Better Know Your Negro League Baseball Teams

2020 marks the 100th anniversary of the inaugural season of the Negro National League. The champions of that first season were the Chicago American Giants. Here's what the standings looked like:

	Games	Record	Pct.
Chicago American Giants	45	32-13	.711
Detroit Stars	58	35-23	.603
Kansas City Monarchs	70	41-29	.586
Indianapolis ABCs	74	39-35	.527
Cuban Stars	45	21-24	.467
St. Louis Giants	57	25-32	.439
Dayton Marcos	26	8-18	.308
Chicago Giants	28	4-24	.143

Our research is incomplete, so we can't yet tell you why there were so many Giants, especially in Chicago, and why some of those Windy City Giants seem to have been unAmerican (though their non-American status may be why they weren't all that good - unless they were Cuban, like the Stars (who were actually Cuban in large measure - and ain't that a hell of a double parenthetical)). That's for a later BKYNLBT. We do know that teams played different numbers of games because it was very difficult for all-Black teams to schedule games, ensure field space, travel safely, and do all of the things that white-owned teams took and take for granted.

The American Giants were owned by the legendary Rube Foster, who's widely known as the father of Black baseball. Foster was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1981 after a long career as a pitcher, owner, and manager. 

And with that meager history lesson, on with the dipshittery:

Name: Chicago American Giants

League: Negro National League

Affiliation: As if a Major League Baseball team in 1920 would have anything to do with Black players. Come on, people. Though it's interesting, historically-speaking, to know that John Schorling, Charlie Comiskey's son-in-law, was a financial backer of Foster's Giants. The American Giants' home field was called Schorling Park, because of course the white guy would insist upon that.

Logo/Mascot: Back in the day, logos weren't as sophisticated as they've become. The American Giants featured an interlocking CAG motif that's pretty dope for being designed 100 years ago.

Self-Absorbed East Coast Elitist Commentary:

It say something not all that great about me that I'm just now digging below my surface knowledge of the Negro Leagues. Like many sports fans, I'm aware of Satchel Paige and Cool Papa Bell and Josh Gibson and Buck Leonard, and I know the names of the legendary teams like the Homestead Grays and the Birmingham Black Barons and the Pittsburgh Crawfords. But my expertise is limited. I did just get Joe Posnanski's 2005 book, The Soul of Baseball, which is the story of Buck O'Neil's life and times, and my interest is piqued. So you should expect more dropping of science that should've been part of the curriculum a long time ago.

I do love the idea of a Black-owned team that consisted entirely of Black players and coaches calling themselves the American Giants. That's a not at all subtle poke in the eye of a society that lynched 53 Black people in 1920 alone.

America, Fuck Yeah (Also, Liverpool)

Liverpool Football Club are one of England's most fabled sides. The Reds have won 19 top division titles, six European cups (more than any English team), and seven FA Cups, among a number of other trophies. Notably, though, until Thursday, they hadn't won a top-flight title since 1990, which meant they'd never won the Premier League.

It took an American to change all that. With Liverpool ahead of Manchester City by 23 points, all they needed was one more or one more City loss to clinch the 2019/20 league championship. City faced Chelsea at Stamford Bridge hoping to stave off elimination for at least one more round of games.

Enter Christian Pulisic.

Captain America's eighth goal of his initial Premier League campaign was both sporty as hell and key to Chelsea's 2-1 triumph, which made the Liverpool players react like this:

Liverpool manager Jurgen Klopp, a great emotional teddy bear of a Teuton, was nearly overcome by the moment and what it meant for his players and the club's fans and past players, especially when Liverpool legend Kenny Dalglish praised him.

Reds captain Jordan Henderson, who's been stoic and solid in the face of substantial criticism over his tenure as the club's skipper (Stephen Gerrard is a hard act to follow), was toasted by Jamie Carragher, who toiled for the club for 17 years from 1996-2013 without a league title. The key moment is at the 5:03 mark, when Carragher breaks out a bottle of champagne and says, "Jordan, you're a great professional. Tell me you're gonna get absolutely rotten tonight, like me."

