Inappropriate

 Journalists and pundits warned years ago that politics and entertainment were slowly merging.  That melding seems to now be complete.  Even before actor Ronald Reagan first ran for political office there were entertainers in politics.  Some ran for office, some endorsed candidates, some simply gave financial support.  But the warning was not just about those who participated it extended to how politics was conducted and conceived.  

Last night when Kid Rock performed and Hulk Hogan spoke at the Republican National Convention, the transformation was complete.  Of course the presence of Donald Trump further strengthens the notion that politics has become entertainment.  Ratings, ratings, ratings. 

Surprised? No, this seems like a natural progression in our culture.  Perception becomes reality.  Image is everything.  You get what you pay for.  

What struck me this past week, with the assassination attempt on Trump, was the image of a defiant candidate mouthing "fight, fight, fight" and brandishing a clenched fist.  The same clenched fist image first brought to the public eye by the Black Panther Party.  Ironic? Absolutely.  Cultural appropriation? Of course.  It should not be lost how the media and larger culture reacts, or does not react to this blatant theft.  I think of John Carlos and Tommie Smith who got nothing but grief for striking that pose.  Now with a Presidential candidate's unabashed use of the symbol, the hypocrisy shines anew, brighter than ever.  

Someday, somewhere, somebody will see an image of the clenched fist and realize where it first appeared.  It could be a black and white photo of a Black Panther Party rally, or the more familiar and controversial full color photo from the 1968 Olympics. They'll probably think they have discovered something worthy of attention.  Just as some youngsters think Mick Jagger created the blues, or Elvis Presley first recorded Hound Dog, they'd realize that cultural appropriation has deep roots that make some things taboo for some and patriotic for others.

Roll On

 It was the summer of 1965. Out of high school for just 6 months, with one semester of college under my belt, I went to a pool party in Southern California.  Typical fare, hot dogs, hamburgers, and lots of dips and chips.  About 25 of us, once so close, now found ourselves beginning down multiple paths.  Some in college, some into the work force, still others into the military or soon to be engulfed by the draft.  The party was to celebrate the union of two of our number who were hurriedly wed and soon to be parents.  She, the party thrower, he soon to be shipped off to Vietnam.  

Some swam, most others stood around talking and listening to music.  The Beatles still dominated, but there were others on the horizon.  I was 19, 3 months away from dealing with my mother's terminal illness, and about to start a summer job that would pay me minimum wage: $1.25 hour. 

Most of the couples that were hanging on from high school would not last the next year.  The newly married couple would last slightly longer. A few of my male friends would drop out of college and the nationwide campus reaction to the war in Vietnam would heat up. But this early summer day was for hanging out, listening to music and trying on the trappings of adulthood. 

Not surprising was a subtle battle for what we would listen to. The radio was playing Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter, by Herman's Hermits and Mr. Tambourine Man, by the Byrds.  Occasionally, a soul singer like Otis Redding would grab our attention with hits like I've Been Loving You Too Long.  The folk music revival was just hitting stride and a new young British singer named Donovan was attracting attention.  But nothing that hit the airwaves that summer could compare to the excitement and innovation that was coming from one performer who was beginning to get some air play after having the number one song in England for many weeks.  If I tuned my transistor radio to KFWB about 10 minutes to 7 pm I could catch the top 10 in England that week.  The countdown would end at 7pm sharp so by 6:50 I could hear #2 followed by the #1 song for that week.  It was my only chance to hear Bob Dylan sing The Times Are Changin'.

The week of the pool party, another Dylan song was beginning to capture the imagination of a generation.  We'd heard it a few times and it traced its attraction to the incident at the Newport Folk Festival where Dylan was booed for going electric.  Suddenly that didn't matter.  It was about the lyrics.  With Dylan, it was always about the words.  

When the party conversation turned to politics and popular music, the tempo heated up.  Not everybody in attendance was eager to invade a country and fight a war for questionable objectives.  Not everybody was enamored of cutesy British groups with novelty songs.  The pulse quickened and my friend Kenny and I found ourselves being dragged up notch by notch defending who and what we called, "the greatest poet of the 20th century." Yeah, we said it. So what. We meant it.

We couldn't have dreamed that he would one day win a Nobel Prize, but we were ready to suggest it. Then, a copy of his latest record appeared, and we played it, repeatedly, defending our stance. 

Take this:

Qualifications

 I'd like to see some changes made. Especially in electoral politics.  Not in the counting or the campaigning.  How about the qualifying?  We are all too willing to pass tests in the classroom, for the DMV, evener skill levels like Karate or advanced degrees.  Those tests can be written or oral.  But not for political office.  Not even the highest office in the land, the Presidency.  Given the power of the Presidency, I'd like to see some proficiency standards set.  

