Archive for the ‘Observations’ Category

Tiger’s Nike commercial and Jay Leno’s stupid question

Thursday, April 8th, 2010

The dumbest question ever asked of a celebrity is also, for some dumb reason, the most celebrated.

“What were you thinking?” Jay Leno asked Hugh Grant when he appeared on the Tonight Show following his 1995 bust for a publicly lewd act with a prostitute. Leno was probably the only man in America who didn’t know what Grant was thinking when it occurred to him that not only did he want a blow job at that specific moment, but that he had the money on hand to pay for one.

And now Tiger Woods is asked, by way of his long dead father, “Did you learn anything?”–which along with the rest of Tiger’s ghastly, ghostly new Nike commercial, is right up there in stupidity.

The question is prefaced by Old Man Woods, speaking offscreen in the austere tone of a psychologist, stating the objectives of his inquiry, most significantly, “I want to find out what your thinking was….”

Again, obvious. The well-media coached Boy Tiger said it himself, in his mid-February speech: “I thought only about myself…I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled.”

And what do I think?

The commercial shows that Woods and Nike will stop at nothing, exploiting the dead to prolong the commercial life of a terminally discredited brand. And note how Tiger never changes his blank, cadaverous expression, offering no answer, not even a facial tick of response to the billion-dollar endorsement question, Did you learn anything?

“I think you know in life what’s a good thing to do and what’s a bad thing, and I did a bad thing. And there you have it,” was the way Grant answered Len–and it was a dumb answer to a dumb question.

But at least he said something.

Tiger Woods

Monday, February 22nd, 2010

I started writing a post about Tiger Woods a number of times back when the scandal first broke but it kept getting bigger and bigger so fast that I had to keep scrapping my initial conjecturing and finally just said to hell with it. Probably should have said that to begin with and just let it go. But the media couldn’t, and I couldn’t either.

It was clear from the second day after the crash—and I said as much in a Twitter tweet–that no matter what really happened, we would never look at Tiger the same way again. Something smelled bad from the get-go, though the extent of the spreading stink was then unimaginable—even for those relatively few of us who nevcr bought into his squeaky clean TV commercial role model corporate sponsor image.

But I’m a Jack Nicklaus fan. And Tiger may yet achieve his magnificent obsession of breaking Jack’s record of 18 major championships (he’s stalled at 14 now), but I’ll always argue that Jack was the greater player—and now no one can argue who was the greater sportsman.

This part’s easy—though easily overlooked in Tiger’s media-built role model façade. I’ll never forget the end of the 1980 U.S. Open, which Jack won with a record 272, beating his playing parter for an astonishing all four rounds, the relatively unheralded Isao Aoki from Japan by two shots. Now 40, he had few big victories left in his bag (he’d continue playing sporadically until 2005), and when he cinched his fourth and final U.S. Open win by draining his final putt for birdie the crowd erupted with joy.

But since, Aoki, too, could break the previous record by making his birdie putt—thereby earning big bonus money—the ever-alert, ever-sporting Jack (whether in victory or defeat), waved off the throngs and hushed them to allow Aoki to make his birdie in respectful silence. Contrast this with Tiger’s typically sullen demeanor as he was clearly about to lose to the relatively unheralded Korean golfer E.Y. Yang at last year’s PGA Championship, the year’s fourth and last major: It’s customary for the apparent losing member of the final twosome to putt out on the 18th green of the final day and let the champion-to-be have the  last, winning putt—and the cheers that go with it. But Tiger not only forced Yang to putt first—which was technically within the rules, since Yang was further away from the hole—but then even more unceremoniously bogied the whole after Yang birdied for the win.

But Yang’s win, one of the biggest upsets in golf history, was more noteworthy in that it was the first time Tiger lost a major after holding the lead going into the final round. And it ended a year that was amazing for Tiger in one respect, but perhaps the beginning of the end in another.

Coming back from reconstructive knee surgery, he won six times on the PGA tour last year and was named PGA Tour Player of the Year for the 10th time. But in his all-important major championship quest he went winless for the first time since 2004. He missed the cut at the British Open, and the way he lost to Yang in the PGA was most telling: For the first time maybe ever, a golfer refused to back down against Tiger; indeed, relaxed and enjoying himself, Yang took the fight right to him. He said afterwards that he had observed how others always seemed to choke when paired with Tiger or when Tiger invariably topped the leader board.

“I’ve visualized playing against the best player quite a few times and always sort of dreamed about this,” he said. “So when I was at home watching Tiger, I’d try to visualize and bring up a mock strategy on how to win if I ever played against Tiger. When the chance came, I sort of [felt] that, Hey, I could play a good round and Tiger could always have a bad day. I guess today was one of those days.”

