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?”