A Presidential candidate should be able to qualify for the ballot in a few key areas. Most notable a President should be a reader.  I'd go so far as a reading list for the office.  What 10 books would you put on that list, and why? 

Given the composition of the current Congress as well as some of those who would be President, I'd like prospective office holders to pass a psychological screening test. That way we could eliminate the plethora of sociopathic contenders who seem to be attracted to politics.  Determining the mental stability of future candidates would prove both useful and crucial given the current trends.

It seems to me that when all the drama of the current political situation settles, we would do well to take stock of what we have or should have learned.  Foremost on my list will be my disappointment at how so many of the American people can be fooled by a malignant narcissist, who happens to check all the boxes of psychopathy.  It should be a national goal to teach folks how to spot one and how to dismiss one before it's too late.

Years ago, when the political situation called for it, we used to have "Teach-Ins."  An offshoot of the strategy of a sit-in, this activity would invite experts on all aspects of a topic to present vetted factual material.  Not a debate, a teach-in would attempt to educate the masses about topics of interest and concern. They were often held in great halls of education or even large theaters or concert venues. Today, they could be either virtual, or even TV specials. All are invited.  Imagine how different it would feel if we were all working with the same established set of facts that could be verified.

The more I write about this, the more I think it is needed.  The difficulty, of course, is that it will take political will to bring it about.  That's the contradiction we face.   For now, think about what we want our future leaders to be, to read and think about.  Think about what we want their disposition to be.  A national conversation would work wonders.  Not a Fireside chat.  Not a lecture.  A two-way conversation where all are seen and most importantly heard.

Let's make some changes.

Bad Luck

 Moms Mabley, the late African-American comedian, was just about the funniest storyteller you could imagine.  She used to tell the story of an old man who saw a little boy sitting on the curb crying.

"What'a the matter, little boy," he said. Why are you crying?"

"Cause I can't do what the big boys do," came the reply.

Then with impeccable timing, Moms would lift her head, turn to the audience and say,

"Old man cry too."

It's a miserable fact of life that as we age, our physical limitations increase.  Most folks are content to simply cut back or limit physically challenging activities.  The trouble arises when you realize simple tasks like going to the grocery store tucker you out.  

I'm not there yet, but last week I got a wake-up call in physical limitations, with devastating consequences.

I lost my favorite rod on reel while fly fishing on the Metolious River in Central Oregon.  Simply put, the bank gave way, I tumbled forward, lost my footing and took an unwanted dip in the flowing stream.  Comprised of snowmelt, it was cold, but I hardly noticed.  Once I scrambled up on the bank, secured my wallet and phone, I went to pick up my rod, but it wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere.  Not in the nearby bushes, not laying down in the shallow water, not even seen floating away.  Gone. Solid gone. I looked for a good while, but my fly rod was nowhere to be seen.  Today, it probably lies on the river bottom, permanently retired.

It took a while to process this horrid situation.  Now, however, I can see it all in a clearer perspective.  I'm fortunate not to have lost anything else, my life included.  

I remember reading somewhere that the best thing to do in that situation is to let the rod go and look after yourself. I'm glad I did that.  

Fishing gear is easily replaced.  So I'll do that.  Lesson learned.

A Willie Mays Story

 With the passing of Willie Mays, comes the passing of a genuine icon.  While the label icon is thrown about so easily these days, Mays was the real deal.  Simply the best.  As my friend Bill said, "a part of my childhood died today."

Willie was the idol of so many kids growing up in the 1950s. He entered my consciousness in 1954 as a 7 year-old. We all saw "the catch" on black and white TV.  There was no replay back then, but there was grainy film of that amazing play.  I'd go out in the backyard and try to replicate the play by tossing a baseball over my head and trying to be Willie.  By age 8 I had to have a Willie Mays glove.  Living in LA, that was not easy.  But my dad, a New Yorker and avid Giants fan, took me downtown to United Sporting Goods where they had a wall of gloves.  A brand new McGregor Willie Mays autographed glove became my most prized possession.  The day I robbed Joey Ball of a home run by leaping in front of the center field fence at the Sun Valley Little League, I was sure Willie was with me.

While I never met Willie in person, I did see him play, first at the LA Coliseum, Dodger Stadium, and later on Candlestick Park.  There was an aura of excitement around Willie every time he stepped into the batter's box or took his position in center field.  I did come close to making his acquaintance one day back in the early 1980s.  

