Month: March 2021

Maybe I should let the start of baseball season go by. Too many people wax poetic about baseball as if it is more of a Zen experience than a sport. Great writers that have tackled baseball abound, such as David Halberstam, J.P. Kinsella and Doris Kearns Goodwin, and explained the lure of the game much better than I ever could. Many more mediocre authors have gone on and on about the glories of the game, it’s timelessness, it’s grandeur. Blah, blah, blah. 

• 

• 

• 

And yet, the start of baseball season hits me like no other sport. Maybe because it’s in the spring when I am looking forward to the warmer weather and longer days. Maybe it’s because it’s going to be a daily companion for the next six months (and hopefully longer). Maybe because it takes me back to languid days sitting in the South Carolina sun watching Gamecock baseball, or the thrill of emerging into Connie Mack Stadium as a kid. I really don’t know. 

Baseball will never be what it was for me when I was young. I am unlikely to sit through all of a 9-inning game on TV. Too many players strike out swinging for the fences. There are too few singles hitters like Pete Rose and Ichiro for my likes. I will undoubtedly go on a regular rant about a “genius” manager pulling a pitcher because their pitch count is too high (isn’t it amazing that the magic number is 100? How convenient). I will repeat the old man’s lament “The game isn’t what it used to be”.

• 

• 

And yet, all I know is that despite all of that I am really looking forward to the first pitch this afternoon. All I know is that even though logic tells me that the Phillies will be lucky to finish third in their division I am full of hope. All I know is that I will be religiously checking the box scores on a daily basis to see how my favorite players are doing (another 2 for 3, and 2 RBIs for Mike Trout). All I know is that the world feels a little different during baseball season.  Play Ball!!!

I recently read that Phil Collins, the rock star, donated his collection of Texas revolution artifacts to The Alamo. Collins is thought to have the largest private collection of such artifacts in the world. Not H.L. Hunt. Not Jerry Jones (too busy spending his money on mediocre linebackers). Not Ross Perot. His collection includes items thought to have been owned by Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, as well as a receipt signed by Alamo commander William Barret Travis for “30 heads of beeves” (whatever they are) to feed his men. Collins’ obsession started while watching the Davy Crockett TV show as a kid. When he became rich enough to indulge this obsession, he began to amass his collection.  

• 

• 

Around the same time, I was reading a memoir by the Irish actor Gabriel Byrne, “Walking with Ghosts”. He reminisces about growing in Dublin, where one of his indulgences was going to the cinema to watch American westerns. He has a vivid memory of going to a local theater where Roy Rogers appeared live on stage, with Trigger! He even remembers Rogers lassoing a kid in the front row. 

• 

• 

Then last night I watched an interview with Akira Kurosawa. He talked about how much he admired Hollywood westerns, and especially the films of John Ford. That was no surprise since the influences back and forth between Westerns and Samurai films are as obvious as the screwdriver Tommy Pickles has “hidden”. (Sorry, I’ve been watching Rugrats reruns lately).  

• 

• 

• 

 

All of this synchronicity made me reflect on the incredible influence that the Western has had on world culture. Up until the 1970’s Westerns were considered to be the quintessential American statement of identity. A host of movies, TV shows and books depicted the American west as an unbounded frontier, where men (and I do mean men – a topic for another post) could define themselves. You either wore the white hat, and stood alone, if necessary, in support of what you believed in and those you loved (Gary Cooper, High Noon; John Wayne, Stagecoach), or you wore the black hat, and were just out for yourself, with no regard for those who stood in your way (Walter Brennan, My Darling Clementine; John Dierkes, Shane).  

• 

• 

• 

I think it was that sense of freedom from constraint, for either good or bad, that so mesmerized people worldwide for decades. Here was a place that not only was so different from the well-defined boundaries of Europe or Japan, but actually existed. A young Phil Collins could dream about going to Texas. And even though he knew that what he would find wouldn’t match the films he saw, or the books he read, there was still a sense that this wasn’t the ancient past. Traces of that Western ethos were there to be found.   

In this country we were happy to embrace that myth. Yes, we told the world, we are those rugged, independent good guys who stand tall and are always looking off to the horizon for the next challenge. Yes, there are still untamed lands for us to conquer. Yes, we will use our freedom for truth and justice, because that’s the American way.  

