Category Archives: Slice of Life

Jive Turkeys To Avoid on Turkey Day

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Nugent

By GORDON GLANTZ

GORDONVILLE — Three years northbound of 50 (the new 30), I’m old enough to remember when the term “jive turkey” was as common as men wearing platform shoes and women all trying (and failing) to look like the one and only Farrah Fawcett (my second celebrity crush after Marcia Brady).

With us now into Thanksgiving week, we are a country in such turmoil that we are deathly afraid to stray from narrowing choice of safe topics just to avoid the fun of the healthy political debate that should be as required as cranberry sauce.

Adding to the tension is the outside noise from jive turkeys keeping the volume raised.

A start would be to end the constant “gobble-gobble” of certain attention seekers. They have their pulpits – i.e. blogs, Twitter accounts, microphones in front of their non-stop traps, etc. – but that doesn’t mean anyone is required to take in their sermons as gospel.

For this pre-Thanksgiving public service, we will exclude elected officials and full-time employees of accredited media outlets, from the PNML (Pay No Mind List).

As for the rest, get these noisemakers out of your life:

1) Michael Avenatti – During minutes 10-12 of his 15 of prime-time exposure as Stormy Daniels’ lawyer, some saw him as an out-of-the-box Democratic presidential candidate who would actually bring some fight into the ring. His act has since worn thin, though. A recent poll of Democrats showed him with less than 1 percent support as a candidate in 2020. Bye, Michael. Hello, Richard Ojeda of West Virginia, a new gloves-off kind of a guy.

2) Steve Bannon — For many of us, any chance to give the president half a chance was ruined in Charlottesville. That horrific August weekend in 2017 – from the planning, to the chilling nighttime Nazi-to-English chants to the equal blaming of both sides afterward – had the DNA of Bannon, then serving as White House Chief Strategist, all over it. He has since departed from that role. That’s the good news. The bad news? He still draws the same air as the rest of us, and has a full calendar of public speaking engagements to prove it. Ain’t that America for you and me?

3) Ann Coulter – If we had a dollar for every idiotic thing this Cornell graduate has written and said just to grab back the attention she briefly enjoyed a decade ago, every homeless veteran would have shelter and every hungry child would be fed. She has a right to spew her nonsense – “liberals love America like O.J. loved Nicole,” etc. — but we have a right to ignore it.

4) Louis Farrakhan – No denying the good he has done within the black community, with the Million Man March of 1995 serving as a highlight, but there is no denying the bad vibes puts out simply because he just won’t let his raging anti-Semitism rest. With each incendiary remark (questioning what Jews did to Hitler to earn what they got), he loses any credibility in the mainstream — let alone the mainstream black community.

5) Kardashians – Not going to break it down to this Kardashian or that Kardashian. They are not even worth the time I just spent on them.

6) Ted Nugent – Going back to the Classic Rock era, when people used the term “jive turkey,” this guy was just another B-level turkey mostly known for one song – “Cat Scratch Fever.” It seemed nonsensical at the time, with lyrics just to serve as fodder for his half-decent guitar chops. Upon further scientific review, “Cat Scratch Fever” is an ailment with long-term side effects of brain damage. Nugent is entitled to extreme right-wing views, but a “tough guy” who admittedly did whatever it took to get out of going to Vietnam shouldn’t be considered a cogent voice in the political debate.

7) Sarah Palin – Oh, man, what was the late John McCain was thinking by adding someone with limited political experience (not even one full term as governor of Alaska and mayor of a small city) to the bottom of his presidential ticket in 2008? Right idea, going with a woman, but the wrong choice. Those who were bitter about Barrack Obama winning the presidency, and immediately – and curiously – demanded their country back, should trace their angst to Palin, as she may have cost McCain the election (I know it made my decision easy). She seemed to go away for a bit, but was empowered all over again by the outcome of the 2016 presidential election. Ugh!

8) Phil Robertson – Ah, the Duck Commander of Duck Dynasty infamy. Remember that? The once formidable A&E Network chose to grab the low hanging fruit and produced a reality show about a family of duck hunters. You can’t make this stuff up. His relatives grew beards to fit the façade and, with consequences we are still dealing with, western civilization went on life support as ratings soared. The show ended, and his kinfolk shaved their beards and went back to the real world. Meanwhile, Robertson’s sense of self-importance continued when he became a right-wing Buddha often propped up by Bannon. If you hear this guy’s patented duck call (eye roll), please duck!

9) Melania Trump – I have kept her off-limits, but no more. The first “lady” is suddenly sticking her beak in where it does not belong, ripping a page out of Nancy Reagan’s playbook (and we know why Mrs. Reagan had to become increasingly protective of her husband). Isn’t it ironic that Mrs. Trump’s stance is supposedly against bullying, especially cyber bullying? She not only condones it with her husband’s 3 a.m. Twitter tantrums, but she is becoming one herself. What’s up with that? Three cheers for the Einstein Visa.

