Lord of the Fritos

When I was a kid, there was always the same public-service announcement before the late news.

"It's 10 o'clock. Parents, do you know where your children are?"

Boy, is that so 40 years ago. There are so many other questions TV stations could ask "parents" today.

"It's 11:30. Parents, did you know that your little thugs are cleaning out the Kwik-E-Mart?"

"It's 6 o'clock. Parents, did you know your little darlings will be on the news in just a couple of minutes?"

"It's 10 o'clock. Parents, do you give a flip where your children are?"

"It's 3 in the morning. Parents, are you really worthless pieces of s***, or is that an unfair inference on our part?"

MAYBE that's something KATU television in Portland, Ore., might want to consider. It would be a nice complement to stories like this:

Police are hoping the public can help identify several kids who stormed a local gas station this past Saturday night and stole everything they could grab.

On the surveillance video, one person came into the Chevron convenience store on SE 92nd and Foster. Then a second person came in and pretty soon, a large group of kids was packed into the shop. Soon, they were stealing anything they could, from drinks to gum to candy

Carlos Garcia was working Saturday night at around 11:30 p.m. when the incident happened. He said there were 16 kids in the store. Garcia said the kids grabbed anything they could and shoved items into their pockets or simply carrying them in their hands and out the door.

"My first reaction was call police because I can't do more," he said. "I don't want to hurt them -- they're kids. I called the police. They don't stop they're just picking picking as much as they can."

Bomb bomb bomb, bombbomb your wallet

I don't care who ya' are, this right here from the Miami Herald's Jim Morin is funny.

Let's talk. About this, not about that

Today's helpful tip for getting along in America: Don't say what you really think, if what you really think is what people really don't want to hear.

Conservative writer John Derbyshire was arrogant enough to think the power of his own intellect and the conviction with which he holds to his prejudices could save him from that simple postmodern fact of life. And mere days after he published the white man's version of "The Talk" on the Taki's Magazine website, Derbyshire has become a former National Review contributor.

"The Talk," of course, is the "cold, hard facts of life" discussion black parents have with their sons as soon as boys get within striking distance of becoming men. It concerns how white folks see black males, and how one stays alive given that unfortunate reality.

Well, as Derbyshire correctly pointed out, white parents have a version of that talk, too. And, as Derbyshire, correctly noted, it goes something like this:

(6) As you go through life, however, you will experience an ever larger number of encounters with black Americans. Assuming your encounters are random—for example, not restricted only to black convicted murderers or to black investment bankers—the Law of Large Numbers will inevitably kick in. You will observe that the means—the averages—of many traits are very different for black and white Americans, as has been confirmed by methodical inquiries in the human sciences.

(7) Of most importance to your personal safety are the very different means for antisocial behavior, which you will see reflected in, for instance, school disciplinary measures, political corruption, and criminal convictions.

(8) These differences are magnified by the hostility many blacks feel toward whites. Thus, while black-on-black behavior is more antisocial in the average than is white-on-white behavior, average black-on-white behavior is a degree more antisocial yet.

(9) A small cohort of blacks—in my experience, around five percent—is ferociously hostile to whites and will go to great lengths to inconvenience or harm us. A much larger cohort of blacks—around half—will go along passively if the five percent take leadership in some event. They will do this out of racial solidarity, the natural willingness of most human beings to be led, and a vague feeling that whites have it coming.

(10) Thus, while always attentive to the particular qualities of individuals, on the many occasions where you have nothing to guide you but knowledge of those mean differences, use statistical common sense:

(10a) Avoid concentrations of blacks not all known to you personally.

(10b) Stay out of heavily black neighborhoods.

(10c) If planning a trip to a beach or amusement park at some date, find out whether it is likely to be swamped with blacks on that date (neglect of that one got me the closest I have ever gotten to death by gunshot).

(10d) Do not attend events likely to draw a lot of blacks.

(10e) If you are at some public event at which the number of blacks suddenly swells, leave as quickly as possible.

(10f) Do not settle in a district or municipality run by black politicians.

I GREW UP in the Deep South. As bad as Derbyshire's version is -- and this wasn't the bad part -- the one I and countless other young Southerners got nearly 40 years ago was a lot worse.

When Derbyshire isn't veering off into the eugenic fever swamps -- studies apparently show the average African-American IQ is some 19 points lower than the average white IQ (Which we're supposed to address . . . how?) -- or referencing data from a reputedly racist website about blacks' propensity for violence, he occasionally veers into common sense.

