Picture of Sweetness

Wiley Sweet Satchmo

Gentle voices ring most true lately.
Black Entertainment Television has added a Jazz Channel, BETJ, that did a brief history of Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong recently. His extraordinary musical talent that broke new ground in jazz, was just the first bloom in his vast garden of delights. His gentle but firm commitment to civil rights was also touching - and effective. He was subtle in his approach, drawing people to him with his disarming smile, overwhelming charm and enormous talent. Always respectful, he expected to be treated with respect in return, and when he was not, simply ignored the offending person, keeping private the deep wounds he felt.
Toward the end of his life, in the late 60's with militancy at its peak, he was viewed by some as an "Uncle Tom." With 35 years of history, the effectiveness of both Satchmo and the the more militant Black Panthers comes to clearer view.
I lived across the street from some Panthers in college. I admired, and supported many of their causes - raising money to eradicate pests from low income neighborhoods, raising bail money for those falsely accused. Their military uniforms, berets, and black armbands, while understandable, were frightening to many, and likely deterred some like-minded people from participating.
Louis, in retrospect, seems less a "Tom" and more an underground activist. I believe he drew many people who would never have consider supporting civil rights by his sweetness. Stepping through the door with his music and charm, he showed the world that treating him with anything other than the utmost respect would be highly inappropriate, and beneath them.
Hand in hand with Louis, the spoken jazz of Richard "Lord" Buckley is another who attracts with kindness and respect. In riff after riff, there is no profanity, no vulgarity, but instead a true affection for all the beautiful cats and kitties, all bestowed royal titles.
Periodically, in our beautiful little town on the Oregon coast, two demonstrations take place directly across the street from one another: one, for peace; and the other, for supporting the troops. Waving to passers-by, each group attempts to garner support by proudly displaying flags and placards with time worn slogans that all of us that lived through Viet Nam have seen again and again. I believe that not one soul is swayed by any of these well-meaning people.
Louis and His Lordship, on the other hand, long gone from our inconsiderate, vulgar world, touched many with their sweetness, kindness, and generousity of spirit, and most certainly changed their hearts. I hope to emulate their strategy of loving people, too, no matter how loudly they blather on their cell phones while I'm eating my dinner.
It's damned tough being sweet.

Fly Girls

Colliding With the Past

Serendipity and synchronicity collided for me in the late 50's, when I was a little bitty kitty. It was then my future piano theory teacher, very hip beat jazz man Merv Kennedy, had Steve Allen as a piano student. Steve was then the host of the Tonight Show, and booked the far out, groovy, jumpin', wild Richard "Lord" Buckley, who speechified jazz for the ladies and gentlement of Steve's court.
My brother Billy, with a lazer eye for cool, introduced me to Lord Buckley long after his death in 1960 - first, with his word-for-word rendition of "The Naz," then later, by giving me his treasured copy of Hiparama of the Classics, Lord Buckley's interpretation of Shakespeare and other fly cats from storydom.
Meanwhile, I was preparing to meet the smart, beautiful women who would befriend me at at work, and be dear to me for decades. These foxy babes are closing in on retirement now, and some are concerned about what they'll do with their lives. To them, I say this.
Had it not been for the luxury of time available to begin writing, I might never had picked up Lord Buckley and fallen in love with his gracious, faultless command of the language of hip. I may never have found many of his lesser known works, compiled and transcribed by another favorite - frantic, wild, axe cat Frank Zappa.
Served up too early in my life to appreciate, all these magical coincidae would have fallen by the wayside, had I not de-gigged and de-wigged to dig the glorious ecstacy of Cathedral-headed beauty, rattlin' on my bookshelf and tappin' on my CD player. All that screamin', stompin' and wailin' to stash the booty and the looty takes time to cool out, my babies.
But this I know. When you're real sweet, rarified and delightful in your gig, it pays down the line. Merv, His Lordship and Frank have swooped off the satellite now, but they gassed while they could. Have faith, mi'ladys.
Your finest hours await.

Friends. Period.

