On Thursday, July 21, 2022, the U.S. House of Representatives passed H.R.8373, which is titled "To protect a person's ability to access contraceptives and to engage in contraception, and to protect a health care provider's ability to provide contraceptives, contraception, and information related to contraception."
The text of the bill isn't available yet, but the Times reports that the bill will "ensure access to contraception nationwide, moving over almost unanimous Republican opposition to protect a right that is regarded as newly under threat after the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade." The Times also says that "The measure passed 228 to 195, with eight Republicans joining Democrats in support." Predictably, those eight are Liz Cheney, Nancy Mace, Fred Upton, Anthony Gonzalez, John Katko, Brian Fitzpatrick, Maria Salazar, and Adam Kinzinger.
So 195 of the 213 House Republicans don't think there should be a federal right to contraception, which means it should be "up to the states to decide." That's nuts.
I'm willing to bet we've all used contraception at least once in our lives because we either did not want to become pregnant or to impregnate someone else. Contraception prevents unwanted pregnancies which in turn prevents abortions. Why would anti-abortion Republicans oppose it? Perhaps they don't just oppose abortions. Perhaps they oppose recreational sex, or sex between unmarried people. Which I find ironic, given their leader's ... shall we say ... reliability with the ladies.
What other source of law would oppose recreational sex, or sex between unmarried people? Oh, how about Islamic law! Wikipedia says that under Islamic law there are "two categories of legal, sexual relationships: between husband and wife, and between a man and his concubine. All other sexual relationships are considered zināʾ (fornication), including adultery and homosexuality, according to Islamic law and exegesis of the Qur'an."
I remember a time when conservatives detested Islamic law. Hannity, Judge Jeanine, and Tucker must be apoplectic! How did all these RINOs infiltrate the House Republican caucus?! Fast forward to 4:45 so the pretty blonde lady can "help you understand how you feel" on this issue.
My wife hipped me to this band over the weekend. Fairly straightforward modern alt-rock sound. Singer's got pretty good pipes that sound...familiar.
Without employing the Ghoogles, see if you can guess that singer's lineage. Submit your answers in the comments. And if you know already, shut your piehole.
If you live long enough, you get to see some cool shit. And you get to see small evolutions. Say, for instance, from a fringe hip-hop album that you and a few buddies used to jam out to in college when the world couldn't care less . . . to a cultural icon regarded as "seminal," "foundational," and even "watershed."
Rock snob glossary entries are fun. But this is more than a label; this is a landmark.
You guessed it, I'm talking about the three bad brothers you know so well (Ad Rock, MCA and Mike D, not rob, Dave, and me). The Beastie Boys have been further cemented into the streets of their beloved hometown, if not history.
According to Time Out:
“On July 14, the New York City Council approved the co-naming of the intersection of Ludlow and Rivington streets as Beastie Boys Square.”
Why there? Fans of the trio will surely know. Cue Track 14 on Dave's CD that he brought back from summer break before sophomore year...
“The best in men's clothing. Call Paul's Boutique and ask for Janice, and the number is (718) 498-1043. That's Paul's Boutique, and they're in Brooklyn.”
Except they're not. This bogus business, the basis for the name of this album, was just a lark. Whose legendary album-cover street shot has inspired multitudes to track it down and hang, if just for a moment, where it happened.
I know, I know, but everybody's got their Graceland. And this spot is it for fans of the latter-day Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
And it's cool. Check this out on Google Maps.
So if you happen to be in Manhattan's Lower East Side, say visiting Katz's Delicatessen, or the club formerly known as CBGB, or maybe you're headed to Little Italy, or maybe, just maybe you were looking for 59 Chrystie Street, the name of a track off Paul's Boutique... and holy crap check this out...
Damn, this town loves the unstoppable three, the B-E-A-S-T-I-E.
Anyway, if you're down that way, say maybe you got drunk at Doc Holliday's and got way lost downtown after that, come on by the corner of Ludlow and Rivington. You won't see a Paul's Boutique sign, but you will see a cool mural:
And who knows? You might see an old-school hip-hop trio on the corner, grooving and riffing on a piece of cardboard like Jay and Silent Bob, but to "Johnny Ryall," and "Eggman," and "Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun," among others.
No, not the Beasties, not after MCA left us way too early. I'm talking Random Idiots in our rap personae: Honky Dory, D. Pave, and DJ Robbie Robb. Get some.
History is littered with examples of individuals who found the truth, a truth that was way too dangerous to the established order. The truthseekers suffered for their knowledge, sometimes ostracized or mocked as crazy, other times tortured and killed. Many of their identities are lost to the fog of history, even as the reality of their veracity passed into common knowledge.
The existence of such a person was revealed just two weeks ago, and in predictable fashion, the powers that be quickly sought to erase their truth, and notably, their very identity. I saw it coming. But I admit to being surprised by the source.
Be ready for July 5th everyone. That’s all I’m saying. Protect your energy. Be alert. Don’t do things that lower your vibration, your energy, or your focus. CERN will be opening a portal on July 5th. They began getting it ready when the planets aligned on June 24th.
