Ah, the big day. Christmas.
Once more set against a world rich in turmoil, its message of love and goodwill seem almost childishly naive. Perhaps they have endured because all of us, whether or not we make our feelings public, wish for them.
Rancor and divisiveness are exhausting.
Peace, understanding and cooperation are not.
Just a thought.
It took me a long time to get to New Zealand. Not in terms of actual travel, but musically. In terms of the pop music that existed there practically unknown to the rest of the world. Sure, we all knew the music of its neighbor to the west: AC/DC, INXS, Nick Cave, Tame Impala, the Divinyls, Powderfinger, Midnight Oil and the Church.
But New Zealand? Not so much.
I'd like to claim that through my forays into every used record store in Chicago I'd single-handedly unearthed the glories of Straitjacket Fits and the 3Ds and the Tall Dwarfs, but that would be a lie.
Closer to the truth were the multiple volumes of The Trouser Press Record Guide I owned, exhaustively compiled by Ira Robbins. The entry that captivated me most was for a band called the Clean. I immediately set-out to find their two 1982 EPs—unsuccessfully.
Fortunately, a compilation was released about that time, sparing me the anxiety that had accompanied my pursuit of Big Joe Turner and LaVern Baker LPs. I was enchanted, and eventually found their EPs as well as two terrifically rare live albums.
I didn't hear the news of Hamish Kilgour's death until a week after it happened. Granted, we're not talking about an A-list celebrity, but given my long-delayed introduction to the music he made with the Clean, it somehow seemed appropriate.
The drummer was reported missing November 27th and discovered in Christchurch the 29th. He was 65. No cause of death was given.
He learned the drums by playing along with Velvet Underground records, indicating a desire for something fresh and different. His playing was a big part of the trio's sound, appropriately described as “pulsing, dirty, metallic pop.”
Joined on guitar by his brother David and future Bat Robert Scott, the band clicked big in New Zealand. They toured and played sold-out dates throughout the country.
Then they broke up.
Like so many bands, their influence was larger than their catalogue. In addition to providing the first single for Roger Shepherd and his fledgling record label Flying Nun, the band's inventive, lo-fi sound eventually found its way to fans all over the world.
Contemporary critics credit the Clean with influencing bands like Yo La Tengo, Pavement and Superchunk.
Following the end of the Clean, Kilgour founded the Great Unwashed and later, Bailter Space. By 1988 interest in the Clean had grown to the point where a reunion was arranged. A powerful collection (Compilation) was released which included new songs.
In 1990 Vehicle was released.
Eight years after their two EPs turned New Zealand on its head, the Clean at last had a profile equal to their influence.
But with Hamish now residing in New York City and brother David remaining in New Zealand, new Clean releases were sporadic. In the meantime, Hamish kept busy with a multitude of bands and solo releases.
Kilgour once said, “There's no point worrying too much about the commercial viability of your music. Fads and fashion come and go.” They were words only a non-conformist like Hamish Kilgour could speak.
The best description of the artistry that wound its way through his records was captured in a 2012 interview. “Often in simplicity, you find magic things. You're looking for this magic spot where beats sit.”
In a time marked by the losses of Christine McVie, Loretta Lynn and Mimi Parker, this might be the most regrettable.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Like so many other public institutions, the Baseball Hall of Fame has become something of a battleground. Who belongs, who doesn't. Who has been unfairly ostracized, who has been unfairly admitted. The allegations (and the debate) goes on and on and on.
The current disagreement is over the players who benefited from steroid usage. While technically not a rules violation (baseball was notoriously slow to act on their usage), it obviously provided an under the counter advantage for those who imbibed.
Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmeiro and Jose Canseco are only the most-prominent names who admitted to using. Dozens (probably hundreds) of others also used them. But even in an era of bloated hitting statistics, steroids didn't turn everyone into Mickey Mantle.
Which is fundamental to the pro-steroids argument. Bonds and Clemens would've made the Hall of Fame, anyway. Why should they be punished for enhancing their skill set?
And I agree. To the first part, anyway. Both enjoyed notable and highly-successful beginnings to their careers. But as we were to see, that wasn't enough. It didn't matter that Bonds was a Gold Glove All-Star and a perpetual MVP candidate. Or that Clemens was a consistent Cy Young contender. They had to be Babe Ruth, too.
Bonds also underwent pronounced physical changes, including an enlarged head. Never one of the games nice guys, he became highly irascible, lashing out at fans and the media at the slightest provocation. I'll never forget his pronouncement that “we” didn't like him because he was Black.