Since the beginning of 2018, Liverpool have played 69 league games (nice), winning 58, losing two, and drawing nine. They won the 2019 Champions League in addition to this year's league title. They've scored 159 goals and allowed 43 in league play. They'll set the Premier League record for points this season, barring a four-week bender to close it out.

Absolutely rotten, indeed. You'll never walk alone.

The Triumphant Return of The Ghoogles

Guess what's back, back again,

The Ghoogles back, tell a friend...

Folks, some might say they have the best words, but they're lying...because the best words are those used to find this here corner of the internet. Below, back after their exclusive three-year tour of Europe, Scandinavia and the subcontinent...won't you welcome from Calumet City, Illinois...The Ghoogles.

• bob ross merch
• agasi
• space nuts
• fratagonia
• come along catch a heffalump
• just grab em in the biscuits
• lazlo hollyfeld
• dumb shoes
• suprep bowel prep kit price
• internet explained
• clown fashion
• image is everything agassi
• zman blog
• pompatus
• jay bilas i come in peace
• puppetutes
• grab em in the biscuits
• nut shot
• grab her in the biscuits
• gheorghe the blog
• zporn
• ahmad bradshaw fantasy
• spacenuts
• thermopolis tannery
• i come in peace jay bilas
• grab them in the biscuits
• pinch hitting for pedro borbon
• son of a bitch give me a drink
• what the fuck
• nut shots
• the internet explained
• dumb fashion
• alfonso ribeiro shirtless
• linda lovelace's loose lips
• just grab them in the biscuits
• heffalump song commercial
• zman blogspot
• heffalump song 2019
• playing pianos filled with flames
• allen iverson shirtless
• come along song
• band logos without names
• band name logos
• stoat the baw
• catch a heffalump
• heffalump song
• gheorghe blog
• son of a bitch get me a drink
• firework tattoo
• dwayne hey hey hey meme
• come along cosmo sheldrake
• pompatus of love
• pinch hitting for pedro borbon manny mota
• cry in the beginning so you can smile in the end
• giant cotton ball
• footbaw
• ray lewis cycling
• 3rd bass pop goes the weasel video
• action bronson g pen
• grab em in the biscuits meaning
• mark gheorghe
• hair of the dog that bit me lloyd
• dumb rappers
• buffalo diarrhea
• two all beef patties special sauce
• third base pop goes the weasel
• nest fashion
• come along heffalump
• vajazzling houston
• bonanza bola tangkas
• skynet icon
• daniel johnston life in vain chords
• the pompatus of love
• pop goes the weasel 3rd base
• covid757
• cosmo sheldrake come along
• greg mcelroy sister
• 1980s baseball cards
• hair of the dog that bit me
• third bass pop goes the weasel
• heffalump song apple
• newskynet
• you know my name is simon
• brett blizzard
• candlepin bowling scoring
• samantha huge
• corporate accounts payable nina speaking
• montreal expos gear
• z man blog
• fat guy shopping
• ghettorube
• making love in a car
• carmine persico
• soccer nut shots
• roberto alomar gay
• triumph colors
• real tomato ketchup eddie
• christmas in washington song
• lorenzo ivy

Fulfilling Our Obligation

For those of you that haven't perused the G:TB By-Laws recently, allow me to refresh your memories. Section 9, paragraph 7 is unequivocal. When Old 97s release a new record, we're duty-bound to feature a track from it. And I'm not one to fuck with the By-Laws.

The new album is cleverly named Twelfth, as it is the band's 12th studio record. Whitney does not care much for the album cover.

Adjusting to that work from home life

It's been, what, 13 or 14 weeks since we've been working from home? That's a long fucking time. 

