June 2014 - Page 6 of 7 - Ramblin' with Roger

D-Day; Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou was just this FORCE, her speaking voice like music, her wisdom and compassion evident in every sentence.

As D-Day approaches, all I can think about are 90-year-old men who saw awful things but sucked it up to get through the events, and then stoically never talked about them. That is until 50 or 60 or 70 years later – goaded by family members or in recognition of their own mortality, as at least 600 WWII vets die EVERY DAY in the US – they start telling their stories. And while unique, they are the same story, of friends, of an officer who died that day, of bodies they tripped over while trying to maintain their position.

And, almost inevitably, they cry. They weep for those comrades they still know by name 70 years after they perished, tears that they weren’t allowed to shed at the time because it wouldn’t have been “manly.”

In some ways, it reminds me of the Holocaust survivors who blocked out the horror they saw until much later. They say “war is hell” for a reason. And that was a conflict generally supported by the American public, something I must say I’ve never really experienced in my lifetime; either initially or subsequently, Americans have grown weary of the wars we fought.

So World War II becomes “the good war.” As though there is any such thing.

All these people have written these great Maya Angelou stories and cited her quotes. And while I’ve read a lot of great tributes to her, I don’t have one and haven’t seen one, that exactly captures my feelings, though “Scandal” and “Grey’s Anatomy” showrunner Shonda Rhimes tweeting simply, “Maya” is pretty close.

I mean, I remember seeing the 1979 TV adaptation of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and only reading the book later. Or I could note seeing her in everything from Roots to Sesame Street to Touched by an Angel. Sometime recently, I even linked to her calypso singing. Unfortunately, I never met her, though I’m likely to have been as tongue-tied as Keef was.

But for me, she was just this FORCE, her speaking voice like music, her wisdom and compassion evident in every sentence. For decades she was like a grandmother talking, trying to relay important knowledge.

I bought for The Wife, probably for some occasion in early 2002 – Valentine’s Day or our anniversary – Hallmark tan/green pottery bowl with these Maya Angelou words inside: “Life is a glorious banquet, a limitless and delicious buffet.”

The morning Maya died, I was reading someone’s Facebook post, someone who was hoping that she would get better after she’d declined to attend some event in her honor. Then the Albany NBC-TV affiliate, WNYT, citing a station in Winston-Salem, NC reported her death. But still, I waited until other sources confirmed it – and her Wikipedia post quickly noted her in the past tense – before I could really believe it.

What is the most influential song of all time?

What would YOU pick as the most influential song of all time, and why?

The June 2014 Atlantic asked the above as its Big Question. Naturally, it’s a patently absurd task to even try to answer. Of course, people did, as Oklahoma blogger Dustbury noted. Quite a few responses for We Shall Overcome, which is an understandable choice.

My off-the-cuff choice, without overthinking it, was among Ode To Joy, appropriated for Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony; This Land Is Your Land, Woody Guthrie’s American anthem; or She Loves You, the song with the “Yeah, yeah, yeah” that epitomized Beatlemania, and all it wrought.

What would YOU pick, and why?

Well, maybe not ALL people, but…

How is it that rape and sexual assault is so common on college campuses and in the nation’s military?

Ken Screven was, according to the Times Union newspaper’s Chris Churchill, “the most recognizable black person here in one of the nation’s whitest metropolitan areas,” i.e., Albany-Schenectady-Troy, NY, for most of his 34 years as a now-retired television reporter. Having lived here for most of this period, I daresay Churchill was right. Screven even covered a couple of stories I was involved with, notably the January 1985 Rock for Raoul benefit, honoring the late Albany cartoonist/FantaCo employee/my friend Raoul Vezina.

I had this, literally, a nodding acquaintance with Screven when I’d see him in Albany’s Center Square, sort of the curse someone who has met a LOT of people (Ken) go through. We’ve more recently become Facebook friends, sometime after he became a blogger for the Times Union website, as I am.

Churchill reported: “Cellphone footage of the [Arbor Hill street brawl among black teens]… has circulated widely by now. Screven saw it shortly after it happened — on Facebook — and decided it would be provocative material for [his] blog… So he posted it, along with his reaction.”

Part of the narrative was that Screven found “the fight troubling — and, as an African-American, embarrassing.” And I totally GOT that, because I tend to feel that way. My late father most assuredly did.