I know who that Twitter user is, because I've got sources. But Snopes damn sure doesn't want you to know her identity. [Fuck, I've said too much.] In an online debunking, the formerly-reliable hoaxbusters not only erased the user's name, but went so far as to disclaim CERN's nefarious intentions. The title of the damn piece is dismissive to the point of suspicion: "No, CERN Didn’t Open a Portal to Another Dimension in July 2022".
Sometimes it's lonely when you fight authority. As the sage John Mellencamp once said, after all, authority always wins. Snopes chose to go along to get along. It's a sad day, friends.
I've waxed lyrical about my trip down Maine's St. Croix River in this space previously, so I'll spare you the deep meaning and purple prose. Just the facts after this, my third trip down the 40-ish mile paddle from Vanceboro to Princeton, ME with the U.S. on one side and New Brunswick, Canada on the other (with a 75+ mile paddle up the Allagash River Waterway thrown in for fun).
We put our canoes in the water in Vanceboro and paddled about five hours to our first campsite at Little Falls. Couple of cool views here, one of the falls, and one of the view from my tent the first morning on the river.
Rolled another five hours or so down to Loon Bay on day two. The river was running on the low side in places, so the eagles and fish heard a good number of creaks and groans - both from our bodies and from the undersides of our canoes scraping the riverbed.
Dealt with some headwinds on day three as we paddled through a wider section of the river, but made it to Turtle Point on the Canadian side without much incident. We did meet one of the locals after we pulled into camp, which was cool.
Just a short four miles across a lake took us to our takeout spot on the final day. Little bit of breeze made it a modest challenge, but the paddle took just over an hour. Caught this sunset at my uncle's brother's compound in Grand Lake Stream - not a bad coda to a serene and timely break from the world.
Just five us on this trip down the river. From left to right, Jason (he's a middle school principal in Massachusetts and my cousin Steve's cousin from a different side of the extended family), Sean (who works on the facilities team at a prep school in Massachusetts and is also a cousin of Steve and Jason's), me (who you know all too well), my cousin Steve (who teaches at a prep school in Connecticut - that's a theme in our family), and my sister's husband Scott (who works for CSX Transportation in Jacksonville). An excellent blend of dudes who enjoy dishing out a good ribbing and can take one in return and who don't shirk the necessary work that accompanies a few days in the wild. I consider myself blessed to have these opportunities.
The Supreme Court’s most recent term created beaucoup controversy, as the conservative majority eroded or sledgehammered abortion rights, gun regulations, Federal climate change oversight, and a state’s decision not to provide public money to religious schools.
Large and far-reaching as those decisions are, one case in particular struck me, because I have some familiarity with the circumstances.
In Kennedy v. Bremerton School District, a high school football coach who prayed at midfield and led players and coaches in prayer following games didn’t have his contract renewed and sued that he was being discriminated against. In a 6-3 ruling the Supreme Court said that the school district violated Joseph Kennedy’s rights under the Free Speech and Free Exercise clauses of the First Amendment.
I’ll leave it to the legal minds that occupy this here digital tree fort to debate the details and merit of the ruling, but I suspect that Kennedy’s case is less about free expression of faith and more about power and control.
The local school board didn’t attempt to silence Kennedy or to prevent him from praying. Officials were concerned that they would be viewed as complicit in violating the separation of church and state by permitting Kennedy to continue his prayer sessions publicly and visibly at a public school event. The board offered to provide him with a private space to pray, off the field, and asked if he might delay his prayer sessions until after spectators departed. He declined and continued his post-game, midfield sessions until the school board dismissed him.
Justice Neil Gorsuch, writing the majority opinion, said that Kennedy “offered his prayers quietly while his students were otherwise occupied,” and that he made “short, private, personal prayer.” He dismissed any notion that Kennedy’s prayer sessions might be implicitly coercive. Justice Sonia Sotomayor, in dissent, cheekily included a photo of a Kennedy prayer session in which he stood amid dozens of kneeling players and wrote that it was common knowledge that Kennedy invited others to join.
This is where power and control come in. Kennedy coached teenaged boys. He had some sway over their playing time, their status on the team, their health and well-being, possibly their futures. If he invites players to prayer sessions, how many of them, or their parents, would say, “Nah, Coach, I’ma pass, and ya know, I’m not really comfortable with the whole thing.” Not many, I’d guess.
Coaches have enormous influence over the athletes they work with. In my previous life as a sportswriter, I witnessed it pretty much daily. The best coaches understand the role they play and are judicious about how much of their lives and beliefs to introduce to young people, knowing that kids often want to please or that it may differ from what they experience at home.
Is there a place for faith in sports or schools? Of course. But it’s humble and it’s personal. If it ends up in a Washington D.C., courtroom, something’s amiss.
Sudan Archives has a new music video from her new album. I'm not qualified to opine on the lyrics or the images in the video but the song hits hard, sort of a cross between "Paper Planes" and one of those Dave Matthews songs with the fiddle.
A few post ideas bubbled up in my meager brain but I never got around to writing them and/or I didn't know what to write so I'm doing another round of zman bouillabaise, which is like b-boy bouillabaisse but not as good.
