LeBron James, 31 years old, a 6 ft 8 in basketball superstar for the Cleveland Cavaliers, may just be the bravest politician on the American landscape.
LeBron James began his career as a Cleveland Cavalier but departed the team with the goal of increasing his chances of winning a NBA championship. He famously conspired with Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh to sign with the Miami Heat. LeBron James, Wade and Bosh won several NBA titles (2011-2013) with the Miami Heat but the success never completely silenced the critics.
LeBron James then made a gutsy, selfless decision-- he would return to Cleveland with the goal to win a NBA championship for a city that had not seen a championship since the Cleveland Browns won the NFL championship in 1964. Seems like James wanted to bring a measure of joy and pride back to his home state of Ohio!
LeBron paid a price for his quixotic goal. The pressure he felt surfaced when tears rolled down his face a few nights ago, the 7th game won and the championship earned.
How many politicians have put their career on the line to achieve such an daring goal-- one with stakes so high and chances for success so unlikely? Don't underestimate the odds against success. Just a few weeks ago... the Golden State Warriors seemed to be a dynasty, a juggernaut of superstar players. The Warriors had just completed a record-breaking season of 73 wins.
LeBron James made an audacious choice when be bet on himself and the city of Cleveland. Those of us of a certain age.... recall quarterback Joe Willie Namath's guarantee of a Super Bowl victory for the New York Jets of the upstart American Football League. LeBron never guaranteed a NBA title-- because such a guarantee would have been shaky at best. His achievement surpasses Namath and the Jets-- bringing to an underdog city, not just an underdog team.
Here's to King James or maybe President James or Senator James... a political leader in an era when sports/entertainment/politics all blend to a single entity. A politician is supposed to represent and support a geo-political entity-- like the state of Ohio. LeBron James raised the morale of a city and entire state. Sure he achieved his goal by using basketball talent and willpower but he achieved something akin to a political victory for his constituents.
Kanye West, a music talent, joked about a plan on running for president-- but when did Kanye do something for somebody else? LeBron James should be the one to consider politics as his Plan B career.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Friday, June 10, 2016
Janis Joplin and "Me and Bobby McGee"
We just watched a Netflix doc on Janis Joplin called Janis: Little Girl Blue. She was a Port Arthur resident. My wife went to high school with Janis's younger brother Mike and they were exactly 10 years younger than Janis. She died in 1970, soon after attending her 10th high school reunion in Port Arthur.
The film actually had interview footage of Janis Joplin at her 10th high school Reunion. That footage made me a bit sad. She seemed to struggle to get her ideas out, like she still felt shy even though she had fame that extended around the world. Kind of like she returned to the scene of the crime, her high school experiences, and really could not shake the feeling.
Interesting too that Paul Rothschild the producer who did "Me and Bobby McGee" with her had insights into her singing ability. He thought Janis had immense talent that maybe even she did not fully understand. I got the sense she could sing with phenomenal skill-- but the emotions were so strong they concealed her singing ability. Rothschild succeeded in opening her performance up with Bobby McGee-- and in that song there are more nuances of emotion than in her previous work. Apparently she was thrilled with the results.
The film actually had interview footage of Janis Joplin at her 10th high school Reunion. That footage made me a bit sad. She seemed to struggle to get her ideas out, like she still felt shy even though she had fame that extended around the world. Kind of like she returned to the scene of the crime, her high school experiences, and really could not shake the feeling.
Interesting too that Paul Rothschild the producer who did "Me and Bobby McGee" with her had insights into her singing ability. He thought Janis had immense talent that maybe even she did not fully understand. I got the sense she could sing with phenomenal skill-- but the emotions were so strong they concealed her singing ability. Rothschild succeeded in opening her performance up with Bobby McGee-- and in that song there are more nuances of emotion than in her previous work. Apparently she was thrilled with the results.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Summer Nights in Queens, New York (1959)
My parents told me we were moving to a "middle class housing project" in Queens. I guess they were right. The Arverne Houses, a series of 6-story red brick buildings, stood between the Atlantic Ocean and Jamaica Bay. The jets out of Idlewild Airport, later to be named JFK, flew overhead with great frequency. The noise didn't bother me. Actually it felt like freedom and power. Our family left crowded Manhattan for Far Rockaway and began a new life in these wide open spaces. The smell of sea air lingered all around.