In other words, don't go to rap concerts. Stay the hell out of the 'hood, particularly in the middle of the night. If a situation starts to look like trouble, it probably is. No matter how soulful you think you might be, a certain percentage of African-Americans will see it -- and you -- differently, white boy.

All of this is unfortunate. It's also the cold, hard fact of racially divided American life.

Or maybe the cold, hard insanity of eliminating the divide by exterminating white people, as broadcast on C-SPAN in 2007 via "Kamau Kambon´s most excellent speach."


SLAVERY was America's original sin. Its awful effects persist to this day. No, in too many cases, we can't just get along. And despite all the king's horses and all the king's diversity trainers, we have no clue how to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Particularly since he was never in one piece to begin with.

Not one of us knows how to undo slavery. Not one of us knows how to undo the horrific lingering effects of Jim Crow. Or the tragedy born of the disintegration of the black family and how that has influenced poverty, violence and -- since Derbyshire brought it up -- the "IQ gap," for whatever that data might be worth.

For that matter, we don't know how to undo the unfolding catastrophe that is the disintegration of the white family, either. In another 10 years, a large chunk of white America will be right where the black underclass resides.

Of course, many of "the right sort" of white folks are making a killing off of the toxic hip-hop culture that has turned into a loutish glorification of everything that -- if properly adhered to -- likely will leave one f***ed up, knocked up, locked up, dumbed down . . . or dead. But that's not important now, right?

No, just consider what a bad, bad racist John Derbyshire is. You know you want to.

Harp on all the cynical, nasty and bigoted things he has to say. Mostly, you would be correct.

But the most offensive thing in play here doesn't involve any of the truths Derbyshire stumbled upon, nor any of his "lies, damned lies and statistics." It's not even in his moral lacuna, which swallowed that place where Christian charity ought to reside.

The most offensive thing in play here is that he got a shiv in the back for being an open book while more than a few of his vocal detractors, I would wager, are living what Derbyshire merely had the temerity to write.

They are avoiding the 'hood.

They stay the hell away from large groups of black youth with pants on the ground and hoodies over their heads.

They don't go to rap concerts.

They do not settle in municipalities run by black politicians, unless they're really loaded Washingtonians and can afford Georgetown. And a hella home-alarm system.

And they're just fine.

THEY PROBABLY even adhere to the supremely cynical Paragraphs 13, 14 and 15 of Derbyshire's "nonblack version" of The Talk:

(13) In that pool of forty million, there are nonetheless many intelligent and well-socialized blacks. (I’ll use IWSB as an ad hoc abbreviation.) You should consciously seek opportunities to make friends with IWSBs. In addition to the ordinary pleasures of friendship, you will gain an amulet against potentially career-destroying accusations of prejudice.

(14) Be aware, however, that there is an issue of supply and demand here. Demand comes from organizations and businesses keen to display racial propriety by employing IWSBs, especially in positions at the interface with the general public—corporate sales reps, TV news presenters, press officers for government agencies, etc.—with corresponding depletion in less visible positions. There is also strong private demand from middle- and upper-class whites for personal bonds with IWSBs, for reasons given in the previous paragraph and also (next paragraph) as status markers.

(15) Unfortunately the demand is greater than the supply, so IWSBs are something of a luxury good, like antique furniture or corporate jets: boasted of by upper-class whites and wealthy organizations, coveted by the less prosperous. To be an IWSB in present-day US society is a height of felicity rarely before attained by any group of human beings in history. Try to curb your envy: it will be taken as prejudice (see paragraph 13).

BECAUSE IT'S always easier to indignantly scream "racist" than actually not be one. Take the test Derbyshire mentioned Monday in this Gawker Q and A.

I didn't do so well on the African American-European American Implicit Association Test. The first time I took it today, I scored just like Derbyshire did -- a "strong automatic preference for European American compared to African American."

The second time I took the test, after getting the hang of it, I displayed a "moderate automatic preference" for white like me. Maybe that's just how we're all wired. Or maybe -- as I continue this lifelong mortal struggle against the profoundly racist culture into which I was born, raised and indoctrinated -- the evil within my crooked, hard heart yet exceeds that which, with God's help, I have purged in my 51 years on earth.

As this Trayvon Martin mess drags on, and as black parents have one talk with their kids and white parents have another with theirs, everyone keeps talking about that "national conversation" we're all supposed to have about this stuff. I think "everyone" is full of shit.

