Monthly Archives: November 2013

Cold, Crisp, Clear, Thanksgiving Day Hot Air

The Spirit Of The Day

Life could be better for all of us. Some much more than others.

My life didn’t turn out precisely the way I envisioned it when I was a dopey young ‘un. Then again, no one’s ever has. I think every day of opportunities missed and blown, of people I’ve hurt — unintentionally and not, of times I could have done good and well for those I know and those I don’t.

Sometimes I mope. I think, Poor, dear me.

I’ll bet you do too.

But my life and yours are are richer in material goods, food, energy, water, and books, newspapers and websites we can read freely, than the vast majority of people on this crazy, mixed-up Earth.

I’m no jingoist but I know what we’ve got. And it’s of utmost importance that we remember our riches come — all too often — at the expense of others.

Boy, do I have riches. I’ve got:

◗ The Loved One

◗ Steve the Dog and Terra & Kofi the Pussycats

◗ This interwebs machine I’m clacking away on

◗ A beautiful home with a big yard

◗ A full refrigerator (I’ve still got some leftover meatballs in it plus the homemade pierogis TLO whipped up yesterday afternoon)

◗ A medical and pharmacological establishment based on science that has come up with a way to save the life of a person who has Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy with subsequent Congestive Heart Failure

HCM

My Big Heart

◗ A talent for writing, communicating, and making people laugh

◗ The tiny bit of hair left on my head

◗ Margaret, Crystal, Coley, Christie, Patti, and everything to be found in the treasure chest/toy box that is 100 N. Walnut St.

Book Corner

Alycin, Joe, Jalisa, Jim, Jeff, Joy, Liza, Steve, Hondo, and all the rest of the kooks, cranks, oddballs, misfits, and pure geniuses who make WFHB the hippest trip in B-town

◗ Sophia, Dan, Matthew, and Ari

◗ A still-new home town that welcomed me with open arms

◗ The guy I voted for twice as president, even if he isn’t exactly the guy I’d wish him to be

Theo Epstein and Jed Hoyer — people think that because I’m an atheist I’m not a man of faith; oh, my friends, I must disagree!

Hoyer/Epstein

High Priests

And, trust me kiddies, I’m rich beyond belief for all you who read these ridiculous, subversive, inane, prankish word spurts on The Electron Pencil. I’ve got something better than money in the bank; I’ve got Pencillistas!

No Hot Air At All

Chad’s Turn

An open letter from a prince of a guy:

Carrothers

Chad Carrothers

Dear WFHB family,

Watching the events of the last few weeks unfold has been tremendously difficult for all of us.  Decisions were made that many of us didn’t understand.  Frustration boiled over as communication failed on all sides.  Mistakes have been made and the blame game got intensely fierce.  I felt it so deeply and personally that there were times I got physically ill.  I didn’t sleep for days at a time.  I felt torn in different directions by people I thought were my friends spewing nonsense or trying to make me their poster boy or martyr.  This was never about me.

I walked a SUPER fine line as the Friends of WFHB site grew.  I posted no opinions, resolving instead that my role was to provide context and answer questions objectively.  I held my breath to see if this new forum could survive the firestorm that gave birth to it and the ensuing growing pains.  I abhorred the ignorance of a select few who espoused intolerance, yet as someone who has dedicated his entire professional career to this organization, which professes to exist to cultivate open dialogue, I knew that price had to be paid if we are to honor our mission.  Meanwhile I was sickened by the notion that genuine expressions of concern and dissent could be marginalized or shamed or dismissed by the false legal specter of “libel” puffing up its chest to suppress constitutionally protected speech.

Community radio was created to call that bluff.

And now, finally, a decision I can get behind.  The selection of Cleveland Dietz as GM is the natural conclusion to a process that began when I recruited him to take over for me this summer.  Cleveland was my “right hand man” and I insisted that he be offered the position of Interim GM.  At the time he doubted whether he was up to it and maybe others did too, but it is obvious to staff and board that he has worked his ass off to remove all doubt.  I will personally do whatever I can to support Cleveland and that’s exactly what you need to do too.

While I’m bossing you around, there’s another matter to tend to:  the future of our board of directors.  I’ve heard it suggested that the board hold a “reboot” election in which all nine board seats are put up for grabs in a special election in which current board members could run alongside new prospects generated by the fresh interest in station affairs.  A fascinating idea, but all six remaining board members would have to agree to this so I doubt it will happen.  At the very least we have three seats open RIGHT NOW that you can apply to fill by emailing president@wfhb.org.  Could we PLEASE get a freakin’ board treasurer?!!  Since the three-year board terms are staggered, several more may come open at the annual meeting in June.  Either way, I believe board prez Joe Estivill is genuinely interested in representative government.  For years he and I have both been begging for more participation from participating members.  Maybe this whole mess is what finally gets people to realize:

I am WFHB and so are YOU.  Everyone has a seat at this table.

