Nebraska. Sunday.

Nebraska State Patrol

I think this photo taken by the Nebraska State Patrol near Columbus pretty much sums up the suffering of my state these past few days.

It is not yet done. The Missouri River continues to rise to historic levels just south of Omaha. Fremont, Neb., is a virtual island. You could make the 30-minute trip there from Omaha this afternoon -- finally -- in just under 3 hours, if you knew which back roads were dry and had a police escort.

That's how a convoy of food and fuel made it in tonight. Before that, people and relief supplies were being ferried in from Omaha by volunteer pilots.

From north-central Nebraska to the Missouri River bottom land in the far southeast, people have lost everything and small towns have been all but scoured from the fertile plains. Across the region, at least two are dead and several more missing.

Its well fields swallowed by the Platte River, the city of Lincoln has mandated restrictions on water usage. We haven't even started talking about how bad the damage to agriculture is.

YET, IT'S just been the past day or so that the national media has acknowledged that something might be catastrophically wrong in "flyover country." It's not the first time we've been ignored by the "coastal elites," many of whom seem to think cattle roam the streets of Omaha and Conestoga wagons still rumble down the Oregon Trail.

We're all rubes to them. Yet they wonder why so many in these forgotten lands might vote for such a monster as Donald Trump.

Well, I wouldn't -- and didn't -- vote for the political equivalent of the Ebola virus. Many folks I know wouldn't, and didn't. Of course, it's perfectly clear to these same learned and oh-so-sophisticated folks why people in far-off lands might blow themselves up on crowded far-away streets.

Perhaps "Fuck you," is a message most clearly read from a great distance.

3 Chords & the Truth: The fault, dear Brutus. . . .

Sometimes, amid the exceptional music, we also have to acknowledge the societal elephants in the room here on the Big Show.

This week, we have some elephants we cannot ignore. It's been an ugly week, made that way by ugly people and our ugly society.

And for that, the fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars . . . or in the Mexicans or the Muslims. It lies within the heart of our sick "Western civilization" -- the one white nationalists (and America's white-nationalist president) keep telling us is about to be overrun by those who are a darker shade than pale.

As for me and 3 Chords & the Truth, we call bullshit. It had to be done, though I usually am loath to go all Howard Beale on you and take time away from tasty tunes.

THAT SAID, we do have our usual compliment of great music on the program, eclectically presented. I think you'll find it mighty nice.

I go on during the show -- at least for a bit -- so I shall not do it here . . . though I did reiterate it in a blog post a little bit ago. So to the music we go.

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

The suicide blames everyone but himself

This week on 3 Chords & the Truth, the first song is ‘A’ Train’s “Time Stops.” Interesting title . . . if only it did stop.

If only we could stop time long enough to figure out how to put the brakes on this runaway train that no doubt will end in our self-destruction.

Our self-destruction. The ongoing self-destruction of whatever we like to think of as “Western civilization” in our present age of everything falling apart.
 
You’ve seen the news — our president going to the wall for his border wall. Our president threatening his political opponent with violence by what he sees as his military and law enforcement . . . and his motorcycle gang. The massacre of Muslims at prayer on the other side of the world.

We got problems. But any problem we have, and by “we” I mean white folk like myself, cannot be blamed on an “invasion” of brown-skinned people across the southern border of the United States or by Muslim immigration.

If western culture, such as it is, is being subsumed by other cultures, and if those of European stock are being “replaced,” so to speak, by “invaders” whose skin is too brown for the tastes of some — it is because “Westerners” gave up on their culture and their future long ago. They not only quit having children, but also quit building up social capital and believing in the concept of commonweal.

If you don’t know what that is, look it up. You’re already online, Google it.

My weekly struggle with doing a music show that’s informed by what’s going on around us is not to be inundated by it to the point of being tendentious . . . or steeping all of life in partisan ideology. It comes down to deciding which elephants in the room to engage with or blow by.

