason to deal with dilapidated bridges, ASAP. 

That, while Republican fat cats tend to like their labor cheap and hungry. Thus, high unemployment is preferable. Plus, as a byproduct, the traditional empty campaign promises to create new jobs have more traction. Truth be told, for Republican legislators, tax breaks for billionaires are way more of a high priority than responding to infrastructure obligations.

Most Democrats believe women should have the say-so over their own bodies. In contrast, the Big Brothers that Republican-led state governments have become mean to impose their decisions on the pregnancies of American women. 

Democrats want to make voting for all citizens to be more accessible when possible. Unlike Republicans, Democrats want fair elections. However, more and more, Republicans have been trying to manage the voting process in a way to benefit a desired end. So, to the shameless MAGA crowd, controlling who votes matters more than standing on a platform of popular policies. 

Elected Democrats are now keenly aware that democracy, itself, is under attack in this country. Part of the reason for that bubbling trouble is that elected Republicans are still trembling in fear of offending one man -- a power-hungry cult leader whose whims have come to matter much more than abiding by the Constitution or respecting the rule of law. 

2023's Democrats dream abut harmony. 2023's Republicans dream about dominance. Given what's happened in plain sight over the last seven years, only willfully blind eyes can't see the many contrasts. 

-- 30 --

The Season for Insurrections?

Call the marching around that went on in Russia over the weekend what you want -- "coup," "rebellion," "mutiny," etc. -- there's one specific label that works well for me: "insurrection."

In short, that means the two most powerful nations on Earth have both suffered insurrections on their soil within the last 30 months. At least the USA and Russia are widely seen as the "most powerful," when considering their nuclear weapons arsenals. 

In both cases, the sitting governments fended off the sudden challenges to their authority by hordes. While the specifics of those two events vary, it's easy to think the sentiments that fueled both insurrections are still much in the air in both countries. No doubt, Insurrection Part Two plots are being hatched as you read these words.  

Among other things, now I wonder if it's a coincidence that these rather unusual uprisings happened so close together, time-wise, or are insurrections about to become a thing, internationally?   

Meanwhile, over the weekend folks everywhere have had their concerns ratcheted up, to do with dangerous instability in any of the countries whose governments have their fingers poised over the nuke button. 

It all takes me back to the disarmament talking points of 40 years ago, when one of the biggest worries was over doomsday insurrectionists gaining control of some bombs. Ever since those days, I've imagined that scenario to be a more likely calamity than a legitimate government getting insulted and raining planet-killing bombs down on their declared enemies.  

So, like I said, in the 2020s, are insurrections about to become a thing, internationally? And, if they are, this is a damn good time to think again about disarmament.   

-- 30 --

The Classified Boxes Scandal

Yes, it's frustrating watching the gears of various justice systems grind away, chewing on Donald Trump's crimes. It's easy to dwell on worry over the tedious soap opera pace of the process. 

Still, there really isn't all that much we, the people, can do to help Jack Smith or any of the other prosecutors do their jobs any quicker or any better. Our job rests outside the halls of justice in the court of public opinion. 

Pursuant to that, the ongoing Trump-spawned info crisis ought to be promoted to become a much-discussed political issue in 2023. Making that happen should be a high priority for Democrats. Good messaging on this front will lead to election day victories.

Obviously, some of the USA's top secret geopolitical information has been dealt with recklessly. We're just beginning to learn the true extent of the exposure. No one will be much surprised to hear tomorrow that yet another stash of Trump's "boxes" has been found where it ought not to be. 

Moreover, we're still guessing why Trump has coveted possession of the particular forbidden material he has been schlepping around and hiding. That's a mystery that may be solved by some crackerjack investigative journalists before Jack Smith's busy team can get around to it. 

When it comes to securing top secrets, America's government can't afford to be seen as butterfingered. Thus, the Biden administration has some work to do, in order to restore allies' belief that in D.C. sensitive information can be protected. 

Which means catching and punishing all the malfeasors of this classified boxes scandal is vital. Calling it a "scandal" is a bull's-eye. However, at this point the most important thing we, the democracy-advocates, can do concerning state secrets will be to make damn sure Trump and his sleazy accomplices never enter the White House again.

