NFL: Cold As Ice

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By GORDON GLANTZ
Gordonglantz50@gmail.com
@Managing2Edit

 

GORDONVILLE — One of the many magical aspects of being a parent is watching your little bundle of joy begin to grow into a little human being with personality traits and burgeoning talents.

For my daughter, Sofia, who is going to be 7 – with elements of 17-months-old and 17-years-old wrapped up in her persona – dancing has enveloped her soul.

Ballet. Jazz. Tap. Irish jig.

Doesn’t matter.

Does it all.

Does it well.

Three dance classes a week – one after school and two at a local dance academy – and countless performances at home, sometimes in the kitchen in the middle of dinner or in the living room instead of practicing her piano and doing her homework.

She didn’t get it from me.

I am not a person you want to see dance – especially since giving up alcohol almost a decade ago.

It’s getting pretty ugly this week, though, as I’m doing a lot of dances.

A snow dance. A wintry mix dance. A cold, hard rain dance.  A bitter, biting wind dance.

Anything that will make it miserable on those in attendance at Super Bowl 48 (when the Roman Empire returns, I’ll use Roman numerals) this Sunday.

The National Football League, in its ongoing attempt to conspire against itself and alienate its minions, thought its Teflon veneer would protect its most holy day when the decision was made to play this year’s Super Bowl in the Meadowlands.

This is nothing against two worthy opponents – the Seattle Seahawks or the Denver Broncos – or the true-blue fans of those teams who are making the trek to the Atlantic coast in the midst of a particularly harsh winter.

Nothing would make the NFL look dumber than it raining, snowing or whatevering on its parade.

Nothing is more satisfying that making a village idiot out of a know-it-all.

This hope that it is a disaster does not come from a spirit of hate.

Actually, it is because I love the game of football. The way Sofia loves dance (as opposed to throwing a football, which is as painful to watch as me doing a Mr. Bojangles impersonation).

The NFL deserves a lot of credit for getting football past baseball – yawn – to the top of the sports mountain. But if it stays on this arrogant course, the sport is going to come sliding back down that mountain and find itself behind the likes of curling and team handball.

There is no law that says the Super Bowl has to be played in ideal conditions. It could easily rain in Miami or be windy in Phoenix.

I was disappointed at Super Bowl 39 that I had to put on a hooded sweatshirt under my No. 54 Jeremiah Trotter jersey for a game in Jacksonville, Fla.

But it was like an October evening.

Except for the outcome, it was ideal.

Just like extreme heat should not play a factor in the outcome, neither should adverse winter conditions.

It’s a fall sport, so fall – in February – needs to be replicated as much as possible.

So why is it in the Meadowlands?

Reach into your money clip and pull out a dollar. That’s why.

The New York market, with its media machine and elevated prices, was too much of a lure. And a little latent 9/11 sympathy doesn’t hurt either.

By comparison, Philadelphia – or Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, Cleveland, etc. – would have no shot at ever hosting a Super Bowl.

Never ever? Never ever.

Justin Bieber would have a better chance of scoring a TKO against Bernard Hopkins.

But the NFL could not resist taking a bite out of the frosty Big Apple (even if the game is being played across the bridge atop Jimmy Hoffa’s body).

Such a decision seemed unheard of back when the league – behind the leadership of Pete Rozelle and Paul Tagliabue – was making all the right moves. This included making its own mythical films, the merger of the NFL and the AFL, playing games on Monday night and the creation of the Super Bowl.

But now, arrogance gives way to its first cousin, ignorance.

Only the ignorant would try to get out in front of the issue of player safety but want to extend the season to 18 games without expanding roster size, which would mean more salaries.

Only the ignorant would play sloppy games on Thursday nights, all for the sake of television revenue, when any football player will tell you that three days is not enough time for a body to recover.

Only the ignorant would expand the rule book from the size of a binder to the Oxford dictionary – with the game’s nuances legislated to the point of annoyance, while not changing the basics of how it is officiated (see NHL).

Only the ignorant would sit in the comfort of luxury boxes while the commoners suffer in the cold bleachers on Super Bowl Sunday.

Can’t do much about it, can we?

Except dance.