The fact is, Tiger has had scant competition throughout his career. Phil Mickelson, Ernie Els, Vijay Singh—there were very few golfers remotely of his caliber to challenge him, and they did so rarely. Yes, this shows that he has been far and away the best player of his time, and it also testifies to the intimidating nature of his game and his presence. Jack Nicklaus, meanwhile, regularly had to overcome the historic likes of Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Lee Trevino, Johnny Miller, Tom Watson, Seve Ballesteros and Greg Norman. To quote blogger Tank Jones, “Nicklaus’ competition would not be hyperventilating when Woods teed off.”

Yang may have actually exposed Tiger as the Mike Tyson of his era of golf. Tyson was considered to be the greatest boxer ever by those too young to know better, who were understandably awed by his fearsome power. But after a second-rate fighter like Buster Douglas refused to buckle under Tyson’s baleful glare, the truly exceptional champions Evander Holyfield and Lennox Lewis put him away for good.

But there’s another performer who comes to my mind when I reconsider Tiger Woods: Michael Jackson. Tiger apologists, like Michael’s, like to excuse his “irresponsible and selfish behavior”—to use Tiger’s own words from the first paragraph of Friday’s manufactured “press event,” for lack of a better term for it—by blaming it on a domineering father who deprived his boy of a normal childhood as a price for forcing him on the demanding path to superstardom in his field. Hence, neither Tiger nor Michael had the opportunity to grow up.

Sure enough, the New York Post’s enlisted “crisis-control expert” Robert Zimmerman rightly observed that Tiger “looked like an adolescent who was forced to wear a jacket” at the rigidly staged and controlled event. “He was clearly not comfortable in his clothes, and the set looked like a youtube video.” Body-language expert Mary Dawne Arden added, “He had an awful deer-in-the-headlights look.”

Sincerity issues aside, the speech (“the greatest bar-mitzvah speech of all time,” said Howard Stern) was too long, poorly written (likely not by him) and delivered. But there were revealing moments.

Like “I knew my actions were wrong, but I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply”: How did he “convince” himself—and why, oh why can’t I? And his sense of entitlement, i.e., “I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled.” True, no doubt, but sounds too much like someone else wrote it to score points with the corporate sponsors.

His therapy, he said, has taught him “the importance of looking at my spiritual life and keeping in balance with my professional life.” Say what? Spiritual life? Like in Madonna and kabbalah? Tom Cruise and Scientology? Sounds like rich man’s Buddhism to me.

“So I can say the things that are most important to me: My marriage and my children.” Well, congratulations! Except you know what? Too much information. Yes, it is personal stuff that’s none of my business. You’re not the president–even if the stop-everything-else attention of the event seemed like a presidential press conference. Not my spiritual leader. You haven’t killed anyone. It’s not Afghanistan. It’s not health care.

Then again, as my favorite writer, the New York Post’s Phil Mushnick says, “I suppose that if a fellow accepts millions of dollars in endorsements, payments predicated on an image that turns up fraudulent, that has to be at least some of our business, no?”

Mushnick pointed out yesterday, too, that since he admitted taking controlled substance Ambien, he was driving under the influence when he crashed his Escalade and therefore should have been arrested.

“I don’t get to play by different rules,” Tiger said, but he’s always been allowed different rules, not just by Florida law enforcement but by the golf authorities and media ever since he first came on the scene.

“We can never allow it to be only what it is,” Mushnick wrote a few days after Tiger’s November 27 mishap. “Tiger Woods is the greatest golfer in the history of the game. We can’t stop there. No, he’s also the world’s greatest human. And to suggest anything less means you’re the one with the problem. Hmmm, perhaps you even have a problem with the color of Tiger’s skin. Team Tiger, you may recall, dropped that hint, early. So if you know what’s good for you, stick with the story, especially you TV guys: Greatest golfer, greatest human. Got it? Now don’t forget it.”

Mushnick has long documented how the sports media has bent over backwards in hyping Tiger, even going so far as to artificially move his name up to the front page of the leader board rather than following tradition by listing players with the same score alphabetically. He’s written how Tiger was taught to beat the rules from the time he was 15, when his amateur career was funded underhandedly by his IMG rep firm. How he beat the PGA Tour rules disallowing appearance fees.

“Even his first TV ad, in 1996 for Nike, days after he turned pro, was disturbingly dishonest,” wrote Mushnick. “Golf’s most privileged amateur–he’d previously claimed that he didn’t want to be thought of as a minority golfer–spoke of himself as a victim of racial discrimination, unable to play certain courses. While no such fact existed–not for him–black pros who’d suffered genuine racism–Jim Thorpe among them–scorned that ad for what it was: insulting.”