Churchill noted that he doesn’t feel embarrassed by the stupid things white people do – such as the Kegs and Eggs riot of 2011 in Albany – and I’m sure that is true. Screven noted, “It just takes one black person to do one bad thing and the whole culture is demonized… The white culture is going to say, ‘There they go again.'”

Churchill is technically correct when he suggests that “not the entire white culture” reacts that way. It happens often enough, though, that this cartoon by Keith Knight feels very true, particularly the comparison between a misguided youth and a thug.

I remember reading a black columnist back in December 1993 – William Raspberry, perhaps? – talking about how much he, and black people he knew, hoped that the Long Island Railroad massacre shooter was not black. Of course, he was.

In an interesting variation, I’m now seeing this narrative, after the recent shootings near Santa Barbara, California, about some men feeling a sense of entitlement when it comes to access to women’s bodies. #NotAllMen, the Twitter hashtag reads; some guys are decent, sensitive souls who fight sexism with every fiber of their being, and surely that is true. We should not castigate an entire gender, because isn’t that prejudiced?

Yet #YesAllWomen resonates as true. I know a strong, independent, accomplished, married woman who has recently noted: “an innate instinct of self-protection around, yes, most men learned very early.” Women give out wrong phone numbers, tell guys they have a boyfriend (this piece notwithstanding), avoid eye contact with men lest they think you’re “interested.” You don’t even have to be in conversation with a guy; the drive-by schmucks are alive and well.

How is it that rape and sexual assault are so common on college campuses and in the nation’s military? Why are women demanding the same access to contraceptives as men do to Viagra met with slut-shaming? How is it that “gun extremists” target women with spitting, stalking, and threats of rape?

What has prompted someone to initiate a petition to stop sexual harassment at the San Diego Comic-Con and to create a formal anti-harassment policy, a document I signed, BTW? Maybe it’s Yes, All Men? Or as Louis CK put it, “There is no greater threat to women than men.”

No, most men are not rapists, or deadbeat dads, or mass murders. But almost all mass murders are men, and, in the United States, white men at that. Maybe that’s a good thing, because, perhaps, the situation will spark enough concern and outrage to aid in dealing with mental health issues, and controlling the sale of guns to people who are deranged. Nah, I’m just messing with you; we’ll have the same damn conversation after the next massacre.

The Beekman Boys; and my librarian ways

I had a margarita, one of the few times I want added salt.

After breakfast at the Limestone Mansion in Cherry Valley, NY, the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, Loretta, the co-owner, asked The Wife and me if we were going to the Sharon Springs Garden Party. We had no idea what the heck she was talking about. In the nearby town of Sharon Springs, there have been events in the spring and fall that the whole town is involved with.

But before hopping into the car, we decided to stroll, first uptown to the library, which was closed because there was a book sale downtown. (These are not great distances; the population of the village was 520 at the 2010 Census.)

No, I DON’T need any more books. Still, in addition to signs for buy different books based on various criteria, they had one that said. “Book bag – $10. Bookbag filled with books – $10.” I cannot resist. Got some books for the Daughter. The Wife’s great find was a recipe book of the great inns of the area. I always wanted to read The Hornet’s Nest by Jimmy Carter, the first work of fiction ever published by a U.S president. Somehow, I find myself helping one of the organizers put together the books by Nora Roberts, James Patterson, Patricia Cornwell, and other fiction authors. I had such comradery with these people who, twenty minutes earlier, were total strangers. My efforts were appreciated, which was extremely affirming.

Then we drove about seven miles to the Sharon Springs school, where buses brought us the mile or so into town. Lots of great vendors. At least two of them were using something called Square to accept my credit card, whereby I sign using my fingertip. Unfortunately, the rains came, but we hung out on the lengthy front porch of The American Hotel, a once-beat-up old building that has been revitalized, as has the town.

As the rains let up, we wandered over to Beekman 1802 Mercantile, this upscale chichi store with goat cheese, fancy soaps, and the like. It was really crowded, and I stood off to the side, as I watched who I thought was one of the salespeople, most clearly from New York City. In fact, it turned out to be Brent Ridge (above right), one of the owners, with Josh Kilmer-Purcell, of the store. Ah, these were The Fabulous Beekman Boys, who bought a farm in 2007, have had a reality show about the said farm (which I haven’t seen), WON the reality show The Amazing Race in 2012 (ditto), and got married in the spring of 2013. The Wife enjoyed the store experience more than I, who was feeling a tad claustrophobic.

We returned to the Limestone, then planned to make reservations for dinner, but our cellphones NEVER worked in either Cherry Valley or Sharon Springs; Verizon, si, Virgin Mobile, no, we later learn. Decided to chance walking to The Rose and Kettle, based on its great reviews, but, already at 6 p.m., it was already booked.

We went across the street to the Cantina de Salsa. It too was booked, but we could, and did, sit and eat at the bar. I had a margarita, one of the few times I want added salt. My bride had a Sangria, with orange juice squeezed fresh in front of us. He had just a little left over which he put in a mini shot glass for me; can’t tell you why, but it was funny, which was what he was going for.

The guy next to me, obviously a regular, left for a time to see a lady about a cat; his mom’s cat had died after 18 and a half years. He came soon thereafter because the lady was making a pot pie.

Somehow, the lyrics from a song from Oklahoma! came up: “It’s a scandal! It’s a outrage!” I noted the intentional linguistic error, and Cat Guy asked if I were an English teacher. I said, no, but my wife is. He concluded that her skills have rubbed off on me.

The bartender, who I suspect was an owner, or THE owner, was bright, attentive, and entertaining. I can think of only one specific example. Cat Guy made some comment, and just then the Stray Cats came on the radio, which he noted, and I appreciated the segue.

The food was good too and filling. At the end of our time there, the bartender said that he really appreciated serving us, and that was not “just a default line.”

We needed to walk off dinner, so we wandered around town looking for an apparently non-existent payphone. As we came back by the Cantina, Cat Guy was out front, so I asked if HIS cellphone worked here. It did, and I called my in-laws to make plans for Sunday brunch. I didn’t hear this, but Cat Guy was so impressed that I remember that his mom had had the cat for 18 years; I actually remembered the half, but it seemed too weird. In any case, he said that she must be lucky to have such a great listener as a husband. What else could she do but agree?

That was the second time that day we had borrowed a telephonic device. The first was a table at the Garden Party when a young woman offered to call the Tryon Inn so we could make Sunday reservations; she is friends with the new chef. That meal was also quite good. Afterward, we got to meet the sous chef, who has been cooking for 13 years, though she’s but 20; and the aforementioned young chef.

A lovely weekend. (A sidebar story to come.)

U is for Unique: Sly & the Family Stone

(The second, and final, letter for which I couldn’t find a musical family group.)

Sylvester Stewart was a record producer and DJ in the San Francisco Bay Area; I have a very early Billy Preston produced by him. He changed his name to Sly Stone, and started a band, as did his brother Freddie. The groups merged in 1967 to become Sly & the Family Stone, with sister Vaetta as one of the background singers. The band was unique, in part, because it was racially mixed at a point when that just wasn’t done. Their songs, especially by their third album, Life, was infused with themes about unity and integration.

Sly’s music was so good that it would be sampled years later. At about 40 seconds into that great Fatboy Slim video featuring Christopher Walken, I hear echoes of Sly’s Into My Own Thing [LISTEN to both]. It was clear that the psychedelic soul of Motown, especially by the Temptations producer Norman Whitfield, came from the group’s sound, notably Larry Graham’s bass playing, and the shared lead vocals; George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic and many others would also be influenced.

Yet, except for the title song from the second album, Dance to the Music [LISTEN] (#8 US in 1968), the band was not having much commercial success, despite the addition of sister Rose on that second album.

Things changed with the fourth album, Stand!, which made my list of Top 25 favorite albums of the decade 1961-1970 [LISTEN TO ALL]:
I Want to Take You Higher, #60 US in 1969, #38 in 1970 when it was re-released after their legendary Woodstock appearance that I loved watching on the film
Sing a Simple Song, a B-side that got to #89 US on its own
Everyday People, #1 US for four weeks in 1969
You Can Make It If You Try
and the title track, #22 US in 1969

But the album I would have rather have put on the list, had it been permitted, was their greatest hits album, which featured these songs not found on other albums:
Hot Fun in the Summertime, #2 US in 1969 (“ooo, Lawd”)
Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin, #1 US in 1970 [this is a remake]
Everybody is a Star, its B-side

Unfortunately, members of the band, and especially Sly, got caught up in heavy drug use.

The last Sly album I bought, until considerably later, was the druggy There’s A Riot Going On, with two Top 40 singles in the US, Family Affair, #1 for three weeks in 1971, and Runnin’ Away, #23 US in 1972.

The group was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1993, with George Clinton as the presenter.

The Family Stone is still playing together in 2014, alas without Sly.

ABC Wednesday – Round 14