At that time I was a correspondent for a national thoroughbred horse magazine covering the big races, and the people and places in Northern California that made up the racing scene.  One summer, when the horse racing moved to the Summer Fair circuit, I stopped by the State Fair in Sacramento to pick up some press releases in the press box there.  As I was ascending a staircase in the back of the grandstand, an announcement came on telling the crowd that Willie Mays and Johnny Unitas were no longer signing autographs.  Apparently they had been signing programs, baseballs, and photos for the racing fans.  "Damn," I thought. I missed my chance to get a Willie Mays autograph.  As I climbed to staircase to the press box, I noticed three people ahead of me, casually climbing their way up there too.  A closer look revealed that it was the publicity director, Johnny and Willie.  I stopped to catch my breath.  In my head, I rehearsed the conversation I'd have when we all got to the press box.  Of course, I thought, lots of big time athletes hand out in the press box.  Most of them follow horse racing and really like the equine athletes.  I used to see Joe DiMaggio all the time at Bay Meadows and Golden Gate Fields.  

As I neared the trio in front of me, I suddenly realized they were probably tired of signing autographs and talking to people. I reconsidered.  What if Willie Mays refused me, or told me to get lost, or was otherwise bothered by my request.  I couldn't risk that.  I wanted only positive memories of him.  Now I know he probably wouldn't have rejected my request, but since I couldn't be sure, I just let it be.  No regrets.  I would have just fawned all over him and regressed to my 8-year-old self.  Not pretty.  Getting that close to Willie was close enough.

Last Hurrah

When the sun sets on the Golden Gate Bridge tonight, it will set permanently on Golden Gate Fields. The historic Bay Area track will have run its last race today.  

There is something particularly haunting about the death of a race track. To many it means nothing, but to those in the industry it means job losses, uprooting, and perhaps most tragic, loss of community.  There is so much more going on connected to a race track than what the conventional wisdom holds.  An abandoned track is eerie.  It is a sad reminder of glory days filled with excitement and sometimes magic.  It is also a sign that our culture is shifting, again in a direction that may or may not be beneficial for anyone.

 When I first began writing about thoroughbred horses and the people who rode, trained and owned them, I called the subculture of the racetrack the last American carnival.  By that I meant it was a world unto itself, full of color and excitement, characters and emotions that was endangered.  Not quite, but almost. Of course, racetracks are alive and well all over the globe and deeply immersed into the cultures of the French, Germans Irish, Italians, British, Japanese, Korean. Caribbean, and even Russian and Scandinavian.  

But in the US, despite, the long history of tradition and all the colorful characters and great champions, horse racing is in decline and fading fast.  Yes, I know that there have been glaring examples of the cheaters, the equine deaths, and the rule violations.  Like the stock market, the big banks, and the medical/ pharmaceutical industry, there are and unfortunately will always be those that seek unfair advantage.  We can't always prevent human nature or psychopathology from taking its course.  But what the vast majority of people don't see is the love of the horse that those in direct contact with the animals have.  In my 25 years on the backstretch (barn areas) of a couple of major tracks, I've seen firsthand the love and care that goes into grooming and preparing the athletes.  The media seldom goes for their stories in favor of the more sensational dark side.  In truth, every sport has these dichotomies, these contradictions.  

When Golden Gate Fields closes tomorrow (June 9th) not only will it be the end of an era, but the end of a legacy in a world that tramples on it's past in favor of a perceived notion of progress.

Fairly soon, the grandstand will be replaced by heavy equipment and developers will be all over the sight sharing visions of expensive condos with incomparable views of the bay and both the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges.  A little bucolic piece of the city will be a faint memory in a few short weeks.  People like me will be looking to see if they can still find the spot where Bill Shoemaker got his first win, or where the legendary Silky Sullivan was buried.  

Without being overly mawkish, I'd like to share my most memorable moments of Golden Gate.  I'll start with some unforgettable names of horses.  There were working class favorites like Eagles Fly High and Ragtime Dandy.  There were heart stoping closers like Key Decision, Metropole, and Times Rush.  We saw champions like John Henry, Charismatic, Lost in the Fog, and Silveyville.  I recall a few too that nobody remembers, like a horse named Chewed Shoe, who only appeared once and ran a mile on the lead at 60-1 in the lead until the last 20 yards.  Things like that you never forget.  