Sportswriter/author Dave Zirin rightly compared the nature of Tiger’s private imbroglios with Bill Clinton’s, then documents a number of truly impeachable offenses in Tiger’s financial entanglements with truly offensive entities like Chevron (“if Woods had a shred of social conscience, this partnership would never have existed”) and Dubai (“a city that has been built over the last thirty years by slave labor”)—“business as usual for Tiger who would sooner swallow a five-iron than take anything resembling a political stand.”

But none of this, of course, jibes with the carefully created and maintained Tiger Woods corporate image. Wrote Mushnick: “What soon became obvious on TV–Woods threw foul-mouthed tantrums on the course–was ignored, excused or admired as evidence of his great desire. Such misconduct from others was condemned as inexcusable.”

None other than Tom Watson said pretty much the same thing in a recent CNN report.

“I feel that he has not carried the same stature that other great players that have come along like Jack, Arnold, Byron Nelson, the Hogans, in the sense that there was language and club throwing on the golf course,” said Watson. “I think he needs to clean up his act and show the respect for the game that other people before him have shown.”

Which brings me to the most important thing, really, that Tiger said Friday.

“When I do return, I need to make my behavior more respectful of the game,” he said.

If you don’t watch or play golf, you might not know that it’s a game where respect is built in—along with responsibility and honor. The player is responsible for his own score, and is expected to be honest at all times (if you cause a ball to move and no one sees it, you’re still expected to count it as a stroke). You repair your ball mark on the green, you replace your divot on the course, you rake the sand in the bunker. You don’t walk through a playing partner’s putting line or let your shadow cross it.

It’s a gentleman’s game, and Tiger, despite his extraordinary talent and ratings draw, has been no gentleman to it.

Only time will tell whether he will beat Jack’s record, though even with what was shaping up to be the perfect 2010 for him in the majors department—half of his majors wins have occurred at the 2010 majors courses—the cracks in his armor that appeared at last year’s majors are more likely than not only going to widen as the 34 year-old ages, as younger players come up, and as he deals with all the new pressures brought on by the disintegration of his personal life.

Jack, who, incidentally, showed his usual class in  declining comment on Tiger’s personal life other than to note that “time usually heals all wounds,” only won six majors after turning 34. But even then, he was well into his oft-stated mission of “giving back to the game what the game has given me.”

In his statement Tiger referenced his Tiger Woods Foundation and its developmental programs for kids.

“Parents used to point to me as a role model for their kids,” he noted. “I owe all those families a special apology. I want to say to them that I am truly sorry.”

He concluded: “Finally, there are many people in this room, and there are many people at home who believed in me. Today, I want to ask for your help. I ask you to find room in your heart to one day believe in me again.”

I would suggest that he first needs to go back to the basics of the game itself. Not the mechanics—which he has mastered—but the ethics.

God is great

Friday, November 13th, 2009

Awful fucking night.

First time, maybe in 25 years, I wasn’t in Nashville for the CMA Awards. Couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t afford going to Nashville once this year when I used to go at least three times. That’s what happens when you work in a dead business with a dead medium. [Once again, I shamelessly implore any readers here to subscribe to my page there and click every time they alert you to a story. You don’t have to read it. Just click on it. They pay by the page view!]

What made it worse than having to sit at home and watch the CMAs on TV last night (actually, I watched it on DVR, since I was at a screening of the God-awful rock movie “Pirate Radio”) was having to also miss the BMI Awards dinner the night before, when Kris Kristofferson was given the BMI Icon Award. Kris and his wife Lisa are the most wonderful people in the world. I’ll always feel that my CD booklet notes to “The Essential Kris Kristofferson” (2004) is one of my career highlights; just knowing this great singer-songwriter/humanitarian is a top career achievement in itself.

I walked into one of the neighborhood deli’s that night to buy a bag of discounted chips and grimaced when the Arab owner asked, “How are you, Brother?,” then feigned a smile and asked how he was. “Life is good, God is good,” he smiled. The newspapers he sold were still full of the Fort Hood massacre. The suspect reportedly shouted “Allahu Akbar!” —”God is great”—before opening fire. Many in the papers wanted all Muslims kicked out of the military.

“Thank you, my Brother,” I said as I took my change and headed home to watch “House of Bamboo,” Sam Fuller’s 1955 crime drama in post-war Japan, which shows cooperation between American and Japanese anti-crime forces in dealing with a vicious American criminal gang.