That national conversation about race is the last thing we want to have. Not even after 400 years, and almost 150 years after slavery's end.

We want the truth? We want the truth??? We can't handle the truth.

John Derbyshire -- in his wonkish, tone deaf, elitist, racist kind of way -- almost stumbled right into that dreaded conversation. Maybe his unfortunate spasm of honesty could have dragged the rest of us into an honest airing of what divides us . . . and how we might start fixing what ails us.

That's why all the rest of us racists, the ones not nearly so honest about our multicultural hearts of darkness, had to put a bullet in the man's literary brain.

Now we return you to your previously scheduled TV news coverage of murderous black youth, mau-mauing race baiters and crackers with firearms, pickup trucks and a bad attitude about "f***ing n*****s."

Film at 11.

No Peeps. Birdies.

I found this old golf ball three-quarters buried in the front yard next to our house, and I thought of the things we usually hide on the lawn this time of year.

Obviously, this one hadn't been found for a long time. That's because Arnold Palmer is the best -- and sneakiest -- Easter bunny ever.

Here's hoping, on this blessed day of our risen Lord, that you hung your Easter baskets on the mantle with care . . . and left a pitcher of tea, a pitcher of lemonade and a bucket of ice on the kitchen table for a late-night visitor with a sweet swing and a wicked short game.

Happy Easter, all.

'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?'

Psalm 22
1 To the choirmaster: according to The Hind of the Dawn. A Psalm of David. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? 2 O my God, I cry by day, but thou dost not answer; and by night, but find no rest. 3 Yet thou art holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel. 4 In thee our fathers trusted; they trusted, and thou didst deliver them. 5 To thee they cried, and were saved; in thee they trusted, and were not disappointed. 6 But I am a worm, and no man; scorned by men, and despised by the people. 7 All who see me mock at me, they make mouths at me, they wag their heads; 8 "He committed his cause to the LORD; let him deliver him, let him rescue him, for he delights in him!" 9 Yet thou art he who took me from the womb; thou didst keep me safe upon my mother's breasts. 10 Upon thee was I cast from my birth, and since my mother bore me thou hast been my God.

11 Be not far from me, for trouble is near and there is none to help. 12 Many bulls encompass me, strong bulls of Bashan surround me; 13 they open wide their mouths at me, like a ravening and roaring lion. 14 I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax, it is melted within my breast; 15 my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaves to my jaws; thou dost lay me in the dust of death. 16 Yea, dogs are round about me; a company of evildoers encircle me; they have pierced my hands and feet-- 17 I can count all my bones--they stare and gloat over me; 18 they divide my garments among them, and for my raiment they cast lots. 19 But thou, O LORD, be not far off! O thou my help, hasten to my aid! 20 Deliver my soul from the sword, my life from the power of the dog! 21 Save me from the mouth of the lion, my afflicted soul from the horns of the wild oxen!

22 I will tell of thy name to my brethren; in the midst of the congregation I will praise thee: 23 You who fear the LORD, praise him! all you sons of Jacob, glorify him, and stand in awe of him, all you sons of Israel! 24 For he has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; and he has not hid his face from him, but has heard, when he cried to him. 25 From thee comes my praise in the great congregation; my vows I will pay before those who fear him. 26 The afflicted shall eat and be satisfied; those who seek him shall praise the LORD! May your hearts live for ever! 27 All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the LORD; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. 28 For dominion belongs to the LORD, and he rules over the nations. 29 Yea, to him shall all the proud of the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and he who cannot keep himself alive. 30 Posterity shall serve him; men shall tell of the Lord to the coming generation, 31 and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, that he has wrought it.

(Revised Standard Version)

The world through Google-powered glasses

If you think distracted driving is a problem now, just wait.

Above we see a promotional video for Google's new "augmented-reality" glasses. What that means in this case is your Android-based smartphone is now in a pair of glasses.

Oh, joy.

I enjoy technology. I appreciate, and daily take advantage of, its practical applications -- the ability, for one thing, to accomplish in minutes or seconds what would have taken me hours or days in 1979. And we all now take for granted the ease with which we keep up with one another, whether we be across an ocean or across the street . . . instantly and cheaply.

Remember waiting days and weeks for a letter? Or astronomical long-distance bills?


