Category Archives: Slice of Life

Ride My See-Saw

moodybluescenter

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – Of all the bologna that should keep me up at night – or, in my case, up while trying to take my afternoon nap – who is or is not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame should not be among them.

But it is.

You just can’t teach a grumpy old dog new tricks, especially when he has yet to chew his way through the same rawhide bone.

Just to repeat – a nut graph, if you will – I could, and maybe should, just leave it alone. All my all-time favorites are long-since inducted. That arm’s-length list goes from Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan to U2 and The Clash to all the obvious Classic Rock icons (Beatles, Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, etc.).

I hocked upon a righteous drum solo for Bob Seger, and was almost committed to a mental institution when one-hit wonder Isaac Hayes got in first, but all was made right a year later. I then began screaming for Genesis, Rush and Journey.

Inducted, inducted and inducted.

But the sports half of my brain get reconcile the more artsy-fartsy way the Hall goes about laying out nominees and coming to its final conclusion each year.

And even though fans vote – the only reason likes of Rush, Journey and others got in – the snot-nosed critics are still able to force their agenda of such extreme inclusion of forms of music that really are not Rock and Roll that obvious choices remain excluded.

This year’s list of 19, of which a grand total of five will be inducted, is no exception. I see some I’m happy with and others that don’t pass the smell test.

And I’m still left wondering what Bad Company, the Doobie Brothers and Steppenwolf ever did to be treated with such blatant disregard.

After I huff and puff, I’ll cast my vote. And then I’ll sit back and contemplate therapy as a day perfect for napping, like when it’s raining, is lost starring at the celing.

Let’s look at the list and I’ll give one of three answers – Yes (in bold), Maybe (italics) or No – for whether or not induction is deserved. I won’t give the “yes” nod for more than five, but a maybe means I can live with it.

  • Bon Jovi – Yes (Not a huge fan, but I was a first-hand witness to their impact and you can’t deny the body of work and the songs that continue to resonate).
  • Kate Bush – Maybe (Good music, but a little too quirky and out the mainstream to break into my Top 5. Still, I’d be OK with it).
  • The Cars – Yes. Hell Yes. (My favorite band for a stretch in ninth grade. I did out-grow them but still appreciate the tell-tale body of work and the obvious influence on other bands that came after. To me, they are on the same level as The Talking Heads, who were inducted a while back. How did that happen, you may wonder? Critics loved The Talking Heads and were never really into The Cars. It’s a New York vs. Boston thing).
  • Depeche Mode – No (I mean, they had their moments but, uh, no).
  • Dire Straits – Yes (A no-brainer, really, so brace yourselves for the inevitable WTF moment).
  • Eurythmics – No (A few OK songs does not a Hall of Fame career make, sorry).
  • J. Geils Band – Yes (This is a case of waiting until somebody dies –in this case, J. Geils himself, to act. Pretty damned pathetic).
  • Judas Priest – Maybe (We are talking about heavy metal icons with a hefty catalogue, but going in before metal pioneers Steppenwolf wouldn’t be right).
  • LL Cool J – No (But it will happen, and at the expense of an act or artist way more deserving, mark my words. Rap isn’t my thing, but I can appreciate it and where it’s coming from as a form of urban expression. That said, it is a whole different genre that should have its own Hall of Fame).
  • MC5 – Maybe (And only because they are pretty good. Still, the body of work just doesn’t measure up. Line them up against Steppenwolf, for example, and that should end this discussion).
  • The Meters – No (They keep coming up on the nominee list like acid reflux. Until somebody explains to me why, when Todd Rundgren or Boston and singer-songwriters like Harry Chapin and Gordon Lightfoot get no love, I’m going to keep going for the Alka-Seltzer when I see them listed).
  • Moody Blues – Yes (It’s even more of a no-brainer and so overdue that I might miss two naps if they don’t get in).
  • Radiohead – Maybe (Not my cup of tea, but there seems to be a compelling need from the board to leapfrog bands from this era over people who may not be around to appreciate being inducted much longer).
  • Rage Against the Machine – Maybe (I can appreciate the impact, and I dig Tom Morello, but I’m just not feeling it).
  • Rufus featuring Chaka Khan – Maybe (I can’t put it in my obvious Top 5, but they like to look like to do the annual “politically correct thing to do,” and this is not this band’s first time on the nominee list. For what it’s worth, “Tell Me Something Good” was the first 45 I ever bought, so I have a soft spot. Just not that soft).
  • Nina Simone – No (Her own bio lists about every genre under the sun – from Jazz to Soul to Gospel – but not Rock and Roll. Her only Top 40 hit, “I Loves You, Porgy,” reached No. 18 (No. 2 on R&B charts) in 1959. We can appreciate the longevity and respect in the music business, but this would be like putting a rugby player in the football hall of fame).
  • Sister Rosetta Tharpe – Maybe (Actually, not maybe. Yes, but as a pioneer selection. How she, as a more of an inventor of what became Rock and Roll than Bill Haley and his friggin’ Comets, is not in is beyond me)
  • Link Wray – LOL (not means no, as in N-O.).
  • The Zombies – Maybe (I really like their stuff but there just isn’t enough of it).

