i am sitting in my office before breakfast, part of what as become my daily routine with way too many “daily routines” lately. i have put away last night’s dishes; retrieved, sorted (sports pages, though little newsprint these days; and comics for me, and all of the bad news for Maureen); placed the newspaper on the breakfast table; opened the blinds to welcome the sun and see if the hummingbirds are humming around the sage outside the window; set said table; put Maureen’s “frother” and all of her three hundred and thirty-six things she puts it in the coffee near the coffeemaker, which she uses for her less expensive coffee because of all those things she will put in it; ground my beans, put the coarse grind into the press, poured in the steaming water; and retreated, with the press and cup in hand so after four minutes of steeping, i can have fresh coffee, untouched by three hundred and thirty-six ingredients.

i have checked the weather (and it’s Southwest corner glorious for a change as we are apparently pulling out of this protracted, record breaking rainy season, which has dumped three times the average amount so far this year, even though we have one more (i hope) rainy weekend ahead of us; read Wiley Miller’s daily “Non Sequitur” comic strip because our paper’s editor had his nose tweaked when Miller had an inappropriate something in one strip and didn’t tell the editor, so it was pulled about nine months ago but i need my daily fix; checked my email and Facebook; recorded today’s “to-do” list; and am already ignoring that list because i’m writing this.

And i’m feeling guilty.

One of the worse things about commentary, especially sports and political commentary, is when talking heads and writer’s propound something, especially when it makes them look like an expert, and subsequently, their profounding is proven wrong, they don’t own up to it, don’t point it out, or put a twist on it to make it seem like they were correct or they simply ignore it.

Guilty. At least three counts. Until now. Ah heck, maybe two of those should have been “nolo contendere” pleas, which is one of the most waffling legal terms in existence.

My most recent gaffe was yesterday when i spoke of Gorgeous George jumping 24 folding chairs. i woke up in the middle of the night and thought, “Hmm, a folding chair is probably close to three feet from front to back, so…24 of them would be about 72 feet long. Hmm…since the record long jump for some of the top athletes in the world, one of which is one of my favorites Ralph Boston, is not quite 30 feet, i’m pretty sure Gorgeous didn’t jump 24. Small chairs: nope. Bad memory? Too much beer? Old age? Maybe. Somehow 24 stuck i my mind. To be accurate, i don’t remember, i’m guessing maybe six. Don’t know.

i apologize for the exaggeration, something i have never heard a sports color man  ever do — They like to call themselves “analysts” but then they are the idiots who constantly use the term “physicality” incorrectly because someone else used it, and they thought it made them seem smarter, and that bugs me too, but it ain’t just sports guys: some bozo PR guy for one Chief of Naval Operations came up with the term “warfighter,” which is nonsensical and the perfect word “warrior” became almost non-existent because every other flag and every other boot licker (and i cleaned that up) thought it was cool and it became THE word in every military briefing and speech.

Back to the point at hand, i apologize.

The next gaffe was definitely my faulty memory in old age acting up. Mike Dixon caught me on my adjunct post about hard hit baseballs. i was convinced Les Peden, the player-manager of the New Orleans Pelicans hit that home run that came back in. i thought it was Dick Shively doing the call. But when i checked myself, Peden never played for or managed the Pelicans. He played a year or two for the Arkansas Travelers and it was after Larry Munson had taken over for Shively as the Nashville Vols announcer. Mike corrected me in an email, citing a Nashville Banner photo of Joe Margoneri, a pitcher for the Vols as the guy who hit the homer.

i should have a better fact checker. i apologize.

The final wrong is the one i wish to correct more than the others. i disagreed with many folks making a hero out of Capt. Brett Crozier, the commanding officer of the USS Roosevelt, who wrote a non-classified request for essentially quarantining his ship’s personnel because of an outbreak of the covid-19 virus. As of today, there apparently was no dire possibility of military action in the region, and more importantly, Crozier did make an effort to go through his chain of command before going public.

i am disappointed he was put in such a situation. Now, the Navy, with egg all over its face, has done exactly what Crozier requested. From my Navy experience, fealty to the chain of command is extremely important, but Crozier was faced with a classic example of situational ethics. He chose to do what he believed was the right thing to do, and for that, he should be a hero.

i hope he recovers from the dreaded pandemic himself. i also hope he is not persuaded by the money and fame from either side of politics or a huge grunch of the media to run for office or become a talking head. i’m sure some yahoo in Hollywood is already working on a movie and will seek him to be an advisor. It’s just sad. The Navy goofed big time, and it is my belief, it’s a focus on career and political advancement, not the mission, which it should be.

i apologize Captain Crozier, and i hope he gets well soon.

For the future, i will attempt to be more accurate in checking my memories and more circumspect in expressing my opinions. Unlike  those talking heads (and many others), i try to learn from my mistakes and improve, not always successfully.