1. Jacques Tits died.
Here's the introductory paragraph for Jacques Tits's Wikipedia entry: "Jacques Tits (French: [tits]) (12 August 1930 – 5 December 2021) was a Belgian-born French mathematician who worked on group theory and incidence geometry. He introduced Tits buildings, the Tits alternative, the Tits group, and the Tits metric."
What more needs to be said?
2. The Large Hadron Collider lives.
CERN shut down the LHC in 2018 but it's up and running again. I don't understand a goddam thing in that link and this is rob's corner anyway. Just keep an eye out for Armageddon.
3. The Supreme Court missed the forest for the trees in N.Y. State Rifle & Pistol.
In his opinion holding that "New York’s proper-cause requirement violates the Fourteenth Amendment by preventing law-abiding citizens with ordinary self-defense needs from exercising their Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms in public for self-defense," Justice Alito said:
Does the dissent think that laws like New York’s prevent or deter such atrocities? Will a person bent on carrying out a mass shooting be stopped if he knows that it is illegal to carry a handgun outside the home? And how does the dissent account for the fact that one of the mass shootings near the top of its list took place in Buffalo? The New York law at issue in this case obviously did not stop that perpetrator.
He's correct. There is probably no way to prevent criminally insane or evil people from committing mass shootings other than confiscating all guns. But there is some value in trying to limit the amount of shootings that occur, mass or individual. By that I mean, I don't want to live in a society where everyone around me could be armed at all times. I don't want to worry that if I bump into someone at a bar they will shoot me because they are drunk and angry that I spilled their beer; or that if I get into a car accident the other person will put a gun in my face in a fit of road rage; or that I will be shot accidentally because some random doesn't know how to carry a gun properly.
Making it harder for people to carry guns outside the house limits the likelihood that this will happen. The punishment for carrying without a permit is harsh in NY--just ask Plaxico Burress. He went to jail for 22 months after accidentally shooting himself in the leg in a nightclub while carrying a pistol without a permit. By contrast, Michael Vick went to jail for about 18 months for his dogfighting ring, while Donte Stallworth went to jail for 30 days killing a man while driving drunk.
We can argue about the proportionality of these punishments compared to the respective crimes, but we can all agree that we are glad we weren't standing next to Plaxico when he accidentally fired his gun that night, and his punishment hopefully deterred a lot of other people from carrying a gun. Yes, he was carrying illegally, while this decision is about the limitations a state may place on how to obtain a permit to carry legally. But I think his story counsels against carrying in general and in favor of serious limitations on who, what, where, why, when and how carrying should be allowed.
That's why New York's "proper cause" requirement for a concealed carry permit made sense and should have been upheld.
4. Any debate whether Trump acted up in the limo or threw a Big Mac misses the forest for the trees.
I don't care if Trump grabbed for the steering wheel or his security guard's neck. I don't care if he threw a plateful of McDonald's finest meats and cheeses and ketchup at the wall. He riled up an armed mob and told them to go to the Capitol to "fight like hell." They took him literally and he wanted them to. Five people died as a direct result, and at least two killed themselves afterwards. What more needs to be said?
5. WFMU continues to deliver.
I should do another zShazams post but if I do I won't be able to include "Modern Diseases" by Fifth Column because I can't find it on Spotify. It isn't on YouTube either so I can't even make a Notify contribution! You can listen to it on the WMFU playlist site. Here's a Fifth Column song that you can find on YouTube:
Apparently they were "a Canadian all-female post-punk band from Toronto, formed in the early 1980s." You too can find nifty stuff on WFMU.org and it's free to stream.
I've got my new podcast up and running. It's called We Defy Augury(I stole that line from Hamlet) and the premise is simple: thoughts inspired by literature.
In a world dominated by screens, social media, and endless digital entertainment, reading is perhaps one of the last ways to maintain some sliver of autonomy over your consciousness. I've read a lot of books, but where do the thoughts go? I can't remember a tenth of what I read. Or what I thought about what I read. So the podcast is an attempt to capture some of this cognition. And I'm looking for guests. I think I could do it over Zoom-- but you'd need some kind of USB microphone to capture the sound clearly. The format is foolproof-- you read a couple passages from a book you like and talk about what the passages made you think about.
I'm going to continue to pump out solo episodes, but I'd really like to have some guests: so start reading something good. And I'd appreciate any likes, follows, etcetera to get this thing up and running. It's definitely up on Apple Music and Spotify, not sure if it's on Google Podcast yet (it should be).
So the local paper had this in it today, the most prominently placed among the group of obits:
I couldn't help thinking what a cool name that is, and that I hope she was a super lady with the kind of pleasing persona to match it. Her limited obituary makes you think maybe she was. I'll choose to believe that yes indeedy, she sure was.
This may well turn out to be inspiration for a Les Coole composition.
And when I get to heaven / and see what all I see
Shirley B. Allgood / be all right with me
Fulness of joy, my friends. Pleasures for evermore.
Just strolling through the draft posts looking for something fun (that required next to no work) and was stopped in my tracks by this beauty the Teej started right before the pandemic. One could argue that the future would've changed immeasurably if only our man had come through. Cold, but fashionable comfort.