To stiff-arm the fascism threat in the USA, Trump's worshipers, who are candidates at any level, must be defeated on election day. No matter the outcomes in the courts in New York, Miami, Georgia and D.C., losing in the court of public opinion must be avoided.   

Bumper sticker: Secrets aren't safe in MAGA world. 

-- 30 --   

1989's Goddess of Democracy in the Fan

May 30, 1989: As a symbol of their call for democratic reforms in China, the original Goddess of Democracy was built by art students who erected it in Tiananmen Square. The gathering protest on that site had begun in mid-April; tension was mounting.

Subsequently, on June 4, following orders, elements of the People’s Liberation Army put an end to the demonstration. Mayhem ensued. Although reports varied widely, hundreds, if not thousands, were killed.

Made of chicken wire and plaster the Goddess was destroyed during the brutal routing of the determined protesters who had remained to the end, in defiance. As the drama played out on television, via satellite, those events shocked the world.

In Richmond, as their art student counterparts in China were being murdered in the shadow of their 33-foot-tall sculpture, a group of local artists heard the call of inspiration to stand in support of those who had fallen. The impromptu team of the willing and able -- VCU-affiliated artists -- worked for the next couple of days to give form to their tribute to courage. The courage of those who had risked it all for the sake of freedom of expression.

While the ad hoc undertaking was not sponsored by the university, wisely, VCU didn't play it safe and discourage the gesture. Maybe the university's top dogs decided that it was a natural outgrowth from having a world class art school. 

Richmond’s Goddess of Democracy (pictured above and below) stood the same height and was made of the same basic materials as the one in China had been. Thirty-four years ago, facing the 900 block of West Main Street, it stood as a memorial for about a month in front of the student center. Eventually, weather was its undoing.

While it stood CNN had a report on it, as did many other news agencies. Its image was on front pages of newspapers all over the world.

The June 16 -30, 1989 issue of SLANT ran a story about construction and display of the Goddess. It included mention of a handbill that I found posted at the site of the VCU memorial. Here's a portion of the text that appeared on that small poster:

On May 13, 1989, Beijing University students began an occupation of Tiananmen Square to call for democratic reforms and an end to official corruption. The ensuing peaceful and often festive protest drew world attention and gained support from the citizens and workers of Beijing. On Sunday, June 4, at 3:30 [a.m.] Chinese time, troops of the 27th Division of the People’s Liberation Army entered the square with orders to disperse the students. At approximately 6 a.m. these same troops attacked the protestors with automatic weapons, tanks, and bayonets. 

According to government estimates only 300 students were killed, but local medical estimates put the death toll between 500 and 1,000.

The brutal suppression of unarmed students by a powerful totalitarian government has moved the world’s conscience. Many of the Tiananmen victims were art students who aspired to same basic freedoms which we enjoy daily. As American artists we cannot overlook, and we must never forget, the suffering and sacrifice of our brothers and sisters in Beijing. 

Their peaceful struggle was a cry for human rights everywhere, and their symbol, the Goddess of Democracy, was the highest artistic tribute they could pay to humanity’s noblest ideal -- freedom.

The little red-on-white placards on sticks that surrounded the sculpture (seen in the photos) were added a few days after the Fan District's Goddess was completed. To say the piece was thought-provoking is quite an understatement. As far as I know, nobody made a penny out of it.

Thinking back on it, this episode was also a good illustration of how the traditional left and right, liberal and conservative, characterizations of all things political don’t always do justice to the truth of a given situation. For instance, was the stubborn and heavy-handed Chinese government situated to the right, or to the left, of the upstart students calling for reform?

When communists are the conservatives clinging to the old way, how does that play out on a straight line spectrum of left-to-right thinking? It seems to me authoritarian regimes are what they are, regardless of how else they wish to be viewed from the outside.

Until what happened to the pedestal of the Robert E. Lee Monument in 2020, the Goddess of Democracy on VCU’s campus in the early-summer of 1989 was the most successful piece of guerilla art this scribbler had ever seen firsthand. Both happened spontaneously in my neighborhood, the Fan.

-- My photos 

-- 30 --

The Cheaters

Note: By the time I was nine, or 10 years old, I could tell that hypocrisy and cheating were ubiquitous factors in the world being run by the bossiest grownups. Nonetheless, playing sports with other kids offered me an escape from that false-face realm. 