Fuck PC

As victims of pervasive political correctness, nothing except honesty has suffered more than language. In an effort to assure no feeling be hurt, the truly dangerous have gone underground, shrouded in a burka of appropriate verbiage.
This has been the case as long as there's been a sociopath, but the lunatic fringe includes more - those who were often less able to mask their true feelings. They now have the tool to sound less like one, and listening requires less from the ear and more from observation - a panicky glace, a subtle wink, a shifting position, a sudden pause, a hollow laugh.
What did THAT mean?
As painful a regression as it is, I prefer people use language that represents true feelings. I don't want biggots to say 'the N word' or misogynists, 'the C word.' I want them to say "nigger" or "cunt." It gives me a very clear idea about who is speaking, and how he feels.
In New Orleans when David Duke, post Klan and plastic surgery, was running for political office, bumper stickers read "Elect the crook, not the bigot. It's important." Duke, looking positively Ivy Leaguesque, said, "I don't call myself a white supremacist. I'm a civil rights activist concerned about European-American rights." That doesn't sound so bad, does it?
One of my favorite books written in the last decade is a relatively short, immensely readable philosophical treatise by Harry G. Frankfurt called On Bullshit. This thoughtful, retired Princeton philosophy professor defines, gives examples of, and discusses the cultural pervasiveness of bullshit (which, by the way is very different from lying). Fun fact! Many advertisers list the book as "On Bullshoot."
To be clear, I abhor bad manners. I can't stand being around those who belittle, dismiss or otherwise are disrespectful. But to train such a person to speak as though he were not is to provide cover.
And, it makes me nervous.

Sorry Steve

Big Fat Lying Politician Wanna Be

Malcolm Stevenson ("Steve") Forbes, Jr. issued a statement saying the article published in Forbes magazine online suggesting that men will be happier with stay at home wives “clearly hit a very sensitive nerve.”
“The piece was intended to be part academic and part humorous. Instead, it profoundly offended hardworking career women everywhere. We deeply regret having done so.”
For the last two days I've examined this issue; first in song, and second, in subterfuge. Today, this subject shall end as so many do, with an apology. Harry Shearer - actor, writer, political satirist - posits that non-professionals are well advised to avoid attempts at humor. He also has a feature on his radio program called "Le Show" titled "Apologies of the Week." Apparently material from the former category fuels the latter.
This is, however, not such an example.
Clearly, the article was intended to cause publicity. That said, this apology is more of a cheer (we HIT the sensitive nerve!) mixed with a lame excuse (we MEANT to be academic AND funny). Further, it acknowledged only that these predictably touchy bitches got pissed off.
But he won this battle. He got publicity for his online venture, and got working chicks to do it for him. Touche!
Steve's always reminded me of Barron Hilton (son of Conrad, who built the hotel chain). Conrad was a fierce capitalist, building a valuable brand over his lifetime by shrewdly buying property and erecting hotels one at a time in the right place at the right time. Barron was his kid, whose greatest achievement may have been winning the nine year lawsuit against his father's estate for the interitance not dumped on his lap. Otherwise, he was a bit....slow.
Steve's dad Malcolm was also a larger than life self-made man who loved the finer things in life. Often pictured on his yacht gulping champagne with Elizabeth Taylor or riding motorcyles with his buddies, he was an unabashed alpha male. Steve is his little Barron, needing influential daddy to secure his place in Princeton, and had 51% of the media empire dropped on his lap without the need for a messy lawsuit. When he ran for president I, the avowed capitalist, thought two things: one, his flat tax proposal had absolutely zero chance of getting anywhere; and two, he looks like a goof.
Sorry, Lieberman sounds like Elmer Fudd and Steve looks like a goof. Fatal presidential flaws. Sorry.
Clearly, Steve isn't sorry. My concern is that we're so heavily insulated under a mantel of political correctness and inevitable apologies, that we can't see bullshit for what it is. Left to his own devices, stripped of his PR reps, Steve would show his true colors. He's a slightly above average goof who was running the business his daddy gave him into the ground. Kickin' it into a hole. Selling his inherited Faberge eggs, his jet, and more.
Conde Nast, publisher of such dodgy fare as "New Yorker" and "Vogue" magazine, passed up investing in Steve's enterprise before Bono and friends came along, balking at the high price. They have, however, no idea how to see the future in online Forbes - a much wider audience, and a business model that is, well, being worked on by people with lots of money (and a need for media - the bubble grandson of tech and real property).
If this planted story results in enough eyeballs on Forbes online to result in a profitable business model, I've badly misjudged Steve. But I kept my clients away from Enron because the cash flow didn't jive, and I taught my Security Analysis students that if people with lots of money tell you what's chic, run.
Time will tell.