And the people.  Like a carnival, the racetrack is rich with characters.  Back before computers and cell phones, it was illegal to make a phone call from a racetrack.  Only Doctors  or the emergency workers could do it.  All the phone booths were locked an hour or so before the first race.  Walking into the track, whether it be the grandstand, Clubhouse, or the Turf Club, not far from the Racing Form and Program sellers, would be the tip sheet hawkers.  With names like Jacks, and Hermit, their voices rivaled any circus barker.  One or two dollars would get you their selections for the day.  The geography of a race track is a microcosm of our society.  Like a social pyramid, on the bottom are those closest to the action.  People often line up on the rail to view a race, but it's actually the worst vantage point.  You can only see the horses when they briefly pass by.  The Clubhouse level is much better.  It's less crowded and the higher altitude gives a broader view.  On top is the Turf Club, a fancy, if not expensive restaurant with white table cloths and TV monitors everywhere.  It's a great place to pretend you are wealthy, and many do.  

The people at Golden Gate Fields, like tracks everywhere, can be divided into a few categories. The novices bet $2.00 to show, like to sit outside, pick horses by their names or lucky numbers, and don't        bother with the Racing Form or other handicapping tools.  A good family outing or a day with co-workers.  Next are the followers of the sport.  Reasonably knowledgeable about the horses and trainers, analyze races carefully, and bet when the odds are favorable.  If they win big, they'll leave immediately, because they know how fast it can disappear.  Finally are the addicted gamblers.  They have good days and bad days.  They attend frequently and can be seen on every level from time to time.  They aren't too proud to ask for money if they tap out early.  They run a wild gamut of emotion and know every cliche there is about the sport.  They are unavoidable because they are often very social.

In my 20 years as a correspondent for a national thoroughbred magazine, I covered all the big races at Golden Gate.  There was a time when some of the best horses and their connections ran there.  Bill Shoemaker, Eddie Delahousse, Steve Cauthen, Laffit Pincay, and of course Russell Base all rode there.  Hall of Fame trainers like Baffert, Whittingham, Barrera, Hollendorfer, and Lukas, all ran horses there.  

In thinking about time spent and things seen at Golden Gate  Fields, I have put together a top ten list in no particular order.  Just personal recollections of things I've witnessed or heard, or experienced.  High on that list would be the Golden Gate Handicap won by John Henry in 1984.  A huge crowd saw John deliver a dramatic win on the turf course.  At the time he was the leading all time money winner.  There was Nate Hubbard's ride in 1988, and the photo that went worldwide after the filly, Sweetwater Oak, stumbled on the sloppy track and jockey Hubbard clung to her neck to hold second place. Stewards ruled she carried her assigned weight over the finish line and did not disqualify her.  You could watch thousands of races and never see that happen again.

The photo was taken by Peg Gruenberg, a young photographer who was taught to have a second loaded camera at all times with her because you never know what you'll see.

When Simply Majestic won a 1 1/8 mi stakes race (Budweiser Breeder's Cup) in 1:50, world record time, he broke a record held for 15 years by Secretariat.  Russell Baze weighed in and told a group of waiting turf writers, "Man, I just got wind burn." 

 Some unsuccessful horses become fan favorites because people love an underdog who tries. Such was the case of Schwela, had a string of second place finishes that made him famous.  When they put together a match race between Schwela and Olympic sprinter Jim Hines, the horse finished first to thunderous applause.

One summer they ran a short meet at GGF featuring harness horses.  It was an evening meet that drew a crowd to the cool breezes along the bay.  But just to sweeten the pot a bit, they ran some concerts after the racing was through.  One summer evening in July, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Chuck Berry entertained the crowd.  Chuck let loose with some alternative lyrics on some of this hits and thoroughly entertained the horse crowd.  I remember exiting the track that night because my friends and I ran into Chuck storing his guitar into the trunk of his Cadillac. He stopped and signed autographs on fan's programs.  

As a turf writer, I met and interviewed many successful  owners over the years.  Hollywood celebs like Merv Griffin, accompanied by Eva Gabor, MC Hammer, Joe DiMaggio, David Cassidy, all made appearances.  

Occasionally, an exceptional horse would show up.  A Champion sprinter like Lost in the Fog would sometimes have public workouts between races.  I recall watching this speedy multiple stakes winner gliding over the surface with the I-80 freeway and Albany Hill in the background.  

One time I got word of a horse being shipped in from Southern California to run in a race on a weekday afternoon.  The story was that even though he missed the Kentucky Derby, he was being pointed toward the Belmont Stakes and just needed a race before being shipped back East.  I finished my work day just in time to get over there and see A P Indy win his first race that day.  Later that year, AP Indy won the Belmont Stakes and followed that up with a victory in the Breeder's Cup Classic.

Then there were days of pure magic.  Like the time my friend, a dance teacher, accompanied me.  The Pick Three was a new thing and she wanted to play starting with a horse called Dominant Dancer.  We hooked that horse up with another dancer horse and then in the final leg, a turf horse sired by Green Dancer.  Her $1 investment brought back over $600. She took my advice and used the money to get something she might not otherwise could have afforded.  I'm guessing she still has the diamond earrings she bought back then.