10) Kanye West – Already public enemy No. 1 on the Glantz home front for that bizarre awards-show incident with Taylor Swift back in 2009 (Sofia was only 2 at the time, but she knows every detail the way I do about the JFK assassination that took place two years before I was born). “Kanye being Kanye” was a cover-up for clear untreated mental health issues. He lauded the president’s persona, earning a bizarre visit to the White House, and then changed what is left of his mind about his support. We are dealing with the ultimate jive turkey. And don’t get me started on the “music.” I’d rather listen to Ted Nugent.

This column first appeared in The Times Herald.

Needed: Name For November

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Diabetes-Awareness-Month-Picture-14vqob3

By GORDON GLANTZ

GORDONVILLE — October is now in the books. We’ve carved our pumpkins, gone trick-or-treating, raked our leaves (well, not me) and ushered in the start of the NHL and NBA seasons.

Most importantly, we’ve seen enough pink to make us think long and hard about the reason: Breast Cancer Awareness.

While we shouldn’t forget that men can conceivably get breast cancer, 99 percent of cases are women.

That’s our wives, our mothers, our daughters, our sisters, our dearest of friends.

That could be why the most macho of men let down their guard and wear pink shirts, ties, caps, etc.

While breast cancer owns October, in terms of awareness, there are other worthy causes — dental hygiene, disability employment, domestic violence and others – that often fly too far under the radar.

Once the calendar flips to November, the same holds true, but there is no clear-cut dominant cause.

Let us look at a few (alphabetically) – and exclude the lesser serious ones (National Georgia Peach Month, National Novel Writing Month, National Pepper Month, National Vegan Month) – that claim November to raise awareness:

Aviation Month: Yawn! Literally, since the glorified station wagons with wings often jar me from my afternoon naps as they fly into nearby Wing’s Field, I’m sleep deprived. Wake me up when they invent something that can reach outer space (Star Trek had us there already). I’ve seen enough Wright Bros. replicas in museums to last a lifetime.

Good Nutrition Month: When every corner has a pizza place or a fast-food burger joint, it’s hard to resist the temptation to less than healthy. Still, a little awareness can go a long way. Example: The U.S. ranks 31st in life expectancy, according to the World Health Organization, at right around 79 years old — after ranking at, or near, the top in the 1960s. There are a lot of contributing factors, such as the air we breathe and the stress we put ourselves under, but eating right isn’t a bad place to start. Tough to do it all the time, every time, but I try when I can to go with the healthier choice without being ridiculous – or annoying — about it.

Hunger Awareness Month: In what is supposed to be the wealthiest country in the world, too many people either go hungry or lack access to healthy food. It is called “Food Insecurity,” and USDA reports that 21 percent of households with children deal with what is defined as “lack of access to food” at all time for all family members. While hard statistics weren’t kept during the Great Depression, this is in the same ballpark.

National AIDS Awareness Month: AIDS has morphed into more of a chronic disease than a death sentence, and cases have dropped 8 percent between 2010 and 2015, according to HIV.gov. Nevertheless, an estimated 1.1 Americans have AIDS and, more staggering, 1 in 7 are unaware. It is also more prevalent in certain regions, such as southern states (38 percent).

National American Indian Heritage Month: The ancestors of those who were here long before the Vikings or Christopher Columbus, prefer to be called Native Americans, Indigenous Peoples of the Americas or First Nation. They deserve that much, should a month honoring their heritage take off. The Trail of Tears has yet to dry, but there are rays of hope. On Tuesday, Sharice Davids of Kansas and Debra Haaland of South Dakota became the first two Native American women elected to Congress.

National Diabetes Awareness Month: I may be biased, since I am one of the growing number of Americans (1.5 million per year) with this “pre-existing condition.” When I was borderline, doctor’s orders were diet and exercise. Yeah and right. What deserves more attention is the way the American Medical Association has chosen to define what is or is not diabetes. What was borderline 5-10 years ago, is considered diabetic now. While I’m also happy to report that my own numbers are, more or less, more “normal” than when I was diagnosed, I will be forever branded as a type 2 diabetic. I don’t want to be saying there is a conspiracy going on with the drug and insurance industries to keep people labeled for their own ends, but it is worth discussing around your own sugar-free dinner table. Make no mistake, awareness is gargantuan. The American Diabetes Association estimates that of the 30.4 million Americans (9.4 percent) with diabetes, another 7.2 million are undiagnosed.

