I guess I'm a wuss

Philadelphia is a tough town, I've been there enough to know.

When the Flyers won the Stanley Cup, that gang of thugs was known affectionately as the Broad Street Bullies.

I was in The Spectrum in Philadelphia a number of times as a sportswriter, covering hockey and college basketball. First time there I was warned to not lean forward in the press box. You see, it butted right up against the seats, where the night before, some fans turned around and took a swing at a sportswriter. And, he was from their hometown.

I remember wandering through the bowels of the old JFK Stadium a couple of times -- once for a football game, the other for a Rolling Stones concert. The rats were as big as small dogs. The locker room attendants simply shrugged them off as pets.

Veterans Stadium, where the Eagles and Phillies once played, was the first sports complex in the nation with its own jail where rowdy fans would be incarcerated until the paddy wagon scooped them up or they sobered up -- whichever came first.

I would hardly call these people wussies.

But, I'm sure most of them would have at least thought twice before venturing out in a blizzard Sunday night to watch the Minnesota Vikings and their beloved Eagles tangle. The wind was whipping at 50-60 mph. Snow was being removed from the field and parking lot by the foot instead of inches. And, even by Philadelphia standards, it was cold.

Which is why the NFL wisely postponed the game until Tuesday night.

Nobody seemed to mind except for Pennsylvania Gov. Ed Rendell, who ripped the NFL for its decision and America in general.

"We've become a nation of wussies. The Chinese are kicking our butts at everything. If this was China, do you think the Chinese would have called off the game? The people would have been marching down to the stadium. They would have walked and they would have done calculus on the way down," he told a Philadelphia sports talk radio station.

Now, if you really expect anything of substance to be heard on a Philadelphia sports talk radio station, I suggest you put down that spliff you've been sucking on and step back into reality. Sports are cool, games are fun, but the fate of the free world does not lay in the balance every time 22 guys decide to strap on massive gear and hard hats and beat the hell out of each other on the "frozen tundra" -- an ignorant redundancy, by the way, if ever there was one.

NFL officials are also hip enough to realize that Eagles fans are a lot like turkeys -- too stupid not to gawk skyward in the rain with their mouths open to the point of drowning in the process.

Of course, Philadelphia's proximity to New Jersey could have something to do with that, too.

NFL officials were more than justified in their decision to postpone the game.

There would have been an elevated element of danger had they allowed some 50,000 fans to try to negotiate the roadways before kickoff then, after swilling a bellyful of beer and whatever else they partake of in the stands in Philly these days, try to dig their way out of a parking lot where the snow would have piled on a foot or so of snow while they rooted on their beloved Eagles.

I know I would have stayed home to watch the game from the comfort of my living room. Of course, I much prefer the tropical clime these days and would rather that my home was along the beach in Baja California, where a snow shovel is about as useful as a shirt and tie and you can set your TV on the veranda beneath a swaying palm tree on a moonlit night while the whales dance and sing in the nearby Sea of Cortez.

I've heard the Rendell types say that Vince Lombardi must be spinning in his grave.

I doubt that. Lombardi may have been a martinet to his players, but he was also a smart man. You don't win that many games in the NFL if you don't have an IQ higher than that of a Pennsylvania governor. It takes considerably more brain power.

Lombardi, I think, would have been fine with the league's decision. And, why not? It would have given him one more day to drill his team on fundamentals and to further fine tune his game plan.

Perhaps Rendell was right about the Chinese, though. Maybe they would have marched to the stadium.

After all, because of rigid Internet censorship laws, they might not have been able to learn that the game had been postponed.

Bloody 'ell, Keith Richards on "Life?" Yes!

Under the bright and shiny Christmas tree, with all its magic and beauty, was a gift I shall treasure.

"Life," the new Keith Richards book, is a reminder of all those things we should and should not do.

No, it has nothing to do with his various addictions or conquests. Instead, it's a reminder that the only way to make your mark matter is to etch it on your own terms.

Richards is an uncompromising, brilliant guitarist/songwriter. He was born during one of Germany's lethal bombardments of Great Britain during World War II. One of Hitler's bombs, the story goes, landed on his bed. Or something like that, so the story goes.