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This column first appeared at http://www.phillyphanatics.com

The Wintertime Blues

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By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – Hey, science experts with your mail-order degrees from Limbaugh Community College, I suppose this polar vortex anomaly has you convinced that Global Warming/Climate Change is part of a liberal conspiracy to divert funds from defense of our alleged fight for freedom to the perceived inane practice of tree hugging.

I’m not going to get into the foolishness of dragging out that one crackpot out of 1,000 who helps you make this a political wedge issue that helps you sleep tighter with your Dick Cheney stuffed toys.

I’m not going raise the hard fact that the supposedly left-leaning mainstream media actually gives your theory credence by letting these guys babble from their underground bunkers in a 50-50 shot to make some semblance of sense against a Nobel-level scientist who has actually been to the North Pole more times than he has to North Carolina.

I’m not going to remind that if you look hard enough you can find a fraud — with a title — to tell you:

-The stork brings the baby.

-The earth is actually flat.

-Dinosaurs witnessed the birth of Jesus.

-Gravity is still just a theory.

I’m not going there – even though I just did.

I just wanted to let you in on a little bitty secret.

Being a little coldy-pooh in your world doesn’t mean it is the same everywhere.

Right now, as he shovel snow and dress in layers, it is so hot in Australia that kangaroos are dropping dead in their tracks and bats are falling from the sky.

It just so happens that the western half of the continental United States and Canada – along with Alaska, the bridge-to-nowhere state from which Russia can be seen – is mired in a counter-productive heat wave.

I know this thought – one that includes the notion that the earth, sun and moon don’t revolve around you and where you are – may blow your mind.

It’s a rough job, but that’s what I’m here for.

But I have compassion (I am liberal, after all).

I will leave you with this thought that will to make you warmer than a cup of your Grammy’s homemade hot cocoa.

Nine of the last years, including 2013, are the warmest on record since 1880.

So go tell all the Al Gore jokes you want.

The joke is on us.

 

 

 

Missing Memo

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Just wondering: When did “LOL” become “HaHa” in texting/messaging lingo, and why didn’t I get the memo? I’m always the last to know these things.

Personally, I preferred LOL — and the related LMAO and LMFAO — better. More options (don’t tell me “hahahaha” is a viable option), and more masculine. Can we make “LOL” for males and “HaHa” for the fairer sex?

Needed: SOA-type Makeover For ‘St. Nick’

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By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — High on the list of people surprised by the success of Nick Foles this past season might be Nick Foles himself.

That’s not to say he has self-esteem issues. He wouldn’t be able to complete a pass, even for a 2-yard gain on a third-an-12, at the NFL level without some faith in his own abilities.

He just doesn’t seem to come across with enough “it factor” to win over enough of a fan base that should be able to read through the well-crafted “St. Nick” act.

Foles chooses his words carefully, which may make him a yawner in a compare-contrast with, say, Seattle motormouth Richard Sherman. That ability to think before talking about teammates and opponents, lest his words come back to haunt him, should be encouraging. And yet, it seems to have the opposite effect.

Kind of amazing, really.

Foles had to win his quarterback job – both in college and in the pros – by overcoming the “not athletic enough” tag, which one would think would play in blue-collar Philadelphia, where fans go apoplectic at the sights and sounds of a “Rocky” film clip on the stadium screen at Lincoln Financial Field.

Foles will be the first to tell you he is neither reading his press clippings nor resting on his laurels. He is surely working on nuances to make him better in 2014, his first full year as a starter in the same NFL system.

But one might be wise to suggest some other changes – if not to Foles, then to his agent.

Perhaps he could try consulting the “Sons of Anarchy” people for a makeover. He could definitely rock the Jax Teller look, right down to the tattoos and the rings that could be visible at press conferences. Maybe he could hang with actor Charlie Hunnam to learn some swagger.

Do this – and maybe a minor scrape or two with the law that could be handled with a fine (we don’t need him missing film time in jail) – and we might be onto something.

This is a joke – in more ways than one.

It shouldn’t come down to something so superficial.

Not when one considers his on-field achievements.

As a second-year quarterback in the first year of a new system, he took losing out on the opening-day-starter job in stride, staying quietly confident that taking care of his own world would yield results.

It doesn’t take much deductive reasoning to draw a conclusion that while Michael Vick was tabbed by Chip Kelly to start the season, if only to avoid an insurrection in a locker room that holds Vick in high regard, Kelly knew he would need Foles sooner or later.