National Peanut Butter Lover’s Month: This one hits close to home. My daughter Sofia has a peanut butter allergy and, for whatever reason, she is far from alone in her generation. Studies reveal a 21 percent increase since 2010, with 2.5 percent of all children having a peanut allergy (accounting for more than half of food allergies in kids). This is almost like having a National Tobacco Lover’s Month, is it not?

National Red Ribbon Month (anti-drunk driving): I’m not a big fan of the word great, but great work has been done in this area the last few decades. Designated drivers, DUI checkpoints, bartenders cutting people off and calling a cab, etc. Attention seriously needs to either shifted to, and somehow be connected with, the scourge of distracted driving (estimated 3,200 fatal car wrecks a year, according to DMV.org).

Summary: While there is no overriding cause (i.e. Breast Cancer in October), take time to consider many of the above (even when a single-engine plane is waking you up from your nap). There are a lot of interconnecting parts in the area of food and nutrition. Those going hungry, or who are not properly nourished, don’t eat as well and put themselves more at risk for diabetes (the National Institutes of Health reports an increase of 1.8 in type 1 diabetes and 4.8 in type 2, which is less genetic and more the result of eating unhealthy and lack of exercise). Then again, while there are health benefits to peanut butter, let’s work to make school cafeterias peanut-free zones.

This column originally appeared in The Times Herald on Nov. 11, 2018.

Vermeil Had Long Reach

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Vermeil

 

By GORDON GLANTZ

GORDONVILLE — When you’re born in 1965, you really can’t say you were at Woodstock hearing Jimi Hendrix play the national anthem or protesting the 1968 Democratic Convention alongside Abbie Hoffman and keep a straight face.

I am, for better or worse, a Brady Bunch-watching child of the 1970s.

As a sign of the times, my relationship with my dad – who I saw only on weekends as an interloper with his new family (the anti-Brady Bunch) — was a bit … odd.

Even though we shared the same birthday (March 23), we did not share the same wavelength.

Some of it was gender-related, as fathers and sons kept those stiff upper lips and “acted like men.” Some of it was just because, I don’t know, it was just … odd.

English was our second language. To really communicate, we had to press 1 for sports.

And if something was on my mind, or his, it was woven into a sports-related conversation.

Better than nothing, as far as conversation starters go, but there was still an issue not even a family counselor could solve.

The decade began with the Philadelphia teams we both loved so deeply were all pretty much pitiful, meaning most conversations were in the context of sub-.500 teams.

Yeah, by the middle of the decade, the Flyers were the talk of the town – and in my dad’s car when he would pick me up on Friday after school for the weekend – but he really wasn’t a hockey guy (even though it was, far and away, my best sport).

“I don’t give a damn about Rick MacLeish,” I remember him bellowing, while almost getting into an accident (a common occurrence, as he was the world’s worst driver).

The reality is that the sun rose and set with the Eagles.

For most of the 1970s, the NFL season was just 14 games (as opposed to 16 now). That was a lot of excitement for just a few Sundays of the 52 in a year.

There were some exciting moments, like when my father jumped up and banged his head on the ceiling of our den when Roman Gabriel found Don Zimmerman for a game-winning touchdown, but it was mostly as painful to watch as it was to listen to us try to talk to each like normal people (for example, that pass was the first win of a 1973 season that began 0-4).

Our relationship improved through the latter part of the 1970s and we able to connect better – not perfectly, but better – as the 70s morphed into the 1980s and beyond.

I can credit a lot of people for that, including myself for learning how to make use of defense mechanisms and to sometimes just be the bigger person.

The list of those who unknowingly helped would include Dick Vermeil, who Bridgeport’s Leonard Tose took a gamble on – pun intended – and hired in 1976 after Vermeil led UCLA to a 23-10 upset win over Ohio State in the Rose Bowl (future Eagle John Sciarra was the MVP of the game, throwing two touchdown passes to another future Eagle, Wally Henry).

Vermeil’s Eagles were not better right away, going 4-10 that first season, but there was a totally different vibe.

By 1977, the Vermeil’s Birds were more competitive than their 5-9 record indicated, as they scored more total points for the season than they gave up while enduring agonizing losses to the kind of teams that used to blow them away. They made the playoffs in 1978 and won a playoff game in 1979, both firsts since the NFL championship of 1960.

And we all know – or should – about the 1980 season, when the Eagles won the NFC title (only to lose in the Super Bowl, during which I saw my father drink a beer for the first – and last — time ever).

During that stretch of glory years, we cheered more than jeered and a lot of tension was lifted. While the other Philadelphia teams matched the pace (the Phillies won it all in 1980 and the Sixers in 1983), the Eagles were the main course.

We enjoyed each other’s company, laughed and shared inside jokes.