With much love and respect,

Chad Carrothers
WFHB Volunteer, Former GM, Former News Director

Hot Air-waves V

Cleveland Rocks

Here’s how the news reached my ears…, er, eyes.

Monday, the night of the mildly tumultuous WFHB Board of Directors meeting in City Council chambers, I was expecting that august body to do a quick, pro-forma vote to extend Cleveland Dietz as acting general manager through December 31st. After all, that’s what Cleveland himself had told me would happen.

But the Board had been spanked verbally by many in the volunteer membership for much of the evening and, toward the end of the night, announced it would gather in closed session to talk about Cleveland’s future.

Dietz

Cleveland Dietz

A future, by the way, I figured at that moment would last until the spring, at least with regard to our town’s community radio station. Cleveland himself had told me the Board expected to conduct another seemingly endless (my adjectives, not his) search for a permanent czar and the whole shebang could take until April. He caught himself when he said that and asked me not to mention the April thing in this communication colossus. I agreed to zip it.

It puzzled me that the Board should have to shut the public out of so minor a move — minor, that is, in light of the whole botched GM search that has been going on since…, hmm, let’s see now, oh, since Bill Clinton was president.

I pressed Board prez Joe Estivill for any information at all on Cleveland’s status. Joe shook his head. He wouldn’t commit to anything. I could only get him to commit to calling me when the Board finished up with its closed session.

Joe did call as Monday turned into Tuesday. The news he had for me was no news at all. The Board hadn’t voted on extending Cleveland as official seat-warmer and, in fact, had been discussing “some other issues” and would have something to say within 24 hours. I’d already started falling asleep when Joe’s call came in so, through the haze, I grunted humph. I like scoops and this, quite frankly, wasn’t much of one.

It seemed to me at the time that the Board had decided its best form of action in light of the Kevin Culbertson fiasco was to dither. Officially.

Joe asked me to sit on the “some other issues” news, to which a readily agreed. Surely there’d be no Pulitzer prize awaiting me for breaking the news that the Board was, y’know, thinking about something or another.

Flash forward to last night at precisely 11:40. Again, I was wrapped in the arms of Morpheus when the phone rang. By the time I picked it up, the caller’d hung up. It had been Joe. So eager was I to slip back into the dreamless that I decided, hell, I can call him back tomorrow morning. Surely whatever he had to reveal to me could wait.

I tossed and turned for an hour and a half until I sprang up from the pillow. Of course! I’ve got it! The Board decided Monday night to go back and offer the job to good old Chad Carrothers!

I jumped up and debated whether I should call Joe back immediately. Then I figured the poor old soul was probably drifting off into Z-ville himself. On a hunch, I cranked up this internet machine, just on the odd chance Joe’d sent me an email or Facebook message that Chad was back in the fold and all would be right with the world.

Once the Indian head test pattern had dissolved and Facebook flashed on my screen, I saw the real news.

Cleveland, that lucky dog, is in. For the long haul. Congratulations to the new permament general manager of radio station WFHB.

After six months of hand-wringing, waiting by the phone, and consulting oracles and tea leaves to find a new holder of the station’s riding crop, the Board has done something right. And the rest of us ought to pat the seven of them collectively on the back.

Tabbing Cleveland to steer the ship for the next few years is the safest and most healing move the Board could make.

Who has any problems with Cleveland Dietz? He’s as mild-mannered and uncontroversial a figure as can be found in the state of Indiana. Plus, he’s been trained in his job by none other than Chad Carrothers himself, whose coat he’d held in his role as assistant GM prior to CC’s unexpected move to the west last summer.

He’s proven himself capable and keeping him on permanently ensures that the station won’t go through any wrenching transition under a stranger. And even if the Board had elected to ask  Chad to sit in his old chair, there’d be grumblings from those who found the old boss a little too rough around the edges.

The first person who complains about the Cleveland hire is nothing more than a person who complains obsessively, and maybe professionally.

Maryll Jones broke the news about Cleveland to the public and that’s as it should be. She spent a lot of time and energy — both physical and emotional — wrangling the roomful of cats that comprise the Friends of WFHB. I, for one, would like to see her sit on the Board of Directors just as soon as the rest of us can vote her in.

Hot Air-waves IV

[A caveat: Although The Electron Pencil occasionally brings you news, you should not consider it a straight news site. Everything I present here is colored by my opinions and slants. As a good consumer of information, you should look upon all news sources in that light. One of my idols, Studs Terkel, once said there is no such thing as pure objectivity and I agree with him. I’m not terribly interested in false platitudes like “fair and balanced” nor do I consider a journalist someone who has some mystical access to a higher truth. That said, this is a reminder: I didn’t like the WFHB Board of Directors’ selection of Kevin Culbertson as the new general manager one bit. I also think the Board is in danger of becoming a kind of regal power, divorced from the everyday concerns of the station, its staff, and the volunteers. The fact that some members of the Board are not actual volunteers at the station concerns me. The added fact that they selected an out-of-stater indicates that they no longer understand the simple concept of community radio. Savvy? Okay, read on.]