The CMA Awards fell on Veterans Day. Big military presence on the show—lot of thankyou’s from artists to “our soldiers.” Presumably, no one wondered what they’re doing or why. Those questions, however, were voiced Monday night at the Riverside Church memorial for Mary Travers, which I attended—when I should have been in Nashville at the SESAC Awards dinner. I wrote about it for examiner.com (and implore you again to go there and click on it. You don’t have to read it!). But I will tell you that the big song that night was “Blowin’ in the Wind,” that God was not mentioned once as a justification for killing innocents of any pursuasion—nor was he/she thanked for siding with an award winner. And I got to personally thank George McGovern, a decorated World War II hero, for his service to the country (didn’t get the chance to do the same to John Kerry and Max Cleland, who also attended and spoke).

The CMA’s opened bad. Everything I hate about award shows. An arena full of bored music buzzers and screaming fans/shills wildly cheering TV network celebrity presenters, artificial artist matchups, poorly scripted co-host drivel and fake banter, and typically overblown production numbers.

It all worked against the night’s big winner, Taylor Swift. Her “Forever & Always” opener—a news show interview start followed by the silliness of her throwing chairs and sliding down a pole and into a Madonna floor pose—sounded bad and was surprisingly low energy, especially considering it was shamelessly trying to ape the MTV Awards vibe. She took this to the extreme when she returned to do “Fifteen” while swarmed by young teen girls waving themselves at her; then again, that’s her audience, not ornery old men like me who grew up listening to Conway Twitty, when country songs really were about “real people with real life feelings that make them truly timeless,” as Brad Paisley told his co-host Carrie Underwood before they joined in some tiresome song parodies of in fact truly timeless country songs like “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” (a predictable slap at Kanye West) and “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” (okay, Brooks & Dunn are splitting up—I get it).

Maybe if Brad and Carrie stopped goofing and smelling each other up they could have fit in a few more country classics. And no, I don’t mean “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” that the Zac Brown Band covered. Even though they pulled out all the stops, the music bizzers looked rightly bored (give it up for Kris and Lisa, though: They stood up and cheered at the end and I know it was genuine). I don’t mean “I Was Country When Country Wasn’t Cool,” either. I’m happy enough for Barbara Mandrell’s induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame, even though she was never a Loretta or Tammy or Dolly. Indeed, her kind of country was pretty bland for the most part. But “IWCWCWC” did give Martina McBride a chance to sing, and a second chance to the perennial George Strait, whose earlier performance of “Twang” was one of the few true twang moments of the night.

And it was wrong that Mandrell got to speak and fellow new inductee’s Charlie McCoy (who did get to play harmonica on “IWCWCWC”) and Roy Clark (who wasn’t even there) didn’t. Wronger was that Strait and the always wonderful Vince Gill were the only Hall of Famers who got to perform (not counting Little Jimmy Dickens, whose comic Kanye bit with Brad and Carrie was the only one that worked, and Kristofferson, who at least got to co-present).

Speaking of Gill, his duet with Chris Daughtry was surprisingly good–even if Gill can do no wrong. Also among the older guard, Reba McEntire was solid, and it was great to see The Judds again–if just as presenters. And speaking of presenters, the most important ones were clearly “Good Morning America”’s Robin Roberts and the clueless stars of “The Middle” (“This award show totally rocks!” said the woman)—whoever they were, whatever the show. They were all from ABC-TV, and that’s all that matters when it comes to “country music’s biggest night.”

But Kid Rock actually was an appropriate presenter. He’s shown more love for traditional country music than any of them, and returning to join Jamey Johnson on “Between Jennings and Jones” made perfect sense.

And the rest of the performances? Nothing memorable in the trumped-up “once in a lifetime” Kenny Chesney-Dave Matthews duet on “I’m Alive.” Billy Gibbons’ teaming with the retiring Brooks & Dunn was okay—which is about the best that can be said for the young country artists, though Tim McGraw’s “Southern Voice” was one of the best songs of the night, if marred by too-busy camerawork and constant flashing lights. And Keith Urban’s “‘Til Summer Comes Around” was quite good, if more of a nod to the Eagles than Alabama. Same with Miranda Lambert’s “White Liar,” though its tunefulness and her performance had greater impact.

But Billy Currington’s “People Are Crazy” is the song that really resonated with me—all things considered. Not because it’s such a great song or he’s such a great singer, but because of the timeliness of its all-encompassing line:  “God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy.”

Warning: Don’t Come Home Stoned with Twitter on Your Mind

Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009

I made the mistake of immediately checking my Twitter page upon returning from a night of trying out a vaporizer for the first time.

First I sent out the following Tweet: “Just back from BB King’s for Asleep at the Wheel. Paul Shaffer sat in on the encores. AATW never better.”