By the end of the 1960’s that mythos had pretty much faded, and it was reflected in the movies of that era. Those Westerns were much grittier (Once Upon a Time in the West), celebrated the “bad guys” (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) or bemoaned the death of the old west (The Wild Bunch). Many of those Westerns were shot outside the United States, with the best being the Sergio Leone films like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Ironically (or not) one of best of those films, A Fistful of Dollars, was based on the Kurosawa Samurai film, Yojimbo. 

• 

• 

• 

By the early 1970’s the gangster film, starting with The Godfather in 1972, seems to have displaced the western as the archetypical American genre (at least until Star Wars came along). However, those gangster films never defined America the way that Westerns did. It is unlikely that little kids in London, Dublin or Tokyo were thinking “I would like to grow up, move to America, and join La Costa Nostra”.  

• 

• 

While we still are the largest exporter of entertainment in the world, I don’t see any aspect of that entertainment as so prominent that people across the globe look at it as emblematic of this country. We are as diverse as the hip hop music, superhero movies, cop shows and internet videos that we send across the globe. In fact, that diversity may be what defines us now.   

While the world no longer equates America with the mythical values of the old west, I’m not so sure that we have left those myths behind. Too many of us still see this country as wide-open, ours to conquer, tame and use as we see fit (e.g., the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge siege). Too many of us still see the United States as the last bastion of freedom, which gives us carte blanche to run roughshod over those who get in our way (e.g., Iraq). Too many of use still see the world in simplistic terms of good and evil, with America always wearing the write hat (e.g., Bush’s Axis of Evil speech). 

The myth of the Old West was a beautiful and stirring myth. I can’t watch True Grit or Red River without being attracted to the rugged individualism and the sense of freedom. I know why a London or Dublin boy would want to claim a part of that myth for themselves. Hopefully, people still want to sit down for a Jimmy Stewart Western marathon now and then, and enjoy those movies for the wonderful legends they spin. Just so long as we don’t confuse those fantasies with reality then, or now.     

I was all set to post my next blog entry, but after a restless night I can’t just ignore the shooting in Boulder. I know that I should be similarly disturbed by every shooting, whether it’s Asian sex workers in Atlanta, or the daily carnage on the streets of Philadelphia, but this one hit home. Maybe because I have good friends in Boulder. Maybe because it happened to people shopping in a grocery store, which is a regular part of my life. It doesn’t really matter why. This shook me. 

I could go into a screed about guns or the NRA.  I could compare our rate of mass shootings with other countries that have sensible gun control laws. I could decry our politicians who offer prayers and nothing else. But I won’t, because at this moment all of that seems futile. 

The truth of the matter is that we are who we are in this country. We have a gun culture that we have indulged to the max, and there is no turning back from that. We have to face up to the fact that shootings like this are going to be part of our lives here in the US of A for a long time to come. 

I am not saying that we shouldn’t enact gun control measures like banning private ownership of assault weapons, strengthening background checks, and eliminating check loopholes. I am saying that the proliferation of guns of increasing lethal power has already advanced to where these measures will only be a drop in the bucket. And let’s be honest, even these modest reforms are unlikely to come about in today’s political climate.  

I am by nature an optimist. I like to think the best of people, and I like to think that we can work through many of the problems we face in this world. But on this topic, I am hard pressed to see a way forward that does not include a lot more of these atrocities. That, more than anything, is what has me staring at the ceiling at 2:30 in the morning. 

I like that Seuss 

That Seuss I Like

 

I like that Seuss upon my bike 

I like that Seuss while on a hike 

• 

• 

I like that Seuss up in a tree  

I like that Seuss with a skinned knee 

• 

• 

I like it when they Hop on Pop 

I like Ten Apples up on Top 

• 

• 

I like the Sneetches and their star 

I like that Sam and his cool car 

• 

• 

I want the Fox with the Four Socks 

I want the Things and their box

• 

• 

 

I want that Ish with his three fish 

I want the B Bird and his wish

 

• 

• 

I want the Lorax and his trees 

I want that Horton and his sneeze

 

• 

• 

I want the Grinch and his Christmas meaning 

I want that Cat and the fun he is gleaning

 

• 

• 

The Doctor his output was extensive 

And some of his images are just offensive

 

• 

• 

In World War II propaganda he did write 

And demonized the enemy with all his might

 