I imagine folks have been adjusting along the way, making minor tweaks and improvements to the WFH situation in order to prevent the entirety of your soul being drained from your body each and every day as you drag your carcass from bed to shower to desk (or table...or TV tray). This is really just a depressing, long-winded way of saying I don't know why it took me until yesterday to spice up my WFH situation with these wonderful additions:

Weekend Bookend

Sometimes comedy is funny because it's an escape, and sometimes it's funny because it makes us see things in ways we'd never considered. Very occasionally, comedy transcends humor and becomes something more. Dave Chappelle's 8:46 does that for me. It's angry and raw and imperfect and brilliant.

A Poem for Juneteenth

Let America Be America Again

Langston Hughes - 1902-1967

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

Toy Shopping Land Mines

Now back to your regularly scheduled dipshittery.

I have a young niece and nephew. Looking for birthday gifts.  Things I won't be getting them include but are not limited to:

Only one of these is fake. The last one appears to be a new offering, which seems... short-sighted but perhaps astute, from a revenues perspective and accounting for the sociological state of human beings.

Any ideas for a 9-year-old boy and a 12-year-old girl? My Uncle of the Year award is being etched as we speak.

(Editor Update: Had to add this)

Corona Files: People Are (Sometimes) Awesome (Or At Least Pretty Cool)

Humans are an ingenious lot, when we're not defying common sense in the name of tribal allegiance or killing people misfortunate enough to have different levels of melanin than ours. Nick Parker seems to be one of the good ones.

Parker is a musician from Glastonbury, in the southwest of England. During the time of the coronavirus, he reached out to musician friends all over the globe, sending them songs to learn and record and not letting the individual artists know what other artists were participating in the same project. He called the effort Stranger Tunes, and his tastes intersect nicely with ours, as you'll see from the selections we've curated for your listening enjoyment.

Bad Scooter and Killer Joe and You and Me

The world misses Joe Strummer. So says this guy, at least.

The Clash singer and guitarist, the BBC radio host, the philosopher, the punk rock warlord.

The ridiculous dresser, the cool customer, the outspoken humanitarian.

"Without people, you're nothing." -- Joe Strummer

Here's 53 seconds of Joe in a quick off-the-cuff plea for folks to pick their heads up and be better.



Joe and I share some of the same musical appreciations. Which Joe articulated in his own goofy, inimitable way.

Those appreciations were reciprocated. I'm sure I missed this originally, since, you know, it's the Grammys, but I should not have.

"This is for Joe." -- Bruce Springsteen, 2003

Elvis, Bruce, Grohl, and Little Steven rocking rather rambunctiously.


The world still has Bruce Springsteen in it, and a whole lot of other good ones. Grateful for that. It feels like we need them now more than ever, even if we can't go see them do their thing.

"People can change anything they want to. And that means everything in the world."  --Joe Strummer, in the year that he died

Make some noise this week, gheorghies. Life is waiting to hear from you.

The Elegy for a Dive Series, Pt. 2 (A Dave Fairbank Joint)

Rendezvous Inn
College Park, Md.
Closed 1996

At its heart, the Rendezvous Inn was a dive. A popular dive, but still a dive. It promised nothing more than cheap beer to college kids with little money. It was a social hive with alcohol, and while at the University of Maryland I spent an unhealthy amount of time there.

The ‘Vous, as it was known, was located just off the southeastern edge of campus, at the corner of Route 1 and Knox Road, a nondescript block building with windows on one side. It was a no-frills, rectangular space that held 500-600 people, with the bar in the middle of the room, a jukebox in front and booths against the walls. The drinking age in Maryland was 18 when I went to school and wasn’t raised to 21 until 1982.

The smell was the first thing that hit you when you entered, an unmistakable wave of stale beer and bodily fluids that permeated the floor, the seats, the walls, the ceiling, everything. In cold weather, the smell of damp wool and heavy clothing mixed with beer created its own unique aroma.

Patrons often had a separate pair of “’Vous shoes” because the terracotta floor routinely had a film of beer that ruined regular shoes. If someone vomited, it was standard practice to rinse the area with beer or water and continue drinking.

As one alumna told the school newspaper, the Diamondback: “Envision everything like black wood and sticky. Like no joke, the tables were sticky, the floors were sticky, the bar was sticky, everything was sticky with beer because (there) was just constantly beer thrown all over the floor. It was gross, it was absolutely gross, but that was where we’d go.”