But the elephant in the room this week is our impending ruin, thanks to our own prejudice, spite and self-pity. The elephant in the room every damn week is the demagogues we put in high places and how every damn day they give license to the greater demons of our fallen nature.

Thursday in this country — Friday in New Zealand — a white-supremacist spouting off about outsiders and “invaders” and the overwhelming of Western civilization by the unwashed hordes went on a shooting spree in Christchurch. Forty-nine Muslim worshipers were gunned down as they prayed in their houses of worship.

MUCH OF the rhetoric the gunman posted in an online manifesto was virtually identical to that of the president of the United States — the one as arguing for building a wall on the Mexican border and banning Muslim immigration to this country. The terrorist in New Zealand wasn’t the first to rail against invaders and “animals” — Donald Trump beat him to it.
 
Trump likes to demonize. He likes to put dehumanizing language and memes out there like armies sow the battlefield with land mines — you don’t know who is going to be blown up, but you damn well know somebody will eventually.

Let’s get our mind around this thing: The elected president of the United States — the former great hope for democracy and liberty in this world — gleefully and constantly eggs on the hateful and the unstable, both here and abroad, to turn their wrath on The Other as a means of aggrandizing himself and augmenting his political power.

Because of what he says and does, people undoubtedly have died. He has taken what used to be on the far margins of Western civilization and brought it into the mainstream. He has given courage to cowards and agency to aggrieved racists and bigots.

Get familiar with the term stochastic terrorism. It’s the governing ethos of our federal government . . . as represented by the 45th president of the United States.

Remember Anwar al-Awlaki? His primary job with al-Qaida was propagandizing ordinary Muslims into a radical state . . . and then they might join al-Qaida, or they might just blow up stuff and kill people as freelancers. It didn’t much matter to him, and he didn’t much know who would do what or where.

But he pretty much knew somebody would do something.

He stopped doing that one day in Yemen, when an American drone shot a few Hellfire missiles up his rear end. A few years later, Americans elected their own Anwar al-Awlaki as president.

Who swore to us Friday that right-wing terrorism wasn’t a big problem. Well, at least not for him.

Well, may God have mercy on us all, because it will not end well for a people that refuses to recognize the simple fact that God made us all and loves us just the same.

In Galatians, the apostle Paul told us:

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free person, there is not male and female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s descendant, heirs according to the promise.”

WE GOOD Christians — at least the ones so ready to beat brown people to death with their Trump-autographed Bibles — forget that those slaughtered Muslims in Christchurch knew a little about Abraham themselves. As did the slaughtered Jews in Pittsburgh last year.

As do the Latino Catholics at our southern border.

Perhaps the best all of us who the president has again threatened with violence by "his" cops, "his" military and "his" Bikers for Trump can hope for is that this present darkness is merely the prelude to dawn.

3 Chords & the Truth: The endless-winter blues

Donald Trump is autographing bibles in Alabama.

Well, of course he is. Hell has been frozen over for some time now -- and so has Omaha, by God, Nebraska.

Pardon us at 3 Chords & the Truth for being sick and tired of this crap. Winter. Ecclesiastical Lent piled on top of zeitgeist Lent. Winter. A world gone mad. Winter. . . .

You get the drift. Both kinds.

This week on the Big Show, we're muddling through and making the best of things. It's all anyone can do.

YEP, we got the good music, we're hanging onto it tight, and that will have to suffice.

I regret that my Seasonal Affective Disorder prevents me from elucidating further. My bad.

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

Day 1 of Lent: Oy veh!

In case you were wondering how Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, was going around here. . . .

So far, I've punted on Mass and have resorted to trolling the pope on Twitter. Maybe for Lent this year, I'll give up being even cursorily diplomatic.

Don't make me be fed up. You wouldn't like me when I'm fed up.

3 Chords & the Truth: It's the Mardi Gras loco

Throw me somethin', Mister!

Preferably, my sanity.