• 

• 

Those images flowed into many a book 

Now it’s time to give them the hook

 

No government ban was this decision 

Though it was met with great derision

 

The family agreed it was for the best 

And we should care less about the rest

 

But creeps like Tucker will spread their lies 

If the Doctor was here, we’d hear his cries

 

• 

• 

So hooray for Yertle and Foo-Foo the Snoo 

Hooray for Bartholomew and David Donald Doo

 

• 

• 

• 

• 

These great characters long may they last 

The ones no more published are better off past 

• *With Profound Apologies to the Doctor
• **Parental Discretion Advised

On March 10, 2020, I sat down with my supervisor at Chubb, Josh Schwartz, to discuss Chubb’s plan for dealing with the COVID pandemic. Chubb had decided to divide employees into “A”, “B” and “C” buckets, with each tranche coming into the office on alternating days. However, since I was over 60 years old, I was to work from home. I remember thinking how bizarre this was, and that we could be out until at least (gasp) June!!!!  

You would think that with all of the SciFi that I read I would have had a better idea as to what was coming. However, at that time there were only pockets of cases. As of March 10, according to Johns Hopkins, there were 760 confirmed coronavirus cases in the United States and 23 attributed deaths. In a country of 328 million that was a drop in the bucket. Plus, we had seen global pandemics before (SARS, Ebola, swine flu) that had not impacted life here in the good old U.S. of A. My mind simply could not comprehend that this would continue through the year and into the next. 

Many things have changed over the last year, not the least of which is the loss of the naivete with which I entered into this mess. Intellectually I knew that something like this could happen, and yet in my gut I didn’t believe that it would. There was no reason for that misplaced optimism. Our vulnerability was as clear as the ice floating in my bourbon, but I was too wrapped up with the daily taste of life to notice it (I am taking an on-line course that suggests I should use more similes – not sure I’m sold). 

That being said, can I really complain about this past year? Some people close to me have lost loved ones, and that is incredibly sad, but my immediate family has been relatively healthy. Quarantining has not been an issue. I live in a big house with every comfort I could want. My kids have been able to move forward with their lives, though maybe not quite as they expected. Julie has had more than her share of challenges with the choir, but in some weird way that makes their accomplishments (the National Anthem at the DNC, the Christmas Day opening on the Today show, backing vocals for the Demi Lovato video at the Biden inauguration, among others) that much more special.  

In fact, I have started to believe that I have gotten a bit too comfortable. One of the first things I learned when I started working from home last March, is how much I need a routine, so I quickly established times that I would get up, sign on to my computer, and shut it off for the day. Even after I stopped working, I settled into a routine, though not as strict, and I haven’t really deviated from it in the last six months.  

There are definitely things that I miss – getting together with friends, going into the City for a play or dinner at a nice restaurant, going to a movie, or a Sixers game – but I can’t say that I feel that my life has been particularly diminished. To some extent I am more in touch with people than when I was commuting into the office (love the weekly Law School Zoom). I really don’t mind watching movies or sporting events on TV. And while I have not had what I could call a great meal in months, I am eating better on a daily basis than I have in a long time.  

Maybe it’s because we have had some nicer weather recently, but it has struck me what a trap this is. It is too easy to settle into a lifestyle that has few challenges, few surprises and few events that will take me out of my comfort zone. I could float along like this for quite some time, pandemic or no pandemic. I could become Nicholas Cage, being offered another mediocre movie, and saying sure, why not (another simile – my on-line teacher would be so proud).  

I am very aware that this is a first world problem, and a privileged first world problem at that. Most people are not as lucky as I am. It is hard for me to fathom how people with multiple school age (or younger) children are getting through this, let alone people who live in cramped quarters, or in bad domestic situations. It’s why I try not and judge too harshly those people who feel the need to go out in the world, even if it’s not the best pandemic choice (unless they aren’t wearing a mask).  

Still, it is my problem. I need this pandemic to end, not only physically, but mentally. I need to move on from this nest and back into a wider world. I need to reject any idea of this being a “new normal” (how I hate that phrase), and see this as just a temporary shift onto a bizarre, sidetrack before emerging back on the main path of life. 