Bathrooms were downstairs and best approached with a HAZMAT suit and flamethrower. Urinals in the men’s room were routinely broken or absent, leaving guys to simply pee into holes in the wall. Management wised up and installed a stainless steel trough that was no less disgusting but far more durable.

The ‘Vous opened as early as 8 a.m. on snow days, and there was a saying: Two to two at the ‘Vous. Plenty of people on Fridays arrived at 2 p.m. and stayed until closing at 2 a.m. As I recall, pitchers were $1.75 during Happy Hour, and they might have doubled during regular hours. The owner said in one story that they went through 200 kegs and 2,000 cases of beer per week.

Of course, behavior and hygiene were questionable. People regularly poured beer into and drank out of each other’s shoes. There was something called a butt pour. Someone would drop their pants and bend forward. A pitcher was poured over his or her butt, with empty cups underneath to catch the spillage, which was then consumed. Occasionally, guys would engage in a beer slide if the floor was particularly slick and filmy. They’d take off their shirts, and sometimes their pants, and folks would clear a path. They’d get a short running start and dive and slide on their chests, to see how far they could go.

My dad met me at the ‘Vous one evening during my senior year. Said he wanted to see the place I’d mentioned and so many other College Park denizens talked about. We went in and secured a booth. As the evening progressed, friends trickled in after class, study sessions, bong hits, whatever. When they approached the booth, I said, I’d like you to meet my dad. They laughed. You see, it wasn’t unusual for older gents to wander in and find a seat at the bar for a few beers among the kids. Students often struck up conversations with them, and they became one more drinking buddy for the evening.

Anyway, they laughed and I said, no, really, this is my dad. He pulled out his driver’s license to prove it. Much cheering and applause. He hung with us for the next couple of hours, buying pitchers and telling stories and being the center of attention. He reveled in it. I’m certain he should not have driven home that night. But it being the late ‘70s-early ‘80s, and it not being his first rodeo, he made it safely.

The ‘Vous closed its 37-year-run in Dec. 1996, as Route 1 and areas around campus developed, and kids began to gravitate toward cleaner, more upscale bars and eateries. That it lasted as long as it did is a marvel. Sort of.

Raise a glass, make a toast

Cheers! Kanpai! Slainte! Prost!

A watering hole with filth and germs

Lifted spirits and dismissed gloom

And possessed the power to affirm

It’s not where you drink, but with whom

Music Documentary Project: Early June Update

I've taken my foot off the gas a bit lately, similar to how G:TB was a well-oiled, postcounting machine in the early days of pandemic quarantining and has recently let up. If you can go outside and live, do so.

I also watched some non-music-documentary television.  It can get a tad monotonous to go from music doc to music doc, even if you alternate genres, styles, and approaches as I have tried to do. And so, I pivoted to:

The Last Dance - (Yes, another documentary. So what, I like 'em!) I watched every moment of the MJ saga.  Compelling as all get-out. He is who we thought he was, but moreso. More amazing, more complete as a player. more of a jackass as a teammate or competitor. To me, the most gripping moments were (a) those that demonstrated that he, as any sane person would, hates the 100%-all-the-time fan-clamor and hides out in a hotel room or his house; and (b) the moment he was presented with the suggestion that in order to be the best player/champion he had had to sacrifice being a "good guy," and that thought brought tears, a hasty explanation, and his demanding a break in the recording. It's better when Superman's a human after all.

Letterkenny - I binge-watched several seasons of this preposterous Canadian show (available on on Hulu,annoyingly). Hilarious and addictive, if ultimately a bit redundant. The scene where the guys are playing catch and Squirrelly Dan uncomfortably introduces the subject of his lady friend and her interest in the "butts-stuff" had me laughing heartily. A hard yes.