I don't know about you, but right now I'm in need of a weapon of mass distraction. And here comes Mardi Gras to fill the bill.

We at the Big Show intend to latch on and run with it. After the daily assaults on our national sanity -- and grasp on reality -- we need a little blowout right now. We need to let it all hang out . . . whatever your favored conception of "it" might be.

This extra long, extra good edition of 3 Chords & the Truth is our attempt at that -- a last blowout before Lent, when we atone for our myriad sins. It's a lot like the last two years, only ecclesiastical.

And it only lasts till Easter.

SO EAT, drink and be merry, children, for Wednesday we fast.

So listen to the music and party, mes amis, for tomorrow is another day. Which probably will be as bat-shit crazy as yesterday, for we've been doing some national penance for a while now.

Grab some joy while -- and where -- you can.

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

As I was saying. . . .

When last I checked in on the blog machine, I was telling you we were in for some weather in Omaha, by God, Nebraska . . . and that I was planning to listen to the Big Show and make a pot of gumbo.

There was.

And I did.

Then, on Sunday, we -- Mrs. Favog and I -- shoveled. And shoveled. And shoveled.

As the state's new tourism slogan says -- Nebraska. Honestly, it's not for everyone. I don't know whether it specifically references blizzards and the, um . . . balmy 10 degrees it is right now.

PERSONALLY, I don't know why folks from all over these United States aren't flocking to Omaha just for the experience of eating a fine bowl of my creole gumbo while staring out the window at an arctic snowscape. As opposed to the de rigueur alligators, fire ants and drunks puking into Bourbon Street gutters down south in my native land.

But I suppose that's just me. Right now, the gators, fire ants and drunks named Ralph are all about 50 degrees warmer.

Honestly, I suppose Nebraska really isn't for everyone.

3 Chords & the Truth: When life hands you winter. . . .

There's weather comin'! And we're all gonna die!

So . . . before the blizzard hits us here in Omaha, by God, Nebraska, we're going to put one hell of a fine edition of 3 Chords & the Truth up here on the Internets. We intend to go out with a bang.

And as the snowy death envelops us on the Great Plains, we also intend to drink beer and eat gumbo. I am from south Louisiana, and that's how we roll when nature turns against us and venturing outside would not be the smart thing to do.

What would be the smart thing to do if weather's comin' where you are, too, would be to follow our lead at the Big Show and put on a pot of gumbo for yourself, too, and make sure you're well stocked with something to drink, as it were. The music . . . that we have covered for you.

That seems to cover it. Now we hunker down and wait for doom. Or gumbo.

One or the other -- perhaps both. Because weather's comin'.

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

3 Chords & the Truth: Emergency to nowhere

  
Emergencies are bustin' out all over, and we have our own here at 3 Chords & the Truth.

God help us all.

Due to the crises facing us here and nationally, I shan't take much time to describe this week's edition of the Big Show. There are bigger fish to fry.

Of course, we don't actually know much about the ramifications of the emergency at hand, except that we damn well have one . . . and that it will severely impact the 3C&T way of life. We here at the program will continue to play fine music so that we remain calm and carry on.

THE IMPORTANT thing to remember is (insert word salad here).

And that's why it is so crucial that we have such an outlet as the Big Show to purvey the finest in eclectic, classic and progressive programming to the greater community and the world -- especially as we face these difficult times.

Etcetera, etcetera, blah bla-blah bla-blah blah blah.

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

You may know the answer to this question

If you don't know, the answer is here.

The unshakable burden of growing up fascist

I have come to explain my native region of the country as born fascist. Fascist from its settlement by the white man -- fascist before we knew what fascism was.

The American South is fascist, was fascist and always has been fascist. Adolf Hitler and his German Nazis carefully studied the South as a blueprint for the kind of society they wanted to build at home -- and violently impose upon the world.

The evidence of this lies in the headlines of your daily newspaper today . . . and it was ever present in the headlines of yesteryear's daily newspapers, too. The articles here both were on the front page of the Morning World-Herald right here in Omaha, Tuesday, Feb. 3, 1948.