The Mob Has Its Say

The WFHB Board of Directors met last night at City Hall. Their normal meeting room was deemed too small to accommodate the unusually large turnout of volunteers and interested parties who came to talk and hear about the Kevin Culbertson affair.

Board boss Joe Estivill swiftly corralled a janitor and convinced him to let the whole gang meet in City Council chambers. The Board members arranged their seats under the great seal of Bloomington and the lower gallery was filled with onlookers. It was an exciting moment in the history of the non-profit, community radio station.

WFHB Button

To borrow and mangle a line from some poet/playwright you may have heard of, they came not to praise Kevin Culbertson, but to bury him.

Well, not him, exactly, but the whole fiasco that led to his withdrawing from the job at the eleventh hour.

All seven regular Board members plus the ex-officio member, acting GM Cleveland Dietz, were in attendance. Joe Estivill opened the meeting by allowing the public to make its statements before the Board would conduct its regular business. Here are the highlights from the public comments:

◗ Maryll Jones was first up. Jones started the Facebook group Friends of WFHB in response to a growing firestorm over the Culbertson selection. Last night, she decried the “lack of transparency with the hiring process, the lack of communication with the volunteers and the overall sense that the opinions of the volunteers did not matter in Board or station business.” She said she worried that the unusual length of time without a GM might adversely affect station funding.

◗ Marcus Lowe, a former WFHB GM followed. “We just want you to do something,” he said. He added, “Find a general manager to lead us,” and “Overall, I’m disappointed and looking for leadership and I’m not seeing it.”

◗ Volunteer Louis Malone was third. Referring to potential bad publicity from the botched GM search, he warned, “We need to be very careful about how we portray the image of WFHB.” Later he said, “Now we are sitting at a precipice,” and “Everything could have been done a little bit better.” He concluded by chiding the most virulent of Culbertson’s detractors who compared his past associations with Christian broadcasting companies to membership in the Ku Klux Klan.

◗ Anson Shute then took the microphone. “I’m going to put my name in nomination for the Board,” he said. Then, referring to online criticism of Culbertson, he said, “We could get sued!”

Bring It On producer Clarence Boone told the crowd he was hurt by the reaction to Culbertson. “It was mean-spirited,” he said. Culbertson was run off by “bullying techniques.” He turned to the gallery and said, “I hope those irresponsible folks are proud of themselves.” He called for the Board to send an open letter of apology to Culbertson. “Mr. Culbertson,” he said, “has every right to retain an attorney and go for the jugular.”

◗ One of the founders of WFHB, Jeff Morris, came next. He felt the reaction to Culbertson could have been avoided. “I put the responsibility on the Board…. the secrecy breeds distrust,” he said. Morris called for the next general manager to be a member of the community. “I was appalled at Kevin being chosen…. Why are we hiring someone from out of state?” He also called for all Board members to be active volunteers at the station. He said, too, he had considered asking the entire Board to resign so it could be replaced. He did add, “We’re not in trouble.” He said Cleveland Dietz is “doing fine” as interim GM. “Let’s not panic,” he concluded.

◗ Music Director Jim Manion followed. ” I was never in favor of hiring a general manager with no experience with Bloomington,” he said. He also criticized the selection of someone who didn’t have a history of working with non-profit community radio. In response to those who feel Board members were bullied for their vote, he said they were, more accurately, scolded.

◗ Listener and financial contributor Peter Kaczmarczyk urged, “It’s important that the Board act quickly,” in finding a new GM. [Peter Kaczmarczyk has requested this correction: “…[W]hat I actually said was that I didn’t know if the board needed to rush to hire a new GM but that it was imperative that board act quickly to make clear to all concerned that the process was ongoing and that they were still actively engaged in looking for a new GM, to not put off restarting the process.”]

◗ Jeanne Smith, former GM of IU student radio WIUX radio station WQAX, predecessor of WFHB, said she’d contributed some $20,000 to the station over the years. She shook her head when she got to the topic of liability exposure to the station. “I didn’t see any liability,” she said.

After a few more speakers, Joe Estivill announced a five minute break, but few left the Chambers because a debate had broken out between volunteer Anthony Piatt and outgoing Board member Kevin Jones. Piatt had stood up to ask which way each of the Board members had voted on the Culbertson decision. Jones stood up and told him in no uncertain terms that the way he voted was nobody’s business. Piatt responded that he always wants to know how his senators and representatives vote. Jones asked why. Piatt told him that was the essence of transparent government. To which Jones again asked why he needed to know how the Board members voted. Piatt said, “So I can know enough to vote some of you out and not all of you.”

