Here's a bit of Paul "Bear" Bryant's weekly Alabama football show from 1980. Y'all, this is self-evidently 30 years and a universe away from the world we inhabit today.
I don't know that today is any improvement.
By the way, I think we know what killed the Bear a couple of years after this show -- washing them chips down with Coca-Cola.
You knew it would end like this, didn't you? I think it was Clarence, the angel in training, who said that every time a bell gets rung, a washed-up quarterback texts pictures of his junk. Or his career flies out the window.
Anyway, Christmas bells were jing-jing-jingling Monday night during the Minneapolis mugging that probably means curtains for the latest incarnation of Everybody's All-American. And the end came at the hands of a rookie, no less.
The Associated Pressgets a head start on the latest remake of the Frank Deford novel that became a Taylor Hackford film, this version starring Brett Favre as Dennis Quaid as Gavin Grey:
Bundled up on the sideline in a heavy, gray coat, Brett Favre could only watch as Devin Hester and the Chicago Bears sped through the snow to the NFC North title.
Favre's surprise start ended with a concussion, perhaps putting him out for good, and the Bears spoiled Minnesota's first outdoor home game in 29 years.
Hester set the NFL record with his 14th kick return touchdown, running back a punt 64 yards for a score shortly after halftime to help the Bears fly past the Vikings 40-14 on a frosty, hard-hitting Monday night.
"You play long enough, you're going to get your bell rung," Favre said.
In the second quarter, the Vikings lost Favre - possibly for good.
On third-and-4 from the Bears 48, Wootton got in the backfield and grabbed Favre by his non-throwing shoulder, slamming him to the cold turf players had worried about in the days before the game. The career leader in almost every major statistical category for quarterbacks, Favre lay motionless for a few seconds before climbing to his feet and walking off with his head hung down.
BRETT'S GONNA spend some time at home now and "cut a little grass"? That's what Gavin Grey did a lot of -- beer in hand -- once his playing days were done.
If there are Marks-a-Lots in heaven, we're gonna be all right. Nash Roberts will have the weather covered.
The legendary New Orleans weatherman and hurricane guru got promoted to the ultimate Weather Center this weekend at age 92.
If it was a storm, and if it was in the Gulf of Mexico, Nash Roberts had it covered, and he pretty much always knew where it was going to end up -- and this in the age of doing math on paper, peering into World War II-vintage radar scopes and drawing TV weather maps with a black, felt-tip marker.
If Nash said it, it must be so -- that's what about three generations of folks in south Louisiana came to think of the fixture on Channels 4, 6 and 8. May the Good Lord see things the same way as ol' Nash -- the poor, sunken city of New Orleans' meteorological guardian angel -- gets sent up to the majors. WWL-TV in New Orleans announced the sad news Sunday evening:
During a career that lasted more than 50 years on local television, New Orleans viewers came to trust his calm and accurate forecasts so much so that the question “What does Nash say?” was the way many gauged the potential impact of an impending weather system.
“Sometimes I wish I knew myself why I am right,” Roberts said in a 1998 interview with The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. “But a portion of it is just instinctive. It’s just a talent I have.”
Roberts retired from meteorology and his on-air role at WWL-TV during hurricane season in 2001. Throughout his career, he was the informed and educated voice of calm and reason, and his forecasting with felt-tip pens (which served him well, years into the high-tech age of broadcast meteorology) helped illustrate the direction of hurricanes since 1947. When he was inducted into the Greater New Orleans Broadcasters Association’s New Orleans Broadcasting Hall of Fame, the group commented that Roberts had been on the air longer than 95 percent of the stations in the country. By the time he retired, Roberts had worked at three of the city’s television stations.
For over five decades, the New Orleans native was a rock of stability during trying times: the horror of Hurricane Audrey in 1957, the devastation of Hurricanes Betsy and Camille in the 1960s, and the heart-stopping threat of Hurricane Georges in 1998. Roberts was there through it all, with his simple map, felt-tipped pen and lifetime of weather wisdom.
The Times-Picayune summed up Roberts’ impact in 1998, in a special issue commemorating 50 years of television in New Orleans: “His power is tremendous. Some of us won't go to sleep until Nash says it's OK. His strong suit is personal forecasts - a mix of hunch and 50 years of knowledge - mapped out in Magic Marker.”
NASH ROBERTS is gone. Now the Gulf Coast is stuck with those damned computer models, none of which was produced by a supercomputer with even a fraction as much processing power as a certain meteorologist's brain.