Really, Barry? Is that the reason? Are you saying that if you were white I'd be your fan club president?
Hmmm.
Whatever regard I carried for him evaporated at that point. I relished his unofficial nickname: Asterisk. In addition to his chemically-enhanced output, he became the game's biggest asshole. Is that what's known as a win-win?
To the remaining members of the steroid club, Bonds was a blessing. As the player who enjoyed the greatest, most eye-popping benefit, he took a lot of heat off of those performing in smaller markets or with under-achieving teams.
The most convincing pro-steroids argument came from a baseball writer at the Chicago Tribune, who defended her picks thusly: The Commissioner who turned the blindest eye possible to the steroids scandal was voted into the Hall of Fame. Why? Because he made his employers a whole lot of money.
Should we really punish the players?
It is an argument I cannot fault.
After the 1994 strike, baseball found itself on shaky ground. Or at least ground as shaky as a multi-billion dollar business ever finds itself on. It was scared. It's probably an overstatement to say the 1998 home run chase between McGwire and Sosa saved baseball, but again, it poured an awful lot of black ink into baseball at a very crucial time.
Being businessmen first, last and always, it doesn't take a great deal of imagination to envision team owners urging Bud Selig to go as easy on steroid use as the public would allow. And for that reason and that reason only, I'm grateful for Barry Bonds. His outsized success was impossible to ignore. Ditto questions about the game's integrity.
Judging by the vote counted Monday by the Contemporary Baseball Era Player's Committee, plenty of questions remain. And none of them appear to be answered with the words 'Hall of Fame'. Neither Bonds, Clemens, Palmeiro or Curt Schilling received the number of votes required for entrance.
I'm sure another generation, by and large ignorant of the steroid era, will look at their numbers and wonder why a previous generation had a problem with them. But for now, justice has triumphed. And in 2022, that's something.
I am as naive as any right-wing conservative you care to name.
For instance, on December 14, 2012, as the news about the Sandy Hook, N.J. elementary school shooting broke, beyond my revulsion and sorrow was the thought that maybe, just maybe this might be the mass murder that would propel the United States to enact profound changes within the Second Amendment.
Yep, I was the doctor who confused pancreatic cancer with indigestion.
Meanwhile, unflushed conspiracy-theorist-slash-radio-host Alex Jones ranted and raved about the shooting, claiming it was an event staged by the U.S. government that would one day enable the government to confiscate America's firearms.
(Dear Trump-tard, Be honest. Isn't everything that happens in the world ultimately a plot to confiscate American's guns?)
So. If burying your eight-year-old daughter wasn't traumatic enough, imagine some mentally-ill conspiracy theorist trumpeting this idea and inciting the mental-defectives which constitute his audience to actively and deliberately harass the parental victims of this shooting.
Which of course they did.
In La Piazza Gancio land, Jones would have been placed in an industrial-strength meat grinder with his remains scattered for the benefit of any diseased rodent that cared for them.
Sadly, it seems that turds also enjoy the benefits of the Constitution. Which is another way of saying that, yes, Alex Jones had rights.
Thankfully, so did the survivors. They sued Jones for his toxic re-interpretation of the shooting and in late-November, won. While I've no qualms with the damages awarded the families, I do regret the lack of oversight which might have been able to freeze Jones' assets.
Thusly, he is moving as a much more slender man, hiding and transferring whatever he can lay his fat little hands on to prevent it from being part of the damages. He even declared bankruptcy, just like his buddy Donald.
Yes, imitation is truly the sincerest form of flattery.
I don't know how successful his attempts will be. But for a domestic terrorist who employs a lawyer who declared the verdict as a “very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech”, just about any annoyance or inconvenience we can heap on Jones is appropriate. (Meat grinder included.)
Before I close, let me correct Jones' lawyer, Norm Pattis:
Mr. Pattis, I believe the very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech you refer to was the day your client opened his mouth about Sandy Hook.
Wikipedia lists Jones as having four children. In a better world, he would soon know the pain those Sandy Hook parents already know.
By all accounts, Brittney Griner is a gentle soul. Quite a feat, considering the challenges being a six-foot nine-inch female who weighs two-hundred five pounds and is openly gay present. (Not to mention that unless your name is Giannis Antetokounmpo or Joel Embiid, she can probably kick your ass to the dark side of the moon in a game of basketball.)