So, the summarize, from this list (and I could come up with five more deserving inductees fast than you can say Boston, Styx, Foreigner, America and Warren Zevon), we have: Bon Jovi, The Cars, Dire Straits, J. Geils Band and Moody Blues — with  special “pioneer” designation for Sister Rosetta Tharpe.

Now go forth and stuff those ballot boxes.

I need my sleep.

 

Letting You Go

PETTY2

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – How am I feeling in the aftermath of the sudden death of Tom Petty?

I feel like I lost a family member.

That’s a pretty powerful statement, and I really yearn not to be easily given to hyperbole, but I don’t swing for the fences on the first pitch without have been under the influence of perhaps the best writer of first verses in the history of Rock and Roll.

That would be none other Petty, who will write no more songs – with historic opening salvos — but leaves behind unlimited masterpieces ranging from his best-known songs to deep album cuts.

To understand, you would have to understand the inner G2 and how music in general, with Petty’s music near the top of the charts, has shaped all I am – for better or worse and all points in between.

My wife and daughter certainly didn’t flinch when I was pretty much hysterical upon learning the news Monday – news that changed slightly, saying he was near death – to learning that he was gone.

It seemed an odd reaction on the same day as the indiscriminate mass killing in Las Vegas, which drew more anger from me, as a longtime gun control advocate, than sentimentality.

I mourn for those who lost their lives, and those who a scarred by the experience, and can’t really fathom the shock of their loved ones.

But I can understand the gut-punch of losing family. You live five decades and it gets to be hard to avoid.

And “family” is not just those who share your blood.

When the magic of Rock and Roll gets into your blood, your family tree takes a different form.

It can be a stranger whose art was such that he seemed like they knew you.

And it includes those who are there for you in moments of extreme darkness and light, moments when your range of emotions can be explained – or enhanced – by a well-written and performed song.

And not many combined those skills better than Petty and his band, the Heartbreakers.

They came along at the tail end of the Classic Rock era, which runs roughly from the arrival of The Beatles in America (1964) until the 1977 movie Saturday Night Fever spawned Disco Fever and seemingly forced Bob Dylan to ask Jesus what the hell was going on.

And yet Petty’s clan, with roots firmly in 1960s sensibilities, was easily grandfathered in as a Classic Rock act, although the raw sound on those foretelling first two albums – Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (1976) and You’re Gonna Get It (1978) – made for a nice bridge between AOR (album oriented rock) and the burgeoning punk rock scene.

That status would be further cemented when he later joined forces with the likes of Dylan, former Beatle George Harrison, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne of ELO fame in the Traveling Wilburys for two albums (1988, 1990) and the deal sealed with an induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2002.

As honors go, it was as well-earned as it was deserved.

When Damn The Torpedoes came out in 1979 – and shot right up to No. 2 – that album’s classics (Refugee, Here Comes My Girl, Don’t Don’t Me Like That, Even The Losers, etc.) joined airwaves already populated by songs from his first two releases (most notably Breakdown and American Girl from the first and I Need To Know and Listen To Her Heart from the second).

At the time, I was transitioning into high school and was trying to find my place in a world where I was, for all intents and purposes, just another kid.

The songs resonated. No matter where I was, or what I was doing, I stopped in my tracks. It was a natural instinct. They just reached out from the radio and grabbed you.

I couldn’t quite explain how or why, but they did.

By the time of his next album — and my personal favorite, 1981’s Hard Promises – I began the arduous, and still ongoing journey, of putting pen to paper to try and make sense of it all.

And writing lyrics, for me, was a natural fit.

I listened to a lot of music, and pondered the messages being sent, to direct me on this quest.

For all the Prog Rock concept albums that made it almost easier to dabble in free-form writing that barely made sense – even to myself – I began to marvel at the way Petty, among others, who could keep it real with concise prose that pretty much told it all in a simply-stated way.

It was a knack I longed to have, and I marveled at Hard Promises songs like The Waiting, Letting You Go, A Woman in Love (It’s Not Me), Something Big, A Thing About You and most especially Insider (with Stevie Nicks singing background vocals).

I longed to be able to do it like that.

But the waiting was the hardest part.

To this day, in many ways, those are the types of lyrics I’m trying to write.