And sadly as i lean back in my desk chair, i realize i should have been clicking my seat button and leaning back, oh, about three inches, to rest on my flight from Nashville back to the Southwest corner. Today would have been the conclusion of a grand trip back home and an even more desired visit with my grandson, daughter, and son-in-law in Austin.

Didn’t happen. It will, but today, i am sad it hasn’t already occurred.

Take care.

A part of my sheltered routine is to repair to my workshop in the garage in the late afternoon, usually with a Lagunitas Little Sumpin’. i sit down at the desk my father made Sarah about 25 years ago, and turn on the record player to convert my LP’s (the 45 RPMs have been addressed years ago) to digital and put them in my music library. It’s tough to decide what to record next.

But this afternoon, i simply selected the next album i had put in a pile from a random pull out of the enclosed cabinet i made for them out of scrap lumber almost 50 years ago. The reveries went further back.

The album was Hank Crawford’s “Midnight Ramble.” Usually i have about twenty small tasks to take care of and attend to them while recording. But not this afternoon. No, i stopped and just listened. i wandered around in places i had not been in some time.

There are some jazz snobs who don’t like this album because it’s not “cutting edge.” They are clueless (jazz snobs, audiophiles, and wine snobs drive me to distraction with their posturing). Those who don’t like this album are folks who don’t like jazz roots, the blues, or are really jazz snobs.

Regardless, i was in my world far away. The album notes describe a place  i’ve never been and is not the same anymore. Beale Street in Memphis before it became a celebrity and tourist attraction was mean and low and blues, then rhythm and blues, and the roots of jazz. It produced the knock your socks off, feel it down in the gut,  stuff before it went to fandom. B.B. King, Bobby “Blue” Bland, Junior Walker.  Hell, the guy who hosted the after midnight shows at the Palace Theater was Rufus Thomas, the deejay for the Memphis black station on your dial and singer who did the “funky chicken” and was “walking the dog.” He also, “Gee Whiz” brought us his daughter Carla. And those jazz guys, Dizzy Gillespie, Cab Calloway, Billy Eckstine, Percy Mayfield, and Johnny Ace. It was jazz but it was soul.

And he kept on growing, playing with Ray Charles five years straddling the 50’s and 60’s. Then he took some stuff from Charlie Parker, Louis Jordan, Earl Bostic and Johnny Hodges. Lord, i could listen to them forever and forever. Soul. Jazz.

And this album includes others: Dr. John, Calvin Newborne, David Fathead Newman, Howard Johnson. Whoa!

Listening, i was initially sad. i never went to the Palace Theater. i have never been to Beale Street.  Heck, i spent one weekend of American Legion Baseball there in ’61 and have passed through more times than i count. But never really stopped.

Then, as i listened to “Midnight Ramble” saluting Rufus Thomas’ show by that name that began after midnight at the Palace, i had experienced something similar, very similar.

i don’t know how it started. i’m guessing Cy Fraser had learned of it, and being then and now one of the greatest sources for information on music, any kind of music, he got us going there. i know that almost every time i went, which was somewhere around thirty or forty times, Cy and i, with a variety of others, somewhere between two and six in number, were together.

It wasn’t Memphis. It was Nashville. It wasn’t Beale Street. It was Jefferson Street. And it wasn’t the Palace Theater. It was the New Club Baron. i suspect it was a significantly smaller venue that the Palace. There weren’t as many big names regularly performing. Occasionally, a more famous performer would stop by after a show downtown. One of my all time favorite experiences was when Otis Redding dropped in after a big Rock ‘n Roll Review in the Nashville Municipal Auditorium. Otis put on a full show, and it was incredible, perhaps the best i saw out of the four times i saw him perform.

A regular performer at the New Club Baron was a character who went by “Gorgeous George,” definitely not the same as the professional wrestler. This Gorgeous George was even featured on a late night television show on one of the three channels in Nashville — late night back those days was eleven to midnight and then your television screen was filled with the logo featuring the Native American chief until sometime in the morning.

George the gorgeous was a good rhythm and blues singer. He was ahead of his time. His instrument was a homemade electronic keyboard before they became de riguer for almost every kind of band. He had created it on an ironing board. It was a sight to behold George playing his keyboard.

He also was an athlete. As his show wound down at the New Club Baron, the crowd would clear the center aisle and line up on each side. Someone would put a couple of folding chairs in the aisle. With the music still playing and George still singing and dancing, he would leave his keyboard, nee ironing board on the stage, dance to the chairs and jump over them, landing in a split. He would bounce up, dance back to the front and someone would add a chair to the line. George would jump the three chairs. This would continue with the fans getting louder and chanting “Gorgeous George” with each added chair and following jump.