When Australian funny lady (and psychologist) Pamela Stephenson went on Britain's TV-am in December 1986, no one knew eggs-actly what the hell she was doing.
But at least weather presenter Wincey Willis was an egg-cellent ducker.
THAT YEAR, the independent-TV morning show crew got off easy.
You know how I said this wasthe one awesome use of Auto-Tune ever? I was wrong.
This one is better. In fact, this is the best thing to come out of Kansas City since Big Joe Turner and the jump-starting of Karrin Allyson's jazz career.
In fact, this is to awesome what the Kansas City Royals are to suck. Trading Zack Greinke? Really? Two words: Johnny Damon.
Anyway, as I said back in September. . . record labels, you are so over. Buhbye!
You're a young man in Omaha, it's 1988, and you just want the hell out.
You just want out of Boringsville, where it's just so . . . so . . . so . . . Midwestern. And not cool.
You're a young man in Omaha in 1988, and you want to see the world. Which, coincidentally, is Not Omaha. What do you do?
Well, you always can put together a punk band and get popular. Make a record album. Get noticed. Go on tour. Get big.
Real big.
Voila!
OR . . . you can become a theology professor. One way or the other, it's all good. And not necessarily in Omaha.
All of a sudden, it's 20 years later. Life is what happens between wanting to get the hell out of Dodge -- or away from cruising Dodge -- and coming back for the reunion show at the kind of Omaha club that was more or less unthinkable in 1988.
Oddly enough, the Omaha of 1988 was the one I came to. Fled screaming in the night to, actually.
It looked pretty good to me at the time -- I'm from Baton Rouge.(Ignatius Reilly may have had a point.) And everybody's always running from -- or to -- somewhere.
Captain Beefheart is dead. Sh*t. I happened upon the news tonight on NPR. I wonder whether it'll get a mention on MTV. I wonder why I wonder, since even back when Music Television actually played music videos, the Captain wasn't in the mix.
Capitalism is one thing. Genius is another. You don't get to be a good capitalist trying to sell people genius. Usually.
Avant-garde musician Captain Beefheart died this morning in California from complications of multiple sclerosis. He was 69.
An all-time favorite of rock critics — and known to readers of lists of the best rock albums of all time as the guy with the hat and the fish face — Beefheart earned a reputation for making challenging music. But his work was, at its root, well-executed blues-based rock.
His given name was Don Vliet — he added a Van in between his first and last names later. He was one of those musicians who sold fewer records than his best-known fans: Tom Waits, members of R.E.M. and New Order are just a few of dozens. The late British DJ John Peel called Beefheart a true genius, possibly the only one rock ever produced.
Mark Mothersbaugh, of the band Devo, calls him one of the all-time greats.
"The Beatles and The Rolling Stones would definitely be in that group of what turned me on about music," Mothersbaugh says. "But I have to say that he made me want to be an artist."
Born in a Los Angeles suburb, the only child and art prodigy was featured on a local television show making animal sculptures as a child. When he was 13 years old, his family moved to the Mojave Desert, where he befriended a young Frank Zappa.
In 1966, Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band signed with A&M records and scored a regional hit with a cover of Willie Dixon's "Diddy Wah Diddy." Pretty soon, Van Vliet was writing original material for his band. In a 1980 interview with the BBC, he insisted he was a composer, not a songwriter. And in his band, he was exacting.
"I play the drums. I play the guitar. I play the piano," he said. "I want it exactly the way I want it. Exactly. Don't you think that somebody like Stravinsky, for instance — don't you think that it would annoy him if somebody bent a note the wrong way?"
DON VAN VLIET is dead. Sh*t.
I miss the days when "avant-garde" rarely was a euphemism for "can't play their damn instruments" or, more simply, "noise." And I will miss Captain Beefheart.
In the festive, yuletide sense of the term, as opposed to the festive, misogynistic sense.
It's the week before Christmas, and 3 Chords & the Truth is giving the gift of music this year! Of course, that's exactly what we gave last year, too.
And the year before.
As a matter of fact, the Big Show gives the gift of music every single episode, and we don't need a special excuse -- like Christmas, for example -- to do it. That is truth.
Public relations, however, dictates that we make it sound like giving the gift of music is a special Christmas thing. You need a good peg for proper public relations, and the promiscuous consumption and self-indulgence of the holiday season fills the bill for pimpin' the Big Ho . . . er, Show.
SO CONSIDER yourself sold. And remember to tell your mom that you absolutely, positively have to have a whole bunch of3 Chords & the Truth this Christmas, or you'll just die! I mean, all the other kids are getting the Big Show this Christmas, and she just can't let you be some kind of freak.