Seaver - I stumbled upon a one-hour Tom Seaver documentary on the MLB network. I'm an obvious sucker for the content, but there was plenty new to me, especially the unfortunate epilogue of Alzheimer's and his retreat from public life last year. Tom Terrific was the best Met there was, despite the franchise booting it majorly several times over.

Anyway, I have also made time for more music absorption.  Back to the quest...

ReMastered: Devil at the Crossroads (2019) -- This was a tidy, little Netflix piece on the pioneer bluesman Robert Johnson and the generations of intrigue that have surrounded his eerily quick rise from kid with a guitar he couldn't much play to blues god. The story is well-presented and frankly sells itself -- selling one's soul to the Devil for talent.  And then there's his death at age 27. And the fact that (until last month) there were only two photographs ever taken of the man. When I lived across the way from Dave in the fraternity house, he bought a box set of Robert Johnson. I didn't know who the dude was. Turns out many a blues riff and/or style of playing -- which begat many a rock and roll riff and style of playing -- is attributed to one man. At 48 minutes, check it out.

Hip-Hop Evolution (Season 1) -- This is my shit. Z and I have served and rallied here before with old school and older school, but Season 1 of HHE is the jack from way back. Loved it. Planning to continue to dig in on the series and learn lots more along the way.

History of the Eagles (2013) -- Far, far away on the music spectrum from Kurtis Blow and DJ Run, you have Don Henley and Glenn Frey. I like the Eagles nearly as much as the next guy, and there's much to learn and enjoy here. It ultimately devolves into a soap opera, mostly between Frey and Don Felder. And here I thought Don Henley was the douche. But there are cool tidbits like footage of Henley and Frey as up-and-comers in the backing band for Linda Ronstadt, and anything Joe Walsh does is fairly fascinating. Enjoyed it.

The Beastie Boys Story (2020) -- I knew this would be great. I read several unflattering reviews (Pitchfork, AV Club) that called it "no fun." I still knew it would be great. I hadn't heard any of my friends raving about it. I still knew it'd be great.  And... it's great. I feel like I'm the perfect age to be a Beastie Boys fan. When LTI hit, I was a high-school juvenile delinquent Class Clown. As we've written here ad nauseum, when Paul's Boutique launched to crickets, were were jumping around the room heralding what must be a worldwide hit -- college is the perfect time to be exposed to experimentally dope new shit. CYH was a tiny bit more grown up, and we were nearly graduating (well, rob and Dave were). The "Sabotage" video broke and we were early 20's goofballs with jobs. By the time the three bad brothers were starting getting real respect (especially for albums gone by), we were older and commanding more respect than we had a right to. Still clowns, like the B-Boys, of course.  This doc has it all, despite shlocky reviewer's cranky demands for surprises and mayhem. MCA is missed majorly and given a highly fitting tribute.  It's great. Check it out.

The Van Halen Story: The Early Years (2003) -- This low-budget, straight to video obscurity piece was just entertaining enough. Spoiler alert: they paid for the rights to zero VH songs, so you won't hear any. Made me go straight to Spotify after and call up my faves. Also, they only rehash interviews with the band, nothing new -- but lots I hadn't seen. They do get lots of stories from roadies, security, and friends from coming up.  Which is at times better than the sanitized version of wild tales you get from aged rockers. (Eagles, for example.)  "Ed" and "Al" haaaaate "Roth." That's for damn sure. Almost as much as they hate "Dancing in the Street." This one entertained mildly for what it was.

We Jam Econo: The Story Of The Minutemen (2005) -- I loved this one. A long while back, a friend introduced me to The Minutemen. My first reaction was a recoil. Over decades, as I have dug in squarely on punk rock, I have come to love this kind of avant-garde punk. The Minutemen were not hardcore, they were honestly a step-and-a-half from Random Idiots, they were punk with a conscience, and they were beautiful. The documentary, exactly like the band, is pretty lo-fi. And it's solid. The lament of losing D. Boon so many years ago hits home, almost against all likelihood. This ain't no picnic, indeed.

loudQUIETloud: A Film About the Pixies (2006) -- I was late to the game on the Pixies. My first wife was a fan during their 1987-1991 existence, and I learned to love their stuff through her influence soon thereafter. Too late, of course.  But they then regrouped in 2004, and we saw them at Constitution Hall in DC. Hell yes. This is a weird doc -- it isn't a retrospective, it's a behind-the-scenes look at the 2004/5 tour I mentioned. They'd reunited after 13 years, and interactions are awkward and yet uncontroversial, and there are excellent clips of songs from these shows but otherwise just some backstage banter that does not enthrall. Plus Black Francis with his shirt off.