In two shows, i saw him jump 24 chairs, end to end. The crowd went wild both times. The second time, i saw this feat it was over Christmas Vacation. A friend, to be unnamed  here who was going to college out of state, had joined us. When George began the chair routine with everybody clapping and yelling his name, we, as inebriated as everyone else at three in the morning in a nightclub, joined the line and were in front on one side of the aisle. i was next to my friend, and he was next to a very large woman who had jumped up on another folding chair. Everyone had their arms around each other’s shoulders. We were singing, laughing, clapping and yelling George’s name.

i looked around as George began one of his jumps. The woman on the chair pulled her arms together in front of her, pulling my friend’s head along with her arms. When i looked his face was scrunched up against her breast. When Gorgeous completed his leap, the lady would let go, but when George jumped again, my friend’s face would once again be scrunched into those ample breasts. This lasted for about a half dozen chair leaps.

It was certainly a big addition to the show.

What i discovered during those midnight to four a.m. shows (and a couple of additions that are stories unto themselves) was these people were great. They were a lot like us. There were a few who thought these white (yes, i still hate that incorrect term) boys were intruders, but not many. A significant number of the crowd would wave at us, say hello, even clap, and several would join our table every time we went. Whoa. They were just like us.

i found myself angry at, not the difference. No, the difference was magic. Their life experience and those of their heritage, so awful in many forms of mistreatment, had created something beautiful, soulful, different, and the blues would not only foster rhythm and blues, but many forms of jazz. No, i was angry there was separation. That i couldn’t experience that kind of soul, that honesty, that politically incorrect way of looking at life on a regular basis. i was angry i couldn’t share my life experience with them.

And we keep trying to bridge the gap. We have “white” bands playing blues. We have jazz. We have mixed racial groups in every genre of music. We now play sports together. Maybe, maybe, we are learning a little bit about equality, about equality not being sameness but something greater. Maybe. But i’m not too optimistic.

i do know this. The New Club Baron is gone. From my limited checking, apparently the Palace is also gone. And the blues as i knew it is gone. There’s a lot of good blues out there, really good, even more polished, more intricate, more “edgy” as a jazz snob might describe.

Those blues folks from Bessie Smith, Willie Dixon, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and on and on and on sang with the intensity of their soul, their experience. That’s missing…almost gone.

But Hank Crawford captured it. It’s on display here in this album. You can hear it. You can feel it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36HUB3Qiy8M

Or as Albert King, “Born Under a Bad Sign” once said, “Can You Dig it?”

It is difficult to read. After all, it is a carbon copy of California Highway Patrol ticket from 1974.

i found it when i opened a book from my bookshelf, and it fell out. i wasn’t sure what it was until i saw the date. i remembered instantly.

January 6, 1974. It was four days after President Nixon signed the bill to limit the speed on the nation’s highway to 55 miles per hour. It was a Sunday. We were relaxing in Navy Officer Housing in San Pedro, a suburb of Los Angeles. I was Chief Engineer on the USS Hollister (DD 788), a FRAM destroyer homeported there. And believe me, a Chief Engineer of a reserve FRAM destroyer needs a break every once in a while.

Earlier, my lifelong friend, Earl Major, had come by to say goodbye. Earl and i had reconnected at the department head course at the “Destroyer School” in Newport, Rhode Island the previous year after a dozen years of losing touch. We grew up together. Happily, we were both assigned to ships out of Long Beach. He had relieved as Weapons Officer of the USS Fox (CG 33), which at the time was in overhaul at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard — All of that Navy facility is gone. Terminal Island, the Port of Long Beach and the adjoining Port of Los Angeles, one of the largest container ship ports combined in the world — but the overhaul was over, the ship had returned to its homeport of San Diego, and Earl had checked out of his apartment that morning to drive to San Diego in his ’67  Porsche 911s.

My wife, my daughter, and i would miss him. He had stayed with Blythe on numerous occasions and stayed at our with pets when we went on long trips. i was not yet aware we would be joining him in San Diego in about a year when i was transferred from the Hollister to become the first lieutenant on the USS Anchorage (LSD 36).

So we relaxed for about an hour when the phone rang. It was Earl calling from a phone booth in Irvine. The Porsche had stopped running as he approached the I-5 and I-405 merge, and the car was on the median in between the merge. He asked me to come and help. i explained to Kathie, kissed my daughter, and grabbed some line (“rope” to you landlubbers), threw it in the back of our Toyota Corona station wagon, and headed South on 405. There was no traffic: amazing for someone who now must drive on the 120-mile traffic jam that exists 24/7 nowadays. i reached the merge in a little over a half-hour.

And there in the middle of the median was Ear’s burnt orange Porsche with Earl standing outside.

i pulled next to him, got out, and we discussed his options. i don’t know why we didn’t use AAA or call a tow truck, but perhaps it was difficult to get a tow truck; we didn’t have AAA back then; or Earl only had enough change to make one call. Remember this was 1974 and calling while on the road was a whole different ball game. Regardless, we stood there and strategized with me informing Earl about the line (rope) in the back.