And English – not sports – became our first language.

Being in Veterans Stadium with my father on Jan. 11, 1981 – the 20-7 dismantling of the same Dallas team we had watch annihilate us so many times (like the fist-ever game there, a 42-6 shellacking) — was one of the best father-son experiences of my lifetime.

It was 17 degrees – with a wind-chill factor of about minus-114 — that day at the Vet, but hearts were permanently warmed.

That’s the kind of ripple effect a perfectionist/workaholic football coach, who came here with no draft picks and coached who he had until he cultivated some tangible talent to coach, can have on complete strangers.

And, with all due respect to Doug Pederson, Vermeil will always be the “coach” of the Eagles in Gordonville.

A young boy – broken home or not — only has one set of formative years, and Vermeil was the coach who showed us that Sundays don’t have to be as bitter as the weather.

What brings me back here from exile to share this? Well, it just so happens Vermeil will be at Presidential Caterers Nov. 20 for the 17th Annual Montgomery County Coaches Hall of Fame banquet (call 610-279-9220 for tickets) as the guest speaker.

As a longtime board member and chairman of the selection committee, I may have some access to Vermeil, but not as much as one would think. I certainly won’t be able to tell him all he did for me. At best, I’ll get in a handshake and a quick selfie (and I take the world’s worst selfies, so it will probably be of our shoes).

So, I’m saying what I have to say now.

Thank you, coach.

From both of us.

This column first appeared in The Times Herald on Nov. 4.

Still On A Cloud, Ain’t Coming Down

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Super Bowl LII - Philadelphia Eagles Victory Parade

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — There is not much more I can say about the Philadelphia Eagles that Jason Kelce didn’t already say at the Super Bowl parade (just got chills typing that).

He spoke the truth, and he did it in the native tongue.

If others aren’t literate in Philadelphian, we can’t worry about that, can we?

They probably eat soft pretzels without mustard and a cheesesteak open face with a knife and fork.

They can babble for decades about us throwing snowballs at Santa Claus, but we – well, most of us – believed in St. Nick.

I won’t be going nuclear here and drop the F-bomb on you, but this was all about the redemption – from the maligned front office to the locker room to the fan in the street – that Kelce spoke so much from the drunken heart about.

I was on the record that I would be a changed man with a Super Bowl ring. (And I will be getting one for myself. I wasn’t lying).

And changed I am.

Doesn’t mean I won’t be prone to some road rage down the road (see what I did there?) or agonize over offseason moves, but not with as much of an edge.

If you know me, you know that I’m not much of a fan of organized religion. I’m not ruling out a higher power, but our futile attempts to understand – him or her or what or it – are so pathetic that it just isn’t worth the time, or the wars and division caused, to even go there.

It doesn’t mean I’m not spiritual, and my spirit was lifted. And – as Larry David would say – it feels pretty, pretty, pretty good!

So good that I broke my exclamation-point rule.

So good that I broke my rule decrying fans who called players by their first names. I always said they need to win me a title first.

And so they did – Nick, Zach, Jay, Brandon, Fletcher, Malcolm and all the rest.

I’m now like Ebenezer Scrooge waking up on Christmas morning.

But in order to make Cloud 9 a permanent residence for my soul, I still need to write my way through some post-Super Bowl 52 thoughts that need some perspective.

Best way to address it is to dust off a G2 favorite of yore with a little drill of “What Is And What Should Never Be.” Fasten your seat belts. We’re moving at breakneck speed …

What Is: There was some consternation across the Eagles Nation about Tom Brady leaving the field and not shaking Nick Foles’ hand.

And What Should Never Be: Needing some sort of validation from Tom Brady. I bet Foles didn’t give it a second thought, and neither should you.

I’m not quite sure why Brady didn’t do this, but he never has in all three Super Bowls he has lost. Peyton Manning had a similar policy and nobody said much about that.

After a usual game, shaking hands is expected. Super Bowl? A bit different. There is so much going on down on the field, and such a throng of media forms around the winning quarterback, that it would be kind of a lame move for anyone – Brady, Manning or Joe Blow – to insert themselves into the middle of it, stealing the thunder away and making themselves part of the story.

And when you are Tom Brady, you are always part of the story.

Even when you run off the field.

I know we all grew up taught to shake hands after a game. I notice, from Sofia’s own softball games, it gets quite generic. The word “good” sometimes gets dropped, and instead it turns to mumbled “game, game, game” as they go through line missing half the hands being half-heartedly offered. If she talked to some of the same girls online, the exchanges might be more personal. As she gets older, and gets to know other girls on other teams, this may be the way it goes.

Who is to say, in this day and age, that Brady didn’t text Foles?