Capitalist Tool

B'O No!

Trustafarian

Steve Forbes, inheritor and editor of Forbes magazine and periodic presidential candidate, removed, apologized for, then reissued the article in this month's online version of his magazine that told men that they'll be happier if their wives don't work. The reissued version is now beside an article with an opposing viewpoint by Elizabeth Corcoran.
This is a lot of publicity for Forbes magazine's online edition, something I imagine not many people knew existed before this unfortunate editorial decision. Now, people are looking up the original article, reading Steve's heartfelt apology, and cheering Elizabeth Corcoran's predictable response.
Steve, by the way, just sold a 40% stake of his family's media group to Elevation Partners, which includes blessed Bono as one of its founding partners. That amount, estimated between $250 million and $300 million, is to be used to develop Forbes' online operations. Financial difficulties recently forced our Steve to sell off his Faberge eggs, Victorian art, a private jet, and more, to keep his enterprise afloat.
This is a fortuitous convergence of events - Bono and company to the rescue, and an enormous amount of publicity for his newly funded ventures.
I know that Steve sought the former. As editor, might he have orchestrated the latter?

Son of Forbes' Centerfold

Warning Label

Two songs I remember when I was a little Kitty said this:

“Brown-skinned girl, stay home and mind baby.
Brown-skinned girl, stay home and mind baby.
I’m going away on a sailing ship
And if I don’t come back,
Stay home and mind baby.”
(Harry Belafonte, 1956)

and

“If you want to be happy for the rest of your life,
Never make a pretty woman your wife.
So, from my personal point of view,
Pick an ugly girl to marry you.”
(Jimmy Soul, 1963)

Now it's 2006, and I’m a big Kitty. Steve, son of Malcolm, founder of Forbes, published an article this month in the online version of his fine magazine that tells the boys they’ll be happier if their wives don’t work. Why? Because they’ll stick around longer, fool around less and have more kids.

Back in '69, Virginia Slims told the girls

"You've come a long way, baby, to get where you got to today..."
(Philip Morris, 1969)

Cigarette companies are damned liars.

For Diggin' the Sprouts

Billy and the Golden Apple

From the Church of the Living Swing

"Pleased, flipped and grooved
by this very, very gracious group of lords and ladies here,
at the Marquis de Moople's Travelling Palace of Joy.

Like I splained to you before I'm a people worshiper.
I think people should worship people. I really do.

I went out looking for God the other day and I couldn't pin him.

So I figured if I couldn't find him I'd look for his stash.
His Great Lake of Love that holds the whole world in gear.
And when I finally found it I had the great pleasure of finding
that people were the guardians of it. Dig that.
So with my two times two is four,
I figured that if people were guarding the stash of Love known as God,
then when people swing in beauty they become little gods and goddesses.

And I know a couple of them myself personally.
I know you do, too.
I think people should worship people.

I like to worship somethin' I can see,
somethin' I can get my hands on,
get my brains on.

I don't know about that Jehovah cat!
I can't reach him. I don't know, I'm ...

Seemed like every time I found myself in a bind I always, uh,
nothing mystic came along to help me,
some man or some woman stepped up there, and said, "We'll help you.
We'll do this. We'll do that."

That's the way it looks to me, so, uh,
recently on the San Berdoo Freeway
I got hung up in an old junker car
goin' to Las Vegas Nevada.
Right in the middle of the freeway
during the rush hour it conked out.

Car...rrr, rrr, rrr, rrr drivin' it...Hrrpp...got a weak clutch...
whadda ya doin' let it in...don't step on it...

Oh, it was a madhouse,
like havin' lunch in the middle of the Indianapolis Speedway.

About three days went by and finally along came God.

There was two of 'em.
There was a big god and a little god.

They didn't know me from a,... fromma.
But they pushed and they pulled and they tugged and twisted
and they yanked and they gave me every possible assistance
in the world and finally got me on my way.

Haven't seen them since.

But I think that people,
I hope I haven't offended anyone's religious beliefs,
but I think, I think that people should worship people.

I really do."

Thus sayeth the Lord, and Mogan David.