On our last SpringHouse Revival CD (check us out on Spotify and iTunes and shame on you if you have to “like” our Facebook page), co-writer Terri Camilari and I were going for the Tom Petty vibe, while keeping our own identity, in the offering Million Dollar Words, during which I was channeling my inner Petty telling someone who can’t get to the point to, well, just get to the effin’ point.

And with Terri’s vocals, I liked to imagine it was Stevie Nicks doing a Petty cover.

I had carried Petty with me a long time, and it was time for a homage.

Way back in my senior year of high school, a lot was going on. I had freedom with a car (1975 Chevy Malibu that dripped oil), a job as a dishwasher/bus boy to pay for gas and the Sixers won the title.

Petty was still at it, putting out another record to play in the backdrop – Long After Dark – and songs like Change of Heart, You Got Lucky and Straight Into Darkness continued to form the soundtrack of my insistence on having an existence to call my own.

I also had something else that year: An actual girlfriend (even the losers get lucky sometimes). But, lo and behold, she dumped me a few about six weeks before the senior prom.

I could have tapped into my long list of “just a friend” girls to take, but I was never really into going anyway.

I hatched a better plan with dateless running mates.

I returned my tux, and used the money (tickets were cheaper in those days, and there were no pre-sales 64 weeks in advance) for two concerts – Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band and Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers.

Seger was great, and Petty was even better.

Best proms I never went to.

And every time Seger or Petty came to town, I went back for more (plus their live albums put me in the house countless of other times).

Except the last time, last summer, when a pending vacation made me miss the Petty show.

It is now a regret that I will just have to live with, and one I mitigate with the bigger picture.

In college, I remember my friends and I performing a mock awards show in 1985 and naming Southern Accents – Rebels, Don’t Come Around Here No More, etc.— as the album of the year.

The concert, at the Mann Music Center on a gorgeous summer night, was surreal.

As for the album of the year thing, it still remains a silly tradition of mine, and a lot of Petty’s records – 1999’s Full Moon Fever (featuring  Free Fallin’ and I Won’t Back Down)  through to 1994’s solo-acoustic Wildflowers to 1999’s Echo and 2014’s Hypnotic Eye have pulled in the honor known as the “Gordie.”

During my college years, when I was earning my doctorate in Dylaniac studies (and writing some of my best-ever lyrics) – while barely maintaining a 2.0 in my real-world classes – I was able to see the Heartbreakers back up Dylan and Petty while trading off sets of songs (Zimmy took a few breaks).

Petty’s subsequent release, the underappreciated Let Me Up (I’ve Had Enough), best known for Jammin’ Me, wreaked of Dylan’s influence.

Petty was not too happy with the effort, but I still dig it.

As I allegedly matured, my musical tastes sort of solidified. My “Big Four” – Bruce Springsteen, U2, Dylan and Petty – has never changed.

I adore dozens upon dozens of other artists, but none – not even SpringHouse Revival – can break into that group.

Petty has earned that same stature with legions of other fans through a dedication to craft (you’ll note how quickly he rattled off those classic albums in lockstep with my formative years) that had to come at a cost for such a young guy.

Addiction cost him his first marriage and put his latter career in temporary peril, but he was still there – with new music just as brilliant as the classic songs that invaded my soul, dating back to when I was kid to being a parent.

Every year, when we get Sofia’s picture taken, we use a song title to give it a theme. When she was real little, it was not much of a fight. We used Springsteen’s “She’s the One” for Year 1, for example. But as music grows in importance to Sofia, she has had insisted on other songs more to her liking.

Knowing that Year 10 of her life would mark the end of the annual tradition, Laurie and I pressed her hard for American Girl.

Even though Sofia collects “American Girl” dolls, she was reluctant, pushing for something by her own family member, Taylor Swift.

But we made her listen to the song.

After a moment of silence, she said, “Yeah, that one is pretty good.”

Victory (although it helped the cause that Swift has her own nifty cover version of the song).

That picture just went up on the wall, and it takes on enhanced meaning.

I will think of our lost family member every time I look at it, knowing I can bring him back to life with the music that will last as long as skeptical kids also can’t deny what they are hearing.

During the shock of the news Monday, I couldn’t even get through Free Fallin’ without a breakdown.

Today, I heard Mary Jane’s Last Dance and I was good to go, playing his music all day, grateful for the years of lyrical inspiration and stone-cold grooves while driving down the road on a summer night with the windows down.

That’s the story of Tom Petty and me.

And it explains why I felt like I lost a family member, as overly dramatic as some may think it sounds.

On such a horrible day, with the tragedy in Vegas, I had to wonder why it had to happen then.

And I fell apart more than maybe I would have on another day.

I was, pretty much, inconsolable.

While Sofia hugged me up during my meltdown, she exuded some of her wisdom beyond her years and said that “it could be worse.”

One could take that many different ways, but you would have had to have heard her tone – and to understand how much on the same wavelength we are – to get it.