In baseball, you either hit the ball or you missed it. You were either safe, or you were out. The truth was there for all to see. At that age, for me, playing baseball was living in a dimension where the boundaries were set and understood. 

When we chose up sides, before the game, we all knew the best players would be picked first. We accepted that system. Maybe the boys who were routinely selected last weren't so crazy about that, but mostly they were glad to be playing. At that age, I lived across the road from a schoolyard baseball field with a backstop. 

At nine, it was my habit to read the sports section and funny page every morning. About that same age I started creating a series of hand-drawn, newspaper-like sports sections. I invented six teams in an imaginary baseball league, made up of cartoon animals -- monkeys, bears, dogs, etc. The home team, Animaltown, had a roster filled with characters based on the stuffed animals I had played with when I was younger. 

Sitting off by myself, on a rainy day, I acted out the animals' baseball games in my head and wrote stories about them. I kept batting averages for each of the players and drew illustrations of the action. 

However, I showed those make-believe sports sections to no one. At the time, I didn't think of any of that stuff as art, or writing, created to earn praise. It was just playing, independently, in a better world of baseball and cartoons. 

*

Frank W. Owen is on the right (1916).

When it came to sports and games in general, my grandfather, Frank W. Owen, had zero tolerance for cheating. Period. He envisioned a clear code of honor for games like baseball or poker. Not only must you never cheat, you had to always give the game your best effort until it's over. Thus, good sportsmanship was essential. 

 

Of course, when it came to the real world, of course he knew the ready supply of cheaters, chiselers and weasels has never been exhausted. The way he saw it, we can choose for ourselves to make the sports realm a better place than everyday life, honor-wise. After all, we make the rules.

  

In 1916 the fit members of the Richmond Light Infantry Blues were dispatched to Brownsville, Texas, to watch over the border and chase Mexican bandit/revolutionary Pancho Villa, who had crossed the border to stage a few raids on American soil ... or, so people said. To do the job the young Richmonders were converted into a cavalry unit. My grandfather, seen at the age of 23 in the 1916 photo, was one of those local boys in that Richmond Blues outfit.

Following that campaign, in 1917 the Blues were sent to Fort McClellan in the Alabama foothills, near the town of Anniston, for additional training. Then it was across the pond to France to finish off the Great War -- the war to end all wars.

The way I remember him, my grandfather depended completely on his own view of life. If he had doubts he hid them well. The stories I remember him telling from his years as a soldier were about his singing gigs, playing football and poker, and various other colorful adventures. He apparently saw no benefit in talking about the actual horrors he'd seen. At least I never heard such stories. 

 

My grandson's middle name is Owen. The story below about my grandfather was published in Style Weekly in 1999. 

 

The Cheaters

by F.T. Rea

Having devoted countless hours to competitive sports and games of all sorts, nothing in that realm is quite as galling to this grizzled scribbler as the cheater’s averted eye of denial, or the practiced tones of his shameless spiel.

In the middle of a pick-up basketball game, or a friendly Frisbee-golf round, too often, my barbed outspokenness over what I have perceived as deliberate cheating has ruffled feathers. The words won't stay in my mouth. I can't resist noticing a cheater in action any more than a watchful blue jay can resist dive-bombing an alley cat.

The reader might wonder about whether I'm overcompensating for dishonest aspects of myself, or if I could be dwelling on memories of feeling cheated out of something dear.

OK, fair enough, I don't deny any of that. Still, truth be told, to this day I believe a lot of it goes back to one particular afternoon's mischievous diversion, gone wrong.

A blue-collar architect with the Chesapeake & Ohio Railway for decades, my maternal grandfather, Frank Wingo Owen was a natural entertainer. Blessed with a resonant baritone/bass voice, he began singing professionally in his teens and continued performing, as a soloist and with barbershop quartets, into his mid-60s. He was comfortable in the role of an emcee. 

Shortly after his retirement, at 65, the lifelong grip on good health he had enjoyed failed; an infection he picked up during a routine hernia surgery at a VA hospital nearly killed him. It left him with no sense of touch in his extremities.

Once he got some of his strength back, he found comfort in returning to his role as umpire of the games played in his yard by the neighborhood's boys. He couldn't stand up behind home plate, anymore, but he did alright sitting in the shade of the plum tree, some 25 feet away.

