We Don't Need Another Hero

My previous blog had to do with the story of ''Shoeless'' Joe Jackson and his fall from grace. At the time of his fall, he was one of the most popular players in all of baseball, a sure Hall Of Famer and someone kids emulated. To see that he was less than human shocked and saddened his many legions of admirers. He was no longer a hero. In fact, baseball itself, after the notorious ''Black Sox Scandal'', took it to the chin in the public eye. Since the public willingly chases heroes and seeks out athletes and public figures to be something more than their human parts, when the emperor has no clothes and is exposed to the general population, we, as a people, tend to switch over to the opposite track: we become more abusive and demeaning. In the aftermath of the scandal in 1919, baseball was seriously floundering. There were predictions that the sport may not ever recover, that there was a permanent black eye around the golden halo of the summertime classic. While the cheating players got their just desserts for their actions, that was only part of a solution for baseball. No, what the sport needed was a genuine HERO, someone who could stroll into the ballparks in the land and, with one mighty swat of his bat, he could erase the bad tidings of a tainted World Series and the blemish would be gone. Baseball was crying for such HERO. And, one was found. His name was George Herman Ruth, better known as Babe Ruth. When he became the mythic figure that he was, the sport of baseball rebounded and has forever flowered in all its glorious summer haze......... Heroes often come at times of trouble, in various forms. Look throughout history, from Jesus to the men who formed the critical Boston militia that put forth our nation's independence [Sam Adams was more than just a beer], there has been someone who has arisen from our darkest times to lead the way into the light. Perhaps, the best example is Abraham Lincoln. While we know what he did was monumental, it is, in some ways, almost underrated. The man, because of his vision and personal charisma, saved the United States from crumbling. A man of decency and principle, he led our nation from the horrors of the battlefield to the freedom of all men and women. The details are immense and he certainly got his hands dirty along his march towards historical destiny, but he never lost sight of his goal. And, that goal, mixed with the natural ability of most human beings to be decent, made us the country we are......... We have always needed heroes. Part of the need is our living through their heroics vicariously. To be in a position to alter history for the better is most attractive. Imagine the joy of bettering all of humankind with your actions. You give a little more positive meaning to a life form that was in desperate need of some salvation. Picture yourself as an Einstein, with his scientific wonders, to an Edison, who revolutionized how we live our daily lives. Martin Luther King with his dream that we all live in peace. The Beatles coming over to revive a nation's spirits three months after we have killed our President in cold blood. Most of our heroes, however, are unsung. These are the men and women who drive the engine of our daily lives. These are the workers who fuel the economy, the doctors and nurses who battle to save us from sickness, the police and firemen who risk their lives, the military personal who fight to keep us free so that we do not need to fight, the single mothers and fathers who work two or three jobs so their kids can live a normal life. In all walks of life, heroes walk amongst us. Unfortunately, we do not celebrate these heroes. It is taken for granted. No, we give our adulation to, mostly, entertainers and professional famous people. I admire many people in these fields but I do not call them heroes. That is putting a label on them---- also, in a weird way----- putting undue pressure on them to live up to impossible expectations of divinity........ Look at who are the leading candidates running for President in 2016. It is almost a macabre, cruel joke that the two front-runners for both parties have the last names Clinton and Bush. Haven't we seen this play before? This is what we have to look forward to? Two families that have long overstayed their welcome on the national stage. Where, we might ask ourselves, are the Lincolns and Roosevelts? Genuine heroes of a past age who made a mark that was a tremendous lunge forward for all of us. Well, they do not exist anymore, at least, in our public face to the world. A smart, decent person who wants to help for the general good is smart enough to not get in the public arena. He or she would get shredded by the hired guns whose job it is to smear the mighty. When I was a kid, the statement my teachers said to us is, that if you work hard enough, you could be anything you want, even President Of The United States. That time is past. It would be almost an insult for me to say that to a student now........ The heroes today are the people I have mentioned above, the everyday folks like you and me that live our lives in normal circumstances and get normal rewards in life. As I have gotten older, I am grateful that I never became the public person that I aspired to be in my youth. I would have liked to have made a mark for the betterment of humankind, but not at the price that a public person, a hero, pays. The price is too high. Either you lose yourself mentally or physically at some point. You cannot live up to the high ideals that the public gives you. And, in private, these people suffer from the internal guilt of not being God. I think that is where the bad behavior and self-destruction comes in for so many heroes. The feelings of self-hatred because they succumb to the pressures of just being merely mortal. They turn to drugs and alcohol and other bad behavior to keep the wolves away from the psychological door to their souls.......We must grab the mantle from the public people and celebrate the achievements of the private person. The Average Joes and Joans. We will never marry a Kardashian [an achievement in itself] and we will never touch the heights of great wealth and fame. No, we are the normal people, people that children should look up to. And, many do, if they have the correct parenting. Heroes are us....... As I write this, there is rioting in the streets of Baltimore. It is over another racial division. CNN just interviewed a thirty year Vietnam war veteran. He went down there after seeing the carnage on TV. He is not there to riot. He said he was there to talk to the youth about what they are doing and to tell them to go home. I hope he is successful in his endeavors. He said he is there because he loves his country and wants to give back. CNN gave the viewers his name. I could print it but I am not......... Unsung Heroes do not use their names........