It was very interesting to watch the Pixies one after The Minutemen. D. Boon and Mike Watt met with they were 13, and they were best friends until the end. They'd fight some, but like brothers. Loved one another. The four people in the Pixies met via a classified ad. They weren't friends and still aren't. They don't hate each other, but they were a great band the same way a successful small business often operates -- it was a job. They regrouped for money, clearly. It's almost deflating to fans, but hell, it's always about the music more than anything, and the music was and is exceptional to many of us.


I'll keep watching and conveying the highlights.  18 down thus far.  Suggestions and feedback welcomed.

The Elegy for a Dive Series, Pt. 1

Peter Meinke is from Mountain Lakes, NJ. He is an author, a professor, a Florida resident, and an American poet of some acclaim. According to Wikipedia, from 2003 through 2005, he held the Darden Chair in Creative Writing at Old Dominion University here in Norfolk.

In 1983, he composed "Elegy for a Diver," a piece oft-referenced online, which begins:

Jacknife swandive gainer twist
High off the board you’d pierce the sky
And split the apple of the devil sun
And spit in the sun’s fierce eye.
When you were young you never missed,
Archer-diver who flew too high
So everything later became undone.

Lovely and blue, as Ryan Adams would say.

The elegy, as most of you probably remember from English class and Dave could possibly tell you, is a poetic lament for the dead. Surely you recall Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" or Walt Whitman's "O Captain! My Captain!" for my buddy Abe.

Fans of the underrated 1994 classic Four Weddings and a Funeral undoubtedly remember this dusted-off elegy in the film's saddest moment.

Anyway...

I come here not to bury you with English Lit, but to praise long-lost loves. Like an elegy.  Understand, good people, that:

"For modern and contemporary poets, the elegy is a poem that deals with the subjects of death or mortality, but has no set form, meter, or rhyme scheme."

Well then. Smell the smell-egy. The lame lament. Enjoy my bloggy version of what is another recurring segment destined not to recur:

The "Elegy for a Dive" Series

Wherein we pay tribute to dingy bars of yesteryear which served us well on many long-forgotten nights of revelry-cum-debauchery.  Three at a time, like shots of Jäger.

The Village Idiot
New York, NY
Closed 2004

First in Greenwich Village, obviously, but then in the Meatpacking District.  I was introduced to this joint a couple of decades ago by Dave's professor buddies, a crew of elders who'd perform their own elegiac tribute to a fallen comrade with a bar crawl down Broadway. Like all the way down Broadway and then some, ending in Battery Park. Along the way, the Idiot was a stop. Oh, my.

PBR in the can before it returned to glory. 70's porn on the TV in the corner of the bar. Smoke in the air before it got banned -- a death knell for the Village Idiot, since it smelled of upchuck. My dad once pleaded with my sister not to let me go there, as he'd read a review that called it a "vomitorium." Sorry, Dad. Leave your credit cards at home. Leave your bra in the rafters. For several years, this was home whenever I was in NYC. May my friend the Idiot rest in peace, as they'll say when I'm gone.

Lord, what a pity it
Is to hear the Idiot
Is finally closing her doors
Wretched refuse cast asunder
That pungent Pabst chunder
Lost for evermore.