WHAT I do not appreciate, though, is a world in which everyone's brain is overloaded by non-stop information and ceaseless connectivity. I don't appreciate numbskulls barreling down the road texting on their iPhones -- or even talking on them, for that matter. I want their eyes, and their minds, focused on the road before them.

I don't appreciate an overstimulated world filled with people who no longer have the luxury of being alone with their thoughts, or of being unconnected long enough to actually form coherent thoughts.

I don't appreciate this present era of unceasing stimuli, instant overreaction and no contemplation. I likewise don't appreciate the ability technology gives us to instantly raise a lynch mob, instead of taking the time to put one together the old-fashioned way which, at least theoretically, gives the designated victim a head start.

I don't appreciate talking to someone as he thumbs through his E-mail or sends text messages to someone obviously more important than I am at that particular moment.

AND I would say that I don't appreciate not being left the hell alone from time to time . . . but that's a problem I have solved. How? By not having a personal cell phone.

We own exactly one of the things, and the missus can have it. Needless to say, I don't think I'll be looking at the world through Google glasses, either.

So square they have corners

June 1966: In New York, "Mad Men" Don Draper and Harry Crane are backstage at a Rolling Stones concert. Harry's trying to land the Stones for a TV commercial -- "Heinz is on my side." Yes, he is.

Meantime, four-cornered Don waits in the corridor and quizzes a flirty teenage girl about the ascendant youth culture. The only thing he gets out of the encounter is -- perhaps -- a slight contact high from all the pot smoke.

Harry inhales directly and lands the Stones for the TV spot. Only it wasn't the Rolling Stones . . . try the Trade Winds instead.

"Why do you think they call it dope?"

A THOUSAND-SOMETHING miles to the west, the radio men of Omaha's KBON also want to know what the deal is with this teen-culture thing. They come up with a great idea -- basically, "Hey, guys! Let's put on a show!"

This explains the above advertisement in the Central High Register. And as Megan said to Don before he set off to see "the most dangerous band in the world," the KBON folk leave no doubt that they're so square they have corners.

They would have known this had they "asked the teenager" before placing that ad.

Like, who is that supposed to be anyway? Fatty Arbuckle and Harold Lloyd?


BEATS the hell out of me. Maybe I can ask a "telephone gal."

They always know what's going on.

Don't fear the (bleep)er

There are times a writer needs a while and many words to say -- and say well -- what needs to be said.

Other times, however, one can say what needs to be said, and with clarity, in just a few words. This is one of those times.

Over the years, at least once a legislative session, Nebraska Gov. Dave Heineman has exposed himself . . . philosophically and morally, that is. The result is about what one would expect if he had dropped trou and let it all hang out.

In the latter instance, we would see one. In the oft-recurring former, we see that Heineman is one.

Let me be clear. The Pillsbury Doughmagogue is a deeply cynical man. He does not hesitate to give himself over to evil whenever he thinks crossing over to the dark side will make him some political hay. He is a discredit to his office and to Nebraska.

"Why should illegal aliens receive millions of
taxpayer dollars when those funds should be
used for increased state aid to education?"

-- Gov. Dave Heineman, pretending to
care about state aid to public education

ONE OF NEBRASKA'S saving graces is that its people are so much better than its governors -- and most of its politicians, for that matter. Generally, Nebraskans understand "the common good."

Another Nebraska saving grace is that its legislature is usually better than its governors, is capable of learning from -- and fixing -- its mistakes, and is willing to bitch-slap a governor when bitch-slapping is called for. It does this to Heineman regularly.

Thus we have this "God bless the unicameral" moment in today's Omaha World-Herald:

The day after 30 state lawmakers advanced a controversial bill to restore taxpayer-funded prenatal care for illegal immigrants, Gov. Dave Heineman singled out for criticism a fellow Republican leader who helped push the bill.

Heineman, who has made a reputation for his staunch anti-illegal immigration views, called a press conference Wednesday to express his "extraordinary" disappointment in State Sen. Mike Flood of Norfolk, the speaker of the Legislature and a leading pro-life senator.

"Why should illegal aliens receive millions of taxpayer dollars when those funds should be used for increased state aid to education?" Heineman asked.
Flood, who has been mentioned as a possible candidate for governor in 2014, was among senators giving first-round approval to the bill, under which an estimated 1,100 low-income, women, mostly illegal immigrants, would be eligible for prenatal care funded by the state. The bill would resume a decades-long policy that was ended in 2010.

