Category Archives: Minister’s Daughter

Hot Air: Football & TV, A Sacred Union

Just a week ago last night one of this holy land’s cultural touchstones celebrated its 50th anniversary. Hard to believe for a lot of people of my generation (and older) but Monday Night Football first aired on ABC-TV September 21, 1970. Since then the network television colossus has presented somewhere in the vicinity of 700 football games.

Joe Namath Calls the Signals During the First Monday Night Football Game.

Funny thing was, no network really wanted any part of it. NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle went begging to the three main networks at the time — CBS, NBC, and ABC — and came away with an empty hat. None of the nets wanted to mess up its regular prime time schedule, especially on a Monday night when middle class America began settling in for the week in front of their TVs after work. ABC in 1970 was the lowest rated of the three networks so Rozelle hammered hard at it. He told ABC honchos he was prepared to sell the idea of prime time football to the Hughes Television Network, an independent entity dreamed up by wealthy loon Howard Hughes who’d envisioned it as a fourth player in the coast-to-coast TV scene. Just a couple of years before, Hughes had tried to purchase a controlling stake in ABC and was rebuffed, leading him to want to stick it to the company. ABC, afraid it might even be overtaken by the nascent Hughes operation, grudgingly signed a contract with the NFL and threw together a trio of booth announcers, a novel idea. for the first game.

One of those announcers was a lawyer from New York City named Howard Cosell, a loud, annoying, tell-it-like-it-is kind of a guy who’d ridden the coattails of a young Cassius Clay. In 1960 Clay (later, Muhammad Ali) won the heavyweight boxing gold medal at the Rome Olympics. Cosell’s announcing of his subsequent professional bouts made him as famous as the fighter. Cosell’s Wikipedia page describes him thusly:

Cosell’s style of reporting transformed sports broadcasting in the United States. Whereas previous sportcasters had mostly been known for color commentary and lively play-by-play, Cosell had an intellectual approach. His use of analysis and context brought television sports reporting closer to “hard” news reporting. However, his distinctive staccato voice, accent, syntax, and cadence were a form of color commentary all their own.

Funny thing was viewers hated Cosell. I mean they despised him. Many Monday Night Football tavern parties turned into Cosell bash-fests. One bar owner in Denver even sponsored contests to allow a weekly winner to throw a brick through the TV when Cosell appeared on the screen.

Ali Attempts to LIft Cosell’s Toupee off His Head.

Monday Night Football creator and executive producer Roone Arledge realized viewers’ antipathy toward Cosell just might draw even more of them. Rather than axe Cosell, Arledge instructed him to be…, well, more himself. The more Cosell played Cosell, the more people tuned in. Eventually, Monday Night Football became the most watched prime time show on television for many years.

It’s a bizarro world story, one that would be inconceivable even a year before it began to play out. But the country had just emerged from the topsy-turvy Sixties, an era when many cherished American institutions were mocked and discarded. So, tens of millions of male football fans — as well as their girlfriends, wives, and sisters — tuned in to see if they could get in on the hate orgy.

Nearly Half of All NFL Fans Are Female.

And that’s another shibboleth Monday Night Football laid to rest — that the gridiron game was solely played for the pleasure of men. Before Rozelle, Arledge, and Cosell, the game was played on Sunday afternoons to a TV audience almost exclusively male. The term “football widow” described women who couldn’t get their husbands to do anything other than park themselves in their dens and watch the Giants or the Bears or the Colts. After the trio worked its magic, football watching became the province of a more balanced gender viewership.

Me? I’ve never given a good goddamn about football, either the pro or the college game. Oh sure, I know who the great stars were and occasionally have enjoyed watching highlights of pigskin wizards like Joe Montana or Lawrence Taylor but ask me who won what game yesterday and I’ll sit there with a blank look on my face.

In fact, The Loved One and I had a tradition every Super Bowl Sunday of driving down to Jasper, Indiana to have a cone at an old-fashioned ice cream shop on the west side of the square there. Sadly, that ice cream parlor — I seem to recall it being named Libby’s — closed down before the 2020 Super Bowl so we’ll have to come up with a new tradition.

Anyway, we could do that because the streets of America are pretty much deserted on Super Bowl Sunday afternoon and evening. It’s as though we have the whole nation to ourselves.

Truth is football is the quintessential American sport. And only the Hallmark Hall of Fame drama anthology program has run longer on prime time television.