And I got it.

It could have been worse — way worse.

These ears ravaged by years of having a Rock and Roll heart could have not taken in the music of a dropout from Gainesville, Fla. who made his way to California to somehow buck the odds and strike gold.

What a loss that would have been, as that would have meant him not being a member of the family.

And that notion, of not finding him at all, would have been worse than losing him.

Way worse.

 

A Cool Idea

hot_day_thermometer

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

 

GORDONVILLE – It is a typical pastime in a typical American.

What will your child be when they grow up?

Not sure yet on Sofia. Many roads to travel, and passions to come and go.

However, it would surprise me if she wanted to be like her old man and be a writer – even if it’s a side thing while making real money in the real world with a real job.

How do I know this?

Because she loves stories. Not just to be amused, but to retain for future use. I can talk by the look in her eyes that it is being retained, kind of like bank deposits to retain interest (i.e. embellishment).

We drive through Conshohocken, and she queries her mommy all about her hometown with questions well beyond that of the average incoming missile of a ‘tween.

The other night, she asking me about old Atlantic City – the Atlantic City I remember as a kid around her current age; the Atlantic City before gambling made it the weird combination of glitz and the pits that it is now.

Among the stories was how my grandfather, Poppie, would wake up each day and, with a broad smile on his easy-going face, ask if it was a “beach day or a Two Guys day.”

Two guys, for the uninitiated, was a catch-all department store – a sorta pre-historic Target – where they had it all, from an arcade and a place to eat to a furniture department.

You could buy food, a new baseball glove or bell-bottom jeans for your platform shoes.

After Sofia drifted to sleep – these stories are often meant as biofeedback to cure summertime insomnia – an old idea resurfaced it what is left of my brain.

Beach day or a Two Guys Day?

That more or less sums up the forecast for every day from Memorial Day through Labor Day, does it not?

Especially here in the Melting Ice Age, the forecast is pretty much in the same octave range, is it not?

It is either going to be hot or very hot, with a chance of rain to varying degrees.

So, I wondered, why do we need met meteorolgists in the summertime?

No offense to them, or the profession.

And the world doesn’t need more journalists working at a coffee shop.

And the loss of eye candy – from any perspective — would mean less sweetness in the world.

All I’m talking about is a three-month furlough.

I’m willing to bet that nine out of 10 of us could care less, especially if the time is better spent on real news.

Seriously, why do we need to be told the obvious three times in a half-hour span – and all before the important news, like the sports?

Just throw a graphic up on the screen and the anchor can do a quick summary. Hot or very hot, and the chance of a thunderstorm by percentage.

In and out faster than Chris Christie at a burger joint drive-thru on his way to the beach.

And, since this is my idea, it must follow the rule of being after the sports, lest you run the risk of FCC fine.

I took the liberty of breaking out the calculator.

According the “fake news” on the “internets,” the average weather person makes $89,820 a year. There are four stations – the three networks plus FOX in Philadelphia, employing an average of three meterologists – which brings our three-month (Memorial Day to Labor Day) savings to $269,460 that can be donated to help causes more worthy than letting people know if it is going to be a beach day or a Two Guys Day.

 

Cope With No Hope

Vigil

Cope With No Hope

Another long night, another slain teen

Take a sneak peek, as the dawn bleeds

Splash of cold water, read the tweets

News, views – more prayers for peace

By dusk a vigil, let the cycle repeat

Darkness descends, hear the screams

So go cope with no hope on these streets

So go cope with no hope on these streets

 

Up for air, come pastor and the priest

How many of these have they seen?

Hear what you want, not what you need

Sing a song, prayers for peace

From all this, who will take heed?

Maybe one day we all can break free

Until that day comes, hear the screams

So go cope with no hope on these streets

So go cope with no hope on these streets

 

Now it’s less than a week later

Pick up the local newspaper

Story is gone, never to be followed

Back to the zoo and its baby cougars

Those with jobs, head back to work

Once numb, how much can it hurt?

The root cause, never gets learned

On and on and on, the fire just burns

 

All that is said cannot be believed

Like blaming it all on the police

Is it the poverty or the money?

The money we all think we need

Take it past these prayers for peace

Prayers end when you hear the screams

So go cope with no hope on these streets

So go cope with no hope on these streets

-Gordon Glantz

 

 

 

Reality Bites for We Democrats

Hillary

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – Put away your wallets.

No need for an annual triple crown here in my Soul Town of Gordonville.

It’s always the same coming down the homestretch. Sports and music are neck-and-neck in a photo finish.

Third? Politics.

For the purposes of this drill, we will go with a sports analogy to put a political issue to rest.

If you have watched as many football games as I have – high school, college and pro – you come to learn that a loss can’t be laid on the doorstep of any one player.