I do think that some of these changes will be permanent (to the extent anything is permanent). Masks will be a lot more common, especially on public transportation. Some people will go back into their offices, but many will not, and who knows how that will change cities. Sporting events will fill up again quickly (except maybe for the Phillies, though that has little to do with COVID), but I am not so sure about movie theaters. We will go back to restaurants, because who can resist a good meal, but we won’t be as sanguine about sitting cheek to jowl with someone chomping away on ribs. In fact, I think we will be leerier of crowds generally, viewing the shoulder-to-shoulder experience as being something a bit more sinister than inconvenient. 

Hopefully there will be some positive changes coming out of this as well. Maybe we will continue to use technology to truly stay in touch with people, and not just for annual birthday greetings and snarky comments. Maybe we will finally face up to the fact that wide access to quality health care is good for everyone. Maybe we will plan ahead so we are better prepared next time (because there will be a next time). Maybe that planning will make sure that the more vulnerable among us don’t get hit so hard. Maybe…Maybe…      

In the meantime, it’s time to step out in the cool spring air and think again about the broader world that’s out there. It’s time to think about the plethora of possibilities once the vaccine has been distributed, and we can mingle. It’s time to put the false comforts of the quarantine behind us, and look forward to a more fulfilling future. Happy Anniversary…and Good Riddance!!!     

A Mr. Jonathan Broder of Fort Lee, New Jersey, writes “Dear Tomser. What is all this about country songs coming from Southern fundamentalist churches? Don’t these songs have a lot more in common with the blues and the Black experience in the South? Don’t these come out of how difficult it was in the South when many of these songs were written for anyone who was not a rich, landowning white person?” 

Well Mr. Broder, you bring up a good point. There is a lot in common between the blues and country music, especially in the strong emotions both bring to the table. And, certainly, country music emerges as well from the hardscrabble life that many of the country stars experienced, which was similar in many ways to the difficult lives of so many of the blues singers. 

I have more trouble with seeing the connection with the Black rock pioneers. Of course, so much of rock comes out of the Black gospel tradition, so there should be a correlation. It is ironic that Gladwell singled out Little Richard, whose father worked as a Seventh Day Adventist preacher, as emblematic of rock. He was incredibly influenced by the music being sung in the Black church, and that style of worship as well.  

But the Black rock pioneers seem to have taken their experiences to a different place than the country singers. I am no musicologist, and my knowledge of country music is only about an inch deep (as opposed to my knowledge of rock, which goes down at least two inches), but I can’t imagine traditional country singers producing the upbeat, pounding, exhilarating sounds of Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, or the other great Black innovators. Then again, I can’t imagine any of those singers reproducing the plaintive, wistful melodies of Hank Williams or Merle Haggard. 

I am reminded of that scene in the Buddy Holly biopic where he goes to Nashville to record “That’ll be the Day”, and the record producers try to fit it into the mold of most country songs of the time. He rebels and does it his own way. It is picked up and he goes to New York, where everyone who heard the song assumed that he was a Black artist. I’m not sure that means anything, but it highlights the differences I see.  

That being said, a Mr. Gregg Swentor, also from Fort Lee, New Jersey, writes, “Dear Tomser. What’s this about country music being American and rock being international? What kinda artist is Mark Knopfler? He ain’t even ‘merican, is he?” 

Well Mr. Swentor, I’m glad you asked. Yes, there have been notable performers who have contributed to country music such as Mark Knopfler, Robert Plant and Keith Urban, who are not Americans. However, they are few and far between. In fact, Urban is the only non-American on the Rolling Stone list of 100 Greatest Country Artists. I doubt if we will ever see a time on the Country music charts like we saw with the British invasion between 1964 and 1967 when 36 songs by non-Americans topped the pop Billboard charts.

Plus, since musicians are artists, they draw from various places and styles that make fitting any music into a mold difficult. For country music it seems that this is especially true of the newer country artists like Lyle Lovett, who has clearly been influenced by big band jazz and gospel, or Garth Brooks who does not hide his love of rock. As for rock artists, they have always borrowed freely (some would say stole) from every genre.     

It just goes to show you. It’s always something. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Either you discount the contributions of blues artists, or you ignore exceptions to the rule. Like my friend John Eargle always said, “All generalizations are false”. Good night my little Tomsers. (This post was brought to you courtesy of the F.O.R.R – Friends of Roseanne Roseannadanna).