Category Archives: Curt Flood

The Pencil Today:

THE QUOTE

“I was told by the general manager that a white player had received a higher raise than me. Because white people required more money to live than black people. That’s why I wasn’t going to get a raise.” — Curt Flood

HERE COMES THE SUN

The second-best bookstore in town is Janis Starcs’ Caveat Emptor.

Trust me, this is no backhanded compliment. Naturally, I’m going to vote for the Book Corner as the best in town. So, my choice for number two in Bloomington is really high praise.

You’ll find stuff in Caveat that you won’t find anywhere else in Indiana, I dare say. For instance, if you’re looking for any of the works by seminal community organizer Saul Alinsky, it’s a good bet they’re on Janis’s shelves.

Starcs In His Milieu

That said, Signor Starcs may be one of the most curmudgeonly humans in South Central Indiana. And that’s no insult, either.

He possesses a virtually encyclopedic knowledge of books and he stays out of his customers’ way. Just be prepared when you ask for help: the answer will be authoritative and direct — but it will be terse.

You ever hear the old line about the loquacious man who, whenever somebody asks him the time, he tells them how a watch is made?

Janis Starcs is not that guy. He is, in fact, the precise opposite.

If you ask him what time it is, he’ll likely point at the sun, the unspoken instruction being, Figure it out.

It’s part of his odd charm.

Anyway, this (Saturday) morning, the WFIU booth announcer was talking about the day’s sponsors. And at one point, he said, “In appreciation of a contribution to this station we present today’s programming in honor of the birthday of Janis Starcs.”

Janis Starcs? I can’t imagine him calling up the radio station and saying, “I’d like to donate a hundred dollars in honor of my birthday. Now make sure to mention my name, okay?”

Even more astounding would be that someone else would kick a c-note over to the local NPR station in Starcs’ honor.

But wait. It gets more bizarre.

The announcement was followed immediately by the bumper song, “Here Comes the Sun.”

This is a funny town.

If you stop in at Caveat Emptor Monday, wish Janis a belated happy birthday. Then ask him what time it is.

“GOD GAVE THE BILL OF RIGHTS”

Sweet lord above, have you seen that song about Rick Santorum that’s going viral-ish on Facebook and You Tube?

A couple of flamboyant virgins from Oklahoma sing about god’s candidate. They’re called First Love, which is sort of a creepy name considering they’re Christian singers and have penned a heartthrob lilt dedicated to this holy land’s most prominent closeted man.

Apparently, First Love wrote and recorded the song Sunday night and Monday morning. Then, their aiders and abettors made the video Monday afternoon. By Tuesday the thing was all the rage.

I’m posting the vid here because I’m a vengeful man. A few FB friends posted it and, unfortunately, I listened to it. It’s been a goddamned earworm ever since.

If I have to suffer through it, so do you.

Misery loves company, babies.

Sample lyric:

Oh, there is hope for our nation again,

Maybe for the first time since we had Ronald Reagan.

Here’s a confession: I’m not normally a violent man but the minute I laid eyes on these two smug little shits I want to punch them repeatedly. Sorry.

Do I have to justify the above statement? Okay. They’re the whitest people I’ve ever seen. And that’s no compliment. They radiate a privileged aura that says, Hey, everything’s just ducky from my vantage point, so why are all you poor people complaining?

TAKE IT AWAY, PORKY

Today: Tuesday, November 8, 2011

WHERE’S THEIR UNION?

I’ve been a union supporter all my life.

Heck, I became a union guy just a few months after graduating high school. See, I knew I was too much of a rebel/hood/knucklehead to succeed in college at the tender age of eighteen so I wisely deferred my higher education for a couple of years.

I went out to work instead. Took a job with the City of Chicago Department of Streets and Sanitation. My clout was 36th Ward Democratic Committeeman Louie Garippo.

In Chicago back in the 70s, if you wanted work for the City, you first had to go see your clout (also known as your Chinaman) and promise you’d do everything in the world to help him get out the vote in exchange for his sponsorship. I vowed to stand on my head, if need be, to get Mayor Daley (the First) reelected — oh, and whoever else might be running on the Dem slate in future elections.

During our interview, Louie Garippo got a dreamy look in his eye and said, “We’re gonna take back the White House next year.”

I nodded. The presidential election of 1976 would be the first in which I could vote. I couldn’t wait. I had no idea who I wanted but I knew for an iron-clad fact it wasn’t Gerald R. Ford. Yeesh.

Garripo went on. “If all goes well, we’ll have another one of the Kennedy boys in there.” Louie looked me in the eye. “You know,” he said, “your mother loved Jack Kennedy.”

Ma Loved Him

I nodded again. “Okay,” Louie said, “here’s what you do. You go see Elmer Fillipini tomorrow at 9:00am. Ya got that? Do not be late. He’ll tell you what to do.” Fillipini was the supervisor of the 36th Ward Streets & San office.

Louie wasn’t finished with me, though. “And do me a favor,” he said. “Get a haircut, fer chrissakes. You look like one’a them goddamn hippies. You’ll make your mother happy.”

I got up to leave and we shook hands. As I was walking out the door, he tossed another caveat my way.

“Remember,” he said, “don’t embarrass me.”

I nodded a third time.

At 9:05 the next morning I was filling out my first union card. The Laborers Union. Very, very cozy with The Boss, Daley. Not that we would suffer for the coziness; not even out of my teens, I would be making more money than my old man. When I told him what I was going to earn an hour, daddy-o actually got a hurt look in his eye. I always felt bad about that.

Anyway, The mayoral primary of 1975 was coming up fast. Renegade alderman Bill Singer was running against The Boss. Singer and his pals like the Rev. Jesse Jackson had already beaten Mayor Daley in a battle three years before. Singer, Jackson, et al successfully ousted Daley and the his Machine cronies from the 1972 Democratic National Convention. The one that nominated George McGovern to run that November. You remember McGovern, don’t you? Lost the election in one of the greatest landslides in history. Couldn’t even carry his own state.

So, Singer had decided to take on Daley in the primary. He was young. He was a rebel. He had longish hair. He hung out with brothers. As far as I was concerned, he was perfect. I started wearing a Singer lapel button — to work.

Not smart. Elmer Filippini called me in to his office for a private meeting. He wasn’t happy.

“Dontchu care about yer job?” he snapped.

I shrugged. My only regret was that I was embarrassing Louie Garippo.

I lasted three months in that job — not because Elmer or Louie forced me out but because I was an irresponsible lunkhead.

Believe it or not, I grew up. I eventually got into the writing and journalism rackets. Joined more unions. The National Writers Union and the Newspaper Guild.

Reporters On Strike, 1964

To this day I’m always on the side of the unions. I don’t like bullies. Management always seems to be the bully.

The highest-profile labor dispute going on right now in this holy land is the National Basketball Association lockout. In an industry raking in a couple of billion dollars a year, labor and management can’t figure out how to slice up the pie.

Billionaire jerks fighting with millionaire jerks over a few bucks.

Still, I’m steadfast behind the National Basketball Players Association. Management, remember, is always the bully. Even if the players are jerks.

Gotta tell you, though, there are a lot of folks suffering over this. Some of our friends in Indy are trying to figure out how to buy Christmas presents this year. Heck, some of them might be trying to figure out how to pay the rent.

Hot dog vendors. Jersey hawkers. Ushers. Ticket sellers. Beer pushers. Loads of people who consider themselves extremely fortunate when they bring home a hundred dollars after a Pacers game.

No Games, No Hungry Fans, No Pay

The NBA last year paid out $800 million to its wage slaves on the gym floor. That constituted 57 percent of all basketball related revenues for the season, meaning the owners claim to have pocketed some $600 million. The NBPA claims the owners are fudging their books. I’d bet they are. You don’t get rich enough to own a major league sports franchise by possessing the morals of a Boy Scout.

There’s a lot of cash up for grabs in this fight. But there isn’t enough for a hot dog vendor to splurge on Christmas this year.

RUNNING IN PLACE

Speaking of elections, the honorable Regina Moore bounced into The Book Corner last week to stock up on reading material. The city’s parking ticket boss immediately got into a conversation with a young woman who still sported Hallowe’en-themed nail polish.

The two batted around the topic of nail painting for a few minutes then I asked Moore how she was feeling about today’s election. “I feel good about it,” Moore said. “I think we’re gonna be okay.”


Bloomington City Clerk Regina Moore

I told her I was happy she seemed so confident. Then it hit me. “Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “Is anyone running against you?”

“No,” Regina Moore said.

Nor is anyone running against incumbent Mayor Mark Kruzan.

Democracy, Bloomington style. Ya gotta love it.

Still, get out there and vote. It’s the least you can do.

KAYOED

Smokin’ Joe Frazier took a ten-count last night. The former heavyweight boxing champ died after a bout with cancer.

I’ve got to admit I never cared for Frazier. Not for anything he did or the kind of man he was. It was just that he was the guy who knocked one of the heroes of my youth to the canvas back in 1971. Frazier was the first man to hang an L on Muhammad Ali, besting him in 15 rounds at Madison Square Garden that year.

Frazier Labels Ali In One Of Their Three Fights

I loved Ali. I couldn’t have cared less about boxing but I embraced Ali because he had the cagliones to refuse to be inducted into the Army after being drafted in 1967. He risked everything for his beliefs. “I ain’t got no quarrel with the Vietcong,” Ali famously said. “No Vietcong ever called me nigger.”

Plus, Ali was a poet and a showman. Had he been a run-of-the-mill pug, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought. But, because he raged against The Man, I elevated him to my sports pantheon, which also included Curt Flood, Jim Bouton, Dick Allen, and John Carlos and Tommie Smith.

John Carlos and Tommie Smith, Arms Upraised

Ali came back from his exile from the sport and won back the title. Then Frazier outpointed him. I moaned, Who the hell is Joe Frazier, anyway?

Now, no Vietcong ever called Muhammad Ali nigger, but Ali called Joe Frazier a “gorilla” prior to one of the bouts, the three of which have become almost mythic battles. Frazier was deeply hurt by the epithet. Ali also called him an “Uncle Tom” and “ugly.” Frazier’s manager told him to pay Ali no mind, that “The Greatest” was only hyping their match.

Frazier said, Maybe, but how would you like your kid to come home from school and tell you the kids had been calling him “gorilla” and “Uncle Tom”?

I hope to learn that Ali apologized to Frazier before last night. He’d be a hero again for me.

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