Jeff Morris got into the crossfire by telling Kevin Jones his stance was “not participatory democracy.”

[Later in the evening, Kevin Jones would tell me that the insults hurled against Culbertson online were insults against him, as well.]

After the break, the Board got down to regular business. Many in the gallery left and only a very few remained to the end. When it came time to talk about offering an extension to Cleveland Dietz to remain as acting GM until December 31st, Joe Estivill called for a closed session.

Later in the night, Estivill called me to say nothing had been decided regarding Dietz just yet.

So, there you have it. Feelings were hurt over the Kevin Culbertson hiring and withdrawal. Many volunteers feel the Board is too distant. No timetable has been set to hire a new GM. Cleveland Dietz’ contract runs out at the end of this month with no commitment for an extension.

The show goes on.

Hot Air

Negotiating 101

Here’s what John Kerry and his entourage don’t get. Many, many Americans have their own definition of the term negotiating.

Kerry at Iran Talks

See, for most of the world, the word denotes a process wherein two or more parties sit around a table and talk about what they want. Naturally, the things each party wants are far different from those the other party or parties want. Ergo, how do they come to a reasonable understanding?

Well, according to most of humanity’s grasp of the concept of negotiation, they give and take, inch by inch, teensy steps at a time, until, at some point, all parties’ acceptable wants and needs are satisfied. Well, satisfied-ish.

This concept works on a global scale as well as in national and individual relationships.

Take The Loved One and me, for instance. Let’s say I had the irresistible urge to travel down to Mesa, Arizona next February, where I could sit in the warm sun and watch my beloved Chicago Cubs gambol across the Spring Training playing fields. Many thousands of Cubs fans do this each year. It’s one of those rare endeavors wherein they get not one but two priceless boons. They are able to escape the living hell that is a midwestern winter and they get to bask in the glow of their heroes and dream of the coming summer.

Cubs Spring Training

Look At That Pretty Sky

So, in our hypothetical situation, I’d say to The Loved One, “Darling, I’ve been meaning to ask you — and by the way, have I told you how much I love and cherish you lately? No? How silly of me — well, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you wouldn’t mind if I take a little trip down to Arizona to catch a bit of Cubs Spring Training. I won’t be gone long and — you know what? — I won’t even eat while I’m down there. In fact, I won’t even spend any money on a hotel room. Heck, it’s warm in Arizona, by golly, and I can just spend my nights in a sleeping bag on the desert floor! Honest, Angel, I really, really, really want to do this. It’s something I’ve dreamed about for years. Whaddya say, huh? Whaddya say?”

At which point, The Loved One would ponder my position, being the thoughtful and careful soul she is. After a few moments’ thought, she’d reply, “How about this? You don’t go down to Mesa, Arizona in February to sit in the warm sun and dream the impossible dream that your Cubs might win more games than they lose next summer and, in return, I’ll refrain from crashing a cast iron skillet over your head.”

“Hmm,” I’d say. “Sounds good to me.”

See how it works?

Understand, though, that The Loved One practices the art of negotiation as defined by many Americans.

To many in this holy land, negotiating has little to do with inch by inch increments and niceties like give and take. We’ve learned by observing the negotiating styles of people like Texas Senator Ted Cruz and other clever bargainers that negotiating means, Sign here or we’ll crash a cast iron skillet over your head.

Similarly, they’ll say as they sit around that bargaining table, No, we won’t let you do what you want to do and to stop you, we’re going to shut down the government, refuse to vote on your judicial and administrative appointments, and tell the world you’re a commie abortionist. And if that doesn’t work, why, hell, we’ll secede. Oh, by the way, did we mention we’ve got tons of guns?

To the Cruz crowd, America’s single most successful negotiating ploy took place in early August, 1945.

Nagasaki

Here’s Our Offer

So, any deal that does not include the abject humiliation and the paralyzing of the Iranian government is a total loss for us.

I’d rather negotiate with The Loved One than those dopes.

And Another Thing

At least one observer on the Right is saying the Iran Nuclear deal is merely a smoke screen designed to make the gullible public forget the horrifying atrocity that is Obamacare.

Sen. John Cornyn (R [Of Course]-Alabama [Where Else?]) sez, “Amazing what WH will do to distract attention from O-care.” He horked up this pearl of wisdom, natch, on his Tweetin’ machine, ergo the pidgin English.

Damn that Kenyan mole! Doesn’t he know that once a president comes under fire for some controversial act or legislation, he is no longer permitted by law to do anything else in the whole, wide world, no matter what?