It stood to reason that at least one of the three “I’s” – injury, interceptions or ineffectiveness – by the aging Vick would put Foles back in the saddle to finish up another season and, at the very least, audition for his new coach.

Foles never came out and said as much, but you knew it was in the back of his mind that he had to stay ready so that he could seize the inevitable moment.

It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

After helping the Eagles save face – throwing a garbage-time touchdown pass to that superstar, Jeff Maehl – in an otherwise dismal loss in Denver to the eventual AFC champion Broncos, Foles had his number called the following week when Vick was hurt against the rival Giants in the Meadowlands, and he delivered a comeback win that ended a three-game losing skid.

Next was a highly efficient victory in Tampa Bay, to be followed by an off-kilter performance at home against Dallas with a chance to move the Eagles to 4-3 and put them in front in the weak NFC East.

At the time, the Eagles had extended their home losing streak to more than a calendar year, and the punch-drunk lowest common denominator among Eagles Nation had immediately written Foles off as nothing more than another Bobby Hoying or Kevin Kolb who should be custom fitted for a baseball cap and clipboard.

And nothing – not the seven touchdown passes at Oakland, the league-best quarterback rating (buoyed by a 27:2 touchdown-to-interception ratio) or the numerous statistical achievements that put him in franchise and NFL record books – could sway many of the unwashed masses.

Even as Foles prepares to appear in Sunday’s Pro Bowl, after being named to the squad as first alternate, they remain tepid in their enthusiasm, calling talk radio about players they once saw singe an inferior opponent in a collegiate mismatch.

It is as if they can’t forgive Foles for that one misstep in Game 7. It’s as if they still see him as the concussed Grinch who stole a perfect fall day, even though the offensive line had its worst game – failing to create holes for LeSean McCoy and establish a comfortable fortress in the pocket – and several passes that could have gotten the offense into its required rhythm were flat-out dropped.

He missed the next game with the aforementioned concussion. Vick started, but the hamstring gave out. The Eagles were adrift, at 3-5, at the midway point.

Foles started the rest of the games, and the Birds won seven of eight to finish 10-6. Even quarterbacks who take two seasons to throw 27 touchdown passes and one game to throw two picks get one-season passes from the fans for that.

But not here; not when you don’t have “it” going for you.

Foles came back and beat Dallas, in Dallas, to give the Eagles the division title in what – for all intents and purposes – was the season’s Super Bowl, but his game was only seen as “OK.”

In his first career playoff start, he rallied the Eagles against the New Orleans, only to watch helplessly – like everyone else – as the special teams and defense let it end on a field goal to lift the Saints to victory as time expired.

Critics point to two major lapses in judgment – holding the ball too long and taking a sack back to the edge of field goal range and an ill-conceived intentional grounding penalty – against the Saints as automatic deductions on his final grade, which is fair.

Talk still stirs of a mystical “franchise quarterback” – an error-free superhuman athlete that really only exists on NFL Films cut-ups – when one has already materialized in front of them.

One only needed to watch the playoffs after the Eagles were eliminated to see quarterbacks deemed to be of a more exotic species of signal caller who made a multitude of mistakes – some mental, some forced by defenses who happen to have a say in the matter sometimes – but weren’t judged as harshly.

There are some in the media, even though they should know better, who lob the same slow-pitch softballs at Kelly about Foles’ long-range future over center. Exasperated with the same laborious line of questioning, Kelly gives underwhelming responses that only fuel more speculation.

Maybe Kelly needs to learn the rules of NFL coachspeak and realize that the quarterback is different from, say, the long snapper. Instead, probably as he did at Oregon, he makes it known that all jobs are open and does not expect to have answer the same question a zillion times.

And then there are the sexy names coming out of the college ranks this year. Three quarterbacks – Louisville’s Teddy Bridgewater, Texas A&M’s Johnny Manziel and Central Florida’s Blake Bortles – are likely to go well before the Eagles pick at No. 22 in the first round. Two other big-name guys – Fresno State’s Derek Carr and Clemson’s Tajh Boyd – have seen their stock drop and could easily be there.

Would they pounce if a top guy slid? Would they mortgage other picks and trade up? Would they take Carr or Boyd at No. 22?