Sure, the kicker may shank the chip-shot field goal at games end or the receiver who is “paid millions to catch the ball” drops the go-ahead pass in the end zone, but the hard facts remain. If team X (usually a Philadelphia team) was at the point where it came down to a missed field goal by a soccer player dressed up in football gear for Halloween or a receiver who caught everything else thrown his way all game, there is a laundry list of reasons why they were trailing in the first place.

Cut and paste this analogy, and apply to politics.

And let’s use it to put one falsehood to bed, if only for the sake of breathing life back into a moribund Democratic party.

Hillary Clinton did not lose the 2016 election because of Russia.

And I’m not saying Putin’s long reach didn’t allow his fingers to dip into our Fourth of July apple pies, because he clearly did.

It didn’t help, and it probably hurt.

A fatal blow?

Nyet (“no” in Russian).

Russia was guilty the same way our nation committed nefarious acts to influence elections elsewhere, particularly since two World Wars left us as a world power.

But Clinton didn’t lose because of Russia.

Clinton lost because of Clinton.

And the sooner we cross that bridge into the land of reality, however bitter the taste, the better.

Why? Because we have issues that affect all of us that are simply more important.

And if you make yourself sick over this, you may wake up to learn you do not have the health care to get well.

Catch my drift?

We have critical mid-term elections coming up, and taking back the House and Senate will be the first step in rendering President Twitter-thumbs as powerless as possible.

Yes, I understand that Clinton had a tough task, trying to extend a run of one party in the White House beyond two terms.

Beginning with Dwight D. Eisenhower, it has only happened once – when George H.W. Bush went from Ronald Reagan’s second banana to first for a four-year stint (before falling after one term to Hillary’s husband, Bill) – and not at all with a non-VP (let alone someone daring to be the first female president).

But her path to the Promised Land was strewn with penalty flags (see what I did there, sneaking in another sports reference?).

Many, myself included, resented the RFS (Royal Family Syndrome) that was being quietly perpetrated. We had two Bushes, and now the Democratic leadership was trying to prematurely send a queen to the throne while pushing all challengers to the fringes.

And here comes Bernie Sanders – for the record, my candidate – blowing up their early touchdown dance (Why stop with the analogies now?).

He was supposed to go away – with the likes of Jim Webb, Lincoln Chaffee and Martin O’Malley – after being humored for one debate and a few primaries.

But if it were not for O’Malley, and his phony-baloney grin, Sanders would have won Iowa instead of finishing a close second. Come New Hampshire, Sanders crushed Hillary – and her team seemed curiously stunned, even though it was a neighboring state to Sanders’ own Vermont.

Sanders’ progressive message appealed to the under-30 crowd and he was filling college arenas (not that you would ever see it on CNN) while cameras had to pan it tight to make crowds at Clinton’s appearances seems larger than they were.

She was being out-flanked on the left, and badly, so she played her Obama card in debates and on the stump for the swath of Southern (i.e. Red State) primaries for the sole purpose of drumming up the black vote.

It was a smart short-term strategy that hurt her in the long-term. Attaching herself to Obama’s hip, and with Obamacare, was a Scarlett letter she then had to wear as she needed PAC money and party backing to barely edge Sanders’ campaign of $27 dollar donations (I gave several) at the finish line.

Sanders exposed her weaknesses, especially in states like Wisconsin and Michigan, but her campaign arrogantly felt they need not campaign hard there – or in Pennsylvania, since the coronation was held in Philadelphia.

Did Russia seize the weaknesses in these swing states? Yes, more than likely.

Could and should she have still won them? Uh, yes.

Just pick Bernie Sanders as the running mate.

Too much eating crow, with a side dish of bad blood?

Fine.

How about Cory Booker, the standout star of the convention?

How about Elizabeth Warren?

How about anyone but Tim Caine, who not only added nothing to the campaign but detracted from it?

When I say anyone, I mean anyone.

Or anything — up to and including a Cigar Store Native American.

I see Cain now and I immediately think of Mike Michel, the Eagles’ emergency “kicker” who missed not only game-winning field goal in a 14-13 playoff loss to the Falcons in 1978, but also an extra point (hence, 13 points instead of 14) and a field goal that would have made it 16-0 before Atlanta scored two fourth-quarter touchdowns.

I don’t know how to say that all in Spanish – the way Caine would – but you get the point.

Michel was not qualified to be a NFL kicker. He was, by trade, a marginal punter. Coach Dick Vermeil figured he was “good enough” but he wasn’t.

Maybe someone should have read this parable from the Philadelphia Fan Book of Horrors to Clinton before tabbing Caine.

And yet, while a key reason for the loss, he was not the only.