And he didn’t play against Foles anyway. He faces the Eagles’ defense, and did exchange post-game pleasantries with both former teammate Chris Long and rookie Derek Barnett.

Not to play Freud here, but this all goes to the inferiority complex we should have shed the second Brady’s Hail Mary prayer – with Rob Gronkowski assaulting defenders downfield – went unanswered and the clock hit zero. Yo Philly, let it go. We have more things to be legitimately indignant about.

Such as?

What Is: Chris Collinsworth and Al Michaels came under immediately scrutiny for seemingly being pro-Patriots during the national broadcast.

And What Should Never Be: Their bosses letting the outcry fade without a knock on the knuckles. An online petition with tens of thousands of names within 24-48 hours is nothing to ignore.

Where I watched the game, there was no decision. It was Merrill Reese and Mike Quick as soon as the ball was about to be kicked off. Other than being out of synch with the action by a few seconds, and not hearing the commercials (Why does a 3-13 team like the New York Giants get a commercial?), there was no other way to go than to fly the hometown-friendly skies.

Within hours, the venom about the national broadcast – especially toward Collinsworth – was all over social media.

I initially figured it was Philly people being Philly people, and feeling disrespected (see above entry about Brady).

But then I played the game back on DVR.

It was virtually unwatchable due to the broadcast, and I was really trying to keep an open mind.

I wrote the following on Facebook, and stand by every word:

“A complete disgrace. No other way to describe it. For me, it was only made tolerable knowing the outcome, but both Michaels and Collinsworth would have driven me nuts in real time. In addition to not reeling Collinsworth in on his rants on the two touchdowns (I am more convinced now than ever both were legit, by the way), there should be a separate petition to remove Michaels because he is unlistenable with his dentures. Dude, get implants or retire. I started to think Nick Foles changed his name to Nick “Folesh” and Nelson Agholor to “Nelshon” Agholor and Doug Pederson to Doug “Pedershon.” I don’t know if it was anti-Eagles bias as much as being preconditioned to expect a Patriots win (even when they needed a Hail Mary AND a 2-point conversion with 9 seconds left just to send the game to OT). Jeez! Or as Michaels would “shay” … “Jeesh” ….

And I wasn’t done. A few hours later, I wrote the following:

“Stick this up your boney ass, Collinsworth. What you and Mr. Dentures (Al Michaels) failed to realize that it takes conclusive evidence to overturn a call on the field. You can’t go frame by frame, hitting pause and play like it was the Zapruder film … That’s not why the rule is there. It is to correct a call that was blatantly and obviously incorrect (like a receiver stepping out of bounds before coming back in to catch a pass). Billions of people are watching. You owe it to them, and specifically to those most emotionally invested (the fans of both teams), to stick to the hard fact that there is clearly not enough there to overturn either TD. In actual fact, after re-watching the game, it is clear they got it right on the field. Clement had two feet down with possession before he shifted it a little in his arms while running out of the back of the end zone. Ertz took THREE FRIGGIN’ STEPS as a runner into the end zone and clearly crossed the goal line. Not gonna let you try to tarnish this. Don’t be showing your Icabod Crane face in our town again (and get those dentures tightened up, Al Michaels) …”

What Is: A lot of talk, maybe too much talk, about what now becomes of Nick Foles.

And What Should Never Be: Punching his ticket out of town too quickly.

Keep in mind that Foles has a year left on his contract. And while there is a $3 million bonus that kicks in next month, he is still at a manageable pay rate.

Some people in his cleats would insist on a trade, but Foles is a different kind of dude. His best football has been played in Eagle green and I don’t think he would want to go to a bad team just to be a stop-gap guy until a younger quarterback is groomed.

The Eagles will surely get some offers, but there is a question of his value. Alex Smith went for a third-round pick from Kansas City to Washington, and he was in the Pro Bowl this year. Foles is a bit younger, so he might be worth a second to someone. Maybe.

Does that make sense to the Eagles, with Carson Wentz possibly unable to start the season (or at least training camp)? They don’t have second- or third-round picks, but getting Sidney Jones back on the field after a full offseason will be like an extra mid-first. They could easily trade back from the last pick of the first round and get a mid-second and fourth. All this, while maintaining a more solvent quarterback situation, seems more prudent for a team that wants to remain as the kings of the hill.

Additionally, many of this year’s injured players – even Jason Peters and Darren Sproles – will be back. You add those on top of a roster that returns virtually intact after a Super Bowl, and it could be one year you could bite the bullet on draft picks.

It might be wishful thinking, but I think it is as likely the Eagles extend Foles beyond next season as it is that they trade him.

The reality is that Wentz checks every box to be the ultimate franchise quarterback, but he does have a history of injuries going back to North Dakota State. If Foles is kept around, he will play again. That as sure as Tom Brady not shaking hands after his loses the next Super Bowl.