As I read and hear more about the Supreme Court's assault on women's reproductive rights, sensible gun laws, and any number of other things, I really still haven't moved past the rage stage of acceptance. I know there are sane, serious people organizing and planning ways to respond (though since many of them are Democrats, I'm not terribly confident in their success), and I expect I'll get there at some point.
But that point ain't today.
So I genuinely enjoyed this bit of musical protest from Glastonbury yesterday. I don't know Olivia Rodrigo's work, but I know now that I admire her. Guessing there aren't a ton of pop stars who could rattle off the names of Supreme Court justices from memory. And there's some bonus Lily Allen involved.
I really like Joe Biden. I really don't want Joe Biden to run for re-election. These things aren't mutually exclusive.
The current moment in history calls for bold, decisive action, righteous anger, and focused execution. Joe Biden is an institutional man above all else, and an incrementalist by constitution and experience. He's served his beloved country well for longer than anyone had a right to ask him. He's seen pain and suffering like few others, his extreme empathy forged in a crucible of sorrow we should count ourselves lucky to never experience.
We owe him a great debt.
And I believe he owes us one final grace note. It is increasingly obvious that President Biden isn't as sharp as he once was. This is inevitable for an 79 year-old human. Let the record show that I, too, have lost a few miles per hour from my fastball, both mentally and physically. It's also saddeningly apparent that his administration isn't firing on all cylinders. The rollout of vaccines for kids under the age of five has been botched. The CDC can't find its ass with both hands in combatting monkeypox. The administration has let comms on inflation and gas prices be hijacked by the right, and solutions to both problems are comically underwhelming.
Let it be clear, however, that the Biden Administration has been a force for good in a number of ways, not the least being its performance more broadly on the economy. I come here not to bury the President, but to ask him respectfully to choose to go quietly into that great retirement. The next election is too important, as is the work that needs to be done.
I harbor no illusions that the 2024 election will be easy for any Democrat to win, though I do believe there's a fervor let loose in the land after the Supreme Court's recent Sherman's March through civil and individual rights and the January 6th Committee's outstanding and painstaking work in exposing the outrageous and comprehensive nature of the last guy's mendacity. Kamala Harris is less popular than Biden, for example, and she'd be the most obvious candidate to take the mantle from Uncle Joe.
Biden's decision to step down after a single term would be a selfless, country-first act. The kind of thing he's been known for his entire public career. And notwithstanding my point above regarding the challenges in finding an electable Democrat, there is a solution that's both practical and directly in G:TB's wheelhouse.
Friends, patriots, and right-thinking Americans. That...that's John Fetterman's music.
Fear not. It's never too late to appreciate an artist or a piece of art.
It is, however, a bittersweet historical phenomenon when the cultural intelligentsia takes hold of some work of greatness after its creator has passed, especially when said creators were largely ignored during their so-called heyday. Think Poe and Van Gogh, Nick Drake and Sublime. A Confederacy of Dunces. Kind of a bummer to think how ubiquitous "Nevermore" and "Starry Night" became, and how international car commercials and multiple dedicated cover bands now honor people's music that were passed over in real time. Sadder still to think that the public's appreciation once upon a time might possibly have saved these artists from untimely demises.
When I think of big songs that hit the charts posthumously, I always begin with "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay," released one month after Otis Redding's plane crash. "Me and Bobby McGee," Janis Joplin's take on the Kristofferson classic, came out three months after her overdose. "A Change Is Gonna Come." "Buffalo Soldier." "I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song."
Joy Division fits into both of these categories. The band, and this song.
Well now. As the Buckinghams sang, kind of a drag.
What I really came here to say today was that sometimes it's bloody brilliant when an artist publishes a work to no or relatively limited fanfare . . . but then is still around when it eventually hits the big time. I'm thinking strictly music for the moment, but I'm sure it has existed in all art forms.
Take for example, the (imho) severely annoying "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" by the Scottish act The Proclaimers. It did fairly well upon its release in August 1988. It did especially well in Iceland (!). It registered nothing on the US Richter scale. And then . . . Benny and Joon. A light fare American movie with Johnny Depp and Mary Stuart Masterson and mental illness actually treated relatively unidiotically. Eh. "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" was a lead single on the soundtrack and went to #3 on the Billboard charts. And it's hung around for way too long since. I do like this cover of it quite a bit, though.
"Red Red Wine" draws similarly scathing opinions from many, though not from me. It's a keeper, says this guy. A Neil Diamond number that was covered in a dancehall ska style by someone whose name should've been my alma mater's mascot (check it out), and then covered by UB40... who had not heard the original. It's a lot like when Camper van Beethoven covered the Chocolate Watchband version of the Kinks classic "I'm Not Like Everybody Else," even though they didn't know the original hit. You know? Of course.