There was Hillary herself. While her opponent gained steam all summer – in the full glare of the cameras from the networks he now loathes for not giving unconditional adoration due only Greek Gods and rock stars – leading “lock her up” chants, Hillary locked herself up by not finding a way to counter punch.

Personally, I don’t believe one needs to be inspiring — or likeable — to be qualified for most jobs, including president. In a prior life, I interviewed people for jobs and often went with the most qualified person, even if they were neither likeable nor inspiring.

But the reality is that, in today’s political world, you need to be both. And she was neither.

Maybe a fiery running mate would have helped to offset that issue, but she went the milquetoast route with Caine.

Maybe it was her campaign more than Clinton. Whatever it was, she went into the general election sounding a little disingenuous by touting more of Sanders’ issues than the disjointed talking points she started off with out of the gate.

And this well-oiled Clinton political machine, the one Sanders himself seemed to blame his noble second-place finish on, was a bit of a mirage.

At the least, it was overdue for an oil and lube change and never got one.

Deferring to the better half, a Clinton backer who punched me in the arm a lot during the primary season, we went to the closest office for a lawn sign 2-3 weeks before the election. The overwhelmed twentysomethings there couldn’t help us.

We eventually got one from a few towns over by calling in a favor from a politically connected friend.

Meanwhile, the opponent had phallic symbol messages all over. And yes, considering she lost the crucial swing state of Pennsylvania, it seems that signs matter. They matter so much that we still see them – erections lasting more than four months – often next to Confederate flags (just from finished a 10-day Pennsylvania road trip, and I know what my eyes saw).

And then there were the debates. While SNL had a grand time mocking the other guy, the satire only skirted the deeper concern that had me screaming at the television as much as when my beloved Eagles or Flyers or Sixers are locked in mortal combat.

She missed chance after chance after chance to land the knockout punches he was leaving himself open to receiving, perhaps figuring she didn’t want to come across as a bully.

Instead, the guy on the bully pulpit bullied her out of making history and shattering the glass ceiling.

He may have had some help, and the thought of being a foreign government is abhorent, but she likely had some tools up her sleeve, too. It is how the game is played.

And she still lost.

Some say she should come back and try again.

I say stay away. Please.

You don’t move ahead by looking back.

The next time Hillary Clinton smiles and waves, let’s hope it is goodbye.

 

An Open Letter To Flyers’ Brass

 

Nico

Dear Flyers,

Hello orange and black, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.

And don’t play dumb with the Simon and Garfunkel reference. We go back almost that far, back to the 1972-73 season, when I discovered hockey amid the vast wasteland of the Philadelphia sports landscape of the time.

As such, the Broad Street Bullies are the predominant sports team of my youth.

To this day, if I call for a takeout pizza, and they tell me I’m No. 6, I remember by saying “I’m Andre Dupont.” Heck, I’ll reveal some declassified information. Past passwords have included the likes of “MacLeish19” and “Leach27.”

I wanted to be like my heroes so badly that I became such a hockey legend on the backstreets of Northeast Philly that I was seen as a Charles Manson with a hockey stick at summer camp, where it is said that my ghost will one day find a place in the haunted Camp Arthur Rec Hall.

When I slashed some poor kid across his shoulder for accidently tripping me when I was about to pull my patented Bobby Clarke move from behind the net, I was dumbfounded by subsequent suspension – one that was mysteriously lifted before we played a rival camp – thinking I was only doing what “Hound” Kelly would have done.

Speaking of Mr. Clarke, my boyhood idol, I was floating on air when my two front teeth were knocked out playing street hockey (my quest to have diabetes, like he did, was not fulfilled until 2012).

My vocabulary was bolstered more by Gene Hart – with words like “ignominy” and sayings like “fare thee well” – than any English teacher.

That team may have skated on bloodied ice, but they walked on water so much that I have stayed along for the ride ever since.

That includes six bitter trips the finals, coaching and general manager carousels that would put a traveling carnival to shame and the dark years when Jay “Snide” Snider took the reins from his father, the late Ed.

Where is all this going?

It goes to history.

I know you better than you know yourself, a true blessing and a curse – kind of like Behn Wilson.

Just as I loathe Leon Stickle, and wonder how Game 7 would have gone had there been replay back in 1980, I spend many waking hours working through what should come next as a course is plotted away from the nuclear wasteland that Paul Holmgren turned the franchise into as general manager.

After “Homer” – among my favorites of the post-Bully era, particularly on that would-be Cup team of 1979-80 (still the best Flyers team of my lifetime, in my non-humble opinion) – Ron Hextall has made all the right moves (well, Dale Weise signing aside).

What he has done equates, in my mind, to the best save of his hockey career.

But now comes the moment of reckoning.

Hexy, and I think I have earned the right to call you that, you have an opportunity before you more golden than an open net and plenty of space for you to launch one of your patented shots toward.