Now, The Rolling Stones have been the biggest, baddest rock 'n' roll outfit for decades. Nobody does it like Keith and the boys, nobody ever will.

They ask no quarter, nor give any. They are and always have been uncompromising, living and working in a world where you're only as good as your last record, where the pressures for commercial success are overwhelming, beating down even the noblest of heart and talent. The corporate suits did it to Dylan, The Beatles, Springsteen, but not the Stones. They never suffered from the corporate poison that can ruin purity and kill the spirit when a bunch of guys with eyes on a corner office in a big glass building force their will on others, watering down their talent, squelching their creativity, forcing them to compromise their souls for the sake of listeners or sales or whatever other benchmark they impose to further homogenize the culture, play it safe and not offend anybody so they can march to the head of the class and trade their soul for a nice fat bonus and bleeding ulcer.

Not the Stones. Well, maybe Mick Jagger, who has really never stepped too far over the line, but not Richards who is strong as a neat tumbler of tequila.

"If I start to think about 'What do they want to hear?' then I say 'I'm out of here.' That's not the way I've ever done it. The only times people have liked my stuff is when I've done it because I like it," he once told an interviewer.

Life...its purpose...its meaning...a question for geater minds?


Nah. It's easily explained in one word: Truth, which rings throughout Richards' book.


This rebel guitar slinger reminds us that our passions are ours and ours alone; that we know who we are, what we are; and that unless we find our passion, follow it, nurture it, develop it, life is just the passage of time. Simple, really. Indulge your passion and hold it close to your heart. Kick the rest of it to the curb because it's all transient bullshit anyway.


It's imperative to remember all this, especially for some of us who feel like we have gone to the well one time too many and emptied it until it is pointed out to us -- thank you, dear -- that the well wasn't really empty, we have just been drawing from the wrong one.

Oh yeah, it's the purpose, not the result that matters; the reason, the passion, not some toxic notion attached to convention or benchmarks or, dear God! expectations.

It's about not playing it safe, it's about realizing that compromise is for cowards and that you really do need to piss people off now and then because it stirs the passions and without passion, life is not worth living. Even if you are the one being pissed on it all evens out in the end anyway, right?

The book is, of course, a cool historical document for rock 'n' roll fans, but it really goes beyond the 12-bar blues that the Stones have learned to turn inside out; beyond the sex-and-drugs-and-rock 'n'roll cliche that comprise so many books about musicians; beyond the glitter and glam.

It is about life, from the gut to the gutter which means it is, at times, gritty, while at others, funny as hell.

I know why I got this book at this time and will be ever-grateful.

Now if I can only get that five-string, open G tuning thing down right...

A Christmas jukebox

Some of my favorite rock 'n' roll Christmas videos.



Please click on the headline and in the comment box, add links to yours.



MERRY CHRISTMAS!

First, Keith Richards, "Run, Run, Rudolph."

Love this one with David Bowie and Bing Crosby. "Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy."

John and Yoko's "Happy Xmas, War is Over." Yes!

Then there's "Merry Christmas, Baby," by B.B. King.

The Boss does "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town."

God bless us every one

There's a guy who contributes a written screed to the newspaper now and then. He has a rather interesting take on life.

He filed a piece recently about how, only days before Christmas, we must remember that we are celebrating the birth and life of Christ, that we must strive to follow his love and law.

Apparently he has been reading from a different book than I have because he went on to talk about how it was, thus, imperative for us to get rid of "all ILLEGALS" as he put it and how the "lazy slackers" should not have received extended unemployment benefits, but if we must have the unemployment safety net how it should be no more than the minimum wage for a 40-hour week.

He went on, of course, to wrap himself in the flag, closing with "Merry Christmas and may God bless America and all our troops."

Just as I don't believe God roots for any specific football team, I don't believe he favors any particular country. I don't believe he intervenes on the battlefield because, according to what I have read, he isn't particularly a fan of war and killing, which are waged at the hand of man, not God. I don't think he favors Republicans, no matter how much the far right tries to invoke his name. In fact, I think there is ample Biblical evidence that Christ would have been a liberal. He shunned the rich, the moneychangers, the powerful. I mean, remember the bit about it being easier to pass a camel through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven? Yet, I have seen churches of various stripe base an awful lot on how much is placed in the collection basket on Sunday.