It Wasn't So, Joe

The swing was a bit of poetry in motion. For someone who hit from the left side, sometimes, the stance a batter takes can be comical. But, not him. He seemed to be plucked right out of Central Casting, the baseball hero come to life. He stood erect, as befitting a Roman conqueror facing his ultimate foe throwing from a mound not too far away. The pitcher would be throwing fire at the hero, trying to smite him out through sheer intimidation and danger power. But, the hero would not cower. You see, he was made from the hand of God for these moments. The ball would try to cross the plate but it would be defeated in its purpose. Because the batter would swing and connect. And, the ball would travel faster and with more urgency than anyone had ever hit a baseball. Round the bases he would go, a familiar sight among his audience. When he would slide, the spikes would be at a non-dangerous level, so unlike some of his fellow players who delighted in spiking their opponents. He would be safe at the bag most of the time because a hero always triumphs. The hero on base loved baseball, it was all that he knew and loved. It flowed through his blood like, well, blood. Never could he remember thinking and feeling about anything else. It drove him and he would play anywhere, anytime. In fact, legend has it, he was so committed to the game of baseball that, in one game, he developed blisters on his feet from his spikes. But, he had an at-bat coming and he did what any baseball lover would do: he removed his spikes and played in his bare feet. And, true to form, he got a hit and rounded the bases and slid safely into third. His feet bloody and sore, he did what he had to. A heckling fan in the stands [and what would sports be without the heckling fans?], wise guy that he was, shouted at him, ''You shoeless son of a gun, you!'' The crowd roared, as did the players on the field. Therefore, from that time forward, the player, the baseball hero, had a new nickname: ''Shoeless"' Joe Jackson....... Joe Jackson was born on July 16, 1887, in Pickens County, South Carolina. His father was a sharecropper and moved the family several times in little Joe's youth. They were from the South, and being from the South at the turn of the century, chances were, you were very poor. And, the Jackson family was. Joe also suffered from several illnesses growing up. At 10, he contacted measles, which almost killed him. He lay in bed for two months, a tragic victim of paralysis. Slowly, he was nursed back to health by his mother. When he was well enough, at the age of 6, he went to work in the textile mills. This was the period of child labor exploitation, so, it was not at all unusual to see kids working so very young. He worked 12 hour shifts and had no time for school. In fact, for his entire life, he was illiterate. He never learned to read and write. He could not even sign his own name, again, not unusual in this time period........ Little Joe, adult worker in a child's body, had a talent he was born with. He could hit a baseball. And, hit it well. In cornfields and dirt patches, baseball was soaring among the youth in this time. Boys and baseball were a team bonded, for young men, there was no other thought than playing the game with your friends. It was easy and no money spent, a welcome thought for poor kids. Many boys had their bat made for them by their farmer fathers. Sawing the wood down to a fine coating, with no nicks in it, made for a fine weapon for the hitter. Joe Jackson was no exception in this crowd. His bat was homemade. But, the bat, however fine it was, did not answer the reason for his talent at the game. No, his talent was God-given. God gave him this ability to be so supreme at the game, almost effortlessly, that seemed to glide on the field like he was born to be there. He was a natural, made for the game. At that this tender age, he hit and ran like no one had ever witnessed before. And, he had a flair at pitching. One day, though, while playing for the mill's baseball team, he accidentally broke a player's arm with his fastball. This provoked fear among his rival players and no one wanted to face him anymore. Finally, his manager put him in the outfield. And, he flourished, hitting the ball and making himself a minor celebrity around the area. Soon, he was moving from mill team to mill team and, by 1908, Major League Baseball came calling for his services, when he signed with the Philadelphia Athletics. He also took a bride, 15 year old Katie Wynn [this was the South, remember]. For the first couple of years in the majors, he struggled, succumbing to the stereotypical story of the hayseed having trouble adjusting to the big time. He would bounce back and forth from the minors and, finally, out of frustration, Philadelphia would trade Joe Jackson to Cleveland in 1910. It was around this time that he picked up his nickname........ In 1911, he finally bloomed into his early promise. He hit a sizzling .408 batting average, second only to Ty Cobb. In fact, Cobb, the game's finest hitter and a notoriously horrible human being, actually found kind words for Joe Jackson. Baseball had a new power hitter in the illiterate boy from Pickens County. Fans became rabid to see him and followed his every move. Little boys, especially. Jackson was the idol of the little boy who dreamed of a baseball career, the little boy who slept with his glove underneath his pillow at night. He became a hero to emulate for other youngsters when they played each other on fields all over America. This was the time before radio, and, so, the only way to follow your hero was through newspaper accounts. Soon, anxious, eager boys were ripping the paper out of each others hands because they wanted to hear the latest exploits of their king of the diamond. Jackson never let them down. He seemed even better in the next few years---always one step behind Cobb but immensely more popular and accessible than the petulant Ty--- and he became a huge draw at home in Cleveland and on the road. Joe Jackson was mobbed wherever he went. People wanted to touch him and get his autograph. The sad irony was the man could not write his much-lusted after signature. His wife would write it for him......... Because he was such a hot property, naturally, other teams took a liking to him. Soon, offers flooded the offices of the Cleveland Indians, begging for the services of Joe Jackson. Apparently, the Chicago White Sox begged the loudest. Joe Jackson was traded to the White Sox in August of 1915. He found comfort and success in his new home but not among his fellow teammates. The other players seemed cold and distant to the simple Jackson, not at all like his former Indian players. Because there was such division in the clubhouse, Joe just played his game in an unassuming and modest way [much like he was in real life] and left the petty business and bickering to others. In 1917, the Chicago White Sox won the World Series and mostly because of the hitting of Joe Jackson. He played hard, perhaps, harder than he ever had. And, the adulation bestowed upon him showed in the Chicago faithful. The White Sox were a young and eager team that year, thirsting for more titles. With Joe Jackson front and center, their chances at more titles seemed very likely indeed....... In 1918, they did not repeat and the reason was simple: Joe Jackson was drafted into World War 1 and worked in a shipyard. The season was awash because he wasn't around to stir them into greatness on the field. In 1919, after the ''Great War To End All Wars'' ended, Joe Jackson was back in uniform and the White Sox came out charging. Joe Jackson was hitting .351 and his fielding was flawless. When they went to the 1919 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, the White Sox were heavily favored to blow the Reds away. Shockingly, they lost, which stunned the baseball world. The conventional wisdom was that the White Sox had blown out their energy during the hectic regular season and were too tired come the Fall Classic. The Reds, thought the public, had just played better........ But, they did not...... Charles Comiskey, the miserly owner of the Chicago White Sox, sure knew how to pinch pennies. He was the prototype of the exploitive, greedy owner that has always dominated the sports world. Comiskey shafted his players, the stars of all of baseball, to an almost poverty wage. This was 1919, remember, and ballplayers earned barely a living wage. Almost every baseball player had to work a winter job to make ends meet. Comiskey led his fellow owners in the cheap son of a bitch department. For his stars. they only made a couple of thousand dollars a year, if that. While there were other club owners [not many but some] who delivered a fair salary. Comiskey played the Mr. Potter part to a T. Soon, many White  Sox players grumbled amongst themselves about the lack of pay and the lack of respect. Because of the baseball reserve clause, there was no free agency. That binded a player to a team until the player was traded or retired. Many White Sox players were caught between a rock and a hard place. Comiskey would not blow the cobwebs off his wallet. The players needed money. That is when the Mafia came calling.......... The clubhouse was still divided. On one side was the ''Clean'' players, who just went out and did their jobs. On the other side, was the ''Black'' players, meaning they were not afraid to do whatever they had to make a buck. Joe Jackson was on the ''Clean'' side. He just wanted to play ball and that was it. But, others wanted to turn to the grey money offered by the underworld. A meeting was held, a mixture of the ''Clean'' and the ''Black'' sides. The offer was put out. In exchange for the White Sox throwing the 1919 World Series, professional gamblers [i.e. the Mob] was prepared to pay each player $5,000 dollars after the Series was lost. This was New York money, the big-time boys who were carving out the foundation of the  La Cosa Nostra. Led by gambler, Hyman Rothstein, the gamblers made the penniless ballplayers an offer they could not refuse........ Most did. Most, despite their animosity directed at Comiskey, wanted no part in the shady dealings being hatched. It has always been an open question about who actually agreed to participate. It is a fact that Eddie Cicotte, Oscar ''Happy'' Felsch, Arnold ''Chick'' Gandil, Fred McMullen, Charles ''Swede'' Risberg, George ''Buck''Weaver, and Claude ''Lefty'' Williams did have some part in throwing the games. Weaver always denied he did anything but he knew about the fix and it would later come back to haunt him. The biggest question mark was about whether Joe Jackson, ''Shoeless Joe'', the idol of the youth, was actually involved. He was certainly at the initial meeting and knew about what may happen. But, his defenders would later put out that Jackson was so simple and easily conned, that there was sufficient evidence to support his not being involved. His hitting in the Series was still stellar. But, he made many questionable fielding errors, so unlike his natural playing ability. For every success on the field, there was a costly mistake. Was he in on the fix? Or, did he succumb to the pressure of what was going on around him and he felt helpless? Even after all of these years, the jury is still out........ Rumors about what may have happened grew stronger as the 1920 season went on. The White Sox were in first place in September of 1920 when the ax fell on them from a grand jury. Eight White Sox players, including ''Shoeless'' Joe Jackson were indicted by the jury in connection of throwing the 1919 World Series. Soon, the media would coin a name for these eight, ''The Black Sox''. In his testimony before the grand jury, Joe Jackson admitted his role in the fixing. He talked about the errors in the field that he intentionally made so the Reds could score runs. Curiously, though, no such testimony to this effect appears in the official court records of the trial. This has been seized upon by Jackson's defenders as evidence he did nothing wrong. So, did he actually say in front of the grand jury what the media reported that he said? This is Chicago, folks....... A myth, very popular through the annals of baseball lore, has it that when Joe Jackson walked out of the courtroom, an innocent child said to him, ''Say it ain't so, Joe!'' Jackson retort, ''Yes, kid. It is so''. The truth is this incident never happened. Sure, there were heartbroken kids over what their hero may have done, but the Hollywood melodrama was false....... Charles Comiskey immediately suspended his ''Black Sox'' players and they lost the 1920 pennant. The grand jury recommended that all eight players be brought up on charges of conspiracy to defraud.  In 1921, the trial began. It was held in Chicago. Key evidence against the players went mysteriously missing, including the signed confession by Joe Jackson. The players were acquitted by the jury on all charges. Years later, the missing evidence would be found in the personal items of a lawyer. Charles Comiskey's lawyer....... Even after their verdict of not guilty was delivered, the eight players were still branded the ''Black Sox''. In no way did baseball want anything to do with them. The common thought was that most of the players were guilty of throwing the World Series and took the money [ the Mob shafted the players out of most of the cash. For their treason on the field, the players threw away their good names for a small amount of dough.]. The newly created commissioner of baseball, Judge Kennesaw Landis, barred the eight from baseball forever. Joe Jackson could play professional baseball no more........Was he a willing participant or was he a victim of his surrounding circumstances? Perhaps, at first, he wanted the money and went along with the plot. But, it is most likely that his conscience got to him, for he was a decent man by all accounts.When the games started, his natural decency would marry with his natural abilities. While he might have gone easy on some plays, his numbers bespeak another story. His World Series numbers show a man who was having a fine Series, the envy of any player. Jackson would spend the rest of his life proclaiming his innocence. He reportedly refused the $5,000 bribe on two separate occasions. And, he did try to tell Comiskey beforehand about the fix. True to form, Comiskey refused to talk to him or any of his players. And, there was the issue with his legal defense. Too poor to afford his own attorney, Jackson was represented by the White Sox team lawyer, an extraordinary thing because this was a clear case of conflict of interest. The story goes the lawyer, Alfred Austrian, coerced a confession of his role in the fix by getting Jackson drunk on whiskey. The lawyer was also able to get Joe Jackson to sign a waiver of immunity from prosecution, an interesting fact because Jackson could not sign his name. It wasn't until many years had passed that all of this came out. The other seven players,---- remember, never fond of each other at all, ---stated that Joe Jackson was never at any of the planning meetings........ The fallout was immense. Joe Jackson was disgraced, his public image besmirched. With his major league career in shambles, he managed a number of semi-pro teams in the minors. By 1922, he walked away from any baseball and he and his wife opened a dry cleaning business in Savannah, Georgia. This lasted for a few years until Jackson and his wife moved to Greenville, South Carolina and opened a liquor store. This would be how he lived until death came to him on December 5, 1951 at the age of 64......... Joe Jackson seemed to be a broken man for his last years. He did not turn to drink to ease his pain, he was not like that.Throughout his life, he remained the simple boy from the South who loved to hit a baseball. In those innocent days, when baseball was really baseball and real men played it simply for the love of the game, he stood tall at the plate, a Midas man who conquered his foes, even when he wasn't wearing his shoes. His influence on the game was so immense that, years after his death, there is in active campaign to finally get him enshrined in the Baseball Hall Of Fame. And, Hollywood has joined in by making him a major character in movies, most notably in ''Eight Men Out'' and the Kevin Costner classic, ''Field Of Dreams''. He should be in the Hall for his on-field triumphs. And, since his role in the throwing of the Series has always been murky, until it is proven he actually was guilty of something, the Hall Of Fame should induct him.......... There is a famous story about him in later years, often told. He was working at his liquor store, a modest, decent man making an honest, decent living. One day, his mighty on-field rival, Ty Cobb came into the liquor store. Cobb immediately recognized Jackson but Jackson seemed to show no sign of recognition towards Cobb. Finally, Ty Cobb stated, ''Joe, don't you recognize me? 'I'm Ty Cobb!''....... Joe Jackson replied quietly, ''Sure I recognize you, Ty. I just didn't know if you wanted to know me''..........