The next exit was not quite a mile away. We decided to push the Porsche with my station wagon. We stationed the cars, and when no traffic was coming from either interstate, i carefully and slowly pushed Earl and the Porsche across to the I-5 South shoulder and began to creep toward the exit.

That is when the CHP black and white cruiser pulled up behind me and turned on his blinking lights. i thought it was nice of him to protect us from cars coming up from behind.

But he pulled beside me and motioned for us to stop. i did. About a quarter mile or less from the exit ramp. He read us the riot act about how unsafe it was to push a car on an interstate as the three of us stood outside the cars. Then he pulled out that pad from his back pocket or one of the two thousand other pockets and holsters those guys have hanging on their person. He took down all of my information, including my address from Watertown, New York (i had not had to re-register in California because of the rules for the military and duty station changes).

Then he got to the  part for recording the violation. He seem puzzled. He went back to the patrol car and pulled out a book and began flipping through the pages. He quit flipping and made a call on his radio. There was a long discussion. In about five minutes, another patrol car pulls up, and the two CHP officers began a discussion while Earl and i are wondering what is up. Several minutes later, another patrol car arrives. This one apparently was the other two officers supervisor. They talk some more. Then another patrol car pulls up. Finally, there are six patrol cars on the shoulder along with the Porsche, the Corona, and Earl and i. The officers are in deep discussion until the original guy, the one i thought was protecting us, walks over and hands me the carbon copy of the ticket while the five other cars disburse at more than the new speed limit. He explains how to settle the ticket, and he too speeds off.

Now being bright Navy officers (that doesn’t apply to the pushing episode), we decide since we can’t push the car the remaining distance to the ramp, we could pull it. So we do any boatswainmate proud and latch up the Porsche front bumper to  my Corona rear tow hitch with the line (rope) i had put in the car.

We safely (?) pull the car to the ramp exit. Miraculously, we check the phone book and find a foreign sports car maintenance shop, OPEN on Sunday morning, within a couple of blocks. Earl explains the problem, the mechanic projects Wednesday as the repaired date.

i take Earl back to our house and he gets a shipmate from the Fox who is also moving that day to give him a ride to San Diego. Before he leaves, Earl offers to pay the fine, but i insist we split it. Reading the ticket thoroughly, we realize the phalanx of CHP officers had given me a ticket for speeding at two miles an hour in a 55 mph zone. There is also no option to simply pay. i am required to appear in court. Earl insists he come up and go with me to testify. Kathie agrees to go with us and serve as a character witness if necessary.

The next week, i get the court date Long Beach municipal court house. The original date in January was changed and written in felt tip pen at the bottom is the new time and room number:  “14 February, RM 203/5:45 to 6:45.”

Earl drives up that afternoon. We decide to wear suit and ties rather than our uniforms. Kathie dresses nicely and conservatively to match us. We arrive and report to the clerk in 203. There are about a dozen clerk windows but we still have to wait for about ten minutes. When i get to the window and relinquish my ticket, the clerk looks at it and begins to laugh hysterically, sharing it with the clerks in the two adjoining windows. She then turns to me and tells me not to worry, that the ticket will never stand up in court.

We report to the courtroom and sit down with about 100 other offenders. We are the only three dressed as if you would think someone would dress to appear in court. Shaggy and dirty was the predominant style. There were a few “casual” dressers as well.

The judge arrives and the the session begins. About a half dozen culprits stand before the judge before i am called. i march to the front after i tell Earl and Kathie i will call them when they are needed. i think i will call Earl early and hope we don’t have to resort to calling Kathie as a witness as that would likely mean i was in deep trouble.

i look up at the judge as he reads the ticket.

“What’s the hell is this?” he snorts. Then he reads the two miles per hour in a fifty-five zone to the bailiff and asking him if had any idea what happened. It dawned on me the bailiff was one of the six officers at the scene in the discussion about what i should be charged.

“Speeding! At two miles an hour,” he snorts again. The bailiff is now trying to muffle his laugh and not doing very well. The judge asks and receives my explanation. He mumbles. He pulls out this huge legal-looking book and pores through it for a while.

He complains if it wasn’t a violation, it should be.

He goes through the big book one more time and obviously exasperated, turns to me and says, “Charges dismissed.”

That was it.

Earl, Kathie, and i leave the courthouse and go have a nice dinner before Earl leaves for San Diego and we head back to San Pedro.

And the sad part is Earl and Kathie never had the chance to be eloquent in front of the judge, and i didn’t get to tell him (i planned a smirk while doing so) how safely we pulled the Porsche off the interstate with a line…you know, a rope.