It’s kind of like asking if they would take a running back, even though they have McCoy.

Anything is possible.

But it’s highly unlikely, given the Eagles’ other needs heading into a season when a tougher schedule means a replication of 2013 is anything but assured.

If you subscribe to the belief that it was a lot of smoke and mirrors in 2013, then luxuries at skill positions where they are set are something they cannot afford.

After two years of getting no bounces or breaks – at all – the Eagles seemed to get their fair share this past season. There were some injuries, but nothing reaching the obnoxious level of the previous two years that made one wonder if the team was placed under a curse the day vagabond quarterback Vince Young called them the “Dream Team” prior to the 2011 season.

The most significant injury was to Vick. It was a pulled hamstring that he could have played with – at half-speed – if there were no other alternatives.

But there was an alternative.

It was Nick Foles.

Sorry if he is St. Nick and not Jax Teller.

Just a reality.

Here are some others.

Foles is playing this year at $750,880, which equates to fast-food pay for someone we can conservatively call an up-and-coming quarterback (Note: Even if the Eagles’ brass wanted to take his contract and tear it up so they can negotiate a long-term deal, they are prohibited from doing so.).

This is where common sense meets dollars and sense. Even if Foles isn’t the quarterback Kelly ultimately wants for his system, the NFL is a business. He can’t just go recruit three more quarterbacks and let them all battle it out in spring practice.

Even if Foles weren’t coming off a near-perfect season, it would be bad business to add another high-end quarterback prospect when there are holes that need to be filled – in free agency, but mostly the draft – for the Eagles to rise to next year’s set of very real challenges.

If there is a step back in Year 2 of the Kelly Era – even cosmetically, because of the tougher schedule and/or some bad breaks and torn ACLs – it likely won’t be because of Foles.

He makes too many right decisions and not enough wrong ones, on and off the field.

And in the unlikely event that a decline is his fault, go ahead and clamor for that bumper crop of quarterbacks – UCLA’s Brett Hundley, Florida State’s Jameis Winston and Oregon’s (and Kelly’s) Marcus Mariotta, as well as others who don’t yet have the national profile – awaiting in the 2015 draft.

Who knows? Maybe one of those guys has “it.”

The column originally appeared at http://www.phillyphanatics. com

Rally Time

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By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — When a twister blows through a small town in Tornado Alley, the whole community rallies.

They are hoping — and expecting — outside help, but they don’t wait on it.

They galvanize, and take action — as a whole — as soon as the storm passes.

They do it themselves.

A slow, silent and subtle storm has left the Norristown Area School District leveled.

The once-proud athletic tradition is a shell of its former self.

And with the athletic director and head football coach jobs up for grabs, the community has been put to the apathy test.

The good news is that there are positive signs.

On Monday night, there will be a meeting to plot a course about where to go from here.

And when you have suffered to ignominy of losing football games to schools — like Springfield-Montco — that once were deemed not even fit to take to the same field as Norristown, you can’t shrug it off.

When private and parochial schools are picking the bones of your home-grown talent and leaving only a skeleton behind, it’s time to act.

Monday’s meeting will not be a pleasant gathering over tea and crumpets, nor should it be.

The tornado has left devastation in its wake, and it can’t be more of a mess when the meeting adjourns.

The encouraging sign is that many former athletes who gave blood, sweat and tears into sports at the school are among the loudest voices.

Let’s hope that the power brokers — that being the school board — are there, listening, with open minds.

 

 

Eagles Make It Hurt So Good

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By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — Heading into the 2013 NFL season, there wasn’t much talk about it lasting until 2014.

Not for the Philadelphia Eagles.

That was only for the few, the proud and those fortunate enough to catch breaks and avoid broken bones.

After a two-year downhill slide into the abyss of the league’s landfill, there should have been modest expectations under first-year coach Chip Kelly.

For starters, Kelly was coming out of the college ranks with new approaches voted by pundits as most likely to be boom-or-bust; revolutionary or revolting.

And it was with a roster of players held over from a team that finished 4-12, a mark even worse than face value when one considers the team started off 3-1.

The Eagles played it close to the vest in free agency, opting for some players salvaged from the league’s recycling bin.

Some in Eagleville not only predicted another 4-12 year, they wanted one. The somewhat misguided thought being the team could use another high draft pick. But the empires that are NFL powerhouses – unlike in the NBA and NHL – aren’t built that way.

It takes a village to win a Super Bowl, and one player doesn’t make a village.

Most predictions ranged in the 6-10 to 8-8 range. It was believed that, if the NFC East didn’t have a dominant team, it was there for the taking with a mark above .500.

But the reality was that this season was about changing the culture. The wins, likely in the second year of Kelly’s tenure, would follow.

Lo and behold, they came a lot sooner. The Eagles were 1-3 after four games and 3-5 after eight before finishing on a 7-1 tear that concluded with that NFC East-clinching victory, down in Dallas, over a Cowboys’ team that entered the year with much higher expectations.

After Brandon Boykin’s interception sealed the deal, and splattered egg whites on Jerry Jones’ face, the Eagles said all the right things about not being done.

The reality, though, was that game was this year’s pinnacle. It was their Super Bowl. They won. An unlikely banner will join the others at Lincoln Financial Field, where the rabid fans would trade all the division and conference flags for a championship one.

The Eagles took on the New Orleans Saints, just a few years removed from a Super Bowl title, in round one of the playoffs. The game was at the Linc and the Saints had never won a road playoff game – except the Super Bowl, of course – in their history.

Didn’t matter. The Eagles fought back from a 20-7 deficit to take 24-23 lead, but lost on last-second field goal.

Many were left agonizing over the loss – tossing and turning, crying out “if they had done this instead of that, that instead of this, they could and should and would have won.”

But then the realization of all that was accomplished takes hold.

The magical mystery tour lasting a bit longer would have been cool, but the reality is that this is not a Super Bowl team.

But it was a playoff team, one that became relevant again. They were the talk of the league, stumbling upon a franchise quarterback (Nick Foles) who led the circuit in QB rating and a running back (LeSean McCoy) who led it in rushing.

After the indignity of having no players make the Pro Bowl a year earlier, they had two (tackle Jason Peters and McCoy) make it this year. Three players (Peters, McCoy and guard Evan Mathis) were selected first-team All-Pro.

Those were the types of things that used to ring hollow when Andy Reid’s Eagles repeatedly came up short of Super Bowl expectations, but they are indicators that we have been officially greeted by a new dawn.

While presumptions that the Eagles have been cleared for takeoff to future Super Bowls might be premature, as the NFL graveyard is laden with cautionary tales of first-year coaches who never matched their rookie-year successes, there is a sense that this was more than happenstance.

If the Eagles had gone 4-12, it would have raised more questions than answers.

Instead, the players – from veterans to young bucks – bought what the coach was selling.

The culture was changed.

Shortly after the loss to New Orleans, probably the best team the Eagles faced since getting pounded by Peyton Manning at the Denver Broncos in what seemed like a lifetime ago, owner Jeffrey Lurie put his hurt aside and placed the loss in the proper perspective.

“When you make a coaching change, you have to transform to a new culture,” Lurie said. “These players and the coaching staff just formed an incredible bond, ability to prepare and an ability to win. That can take years, and they did it in six months. That is what is so great here.

“We are all crushed to be eliminated. We are in this because we love it so much. But I have no doubt that we will be back and that we are more confident than ever, now that we know what we can accomplish.”

Some of that is spin, but most is truth.

They say the truth hurts.

This team – to borrow from John Mellencamp – made it hurt so good.

This column originally appeared at http://www.phillyphanatics.com

You Say You Want A Resolution? Try A Cease Fire

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By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – We all live with regret, and sometimes it’s the little moments – the seemingly innocuous choices to put the left foot in front of the right – that rise to the top of the list as the calendar unmercifully flips from year to year.

Let us board a time machine and travel back to the summer of 1986. My father had rented a house in the mountainous woods of Vermont for the summer.

After taking advantage of the freedom of no parental supervision for weeks on end, my sister and I went there for a week in late August.

It was a pretty cool place, with the feel of an old-fashioned log cabin but modern amenities that included a Jacuzzi the size of a small swimming pool.

I remember being at a creative peak as a songwriter – and guitar player (something I have since given up) – and using the long car rides to plays at places like the campus of Williams College and shopping outlets as fodder for whatever deep thinking a 21-year can have (brains don’t fully develop until the ages of 24 and 30).

And now, for that moment of regret.

It should have been when I lost my temper when everyone in the car – father, step-mother and sister – mocked Suzanne Vega’s first “tape” after 10 seconds into the first song, but I’m still proud that I defended Suzanne’s honor (even though she rightfully looked at me like a stalker when I was first in line and babbling like an idiot when we saw her at the Sellersville Theater a few years back).

Plus, the joke was on them when Vega had a big hit a year later with “Luka.”

No, it came when my sister and I went to a concert in whatever nearby sign of civilization that served as the pseudo-downtown area.

The featured act was Woodstock hero Richie Havens. We walked into what was basically a glorified barn with a bunch of benches laid out in front of a stage.

While the latent hippie types malingered, we went straight to the front row.

I briefly noticed a few homemade cassette tapes that had the name “Rod MacDonald” written on them in magic marker, but gave it no real thought — other than my own musical endeavor, The Last Wave, was not much different (except we weren’t warming up for Richie Havens and never made it out of my basement, except to record some songs in my guitar teacher’s basement).

MacDonald took the stage with an acoustic guitar and rolled through a set of well-written songs that he set up with poignant and witty stories.

I had him pegged as either a 1960s has-been or wannabe who, through bad luck, had been nothing more than a regional New England act.

Then he finished his set with what he jokingly said was his “hit song.”

Actually, as benches began to slow fill with earth-shoe-wearing refugees from New York City and Boston, there seemed to be some measure of familiarity with the song – “Stop The War” – in the audience of less than 200.

As a songwriter type myself, I listened intently and was spellbound by the lyrics.

I was expecting a leftover Vietnam-era song, but it was one of those songs that can fit like a hand in a glove at any place in time.

Through the years, the words of the chorus managed to stick:

“Stop the war, Stop War

Stop the War within yourself

And you won’t have to fight with anyone else.”

After MacDonald was done playing, I ventured to the back of the “theater” to locate a bathroom and maybe grab a snack.

I noticed the tapes still there, and figured that I would wait until after the Richie Havens performance and pick one up.

Havens then played, and I was enthralled at his unique guitar style that I have later learned was due to him being self-taught.

He ran through a bunch of songs – including plenty written by Bob Dylan, who I was all about that summer (even more than Bruce Springsteen) – and brought the crowd into a bit of a frenzy with “Freedom,” the song he rocked a much larger throng with at Woodstock.

The show had ended and we exited into my father’s waiting car out front.

It didn’t hit me until halfway home that I never picked up MacDonald’s tape.

Maybe it was because I was riding a buzz that both Havens and his backup guitar player acknowledged me with winks and nods for appreciating the performance with such intensity. Maybe it was because my sister wasn’t feeling well (or at least that it what she said).

Or maybe it was that underdeveloped brain of mine.

The following morning, back in town, MacDonald was in the same diner eating breakfast with his manager. The G2 of today would have approached, heaped platitudes upon him, told him I was an aspiring songwriter myself and asked about buying a tape.

But I was more timid back then.

It left me with regret.

I thought I had read somewhere that MacDonald had died, but I must’ve Googled the wrong dude.

He is not only alive, but his career has gone well from those days of selling homemade tapes. He was not really the 1960s leftover I imagined, as he was just building his reputation in the 1980s as key cog in the folk revival in Greenwich Village.

And his under-the-radar music has come a long way, in terms of availability.

Just about all of his songs – many of which have been covered by a plethora of quality acts – are available on iTunes.

Including not one, but two versions of “Stop The War.”

First verse about a general. Second verse about a stock brocker.

You get the picture.

A lot of people are busy making New Year’s resolutions, and I usually do the same.

A few years back, I decided to make them more inward than outward (losing weight, exercise, etc.).

In 20I1, I tried letting things slide.

LOL.

Come 2012, I tried not caring what other people think about me.

More LOL.

In 2013, there was the old attempt at not worrying about what is out of my control.

LMAO.

Well, in 2014, I’m going to raise the bar.

And really, when I look in the mirror at the well-meaning but flawed being glaring back, it’s not a laughing matter.

I’m going to stop the war.

The war within myself.

So that I don’t have to fight with anyone else.

To Rod MacDonald, thanks.

I may have forgotten to buy your tape back when my brain was not fully developed, but I never forgot your words.