This was the summer he taught me, along with a few of my friends, the fundamentals of poker. To learn the game we didn’t play for real money. Each player got so many poker chips. If his chips ran out, he became a spectator.

The poker professor said he’d never let us beat him, claiming he owed it to the game to win, if he could, which he always did. Woven throughout his lessons on betting strategy were stories about poker hands and football games from his cavalry days, serving with the Richmond Blues during World War I.

As likely as not, the stories he told would end up underlining points he saw as standards: He challenged us to expose the true coward at the heart of every bully. "Punch him in the nose," he'd chuckle, "and even if you get whipped he'll never bother you again." In team sports, the success of the team trumped all else. Moreover, withholding one’s best effort, no matter the score, was beyond the pale.

Such lazy afternoons came and went so easily that summer there was no way then, at 11, I could have appreciated how precious they would seem looking back on them. 

On the other hand, there were occasions he would make it tough on me. Especially when he spotted a boy breaking the yard's rules or playing dirty. It was more than a little embarrassing when he would wave his cane and bellow his rulings. For flagrant violations, or protesting one of his umpire calls too much, he barred the guilty boy from the yard for a day or two. 

F.W. Owen’s hard-edged opinions about fair play, and looking directly in the eye at whatever comes along, were not particularly modern. Nor were they always easy for know-it-all adolescent boys to swallow.

Predictably, the day came when a plot was hatched. We decided to see if artful subterfuge could beat him at poker just once. The conspirators practiced in secret for hours, passing cards under the table with bare feet and developing signals to ask for particular cards. Within the group, it was accepted that we wouldn't get away with it for long ... but to pull it off for a few hands would be pure fun.

Following baseball, with the post-game watermelon consumed, while the table was cleaned up I fetched the cards and chips. Then the four card sharks moved in to put the caper in play. To our amazement, the plan went off smoothly.

After hands of what we saw as sly tricks we went blatant, expecting/needing to get caught, so we could gloat over having tricked the great master. Later, as he told the boys' favorite story -- the one about a Spanish women who bit him on the arm at a train station in France -- one-eyed jacks tucked between dirty toes were being passed under the table. Then, gradually, the joy began to drain out of the adventure.

With semi-secret gestures I called the ruse off. A couple of hands were played with no shenanigans. But he ran out of chips, anyway.

Head bowed, he sighed, “Today I can’t win; you boys are just too good for me.”

Utterly dependent on his cane for balance he slowly walked into the shadows toward the back porch. It was agonizing. The game was over; we were no longer pranksters. We were cheaters.

As he carefully negotiated the steps, my last chance to save the day came and went without a syllable out of me to set the record straight. It was hard to believe that he hadn’t seen what we were doing, but my guilt burned so deeply I didn't wonder enough about that, then.

Well, my grandfather didn’t play poker with us again. He went on umpiring, and telling his salty stories afterwards over watermelon feasts. We tried playing poker the same way without him, but it just didn’t work; the value the chips had magically represented was gone. Summer was ending and the boys had outgrown poker without real money on the line.

Although I thought about that afternoon's shame many times before my grandfather died nine years later, I don't think either of us ever mentioned it. For my part, when I tried to bring it up the words always stuck in my throat.

As the years passed I grew to become as intolerant of petty cheating as F.W. Owen was in his day, maybe even more so. And, as it was for him, the blue jay has always been my favorite bird.

-- 30 --

The Night the Earth Stood Still

In December of 1999 the editor at Richmond.com, Richard Foster, asked me to do something with the much-in-the-news Y2K scare. He was happy to let me play with it. 

The gig had me filing the story a few days before New Year’s Day, to be published on January 3rd. What follows is what I came up with back in the old millennium. 

The Night the Earth Stood Still
F. T. Rea
Richmond.com
Monday, January 03, 2000

To Whom It May Concern: Greetings from the waning hours of 1999 in Richmond, Virginia, USA. And, in case it matters, on Earth.

Sitting at a table outside of Puddn'Heads Coffee House on an Indian Summer morning in November, I read a Y2K paranoia article with smug satisfaction as I consumed my daily dose of black coffee.

When I noticed a woman walk by with a mischievous Jack Russell Terrier at her side, I paused to think - who actually believed that anything significant was going to happen just because another page of the Christian calendar was about to be removed and tossed into the cosmic trash bin of time?