Flood said Wednesday his support for the prenatal bill was linked to both pro-life and fiscal reasons. He said he had not talked to the governor.

During floor debate Tuesday night, Flood said that in balancing the "rule of law" with the "pro-life position," he has to side with the health of an unborn baby.

"The unborn child should not be punished for the actions of his or her parents," he said. "We should protect the life of an unborn child whenever possible."

At least 13 other Republicans voted "yes" on the 30-16 vote to advance Legislative Bill 599. Heineman said he singled out Flood for criticism because he had become a "leader" in the effort to pass the prenatal bill.

Heineman said that passing LB 599 with make Nebraska a "magnet" for illegal immigrants because neighboring states don't provide such prenatal care.

MIKE FLOOD is a good man. Unlike another Nebraska Republican in a high office.

Iowa don't know my rights!

A guest post by Molly the Dog

They have neber been a mor biger threat to our charish Amerikan ideels then thiss.

It am not souprizeing thet it's comms from Iowa, where peeples is commerniss. And meen.

I wil not go to Iowa no more, bekuz the commerniss thayr wil put me in jayl for being all abowt free x-presshun and thee rite to re-dres greevances kommitd aginst you. I do not like the Iowa kops, bekuz thay are agunts of a repressiv regeeme.

THEE PRUFE of Iowas commernisum is hear in this artikl from thee Asocciated Paws. Uh, Press:

A man accused of urinating on the office chairs of fellow office workers in West Des Moines has surrendered to police.

Raymond Foley, 59, turned himself in Saturday to face a charge of second-degree criminal mischief.

Foley declined to comment Tuesday, other than to acknowledge that he no longer works at the Farm Bureau office in West Des Moines.

Police say some co-workers had complained about stains on their chairs. A security system was installed, and police say it caught Foley in the act.

ME HOPE the Iowas free x-pressur gets a gud lawyer whoo don't like cats. I rekommenn Sadie. She forgets stuf sumtimez, but she can still bite gud.

Tell her the Iowas commerniss kops is skwrruls. Totaliterryun oppressurs is whut thay reely is.

In othur wurds -- skwrruls. Maybe cats, to.

A hard day's day

This was my day today.

I went through much of what needed culling or cleaning up -- metadatawise, at least -- in the Revolution 21 digital record library, and then I backed it all up. Well, today was taking care of the backup to the backup, after cleaning up the backup along with the main repository of musical goodness.

Capiche?

AS YOU can see (or perhaps not, picture quality being what it is on Blogger), after culling and cleaning up, I still have 16,372 songs on the old hard drive. That's 133 GB to you and me.

It happens when you fill up the hard drive the music library used to live on and need to transfer it to a newer, bigger one. That was Sunday afternoon's task.

Wanna know how long it takes to transfer 133 GB via USB 2.0? About four hours. If this computer weren't old in PC years, I would have upgraded to USB 3.0 long ago.

Nighty-night.

3 Chords & the Truth: Vive la France!

Irresistiblement.

Ir-res-sees-TEEB-la-mon. That is what this week's edition of 3 Chords & the Truth happens to be -- irresistible.

In fact, this week's edition of the Big Show -- le Grand Spectacle en français, s'il vous plaît -- you may be tempted to hunt me down and me donne un bisou. Zou, bisou bisou!

THAT would be fine if you are:

a) My wife.

b) Jessica Paré, of Mad Men viral-video fame.

c) Sylvie Vartan, French "yé-yé" girl supreme from the 1960s and '70s.

ARE YOU getting an idea about this week's episode of the Big Show. I hope you are because I will cease making sense in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . .

Mairsey doates and doesey doates and littlelambsydivey. A kiddledy divey, too. Wouldn't you?

Wouldn't you???

C'est tout. Va t'en! Vite! Vite! Tu vas et écouter au grand spectacle!

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

In Louisiana, it's 'the some people's house'

The governor of my home state is as dark as its fertile alluvial soil. Lucky for him, he's not darkest Africa but instead kind of India inky, which is almost as good as white.

Otherwise, he might feel anything but at home in his own house.

In most states, they call the governor's mansion "the people's house." In Louisiana, where "old times there are not forgotten," make that "the some people's house."

If your name is Piyush, you get to make yourself at home. If your name is P'Allen, not so much.

You'd like to think that 12 years into the new millennium, the mere thought would be pure foolishness -- paranoia, even. I know I'd like to think that. I'd especially like to think that about the place where I was born and raised.