The Dixie Grill
Washington, DC
Closed 1996

I moved to DC in the fall of 1993 and took a job that paid $11.53 an hour. I had it made. Three of us split rent of $1000 (somehow Rob got the big room), and we ate cheaply, (more than) occasionally splurging on Cowboy Cafe burgers or Lost Dog sandwiches.  For beers, we drank Natty Lights at home with Sega, Beavis, and Butt-Head, and when we went out we looked for deals. And then we stumbled upon an extraordinary one.  The Dixie Grill, 10th and F across from the Ford's Theatre (you know, where what happened gave Walt Whitman an elegy to write).

Pitchers of Pabst, before its return to commercial success (recurring theme) were $4.In DC! That's what pitchers at the College Delly had been when we started college. (Dean jacked up prices to $4.50 and beyond after that.) They had crappy pool tables, dirtbag decor, country music, and those cheap suds. And drunk people, naturally. More than one among our enthusiastic group of Dixie Grill fans went home with a bad idea and a good story. Well, some months later, prices got shifted, PBR turned to something even swillier, and it just faded out of our rotation. A couple of years later, it was gone. But for a brief instant, it was too good to be true, and we were all over it.

Lord, what a travesty
A place with zero majesty
Has ceased to open its taps
Hard not to think of Lincoln
At Dixie with $4 drinkin'
Still, I won't miss the craps

The Atlantis
Nags Head, NC
Closed 1996

The very first Outer Banks Fishing Trip was in 1994. 17 jackelopes from various points elsewhere
descended on a stretch of beachy community that I had known growing up; that many of us had visited for Beach Weeks; and that Dave, Rob, and others had called home one dingy college summer. The locale is blissful anyway. Pack in our merry band of misfits, and it's unbeatable. Add in some rock and roll music in a beachfront dive bar, and you truly have yourself somethin' special. The Atlantis.

This article appeared last weekend, and it's what prompted this post. A grimy music venue that hosted the likes of Dave Matthews Band, Widespread Panic, and yes, Blue Oyster Cult, were among the acts that played there. I usually made it there for lesser-knowns like the All Mighty Senators, Awareness Art Ensemble, maybe the Poetics or Connells. Much was consumed there, and the stories flowed like wine. The OBFT II tale is one for the ages, best resurrected over a cold one on the deck. I'm not sure I'll come across another joint quite like the Atlantis. Lo, she is missed.

Lord, what a tale of woe
The Atlantis, not here no mo'
Beach life's become more dismal
The ladies, lewd but leggy
My rap, over low-fi reggae
Was even more abysmal


So begins this segment. Reflect with me, shed a tear, share a story, crack a beer. I fear we are going to lose a few more of my favorites this year.

The only way to make this more on-brand would be to add muppets

We Need to Keep Listening

Now that I have posting privileges, you don't have to scroll through the comments to see the new educational info.

You're going to feel uncomfortable. That's the point. Thank you for listening. Black Lives Matter.

Killer Mike speaking at an Atlanta press conference last week.
Plot. Plan. Strategize. Organize. Mobilize.



Six years ago Doug Glanville penned a piece in The Atlantic about being racially profiled in his own driveway. He shared his thoughts about George Floyd on ESPN's Daily podcast Thursday. His part starts at the 28-minute mark, but the whole podcast is good, so give it a listen.




Robin Theade outlines what's next, once we address police violence. This info will help us all become better anti-racism allies


Caron Butler's piece in The Players Tribune is clear and direct. It's a WE thing.



Seth Meyers opened every show this week with a cop story from writer Amber Ruffin. Watch them all. And then, for something lighter, check out any of her "Amber says WHAT" segments. They are gold.



And, I'll leave you today with some Thursday thoughts from my friend Fox. First this:
https://twitter.com/TheUndefeated/status/1268663909734629382

And then this:
https://twitter.com/HQonESPN/status/1268663275555901440

Musical Interlude

It's been as encouraging to watch a great number of folks across the country trying in earnest to listen and understand like never before as it has been discouraging to watch the sociopath in charge do (just about) everything wrong he possibly can.

It may be misguided to turn the GTB lens away from the breaking news and opinion pieces into the Style section, but it's not purely ignorant bliss.  Here are a few worthy songs of protest to acknowledge that the arts often reflect the times... and sometimes they reach people that would otherwise be unaware or unmoved. Feel free to suggest worthy additions to the list.