What Is: I told you so.

And What Should Never Be: Not telling you I told you so.

When Wentz went down, I went to war with people on Facebook insisting that the Eagles had to sign Colin Kaepernick or the season was lost. I defended Foles – as I always have and always will – even after he played poorly at the end of the season, and the reasoning was simple.

And no, it’s not a man-crush.

He did it before – in 2013 – so he can do it again.

And he did.

I may not have put my neck as much on the line for Howie Roseman, the de facto general manager, but I always felt he got a bit of a raw deal. I won’t get into some of the reasons why. Let’s just say I felt the Howie Hate was ethnically motivated and leave it there. And no deal was more raw than when he was relinquished of all responsibilities – except maybe changing the water at the water cooler – to appease Chip Kelly, who proceeded to treat the roster like that of a fantasy football team.

Like Kelce said, Roseman came back a new man. He undid Kelly’s damage, identified and drafted Wentz, hired Pederson and put together a championship team.

Kelly is back in college football, where I wish him nothing but the worst.

That might sound harsh, but I could have put it the way Kelce did.

But it’s the new me – the dude I have been waiting to be since my first game at Franklin Field in 1970 – so I’ll be nice.

For now.

This column originally appeared at PhillyPhanatics.com

Waiting on My World to Change

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Super Bowl 39By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — Sofia was not even walking yet when the following type of conversation became commonplace …

Me: “What do the Eagles do to Daddy every year?”

Her: “Break your heart.”

Me: “And who puts it back together again?”

Her: “I do.”

And she does.

Always.

And even though the plight of my beloved Birds is not really a blip on her personal radar screen of Taylor Swift music and girl drama, she knows what she needs to do when another season goes into the books without ultimate triumph in the Super Bowl era.

She will put it back together again.

That one year when she doesn’t will be a life-altering moment, ranking right up there with 10:31 p.m. on March 29, 2007 – the night she was born.

Could this be the year? We will know soon.

I have been on this earth nearly 53 years, and 48 of them have spent consciously aware of the Eagles.

A lot of investment – emotional, physical and financial (season tickets in the family going back to Franklin Field) – has gone into those guys in varying shades of green.

There have been some amazing moments, and after an initiation of them pretty much being brutal, the Eagles have generally been a good team in my lifetime.

Since 1970, the year of my first game (a 35-20 loss to the then-St. Louis Cardinals at the aforementioned Franklin Field), there have been 16 trips to the playoffs, posting a 14-18 record.

And, as of this coming Sunday, three trips to the Super Bowl (note: four losses in NFC championship games).

But without that Lombardi Trophy, it’s really just another year where Sofia will have to put my heart back together again.

The older I get, the tolerance level for just being entertained by a team that provides a nice highlight reel goes down.

How ornery am I? I think the street celebrations after last week’s disemboweling of the favored Minnesota Vikings was nonsensical. In 1983 (my senior year of high school), when the Sixers won the NBA title, we didn’t hit the streets after the semifinals. We waited until they swept the Lakers for the title.

When the proverbial house was traded for Carson Wentz, my immediate reaction was that I didn’t care about how many franchise records he broke. I didn’t care how many Pro Bowls he was selected for, or how many MVPs he won.

If there was no Super Bowl victory in the Wentz era, the trade was not worth it. Period. End of conversation.

Maybe it’s harsh, but this is what a lifetime of heartache does to a person.

Even though Nick Foles is now playing – and playing well — in place of the injured Wentz, this box will be checked because there is no way they get here without the MVP-level play of Wentz, which positioned the Eagles for crucial home field advantage in the playoffs.

But only if Foles has one more magical game in his right arm.

People who know me and my intensity level know just how much this coming Sunday’s clash means, and they ask for an assessment with the perpetual potentate New England Patriots.

Honestly – and I wouldn’t just say this to say it — I think they can win.

It doesn’t mean they will, but they certainly can.

And if they do, it will be another one of those rare life-altering moments.

I will not be the same again.

That much I can guarantee.

It doesn’t mean I still won’t watch every snap of every game, including preseason. It does not mean I will burn my Draftnik card and not sit through three days and nights of draft coverage and endure so much analysis by paralysis that I need dialysis.

But it means that I may take the foot off the gas just a bit. If there is a game-winning field goalabout to be kicked, I won’t hit mute leave the room. I won’t lose my voice, screaming at a television screen. If the network announcers annoy me, I might not be as prone to go to the hometown radio progress and deal with the slight delay between the call from Merrill Reese and the play on the screen (all on the belief that I alone am changing momentum).