Thank you, Sen. Cornyn for setting these Confederate States of America straight.

Confederate Soldier

Fighting The Good Fight

Board News

The WFHB Board of Directors will meet tonight somewhere in City Hall at 7pm.

The room originally reserved for the meeting may be too small for the expected turnout of interested volunteers who hope to witness the Board talk about high-minded ideals and peace on Earth among….

Oh, okay, I’m being cynical. The Board just might commit to finding a new General Manager for the station by the end of the year. There I go, being zany again.

Hot Camelot Air

Dallas

Fifty years ago today, the nuns at St. Giles school told us we were to go home when class started after lunch. I had no idea why.

I did know Sister Caelin seemed sad.

When I got home, I found my mother obsessively vacuuming the same spot on the living room carpet. Looking closer, I realized she was crying. It was the first time I ever saw her cry.

I wondered if I was in trouble.

The TV was on. Ma never had the TV on during the day. Simpler times, you know. TV watching was for night time, after work and dinner, school and homework, and all the day’s chores had been completed. Ma noticed me standing there, staring at her.

“Mike,” she said, dolorously, “President Kennedy is dead.”

Then I cried.

Dealey Plaza

Dealey Plaza Today

I knew who President Kennedy was. He was the boss of America, a man bigger even than Chicago’s Mayor Daley, a fact I was just starting to wrap my mind around.

I knew Mayor Daley could tell my Dad what to do. It was very difficult for me to grasp that someone could tell Mayor Daley what to do.

That night, I was sorely disappointed to learn that regular Friday night TV programming would be suspended in favor of wall to wall assassination coverage. I found it very unfair.

As the weekend went by, I came to understand the gravity of the killing of a president. I also came to understand how fragile all our hierarchies, relationships, and systems were. I saw Lee Harvey Oswald get whacked by Jack Ruby. I tried to get used to saying President Johnson.

Johnson

The President?

I began to get that everything in this weird world — save the world itself — was temporal.

In these more hyper-sensitive, more protective days, a lot of parents might advocate shielding seven-year-olds from jarring news like the murder of a president. Kids have plenty of time to grow up, they might say. Kids aren’t prepared for that kind of reality.

To which I’d reply, no one is prepared for that kind of reality. And, I’d add, the weekend of John F. Kennedy’s assassination was the first and most effective introduction to the real world this little kid could possibly receive.

I have a lot of issues with the things my parents did and didn’t do in raising me. But the fact that they never shied from telling me the unvarnished truth about world affairs or family secrets wasn’t one of them.

For that, I thank them.

And On And On And On And….

The WFHB soap opera continues. As recently as Sunday, for instance, acting general manager Cleveland Dietz was pondering what he might do with the rest of his life.

Now, he knows where he’ll be spending his days at least through the end of the year. This week Board of Directors president Joe Estivill as well as regular Board member Richard Fish have approached Dietz, asking him to remain on the job through December 31st.

Estevill/Fish

Estivill & Fish

The Board will vote on the extension at Monday’s meeting.

Meanwhile, insiders are certain the board will start the entire GM search process over again, meaning the community radio station won’t have a permanent boss until April.

Which is ludicrous.

This latest development, following the withdrawal of controversial choice Kevin Culbertson earlier this week, would mean WFHB will have gone almost an entire year without a general manager.

A state the size of California can pick its governor in less time. And, in case the Board doesn’t know it, California is bigger with a far vaster budget, and hundreds — perhaps thousands — of departments, bureaus, and offices. Plus, the job pays a hell of a lot more than WFHB will pay its future leader.

This whole “national search” business is a pretense the station can no longer afford. WFHB is a community radio station; its leadership should come, naturally, from a local pool of people numbering a minimum of 200,000, if the latest census figures are to be believed. If the Board can’t find a GM in that crowd — which, by the way, includes the students and faculty of a major university — they’re not looking hard enough.

In fact, the three finalists for the job from which Culbertson was plucked include a former GM of this very station and a proven fundraiser for non-profit organizations. Even if the anti-Chad Carrothers sentiment is deep enough to preclude him from ever getting the job again (a situation that, too, is ludicrous), why can’t the Board fall back on Dena Hawes?

The argument against her that she has no media experience is a red herring. Hawes can raise dough. That should be of paramount concern. Jim Manion can continue to run the Music Department and Alycin Bektesh can keep News humming. They’re both good at what they do. WFHB needs a top dog now. People with money burning holes in their pockets just might begin to wonder if this rudderless ship is worth investing in.

The Board Monday ought to commit itself to finding a general manager within a month. That’s it; 31 days. It can be done. Big organizations, corporations, and even governmental agencies do it all the time.

The Board would do so if it was smart. My guess is when Tuesday midnight rolls around we’ll still be looking at an April target date.