Anyway, UB40's version of "Red Red Wine," off their exceptional 1983 collection of old reggae and ska covers, Labour of Love, topped the UK charts but only went to #34 in the US. According to Wikipedia:
In 1988, UB40 performed the song at the Nelson Mandela 70th Birthday Concert. Soon after, program director Guy Zapoleon of Phoenix-based KZZP placed the full version on the station's playlist, and it soon became the station's most popular song. With UB40 ready to release Labour of Love II, A&M Records promotion man Charlie Minor asked UB40 to hold off on releasing the album so that the label could reissue and promote "Red Red Wine." On the Billboard Hot 100 chart of October 15, 1988, the song hit No. 1.
Billy Vera and the Beaters. Household name? In 1986 they were! Their only hit, "At This Moment," stalled at #79 in 1981. But when the tune became Alex P. Keaton's love theme with his girlfriend Ellen (Tracy Pollan, still MJF's real-life wife) on Family Ties for a few episodes, it went to #1. Like Number One. Ridiculous. Have you heard it?
Brian Wilson. No, I meant, "Brian Wilson." The song. From everybody's favorite Canadian punching bag, Barenaked Ladies. Look, back in 1992, when rob was touring the Northeast US and parts of Canada as our fraternity's Pro Frat Guy, he came across BNL's debut Gordon. And he gave me the cassette to listen to when he retired from that gig. And it was good. Still listenable, if you're me. I'm sure NJDave doesn't like it, though I read that he recently succumbed to Steely Dan. The band, not this. Anyway, that album and the single "Brian Wilson" made a little hay on the Canadian charts, pretty good for a quintet of schmelts, but the rest of the world gave it a hard no. More of the same for their second and third albums. But when in doubt... do a live album!!
Rock Spectacle hit the shelves in 1997, and somewhere, our of nowhere, "Brian Wilson" caught fire. It's a rather solid version, complete with lots of audible fan-singing. (One of my favorite things.) But what DJ or promoter made this happen? Can't find that yet. Maybe the GTB intern can help. Pitter patter.
There are plenty of instances of songs taking a few years to break through, be they "Layla" or "Lady" or, of course, Inner Circle's "Bad Boys." But that's not what I'm here to discuss. (After all this, he has a relevant point?)
Enter Kate Bush. Nope, no jokes here.
For the woefully uninformed, Kate Bush is a British pop singer whose work dates back to the 1970's. While songs of hers like "This Woman's Work" and "Wuthering Heights" saw some success, and while I liked her for her back-up or duet turns on Peter Gabriel songs ("No Self Control," "Games Without Frontiers," and most prominently "Don't Give Up"), her biggest hit was always 1985's electronic-drum-backed "Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God)." I liked it then, I like it now. It's great vocally and is just 80's synth brilliance.
And a weird video apropos of the era.
"Running Up That Hill" found itself squarely in the alt-80's realm; it has played heavily on SiriusXM's First Wave channel for years. As for charting, with a hard ch, it peaked at #3 in the UK and #30 in the US back then. Not bad.
Kate Bush has kept making music, though nothing that has stood out, at least not like this tune. Meanwhile, her influence on vocalists of latter days, especially ones like Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos, is evident. Not a bad career at all.
And then... stranger things happened. I mean Stranger Things happened. The show started playing "Running Up That Hill" in this most recent season, thereby introducing it to a whole new generation of listeners and appreciators.
Right now, as we live and breathe and eat and drink and type and read, here are the "charts." Check it out!
US
UK
It's also #1 in Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, and Belgium.
I know, I know. I frequently rail about mainstream mass music tastes, the hideousness of Billboard this millennium, and the paper-thin pop that inhabits these annals. But still, for a 63-year-old singer/songwriter whose last #20 single in the US was never ever, this is unexpected and super cool.
I like cars. Always have. Some of my earliest memories revolve around my father's 1969 Butternut Yellow Chevrolet Impala convertible which as much a member of the family as any human being ever was. I do not take poetic license I say "earliest memories"--I remember driving along the West Side Highway with the top down (it was always down) and an American flag flying from the antenna to celebrate the Bicentennial. That car was more than a car, it was the first big purchase my father made after he graduated college and got a job, and for a young man who came here in the 1950s (as a refugee, really) it allowed him to tell the world that he made it. As a result I've always had a fondness for big American V8s and convertibles. If you think you don't like convertibles you're wrong. You've just been driving them in the sun too much. Convertibles peak at night.
On my 48th birthday I realized that this ride called life is about halfway over and that bothered me. I'm also bothered by the way things are changing. Our political system is a mess and our democracy might implode in a few years. Liner notes don't exist. Our economy appears to be on the brink of collapse. Former pro athletes who are younger than me have sons who are now pro athletes. Terrible viruses pop up out of nowhere. My kids have no concept of live TV.
I have automotive anxieties too. I will never be able to afford an air-cooled 911. New cars don't have buttons anymore, it's all touch screens. In ten years all new cars will be massive lozenge-shaped electronic transportation pods that drive themselves without your involvement so that you and six other people can stream movies to your phones or tablets while the pod delivers you to your destination. Don't even get me started on the dearth of cool car colors.
Or the dearth of cars! Everything is an SUV now and I have no idea why. I'm sure all of you have one but you shouldn't. The trunks are not bigger than a wagon's and the center of gravity is too high. They are a study in badproportion. Who looks at this and says "Yes! Take my $100,000 now!" Someday we will look back at these massively stretched front grills and laugh at them like tailfins from the 1950s.