For you non-Twitterers, as soon as you click the Twitter “Update” button, your Tweet is added to the top of the list of your sent and received Tweets. Ultra-stoned state that I was in, my gaze naturally dropped down to the next Tweet on the list: “Graham Norton, on Brendon Fraser: ‘His cock is like a Ferrero Rocher.’”

I frantically felt a terrible twitch in my gut. “My God! Did I just write that? How could I? What on earth was I talking about? How fucking embarrassing!”

Then I quickly realized that this was a Tweet sent from “dceiver”–the Twitter name for Jason Linkins of the Huffington Post. I love Jason’s intensely scornful political posts on HuffPost, but I really need to cancel his Tweets since I’m so prone to this type of scare–maybe because his Tweets don’t have his picture: So I see my Tweet with my picture (taken, by the way, at June’s Songwriters Hall of Fame induction dinner, which is why I’m in a tux) and my impaired mind can’t distinguish that the next Tweet is from someone else because it doesn’t have an identifiable picture.

Luckily the Tweet after Linkins’ was Sandra Bernhard’s: “Elegy with penelope cruz ben kingsley based on philip roth’s dying animal excellent a grown up film with great performances, watched at home.” So reassuring, especially since it had her picture!

If you follow me on Twitter you know that I’ve been way more involved there than here, and that a goodly portion of my Tweets announce new posts at examiner.com. Which brings me to a shameful plug: Every time someone clicks on one of my examiner.com pieces, I stand to make between half and a full penny! So I urge all jimbessman.com readers to help me pay the rent by clicking, clicking, clicking on my examiner.com stories–even to subscribe to my page! It doesn’t cost you anything, and you don’t even have to read anything. Just click, click and click again–or is it scream, scream and scream again?

Last word–for now–on Twitter: I’d been making steady progress in the eight months or so since signing up–and especially in the four months or so that I became Twitter-active–in gaining followers at a clip, sometimes, of two or three a day. Then I hit 117 in June and pretty much died. I even lost a few, dropping all the way down to 110 before inching back up, two steps forward and one step back, until I’m now up to 133–my highest mark ever!

Now as I’m sure you know, I don’t promote this site other than Tweet up new posts–like I do with examiner.com. And I don’t make the best use of Twitter–I really don’t know how to. But I was so blasted when I got home last night that I was inspired to use Twitter to comment more creatively on the AATW show, and then hail a TV commercial I watched for the first time (T-mobile’s spot using a Cat Stevens song).

So I also implore all readers who haven’t already done so to sign up for my Twitter updates! There’s no money in it (not even half to a full cent!), just the warm feeling I get inside when someone actually twitter-cares!

Walter Cronkite

Saturday, July 18th, 2009

I was a CBS Evening News junkie growing up and remained so through the troubled Dan Rather news anchor regime. He and his predcecessor Walter Cronkite were my heroes, along with Eric Sevareid, and later, Bob Simon.

I highly recommend renting Good Night, and Good Luck to learn about the great tradition of CBS News—a tradition that is sadly long gone. It focuses on the legendary Edward R. Murrow, the man who virtually built the CBS broadcast news division. Murrow recruited the iconic Cronkite, who would host the network’s evening news from 1962 to 1981 and become known as “the most trusted man in America.”

I saw him in person three times.

The first time was at a record store signing of a box set of vinyl LPs that he was involved in, historic moments of the 1960s, I think. The second was a press promotion for a home video documentary about the first moon landing. He spoke about the 1969 event–which he covered, of course—and said something to the effect that it was the most important story he had ever covered, or the one he was proudest of, or the one that was his favorite.

I was deeply disappointed.

I tried to track him down after his presentation to complain but to no avail. But luck struck some time later, when I attended what must have been Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner’s 40th birthday party, in 1986.
I didn’t know Jann and I wasn’t invited. But he had the good sense to hire my friends Beausoleil, the premiere Cajun band, to perform, and I went in with them. It was at some trendy restaurant downtown that didn’t have any outer signage saying what it was or even the address. I was way out of my element.

All the big record company people were there, and the literary likes of Norman Mailer, George Plimpton, Tom Wolfe. I was very excited to meet the late Israeli singer Ofra Haza there. And to get a second crack at Walter Cronkite.

I went up to him and introduced myself and told him I had seen him at the moon landing home video press gathering. I told him how he had been such a hero, such that I could not accept his citing the moon landing over his momentous coverage of Vietnam (his famous commentary expressing doubts about the chances of winning the war, which he made on camera in 1968 after returning from a trip to Vietnam, was a major turning point in popular opinion) and the Middle East (he brought Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat together to launch the peace process).