Word Trivia

Do you know what a snowclone is? Neither did I until just the other night, when I came across it somewhere, somehow.

It’s something you and I probably have used a dozen times recently. In fact, if you’re a fan of narrowcasting comedy-dramas, you likely have watched Orange Is the New Black. The title of that Netflix production is itself a snowclone.

From "Orange Is the New Black"

OITNB

Here’s the definition, according to Know Your Meme®:

Snowclones are a type of phrasal templates in which certain words may be replaced with another to produce new variations with altered meanings, similar to the “fill-in-the-blank” game of Mad Libs. Although freeform parody of quotes from popular films, music and TV shows is a fairly common theme in Internet humor, snowclones usually adhere to a particular format or arrangement order which may be reduced down to a grammatical formula with one or more custom variables. They can be understood as the verbal or text-based form of photoshopped exploitables.

In common English, that means you can take a familiar meme or trope and substitute words that make it into a whole new cliche. One of the earliest examples was If Eskimos have a million words for snow, then [some other folks] must have a million words for [something common to them].

BTW: the Eskimo trope is false; they don’t have a million or however many words for snow. Nevertheless, that cliched statement spread like wildfire a few years ago.

Anyway, Orange Is the New Black morphed out of the original fashion world pronouncement, grey is the new black, after many generations of variations.

Hot Air Today

Barack & Me

Here’s a chuckle: Yesterday I portrayed Barack Obama as a paper tyrant. This morning I checked my email and — whaddya know?! — I got a message from none other than the President of these United States.

Yup. The sender line read Barack Obama. And the first sentence of the message was Michael: I wanted to talk to you directly.

Now, don’t get your shorts in a bunch over this, natch. He didn’t go on to say, Listen here, jerk, if I were wearing jackboots, I’d plant one right in your vast ass.

Obama

I assume. I didn’t read the missive. I’ve been getting emails from the Leader of the Free World ever since he began running for prez back in 2007.

The funny thing about getting so many campaign beggings and exhortations from the Obama camp, many of which are purportedly signed by the Kenyan-in-Chief, is that if the man himself ever did really send me a personal email, I’d ignore it out of hand.

So, personal to Barack Obama: If you need to contact me, call me. You’ll have to leave a message because I never answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize.

Forgotten Fact: Ernie Banks Was Black

The single greatest Chicago Cub of all time is being honored at the White House this afternoon.

Ernie Banks — originator of the sobriquet, The Friendly Confines, the poet who sang, Let’s play two! — will receive a Presidential Medal of Freedom.

I loved Ernie Banks almost as much as I loved Ron Santo. He was the personification of optimism itself. Before his 15th season in the big leagues, he announced, “The Cubs will be in heaven in 1967.” The next season, he predicted, “The Cubs will be great in 1968.” The season after that, he said, “The Cubs will be fine in 1969.”

Banks

Ernie Banks

These pollyannish pronouncements, mind you, came after a two-decade run of utter incompetence by his beloved employer, the Chicago Cubs. Hell, the city would have thrown a parade down Michigan Avenue if the Cubs had even achieved mediocrity.

Ernie’s spirit was never broken, though. Playing baseball even for a lousy team and earning a hefty paycheck for doing so must have seemed as sweet a deal as any kid who grew up in the Jim Crow South could have imagined.

Ernest Banks was born January 31st, 1931, in Dallas, Texas. His hometown was ruthlessly segregated in those days and for many, many days thereafter.

Dallas Morning News columnist Kevin Sherrington has a nice piece this morning about what Ernie Banks meant to Dallas, and what Dallas meant to Ernie Banks. On the one hand, neither meant much to the other. Then again, Dallas and Ernie meant everything to each other. Read it to get a little picture of Dallas’s — and Texas’s — enduring relationships with its black daughters and sons.

By the time Ernie was 24 years old, of course, he’d become the toast of the nation’s second city. He never spoke about the prejudice and bias he experienced in Dallas. Then again, he never spoke much about anything negatively.

Banks preferred to look on the bright side. He might have been characterized as an Uncle Tom in the strife-ridden ’60s, if only the militants and radicals who threw around labels like that had thought for a moment about him. Ernie never really was seen a a black man in baseball. Bob Gibson was black. So was Curt Flood. Roberto Clemente. Even Willie Mays.

Flood

Curt Flood

Ernie? He was Mr. Cub.

No, he wasn’t a civil rights trailblazer. No one ever knew where Ernie stood on issues like voting rights, open housing, integration, and so on. No one ever asked him. He lived in a world that seemed to be higher than that, a world where blacks and whites played a kid’s game together in the sunshine.

The rules were the same for a cracker from the South and a skinny but supremely powerful Negro from Dallas.

For a few hours each summer afternoon, Ernie made us forget about racial bigotry, interposition and nullification, law and order, poverty, and cities on fire.

I idolized the militants and the radicals, sure. But Ernie provided me a regular, albeit brief, respite from all that was ugly in a very ugly time.

Highest Office In The Land Hot Air

Paper Tyrant

Can we lay to rest once and for all the absurd fiction that Barack Obama is a fierce tyrant who at any moment will seize all our guns, march us off to re-education camps, and otherwise crush us under his jackboot?

You know, the picture of him as the despot who’ll change this holy land forever as promulgated by Me Party-ists, Right Wing talk radio hosts, Fox and Friends personalities, and other reality-challenged stutterers and judderers?

Obama

Because, after all, the first Kenyan-born, communist, socialist, abortionist, coke-snorting, gay-sex-loving Commander in Chief wasn’t even able to convey to his staff and the heads of all appropriate federal departments that his signature health care reform had damned well better roll out smoothly or somebody’s ass would be on fire.

BHO’s background, as the sane among us realized from the get-go, was not that of even a sergeant-at-arms but more as a maître d’. He was a community organizer, for pity’s sake, something that squawking heads like Sarah Palin made hay out of back when she had pretenses to relevance. That means he was schooled and expert at gathering everybody ’round and hearing their opinions and suggestions, no matter how fercockter they may be. Community organizers are loath to tell anyone to shut up, to get with the program, to refrain — please! — from insisting for the twenty-three-thousandth time that such and such an alderman or mayor be forthwith brought up on charges of crimes against humanity.

Community organizers are conciliators. They’re listeners. They’re includers. Even if those who are to be included bring as much to the party as your wacky pack-rat uncle who refuses to go online because…, well, because.

They are not martinets. Nor are they mighty brigadier generals who’ll mold a disparate bunch of farm boys and street corner toughs into a single-minded fighting machine.

They persuade people to press doorbells.

They do not say things like, Goddamn it. This project better come out right. If not, I’m gonna eat you for breakfast!

And this is the guy who hundreds of thousands of loons fear will put the nation in shackles?

“Serenity” at 30,000 feet

I know you’re dying for news like this: JFK who was whacked 50 years ago this week, apparently died happy. At least that’s what the ever-reliable New York Post has to say.

The Prez and Jackie, according to a piece in yesterday’s tabloid, “joined the mile high club” during a flight from San Antonio to Houston the afternoon before his fateful drive toward the triple overpass. According to writer Philip Nobile, historian William Manchester wrote that as Air Force One flew over Texas, the Kennedys “enjoyed their last hour of serenity” in their private cabin.

Dallas, November 1963

The Serene Couple

Gird yourself for  tons more dispatches along these lines as the half-century celebration continues this week.

Hot, Island-y Air

I’ve come a long way, baby!

Cigarette Ad

I stepped into the Players Pub to catch an early Friday evening set yesterday. I immediately flashed back ten years, imagining myself still living in Chi., on a road trip perhaps, stopping for a bite and to stretch my legs in this place in this town I’d never really heard of.

I’d think, Cool, a little music with my dinner. I’m gonna check out the local fauna here.

And what would I see? Three very nice, very respectable, very proper femmes d’une certaine age strumming ukuleles and chirping well-worn chestnuts like Eight Days a Week, These Boots Were Made for Walking, and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

My jaw would drop and I’d think, Man alive! I had no idea I was in East Bumfuck, Iowa.

I’d think, Sheesh! This joint makes Peoria look like Vienna, Austria.

I’d think, Eek! Get me outta here before the waitress serves me possum.

How quaint these tillers of the soil and John Deere tractor showroom secretaries are, no?

No. Not quaint at all.

Fun.

Happy.

And damned good.

I saw last night the UkeTones, Bloomington’s latest rage. Yeah, the PP was jammed to the rafters.

UkeTones

The UkeTones — They All Wear Glasses, For Pete’s Sake!

Bossman Joe Estivill scuttled by, lugging a bus tray himself — that’s how busy his joint was. Yo, Joe, I called out, is it always this busy on a Friday night?

“No, it isn’t,” he called back over his shoulder. “They love the ukulele girls.”

And so do I. If this is Bumfuck, Iowa, count me a proud citizen thereof.

I highly recommend the UkeTones. They’ll play again at the PP in January. Their Friday night gig is pretty much a monthly affair at this point.

I have to admit, though, one fan paused between forks-full to shout out Free Bird.

And I get the feeling, based on lead singer Susan Sandberg’s response, that the trio’d actually played the southern rock classic in response to an earlier call-out. I don’t know. I didn’t have time to chat the dames up between sets; I’d only had two quarters in my pocket and thus could only stay for a half hour (damn those new parking meters).

The other UkeTones are Reina Wong and Ellen Campbell — and Ellen Campell really puts her whole body into her performance. I’d say she rocks out if I weren’t so terrified that the kids would snigger at me.

It was a half hour well-spent.

Who knows? Maybe it’s that I, too, am now an homme d’une certaine age.

Or maybe I was never really such a sophisticate as I’d have liked everyone to think.

Either way, I had a blast at the Players Pub last night.

Like I said, I’ve come a long way.

Hot Air, Cold Day

Tough Crowd

Just a reminder, The Pencil has forwarded a communique to Kevin Culbertson, newly-named general manager of radio station WFHB, offering him an opportunity to introduce himself to Bloomington here.

Keep watching this space for further developments.

Meanwhile, the new Facebook group, Friends of WFHB, has garnered nearly 200 members as of this morning. WFHB volunteer member Maryll Jones has been running herself ragged administering the page as well as keeping certain group members from tearing each other limb from limb. Who’da thunk the selection of a GM would arouse such fire within the populace? Anyway, the discussion on the space is lively, if at times a little hair-raising.

Scene from "Frankenstein"

Passionate Radio Listeners

Along those lines, one disgruntled WFHB listener apparently sent an email to station Board members, threatening physical violence. The missive scared the bejesus out of the Board-ers. Jones has issued a Code of Conduct for Friends of WFHB members although it’s not known if the threatener is himself a member. (And, to be sure, it was a guy, wouldn’t you think?) In any case, the cops are snooping around to find out who sent the email.

Oh, one more thing. Personal to Maryll Jones: Pick up your guitar, woman!

Braves’ New (White) World

Worry not, Pencillistas, this is not really a sports story. It’s about racial politics and business in the Deep South.

That out of the way, it was learned yesterday that Major League Baseball’s Braves will be leaving their relatively shiny new home in downtown Atlanta for the greener…, check that, whiter pastures of Cobb County.

Historical Marker

The Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games, NBC Sports, and other Olympics sponsors built the Braves’ current home, Turner Field, for the 1996 Summer Olympics. It was called Centennial Olympic Stadium that year. The next year, the Braves moved in. So the team has been playing in Turner for a total of 16 years.

The Braves plan to move into their new digs for the 2017 baseball season. Turner Field cost $209 million to build. After the Olympics, Atlanta sunk another pile of dough into retrofitting the place to accommodate big league baseball and just shy of ten years later the Atlanta-Fulton County Recreation Authority dropped another huge wad of cash into renovations for the place, including what was hailed at the time as the world’s largest high definition video screen scoreboard.

The A-FCRA says it will demolish the stadium after the Braves leave. So, the joint will have had a useful life of fewer than 20 years. All for a pricetag well north of a half billion dollars, of which taxpayers footed a sweet $300 mill.

Turner Field

Ancient, Crumbling, Decaying, Nearly Empty Turner Field

 

A not-quite 20-year-old stadium is merely a young punk when compared to such geezers as Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles (51 years old this year) and the Coliseum in Oakland (47), as well as Methuselahs such as Wrigley Field (99) and Fenway Park (101). The Braves swear their current home is dilapidated and so old-fashioned that the team can hardly make a penny playing there.

Which is utter horseshit.

Let me go out on a limb here and tell you the real reason the Braves want out of their new-ish stadium. It stands in downtown Atlanta just off I-75 and near many of the city’s other public and cultural institutions. It’s also surrounded by black Atlanta.

In Georgia, that’s bad business.

Almost very other baseball stadium built since 1991 has been located in downtown areas (that’s 19 out of the 30 in use today). Sports franchises want to play games in downtown areas because, unlike the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, those areas now are vibrant, rejuvenated, exciting places to be.

Decades ago, whites shunned big city downtowns because they were scared to death of catching cooties from Negroes. In the ensuing years, America has witnessed a gradual acceptance of mixed-race couples, has embraced a black woman (Oprah) as pied piper for the housewife set, and has even elected a brown president.

What were once deserted downtown streets after 5:00pm everywhere from Chicago to Cleveland now are destinations for dining, entertainment, and shopping.

Oh sure, many, many, many black residents were pushed out of these downtowns and surrounding environs by gentrification, but even that process required white people to at least tolerate seeing black faces while the demographics changed. And in those cities where downtown gentrification is complete, middle- and upper-middle class blacks are welcome to live there.

The nation has changed a bit.

But not Atlanta.

For all it’s self-advertisements as a beacon of modernity of the South, Atlanta is still full of…, well, Georgians. And very few places are more Georgian than Cobb County. Which is where the Braves are moving.

The Braves released a chart revealing most of its season ticket-holding base lives in that most Georgian of locales. It’s a gang that isn’t terribly pleased about riding into downtown Atlanta to watch a baseball game. It is, remember, full of Negroes.

I have a new team to root against now.