But I was, after all, born and raised in Baton Rouge, and even after all these years away, I know my people. This means I was not much surprised when I saw a Facebook post Thursday from a high-school classmate about what happened when she, an African-American educator, took her students -- not a one of them white or even "almost as good as white" -- on a field trip to the governor's mansion.

I'LL LET her tell the story:

You ALWAYS remember how a person made you feel. . . .

Even if it was on a tour of the Governor's Mansion. And on THIS day, the tour guide made me and my students feel totally invisible.

We were the only group scheduled for 10 a.m. WE were 10 minutes early, but the tour guide was late. We had to stand outside in the heat until she got there at 10:17.

I was okay with that. It happens.

A lady arrived with her daughter and informed me that she was told she could take the tour with our group because she couldn't come this afternoon as scheduled. Her daughter's drawing was selected in a contest and was on display.

I was okay with that. I congratulated her.

When we were finally allowed inside, the tour guide was rushed, (as happens when you're late), and proceeded to imply that we should be "honored" to be in the presence of the little girl whose drawing was on display!

I smiled. I could tell that this was NOT going to be memorable for the right reasons.

I must have Democrat written across my forehead, because the tour guide placed so much emphasis on the accomplishments of the Republican governors that my students were left with the impression that the other governors let the mansion rot away!

Okay.

We patiently waited while she took photos of the little girl whose drawing was on display.

The bitter pill came when our part of the tour was coming to an end. She brought out brochures, and I thought, "Great, the kids will have a souvenir of their visit to the Governor’s Mansion!” She politely placed a brochure into the hands of the little girl and her mother. Then, she walked towards me and casually tossed the other brochures onto the table!

I felt my left eyebrow lift (think Spock), and as I turned to my students, felt my heart drop, because their facial expressions showed that they KNEW she had slighted them . . . it was as obvious to them as it was to me. As I placed the brochures into their hands, I felt guilty that I brought them to a place where they were made to feel less than other people in the room.

Yes, unfortunately, you ALWAYS remember how a person made you feel. . . .

AS A SOUTHERNER of a certain age, I've always remembered what I saw when "integration" came to my elementary school in 1970. I know how the lone two black children were made to feel there. I know that when I befriended the little black girl in my fourth-grade class, a teacher told me I had crossed a line.

That I had broken a taboo.

That it just didn't look right.

Some things never change. Some people never change. Some places never change . . . much. Louisiana is at the top of the list -- again. And again for all the wrong reasons.

When I read the hours-old words of my old Baton Rouge High friend, a fellow member of the Class of 1979, I saw ugly scenes and heard ugly words four decades old. Sitting in my studio in Omaha, Neb., I again was that little boy standing on the playground at Red Oaks Elementary in Baton Rouge, La. -- the one who didn't know his proper place was with his own kind.

I was the crab who had tried to escape the bucket. Just when I was getting to know a black girl as a person and as an equal -- and liking it . . . and liking her -- I felt the pinch of a claw, and suddenly I was being dragged back into the whites-only bucket. Our bucket, even amid court-ordered "integration," was separate and more equal.

NO MATTER how "common" and working-class my background, the powers that be -- however grudgingly -- were obligated to politely hand me my brochure, just like the little white-girl artist and her mama at the Louisiana governor's mansion. For my African-American fourth-grade friend, it was good enough to snottily pitch hers on a table and walk away.

And they did, too.

Obviously, I noticed this as a 9-year-old white kid in Louisiana. Don't think that a group of black children -- my friend's students from her Christian school -- didn't notice the same, and more, Thursday at "the some people's house":

We had a brief discussion this afternoon, and the kids were able to express some of their feelings...mostly anger. They hadn't missed any of it. They even brought up the fact that she ignored us when she arrived . . . and we were standing next to the entrance waiting for her! I told them we would talk more about it tomorrow, after we've had time to calm down.

THERE'S YOUR "slice of life" -- Thursday, March 29, 2012 -- from the part of Dixieland where I was born.

Look away, look away, look away. . . .

Listen to the story of a man named Earl

There ain't that much to a banjo -- four or five strings, plastic or parchment or an animal skin stretched across a round frame, a bridge and a neck.

Some have backs, others don't. It's a pretty humble instrument, brought to this country by African slaves and put to good use by hill people in the American South.