The woman looked a bit like Patricia Neal, which brought to mind "The Day the Earth Stood Still," the 1951 sci-fi classic that anticipated a modern society's panic from the sudden loss of all electricity.

Alas, that was only a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago, when I felt so unconcerned about Y2K bugs.

Now my nonchalance about this Y2K business has evolved into something else. Tonight, sitting at my keyboard on Dec. 16, I've started to get spooked by contemplating what's actually going to go down when zillions of pulsing gizmos sense that we have crossed the border between 1999 and 2000.

While I am anything but knowledgeable about matters pertaining to computers and the Internet, the fact is I use them both all the time. Frankly, I don't like to think about a world without word processing and e-mail.

At this point, I don't even know whether my computer will be of any use to me once we cross the great divide. I've been told on some good authority, there is a chance my old 486 may just seize up.

Of course that's a practical fear. Being a writer, I'm naturally concerned about my livelihood.

What is this I'm reading? You ask.

It's days after Y2K. We all know by now that (pick one) a) the Earth has been reduced to a still-glowing fireball; or b) it was all a big bore and we'll never fall victim to mass-hysteria again.

Well, reader, you're one up on me. The real problem looming as I type these words is that I have no idea that modern civilization isn't going to melt down over this splendidly ironic glitch in the system. I'm still weeks behind you, still left to wonder if the lights really will go out at midnight, Jan. 1, 2000. Still left to wonder if it's possible that our whole deal could go down the drain.

So think of this piece as a quaint time capsule beamed into the future - January, 2000.

Despite my Y2K blues, however, I believe that this article will almost certainly appear online as scheduled. I fully expect that you are sitting in front of your monitor reading this on richmond.com.

Then the laugh will be on all the people who admitted they were preparing for all manner of catastrophe. And, I suppose to some extent that will mean me. Fine. I'll be laughing then too.

I hope.

Nonetheless as I sit here, sipping on a bitter Pale Ale, I have no trouble imagining that roving bands of thugs could be out the first night without electricity. Looters could come out of the woodwork. If our toilets won't flush, our phones don't work, and all forms of mass communication are kaput, people could wig out big time.

Then, anything from the familiar post-apocalyptic menu could happen. Yes, I admit it - I'm getting a little worried.

In fact, I'm not at all sure when, or even if, anyone is actually going to read this. It has already occurred to me that maybe the only real point to my writing these paragraphs is to keep my squirmy consciousness occupied.

For that matter, every time a wordsmith plies his trade there is some leap of faith involved: Yes, it will be published. And yes, someone will read it.

Fetching yet another perfectly chilled ale, it just struck me that, for all I know, the entire power grid has gone down hard by the time you're supposed to be reading this.

And you, my dear reader, you could be someone who has stumbled across this material decades into the future. You could be an archeologist studying the artifacts of what remains of civilization circa 1999.

Or, perhaps you are reading this less than a month into the new millennium.

You are huddled in a icy bunker. Your generator-powered PC's monitor is providing the only light for you to pry open the precious can of beans you found in a pile of rubble.

And, with good reason you are reading this little essay with one eye peeled on the only doorway. Your revolver, as always, is at your side. You still have three bullets left.

You could even be the last human being alive. On the other hand, maybe you are not human at all. You could be from ...

Maybe everything is still, frozen timelessly in place.

OK, calm down.

If that is the case, there still could be one last chance. I know it sounds silly, but try saying the following phrase aloud: "Klaatu Barada Nikto."*

How could it hurt?

"Klaatu Barada Nikto!"

From 1999, this is F. T. Rea, over and out ...

Note: *The key line from "The Day the Earth Stood Still" that commanded the all-powerful robot, Gort to switch the world's machines back on.

-- 30 -- 

BIOGRAPH TIMES: 'Rock 'n' Roll High School' (1979)

Comment by Rebus: 

To promote "Rock 'n' Roll High School" (1979), Rea used an old gimmick he borrowed from his stint in the radio business. The movie, itself, is a frothy, kids-vs-authority-figures comedy featuring The Ramones. 

Once again, Rea brought in WGOE as a promotion partner. The scheme involved high schools and signatures on petitions. The school that gathered the most signatures won the contest to be declared Richmond's Rock 'n' Roll High School by the radio station. 

