The Newell Post

I was listening to WFUV, the public radio station of Fordham University. They were doing one of their themed sets of songs, today’s having to do with songs with Mrs. in them.

The song that inspired me to write about expressions was Harper Valley P.T.A. sung by Jeannie C. Riley.

The lyric that struck me was, “The day my momma socked it to the Harper Valley P.T.A.”

Socked it to!

Whatever did that mean?

I had a general idea at the time, but I could have been all wrong. The funny thing is that for a short time in the late 1960s, sock it to me was the most ubiquitous slogan and defined the moment of the sixties.

Sly and the Family Stone, Country Joe and The Fish, Jim Hendrix used the phrase in their songs. However, the most famous use of the expression occurred on the comedy show, Laugh-In, when, then-presidential candidate, Richard Nixon uttered the magical words in the form of a question.

Even Nixon had a sense of humor.

Sock it to me got me thinking about other catchphrases that seem to have gone out of style.

You may remember “Right On!”

I was never too comfortable uttering right on. I was too white. My hair wasn’t quite long enough. My jeans were just a tad too new. You would go to a demonstration, and some speaker would say all the right anti-establishment things, and you were supposed to voice your approval by yelling out Right On!

John Lennon used it in one of his solo career songs, Power To The People. One verse ended “Power To The People, Right On!”  He got away with it.

Nelson Rockefeller, however, was not as fortunate.

My friend PJ and I, at my suggestion that we would make fifty dollars a week, joined the Rockefeller’s 1970 re-election campaign for Governor of New York. One Saturday morning we showed up a rally in Astoria, Queens. Our assignment was to hand out buttons and leaflets to the tens of people who showed up to support the Governor. You guessed it. One of the buttons was emblazoned in hippie script with the immortal words:

RIGHT ON ROCKY

I don’t remember ever using Right On after that.

“He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother.”

The story was that a priest saw a boy holding a baby and he asked the boy, “Is he heavy?” The boy replied, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”

Talk about a public service announcement waiting to happen!

But then “heavy” took on new meaning. Thoughts became heavy. Words and actions became heavy. You were never quite sure if it was a good thing, but you knew it was heavy when you heard or saw it.

The only time I hear heavy anymore is when I go to the doctor.

“Are You Together”

I just googled that phrase, and one of the responses was. “32 Signs You Have A Future Together.”

Back in the day, Together had nothing to do with being a couple. It was more a term indicating you were one with right thinkers. You were hip if not a hippie. It was important to be together, and I am not sure what the alternative would have been. In any case, it was a subjective determination that might be in dispute on occasion.

These few examples of arcanery (my word) represent a specific time in American culture. I suppose we have no business using them in the twenty-first century any more than using the phrase Twenty-Three Skiddoo at Woodstock would have been proper. This had me thinking of twenty-first American catchphrases.

I had to go to google again to learn if there were any current terms or sayings that correspond to my time sensitive vocabulary.

There is a list of television phrases that seemed cute. There was a list of things that supposedly millennials say that seemed more foreign to me.

I chose not to record them as they only served to make me feel older than I am.

I am much more together, and I refuse to sock it to millennials who routinely get abused for being young.

Right On!

The presidential campaign for Howard Schultz-Bucks got a big boost from Democrat contenders, Warren and Gillibrand.

In the wake of the revelations regarding Virginia Governor, Ralph Northam for appearing-not appearing, admitting it was he-not admitting it was he in a med school yearbook in blackface or wearing a klan outfit, a new allegation against the would be next in line to be Virginia’s governor, Justin Fairfax regarding sexual assault fifteen years ago.

Unlike when Al Franken was accused of sexual assault, and more recently when Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh was accused of sexual assault during his confirmation hearing, both Warren and Gillibrand called for each to resign.

Now, they appear to have lost their Me-Too voice.

It’s a terrible thing when you throw stones at windmills. You can’t be selective as to which windmill you stone. You can’t be against injustice in certain instances.

There was a time when candidates could get away with their inconsistencies. Lincoln may have been the last President to enjoy time to change his mind without having to eat his words.

Radio and television made prevarication hard to ingore or escape.

Add Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube, well, let’s just say, candidates who misspeak, misremember, or just out and out lie are better off confessing, “mea culpa, please forgive me, and I’ll never do it again.”

When I was caught throwing chairs off a boat on a high school trip to Rye Beach Playland, that’s what I did. Brother Kevin was merciful but kept a close watch on my behavior until I graduated.

As to the sexual assault charge?

Unfortunately, men of power do the types of things of which these three men have been accused.   The timing of the accusation compared to the time when the assault took place should have no bearing on determining the credibility of the charge.