Christ didn't have a problem with alcohol, like so many fundamentalists who shun it, otherwise, why would he have turned water into wine during a wedding ceremony? And he was not a very conventional fellow with his long hair, beard and sandals.

The hypocrisy of the "faithful" offers many other rich examples of how much has been warped and twisted in God's name. A lot of people will start pulling this con on you as the holiday draws nearer -- wishing you peace, joy and prosperity as long as you are white, straight and willing to kill somebody, if need be, for a barrel or two of oil.

There are those among the "faithful" who would sell their souls for corporate advancement, political office or a simple moment of fame, convincing themselves that, ultimately, it is better for a "believer" to have that power, position or notoriety than for a "non-believer." Sort of like being rewarded for being a member of the Jesus Brigade.

Except when it fails, as it so often does, and these people are exposed for their hypocrisy or stupidity.

I mean, the tearful televangelist is now a cliche, as is the stupid politician crying in front of the cameras after getting caught in some sort of scandal that was, of course, a "mistake," justifying it with the old line, "Christians aren't perfect...they're just forgiven."

I think there's a little more to all of this than screwing up, saying you are sorry and having it all taken off your permanent record -- not the one they warn you about when you are in school, the other one.

I think the point of it all is that we must all find a way to justify who we are, what we are and why we act the way we do, which is why we turn to our own interpretation of God and hook up with one of the many religions formed in his name, sall of which claim to be the true path to righteousness.

The thing is, we are all imperfect, judgmental beings; damaged goods. I mean, really, if we were to honestly turn to the holidays and a popular message from them, the most accurate depiction of the human race is that it would be that we're all from the island of misfit toys, simply looking for a home that will accept us and appreciate us.

And, that has nothing to do with faith or the reason we celebrate Christmas day.

Say what you feel, do what you believe is right.

But, get your story straight first.

A Day in The Life, RIP John

It was 30 years ago today. Monday Night Football was on the tube and Howard Cosell was pontificating, as he would so often do, when suddenly, the game went meaningless.
There was a dull, ominous pause, the kind that you know is a precursor to something bad.
Cosell broke the silence, telling America that Beatle John Lennon had been shot and killed in New York City.
At 40, Lennon was just reviving his career, which had sat dormant for too long. He was in the studio, recording new stuff, good stuff.
It wasn't quite as edgy as some of his earlier work, but it was John Lennon and after disappearing into his apartment in The Dakota for years with his wife Yoko and son Sean, he was venturing back into the musical world again when Mark David Chapman acted out his sick, delusionary singular fantasy.
It was one of those striking moments in time that remains frozen in my heart and mind.
I had never met Lennon, only ran into him once at Los Angeles International Airport as he was arriving and I was, well, I'm not sure what I was doing there that night. It was a long time ago, you know. But he flashed a friendly smile as he walked by.
I had come to know George Harrison. I had bumped into him at a Long Beach Grand Prix race, did an interview he liked and had visited his home on Selkirk Drive in Los Angeles, overlooking the L.A. Reservoir. He was at his estate at Henley on Thames. One of his family members, who was boarding a flight to be with him at his home in England, called.
"He's devastated," the man said. "He doesn't know what to say."
"He doesn't have to say anythjing," I replied. "Not yet, not now."
"He's locked the gates. He's fairly paralyzed by this. All he says if, 'Bloody, 'ell...if they did this to John, what would they do to me?'"
We found out about 20 years later, of course, when on a cold, damp English New Year's Eve another psycho did his best to rid the world of yet another Beatle, breaking into Harrison's home and stabbing him in the chest. Harrison came within an inch of losing his life from the wound.
I went immediately to the radio, tuned in a station that was legendary in Los Angeles -- KMET, perhaps the greatest West Coast rock ' n' roll radio station ever -- and followed the story from there.
There wasn't a lot of news other than Lennon was dead.
The music they played that night -- all Beatles, all Lennon -- that was once so lively, so full of hope was suddenly a mournful reminder of what we had just lost.
Lennon, of course, was no saint. He could have a particularly cruel side, as a matter of fact, that was, during his "lost weekend" in Los Angeles often fueled by drink.
But, it seemed he had come through it OK. It seemed he had re-routed himself, was fresh and inspired to perform, talk, visit with the world again after the persecution he suffered at the hands of Richard Nixon and a U.S. government that tried to run him out of the country because he had a cannabis bust on his rap sheet and was an advocate of peace.
We really haven't had much in the way of inspirational leaders since then. Nobody has motivated a generation like Lennon, Harrison, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr. Nobody has held our attention, pointed out the hypopcrisy around us, given us a new path like those guys did.
What would have happened had he lived?
I would like to think he and his mates would have buried the hatchet and gotten together for one last album, one last tour, one last gig, at least, to scrub the sour aftermath of the "Let It Be" movie from our souls.
Would it have happened?
We can only imagine.
RIP, John.
RIP, George.
Keep on rockin' Paul and Ritchie.
We need you now more than ever.
Peace.