The police commissioner using his police powers to determine what records could and couldn't be sold in stores or played on jukeboxes was in Memphis. James O. Eastland -- the U.S. senator who went out of his way to make sure reporters knew he had referred to an NAACP official with a vile racial slur -- represented Mississippi, right next door to Tennessee.

Eastland served until 1978. Because Mississippi.

Any white Southerner of a certain age -- namely my age -- has to live in fear, to some degree, in the wake of the "woke" attempts at purging all racial transgressors from public life, regardless of the offense or whether it occurred decades ago. On one hand, it is inexcusable that Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam dressed up in blackface as a 20-something. It ain't good that Virginia attorney general Mark Herring browned up his face as a 19-year-old college freshman to impersonate one of his favorite rappers.

Northam is 59 now; Herring is 57. I am 57 -- almost 58.

On the one hand, this stuff is bad. Oughtn't have happened. Even in the 1980s, white Southerners should have known this stuff was unacceptable.

On the other hand . . . what the hell do people expect? How, in the name of basic sentience and a basic knowledge of American history, is anyone surprised?

And when, exactly, did Americans lose any belief in the tenets of grace, forgiveness and redemption? When did we all decide that it was impossible for people to change, to grow?

Listen, those of us born during the tail end of Jim Crow -- many of us raised by thoroughly racist parents within thoroughly racist families in a pervasively racist Southern society and culture -- too often didn't know what we didn't know. We all had to deal with the burden of our upbringing.

You have to understand the ubiquity of an extremely warped culture, and the Jim Crow and post-Jim Crow South was an extremely warped culture. After World War II, Germans of a certain age were allowed to redeem themselves once the Nazi regime had been relegated to several awful chapters of a world history textbook. Apparently, Southerners such as Northam and Herring in the commonwealth will not be granted that opportunity -- by their own countrymen, no less.

OBVIOUSLY, Northam botched his opportunity to explain himself and shine a light on what was, and to a large degree still is, a sick and racist culture. There probably will not now be a fruitful national dialogue about the role of culture -- particularly racist cultures -- in forming civil society and what it means to have been formed by a deviant society.

Neither will we have a productive national discussion about how we -- each of us -- might shed the unbearable burden of our upbringing. In this case, our very Southern upbringing.

Let me say it again: The American South, basically, was Nazi before the Nazis were Nazi. And that's the air that was the burden of Southern whites' upbringing. We didn't know anything else.

In the case of this Southern white boy who came into the world in the Louisiana of 1961, my first inkling that my world might be seriously f***ed up was network television. Specifically, Julia and Room 222. I cannot tell you how revolutionary it was to see black folk who were anything but the stereotypical "n*****s" we had been carefully taught to see and believe in.

There's a word to describe the upbringing of lots of Southern kids just like me. That would be "brainwashing." It started at birth and primarily was administered by parents who themselves had been brainwashed since birth.

Not to put too fine a point on it, network television was we Southerners' very own version of Radio Free Europe, Radio Liberty or the Voice of America. Many of our parents, kinfolk and the other adults surrounding us did not see it that way. In their vision, ABC, NBC and CBS were more like a bunch of "agitators," a bunch of "n***** lovers" or a "bunch of goddamn commerniss."

This can't be overstated. It just can't. Oh . . . I was born and raised in Baton Rouge. I went to public schools. That means, for my grade level, that I went to de jure segregated schools until fourth grade in 1970.

And when my school was "integrated" -- and in 1970 "neighborhood schools" was a federal-court desegregation tool in Baton Rouge -- my school had two black kids . . . whose family had lived in the neighborhood before there was a neighborhood. One, Janice, was in my class.

She was my friend, and we played together at recess. A teacher told me I shouldn't do that -- it didn't look right to be playing with "a colored girl." To her credit, my racist mother (rather inexplicably, given "racist") called the NAACP to complain about that one.

Janice was treated horribly across the board. Seeing that was another brick knocked out of the wall. A major reinforcement to the counternarrative coming from Radio Free Dixie -- a.k.a., ABC, NBC and CBS.

So, on one level, I'm reluctant to condemn Ralph Northam, as bad as it all is. I was guilty of something worse than blackface when I was just 4 years old. But we Southerners just have to quit lying to ourselves and everybody else. We have to look -- hard -- at who we were . . . and are.

And we, at long last, have to be accountable.

We Southerners, in addition to a racism/fascism problem, have had a sincerity problem for a long damn time now.

3 Chords & the Truth: Fill 'er up with Ethyl

We got a '48 Buick with the feather-touch steering.

We got a tankful of Ethyl.

We got a fistful of Green Stamps.

It's dark, and 3 Chords & the Truth is wearing sunglasses.

Hit it.

That's right. This week, the Big Show hits the road.

Sure, the road in this case only may be in our mind's ear . . . but in times like these, you take what you can get. Am I right?

SO, IT'S ONE for my baby, and one more for Ethyl. What? You don't know Ethyl? Look her up; she's probably listed in the Google book.

Let's get started -- it's a long, long road.

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

3 Chords & the Truth: Pop a top

In a studio in Omaha,
We assembled a defeated old fart
From somewhere in the South . . .
To bring you this message
From the last working brain cells
All over the world . . .

It's the real thing. Beer.

I'd like to buy the world a home
and furnish it with love
grow apple trees and honey bees
and snow white turtle doves.

I'd like to each the world to sing -- in perfect harmony. I'd like to buy the world a beer and keep it company.

That's the real thing.

I'd like to each the world to sing -- in perfect harmony. I'd like to buy the world a beer and keep it company.

That's the real thing. Beer.

And the Big Show.

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

'We haven't stopped.' (Lying, that is.)

Well, this is rich. It was laughable on Monday, Oct. 18, 1971, and it's a regular riot today, more than 47 years later.

Thanks to protectors of Louisiana's natural resources, like oil-and-gas stalwart Louisiana Land and Exploration Co., there's a lot less of Louisiana's natural resources to protect -- save for the saltwater of the Gulf of Mexico that's replaced the land and marsh where those oil derricks and oil-company canals once were.

Who knew that tearing up the marsh and digging expressways for saltwater intrusion weren't ecological best practices? More importantly, who cared? 

THE OBVIOUS answer to that one is "Not enough people."

It's a sad thing to live long enough to see your homeland commit suicide. But there we are.

At least we can appreciate the irony of this ad from way back when. (Insert bitter, knowing chuckle here.)

Words to live by

Good advice is good advice.

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

Ice, ice, baby

Winter. Omaha. (sigh)

Well, at least it's pretty. Present temperature: 0º. Wind chill: -13º.

3 Chords & the Truth: No, this ain't ordinary

It's the glory of, the power of "No."

In Washington, it can make bullies fold like a newspaper. Here, it can banish the stale and the ordinary -- "No, we're not doing what we're supposed to do. No, we're gonna do something way beyond the ordinary."

And then the "nos" lead to yesses. "Yes, this is something that will blow your mind."

"Yes, 3 Chords & the Truth is something that's extraordinary."

"Yes, we're throwing away all the labels."

"Yes, we recognize only two kinds of music -- good and bad."

AND THEN,  and then . . .  we're right back to another "no." No . . . the bad, we don't mess with.

That's the glory of, that's the power of the Big Show. Dig it?

I knew that you would.

See, that's the story of this here little podcast. We embrace the power of "no." And that's a great big "YES!" for you.

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

3 Chords & the Truth: Plumb out of clever

This is your head.

This is your head when it's plumb out of clever.

This is your head when you embrace the void, and just play some s*** and call it . . . good, actually.

That's where we are today on this, the latest episode of 3 Chords & the Truth. We're absolutely, positively out of cutesy, clever or anything vaguely resembling thematic.

You know what, though? That's OK. As it turns out, the Big Show doesn't particularly need cutesy, clever or thematic. What it needs is good music, and that we got plenty of.

OH . . . we also got this nifty picture of a vacuum tube from a 1928 RCA Radiola 18. That's a radio -- remember those?

After 91 years, it still works fine. I seriously doubt your big-screen TV, your laptop, your smartphone . . . or your government will still be functional in nine decades.

Hell, your government isn't functional now. But I digress.

The show. Music. Good. Getting by without big theme or cleverness. Check.

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

It's magi-sounda-what?

Don't know what to make of 3 Chords & the Truth?

That's OK. Sometimes, neither do I. Then again, that's kind of the point of the whole thing.

It's the Big Show, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

3 Chords & the Truth: All in all . . . .

All in all, we're just another brick in the wall.

Or another bollard in the steel-slat, fencey-wally thing to keep the brown people out.

As we post this week's edition of 3 Chords & the Truth, a quarter of the U.S. government still is flat-lined because Someone wants his big, beautiful border wall, and Congress won't fund it. Some 800,000 federal employees aren't being paid . . . whether they've been furloughed or are being forced into "essential personnel" involuntary servitude.

Slave labor is real, people. Still.

It's another fine mess we've gotten ourselves into.

OR, IN THE topical Big Show universe in which your Mighty Favog produces this particular podcast, it's (as is regularly said in the Omaha, by God, Nebraska studios as a show theme percolates its way into reality), "Another week, another clusterf*** we have to address."

Well, let's just say that 3 Chords & the Truth endeavors to make America's national clusterf***s as entertaining as possible. And dat's da name of dat toon.

Yeah. Amusing and thought-provoking clusterf***s. Such is life these days in these here United States. And on this here program.

You can be assured that this latest cock-up is being made the most of. Dangling preposition and all.

I personally think it's well worth a listen. But that's just me. You're welcome to agree, however.

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

One speaker + 10 watts = HOLY CRAP!

OK, so I have this 1957 Realistic tuner and amplifier. Vacuum-tube city, don't you know?

There's also a 1952 Webcor record changer, a Bluetooth receiver, a little utility mixer . . . and a Gough speaker enclosure built from plans sold by Welsh speaker-designer Jabez Gough in 1961. I've been highly impressed at the sound this cabinet gets out of a single 8-inch driver. Now I'm doubly impressed now that I've replaced the Electro-Voice Wolverine LT-8 triaxial speaker with an older (and heavier) E-V SP8B coaxial driver.

YOU'D THINK a two-way driver would be a bit of a drop-off from the three-way. In this case, you'd be wrong. The difference was marked, and for the better. That SP8B sings in that Gough enclosure -- good high end, great midrange presence and deep bass that's just the right amount of low end.

All this from one 8-inch two-way speaker that was a "starter driver" for your average late-1950s "hi-fi nut" building his own speaker system. Go figure.

For me, though, it just sounds like my childhood . . . only in mono and probably a bit better than the 1962 Magnavox Stereo Theatre that defined "good sound" for a budding Baby Boomer audio geek.

I am sure a smartphone and earbuds serve a purpose. Actually, one good purpose my iPhone often serves is feeding Internet radio to the mid-century audio extravaganza.

I likewise am sure earbuds or "smart speakers" serve a purpose, whatever the hell that might be. Really, I'm sure they're just fine.

But, by God, they ain't this.

Christmas ain't over till the wise men proclaim

If you can't use the classic peel-off Polaroid film and classic Polaroid cameras anymore, you can use my new favorite iPhone app in the world -- the Polaroid Fx app, which makes smartphone pictures look like whatever kind of Polaroid snapshot you'd like.

Here, I have a Polaroid 107 black-and-white film thing going. Now, if the app could just let you pull the actual print out of your phone and peel the negative off, that would be great.