The winning students who participated won a free midnight screening of the movie, just for them, on opening night. They also got Biograph/Ramones T-shirts that Rea designed (see art above), bumper stickers and some other souvenirs.   

Anyway, the smallest school in the game, Open High, won the contest, easily. 

*

The movie premiered on September 21, 1979, and ran for 15 weekends at midnight. The kids at that opening night screening had a good time.

The "Rock 'n' Roll High School" promotion happened a year or two after Joey Ramone passed out on the stairway in the Biograph's lobby. That happened during a rootin'-tootin' Halloween costume party that evolved into a Ramones performance afterparty. 

The Ramones had played live earlier that night at the VCU gym, located less than two blocks from the theater. Long-legged Joey was sprawled out on the steps in such a way that made getting past him more difficult than it ought to have been. I don't remember how many other Ramones were at the party, or not. 

But I do vaguely remember that it was one of those late parties that got a little too crowded for its own good. 

Bumper sticker designed and printed by Chuck Wrenn.  

-- 30 --

BIOGRAPH TIMES: The Birth of the Blockbuster; Or How Margot Kidder Made My Day

Comment by Rebus:

During the summer of 1975 the American movie exhibition business shifted its gears. Consequently, a new style in the strategies for creating, promoting and exhibiting feature films appeared. On June 20th, the greatest fish monster flick of all-time opened on 465 screens, coast-to-coast. 

It was Rea's fourth summertime serving as the Biograph's manager.  When “Jaws” became an unprecedented box office smash, Hollywood's era of the blockbuster was underway.   

The Birth of the Blockbuster

by F.T. Rea

Before the unprecedented success of "Jaws," it was standard practice for top of the line first run product to premiere in the most popular movie houses in a selected handful of large cities. The next day reviews written by the well-known critics for daily newspapers were published. 

It was tradition. And, among other things, it meant most of the advertising buys were made locally. So, the space for distributors' daily newspaper ads, the time for local radio spots, etc., were usually bought by local ad agencies for their theater-owning clients, or directly from the theaters. 

Then "Jaws" boldly ushered in the new era, with national ad campaigns and simultaneous opening days, coast-to-coast. Everything to do with the project to produce that film and market "Jaws" was bold. It was said the producers had the ad campaign designed before they even started shooting the movie. 

The sleeker marketing strategy for “Jaws” required enormous confidence. Its distributor, Universal, not only had to spend zillions on national advertising, it also had to strike enough prints of the film -- right off the bat -- to serve all of the theaters playing the film in simultaneous runs. That, instead of staggered runs, starting with the best markets getting the best new movies first. 

Yet, before the summer was over, "Jaws” was toppling all-time box office records and every cocaine-snorting dealmaker in LA wanted to do the same thing and create the next blockbuster -- the next money machine.  

In this time, Washington D.C. was a regional hub for film distribution. Ordinarily, a feature about to be released would be shown a few times in a small screening room downtown. Run by the National Association of Theater Owners, it probably seated about 50 people. Bookers for theater chains in the D.C. region would watch the new releases to help them weigh its potential. That way they could decide how much money should be bid, if any, for the exclusive exhibition to rights in a given market. One booker would typically represent hundreds of screens. 

*

Comment from Rebus: Security on admission to that screening room wasn't tight. Which meant any industry insider, entertainment writer, etc. might have been in the audience on a given day. In the 1970s on most weekdays at least a couple of films were screened. So, Rea watched a few movies there during his movie theater manager days. 

*

However, for "Jaws," Universal chose not to preview its monster movie at the screening room. "Jaws" was shown to theater owners, bookers and their guests in selected cinemas in maybe a dozen cities. As I remember it, those invitation-only screenings were all done on the same night, nationally. 

Maybe it was two consecutive nights. Anyway, as a treat, my bosses gave me four tickets from their allotment of tickets to the special screening of “Jaws” at the old Ontario in D.C. 

My ex, Valerie, and I were part of a full house turnout, and wow! I have to say the movie went over like gangbusters. That insiders audience made up of jaded show business people shrieked at all the appropriate times. They applauded madly as the closing credits were lighting up the screen.

Not only was I knocked out by the presentation, I came back to Richmond absolutely convinced “Jaws” would be a gold mine. It was the slickest monster movie I’d ever seen. On the way home to Richmond, I probably talked my wife's ear off about it.