As players in the WNBA often do, she had traveled to Europe to play a second season following her 2021 WNBA Finals appearance with the Phoenix Mercury. It is unknown if she had successfully smuggled cannabis into Russia previously, but this time her attempt was unsuccessful.
I don't pretend to know Russia's drug laws or precisely what is meant by “a small amount” of cannabis, but I'm guessing that even in Vladimir Putin's Russia, this is not the equivalent of a first-degree felony. And yet Griner has been treated nearly like a serial killer.
Detained in February and tried in August, she was sentenced to nine-years in prison. Her legal team filed for an appeal and were denied in October. Now comes word that she has been sent to a penal colony, an extraordinarily harsh punishment in light of her crime.
At first glance, it's hard not to wonder if she is being treated more severely owing to her status as a celebrity. After all, this is Putin-land, where cases like this proceed in whatever fashion will guarantee maximum exposure.
A commonly held belief is that Griner is a political pawn, kept in storage until such a point she can be used as a bargaining chip in the aftermath of the war in Ukraine. And if this is the case, does it make sense to let a valuable prisoner languish in such deprived conditions?
This is supposition, of course. For all I know, Putin lost a butt-load on the Mercury in the 2021 WNBA Finals and this is his preferred manner of extracting revenge. But given the dire reality of Putin's twisted autocracy, the probability remains that this woman has become a pawn in his latest political drama.
All that is left is for the U.S. and Russia to determine her worth before the inevitable negotiations begin.
Another chapter in the book of human cruelty.
Two-thirds of the U.S. population is under fifty years-old. Which means that the inflation currently gripping the country is something they have never experienced. Never felt. Never lived through.
For them, it is an especially unnerving thing. At least until Tuesday, when they can vote Democrats out of office. With Democrats gone, inflation will disappear and the economy will magically repair itself.
Right?
As someone who came of age in the inflation-happy seventies and early-eighties, I can and will laugh at them.
Contrary to their politically-motivated feelings, our parties rarely have much to do with inflation. In 2022, the pandemic, the ensuing lockdowns, supply and labor shortages and overwhelming consumer demand have a bit more to do with inflation than whatever Democrat(s) you choose to blame.
Take gasoline. I don't know the person who hasn't carped about fuel prices. But climb into your car and hit the road. Is the amount of traffic not markedly higher than in any of the past five years? I, myself, routinely sit through multiple traffic light cycles where I never did before.
If Americans can't afford gas, we are doing one hell of a job at hiding it.
Fact: inflation is the byproduct of a market where demand outstrips supply. That's why automobile dealerships, despite their often bare lots, are making two to three times the income than they ever have before. That's why the price of gasoline and airline tickets leap like a twenty-four year-old Michael Jordan.
And when the product itself isn't undergoing material or labor shortages, the cost of getting it to market has—as you know—exploded.
So. How do we beat inflation?
I propose a radical idea: consume less.
Don't run to Target for a fresh jar of moisturizer. Don't go to the grocery store for a carton of ice cream or a bag of chips. Consolidate your trips. You'll use less gas, save time and hopefully wean yourself from the illness known as instant gratification.
It is us, you see, who are at the root of inflation. Ask yourself: what are we telling Exxon Mobil and British Petroleum and Royal Dutch Shell when we mindlessly lap up the latest increase they have gifted us with?
We don't care! Price isn't important! Raise it again—we can afford it!
Until supply outstrips demand, companies have no incentive to drop prices. Their purpose is to make as much money as possible, and under current conditions they are doing a fabulous job.
Some have even resorted to price-gouging just because the current climate allows it.
I'll say it again: the more we consume merely because that's how we've always consumed, the more we will pay for our purchases. With the mid-term elections happening tomorrow, it's a great time to ask of ourselves that which polls indicate we most want to ask of our candidates:
Do something about inflation.
We can make it happen. Reigning in our thirst for instant gratification would help.
Dear Kyrie Irving,
Please tell me how you would feel if a prominent white basketball player linked a movie that was hostile to Blacks to his various social media accounts.
My guess is you'd be pounding on Adam Silver's door demanding the player in question be removed from the NBA. You'd be crying to every TV camera in sight about the relentless slandering of Blacks.
Finally, you'd be filling any and all available social media space with accusations that the NBA is a racist enterprise and needs to be held accountable.
But that didn't happen, did it?
You linked a movie damaging to Jews to your accounts and because you are an obnoxiously-paid, high-profile athlete, the rest of us are supposed to either forgive, excuse or (gulp) understand.
Got it.
That go for Kanye, too?
Sincerely,
La Piazza Gancio