On summer nights the kids would all gather around a grassy area, demarcated by chain link fences. Our building, 353 Beach 54th St., loomed nearby. My parent could summon me by shouting from the window of apartment 3E. The windows had steel frames. The utilitarian apartment buildings were built to last and they continue to last to the present day.
The kids, almost 90% Jewish, along with a few Catholic families and a sprinkling of African-American kids, found summer nights a good time for staging mock track meets. We had the animal strength of youth. We would circle that grassy patch, an asymmetrical oval, running and competing for stamina more than speed. Who could make the circle 10 times? 20 times? 30 times? We would walk the tops of the chain link fences like tightrope walkers, just to burn off energy and impress each other.
Ten years old and the pre-pubescent hormones had started to kick in. Who was out to impress? Myra, maybe Myrna or maybe Tina, all crushes from my sixth grade class. My best friends were three Jewish kids, Ira, the son of a bartender, and Larry, an Orthodox kid, and Joey, whose father had a tattoo signifying his survival of the concentration camps in Germany. The memory lingers, burned into my consciousness, a sold pillar of youth. Finally we would retreat back to our apartments. This was our America, red bricks, egalitarian, full of crazy kids games like Ringolevio and Johnny-On-The-Pony. One big kid named Eisenberg could not be brought down in Ringolevio-- maybe a future fullback for Far Rockaway High School?
We broke into teams for Johnny-On-The-Pony and the pony was a fire hydrant. The goal, pile as many teammates as possible on top of each other with the fire hydrant as a center of gravity to support all of us.
Feels like a Jack Kerouac vision before I knew about On The Road or had much of an inkling of west of the Mississippi. The innocence of youth, a Fifties America. I loved everything-- Mickey Mantle, the United Nations and the Disney TV show on Sunday nights. My frontier land stood just outside the apartment building.
On summer nights the kids would all gather around a grassy area, demarcated by chain link fences. Our building, 353 Beach 54th St., loomed nearby. My parent could summon me by shouting from the window of apartment 3E. The windows had steel frames. The utilitarian apartment buildings were built to last and they continue to last to the present day.
The kids, almost 90% Jewish, along with a few Catholic families and a sprinkling of African-American kids, found summer nights a good time for staging mock track meets. We had the animal strength of youth. We would circle that grassy patch, an asymmetrical oval, running and competing for stamina more than speed. Who could make the circle 10 times? 20 times? 30 times? We would walk the tops of the chain link fences like tightrope walkers, just to burn off energy and impress each other.
Ten years old and the pre-pubescent hormones had started to kick in. Who was out to impress? Myra, maybe Myrna or maybe Tina, all crushes from my sixth grade class. My best friends were three Jewish kids, Ira, the son of a bartender, and Larry, an Orthodox kid, and Joey, whose father had a tattoo signifying his survival of the concentration camps in Germany. The memory lingers, burned into my consciousness, a sold pillar of youth. Finally we would retreat back to our apartments. This was our America, red bricks, egalitarian, full of crazy kids games like Ringolevio and Johnny-On-The-Pony. One big kid named Eisenberg could not be brought down in Ringolevio-- maybe a future fullback for Far Rockaway High School?
We broke into teams for Johnny-On-The-Pony and the pony was a fire hydrant. The goal, pile as many teammates as possible on top of each other with the fire hydrant as a center of gravity to support all of us.
Feels like a Jack Kerouac vision before I knew about On The Road or had much of an inkling of west of the Mississippi. The innocence of youth, a Fifties America. I loved everything-- Mickey Mantle, the United Nations and the Disney TV show on Sunday nights. My frontier land stood just outside the apartment building.
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