And there are no sports cars! In 1995, Nissan sold the 300ZX, 240SX, 200SX, and the Sentra SE-R. Honda had the Civic Si, Civic Del Sol, and Prelude. Toyota had the Celica, Supra, and a go-fast version of the Corolla. Even frickin' Mazda had the MX-3, MX-6, Miata, and RX-7. Today? Nissan has the Z, Honda has the Civic Si, Toyota has the Supra, and Mazda has the Miata. And no one buys any of them.
All of this makes me feel sad and old. So I yearn for an analog car to take me back to simpler days when my future was big and bright and exciting.
But I also hate to let people down. Part of this translates into saving, rather than spending, to assure that I will never come up short if my family needs something. I currently drive a VW Golf Alltrack that costs me $323 a month (financed at 0%) and has a 6 year/60k mile warranty, a trunk bigger than your SUV, and storms through snow with aplomb. It pulls 0.84 g on the skidpad, which is pretty crazy considering that a Ferrari Testarossa pulls 0.87 g. You can't find a better deal--you probably pay more each month on your cable/internet bill, or your cell phone family plan. So I can't justify spending a lot of money on a toy car.
My financial advisor likes cars too, we met in the parking garage of our building when he pulled in with his 1968 Pontiac Firebird convertible. In our last meeting I joked about buying a toy car but he replied seriously with something like "You know cars. Go get something you will enjoy and that will hold value. It's a durable good! Think of it as a way to diversify your portfolio." He gave me a price range to work with and I started thinking and perusing BringaTrailer.com.
The first car I ever remember seeing and saying "Whoa! This changes everything!" was the 1984 Corvette. This was the fourth generation of the model so it's referred to as the C4. It looked like Chevy took a paring knife to a C3 to whittle away all the excess geegaws and indulgences of the 1970s and wound up with a land-going missile. There are no fender flares, no flying buttresses, no ducktails. There is zero chrome. When viewed in profile its pointed nose and notched back make it look like an arrow shot from Artemis's bow, especially the convertible.
Car & Driver previewed the gonzo ZR-1 version of the C4 in their October 1988 issue.
This issue also featured the only letter I've ever written that anyone ever published.
I can explain in the comments why that's funny if anyone cares. The ZR-1 captivated me. It had an engine made by Mercury Marine churning out 375 horsepower and Lotus helped design the whole thing using their Formula 1 experience. It was faster than just about anything from German or Italy but it didn't stand out. Aside from the square tail lights it looked just like a regular C4, and after a year or two all C4s had the square tail lights. Stealth speed!
In high school I wrote my AP English term paper on the history of the Corvette. It held my interest any my teacher's--she gave me an A and wrote me a letter of recommendation that helped me get into W&M.
All this is to say I've been a C4 ZR-1 fan for a long time. It seems like I should drive a 1994 Corvette ZR-1 in Polo Green over beige. And I almost did.
But I waffled. This is the right ZR-1. It's crispy as hell but with 48k miles you can actually drive it without incurring serious depreciation. These used to sell for $20k to $25k but the vintage car market is up and so are ZR-1 prices. This one hammered at $32k and for me that's just too much for a 28-year-old car that has a lot of rare (only about 6900 were made) fussy parts that you probably can't get at your local Chevy dealer. This one won an award or two so the owner is really more of a caretaker than a driver. I absolutely would love to drive this, but it isn't my WCSAGD.
My real weakness is small, light roadsters like the Lotus Elan which inspired the Mazda Miata. Owning an Elan is like owning a sailboat, you're constantly throwing money at it, and I already had a Miata. I want something relatively reliable with readily available parts and that service stations know how to repair. I also want something interesting--I love cars with five cylinders, French cars, three-wheelers, anything that involves a different engineering take on the automotive experience. In a perfect world I would have a Porsche 959 in my garage but that isn't in the cards.
I should drive a 2004 Porsche Boxster S in Lago green over Savannah Beige with a black top and basket wheels.
And now I do.
2004 was the last year of the first generation Boxster, the 986. The S version has a 3.2 liter flat-6 good for 258 horsepower. That isn't a ton of oomph these days, but it only has to push around 2,911 pounds of car. Flat, or horizontally-opposed, engines are cool. They make it easier to fit more cylinders in a tight space like a V, but because they're flat they allow for a lower center of gravity.
I've owned a flat-4 and a straight-6 but never a flat-6, until now.
Even cooler: the Boxster is mid-engined. This means that the engine sits between the driver's back and the rear axle, exactly where God and Isaac Newton intended. Putting the engine there puts most of the car's weight there, which means it handles really well.
A mid-engined, flat-6, rear-wheel-drive, two-seater convertible? Sounds like a different automotive take to me.
I still have to figure out OBX Dave's car, but the rest of you have already been given your assignments. Go out there and get your WCSAGD.