The next day, still caught up in that mania, I tried to convince my bosses to borrow a lot of money to support a serious bid on “Jaws.” A bid that would call for a substantial cash advance. I wanted to bet everything we could borrow to out-bid Neighborhood Theatres for the Richmond market. Toward that end, I even convinced a Fan District branch bank manager to try to help us get the dough. 

Well, we didn’t get the money. But it was privately satisfying when “Jaws” went on to set new box office records. Records that put its director, Steven Spielberg, on the map. 

Another thing “Jaws” did that summer was to make some young men, who were occasionally too self-absorbed, feel intimidated by Spielberg’s outrageous success at such a tender age. I can still remember reading that he was younger than me. Although I had a great job for a 27-year-old movie-lover who liked to work without a lot of supervision, it offered no direct connection to filmmaking and that was starting to bother me.

At this time I had one nine-minute film and one animated sequence in a 30-second television commercial, both shot in 16mm, to my credit. The monumental success of Spielberg, 1975’s Boy Wonder, made me think for the first time about how and when I ought to leave the job at the Biograph. 

Having recently turned down a good job offer, I couldn't help but wonder if that had been a mistake. Still, for what it's worth, that bank branch manager and I shared a few laughs over how right we were about gambling on "Jaws." 

*

Fast-forward 34 years, to when I watched a BBC-produced documentary, “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll Generation Saved Hollywood.” It's about filmmaking in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Directors and other players from that time were interviewed. Made in 2003, it was thoroughly entertaining. I saw it on Turner Classic Movies in 2009.

Among those who made comments in the documentary were Tony Bill, Karen Black, Peter Bogdanovich, Roger Corman, Richard Dreyfuss, Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, László Kovács, Kris Kristofferson, Arthur Penn and Cybill Shepherd.

In the doc, Dreyfuss, who was one of the stars of "Jaws," speaks of attending one of those pre-release screenings. He said he got caught up in the experience of seeing it for the first time in a crowded theater; there were moments when he forgot himself as the actor on the screen. 

Actress Margot Kidder, best known for her Lois Lane portrayals in the Superman series of movies, appeared on camera several times. She made a joke out of how Spielberg had begun to fib about his age, once he became famous. 

What!

Kidder had known him before his sudden notoriety, so she noticed it when he went from being older than her to being younger. Kidder claimed Spielberg was fudging his birth date by a couple of years. 

Well, flashing back on my absurd jealousy to do with Spielberg’s rise to stardom, when he was supposedly younger than me, I had to laugh out loud. Then I looked up Spielberg’s age on the Internet. He’s older than both Margot (who died in 2018) and me.

So, I searched for more on the age-change and found some old articles about “Jaws” and Spielberg. Yes, it looks like Kidder was right. Back in the ‘70s, perhaps to play up the Boy Wonder aspect of the story, Spielberg’s birth date was being massaged. Somewhere along the line, since then, it looks like it got straightened out.

The point? 

Laughing at one’s own foolishness is usually a healthy exercise. What a schlemiel I was! And when the laugh has been aging for over three decades, yes, it can be all the sweeter. 

After all, before "Jaws," or after, what's ever been more integral to Tinsel Town’s special way of projecting its image than making up harmless fibs about the backgrounds of its celebrities. Especially about their age. 

Same as it ever was. 

All rights reserved by the writer, F.T. Rea.

-- 30 --

Why be so damn obstreperous?

The Questions: Since its likely to create more opponents than members and allies, why is the MAGA cult so happy to reveal its greed and amorality? Why would opportunists hoping to expand their ranks, by pushing for political change, flaunt such repulsive traits? And, please, why must the bullies be so damn obstreperous?

The Answers: All of it hoping to cow liberals by instilling enough fear to provoke a reaction. Exhibitions of unbridled cruelty naturally prompt reactions. A desire to flee is certainly one of them. 

Moreover, when disgust eats its way past our defensive nonchalance, it seems our sense of revulsion magnifies the ambient fear that's already in the air. Obviously, as a tool, fear is a pleasure for the meanest cultists to wield. Which, of course, most of us find to be disgusting. 

Most of the time, Trumpists don't appear to believe solutions are possible. Like, it's just too late for solutions. 

Bottom line: For the MAGA crowd, it looks to me like the daily agenda is to concoct a cruel, twisted version of the truth that suits their master ... that day.