WTF?!

“The bases, all in former Confederate states, were named with input from locals in the Jim Crow era.”

Why are Army bases named after Confederates? – The Washington Post

Fort Benning in Georgia, the home of Army infantry and airborne training, is named after Brig. Gen. Henry Benning, who led troops at Antietam and Gettysburg. In remarks in 1861 laying out slavery as the reason for secession, Benning warned that abolition would lead to “black governors, black legislatures, black juries, black everything. Is it to be supposed that the white race will stand for that?”

“Three of the biggest bases in the United States are named after Confederate leaders, including some who were famously inept.“

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Some things haven’t changed (1971)

Today’s Black Lives Matter demonstrations bring deju vu for veterans of 1971 protests – The Washington Post

The New York Times noted: “The more important innovation was the use of mass arrests to clear the streets and detain demonstrators, even for hours after the city was calm. Many of yesterday’s record 7,000 arrests, it was clear this morning, were dragnet captures of people who had had nothing to do with the demonstrations.”

The Atheist's Pulpit

Appreciating Connections

A tentative connection formed in my mind. One piece was a NPR story about CPE Bach, whom I had never  heard of. I felt the speaker’s appreciation for this Bach — I dare say, I appreciated his appreciation in a way that echoed later, with an article about an Edward Hopper picture I might not have looked at twice, certainly not with the eye of the reviewer, or his enthusiasm. Why, I wondered, do these pieces seem different from countless others I read every day?

 

Is my reaction connected to the way my neighbors speak to each other now? No longer the quick “how’s it going?” as we pass each other, but a more concerned “how are you coping?” paired with a pause and eye contact. Mind you, we are not “essential,” which is to say, we are comfortable and safe, so why the concern? What has changed — what’s gone or arrived that makes us appreciate … more.

Who does this guy think he is?

Mugshots

When I was a kid, my dad developed the habit of bringing me beer mugs as he went on business trips. (That didn’t seem the least bit odd, at the time.) Eventually, I picked up the habit of buying beer mugs on trips of my own. At its peak, my collection numbered over 100. I displayed many of them in bookcases. I washed them once or twice a year. 

Decades ago, decades after the habit started, I got rid of most of them. I kept a few mostly for their beauty and potential value (doubtful). I know where a couple of these originated. Here are a few.

Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Who does this guy think he is?

The Night Eisenhower Died

General Dwight David Eisenhower died the morning of March 28, 1969 in Washington, DC. I was soon to be 14 years old. The night before he died, something extraordinary happened, something I’m remembering 51 years later.

 

I doubt that at the time of his death, I appreciated how respected and beloved Eisenhower was. It would be decades before I knew of his vision for the Interstate Highway system (mixed blessing / blunt instrument that it was). Even longer before I heard his warnings against the Military-Industrial-Congressional Complex (why is that 3rd leg always forgotten?). That warning is more relevant today.

 

But none of this mattered to me at the time. What mattered was something unprecedented, something you can’t imagine in this age of 24 hour media choices. In those days, TV signed off, went off the air, each night, posting a bizarre image and blaring an awful tone to wake anyone tired enough — or drunk enough — to fall asleep with the tv on. Static ruled the night.

 

But not this night. For the first time, not just in my life but ever, TV stayed on to be ready to tell the nation whenever Eisenhower died. I don’t remember how I knew this was going to happen. I was a child of television (and CocaCola) and my biological parents indulged me in many ways, including letting me stay up this night.

 

To fill the hours, my DC-area station broadcast movie after movie after movie — did I stay up all night? There was Gypsy and Auntie Mame, both masterpieces with Rosalind Russell. Was this the first time I saw Goodbye Charlie or Some Like It Hot (Tony Curtis in both)? Or John Goldfarb, Please Come Home or What A Way to Go (Shirley McClaine and Dick Van Dyke — “Hop. Hop. Hop to Hoppers.”) Some of these must have been on other afternoons, after Dark Shadows, no doubt. (I hear the theme to the Early Show as I write this.) They couldn’t all have been on that night. (I’m sure about Auntie Mame.)

 

But, Grandpa, why this random synaptic dump now? Well, we may run out of TP and ammo, but we never could have imagined running out of media. It’s everywhere, so much so, one can binge and binge and binge while they crank out more. Perhaps you remember the Writers’ Strike? (And Dr Horrible?) While everyone everywhere holds their breath, the Industry does, too. How long before there is figuratively “nothing to watch”?

 

So, while you scan online for hand sanitizer, I’m stockpiling beloved films. It’s a life-long list. Perhaps, I’ll save On The Beach for last.

"It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds." — Sam Adams