There are a bunch of sports-related things I vividly remember from my youth. Yaz popping up to Graig Nettles to end the 1978 AL East playoff. Cried at that one. The Miracle on Ice. Ran around the living room with my Dad then. Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Got drunk in a hotel room on a high school field trip shortly thereafter. Bird versus Magic, so many times - joy and pain in mostly equal measure.
But none of those events hit me viscerally in the same way that something that happened 36 years ago today did.
I was a Boston Celtics fan at the time. Red Auerbach had pulled off another draft miracle, nabbing Maryland's Len Bias with the second pick, a selection the defending champions had because of a trade two years earlier. The 1985-86 C's were loaded, and the prospect of adding the hyper-athletic and ultra-competitive Bias to a frontcourt with Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, and Bill Walton was the stuff of giddy-making anticipation.
And then he died, just two days later.
I was watching the local news when the story came over the air. It was the most shocking thing I'd experienced in my young life, and it left an indelible mark. To this day, I've never had any interest in going near cocaine - if it could kill a man of Bias' size and fitness, well that scared (and still does) the everlovin' hell out of me.
"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'"
The game is one thing. Sadder more is what was lost to Len Bias the person and his family. Still guts me to think about.
My heart is a wondrously robust organ that periodically reminds me of its flaws. I have an irregular heartbeat, what’s called atrial fibrillation. The electrical circuitry of the upper chambers, or atria, isn’t sync’d with the lower chambers, or ventricles, for regular, rhythmic pumps.
I’ve had three procedures to try to remedy the condition, but none of them have held. My docs assure me that plenty of people have a-fib and with medication and regular checkups live well into their 70s and 80s. I’m not in a-fib all the time and I’m mostly asymptomatic, so it’s not a burden. Me and my heart get along fine, without incident. Usually.
In a span of 32 hours, I went from a guy who was uncommonly fatigued to a guy with a pacemaker. Jarring doesn’t begin to describe the process. Hospitals, tests, transport, absurdly quick turnarounds, exceptionally gifted doctors and nurses. In and out in two days, with a piece of medical hardware embedded in my shoulder. Crazy.
I had felt lethargic for a few days. Walking and jogging around the neighborhood, climbing steps, I tired more quickly than usual and my breathing was a bit labored. I told my wife one morning that something was off. Called my primary care doc, and knowing my history and condition, he said, go to the ER. They can do more tests than I can in my office. Went to the ER at the hospital here on the Outer Banks. They hooked me up to monitors, drew blood, gave me a COVID test (I wondered if that’s what it was). Blood work came back fine. COVID test was negative.
But it turned out that I had a baseline heart rate of a hibernating bear – low 30s. Normal is between 60 and 100. Over the course of the next few hours, it occasionally spiked up into the 50s and 60s, but then fell back to the low 30s and even upper 20s a few times. My a-fib was unrelated to the low heart rate, which docs said almost certainly caused my fatigue and shortness of breath. Yay, an entirely different issue.
Late afternoon, a cardio doc’s assistant came to the room and talked up the sequence of scheduling a cardiac consultation, then a stress test, and a subsequent evaluation of data, with the possibility of a pacemaker some time down the line. Twenty-five minutes later, an emergency room doc to whom I am forever grateful came in and said that after speaking with cardio specialists, no point in postponing the inevitable, that I needed a pacemaker ASAP.
She contacted Norfolk’s heart hospital to secure an open bed and got in touch with the office of my electro cardio doc who had performed previous procedures on me to see if they had an opening the next day, which they did.
A few hours later, a county EMS ambulance with a three-person crew schlepped me to Norfolk.
Late-night check-in. Monitors (heart rate still in 30s). Blood drawn. Little sleep. Nurses and doctors stopped in overnight and the next morning to check vitals and explain what was up. No food all day because I was scheduled for a procedure that afternoon. Around 5:30 p.m., wheeled into operating room, where an engaging, genial doc performed the procedure. Gave me a fist-bump before he scrubbed and we both said, “Let’s do this.”
One unsettling development among many, I was mostly awake for the procedure. They covered my face with a couple of cloths, I’m guessing so that I didn’t see the liberal amounts of blood involved. I felt zero pain, but definitely felt the doc pushing and pulling in and around the incision. A few times, somebody lifted a cloth, peeked in and said, “Hey Mr. Fairbank, how you doing? You OK in there?”
I answered yeah and told them that it was some damn wizardry they were pulling off. The procedure normally takes about an hour, I was told. They finished me in 31 minutes. So, in the time it takes for an oil change, I had an electronic device inserted that would help keep me alive.
They make an incision in the front of your upper left torso, just below the shoulder. The pacemaker itself is about the size of an Oreo cookie. Mine is a two-wire lead, with one wire fished into the heart’s upper chamber and the other in a lower chamber. The battery lasts 7 to 10 years, depending on how frequently it’s needed. The baseline heart rate is set at 60, so any time my rate dips below that, the device kicks in. It comes with a monitor that you plug in bedside. Once or twice a day, the pacemaker transmits data to the monitor (how I spent my day), which then sends info to my cardiologist’s office. The cardiologist will call if something peculiar shows up.