But, boy, did Earl Scruggs make it sing, sing like no one had before. And ol' Earl -- who rose to fame with his bluegrass partnership with Lester Flatt -- was a pretty fair guitar picker, too.

People my age first made the acquaintance of Flatt and Scruggs via The Beverly Hillbillies -- they performed the theme song of the 1960s comedy and made a guest appearance or three. If we were smart, we took notice because we were amazed at the musicianship.

It's kind of like "What's the banjo without Earl Scruggs?"

WE'RE going to find out. Earl Scruggs died today at age 88, according to this Associated Press story:

Scruggs' son Gary said his father died of natural causes Wednesday morning at a Nashville, Tenn., hospital.

Earl Scruggs was an innovator who pioneered the modern banjo sound. His use of three fingers rather than the clawhammer style elevated the banjo from a part of the rhythm section — or a comedian's prop — to a lead instrument.

His string-bending and lead runs became known worldwide as "the Scruggs picking style" and the versatility it allowed has helped popularize the banjo in almost every genre of music.

The debut of Bill Monroe and The Blue Grass Boys during a post-World War II performance on The Grand Ole Opry is thought of as the "big bang" moment for bluegrass and later 20th century country music. Later, Flatt and Scruggs teamed as a bluegrass act after leaving Monroe from the late 1940s until breaking up in 1969 in a dispute over whether their music should experiment or stick to tradition. Flatt died in 1979.

They were best known for their 1949 recording "Foggy Mountain Breakdown," played in the 1967 movie "Bonnie and Clyde," and "The Ballad of Jed Clampett" from "The Beverly Hillbillies," the popular TV series that debuted in 1962. Jerry Scoggins did the singing.

(snip)

Scruggs will always be remembered for his willingness to innovate. In "The Big Book of Bluegrass," Scruggs discussed the breakup with Flatt and how his need to experiment drove a rift between them. Later in 1985, he and Flatt were inducted together in the Country Music Hall of Fame.

"It wasn't a bad feeling toward each other as much as it was that I felt I was depriving myself of something," Scruggs said. "By that, I mean that I love bluegrass music, and I still like to play it, but I do like to mix in some other music for my own personal satisfaction, because if I don't, I can get a little bogged down and a little depressed."

He said he enjoyed playing because "it calms me down. It makes me satisfied. Sometimes I just need to pick a few tunes."

I GUESS NOW we'll have to make do with the records. And the old videos of our memories of a time when giants strode across our culture.

Justice for Walgreens!

I just love how principled and socially conscious today's young people are, don't you?

When faced with the senseless shooting death of a Miami teenager amid questionable circumstances, these south Florida high-school youth responded by giving the rest of us a much-needed lesson in civics. A lesson in responsibly seeking redress of societal grievances.

They peacefully and respectfully demonstrated in favor of a full and fair investigation of the death of Trayvon Martin, calling for racial harmony and enforcement of the law free of favor or prejudice. Bless their little hearts.

The youth remained orderly, looking straight ahead as they sang hymns while an angry white mob ransacked North Miami Beach Senior High School, pummeling and spitting upon many of the nonviolent teens.

OOPS. My bad. I was watching a web video of Eyes on the Prize while I was checking out the national news, and I got kind of confused.

Note to self: Contemporary TV news reports are never on 16-millimeter back-and-white film. It's all videotape or digital video now . . . and in living color.


THE FOOTAGE from Friday's teenage protest in North Miami Beach is immediately above. Again, my apologies for the mix-up.

No, it seems that during last week's protest, a mob of little barbarian hooligans decided that "justice for Trayvon" entailed ransacking a local Walgreens.

This is because, for one thing, being angry justifies anything in today's culture and, for another, rumor has it that George Zimmerman, the Sanford, Fla., neighborhood-watch guy who shot the youth last month, "liked" the drugstore chain on Facebook once. I think.

Local 10 television news got it straight from the junior lynch mob's mouths:

"I don't think they were doing it, like, to be malicious or whatever. They were just in the moment where they weren't really thinking right because they were so angry," said student Jenny Sincere.

"It showed bad character because that's not what we were out there for," student Eric On-Sang said. "A few just made us look really bad."

Some students admitted Tuesday to being part of the rampage.

"I'm not going to lie. I was one of the people that was pushing in there because I was mad," one student said.

When asked whether the incident may have hurt their cause, student Christopher Paul said, "Yeah, it kind of did, yeah. I was just angry. I don't know what the rest of them were doing. I was just trying to make a point for Trayvon. That's it."