His response was unforgettable, if to this day enigmatic.

“Well,” he said, pausing. I think he was embarrassed. I probably should have been.

“Asking what my favorite story is, it’s kind of like asking, ‘What’s your favorite soup?’”

Neda and the Other Alison Krauss

Wednesday, July 1st, 2009

I’d been thinking about it the last couple days or so, since seeing the horrific video of Neda getting gunned down in Tehran, than seeing the stills of the heartbreakingly beautiful girl, Neda Agha-Soltan, 26, who “enjoyed music and was looking forward to learning how to play the piano,” according to one caption.

The pictures sear the mind as did The Picture from Kent State, as its called on one web site. The picture taken by one John Filo, “a young undergraduate working in the Kent State photo lab,” was taken when he took a break on May 4, 1970—right in the middle of the latest round of nationwide campus anti-war protests, this time following President Nixon’s April 30 announcement that the US military had invaded Cambodia and 150,000 more troops would soon be drafted.

After rioting in downtown Kent, Ohio, on the evening of May 1, the Ohio National Guard had been called in to maintain order. A protest rally was scheduled for noon at the University on Monday, May 4, and Filo took his camera to see if he could come up with an interesting shot. What he came up with—a picture of a young girl kneeling in augnuish over the body of one of the four students slain in a fusillade of National Guard rifle fire—won a Pulitzer Prize and is forever embedded in much of my generation’s collective memory.

Lest they be forgotten, the girl was Mary Vecchio. The dead student was Jeffrey Miller. The others who were killed were Sandra Scheuer, William Knox and Allison Krause (being a close friend of the great bluegrass artist Alison Krauss, who would be born just over a year later, I sometimes refer to Allison Krause as “the other Alison Krauss”).

I was a senior in high school in May, 1970, at James Madison Memorial in Madison, Wisconsin. I used to march in all the big demonstrations downtown at the University of Wisconsin campus, often coming home at night with my clothes reeking of tear gas. I’d jump in the shower and the gas would seep out of my long hair and into my eyes.

One night I ran right into an exploding can of pepper gas and I had to be treated at a nearby First Aid facility. Another time I hid in the bushes along the campus banks of Lake Mendota, a National Guard chopper hovering above and shining floodlights on protesters for on-ground Guardsmen to kick the shit out of.

The day after the Kent State shootings—or massacre, as it was also called, linking it with the Boston Massacre of Revolutionary War times—I and 100 others were suspended from school for protesting. The Memorial 101, they called us—the one group I’ll always be proud of being a part of.

And now that another young student is slain by her state’s agents of repression as she protested its repressive policies, I hear the righteous outcry by our politicans against that state—and against our president for trying to exercise caution and restraint in his remarks so as not to further incite those forces of repression. And I wonder, Where were they in 1970?

Among the most vocal is John McCain, who was a POW in North Vietnam after being shot down while bombing Hanoi—the type of action that engendered the anti-war protest movement to begin with. I don’t know what his thoughts are on Kent State or if he senses the same connection between Neda and Allison as I do. But I happened to attend Fox News Channel’s “Huckabee” show taping Saturday afternoon, and heard its host (and McCain’s vanquished Republican presidential rival) Mike Huckabee’s disturbing link of Neda’s murder and “the massacre of Tehran” with the Boston Massacre.

The Boston Massacre had occurred in 1770–200 years before Kent State–when five people died after British troops fired into a large crowd of civilians, some of whom were hurling snowballs at them. Huckabee termed these and the Tehran fatalities as “pathetic victims,” and surmised that they might not have been so victimized had they enjoyed the right to bear arms—as Americans do today.

By extension, of course, had the Kent State students been as well-armed as the Ohio Guardsmen, they might not have been so pathetically victimized—though I very much doubt that this is what Huck, a very nice guy, had in mind.

Like the Iranian demonstrators, some of the Kent State students threw rocks at their opposing heavily armed and willing enforcers of the state (the Bostonians threw small objects at the Brits, too, in addition to snowballs). And like the Iranians (and the Bostonians before them), they were no match for firemans.

“When dissent turns to violence, it invited tragedy,” rationalized Nixon’s press secretary Ron Ziegler after the Kent State killings, which led to the closing of some 450 colleges in the U.S. due to the campus protests they engendered. For Ziegler and Nixon and those who sided with them, the kids brought it on themselves. And now Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is calling Neda’s killing “suspicious,” with the country’s ambassador to Mexico Mohammad Hassan Ghadiri suggesting  that it was carried out by U.S. intelligence.

Back in my day, the political establishment blamed it on “outside agitators,” generally meaning communists and/or Jews from out-of-state. But back in my day, too, there was Johnny Cash.

I was at “Huckabee” as a guest of Larry Gatlin, who performed his new hit “Johnny Cash is Dead and His House Burned Down”—an ironically-titled but terrific tribute to his friend and mentor Cash and his immortal music.

Cash had gone to Vietnam at the height of the war to entertain the troops and came back with “Singin’ in Vietnam Talkin’ Blues,” his horrific take on “that little trip into livin’ hell.” Then in 1970 he had a Top 20 pop hit with “What is Truth,” in which a father explains to his three-year-old son that war is simply a place “where people fight and die,” before Cash himself asks, “Can you blame the voice of youth for asking ‘What is truth?’”

It was the same year as Kent State. I very much doubt that country music fan Huck, or anyone else of his ilk, confronted the Man in Black then on moral grounds–or any other. Whether or not they recognize the lonely voice of Tehran youth as descendents of Kent State is another thing.

Putting the “King of Pop” In Perspective

Friday, June 26th, 2009

Michael Jackson was truly an extraordinary talent of huge cultural significance and major musical influence.

But despite what I’m hearing on tonight’s wall-to-wall coverage, the self-proclaimed King of Pop was not as big as the Beatles on either count—though he wanted so much to beat the Beatles that he bought their catalog and recorded with one of them. And he wasn’t as transformational as Elvis Presley either–though he married Elvis’s daughter and likely ended his life in similar fashion.

Truth be told, not counting his classic hits with his brothers in the Jackson 5, his artistic achievement is mainly limited to the 1980s and his three solo albums “Off the Wall” (released in 1979), “Thriller” and “Bad” and their landmark singles, his groundbreaking videos and concerts notwithstanding. Aside from his 1991 album “Dangerous,” his ‘90s and beyond were wasted with increasingly bizarre and sometimes spiteful behavior, lawsuits, charges of abominable criminal behavior, phenomenal excess and a lifestyle totally lacking in anything remotely healthy.

All of this could have been overlooked had he been able to transition himself creatively, like Madonna has done throughout her career. But Jackson was so stuck in one musical time and place such that the big tour he was working himself to death to prepare for would essentially be that of an oldies act.

I don’t mean to diminish him or his immense contributions. He was indeed the biggest star of his time. Sales-wise–for what that’s worth–he was bigger than the Beatles and Presley. But in the end, it was all overshadowed by sorry self-indulgence, fed by self-hatred and finalized, inevitably, by self-destruction. A great tragedy, long in the making.

To Twitter or Not to Twitter

Wednesday, June 10th, 2009

One of the most important “life lessons” to be gleaned from reality shows, according to New York Times columnist Gail Collins, “is that people who embrace 21st-century public life, whether it is lived on Twitter or TLC, aren’t allowed to complain about the downside.”

She was discussing the  endless “Jon & Kate Plus Eight” shenanigans that are hard to avoid if you waste most your day reading up on useless information, but it struck a note with me, who’s never watched “Jon & Kate,” but has indeed complained about the downside of embracing 21st-century public life.

Then again, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

I’ve offended, let’s see, close to 100 Facebook “friends,” 53 Plaxo “connections” and eight LinkedIn “contacts”—all of whom I’ve coldly let slide without “confirming” their requests, and probably another 80-some Twitter “followers” whom I haven’t reciprocated. I think I might have had a Myspace request once, too, but it’s been so long I can’t remember.

Obviously, I haven’t used any of these services (except for Twitter). I only signed up on them because I had to in order to research people who were already on. It was a necessary mistake.

Especially Facebook. I immediately got swamped with requests from people who wanted to be my friend. What was so disconcerting was the fact that most of them were already my friends! And those that weren’t I didn’t even know!

So I let them slide. Except for one or two, whom I contacted by email to personally testify to our current and continuing and presumably lasting friendship–only to find that they were deeply hurt that I didn’t want to be their Facebook Friend. What kind of fucking heel was I?

Then there’s apparently a “Friends of Jim Bessman” Facebook “page” or whatever it’s called. “Apparently,” I say, because I’ve been told about it by several “friends” (interesting, isn’t it, that I’m no longer sure exactly what I mean by the word “friend”) who are on it, apparently wondering why I haven’t “updated my wall,” if in fact I understand the Facebook methodology correctly.

So I’ll tell you why: I really don’t have anything to say. I’m not doing much of anything but writing about not doing much of anything, nothing, that is, that can’t be expressed in 140 characters or less.

Which, of course, brings me to Twitter. I can’t remember when I signed on, but I’m guessing it was back in January, around the time I re-started my web site. My first update was April 6, so it took me that long to motivate myself. But at least I didn’t start with “I’m trying to figure out this Twitter thing” or anything like that—like so many other newbies. Once I realized that I could use Twitter to essentially confirm my existence I hit the ground running.

No, it’s not about what I’m eating for breakfast—though I do play up my friends’ neighborhood biscotti shop Bis.Co. Latte a lot. It’s really about letting anyone who’s interested know I’m still out there, actively seeing shows and going to events and writing on this site, even if I don’t have the outlets and work opportunities I used to in this era of steep decline in both the music and publishing industries.

Strictly self-promotion, with minimal effort. And while I probably have a relatively low following-to-follower ratio, there are a few Twitterers whom I follow that I’d like to promote here.

First, of course, is Arianna Huffington. I’m a huge fan of Arianna since meeting her during the Bush-Gore campaign. No one has done more in turning this country in a progressive direction than Arianna, and it’s always a pleasure keeping up with her.

I became a fan of women’s magazine super-publisher Bonnie Fuller’s writing via Arianna’s hugely influential Huffington Post, and while her Tweets are all very girlie, for some reason I enjoy them. And even more girlie and no less enjoyable are Meghan McCain’s. With over 44,000 followers, she—and not Palin, Gingrich, Limbaugh or Coulter (in fact, she famously picked a fight with Coulter) is the true face of the Republican party’s potential—that is, if the party can follow her lead in embracing gays and anyone else who doesn’t fit its dominant and repressive older white male demographic (not likely).

That leaves the one and only Sandra Bernhard.

There’s something somehow so indescribably beautiful about this recent Sandy Tweet: “special promo, all my favorite summer fruits are out, cherries, hard grapes, and above all my beloved watermelon! cooling and soothing!”

Without making an issue out of it, she’s telling all of us to eat healthy!

Or this two-parter from her recent trip to London: “if you are measured by the depth of your friendships than i am blessed 1000 fold, what a birthday night of singing smashing plates laughs [break] galore, right here in london, with some of the greatest folks i know, this is what it’s all about, continuity, the deep connections of love.”

She’s just so positive, sharing all the good things in her life.

“maybe it is finally time for peace in the middle east obama is not afraid of love and showing it with strength and certainty people all over [world] the world join hands start a love train tell all the folks in egypt and israel too, join the train at the station! all aboard!”

Sending out only good thoughts and encouragement, she is–she who can and does turn on a dime to righteous ranting and raving anger: “what are we back in the dark ages?” She tweeted in reaction to the murder of Dr. George Tiller. “this is some sick shit! just when you think we’ve arrived, you discover it’s all been put on hold, we’ve got to hit the streets again and never stop! darlings love.”

One of the most brilliant, complex, courageous social observers out there, she summed herself up thusly: “it’s not hard to be me at all but it’s very hard being someone who has no resources and that’s the problem, we who have what we need don’t have to bitch, i do it in the name of those who don’t.”

Reading Sandy’s tweets is like seeing her shows—spontaneous, sizzling, hysterical, inspiring. To use my favorite Peter Tosh word (from “Lesson in My Life”), upful.

And as for Facebook et. al., I’m finally saying yes to everyone, confirming every “friend,” “connection” and “contact” request. I can no longer handle the guilt over the wrongly perceived rejections.

Twittering Phil Spector

Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009

After I started getting Google Alerts regarding Twitters by Phil Spector, I contacted his daughter to see if this could possibly be true, especially since some of them–”If you talk to God, you’re praying. If God talks back, it’s schizophrenia.”—seemed so real.

“Absolutely not,” she responded. “Someone is impersonating him, right?”

Right. But whoever it was, a lot of people were falling for it. Today’s Washington Post is the biggest but hardly the only media entity to pick up on it (Britain’s Daily Mirror yesterday opened its report with “Mad music producer Phil Spector has complained that prison officials confiscated his wig, in a string of angry Twitter posts.”

Quite remarkable, isn’t it? That we might think a man in jail on a murder conviction would be allowed laptop or cell phone privileges!

So I went back to Phil’s purported Twitter page this morning and sure enough, the person responsible had owned up to the hoax. “I didn’t expect this to go so far in the media,” he wrote. “I copied many of Phil’s quotes and I made up half of them. I even fooled many media outlets. It was fun but I feel it has run it’s course.”

But “there is a message to Twitter in this,” he added, presumably about the potential for Twitter fraud and abuse. But I find another message relating to Phil: Even convicted and jailed (and those who have read my previous post on Phil know I believe him to be innocent–and unfairly tried, I will now add), Phil remains a subject of intense curiosity and fascination—as befits the enigmatic creator of an immortal rock ‘n’ roll hit catalog.