Charlotte’s Memoir

Copies of Minister’s Daughter: One Life, Many Lives, by Charlotte Zietlow and me have begun to arrive at the Book Corner. The book’s flying off the shelves so far. Call the store at 812.339.1522 or email me at glabagogo@gmail.com to order your copy today.

And you can always cop an e-book copy via Amazon. But, really, wouldn’t you rather have a good old hard copy in your hands?

Hot Air: Worth Fighting For

Many thanks to Ron Eid, the big boss over at Limestone Post. Many, many thanks. I’d kiss him if these damned masks wouldn’t get in the way.

Eid and the Post today are running a lengthy excerpt from the book, Minister’s Daughter: One Life, Many Lives, by Charlotte Zietlow with Michael G. Glab (me, natch). This partial chapter of the book covers the year the Zietlow family spent in Czechoslovakia. This was in the immediate aftermath of the Prague Spring and the subsequent invasion of the country by hundreds of thousands of Warsaw Pact soldiers. The liberal reformers who’d chafed against harsh, Soviet-style communism were rounded up and “re-educated.” Many of their civilian supporters were punished and even killed.

During the Zietlows’ year-long sojourn, Charlotte was reminded that American democracy and freedoms — warts and all — were worth fighting for.

Once again, Minister’s Daughter, is out on the market (although with the current printing business slowdown, hard copies have yet to hit the streets. Give it a week or two more before the book — y’know, that thing made of paper and ink — becomes available. Hell, I’m still waiting for my own case of comp copies.

For now, you may pre-order the book at the Book Corner (812.339.1522), via Amazon (if you want to enrich Jeff Bezos et al any more), anywhere you can buy e-books, or through me at glabagogo@gmail.com.

Meanwhile, enjoy the excerpt.

King Of The United States

It’s ironic Charlotte’s recollection of living in a repressive nation for a year should come out now. Many believe — me among them — that this holy land is fast slipping into its own brand of repression. Hell, people are wondering if Li’l Duce will even honor the results of the coming presidential election should he lose to Joe Biden.

As an American, I’ve been through a lot, including the traumatic annum 1968 as well as the horrible 9/11 attacks. Somehow, we pulled through ’68. Our responses to the WTC et al tragedies, though, contributed mightily to our perverted state of democracy these days. After the bunny-rabbit-scared Congress passed the Patriot Act and otherwise gave Pres. Bush carte blanche to botch the geopolitical stases in both Afghanistan and Iraq, we’ve become a nation perpetually at war both overseas and within our own borders. In fact, many police departments around America have become occupying forces, their newly recruited officers (since 2001), seeing themselves as action movie characters, clad in armor, packing automatic weapons of war, and driving around in armored military vehicles.

Too many young men watched “reality” shows like Cops and became tumescent over the idea that they, too, could bust down doors in the middle of the night to protect the citizenry from…, from…, for chrissakes, who the hell knows what?

Anyway, here we are, wondering if the presidential election will even mean anything this year. We found ourselves with a grifting, unprepared, incurious, neo-fascist ideologue as president in 2016 and now we face the distinct possibility he and his congressional and Supreme Court lickspittlers will declare him king of the United States.

BTW, there once was a King of the United States. His name was Garfield Goose and he reigned weekday afternoons on WGN-TV, Ch. 9 in Chicago in the 1950s and ’60s. Truth be told, I don’t know whom to take more seriously, Gar or President Gag. I suppose it would be the latter, considering the self-declared ruling fowl was a goddamned puppet and the self-important orange warthog is in actuality the Commander-in-Chief of this nation.

Garfield Goose, King of the United States.

One question remains: where, oh where, is this country’s Alexander Dubček? Or, even better, our Václav Havel? Instead, we’re stuck with a ruling class all cut from the same bolt of cloth as the character played by Frazier Thomas, an enabler to a megalomaniacal puppet goose .

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Life Is Beautiful, Now And Then

A final note: the sky is putting on a fabulous show each night this early fall with a waxing moon being chased by Jupiter and Saturn. I set up my astronomical binocs last night at the Paynetown peninsula on Lake Monroe and zoomed in on the three orbs.

The moon was a tad bigger than half a disc with its craters and mountains at the terminator line standing out in spectacular relief. I shifted the specs a tad to the left and focused on Jupiter and was able to make out its disc as wall as its four Galilean moons, one to its immediate right and the others to its left in a line. Then a few degrees further to the left I caught Saturn with its easily discernible rings.

A few people fishing or just hanging out in the peaceful, cool early evening came up and asked me what I was looking at. I let them peer through the binocs and they were uniformly awed. One young woman told me her name was Hailey and she’s always wanted to see, therefore, Halley’s Comet. “But I’ll be 86 years old when it comes around again,” she said, a touch ruefully. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “you’ll make it.”

A note: I didn’t have the heart to tell her Halley is pronounced differently than Hailey.

Edmund Halley, pronounced HA-(as in cat)-lee.

Back From The Dead

The Pencil, that is. This global communications colossus has been lying in state since early July and for weeks, even months, before that The Pencil was on life support. But, yea, a miracle! Here we are — you, me and The Pencil — in the midst of the weirdest, goddamnedest year most of us have ever experienced.

Some of us, to be sure, have experienced at least one other similarly novus annos singulos (all you medical and law students ought to get this one forthwith); that would be the heart wrenching, trauma-inducing 1968. Of course, you have to be one of the oldest bats among the populace, as I am, to compare the two, experientially. Somehow, our nation held itself together in the wake of that fateful year. Will the same outcome play after this one? I ain’t makin’ no bets, babies.

On the streets of Washington, DC, April 1968. [Bettmann Archives]

Anyhow, here we be, you and me.

And in the midst of all the horrifying happenstances, revelations, realizations, knee-jerks, and preps for the coming end times, here’s a smidgen of good news. Actually great news, if I may be permitted to crow.

The book, Minister’s Daughter: One Life, Many Lives, is out and available for you to whip out your wallet and unload $17.95 plus tax and shipping & handling in order to groove on its literary genius (if I do say so myself). It’s the memoir of Bloomington’s treasured political doyenne, Charlotte Zietlow, written by her and me.

Minister’s Daughter has been a project six years in the making. Yep, Charlotte and I first sat down with our voice recorders in August 2014, even before the Chicago Cubs had won a World Series and the nation somehow fell under the spell of a repulsive grifter who promises to turn the world’s last remaining superpower into a tinpot banana republic. It’s been that long but, I daresay, worth the wait.

Charlotte got cooking in the political sphere in 1960 when she, too, fell under a spell, in her case to a young, handsome, inspiring senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy. “Kennedy made me feel as if I could make the world better,” Charlotte remembers. She goes on to add: “We just thought: Here’s this man, he was vibrant, exciting. There was a lot to be hoped for.”

Ha! Hope. What a quaint concept. And isn’t that a damned shame? Yeah, there was a time when people actually had hope. In 1960, humans were on the verge of rocketing off into space, curing cancer, inventing flying cars, building the first lasers, and reading for the first time — it’s true — Green Eggs and Ham. It was a heady time. I won’t bother to recount all the horrors humanity visited upon itself that same year because, y’know, why kill the buzz?

Despite humans being humans and doing their usual utmost to kill, maim, and otherwise wreck the day of their fellow species-mates, 1960 was a time of great hope and wonder. A rich man’s kid whose daddy-o demanded nothing less of him than to attain the presidency of the United States of America represented this holy land’s dynamic, vigorous, boundless future. Natch, he had the top of his head blown off a few short years later but still…, well, loads of people dreamed of better days to come as they listened to Kennedy’s endearing Boston accent and gazed, dewy-eyed, at his tanned, sexy face.

Charlotte was one of them and she’d go on to serve as a Democratic Party field volunteer through three presidential elections and numerous state and local races before spending a year, with her family, in communist Czechoslovakia. There, in the old Slovak capital Bratislava, she learned to cherish even more her beloved American democracy after witnessing the repression, the dream-killing visited upon a nation that dared to challenge the Soviet juggernaut. Czechs and Slovaks were punished, brutally, and many were disappeared after Warsaw Pacts tanks and hundreds of thousands of Eastern Bloc soldiers tromped down the streets of Czechoslovakia’s cities.

Prague Spring

“What we had,” Charlotte says, “was something worth fighting for.”

If you’d like a test drive, keep an eye on the Limestone Post as an excerpt from Minister’s Daughter specifically recounting parts of the Zietlows’ stay in Bratislava runs soon.

If you’ve no need of a teaser and want to cop the tome right now, feel free to put in your pre-order at the Book Corner (812.339.1522), on Amazon (even if Jeff Bezos doesn’t need any more of your dough), through me at glabagogo@gmail.com, or wherever you buy e-books.

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