But I sense trepidation.

Take it from one who has been riding these waves since you – a year older than I – were a lad in Brandon, Canada, with no allegiance to any team except whomever you were tending net for at the time.

We make our own breaks in this world, and getting the No. 2 pick in the draft lottery was not as much luck as it was an opportunity earned with your ability to bring light to darkness.

As the opportunity knocks, I wonder will if you will answer.

I wonder if you will seize the moment and accelerate the process – dare I use that term, but that’s what it is – and not worry about being semi-competitive in the interim.

There comes a time when you have to throw some of that caution to the wind and sacrifice short-term cheeseburgers for long-term surf and turf.

Sure, the easy part in the upcoming is taking whichever center – Nolan Patrick or Nico Hischier – that the New Jersey Devils don’t at No. 1. There is no need to overthink this and try to parlay this pick into something more by trading back and picking up something extra, like a proven veteran or a few high-end prospects.

And I think I know you well enough to know you probably won’t.

But that is a blessing and a curse.

I know you well enough now to know you will gobble up one of the two – I am personally hoping it is the Swiss-born Hischier, who is a little more creative and more responsible, defensively, than the Jeff Carter-like Patrick – and then safely tuck him away for safekeeping in juniors and saying you don’t want to rush things by putting him in the NHL next year.

Unlike some others, I am fairly comfortable you won’t dip into the collection of top-tier defenseman prospects you have carefully curated and trade one way.

You see what I see: pairings of Samuel Morin and Shayne Gostisbehere, Ivan Provorov and Robert Hagg and Travis Sanheim and Philippe Myers.

I also see Patrick or Hischier with last year’s first-round pick, German Rubstov, up the middle.

While I see it by the season after next, you probably see it by the start of the next decade.

You know what, Hexy? I’m good with the patience, and not getting nudged to trade away any of the prospects you and your scouts have artfully collected. But what I’m not good with is being mired in the current purgatory of being just good enough to not be good enough.

The reality is that by the time the prospects all reach the NHL level, particularly on your timeline, the alleged “stars” of this very mediocre team will have less fuel in their tanks than a Hummer traveling on an open road through Nebraska.

Who am I talking about, while risking the hairy eyeball from fellow Flyers’ peeps?

I think you know, but I’ll come right out and say it. Claude Giroux, Jake Voracek and Sean Couturier come readily to mind.

If you have to sweeten the pot, why not do so with Scott Laughton before he has as much value as a Smith-Corona typewriter in an Internet Café.

I can hear it now. Giroux’s contract and no-trade clause (or whatever the heck it is). Voracek’s contract. Couturier is still young and will wake up one day and be a two-way player on a nightly basis.

Spare me.

So let’s forget what you can’t do. Focus on what you can do – getting close to equal value – and doing it do the best of your ability.

If Giroux knows he’s not wanted here, why would he stay? Heck, Hexy, he might be relieved.

The reason you didn’t make the playoffs? Because, on a playoff team, Giroux is not a No. 1 center and is past his expiration date. A good team, which you are not, would love to have him as a No. 2 center. If that means selling low, and getting a late first-round pick along with a mid-round pick, so be it.

And let’s face it, he is a not a captain. That “C” on his jersey has been weighing him down ever since he jumped the line ahead of Kimmo Timonen to get in the first place.

From where I sit, on my recliner in front of the TV, it seems Wayne Simmonds is more of the leader of this team anyway.

Voracek and “Coots” still have value, enough that, in a draft that has some depth but is not going to confuse anyone with 1979 (Ray Borque, Mark Messier, Mike Gartner, Brian Propp, Mike Ramsey, Paul Reinhart, etc.) or 2003 (Shea Weber, Corey Perry, Eric Staal, Ryan Getzlaf, Zach Parise, Brent Burns, Joe Pavelski, etc.), they could get you picks in the middle of the first round.

Maybe you then package these three mid-to-late firsts for two between picks 5 and 10 and get yourself wingers to ride shotgun with whichever center falls to No. 2.

There is Owen Tippett (6-2, 204), who possesses the best shot in the draft and netted 44 goals in juniors last year. There are two Finns, Eeli Tolvanen (a surreal quick release) and the ascending Kristian Vesalainen, who would also help ease the pain of struggling to find the twine for painfully long stretches of a season.

And speaking of Finland, this draft is loaded with the guys who led that country to the Under-18 World title.

Even though, we can’t knock the fact that we had a league-best nine players at the Under-20 World Junior Championships (where Hischier stole the show and single-handedly kept Switzerland competitive), we had not one player from Finland

That has to change. Too much talent coming out that country, as well as Sweden, right now. But I think you know that. You went with the flow of the draft last year and selected a lot of North American power forwards (including Tanner Laczynski, who represented the US) in the middle rounds.