I Do Not Forget

Every once in a while I will catch a show about that day. It usually involves the History Channel or one of their satellite stations that is showing the program. Sometimes, I will switch it off because it is still too painful to watch. Seeing death forcefully real in front of my eyes is not a happy viewing. But, sometimes I watch the show. I am not a ghoul who slows down while passing a car accident. I am not of that mental variety. Rather, I watch because, in some way, I should watch. To dismiss is to slowly let the memory fade. And, the one thing we should never do is forget 9/11........ Every year around September 11, we see the recollections of that day. Our Day Of Infamy for the Internet age. Most people now were not alive for Pearl Harbor. And, the second time stamp for collective sorrow was November 22 when JFK was shot. But, for myself and millions of others, that horrendous day is just a tragic history lesson. I wasn't alive in 1963, so that event is a historical benchmark, not a personal benchmark. But, 9/11 is that for me. And, I carry that around with me as I live my life. When I watch a movie pre-9/11, I have an active part of my brain compute that it is before the tragedy. When I see a program with the Twin Towers--- those beautiful symbols of New York--- there is an eerily uncomfortable feeling of a dark cloud hovering. Because I know the secret now that we did not know then. Those towers will not be flying free in the air soon....... I am not a professional tragedy widower. You know, someone who wallows in grief so heartily that it strangely becomes about their own pain of the day instead of the pain of the real victims. No, I remember that day, because as humans, when we see the horrific affects of a death, we naturally grief. It flows from the soul of the caring. Plus, not very often do we see mass murder in front of our eyes. That day was modern day genocide of the most blatant kind. Whenever I see the planes hit the Twin Towers or the Pentagon, I just think about those people in those planes and what their final moments must have been like. It is inescapable to not to. The screaming and chaos, the crying and fear, the bedlam and the death....... Heroes were made that day. Unsung, unknown heroes. They fought the hijackers and they shed the blood. By the recordings that have been released, we know that they fought hard for their lives. They would never know the true story about why this was happening to them and who was responsible. In a poignant way, they were better off not knowing. As horrible as those last moments were for them, it was fairly quick and it was over. Their suffering and pain ended. The legacy of the hate that drove that day is on us. The victims paid the ultimate price. But, they are free now, sweetly blowing in God's wind........ It is natural to not think of this day when we go through our everyday life. We are dealing with problems and issues and situations of our own. I certainly do. Weeks or months go by without any thought of 9/11. Again, standard operating procedure. However, when it does come to the forefront of my mind, like when I stumble across a show on it, the raw emotions of that day are fast and furious. I have anger at those bastards who did the killings. I have deep hope that they are firmly snuggled in the darkest regions of Hell for eternity...... And, I feel the sorrow most of all. I think, mostly, about the children on those flights. There were many, some very small who, hopefully, had no concept of what was happening to them. Sadly, some of those children did realize what was happening. It was the Boogeyman coming to life. No child, no human being for that matter, should have gone through what they went through. The horror of horrors. Goddamn those terrorists!!!! GODDAMN THEIR SOULS!!!!..... A reason I am writing this now is simple: I do not forget. Some people, for reasons I do not understand, do forget. And, many forgive. There are even the truly misguided who think that September 11, 2001, was an inside job by our government, despite all of the evidence to the contrary. It is frightening that they are, blindly, on the side of the terrorists if they believe this. But, those types of people walk amongst us and it is of no use to talk common sense to them. I can show them an ashtray and say it is an ashtray but they will say it is a table. Both you and I know it is an ashtray but they see it differently. As I've gotten older, I concede to let people believe what they want. If this ashtray to you is a table, then, so be it. Be prepared, then, for me to flick my occasional cigar ashes on your table then........ It is a beautiful spring day. The birds are out and the sun is shining. Spring is the promise of life and its joys. After the dark of Winter, comes the light of better days. The human heart speeds up to reward the living with the simple joy of being alive. But, there are some days when the weather cannot cover the darkness. Sometimes, evil will destroy that good feeling. It is 65 degrees outside now, with beautiful blue skies. The same weather that New York had on September 11, 2001.......

Alien Love

Farmers know beautiful days better than the rest of us. The time of resurgence of the Earth, a perfect time to be bountiful with their harvest. It is an innate feeling, the feeling of the enlightened, secure in their own domain. Farmers have the edge because they commune with nature almost mystically. Therefore, on that perfect summer day in 1957, Antonio Boas, plowing his field with his trusty tracker, was going about his daily routine. But, something caught his eye. It was a light from above. Of course, he did not mistake the bright light for being the sun. This was a different light, intense and mystifying. The light touched the ground, and, being of a curious nature, Antonio approached it. However, every time he did this, the light would jump away from him, almost playing an electric game of tag. Soon, the light disappeared altogether. Kinda quizzical at what it was all about, Antonio went home and told his brother. This was Brazil in the 50's, an unchanging time of the same old same old. After conferring with his brother, Antonio chalked it up to just a freak incident. The following night, though, in the field, it happened again. The bright light reappeared. Stronger, more intense. This time it did not play hide and go seek, but, descended. When the light got very close to Antonio, he made out a shape. It was an egg shape airship. Naturally, he panicked. He turned his tractor that he had been riding on around. Or, he attempted to. The tractor, which had been in perfect working condition, suddenly stalled. In the next instant, Antonio claims he was surrounded by four, small, grayish beings. They dragged him aboard the craft and, of all things, they stripped him of his clothes....... Now, if you have been skeptical up to now on what Antonio Boas saw and experienced, it now goes into pessimistic overdrive. Boas claims he was given a sponge bath by the aliens with a clear, thick liquid. Then, he was taken to another part of the spaceship, seated on a ''humped couch'', and was abandoned. Fearing for his life, he anxiously awaited what would happen next. Soon, clouds of acrid gray smoke engulfed the room and made Antonio physically sick. He threw up. When he finally felt better, Antonio noticed he was no longer alone. What was with him was, in his own words, a naked woman with the most gorgeous body he had ever seen on a woman. That was the good news. The bad news was her face, or, whatever she had on top of her body. The face had large, slanted eyes, barely a nose or lips, and bright, red pubic hair. Basically, Lucille Ball in her later years. But, apparently, Antonio was desperate for companionship with any creature [a farm animal, as any Green Bay Packer fan knows, will only go so far] so, he had sexual relations with this close encounter, not once but twice. According Antonio, his ''partner'' seemed quite pleased with the encounter [leave it to any guy to boast about any sexual act!]. Antonio's space romp ended with his dalliance collecting some sperm samples from their union together. Then, she strangely pointed to her abdomen, then skyward. Was she telling Antonio that she was already knocked up by him? And, what was he gonna do about alien support for the offspring? Very soon after, Antonio claims, he was resurrected back to Earth, and the alien ship disappeared. The only aftereffects, he stated, was a terrible feeling of radiation sickness. He would have no further contact with any aliens. I'm not surprised.  I'm sure his partner in intergalactic sex promised to call him the next day. But, you know how aliens are once they have gotten what they want from you........Human claims of sex with aliens have been around as long as we have been fascinated by U.F.O.'s. I'm not talking sex with illegal aliens from the Mexican border, but, hardcore, nasty, naughty, galaxies pounding buggering from both sides of the sun. Stories like Antonio Boas may be a tall tale, but, they may also be true. For many people who claim to have abducted by aliens, there are very even tales of body probing and fondling and feelings of violation. Kinda like drinking with Bill Cosby. Still, it is not too much of a stretch to think that the aliens may indulge in sex with us Earthlings. It is plausible. They wanna know how us Earth people get our groove on. Why not throw an alien hosebag, from the the bars on Rush Street on Mars, looking for some forbidden love that she will never tell her father about? Every planet has their women that will sleep with anyone for fifteen minutes of fame. On Earth, we give them a show on ''E!'' and call it ''The Kardashians.'' So, if it entirely reasonable, if you buy into alien contact, then both sides would go all of the way and do the nasty. The question is, who benefits the most from it?....... I'm thinking the alien side does. After all, they are interested in the scientific research angle, possibly, to better understand other life forms from other planets and finding a means to assimilate with said life forms. Us Earth beings are just looking for a kinky time so you can tell the boys at the local saloon, ''Yeah, well, I fucked an alien! Beat that story!'' And, I'm sure that the stories will be embellished to a point where the alien was ''begging me to do it!''......... The fascination of E.T.'s is one of life's greatest interests. Who hasn't looked upwards and thought there might be intelligent life somewhere out there. I've thought of that looking at Cleveland. And, I am under the firm belief that we have been contacted from that far away alien zip code. Scientists and U.F.O. researchers trace contact from outer space to when we started sending up satellites in the late 1940's. We bounced same electronic rays off a few planets, some distant life form sees and feels those rays, and next thing we know, these aliens are putting on their best Sunday-Go-Courting clothes and they are winging it to the third planet from the sun. Roswell, New Mexico is the strongly rumored landing patch for them. In 1947, so the rumor goes, an alien craft crashed in Roswell, aliens died, and the government took the carcasses and the crashed ship to study. Various people claim to have seen the ship and the dead bodies. And, the drawings---really, rough sketches--- of the remnants show the aliens and their space SVU to be what we all imagined them to be: very thin, skeleton-like, with bulging eyes, a slit for a nose and mouth, no neck, and a body that comes with very little chest or torso. If you throw on some chic clothes, you have a fashion model from Calvin Klein........ Sure, there are many con artists who tried to jump on the U.F.O. bandwagon and have testified to their contact with the Men From Mars. Most of these people are easy to detect. They cannot complete a sentence, have a look like they just had sex with their sister, the billygoat. A bath is a swear word to them, along with a toothbrush. They take time off from working at Wal-Mart to say how they have met the dreaded alien creatures and the aliens are their new pals. It strains the credibility angle, though, to think that if these people did meet up with other life forms, the aliens didn't turn tail and get the fuck away from these pod people. Just think, if you are little E.T., away on his 8th grade field trip to Earth, what kind of luck do you have if you meet a ''higher life'' form and he turns out to be one of the ''Dukes Of Hazzard?'' I would be pissed and frightened. Why would they go further on and want anything to do with us? Yeah, there is the domination theory. They could control us. But, I'm thinking the aliens would not want to come all of this way and destroy us. Study us, yes. Learn from us, absolutely. To come with hate a long-distance sounds awful unrealistic. After all, I'm believing the aliens have no concept of hate and war. We humans have cornered all of that by ourselves....... I believe in aliens [also, ghosts]. I would love to meet an alien. The probing of my private areas doesn't suit me. I save that for my yearly physical. No, I am interested in the Different. By that, I mean, something new and exciting. Humans are really starting to bother me with their endless and sad search for control and power and degradation of their fellow men and women. Perhaps, a nice invasion by the ;E.T.'s is what we need to make ourselves more loving for each other. Many people refuse to be taught and listen. They would rather talk and lecture. A new order of life form would be an interesting alternative.......... Did Antonio Boas have sex with the Creature from Outer Space? Of course, no one knows. I never heard of this story until recently when I was reading a book about aliens. But, lets believe it is true. Put yourself in the mind frame of the aliens. They come all of this way, risking whatever their death form is, to contact us and meld with us in a way they must know is very special to humans. The act of love. There is almost something pure and innocent about this coupling. Kinda like Adam and Eve in the garden.........

Hip-Hop And ''Scarface''

The other night on TV, there was a retrospective documentary of the 1983 movie, ''Scarface''. I watched it because, quite frankly, there was nothing else on and it was on one of the cable channels. Sometimes, I feel the pressure to watch these channels, even though, most of the time, there ain't dick on. But, since I'm paying for these, even the most rudimentary show will get my attention. So, with my long-held interest in movies, I put my glimmers on the program for two hours. And, I was rewarded with some good viewing. There was some interesting information about the movie, some good interviews with the cast and crew. A good show. Until the end. That is when the rappers and hip-hop ''artists'' came on, and, through whatever language it is they are speaking [ they call it ''street language''. I call it talking ''like a dumbass fool'' language] they explained what the movie ''really means''........ According to these most celebrated of intellects, the ''Scarface'' character, Tony Montana, is a street hero, a reflection of the struggles and prejudices that greet them everyday as a victim of life. Montana is someone they admire because he didn't take shit from anyone and saw his dream clearly and was not afraid to do whatever he had to do to get it. Even murder. You see, class, according to these prophets, Tony Montana doesn't bow down to anyone, people are in fear of him. Therefore, he must be respected and honored. Word....... Well, if you read between the lines, you can see another, darker idea behind their rational. They are saying that the establishment [i.e. white establishment] must be attacked by ''whatever means necessary,'' as Malcolm X stated, which means violence. In plain English, violence is the only alternative to use to get back at society. The oppressed must use it in order to get their fair share. Tony Montana sees this, the simpletons in hip-hop argue, so that is the clear lane to drive down. Be a thug, they proclaim. And, no one will fuck with you...... Rational minds see it differently. But, we are talking about hip-hop ''artists'' here. They do not think rational. They think with the violence that is seething around in their souls. It comes naturally to them. Why pick up a book and improve your mind and work hard at a goal when you can just pick up a gun? Immediate satisfaction of the lazy, violent person triumphs over the long-term hard work of a non-violent person. These fools call the rest of us fools because we do not go around looking for violence and a perceived revenge factor. The movie, as they see it, is an instructional tool of ''don't fuck with me'' that is so close in their body language that it practically jumps out of their skins. And, they take the ''message'' in the movie as gospel, to be lived and breathed with life, into what passes as their music. Never mind that the actual ''message'' of ''Scarface'' is that the main character, Montana, is a scumbag and got what he deserved. The makers of the movie have stated that for years---- Tony Montana is not someone to admire and emulate but someone who rightly got his comeuppance. Clearly, the geniuses that do hip-hop [and the people who analyze hip-hop music, as if the ''music'' is too complex to understand by a single listening] do not see the forest through the trees. Tony Montana is an idol, the hero to the downtrodden. The ultimate ''gangster''. That is why he is proudly displayed by some ghetto kids on shirts and posters. The celebration of the thug. A murderer. I have seen Al Pacino grimace in interviews when this is brought up to him......... No amount of common sense thinking can get through to these idiots. If a white person challenges their ideas, he or she is branded a ''racist'', the most effective fighting tool with these assholes. And, if a black person also challenges the same thugsters, then, he or she is called a ''sellout'', someone who does ''the white man's bidding.'' I know of an older black gentleman who I used to drink with. He is gone now but I remember the pain and anger that used to creep into his voice and face whenever he talked about the hip-hop ''artists'' and their mentality. He always overlooked the ''music'', because it must be overlooked. But, he concentrated on the attitude that the ''music'' brought with it. The talk about the cop killings and women as ''bitches'' and ''ho's.'' He said, ''You know, Jimmy, I marched once upon a time. I experienced genuine racism and hatred that none of these rappers have. And, I learned that non-violence brought people together. Eventually, it all seemed to come together. And, I look around now and I realize that the next generation wasn't worth the effort. These kids drive around blasting that shitty music and cannot speak properly. And, this is what I put my safety on the line for?''........... There is a sad truth in this. The marches of a few generations ago were for genuine human rights, the advancements for everyone. And, its come down to this. Hip-hop ''artists'' and a frightening large portion of their audience completely missing the brave ideals of the marchers. It continues to astound me that a woman would listen to them. The degradation and violence that is directed at them is unrelenting. The demeaning terms and sayings that are peppered across the board in this bile. Some women I have brought this up to say they don't take the words seriously, only the beat. They can dance to the music, which is the only thing that matters to them. I point out that, by their rationale, is if a catchy song about child molestation or the mutilation of their loved ones was danceable, then that would still be ok? They laugh and walk away, saying I don't understand. Which, is true. I will never understand a supposedly adult, intelligent person embracing violence simply because they can shake their booties to the beat......... Or, that the violence makes fine entertainment in a movie. ''Scarface'' has many fine features to it. I like the movie enormously. But, I see it as it should be seen. It is a cautionary tale, not a way to live your life. These rappers and hip-hop supporters see it as the culmination of the violence that society has driven them to. The rappers are just enacting the violence that is wedded deeply in their souls, the movie is a natural release for the psychodrama of violence that has always been there. The movie just awakened it........ One last thing that can somewhat be tied into the ''Scarface Nation''. This foul element of admiring the ''gangsta''. Among the many simple things in life that are beyond the mental capacities of a rapper and their audience, there is the foolish adulation of how a gangster lives his life. Again, this is tied into the myth of movies like, ''The Godfather'' and ''Goodfellas''. Fine movies, indeed. But, isn't it amazing on how the same message of these movies gets to most people but completely goes over the heads of others? The hip-hop ''artist'' admires how the gangster goes about their day. Collecting money, screwing the hot women, and giving out death because, as we know, ''nobody fucks with a gangster!'' The rest of us, the rational and intelligent people, see this differently. We see the horror and pain and cruel violence that, thankfully, a small percentage of the population does, while we live non-violent lives. That is foolish, say the ''gangstas''. We are the fools and innocents!!! These men must be adored and emulated!!! Once again, it feeds into the thug mentality that is in these ''artists''. And, they take the wrong message of these films and spin it for their gullible audience to further provoke social and ethnic alienation. In their pea brains, it is a badge of honor to be called a ''gangsta''......... In my family, there was a small group of what you would call gangsters. They are long-dead now but they are somewhat famous in family lore. And, we do not admire them for it, a key distinction with the current generation. We kids were never privy to how these men earned their living. We just kinda figured it out as they made some ''dirty money''. It wasn't until years later, after they were gone, that some stories came out. My Dad had an Uncle Joe. He worked for the Chicago Mob. He got his hands dirty running numbers and stealing. And, there was a strong suspicion that he murdered people. Uncle Joe also had brothers and cousins that did what he did. But---- and this is key---- these men knew that what they were doing was morally wrong. That is why they never wanted their kids to go into the same line of business. There is the famous scene in ''The Godfather'' where Don Corleone tells his son, Michael, that he never wanted him to go into his way of life. That is why he did what he did, so Don Corleone's kids would have a chance at a clean and prosperous life, free of crime. And, that was what the men like Uncle Joe did. They knew they were bad men destined to eventually end up in Hell. But, they wanted their children to not do this. They wanted them to be legit. It was if they were saying, ''We will do our time in Hell so that you will be in Heaven.'' You can have a debate about whether this was justification of their violent actions but the idea must be investigated. These men knew they were damned. They went reluctantly to this world. They were not proud of their actions. But, they saw the long-term goal, for their children. These rappers and hip-hop cock-roach motherfuckers [to coin a phrase from Tony Montana] do not see it this way. They pollute the air with their vile, baseless, ''music''. They took an easily defined movie like,''Scarface'', and bastardized it for their base of audience. And, the destruction continues......... One last thought. My Dad's Uncle Joe. He always preached to my Dad about how he never wanted this life for my Dad. Go to school, use that fine mind of yours to do good things, he told him. Dad, who never had a mean bone in his body and would have made a terrible gangster, did not need much coaxing in this way of thinking. Dad loved his Uncle Joe and, while deeply bothered by his actions, still respected him and saw him often. The last time Dad saw his Uncle Joe was in early 1982, about six months before Uncle Joe died. It was at a funeral. The funeral was for Uncle Joe's son, Sammy. Sammy, not listening to his father's warnings in all of those years growing up, had gone into the gangster lifestyle. And, one night, Sammy came home, parked his car in the garage, and was shot dead in cold blood. Execution style..........