What will everybody say about you on Facebook, after all?
I swear to God, everybody is downloading the thing -- this 3 Chords & the Truth -- and if she doesn't get it for you . . . YOU . . . WILL . . . JUST . . . DIE.
You'll hold your breath until you turn blue.
You'll throw a tantrum.
You'll cry forever.
You swear to God.
OF COURSE, this is one case where getting what you want will actually be good for you. Unlike all that Easter candy last spring.
3 Chords & the Truthactually will expand your mind and, as an extra added bonus at no additional cost, feed your soul.
Some have even reported developing good musical taste. Your mileage, however, may vary.
So ask your mom for lots of the Big Show this Christmas. You -- and she -- will be glad you did.
Do you think the National Organization for Marriage just might have beenreading this blog?
Reading this MSNBC story and watching the above video, I would have thought that I couldn't have said it better myself . . . if I hadn't remembered thatI already did.
I don't care what you think on the gay-marriage issue (obviously, as an observant Catholic, I'm against it), and I don't care what you think about "big government." But I do think that before people get all paranoid about the power of big government and its potential to sow tyranny, they need to realize that big business is just as capable of reducing us to serfdom . . . and perhaps far more likely to try.
Only Nixon could go to China, and only Baba Wawa could ask The Artist Formerly Known as Puff Daddy why he can be a baby Diddy five times over, but never a real, live, married-to-his-baby-mama -- any of the three -- father.
That's a question P. Diddy still is trying not to answer a day and a half later.
The hemming and hawing went something like this, as reported by the Daily Mail in London:
"Why I'm not married yet, I don't have the exact reason. Some things in life you don't have the exact reason.
"My father was killed when I was three years old... I never got a chance to see the way a family lives, but I'm not making an excuse."
Not satisfied with his answer, Walters further inquired, "Six children by three women, how much time do you need?"
Diddy cut her off saying: "I get to spend a lot of time with my children. Everybody has a different life. Mine and your life is totally different.
"That's the way it is. My life works for me, it works for my family."
He added: "They have no cavities... and they pray every night."
Diddy is the biological father of five and he is the informal stepfather of another child.
GOOD THING she didn't ask him about that $360,000 first car he gave his 16-year-old:
In July, Diddy called British journalist Martin Bashir a racist, after Bashir grilled the rapper during an interview on Nightline about the star's lavish lifestyle and gifting his son Justin with a $360,000 Maybach car for his 16 birthday.
"There were times in the interview when I had to give him a ultimatum, the questions weren’t being handled the right way,' Diddy explained afterwards.
"In hindsight when I saw him I shouldn’t had done the interview because I know the style of interview that he does. The whole thing about giving a Maybach to my son, that’s really like a racist question.
"You don’t ask white people what they buy their kids and they buy ‘em Porsches and convertible Bentleys and it’s no question.
It’s really a racist question and put things back in perspective with money and the way that people still look at you. And I’m not saying that consciously he’s a racist.
"But he probably don’t even realize that he would not ask Steve Jobs that. He would be like Steve Jobs has that money and that’s the gift his kid is supposed to get."
OH . . . Diddy didn't give a straight answer to the baby-daddy question when Bashir asked it, either.
This after Bashir reminded Diddy of having said he wanted to be "someone that kids want to emulate."
Yeah, there was a racist lurking in that interview, and it wasn't Martin Bashir.
Some African-American (and other) thinkers have argued that most blacks cannot be racist because racism presupposes the power to act upon one's racial prejudices. All right, then, who has the power here?
Martin Bashir, salaried TV journalist? Or Sean "Puff Daddy-P. Diddy" Combs, hip-hop media and marketing mogul?
If Bashir went on national television and screamed the N-word for three days straight, the only life he would be destroying would be his own. He'd be fired. He'd be ridiculed. He'd be shamed. He'd be shunned.
He. Would. Never. Work. Again. (Or at least for a long while.)
BUT WHEN DIDDY -- he who seeks to be emulated -- goes around siring children by multiple women, without marrying any of them, he sets a standard that has been proven socioeconomically toxic to the very people he'd most like to "emulate" him.
When Diddy plays hip-hop mogul, peddling a violent, misogynistic and ubermaterialistic subculture to young people who least need any more violence, misogyny or materialism shoved into their minds, he blows more toxic cultural gas toward the canaries in the American coal mine.
And when Diddy proclaims he's an adequate father to the fruit of all his "baby mamas'" wombs because he shoves some serious cash -- or a Maybach automobile -- at them every now and again, he gives yet another oversexed lout in some American inner city yet another excuse for not acting like a man.
Or acting like a father.
Without the means -- or the tools to acquire the means -- to bandage over the psychic wounds of little children with Benjamins. Or Maybachs.
DAVID DUKE couldn't have hoped to "accomplish" as much in a million white-supremacist years. That's why the ol' neo-Nazi needed a little Diddy magic.
A friend just turned me on to The Shaggs, the 1960s New Hampshire teen-girl group that Frank Zappa proclaimed "better than the Beatles."
Well, better than Yoko Ono's "Kiss Kiss Kiss," anyway.
Above, we hear The Shaggs perform "My Pal Foot Foot." If I were a cynical man, I would say "My Ass Ass, Pal."
Oh, wait. I am a cynical man.
If only they'd thought to fake orgasms and call it "the bridge," "My Pal Foot Foot" (wink, wink) coulda gone straight to the top of the pops. The Shaggs could have could have made it after all.
Meow. NOW, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go write the song that will make me a star -- "Ima Go Puke in a Bucket and Call It Vichyssoise."
Lyrically, "Ima Go Puke in a Bucket and Call It Vichyssoise"will be simplistic, yet profound . . . and postverbal. Musically, it will be both "outsider" and "antifolk," with thrash/death-metal overtones. I wouldn't argue if you called it "post-antirhythmic hardcore punk."
ON THE other hand -- turning our musical thoughts back to The Shaggs -- "My Cutie" ain't bad. Seriously.
It's kind of got a pre-B-52s vibe within a folk-rock framework. "I'll give it a 77 and a half, Dick. There's a beat in there somewhere, and dancing is so yesterday's bourgeois rhythmic conformity, you f***ing fascist tool of musical repression."
It was 30 years ago today, the world stopped to pray . . . and though I don't really want to stop the show, I thought that you might like to know that the singer's going to sing a song, and he wants you all to sing along:
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I am reliably informed by various corners of the media universe that this commercial for Duncan Hines is offensive to African-Americans. White advertising executives cannot -- repeat CANNOT -- have fun with the old saw that black folk got soul, but white boy don't. Only African-Americans may stereotype white people as being off-key, uncoordinated musical buffoons.
Therefore, we find racism in the sepia-toned hip-hop cupcakes. Therefore, Duncan Hines has taken the ads off the ol' TV plantation -- and YouTube, too -- because someone, somewhere may have been offended.
UNFORTUNATELY, this did not happen back in 1980, when African-American actors were prompted by the white advertising establishment to do national ads in which they expressed their longing for an unattainable whiteness of being.
Remember, kiddos, white cake is the best. You don't need to be pollutin' it with no chocolate frosting.
AND WHERE were the forces of political correctness two decades before that, when the racists at Duncan Hines were putting ads on grampaw's 1960 Motorola pointing out that their chocolate came from the "chocolate trees" in deepest, darkest Africa, and that what you did with that African chocolate was make devil's food cakes.
Africa + chocolate = the cake favored by the prince of darkness.Get it?
An absolute hate crime.
And don't even get me started on Aunt Jemima.
THANK GOODNESS someone in the African-American grassroots has stood up to combat pernicious demeaning stereotypes of blacks in American marketing.
Or something. Cue Zuzu.
If it was a storm, and if it was in the Gulf of Mexico, Nash Roberts had it covered, and he pretty much always knew where it was going to end up -- and this in the age of doing math on paper, peering into World War II-vintage radar scopes and drawing TV weather maps with a black, felt-tip marker.since 1947. When he was inducted into the Greater New Orleans Broadcasters Association’s New Orleans Broadcasting Hall of Fame, the group commented that Roberts had been on the air longer than 95 percent of the stations in the country. By the time he retired, Roberts had worked at three of the city’s television stations.
You're a young man in Omaha in 1988, and you want to see the world. Which, coincidentally, is Not Omaha. What do you do?
It's the week before Christmas, and 3 Chords & the Truth is giving the gift of music this year! Of course, that's exactly what we gave last year, too.
Reading this MSNBC story and watching the above video, I would have thought that I couldn't have said it better myself . . . if I hadn't remembered that I already did."Why I'm not married yet, I don't have the exact reason. Some things in life you don't have the exact reason.
Above, we hear The Shaggs perform "My Pal Foot Foot." If I were a cynical man, I would say "My Ass Ass, Pal."