It means I might even cool it with the lucky shirts on game day, let alone keep track of their won-loss records.

It means I might tolerate fellow fans who can name less players than the number of bottles of overpriced beer they guzzle at the stadium (well, OK, I can’t promise this one without some therapy).

I will still want them to win, and win a lot, because that is just how this dude who won’t eat a cheese steak made outside of Philly is wired.

When you bleed green blood, you can’t just change your blood type.

However, a voice – the same voice that I heard after I finally saw my alma mater Temple beat friggin’ Penn State in football – will whisper softly in my one remaining “good” ear that I have not only seen the Promised Land but reached it.

If they win Super Bowl 52 (I don’t do Roman numerals, and neither should you), I’m going to buy myself a replica ring and wear it every day.

I – and long-suffering millions like me – will deserve the bling as much as the players (let alone the third assistant to the team’s assistant travel secretary). We have lived through multiple owners, coaches, general managers and players who will like to believe gave all they had for the cause.

My position has always been that I only need one championship – not that I wouldn’t take a dynasty – for my life to be altered.

I know older gentlemen who grew up as Brooklyn Dodgers fans, and they still hold 1955 – the year they actually slew the dragon known as the damned Yankees in the World Series after four previous tries – as a special moment that is enhanced by being singular in nature (the Yankees won the 1956 rematch).

Different sport, different city and a different time. But really not so different.

And there really may be no better time than the present to make it happen.

I have seen Philly teams win titles, and I have seen several others come painfully close, and a sixth sense about a team of destiny develops.

If I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

My life won’t change.

I have been there, in the pit of numb despair.

Sofia will put my broken heart back together again.

But wouldn’t be amazing if her Daddy was such a changed man that it was no longer necessary?

Always.

 

 

Powerless Empowerment

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LisaMossie

By LISA MOSSIE

I can’t think of a better metaphor for the shallowness of our political culture than the recent Golden Globes Awards show.  We’ll get back to the “President Oprah” moment in a bit, but first, let’s look at “Time’s Up,” which was launched by Hollywood Starlets dressing in black to “raise awareness” on an issue about which they were all already aware.  The irony of these starlets protesting their objectification by wearing the most revealing of outfits was apparently lost on most observers. But let’s hear those women roar, right?

If 2018 is finally going to be the often promised “Year of the Woman,” then let’s hope it evolves into something deeper than its flimsy window-dressing beginnings.

Nowhere is the shallowness of this movement more effectively illustrated than in my own township of Upper Providence, Montgomery County.  As one of the Republican candidates for Supervisor in my township, I knocked on thousands of doors.  I was getting very positive responses during my canvassing, until about two weeks before Election Day.  It was then that undecided women who answered the door started telling me that they “would love to vote for me,” but they couldn’t vote for a Republican.  They “had to send a message.”  These words were repeated verbatim at several stops, and then again on Election Day at the polls.

“I’m sorry, but I have to send a message.”

Presumably, that message was to Trump, who was not, to my knowledge, on the ballot in my township.

Nevertheless, they persisted.  The Democrats’ impressive Get Out The Vote apparatus was deployed with a vengeance in Upper Providence.  We watched as visibly angry women marched literally by the dozens to “send a message” to Trump and the patriarchal Republican Party by electing instead Democrats Laurie Higgins and Helen Calci, two politically unknown women, and John Pearson, a two-term Democrat retread.

Vive la Resistance!

Well, maybe not.  The top vote getter was Laurie Higgins and she worked hard for it.  As her opponent, I can only respect the enthusiasm and long hours she put in to campaigning; she may even have knocked on more doors than I did.  Flying mostly solo, but sometimes accompanied by other local Democrat women, Higgins reported her daily door knocking efforts on Facebook while noting on several occasions that John Pearson was back at his place of business, a bar that they called their campaign headquarters, “holding down the fort.”  One would assume for her efforts, if not for her vote totals, that Laurie Higgins would have been elected Chairman of the Board, and if not that, at least Vice Chairman.  She certainly earned it.

So how to explain the fact that not only does Higgins holds no leadership position on the Board whatsoever, but that a vocal Trump-supporter and active participant in the Trump Campaign, Republican Al Vagnozzi, is Vice Chairman to John Pearson’s Chairman?  How to explain that Jim White, a Montgomery County Republican Committee member until literally just days before the election, an RNC delegate and one of the Trumpiest of Trump supporters in Upper Providence, gets the appointment to Chair the vacancy board?  The newly elected Democrats did the Montgomery County Republican Committee a further good turn in keeping the solicitors’ position with Dischell Bartle Dooley.

Is this the female empowerment “message” angry Democrat women wanted to send?  If so, I’m afraid it got a little muddled in the translation because from where I’m sitting, it looks like the patriarchy is still running the show.

You’ve been had, ladies.  And it’s not just Republicans who’ve been taking advantage of you.  Admittedly, my Township is the exception, which was a true bipartisan effort.  Typically, there is not this much of the political chess board exposed to the electorate. The tale of the vote totals shows only one Republican was supposed to make it across the finish line, keeping the Republican majority intact in Upper Providence, which probably would have happened but for the effectiveness of the Democrats GOTV efforts and the depth of Trump anger.  Because when the Democrats take over in Montgomery County, it’s usually simply to hand over the keys of power to a Democrat solicitor, like Sean Kilkenny or Jason Salus, two Democrats who are collecting control of Montgomery County Municipalities like kids collect Pokemon.

But if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Democrat-led movements such as Indivisible and Emerge are looking to duplicate the overwhelming successes of 2017 and are now recruiting women to run for PA State Senate and Representative. It seems the only qualifications for candidacy are lady parts and the ability to hit as many feminist talking points as possible.  Katie Muth, a candidate for PA Senate District 44 announced her candidacy by telling her real “Life of Julia” story:  she proudly talks about how she is a “product of public resources” and about her personal need for easy access to abortion.  Sarah Campbell-Szymanski, a candidate for State Rep in PA 150, takes the feminist box checking to a new level:  not only does the blue-haired candidate talk about her “almost” abortion, but the married, unemployed mother-of-one has also decided to run as an openly bisexual candidate.  Mary Jo Daley, the current State Rep for PA 148, dyed a blue streak in her hair to show solidarity with Sarah. And remain relevant.

To be fair, I don’t think any of these political novices know what awaits them after election.  I am sure they are being given every encouragement by the Democrat party while it works to keep their women voters in a constant low state of Trump-induced agitation.

None of this is about putting women in power; it’s about capitalizing on a newly “woke” voting block so that the folks who are already wielding power can solidify or increase their hold thereof.  They are effectively manipulating women to do it. And they will continue to manipulate them as long as they can keep Democrat women angry and engaged enough to vote Democrat, but not so engaged as they take the time to look beyond the hashtag social media activism and an annual pink-pussy hat march.

Point being, we are not electing ideological leaders or change agents; that would change the balance of power and those in power promoting these candidates like the power structure just fine where it is, thank you very much.  This is about electing placeholders who will cede power to anointed party leaders, unelected appointees and backroom deal makers or face defeat in their next election.  It takes a little bit more than donning a pink hat and baring your soul on Twitter with your #metoo moment to be successful in politics.  But more importantly, it takes an electorate willing to invest time and effort to educating themselves beyond the flimsy window dressing to distinguish real leadership from malleable ingénues with a positive electability quotient.

So a President Oprah is not all that farfetched.  As long as she wears black at the proper awards functions and speaks the right platitudes to the sisterhood, why not elect her?  It’s not like her lack of policy knowledge or experience really matter.  It’s not like her devotion to quack medicine or fad diets make her any more or less unqualified than anyone else.  She’s a woman.  She says the right things to women.  She has a following.  She can win.  She is the perfect candidate for this moment in time.  Why not elect her?

She’s not going to be running anything, anyway.

Many Forms of Abuse

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Lizanne

By LIZZANE KNOTT

In light of the outpouring of sexual abuse stories in professional scenarios, I have to say that I have never encountered it (in my private/personal life, Lord yes – but never in a workplace).

While I spent a good deal of my life working with horses, I also held an office in a rapidly growing tech company for years which was largely male dominated. I was only ever treated with kindness and respect by my peers.

And too, my work in my studio, which is male-dominated as well, the same. I have though, experienced being bullied in the music industry by other artists. One fairly well known singer-songwriter (who shall remain nameless and is not someone I travel in circles with) actually took me out to dinner so that he could tell me that I basically had little talent as a writer or singer and at my stage of life had almost no chance of “making it”. Hmph.

I think the point I’m trying to make here is that abuse comes in all forms from all types of people. We, as women – hell, everyone – need to take a stand against the negativity that seems to be permeating our lives on a daily basis. No one of us is more or less deserving of following our path, making our own way, than anyone else, regardless of our sexual orientation, race, age, religion – or for that matter species (but that’s a whole another argument).

Long ago I made the choice to not be a victim to other peoples ego’s and hurtful behaviors, their karma is their own. I choose to put positivity and love out there because that’s what’s needed most in these times and the only thing that will get us through this stormy political sea we’ve all been cast out on.

So hold steady and sail on, better days are coming.

Ride My See-Saw

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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

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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

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hot_day_thermometer

By GORDON GLANTZ

@Managing2Edit

 

GORDONVILLE – It is a typical pastime for 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.