The Fierce Urgency of Now

For most of the past twenty years, at least a part of my job has brought me into close contact with officials at all levels of American law enforcement. I've met FBI Directors, DEA Administrators, Executive Directors of ICE Homeland Security Investigations, heads of state bureaus of investigation, and chiefs of police from places as diverse as the NYPD to the San Jose PD to the Minneapolis PD to the Leesburg, VA PD. I've met meathead cops and talented analysts. I've spent time with the head of the National Organization for Black Law Enforcement (NOBLE) and the head of the International Association of Chiefs of Police (IACP).

By a significant majority, the law enforcement executives I've met have been professional and service-minded. In recent years, their priorities have changed and they've spent a lot more time focused on department culture, mental health, and diversity. And they've acknowledged that they've got a long way to go. Leaders like Houston Chief Art Acevedo are grappling with the stains on their profession.



Majority doesn't mean unanimity. I've met cops who were obviously racist, sexist, and just plain mean.

I say all this as preface to today's topic, which is actually my daughters.

Leesburg, VA's peaceful protest march

My kids are loud pissed right now about the state of affairs in America's cities. My 18 year-old is a budding activist, full of righteous indignation about any number of things. She's liberal to a fault, and she's compassionate about the plight of people less privileged than she. We've had arguments, friends.

I'm also a lefty, but as I stare down the barrel of my 50th birthday, my liberalism is leavened with pragmatism. I'm an incrementalist, about the moral arc of the universe bending towards justice, one generation better than the next.

My daughter wants to burn it all down and start over again.

So it comes down to incrementalism versus radicalism. I've spent the last three days arguing that there's no practical way to strip the system to its bones and start over in a nation with institutions as large, diverse, and ingrained as ours.

As I was researching some of the issues, hoping to provide by daughters with the wisdom of their elders, I came across something that stopped me in my everloving tracks. This, from Martin Luther King's Letter from a Birmingham Jail, shook me to my core:

"I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season.""

Am I telling my daughters to prefer a negative peace? Am I paternalistically setting a timetable for black mens' (and all womens' and all LGBTQ people's) freedom?

We marched together on Sunday in a peaceful demonstration in our town to show solidarity for our black neighbors as they grieve let another senseless death at the hands of the state. My 18 year-old drew a banner that depicted Officer Derek Chauvin, the Minneapolis PD officer that murdered George Floyd, as a pig. I told her not to take it, because it would reflect poorly on our family. She ignored me. I'm proud of her for that, even as I cringe a little because I know there are good cops who hurt for their communities.

But I know more fully that I don't know.

I write this to you today not because I have the answers, but because I'm genuinely at a loss. My girls, whether they know it or not, have made me question what I thought I knew. I watched the President of the goddamned United States of America teargas Americans so he could have a ham-handed photo op and saw no members of his party save Mitt Romney blink a fucking eye in protest.

Maybe we should burn it all down.

We're Fortunate They're Stupid

I watched a lot of American cities burn last night, and there's not much humor to be found in it. Seems clear that the crowds in Washington, DC, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, New York, and so many other places are a mix of righteously angry citizens of all races, joyriding assholes out to loot for fun, and organized agitators.

The latter would be even more dangerous if many of them weren't utter morons.

Case in point, and a cause for just a bit of levity: a number of right-wing sites and Twitter feeds ran rampant last night with the claim that The National guitarist Aaron Dessner was an Antifa organizer.

It started with this video and reply:

That's Aaron Dessner the guitarist for The National!
What's he doing at the Race Riots? pic.twitter.com/W9VcylZwzb

— FortWorthPlayboy (@FWPlayboy) May 31, 2020

And spread quickly across the Twitterverse.

Dessner, from his farm in rural Ohio and not in a crowd paying kids to riot, denied his involvement. The fact this was necessary was almost as stupid as the entire sordid affair.

The White House was unavailable for comment, as our cowardly leader turned off the lights. Literally.