Whales don't know Jack about politics

A whale doesn't know Jack about politics. It doesn't know where Washington, D.C. is, doesn't care about who sits in the Oval Office or who is Speaker of the House.
And, it doesn't compromise. It doesn't need to because these are the largest creatures on the planet. They have few enemies other than man, who continues to poison the seas and follow commercial fishing practices that threaten the whale and so many other ocean inhabitants.
They are very social creatures. They usually bond with other members of their pods and remain with these little families for life. They hunt in a sophisticated manner -- for nourishment puposes only -- and protect the young, the sick, the injured.
Life is simple for the whale.
They live, love and laugh -- trust me, if you've ever seen them play in the ocean, you know they laugh.
We can learn a lot from this, you know, especially when it comes to the compromise thing.
If you are the biggest, baddest thing on Earth, like, say the United States, you don't have a need to constantly flex those muscles, show your ruff and search for blood in the water.
You can understand what the greater needs of the pod are and work together to feed and protect the young, the injured, the infirm.
You don't have to run with the pack in a sort of gang mentality that thrives on the thrill of the kill, much like our political parties do these days, particularly as the sharks face off against each other in this foolishness now before Congress where preserving tax cuts for the rich is standing in the way of all that is important to the real people who inhabit this nation.
Oh, there's blood in the water, to be sure, as the lame duck Congress postures for the upcoming change that will take place when the Republicans take control of the House in a couple weeks. The sharks are circling. There's pork to protect, deals to be preserved. So they dance the dance of the wicked, clutching each other only closely enough to scratch each other's backs.
And, nothing of value will come of it.
Oh, they will figure a way to take care of the real problem -- extending unemployment benefits to those who got the shaft because 30 years ago a B-movie actor who was a worse president than screen presence, deregulated the banks and started down a path of economic principles that have had a devastating effect on this country. They will solve this with a compromise that will allow the rich to hold on to tax cuts initiated by a stuttering cowboy who couldn't spell "cat" if you spotted him the "C" and "A."
So we'll end up with an ever-growing deficit and a little relief -- at least until spring -- for those unemployed and feed the continuance of compromise, which has ruined this country.
Compromise is the offspring of weaklings who are afraid to implement meaningful change. It satisfies no one other than the naive or gutless who are either so uninformed or so afraid that they cave on principles so they don't offend anybody or have to stand up and fight for what is right.
They've compromised on health care, they've compromised on the war, they've compromised on taxes, now they are going to compromise on the morality of continuing to feed the rich who have fattened themselves at the expense of the working men and women of this country.
Load me up a bucket of Pacificos on ice, coach. I'd rather sit on a beach in Baja and watch the whales dance in the water than witness the destruction of this country at the hands of the Washington, D.C. sharks whose only desire is to follow the blood in the water.
I've had my share of the Great American Nightmare, thank you very much, and long for a season of peace and contentment instead of the painful realization that the sharks are circling and it is our blood they are chasing.