They kept me overnight for observation. The next morning, various docs came through and said I did well and looked good. I was signed out by late morning and home early afternoon. My left shoulder is sore. I can’t lift anything with my left arm, nor raise my left arm above my shoulder for a couple weeks. I cannot drive for a couple weeks, either. Sleeping is interesting, because if I even think about rotating onto my left side, my shoulder lets me know it. But everyone assures me that I will gradually get back to normal, including one of the Norfolk cardio docs who also has a pacemaker and let me feel the small lump where his was inserted.
One amusing part of the entire process was that at each stop along the way, I drew double-takes and quizzical looks and pleasant surprise from almost everyone, based on advance information they had before actually seeing me. Sixty-something male, a-fib, a-flutter, heart rate in low 30s. It was as if they expected me to be comatose or at death’s door. When I walked and talked and goofed with people, it was a bonus. “You’re doing great,” they told me, or in phone conversations with colleagues they said, “No, he’s not like that at all. He’s doing really well. He’s up and around and talking to everybody.” More than once I said, “Not bad for a cadaver.”
All this said, I’m well aware that I’m blessed beyond explanation. There are plenty of places where it wouldn’t have played out the way it did. Even here it might not have worked out. Maybe a bed isn’t available at the Norfolk hospital. Maybe none of the electro cardio wizards have an opening. Maybe I’m wait-listed for tests and consultations, and dragging around wheezing for weeks or months. Maybe my ticker limps to a halt. Instead, me and my heart, and my heart’s new buddy, have more ahead.
Dad died on a late Thursday afternoon a little more than 16 years ago, just shy of his 80th birthday. Hewas unconscious, laid up in an assisted living facility south of Baltimore. His breathing had slowed and grown erratic in the days prior. He was no longer able to feed himself and labored to swallow when others tried to feed him. He couldn’t speak, and his eyes registered only flickers of recognition now and again.
That afternoon, shortly before dinner time, his body simply quit.
Truth be told, he had pretty much checked out months earlier. That’s the way Alzheimer’s works.
Everyone knows about the cognitive decline and memory loss associated with the disease, but it also affects higher neurological functions such as heart rate, breathing, digestion and sleep patterns. Victims have trouble with nutrition and proper hydration. Those afflicted eventually lose balance and coordination, so are often confined to beds. They cannot communicate, nor control their bladder and bowels. Pneumonia and bacterial infections are leading causes of death among advanced Alzheimer’s patients, often because they are too weak or immunocompromised to respond to treatment that would cure an otherwise healthy person.
I write this not to bring down the room, but as a reminder and a gentle nudge. Dad’s birthdate and anniversary of his death were recent, so I’ve been thinking about him. Also, June is Alzheimer’s and Brain Awareness Month. As all of you are younger than me, many of your parents are still alive and kicking. I recommend that you spend time with and appreciate your parents while you can, challenging or maddening as they might be.
I don’t know if any of you have been touched by Alzheimer’s or dementia, but it’s a damnable disease I wouldn’t wish on Vladimir Putin. Anything that robs you of you is beyond pernicious and heartbreaking to those around you.
Dad was in decline for several years, and Mom had to move him to multiple facilities for more comprehensive care as his condition worsened. She could only bring herself to visit him every few days, especially in the later stages, because she could hardly bear to see her husband and partner, her light and her rock, of 50-plus years erode into a shell of himself.
I didn’t blame her one bit. When I visited, sometimes he recognized me and sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes I was just a friendly face who came to say hello and sit with him for a while.
It was back in my sportswriting days, so whether he was asleep or awake, whether he recognized me or not, I told him what I’d been up to the previous couple weeks and what was ahead – events I covered, people I interviewed, who was playing well and who wasn’t.
Dad’s condition also prompted my mom to tell my sister and me, regularly and insistently: Don’t wait. If there’s something you want to do, some place you want to go, don’t wait; do it, ASAP, because there are no guarantees.
Mom and Dad did some traveling after he retired. They hoped to do more, intended to do more, but other concerns or situations arose that shelved plans. No problem, they thought, we’ll get around to it. Once Dad started to decline, hopes and intentions evaporated.
Chances are, Alzheimer’s and dementia will affect all of us, directly or indirectly. The Alzheimer’s Association estimates that 6.5 million Americans have the disease. As the population ages, that number is expected to rise to 13 million by 2050. Approximately one in nine people age 65 or older has Alzheimer’s. The disease is expected to cost the country $321 billion, including more than $200 billion in Medicare and Medicaid payments. Unless treatment to slow or prevent the disease is developed, the cost is expected to hit $1 trillion by 2050.
The country is woefully thin on geriatric care specialists. Half of primary care physicians reported that they don’t feel adequately prepared to care for patients with Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia. Only 12 percent of nurse practitioners have expertise in gerontological care, and less than one percent of registered nurses, physicians’ assistants and pharmacists identify themselves as specializing in geriatrics.
All of this is to say, be aware of your parents and oldsters in your orbit. Recognize that forgetfulness and confusion may be signs of regular aging, or may signal something more significant. Listen. Talk to experts. Get them tested. It may require some difficult decisions. Give them a hug. Give them some help, whether they think they need it or not.
Posts