I’m not worried about that.

Swede Oscar Lindblom, a fifth-round pick in 2014, will likely play – and play better than Chris Vandevelde or Michael Raffl – for us next season.

A round earlier in 2014, you took forward Russian Mikhail Vorobyov, who had 10 assists in seven games at the World Juniors and is considered an NHL-prospect, too.

No, unlike Holmgren, your drafts have been superb, top to bottom.

And you will do it again.

I know you will, because I know you better than you know yourself.

Therein lies the problem. Just get what you can get for players of diminishing value now, go with the kids – and also in goal, with whichever of the several prospects shows he wants the job bad enough, just like the Flyers did with you – and use the cap space to add the right veterans to guide them.

It’s not easy, but please don’t take the easy way out.

I’m counting on you.

Respectfully,

Gordon Glantz

Hometown: Gordonville, USA

This column originally appeared at Phillyphanatics.com

A ‘Super’ Sentiment

tampa-bay

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — By the time many of you read this, the Super Bowl between the Atlanta Falcons and New England Patriots will have already been played.

Nonetheless, I want to get my pre-kickoff state of mind on the record, should I lose my mind as a result of the game, which I would not be surprised will be a good one (we’ll see if I’m right about that).

For the record, I would only be disturbed if a zebra came out and crapped on the field (i.e. an official altered the outcome, either way, with a bad call).  That aside. I’m not going to lose any sleep over the outcome.

That means none. As in zero.

I’ve been deprived so many beauty winks over the past nearly five decades of being a Philadelphia sports fan — and such an ardent devotee of the Eagles, in particular, to the extreme point where I really don’t even enjoy the games anymore — that I would have looked more like Brad Pitt and less like, well, me if I had been more into making model airplanes on autumn Sundays instead.

Ask me who I think will win today, and I will run in through my personal processor and come out with a New England triumph to the tune of 41-35 (give or take a few points).

I’d like to be right, but I have been known to be wrong on some rare occasions. It would uphold my status as someone who knows something about the sport beyond an excuse to drink and belch and play meaningless taproom pools to stay interested.

But I’d also like to be right for another reason. I know it means I should — and could — be burned at the stake the next time I venture out for a cheese steak, but that’s how I feel.

The reason: I would rather see the Patriots win.

That’s right, I said it.

I can hear the chorus now: B-B-But Falcons’ quarterback Matt Ryan is a local boy.

Yeah, I know. Don’t care.

He is not from Northeast Philly, let alone an alum of Northeast High. He is not from my adopted home ‘hood of Central Montgomery County and did not play for one the schools I covered in my long sports-journalism career.

And he did stay home and play college ball at Temple, instead going to Boston College.

Ryan is from Exton and played scholastically at Penn Charter (eye roll … like that is a common occurrence … second eye roll … for normal kids paying their own way).

May as well be from Mars and have played on Neptune before going to Jupiter for college ball.

Next, you’ll say: B-B-But it will be someone different, another team winning for a change.

Keep talking, and then keep walking.

Not gonna work here in Gordonville.

If the Falcons win today, they will be something like the eighth team (no, I’m not looking it up to verify!) — just since Jeffrey Lurie has owned the Eagles — to win their franchise’s first Super Bowl while we wait in line.

In many cases, these are rent-a-franchises without histories dating back to the earliest days of pro football.

Talking about Tampa Bay and Carolina.

One more for the winner’s circle?

Screw that.

And don’t try to get political, saying our newly elected dictator’s favorite team is the Patriots.

Sports is the one place where politics and other things that divide us are usually put to the side.

And given the rise of anti-Semitic acts since a certain someone was elected on what I see as an arcane technicality (the electoral college), it would be a strong message — for those who dare to comprehend it — to witness said “president” hanging with Patriots’ Jewish owner Robert Kraft.

Yes, the Falcons have a Jewish owner, too, in Arthur Blank.

The fact is that there probably more Jewish owners in the NFL than there are Jewish players.

And yet, two of those players — Julian Edelman and Nate Ebner — are  not only rostered with the Patriots, but are pretty good. Edelman is the favorite target of Tom Brady and Ebner is an All-Pro special teams guy.

A win will make the Patriots the top dynasty of the league’s Super Bowl era and Tom Brady the Super Bowl quarterback with the most wins (which may get him to retire). Sports doesn’t have enough dynasties anymore, so that’s fine.

I’ve seen them celebrate before, including beating the Eagles in my presence. I am numb to that pain.

A new team? A “somebody else for a change” team? Can’t stomach the idea.

Let it be us, or no one at all.

That’s about enough to give me a rooting interest, and while having me still sleep like a baby — and dreaming that recurring dream of the Eagles winning it all — this Sunday night.