WELL, so long as they were trying to make a point.

Consider it made.

Mother of the Year

A woman had her children take the rap for a fire that severely burned her boyfriend, authorities allege.

Surveillance cameras showed Tanesha Beard, 30, buying two one-gallon gas containers at a gas station a half-hour before the fire that severely burned and critically injured Jermaine Westbrook, Douglas County Attorney Don Kleine said.

On Friday, authorities reported that Beard's two children a 12-year-old boy and 10-year-old girl admitted setting the fire and mentioned watching a Tom & Jerry cartoon.

That appears now to have been a foil designed to cover for their mother, Kleine said.

Kleine said charges will be dropped against the children. However, they and two other children will remain under the supervision of state Health and Human Services officials.

Kleine charged Beard Tuesday morning with first-degree arson, first-degree assault and four counts of child abuse.

Relatives said Beard started the fire to hurt her boyfriend, and then blamed her children because she thought they would escape serious punishment..

Beard, who could not be reached for comment Monday, interrupted a juvenile court hearing Friday and claimed she set the fire. Douglas County sheriff's deputies removed her from the room. 

-- Omaha World-Herald

F*** Google

After a year of resistance, it's about to become futile.

I'm going to get the new, "improved" Blogger interface whether I want it or not. In fact, I'm using it now.

And I hate it.

Perhaps "hate" is too weak a word. All right, I loathe it. Despise it. 

It sucks.

OF COURSE, some things are easier -- allegedly -- with the new interface. Adding a video, for example. But not that much easier, and you get what you get. You can't change the size that way . . . see?

You can't customize the size of your photos, either. There's small, medium, large, extra large and original size. Before -- unless you were foolish enough to try to post to your blog from the Google Chrome web browser -- you could drag a corner of a picture and make the thing as large or small as you wanted.

If you'd like to try that with the new interface, dig into the HTML code, open up your calculator program and do the math. See the "TV set on acid" above? Did the math to get it that size.

I hate math -- even the easy stuff like that. Maybe I should invent a proportion wheel marked off in pixels.

Homogenization and standardization is the way of our postmodern, corporate world, though, isn't it? You know what? I resign. I quit. I refuse to be the idiot against whom everything must be "proofed."

If you want to be a cog -- or an idiot -- go ahead. Not me. I'm about this close to going off to live in a shack in the woods.

And this blog is now officially on life support . . . not that the world would come to an end if it did. Anyway, that's what I'm thinking. Your mileage may vary.

Who needs radio? Not Mad Men

Back when Top-40 radio was in on the national conversation, it could take a song from a TV show and turn it into a hit record.

The last time I remember this happening was in the mid-1990s when Friends debuted on the small (and low-def) screen. And now?What is this "radio" that you speak of?

Don Draper, superb Mad Man ad man that he is, don't need no stinkin' radio to stir the cultural pot. He just needs a TV show, iTunes and social media.

And now, a mere 24 hours after appearing on the HD screen in living rooms across America, the new Mrs. Draper -- otherwise known as actress Jessica Paré -- had taken her remake of the Mad Men-era "Zou Bisou Bisou" to No. 109 on the iTunes "Top Songs" chart with a bullet.

Or at least an amazing pair of . . . uhhh . . . fishnet stockings.

OH, you also can buy "Zou Bisou Bisou" as a 7-inch vinyl single on the Mad Men website.

From the Chicago Sun-Times:

Showing a lot of leg — and chutzpah — the new Mrs. Megan Draper (Jessica Pare) delivered a sexy serenade to her husband at his surprise 40th birthday party, purring the early ’60s French pop song “Zou Bisou Bisou.”

The French-Canadian chanteuse’s performance made the unflappable Don Draper blush and his co-workers’ jaws hit the floor, while the Twittersphere lit up and countless viewers were infected with an earworm that sounds like Scooby Dooby Doo.

“At the time, I was like, ‘I can’t believe I’m new on this show and the first thing I have to do is an entire song-and-dance routine for the whole cast of “Mad Men,’’ ’ ” said Pare, who catapulted from a peripheral character last season to center stage in Sunday’s premiere. The two-hour episode drew a series-high 3.5 million viewers, a 21 percent increase over last season’s premiere.

MAINTENANT, MES AMIS, je te présente la version 1961 de «Zou Bisou Bisou» par chanteuse anglaise Gillian Hills: