“Keyboard Warriors”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

“Goodbye, social media.”

I often daydream about erasing my Internet presence. In particular, when reading posts on Facebook. The thought that some have never used such platforms for any sort of personal expression makes me glow with awe. Most, I reckon, do so because of a Luddite distaste for advancing technology. Yet there is appeal in the thought that easy access to world communication has only revealed the thin veneer of civility that covers a greater human bent toward de-evolution. What DEVO called “The important sound of things falling apart.”

Silly memes, kitties, life hacks, family recipes and funny videos get a pass. They are the fodder that one would expect to exist in a realm where common folk suddenly possess the kind of publishing tools that would have humbled Herr Gutenberg.

More distressing are posts of a sort intended to be serious, while sucking out oxygen and daylight from human existence. The kind that have me scrolling away in search of any kind of useful prose. For some evidence that the long passage into night has not yet visited our civilization. Such entries evoke a feeling that radio legend Phil Hendrie would describe as “Drowning in a sea of dumb.”

All hail the ‘Keyboard Warriors!’

What follows here are examples of this tiresome, yet pervasive habit. Reasons that many of us, in the future, might find cause to exit the world of ‘connectivity’ for a return to traditional methods of communication like actually talking to each other:

Trump

The unexpected ascension of Donald J. Trump to our nation’s Oval Office literally exploded every social media avenue known to mankind. Twitter may be an obvious beneficiary, but all the sites have surged with outrage or affection. Opinions about the ‘Cheeto in Chief’ are even more common than memes featuring Minions or Betty White. Destroyer or savior? Nearly everyone, everywhere has a point of view seeking expression. It is ironic that the ‘Fake News’ organizations he decries actually helped elevate him to the presidency, by constantly offering free air time of a sort no one else could garner.

Chevrolet/GM

Apparently people who love products wearing the ‘bowtie’ logo have lots of time to write posts on the Internet. (Competitors must be too busy selling more vehicles.) Their comments can be found nearly everywhere, despite the fact that only a government bailout with billions of taxpayer dollars kept the company from disappearing altogether. Each is a missive designed to convince readers that buying a vehicle of any sort other than their own will encourage crime, disease, national decline, communism, and sin, while delivering America to the ugly despair of watching soccer and tennis, with refreshment from fruity beverages.

Sports

Fans of franchises like the New England Patriots or the Pittsburgh Steelers are often lacking in genuine knowledge about the history and traditions of of their sport. But they have been gifted with brilliance when tapping away at the keyboard. Many who could not find Pennsylvania on a map of the United States can still spiel out the mantra of ‘Six Super Bowl Rings’ with gusto. Meanwhile, Tom Brady has become a ‘GOAT’ of both kinds in cyberspace. ‘Greatest of all time’ and the butt of jokes about ‘Deflategate.’ No shortage of opinions exists over any NFL, NBA, MLB or NHL team. While Lacrosse or Cricket may fail to inspire the soldiers of social media into action, our major sports leagues dependably arouse the masses to posting with abandon. And often, without a great deal of forethought.

Confederate Flag

For many Americans, real knowledge about the ‘Civil War’ has long ceased to exist. A pity because the period literally redefined and shaped the nation as no other event in our post-revolutionary history. Most could not accurately identify the origin of what is commonly known as the ‘Confederate Flag.’ Indeed, it seems likely that a large number of Americans are familiar with the symbol only because of old episodes of ‘The Dukes of Hazard.’ So on social media sites, the ‘stars & bars’ are ever present, in posts about country music, religion, pickup trucks, history and the ethos of rural communities. Racism, fear of urban culture and hatred involve the flag for other reasons. Some seek to erase the symbol, while others wave it as a talisman of their faith. That this emblem of defeated secessionists endures at all is an oddity of our modern world. It is a common sight in states that fought to tear it down, along with the enemy it represented. But it will not go away. Nor will the questions about its meaning.

Caitlyn Jenner/The Kardashians

“Nothing to see here.” Literally nothing. Look away.

Religion

Perhaps no choice in human existence is more personal than the decision to have faith, or a life free of the god concept. Certainly those who seek knowledge of a higher power can be found in every society, around the globe and throughout recorded history. Thinkers who prefer the march of scientific study have also been with us since the dawn of civilization. But on Facebook, this gentle push toward revelation of some sort has become a lightning rod for division and disinformation. Citizens who are sure that Satan has enslaved humanity cry out with warnings of Armageddon. Others who have never opened a copy of the Christian Bible, or any holy book, suddenly post away with scholarly verbiage. Politics has infected the debate, offering polarization of a kind not in tune with the doctrine of a loving creator. At their keyboards, the warriors warble away.

Pondering these realities of the technology we have created, I often wish for the kind of introspection that our forebears were able to enjoy. Time to read and think. Not in soundbites or flashes of video, but with careful pauses taken in the company of those we love and trust. Those hammering the keyboard make much of their ability to speak, without considering the consequence of this sacred right. Like a Twitter post at three o’clock in the morning, their words may ignite fires that burn brightly. But too soon, we are once again in the darkness. And the black of our cultural night is deeper by far.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Points To Ponder”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

1:30 a.m. - Awake with a fresh cup of coffee.

One of my past employers liked to leave workplace notes for his management team with the heading “Points To Ponder.” When we saw such correspondence waiting on the office desk, everyone took it as a sign that careful consideration of the issues at hand was needed. And expected.

A recent morning in the Ice household revived this habit.

Having fallen asleep early, after dinner, I found myself awake in the darkness, with midnight fading into the wee hours of a new day. My mind spun like an industrial motor. Active and independent of outside control. Random thoughts were on parade. But I yearned for more rest.

Finally, surrender came in a familiar ritual. I brewed a pot of Java in my Bunn coffeemaker. With a tease of thunder in the air outside, even Mother Nature seemed to be restless. So I chose to channel her energy. And take my place at the home computer.

I breathed a heavy sigh while tapping away at the keyboard. During a friendly discussion in the previous week, I had received a comment that was unexpected, yet familiar. I was trying to describe my personal outlook in philosophical terms, and went numb when judgment came.

“You sound so Republican!” I was told.

To be honest, I laughed a bit inside. First, because my childhood consisted of being called a “wild-eyed visionary” by some members of my traditional and religious family. Secondly, because these same beloved souls were sure that I must be a Democrat.

With our discussion derailed, I tried to explain my own heritage. The family from which I came was neatly split on genetic and political lines. My paternal relatives were educated professionals who thought in the quiet and conservative pattern set by Dwight Eisenhower. The maternal side were skilled laborers who gave allegiance to the calm and caring template set by Franklin Roosevelt. Both were quite sure that their world view held the most merit. There was a sort of ‘detente’ at work all through my childhood. Each group patiently disagreed with the other. While sharing love and devotion to the greater brood. Thus, I became a ‘Libertarian’ long before having heard the name of that party said out loud.

In my retail business career, I climbed to the rank of a salaried manager. But remained proud to recall my time as a union member and hourly worker. Employees gave me a kind of respect reserved for one of their own. When conflicts appeared, I made sure to hear all sides before making decisions. My personal relationships were varied and enduring, over the course of three decades. I often preferred the company of regular associates to that of the other supervisors. It was my belief that the battle for success was won or lost not necessarily in the boardroom, but right on the sales floor, one customer at a time.

The social evolution of our country in the postwar period seemed to presage that of my family. Where we had enjoyed a kind of loyal dissent during bygone years, the modern era found us drifting toward polarization of a sort. I noticed more candor in the expression of opinions at family gatherings. And perhaps, a bit less concern for considering the other side. Lots of conflicting e-mail messages going out into cyberspace. In a nation governed by the ‘either-or’ mindset of two major parties, effectively locking out all opposition, such a conclusion was probably inevitable. It was too easy to mine the groove first cut by the reigning duopoly. Chevrolet vs. Ford. McDonald’s vs. Burger King. AFC vs. NFC in the Super Bowl. Left or Right. Up or down. A simple choice that even an American voter could comprehend. Multiple points to ponder would present a vexing conundrum. One not easily defined by high-dollar soundbites.

Still, I continued to wander on my own.

The 2016 election tugged at the very fabric of our family. With two dreadful choices for the nation’s highest office, each side searched for a cause to swallow the bitter pill. I was lectured about the calamity that awaited should I fail to endorse either candidate. Democrats short-circuited their authentic, populist champion, Bernie Sanders. Republicans self-destructed as media attention inflated the capricious campaign of Donald Trump. Much like peering at the wreckage of a train despite fearing the carnage itself.

I wished for genuine democracy. For active citizens competing with diverse and creative philosophies. For the kind of liberty that made Thomas Jefferson observe: “If I could not go to heaven but with a party, I would not go there at all.” For freedom from the sour poison of money.

But in America, as in my tribe, it was not going to happen.

The comment of my friend made me smile. Did I indeed sound Republican? Or Democrat? Or disaffected? Disinterested? Rowdy? Rebellious? Mixed up? A mish-mosh of ideas waiting for the moment of expression?

I wanted my Libertarian Party membership card, so it could be pulled out easily and waved in the air as a talisman of hope. But more accurate would have been to reply with the mantra of Popeye: “I yam what I yam.” A grown-up kid from a two-party family. Steeped in respect for the wisdom to be had on all sides of an argument. Someone who still finds it impossible to think along the lines of political dogma and wealthy donors. One who, as a professional writer, seeks balance even while writing unique opinions.

The coffee I made over two hours ago had gone cold. Outside, echoes of thunder continued to sound from the dark sky. My Black Lab took turns pacing around the kitchen and laying across the carpet in our home office. Another manuscript was finished. The restless night had been kind.

Now it was time to greet oblivion. To slumber away the remainder of my restless night. And ponder more points in search of the next newspaper column.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Loudmouth”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

A recent column here about my fictional friend ‘Carrie Hamglaze’ mentioned the bombastic media figure Morton Downey Jr., who most will remember as the host of a short-lived, syndicated talk show from the 1980’s.

‘Mort’ was something of a comic figure, smoking four packs of cigarettes a day while searching for the love of his famous father, and trying his hand at various pursuits. From singing professionally to hosting radio and television broadcasts across the nation, he always seemed to miss lasting success. But like a punching-bag clown, he was quickly vertical once again. His stint on WWOR eerily foretold a coming political avalanche. Perhaps offering more insight than even he could realize. Downey was brash, opinionated and unapologetic. He fed off the energy of his detractors, like a sort of alien being channeling abuse.

And then, he vanished.

But, he was never really gone, of course. ‘Mort’ continued to bounce from one safe house to the next. He appeared on CNBC in two remakes of his better-known program. And on radio in various markets including Cleveland. After walking off the air at WTAM 1100, he succumbed to battles against Howard Stern and cancer.

Before writing about my telephone encounter with Mrs. Hamglaze, I had been watching videos of his program on YouTube from the classic era, 1987–1989. Two streams of thought emanated from seeing these shows again.

First, I remembered the fervor of some co-workers from my place of employment at the time, who felt that Downey was speaking for them, directly. For those who had been forgotten in the postwar rush toward modernity and social progress. Many of these people fit the then-popular label of ‘chicken hawk.’ Those who were bullish on the military but had never actually served in the armed forces. And those who owned firearms as a social talisman, without having any real knowledge of combat or self-defense. People who were completely mystified when I confessed to being a Libertarian.

In personal terms, I appreciated the show as a sort of political theater. Watching Morton Downey Jr. evoked all sorts of emotions, but it was never a boring experience. I would watch at night, after work. Sometimes by the benefit of having taped the performance on our VCR. Dinner and a 12-pack of beer completed the experience. There was no classroom analysis of ideals. Instead, each session provided a raw journey into the reality of voter disaffection.

For me, in the late 1980’s, that was enough.

Second, watching these old broadcasts from a current perspective, it proved impossible to avoid thinking that ‘Mort’ had tapped into the sort of populist energy that would one day fuel the cataclysmic rise of Donald Trump. When visitors like Ron Paul tried to speak about issues of importance, the ‘Loudmouth’ reacted predictably with fire and brimstone. He chain-smoked while verbally and physically intimidating his guests. The audience chanted along like Roman citizens witnessing an execution. Many journalists slagged him off as an instigator and a provocateur. But there was enduring energy in his high-volume line of reasoning. As Phil Donahue famously noted, “They will love this in Boston.” In 2016, The Downey school of screaming ethos literally came to fulfillment.

In my earlier column, Carrie Hamglaze reacted to the memory of Morton Downey Jr. with reverence for a folk hero of sorts. A rowdy champion of her conservative ideals.

But in personal terms, revisiting these broadcasts from bygone days was more complex to ponder. As I said before, Downey thoroughly trashed Libertarian icon Ron Paul during an appearance on his show. Like many shouting pundits, he seemed unable to comprehend the pure ideals our founders intended. While borrowing some rhetoric from those on the political outside, like Ronald Reagan, he remained in the camp of traditionally partisan thinkers. Such was the appearance he willfully projected.

Yet what ‘Mort’ actually believed was never completely revealed.

Being the son of a famous Irish tenor, he had an undeniable connection to the music industry. He even appeared on Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars, in the late 1950’s. So on occasion, he chose to detour from the flamethrower political subject matter into the world of Rock & Roll. One episode of his program featured Ace Frehley of KISS and Joey Ramone, for example. Another offered a discussion of G.G. Allin, the train-wreck performer known for self abuse and destructive habits. He also ventured into the pop culture phenomenon of professional wrestling.

Still, his appeal seemed most potent for those seeking relief from the evolving nature of America. He spoke about the death penalty, religion, homosexuality, abortion, war, female rights and race relations like a blue-collar philosopher at a local bar. Each subject received a noisy gavel swing. A judgment from the bench. Then, it was on to the next.

Like Donald Trump, his opinions and conclusions were likely to shift depending on the moment. As a lifelong smoker and staunch advocate for tobacco use, he would later proclaim the evils of such habits. Liberal in his early years, he turned right to gain public notice. All the while his personal life consisted of failed marriages and family chaos. Not a template authored by the ‘Moral Majority.’ He was in jail, on the street and in court for various reasons. Each moment of fame was followed by a corresponding fall from grace.

Every night, I sat in the home audience, with my dinner and 12-pack. Spellbound by the cultural theater on display. Friends still in New York barely paid attention. They thought he was an oddity to be ignored. An ass. They reckoned that I must be loony to pay attention. But on I watched. And drank.

During the election season of 1988, viewing his show was indispensable.

Though I was unsure of what he would mean to us in the future, one thing seemed certain – we would never forget. After a lifetime of struggling with demons of all sorts, and circumstances beyond his control, Morton Downey Jr. finally made a lasting contribution to the national psyche. He laid the foundation for mayhem and wild dissent, yet to come.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Carrie Calling”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

It had been a long Wednesday at the Ice Household.

My brother-in-law was at Geauga Hospital after a weekend of cardiac issues. I had been busy dividing my time between this family crisis and typical duties of summer. After we were assured of his recovery, I took out my Weber grill to celebrate. Then, rain in the forecast offered reason to mow the yard, just before sunset. Already bent from my hectic week, and with a full stomach, I pushed on to finish the day with determination. The grass was thick from neglect. I finished the work in about an hour. Then… my body rebelled.

I could barely walk.

Both knees and my left hip sang a song of defiance. My back was twisted and bowed. I struggled inside, to my living room chair. Water from the fridge offered refreshment. But as I heard the neighbors celebrating around their fire pit, my plight became evident. The day was done. I fell asleep for a few minutes, still fully dressed. Then, crawled to bed, where I sprawled on top of the covers. There would be no beer or conversation for me, tonight. Fatigue, once again, was my master.

I dreamed of an old telephone booth. Ringing over and over. Each time that I picked up the receiver, there was no one on the line. Only a dial tone. Then the phone would jingle once again. This mad ritual happened several times. My frustration grew.

“Hello?” I shouted in the booth. “Hello? Hello?”

Suddenly, I was standing in the kitchen. My cell phone had been on the charger. It was 3:30 in the morning. Only the light over our stove provided any comfort. My Black Lab snored loudly from his spot on the linoleum floor. I had the device in my hand.

“Hello? Hello?”

My friend Carrie Hamglaze had called. Her laughter exploded the silence. “Rodney! Are you awake?”

She was still something of a local celebrity, having been a teacher, award-winning tennis coach, elected official and local journalist. Everyone in the county seemed to have at least one story with her as a central figure. She had even been in the Maple Festival parade on numerous occasions. At one time, we were both columnists for the same newspaper.

I shook off the dream clouds in my head. “Carrie! Do you know what time it is?”

She was amused. “Yes, I do know the time. How have you been, my friend? I saw your posts on Facebook. Is your brother-in-law okay?”

I started to make coffee.

“Yes, his doctor said it was something of a miracle,” I replied. “He had blockages in every artery leading to his heart. Fortunately, he happens to be one of those individuals who was born with an extra pathway for the blood to flow. That may have saved his life.”

“They called 911 for him?” she asked.

“No,” I explained. “He was stubborn. Wanted to avoid missing his Grange meeting. From there, he drove himself to Geauga UH. A crazy risk to take. They were furious.”

Carrie sighed heavily on the phone.

“So, where are you living now?” I wondered out loud. “Not in your car, I hope?”

“Rodney!” she squawked. “I am staying with friends since leaving my home in Chardon. But the night air was irresistible. At the moment, I am up on the square. The courthouse is glowing with electric light. You should see it! Maybe I can get a picture with this phone...”

“Never mind,” I smiled. “Aren’t the police curious about your presence at such an early time?”

“This isn’t my first visit in the wee hours,” she admitted. “They actually offered to bring me coffee, a few minutes ago. A thoughtful gesture! It is 64 degrees here. Very comfortable weather to sit on a bench and reflect...”

I nodded, wordlessly. Her spirit remained strong.

“But what about you?” she quizzed. “Are you keeping up the Geauga Independent online newspaper?”

“Actually, I was just watching old episodes of the ‘Morton Downey, Jr. Show’ on YouTube. He was entertaining to hear in the 1980’s. Sort of like a precursor to Trump. With a bit of Jerry Springer thrown in for good measure. Red meat for the political right, New York style. Plenty of bombast. It often got out of control. He chain-smoked through every episode. I just saw him interviewing various musicians from that era. Ace Frehley of KISS, Joey Ramone, some Rock critics from the city. He could shift gears quickly. It worked for awhile, until the seemingly false claim of being attacked by a gang of skinheads.”

“Skinheads?” she exclaimed.

“He appeared from a public bathroom at San Francisco International Airport with a swastika crudely drawn on his face,” I observed. “He said the gang told him that now he was one of them. But the symbol was backwards, as if it had been drawn while looking in a mirror.”

“Interesting!” she said.

“He later ended up on radio, with WTAM 1100, here in Cleveland,” I recalled. “After an attempt to revive his broadcast on CNBC. But the show did not last. He walked off the air one night. I was in my basement in Painesville, assembling record shelves. Listening to every word.”

“So he retired after that?” she whispered.

I bowed my head. “Mort died in 2001. He had already lost a lung to cancer. The brash style had evaporated by then. His smoking habit proved to be fatal.”

“Well,” she concluded. “At least your brother-in-law’s affliction was not the same. Glad to hear that he survived and will endure.”

“Indeed,” I said. “No credit to him. The cardiologist observed that he is a ‘Very, very lucky man.’ A prolonged heart attack over the weekend and still he remained combative. He was in the midst of this when he arrived at the hospital.”

Carrie laughed to herself. “I haven’t seen him at the public library, as of late. He used to be there every day. Always bringing his laptop.”

“He has been quite gray, lately,” I admitted. “Washed out. Looking like a ghost. Taking all sorts of medications and home remedies. Now everything makes sense. He should’ve seen a doctor months ago. But he refused to cooperate.”

“Of course,” she laughed. “But… the nice policeman has my coffee now. Good talking to you, Rodney. Don’t miss the next meeting of the Geauga Roundtable!”

I tried to change the subject, but my phone went dead. Our conversation was at an end!

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“First Responders”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

I often think of dumping all of my social media accounts.

It is a notion particularly driven by visits to Facebook. A place where recipes abound. Where silly ‘memes’ offer a bit of chewing gum for the brain. Where cell phones shine their ability to capture odd photos with impunity. Though I enjoy the site for sharing family news, music videos, post-war culture references, car or motorcycle trivia and miscellaneous thoughts about everything from gardening to old movies, other vibes undeniably kill the satisfaction. Ugly words, offered without much forethought, throw shade on the experience of real-time interaction. They dim the appeal of what is literally an incredible network that potentially connects the world’s citizens as one.

Today, June 14^th, was another of these moments.

Before I had even heard about the shooting at a baseball game involving Republican members of Congress, my FB feed was overloaded with partisan rhetoric about gun control. Along with slurs directed at the White House. And, the inevitable response from others who pointed out that the assailant, now dead, was a Bernie Sanders supporter and long-time critic of President Trump, along with the GOP in general.

These ‘First Responders’ had me reaching for the TV remote while searching with my smartphone for clues to what had actually transpired.

To be clear, such posts on Facebook have become so commonplace that I typically scroll along without paying too much attention. Some ‘friends’ simply repeat party-line and clubhouse dogma, which becomes boring over time with its sameness. A few others, incredibly, call for a military coup to overthrow our government. Not something I would expect out of people who identify themselves as being ‘progressive’ in nature. One fellow in my list openly demands that Trump be assassinated, almost on a daily basis. The counterpoint is just as pervasive – supporters of the current administration who call for action and cheer the courage of their reality television hero. Even as he twists and turns with self-defeating impulsiveness.

Today, I could not scroll by these comments.

With only hours having passed since the bullets were flying in Alexandria, Virginia, I wondered how it was possible that some brief period could not be rationed out for quiet introspection. For pondering and careful consideration about what had happened. To offer thanks that the event had not been even more severe. To pray for those who were wounded. To mourn such a horror being perpetrated by a lone, misguided soul who met death in the end.

On FB there was no waiting period. The ‘keyboard warriors’ were out in scores. Marching to the drumbeat of rancor and partisanship. I imagined that before nightfall, it was likely someone would claim that this tragic happening was in reality a ‘false flag’ attack. One designed to prop up Mr. Trump’s declining poll numbers, while doing harm to the reputation of the Democratic Party. Elsewhere, we would be assured that this action authentically came as part of a master plan drafted by Madame Clinton, herself. The catcalls and dog whistles were nearly audible, even before they had begun to resound.

I needed relief.

My index finger literally hovered over the ‘delete’ icon. With one swift action, I could rid myself of this rowdy invention. This ‘Road-To-Hell-Paved-With-Good-Intentions’ technology. The temptation to take my leave was nearly overwhelming. I wanted nothing more than to catch my breath.

To have a sort of ‘Brexit’ for myself.

Memories echoed as I sat at my computer. Of beloved family members, long gone to their final rest. I could not imagine how they would cope with a phenomenon like social media. But their words of wisdom lingered. When President Nixon was elected in 1968, my maternal side of the family did not endorse his rise to power. They were, by tradition, Democrats, dyed-in-the-wool. Of the true ‘Yellow Dog’ variety. Humble laborers. Grateful and faithful to America and Jesus Christ. Yet their respect for our nation brought scolding for those who refused this unpopular man. “He is our leader,” they would observe. “Pray for him, and for our country.”

For them, the only genuine victory was at the ballot box, not through violence. Or through the squawking of angry voices.

Our modern world has capabilities that would have been the stuff of science fiction in that bygone era. And no one could have imagined a chief executive so undisciplined and difficult to follow as Donald Trump, almost fifty years ago. But the idea that we should take a moment to grieve, to hug family and friends, to be glad for life… that does not seem outrageous.

Indeed, today, it seems indispensable.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“The Sensational Batboys”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

“POW! WHAM! HOLY SMOKE! BLAM! AAARGH! BAP! UGH! ZOWIE!”

‘Batman Theme’ - the album, was apparently released in 1966. (Design, DLP-249) For this writer, only five years old at the time, the record would provide inspiration of a sort that outlasted the ABC-TV series, my childhood and the 20^th Century.

As a kid, listening to records on my own was a high privilege.

Whenever I could commandeer the family Slivertone ‘Hi-Fi’ for a personal session, my sense of accomplishment soared. But I quickly grew tired of the Disney songs that had been procured for my use. Surreptitiously, I would dip into my father’s vinyl stash. It was a moment of gained awareness that led me down the path toward distant adulthood.

The diversity of his records indicated an open mind on music and culture. He had recorded work by Little Richard, Fats Domino, Spike Jones, Woody Guthrie… even Andy Griffith. I soaked up each ration of sound with the eagerness of a youthful student. At school, teachers and friends would talk about pop songs of the day. When asked for my own favorites, some of these names would resound in response. I often got long stares and deep breaths in return. Heads would shake.

“Where did you come from?” was a question I heard over and over again.

I have no idea why or when the Batman relic entered our household collection. Though it seems likely that my father saw it in the bargain bin somewhere and thought it would provide a detour from the typical children’s fare in our record rack. I am not sure if my brother or sister paid much attention to the LP. But for me, it had a lasting impact. Along with Frankie Stein And His Ghouls ‘Monster Melodies’ which was a horror-themed collection, I gained much by listening and learning.

Frankie Stein had been another ‘novelty’ act, which ran a bit longer in duration. At least five albums and numerous 45s were released under this pseudonym. The music was timely and very upbeat. From an adult perspective, I treasured each track of garage-band goodness. A classic formula was in employed: guitar, bass, drums and saxophone. Some compositions were obvious clones of Beatles tunes. Hoots, growls, shrieks, chain-rattles and ominous thuds accompanied each song. It was faux-spooky and minimal, but worked. At the age of five, I snickered over being allowed to listen at all. Some five decades later, I smiled with nostalgic pride.

In that bygone era, it was a common practice to release such ‘knock-off’ albums that were inspired by popular groups, programs, movies, dances, fads and any sort of youthful rebellion. These vinyl platters often had little or no actual connection to the subject at hand. They offered instrumental tunes with fanciful titles. And group names artfully created out of thin air to disguise studio musicians who cranked out the product for a quick dollar. The music contained in these grooves could vary in quality, depending on the company responsible.

The ‘Batboys’ sounded like a capable group of musicians-for-hire, recruited to fulfill the concept. Yet their work captured the campy vibe of the television series with authenticity. Especially for young listeners.

Neal Hefti had provided the template, with a theme score that was iconic because of its simplicity. The song was covered by many groups and artists of the period – everyone from Nelson Riddle to Link Wray. Literally interpreted and re-interpreted by dozens of popular acts. The ‘Batboys’ version may have offered little more than a footnote to the craze inspired by Adam West and Burt Ward on television. But at the age of five, I was content to listen and enjoy.

The track listing read like titles from an episode of the series:

Batman Theme 2:00

Mighty Mayhem 1:59

Cheatin’ Charlie 3:26

Uppercut Blues 1:58

Fight Flight 3:09

The Villain Strikes 2:12

Out With The In Crowd 2:11

Behind The 8 Ball 2:13

Mars Visitor 2:20

It’s Murder! 2:27

Though childhood habits soon disappeared with my own march toward puberty, the Batman record retained its influence. This album had two important effects on my own listening habits as I grew older. First, I was inspired to seek out instrumental recordings by ‘real’ groups and performers. The Ventures, Shadows, Tornados, Marketts, Chantays, Duane Eddy, Link Wray and Davie Allan & The Arrows. A second inclination was to collect the sort of album which the ‘Sensational Batboys’ release represented. The kind of quick-money, ‘fad’ LPs that seemed most prevalent in 1960’s culture.

While many of these records were forgettable if entertaining, some, like the De-fender’s ‘Drag Beat’ achieved a sort of iconic obscurity. This group featured legendary studio hawk Tommy Tedesco, a guitarist of much renown. I used to read his monthly column in Guitar Player Magazine.

My New York friend and collector guru Paul Race, Jr. had been in a local group called ‘The Savoys.’ (They were famously so named for a Plymouth automobile.) Paul offered a great deal of insight and information on the genre, which crested just before the historic ‘British Invasion’ of popular music. Unlike other, more pretentious friends, he found nothing askew in my retained passion for the quirky Batman LP.

Many years after the album first entered my consciousness, I found blog posts and You Tube clips relating to the release. Only then did I realize that other souls had been equally touched by this odd relic.

Much like the ‘Bat Signal’ depicted in the original comic series, this vinyl artifact had sent out a beacon of Rock & Roll hope to listeners around the world. One which, for myself, had echoed since that primal day of discovery in 1966.

Links:

“Batman Theme” - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjtMQ91l1vs

“Uppercut Blues” - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAb9yDyvfPc

“Cheatin’ Charlie” - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrNwCwOlujM

“The Villain Strikes” - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYE49fTz110

W.O.J. Blog Post - http://wayoutjunk.blogspot.com/2007/03/batman-theme-by-bat-boys.html

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Walking”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

My friend Janis lives near Lake Erie.

Her house is what locals in my area often refer to as a ‘Century Home.’ One at least 100 years old, or more. In genteel places like Chardon or Burton, this would mean some form of recognition from the community. Perhaps a plaque placed near the entrance door. But no such accolades adorn her rural abode. It is simply a hand-me-down from her grandmother. One rich with memories that outweigh any sort of cultural history.

Because her residence is situated on a country lane south of the lake traffic, we are able to walk and converse without many distractions. In summer months this means plenty of time spent breathing the fragrances of nature and enjoying a bit of exercise. I have to use a cane for these adventures, because of bad knees and a wounded left hip. But the benefit is worth battling my own creaky disposition.

In this quiet setting, Janis usually talks about workplace happenings, followed by episodes of her favorite television series, ‘The Walking Dead.’ Then, with her mind wandering, she begins to ask questions. These verbal keys unlock the door to genuine ‘deep’ conversation:

“There is an old guy at work who keeps talking about Trump,” she observes. “Drain the swamp. Get on his train. Make America great again!”

I nod without speaking.

“You don’t babble things like that!” she says.

“Ummm… no,” I agree.

“You aren’t a Trumper?” she laughs.

“No,” I reply. “Not part of the regular political paradigm on any level. I tend to think along lines not proscribed by the major parties. Conservative with resources, liberal with individual freedom. Unconcerned with controlling anything else.”

“Not a sheeple?” she laughs again.

“Right!” I cheer.

“So what am I?” she wonders aloud.

From anyone else, such a comment might simply reflect a lack of genuine interest in the political system. But Janis is a complicated woman. Nothing about her can be termed ‘typical’ in any way. So I am intrigued by the question.

“Democrat? Republican? None of the above?” I ask.

She shakes her head, making the sunlight sparkle from her long, red hair. “Granny never said a lot about politics. I don’t vote. They all seem like hucksters to me. Just leave me alone and let me live my life.”

“That almost sounds… Libertarian,” I grin.

“A what-it-tarian?” she snorts.

“Libertarian,” I repeat. “Someone who believes in the two-sided coin of individual liberty and individual responsibility. Do your own thing. Don’t get in the way of someone else doing theirs. What my second wife would express with the Wiccan Creed. ‘Harm none, do what ye will.’”

“That sounds right,” she nods. “So, I’m a Wiccan Libertarian.”

I laugh out loud. “Are you?”

“I don’t know!” she cries.

“It is astounding to me that in a diverse and rich nation like America, we had Trump and Mrs. Clinton running for office,” I declare. “Surely there could have been a better option. Bernie Sanders made it clear that voters were seeking a different choice, for example. Even the election of Trump was a clear statement of discontent among the electorate. Some were willing to simply throw a grenade in the voting booth and watch things explode.”

“The old guy at work loves him,” she says.

“Even with all the controversy?” I wonder.

“He thinks every bad story is fake news,” she continues. “Snowflakes everywhere. Snowflakes! Snowflakes! I do not care. I just want him to shut up.”

“Right,” I say. “It must give you a headache.”

“I just want to finish my day at work so I can go home and have my Cherry Coke and watch my soap operas!” she explains.

“Soap operas?” I gasp.

“Yes!” she says.

I am out of breath. “You watch soap operas… and zombie shows like TWD?”

“They are ‘walkers’ not zombies,” she scolds. “Get it right.”

“Walkers… like we are out walking today?” I tease.

“A different kind of walker, you silly goose!” she frowns. “Stop being an ass.”

A gaggle of wild geese fly overhead. I look up with surprise. “Are you going to tell them to stop being asses, too?”

Janis narrows her eyes. “Stop getting your man-panties in a bunch. I like what I like. I don’t have to explain it or defend it. I like Daryl Dixon killing walkers with his crossbow. I also like Bob Ross painting fluffy clouds. Okay? I collect skulls and bones and… Beanie Babies.”

I am out of breath again. “You go your own way.”

“Yes!” she shouts. “Another old guy I see at work tries to preach to me about his religion. I like him but don’t want to hear that stuff. I think it is all made up.”

I stop walking for a moment and close my eyes. “That… is a very personal choice. Whether or not to have faith in the unseen and if so, what form that faith may take… there are many different interpretations of that concept.”

“This old guy thinks women should wear a dress like June Cleaver and stay in the kitchen,” she complains. “Not me! Not meeeeee!”

Words spill out of my mouth before there is time to control their arrival. “I think you would look cute in a 50’s dress. And a string of pearls.”

“BITE ME!” she growls.

“Just an observation,” I apologize.

“Men are predators!” she says. “Dogs in heat! All of you!”

I lean on my cane, pausing once again. “Well, I’m an old dog. A lame dog. It’s the front porch for me. No chasing anything or anyone.”

“That’s why I like you,” she giggles, shifting moods. “You are a well-behaved dog.”

“Years of practice,” I observe.

We have reached the end of her road. She notices a group of frogs jumping into water standing in the ditch by our feet. I am amused by the sight of a Pabst Blue Ribbon can, hidden in the grass. The sun is beginning to drop low, in the sky.

“We can walk again tomorrow,” she smiles. “You need to keep moving. My ‘Work Mom’ says it will keep you from being stuck in a wheelchair. I don’t want to push you up and down this road.”

As always, I wonder what is going on inside her head. But my mouth is back under control. “I am glad you care!”

“Care?” she squawks. “That would mean having feelings. Yucky yuck. I DON’T HAVE THOSE!”

“Of course not,” I agree.

Our walk is over. But tomorrow will bring another chance to wander and converse.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent