A Place Where We Be Long Sometimes

 

I’ve decided one of the hurricane forces of human nature is the desire to belong. I’m no philosopher, nor psychologist, but it occurs to me this need is Category 5-strong for most of us.

Whether it’s your church congregation or alumni group or political party, you are driven by a yearning to connect with like minds and hearts.

It’s a tale as old as time and as young as social media. Some former hermits have found connection via MySpace and then Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and TikTok. No one lives under a rock anymore. Despite the negative aspects of an online presence, most of us are unwilling to give it up. (And we want very much to show you our rock. Please give it a Like.)

Mark Zuckerberg appreciates your support.

At its heart is connection, the drive to reach out with an idea and hear “I feel that way, too.” The desire to connect motivates artists and writers and all those Hollywood actors desperate for your approval. They certainly enjoy money, but they like living in your head even more.

Maybe we’re being exploited, but I need Louise’s failproof recipe for pot roast and Annette’s latest hilarious meme and Jim’s terrible puns.

One way I connect with others is via the most absurd wordplay I can conjure. I am an Old South punslinger (as opposed to Old West gunslinger, for those who speak Literal).

I’ll meet you at Hi! Noon, on Facebook or Instagram. 

Love from Delta.

Half a million strong

 

 It's been far too long since I've updated this blog with a fresh post.

That's because I'm immersed in August 15th-17th of 1969, at The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, where the characters in my upcoming novel are spending their time. I've been fascinated by Woodstock for many years. It's irresistible; music to tickle any eardrums, bell bottoms, peace, love beads, counterculture, protest, headbands, campfires, hippies, flower power, downed fences and free admittance to a horde that swelled to almost half a million.

It was a loser from any business standpoint, but oh, what a moment in time Woodstock marks. We'd gone from the boomtastic Fifties to a decade of unrest. The war in Vietnam divided our country to the point where, by 1969, young people wanted nothing more than a few days among their own kind, a congregation, a gathering, a sharing, a communal experience with Sly and the Family Stone causing boys to dance like they were performing slow-motion karate attacks. An almost-unknown kid named Carlos Santana rocked everyone's world with a distinctive new brand of Afro-Cuban drums and wailing guitar. Country Joe McDonald introduced an anti-war anthem for the ages and a cheer that melted the ears off multitudes with its singular vulgarity. Creedence Clearwater Revival reminded everyone that a bad moon was indeed rising.

I've casually referred to it as the Mac Daddy of music festivals, but Mac Mommy is more accurate.

It rained. It was muddy. There were food shortages, inevitable against the tide of unexpected attendees. The people around Bethel, New York did not welcome this invasion. Their properties were overrun by hippie campers and cars. The generation that arrived on the doorsteps of local residents looked scruffy and druggy.

But those folks did the unthinkable: they banded together and made thousands of sandwiches to hand out to these kids. They donated fresh produce and meat and milk. By the time it was all over, Max Yasgur, owner of the dairy farm where the entire spectacle unfolded, said, "The important thing that you've proven to the world is that a half a million kids — and I call you kids because I have children that are older than you are — a half million young people can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, and I — God bless you for it!"

God bless Max for providing the venue for a seminal moment in musical and cultural history. It was a weekend when political differences between attendees and locals could not have been more pronounced, where the lines drawn were almost neon-obvious, and people reached across them to show love and acceptance.

We could take a lesson or two in 2024.

Love and peace from Delta.

This Is Not About Kelce, Swift, or Reid...It's About You

 

Social media is afire with the topic du jour, Travis Kelce's attack on Andy Reid during Super Bowl LVIII. And, as I am a person with precious few unexpressed opinions, I leapt into this fray with a fury.

I think Kelce was wrong. Really wrong. To confront one's head coach on a world stage with the level of disrespect he spewed was unprofessional, trashy, and downright scary. That sort of testosterone explosion can never be properly directed at your boss, much less a man thirty years your senior and a bit unsteady on his feet.

That's not really the subject here, though. It's this: have we lost the ability to have intelligent conversation in this country?

As soon as Travis displayed every vein in his forehead and his mighty biceps of rage, the public started choosing sides and making assumptions.

If you thought Kelce was out of line, you were a conservative. If you dismissed his behavior as "just football", you were a liberal.

If you dared to voice concern for Taylor Swift in her relationship, you were hysterical and a (gasp!) feminist.

I realize political division is nothing new in this or any other country. I simply wish we weren't allowing it to soar to levels that don't require anyone to ponder their own opinion...one will be chosen for you by your "side."

Soccer moms want you to know they've seen you ranting at your kids' games. Guys who've played football, some of them probably in leather helmets, want you to know this is simply the frustration of a player who wanted to win.

The problem is, I may have been frustrated on a sideline or two and even yelled. But not at my children's coach. And I've never played football or anything else requiring eye/hand coordination, but I've watched some stellar examples of athletic prowess and good sportsmanship get horribly frustrated and still play their games without attacking their coaches.

Reid shrugged it off. Sure he did, Kelce is a star player and regularly hosts Reid on his podcast. That doesn't make it right.

I would love to have seen Travis Kelce as an Alabama tight end confronting Nick Saban this way. Or as a Patriots tight end yelling in Bill Belichick's face. I'm pretty sure Vince Lombardi wouldn't approve of his namesake trophy being cradled by a player who created such a crass display during the Super Bowl.

So there. Classify me. I am neither Republican nor Democrat. I love Taylor Swift and everything she stands for as a woman and an artist. I love Travis Kelce and his podcast. I am super impressed by the Kansas City Chiefs, especially Patrick Mahomes. I want Taylor and Travis to live happily ever after.

But I'm not going to look the other way when someone makes an ass of himself in front of the entire world. Neither should you.