The last three places on my list will be occupied by the many personalities that stand out as unforgettable.

Track employees like Bill the Photographer, kind, helpful, and professional. Lafe the clocker, knowledgeable about music and literature and a real friend. Ellis the PR man, helpful and key to entering the good old boy network inside the press box, Jamie the paddock host, excellent handicapper, bloodstock agent and personal friend, and Sue the Clubhouse credential taker, mother-in-law to the leading rider, all stand out as being friendly and helpful.  

Racing enthusiasts and personal friends comprise this list:

Michael, Marvin, Art, Dan, and Stuart all hung out in the grandstand.

In the Top of the Stretch Room: Ted, Bob, Mike, Jim: professionals all, a doctor, lawyer, writer, chef, day trader.  

Real characters:

Adrian: always plays the 2-3 exacta box.  Explaining his bet on a surprise longshot winner with,"He's due, I just knew he was due."

Henry, a backstretch worker who was a registered gambler with the IRS, so he'd collect a big win for you so you didn't have to have it on your tax return.  Every track has(d) these folks. Henry often looked like he slept in the stall with the horses under his care but he always wore expensive cologne and smelled great.

Ira and his brother; The two most obnoxious New Yorkers I ever met.  Loud, funny, inappropriate, knowledgeable, unforgettable. "Every dog has his day."

Reggie: Huge, gentle giant.  Always wanted to "borrow" $2. He'd be your worst nightmare in a dark alley, but in reality he was kind, and desperately serene. "I'll get straight with you."

Howie:  Good gambler and money manager.  Wore his emotions on his sleeve. Hyper. "I don't need this aggravation."

So now the sun has set on Golden Gate Fields.  In succeeding years, the stories, personalties, and equine athletes will fade and someone looking over the San Francisco Bay will marvel an ask, "Are you sure there used to be a racetrack here?"

Place Holders

 Place. The noun not the verb.  A sense of place is a necessary and powerful phenomena.  In film and literature, place can be a character to advance plot, other characters, or themes.  Recently I began streaming a French TV drama called Mountain Detective.  Set in the French Alps, the backdrop to this typical police show is truly another character.  The French Alps, with sawtooth mountains, pristine rivers and streams, stunning wildflowers, and unpredictable weather pattern certainly exerts a powerful influence on all that happens in this program.  

I'm fascinated how a sense of place appears in my dreams. Even though the street I grew up on in Southern California looks nothing like it did 60 years ago, it sometimes appears as it always was in my mind.  The neighborhood, the street names, the memorable personalities and the geography remain intact in my mind.  The same goes for classrooms in which I have taught, or cars I once had, and even for houses, neighborhoods or cities where I once lived.  Neighborhoods have a very sensory feel as well. Safety or danger, fear or contentment all accompany these dream images.  A frequent theme is living in a house that is very run down on the outside, but aesthetically pleasing on the inside.  This, I'm sure, stems from such a place I lived in while a VISTA Volunteer in Texas.  It remains permanently in my brain and often forms the background for various repetitive themes.

I've noticed, too, that sometimes these features can be combined.  I'll have a dream that takes place in the Bay Area, but the streets will be those from LA or Houston or Portland.  Houses seem familiar but there is always the sense that I haven't been there in a good while.  Sometimes the neighbors or roommates are vaguely familiar, sometimes not. 

Place has such a strong influence on who we are, become, and what we value.  One of the attractions of fly fishing is that you have to go where the fish are.  Often they are in crystal clear streams, beautiful alpine lakes, or isolated wilderness settings.  Place yourself in these venues and it's bound to have a positive impact.  

With a sense of place comes other features.  In various places people speak, look, talk, eat, and value differently.  I recall a summer I spent in New Orleans where a sense of place was so strong, I stood out from those around me simply by ordering a cup of coffee at a favorite coffeehouse.  Not only did I not look particularly Southern, but just the simple act of saying "Large house coffee," gave me away as an outsider.  I defy anyone to live in the South for the better part of a year and not incorporate "y'all" into their daily speech.  On the aforementioned time spent in New Orleans, I recall going out to  dinner in a restaurant with a group of folks from all over the country.  One of our number ordered a salad with red leaf lettuce.  The server asked as she was setting the salad on the table, "excuse me, but not to many folks order this salad and I was wondering, do y'all eat the red part of the leaf?  I soon came to learn, as my time there lengthened, that what passed for a salad in most neighborhood restaurants was a chunk of iceberg lettuce with Russian dressing.