How you assess the credibility of the charge?

That’s the question we all have to consider.

The one lesson we should have learned is that political affiliation, race, gender, and sexual orientation should not determine credibility.

It would be wise for Democrats to remember that.

The Day The Music Died?
February 3, 1959, was a day I will forever remember. I can still see my brother Mike and me watching our Mother prepare breakfast. I cannot tell you what the weather was like. If there was snow on the ground, I could not tell you. What I do remember, though, is listening to the green Zenith radio that was up on the shelf over our refrigerator.

In those days my Mother would often have on a rock and roll channel. It would be years later that she would turn to listen to Rambling With Gambling. So, back in 1959, she was probably listening to Herb Oscar Anderson or someone like him. On that particular day it did not matter what channel you had tuned into nor did it matter who the DJ or radio host was. That day it was all the same news and music. Buddy Holly had died and that is all we heard that day. Even as an eight-year-old I saw the irony in his most recent recording that every station was playing. ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’, written by Paul Anka, just about summed up the feeling of that day.

We also heard that Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper had died as well, in the same airplane crash as Buddy Holly. Twelve years later Don McLean would refer to this day as The Day The Music Died. While music most certainly did not die that day in February, it was never the same. I am not sure what impact The Big Bopper would continue to have had on the course of music but Buddy Holly and Ritchie  Valens would surely have continued to provide terrific music and, no doubt, to inspire new artists and bring new innovations to rock and roll. It is not coincidental that The Beatles recorded ‘Words Of Love’ in deference to Buddy Holly’s contribution to music.
Twenty Five Years Later
Now it is February 3, 1984. Eileen and I are expecting our second child. The plan was that we would go to the hospital that Monday, February 6th for the birth of our child. That taught me a lesson. There are some things you can plan and some that you cannot.

It was a Friday evening. We had a nice dinner and I was just about to put a fire on and watch the Winter Olympics. No sooner had I had the logs in the hearth than Eileen called out from the bathroom that we would need to be going to the hospital instead. My first reaction was to push my way into the bathroom and to take a shower. To this day I cannot fathom why I thought it necessary for me to be showered and shampooed. I guess I was recalling when Sean was born and that it was going to be a long night/day.

Now we had made plans with friends to take care of Sean on Monday but they were nowhere to be found. So, we called our friend’s mother who promptly drove over and picked up Sean. Eileen and I then made our way to Southampton Hospital. Upon arriving at the Hospital, Eileen’s doctor came in shaking his head saying, “I thought we agreed this was going to happen Monday. I was just about to watch the ice skating competition.” I told him I was too but that at least I did get my shower in.

We then made our way to the OR room and I got the chance, again, to sit next to Eileen as our baby was being born. (Let me tell you, that’s the type of sex education we need in our schools.)

The birth of your child is always amazing. One minute she wasn’t there and the next minute she was. Before that minute had elapsed, however, we named her Jeannine. It was 9:30 PM.

She was a sight to behold. A beautiful round face trimmed with a wisp of reddish hair. We always thought she would be a redhead like her mother. The maternity nurse took her and got her ready for her crib and then both of us walked Jeannine up to her room. Eileen was in recovery and would join us later.

When we get to the room the nurse asked me if I wanted to hold her. So, I picked her up out of the little crib and took her in my arms. She turned her head up to me and I swear she looked me right in the eyes and I think she was a little miffed for being disturbed while she was napping. She had a look and I also think she was eying me up wondering what her fate would be with this big doofus that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue and her lips were puckered and the nose, that I would spend most of her early years stealing and hiding, was as cute as could be.

It was then that I first sang ‘You’re Sugar….” but it was by far not the last time.

Happy Birthday, Jeannine.

Though the music may have died back in 1959, it was resurrected in 1984.

No, this isn’t about having my glasses on while I was shaving and seeing the real me. It isn’t about having to go to physical therapy to help come with the side effects of all the medications efforting to keep me alive.

It’s about my reaction to the new democrats cursing to their constituents.

Now, politicians have forever been cursing at their constituents. Most recently, the shutdown of our federal government forcing TSA searchers looking for a handout instead of through a handbag, sending Coast Guard members cruising soup kitchens instead of the shores of America. While both parties and the president decried this terrible state of affairs, they collectively raised the one finger salute to let these government workers know how they really felt.

But for me, when the words fuck and motherfucker are used in a televised speech, it lacks a certain statesmanship quality that I aspire my leaders to possess. After all, JFK said “Ask not what your country can do for you…”  rather than “Don’t us what the fuck America can do for you.”

Nevertheless, I have had a change of heart if not a full-blown epiphany.

On April 24, 1971, I was in Washington DC with Peter, Paul, And Mary and Country Joe McDonald.

There happened to be hundreds of thousands of other people there too, but I like to remember it as a more personal occurrence.

The point is that after Peter, Paul, And Mary and I sang Blowin In The Wind, Country Joe and I did a rousing rendition of  The Fish Cheer, made famous by Country Joe And The Fish at Woodstock.

So, there I was with Country Joe and several hundred thousand others, yelling in response to Country Joe’s exhortations to spell along with him. We yelled our reply when he bellowed “GIVE ME AN F,” and we gave him his requested F. When he followed with “GIVE ME A U,” we chanted U. Before I knew it, we sang C and K and then when he thrice demanded, “WHAT’S THAT SPELL”  I shouted FUCK FUCK FUCK.

It was no mere profanity, it was a revolution. It was a call to arms against an enemy who took over our country. Sadly not everyone in America was as enraged by the Viet Nam war as those of us on that beautiful Saturday in April 1971.

Our country was divided back then even more than it is today.  In fact, Viet Nam represents the birth of American division.

So, when I heard those two Democrats use the profanity, I heard them with sixty-eight-year-old ears and not the twenty-year-old ears that heard Country Joe lead his cheer. It took my memory of that day nearly forty-eight years ago to understand these new Democrats.

My concern was not that the language was offensive or inappropriate but that it might trigger a retreat from the Democratic base. I never liked when the Democratic party became the party of the extreme. Americans do not want extremists in power of whatever slant. We pray to God that Nazis do not take over the Republican Party. I also pray to God that the extreme left also fails to rise to dominate the Democratic Party.

Democrats need to remember that the diversity of ideas is as important as the diversity of people. It is important to recognize both and to welcome both and to be tolerant of both.

So, I understand the frustrations and zeal for change that often results in the use of language not ordinarily heard in the halls of government. I also cannot turn stones at those who utter such phrases as my family will be only too willing to remind me.

But, it is hoped that we can also speak in terms of forgiveness and gratitude and that the harping on tweets and sound bites are replaced with understanding and accommodation.

The ongoing saga of the Mueller investigation and the ultimate removal of the 45th President continues. In fact, it had almost been a forgotten tweet or cable news bulletin (remember when bulletins interrupted normal television transmissions, you know when something significant happened?).

Instead of harping on the dysfunctional first family and the presidency that refused to quit, we have focused our attention on federal workers who have not been paid in a month. These are workers of the federal government of the United States Of American, and we have seen fit to send them to soup kitchens and to beg mercy to the Henry F. Potters of the various Bedford Falls of America.

Yesterday, the Secretary of Commerce could not understand how a worker who had not gotten paid in a month had to resort to going to a soup kitchen. I thought it was bad back in the day when senior Bush didn’t know how much a quart of milk cost.

It just goes to show you that we should have a financial threshold beyond which no billionaire should be eligible for public office.

America would be a better place without such wealth telling us how to live.

When you think of the people, who saw in Trump a champion of their values and someone who would restore their status as respected and important Americans. How must they feel when they read about or see on Fox News how one after one of Trump’s men gets indicted for lying.

Do they not feel betrayed by the likes of wealthy men lying to protect a felon? Do they not feel betrayed by a man they trusted to protect them?

Will Trump’s wall protect his supporters from Russian missiles and American retreat from its role as protector of the free world?

Back in the days of the Cuban Missile Crisis, we may have hidden our heads in our school desks, but we didn’t bury them in the sand.

We may have protested a war that we saw as unjust and unnecessary, but we didn’t kiss Putin’s ass.

So Roger Stone has been indicted. It’s another shoe of endless shoes dropping and about to drop. The only thing that worries me is that, if we don’t get rid of the born again bigot vice president, will getting rid of Trump be a good thing?

Something about that devil you know, you know?

January 12, 1969, a date that will live in glory for all New York Jet Fans.

The 1968 season for the Jets was as much as you could have hoped for. Sure we lost to the Raiders in the infamous Heid game but, a few weeks after that debacle my friend Mike and I danced on the frozen field of Shea Stadium celebrating the Jets’ victory over these same Raiders in the AFL Championship game.

Make no mistake about it the Jets were going to the Super Bowl but Mike and I were not. We would be watching from afar on WNBC TV, in black and white and not living color.

Not possessing a color tv as yet my parents were not about to send me to Florida for a football game. It never came up for discussion.

Now, fifty years later and my children hating me for passing along the Jet fan gene, I realize I should have gone to the game no matter what the cost may have been.

To be fair, back in 1969 with Joe Namath in good health and possessing a great defense, I never would have believed back then that the trip to the Super Bowl would be a once in a lifetime phenomena.  Sadly, the return trip has been eluding the Jets and their fans for fifty years.

Nevertheless, we can take comfort in the fact that the Jets won the most consequential football game of all time. Had the Jets not won that game, football today would not be the same.

Joe Namath revolutionized the NFL even while he was pointing his finger skyward reveling in its demise. Without his singular victory the merger of the two leagues, the American Football League and the National Football League, would not have proceeded. Super Bowls I and II were so dominated by the NFL Green Bay Packers that the inferiority of the upstart league was firmly established…to some.

When Joe Willie guaranteed a victory over the indomitable Baltimore Colts, the older league and its fans prayed for Namath’s comeuppance to be both swift and painful.

The Jets scored first on a Matt Snell sweep and then Joe went to work with a controlled offense. He wasn’t slinging that day as he had for his AFL career. Joe picked apart the vaunted Colt defense and it was the Colts who resorted to a more open offense. Their attempt to take advantage of the Jets defense failed and resulted in interceptions and missed opportunities. It was a grand day all together.

When the dust had settled even the Ghost of Johnny Unitas could not defeat Joe Willie and the Jets. While at least finally scoring a touchdown, it was too little too late. The Colts had humiliated the NFL while Joe Willie and the Jets legitimized the AFL.

Football was never the same but it was so much better.

Well, here we are again on the precipice of a new year. I don’t recall if I wrote down my resolutions for 2018 which is probably a good indication that none was kept.

Nevertheless, I am going to attempt to jot down a few lines on expectations of behavior I am hoping to live up to. I guess ending a sentence with a preposition didn’t make the cut?

I spent entirely too much time watching bad TV, specifically cable news channels. It did not bring me happiness and only served to enlarge my carbon footprint.

I did return to reading books as opposed to Kindle versions and I will continue to do so. Libraries are wonderful institutions that may one day suffer the same fate of bookstores.

Fortunately, Sarasota has a fine library and two bookstores to peruse. I miss going to bookstores, and record shops for that matter because I often found something that I hadn’t been looking for. Today, that experience has been relegated to the various supermarkets I frequent.

60 Minutes had an interesting segment last night. I may have previously seen it or something similar. The topic was whiskey, specifically single malt whiskey of Scotland. It made me want to drink more whiskey. I am not sure this is the type of resolution that one ought to make as a challenge for the upcoming year but I may at least have a drink or two in 2019.

I was going to get political and start off with my pledge not to lie 15 times a day or that my Ancestry DNA came back indicating I was Native American, but then I reconsidered and decided not to. (There goes that damn preposition ending another sentence!)

Oh well, maybe the best thing I can do is not to be so hard on myself and not to take myself so seriously? Maybe instead of watching cable news a little more Laurel and Hardy is called for. ( I just can’t seem to control myself!)

Let me summarize my goals and objectives.

I am going to be a better Jimmy.

I can’t change anyone but myself, and only I can change myself.

I am going to end the year as I often have. Eileen and I will stay up and watch the ball drop on Times Square before we drop off to bed.

It’s a tradition as well as an expression of faith in the new year that we are happy and content

with.

Happy New Year everyone!

One of my favorite holiday movies is White Christmas. I remember watching it with my mother when I was a little boy. I always remind my daughter, Jeannine of that, each holiday season we watch it together.

I love everything about it except, you know, Emma was a real pain in the ass and caused more grief for Bob and Betty, but I digress.

The storyline was cute for its day. A song and dance team played by Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, want to save their poor retired general who has been sentenced to a life of poverty running a huge Vermont ski inn.

With songs by Irving Berlin and with singers like Bing, Danny, and Rosemary Clooney, it had to be a box office smash and it was. It still is, at least on TV and Netflix.

But back to the storyline.

General Waverly fought the good fight and helped defeat the Nazis. Ten years after returning home the good general is an innkeeper and struggling to make ends meet. One of Berlin’s songs asks, “What can you do with a general who’s retired?”

Well, I think Mike Flynn knows the answer to that and was compelled to sing it in court yesterday.

President Eisenhauer warned us back when he was about to turn the keys of the White House over to John Kennedy that the military industrial complex was something to be feared.

Who makes up this military industrial complex, well, for starters, the military, members current and retired.

You don’t see retired generals wearing threadbare sweaters trying to make a go of running hot-sheet motels. You don’t hear of retired generals having a problem getting their VA benefits or forced to live in homeless shelters.

Retired generals do ok.

Which brings us to Mike Flynn.

Having lived in a country that has been obsessed with the USSR as a threat to democracy and to life on the planet which obsession and fear did not subside when the USSR went the way of the Tsar, I am curious how a general of the U.S. Army, could try to comfort the Russians.

And, how could he represent another country, that has lately proven to be a questionable ally, if not a country no longer to be trusted, and do so without following the requisite registration as an agent of a foreign country?

When I see pictures of Flynn in his uniform and all the jewelry it makes me sick. I don’t want to hear that he was a hero.

If we accept that statement then Benedict Arnold and Robert E. Lee are heroes.

The one act of integrity that he made was not hiding behind the lame defense that Trump and his morons put forth, the “I didn’t know you shouldn’t lie to the FBI,” defense. At least he did that much.

I know it is Christmas and we should put the spirit of Christmas into all our thoughts and actions but I do think he should do some time in prison, even if it is for one night.

The glee that he exhibited when urging the “Lock her up” chants demands that he feels what it is like to be locked up.

Christmastime is here, that song is actually playing on the radio as I type. How fitting to start off with reminding you that it is, indeed, Christmastime.

When I used to teach religion in Catholic schools I used to speak of Christmas as a time for transformation. After all, Christ was born and transformed the world. Now I know a lot of bad things have been done in His name by religious leaders who should have been spreading His word but instead did horrible things while wearing the collar.

I am trying to ignore that for the time being and to get back to transformation.

Back in my teaching days, I would speak of the various characters in the arts that exemplified  the transformative nature of the season,

There was Scrooge of course.

But there was also Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree and even Frosty The Snowman.

If you are to believe the animated Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, even Santa and Donner were transformed, though you would have thought that Santa needed no change of heart.

In all of the above illustrations, Christmas brought a change of heart and mind to the characters. In some cases, life-changing transformations were realized.

This year I am going to try on my transformation. Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from Scrooge and Santa?

One thing that retired life provides is ample time to be crabby. You can start your day off watching whichever side of the aisle to which you subscribe. If you are like me, MSNBC will be the eyeopener for the morning along with a hot cup of coffee. I recently restricted my viewing to no more than a half hour. I then listen to the mass from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and try to transform my Church by not abandoning it in its time of disgrace. It’s sort of like being a fan of the New York Jets.

If you are one of them, you probably watch Fox and you really do need to transform.

Well, there I go. I have to stop doing that and perhaps that is the first journey on my road to transformation? I have to leave all the hate behind me.

It’s not easy to do but it is certainly necessary and, without abandoning hate, you miss the whole point of Christmas and transformation is impossible.

So, I am going to leave Trump alone and I hope those of you who support him can ignore the Democrat you most love to hate. It’s a start and only step one of the thousand-mile journey.

The goal is not just to abandon hate for Christmastime but to make its abandonment a way of life.

I am tired of being angry.

Try watching (or even reading) The Polar Express this Christmas as it might be worth all our whiles to believe in Santa and to play with your trains as you prepare for the arrival of God’s Only Son.

Merry Christmas.

It’s an essay, not a letter but I thought ‘letter’ read better as you open a letter but you don’t really open an essay.

Sorry, Pontiff, I will now get to the point.

I went to all Catholic schools, grammar, high school, undergraduate, graduate, and law school. I did take a couple of classes at Teacher’s College of Columbia University but you get what I am trying to say.

I get the Catholic thing.

I taught in Catholic schools. I believed in the Church then, and despite all the terrible, despicable you and your fellow priests have perpetrated on us, I still believe in what Jesus did and said.

We were always told that all priests were the image of Jesus. The Pope was Jesus on Earth. I don’t think the euphemism “image” was ever used for you or your predecessors.

You are supposed to be Christ on Earth.

Start acting like it.

Ask yourself, if Jesus through the gamblers and hawkers out of his Father’s temple, what would he be doing to your priests today? Do you remember reading somewhere about ‘suffer the little children…? I don’t think he meant that the children should suffer.

Kick all the bishops and cardinals off their pedestals and get a few nuns in there to help you. Trump gets rid of people all the time and they haven’t done half the shit your boys have done.

You know this is what Jesus would do. He would forgive them but he would not tolerate them and he might encourage us to visit them in prison and to make sure they were clothed and nourished. But then again, maybe He sends them straight to hell?

We had this blue wave in America, I am not sure if you are familiar with that term. To make it applicable to you, think of it as a black shirt and white collar wave. In this case, you priests would be the ones waving goodbye.

One last thing, the sanctity of the confessional should not apply to rapists and pedophiles.

Please save our church. That is why God put you in that position. Get rid of any priest who abused a child or knew someone who had and did nothing about it.

God pray for you.