‘See Ya,’ Bin Laden – Trump’s Skunked – X-Rated

The End -- Mr. Gripes, awoken at the ungodly hour of 5:45 by his always insistent cat Seamus, stumbles into the living room, and clicks on the television. Half-asleep and bleary-eyed, he does notice along the ESPN ‘crawl‘ at the bottom, words far removed from the normal sports lingo: ‘dead,’ ‘Bin Laden,’ ‘raid,’ ‘American forces.’ Wait a damn minute. The brain begins to comprehend one of the great surprises of his life: America, ridiculed, maligned and laughed at for a decade, has located and killed the bastard.

Mr. Gripes couldn’t have cared less that two dozen Navy SEALs entered that house and shot an unarmed Bin Laden in the head. Mr. Gripes had not forgotten the 3,000 civilians, including Muslims, simply going to work at the World Trade Center, who were murdered by that monster. Good riddance, and, with all due respect to my Buddhist friend Alan R., may Bin Laden burn in hell.

A few days later, a whining Michael Moore on CNN complained that Bin Laden should have been arrested and brought to trial, rather than killed. He asserted a trial would have demonstrated to the world that ‘we are different than the terrorists.’

Mr. Moore has some nerve suggesting that this country, by eliminating Bin Laden, is somehow on an equivalent moral ground as Al Qaeda. Michael Moore has not only enjoyed enormous freedom doing nothing but being critical of America, but he’s become a multi-millionaire in doing so. He can complain about this country until the cows come home, yet no one lifts a finger to stop him. Michael Moore is a very fortunate man to live in the United States.

If he were to reside in China, or Russia, or Singapore, or Thailand, or Vietnam, or anywhere in Africa or the Middle East, for examples, he’d be whisked off to jail immediately and harshly. Dissent is simply not tolerated in most places.

In China, they’d lock him up with that poor artist who was arrested two months ago, and whose relatives still don’t know where he’s been taken. Mr. Moore would be sweating off that rather commodious behind of his picking mica flecks out of some rock pile in Manchuria for 25 years.

Besides, can you imagine the circus that a trial of Bin Laden would devolve into? It’d be 15 years before there would be a verdict. And, knowing how the justice system operates here, it wouldn’t surprise Mr. Gripes in the least if Bin Laden’s lawyer, some leftover from the ‘60’s who defended Abby Hoffman, asserted that Bin Laden wasn’t read his Miranda rights, and Bin Laden gets off. 

Those SEALs did kill Bin Laden, but obviously took pains not to hurt the nineteen children living in the compound. The women there, who could very well have possessed information about the Al Qaeda network, were nevertheless neither harmed nor imprisoned [except for one who resisted]. You know why? So those children, certainly already traumatized by what had transpired, could be comforted by their mothers. Mothers and children remained together. Think about that for a moment. That’s a policy of a civilized and humane nation.

The gloating Bin Laden, who could barely conceal his glee that he killed 3,000 Americans, in his megalomania figured he was going to get away with it.  Mr. Moore, come down off your holier-than-thou perch and join the rest of us who celebrated raucously and joyously the death of this evil malignant son-of-a-bitch, OK? As Mr. Obama said, the world is now a safer place. 

Oh, Those Clever Devils…. Donald Trump. One moment the greatest thing since sliced bread to Republicans, the next instant he’s deader than a Gloucester codfish that’s been left out in the sun. What happened? Generally, Mr. Gripes is chary of casting aspersions on political strategists, like David Axelrod, and he’s reticent about denigrating the President of the United States, but I just have a hunch they laid a big trap for The-Mouth-Whose-Casinos-Went-Belly-Up.

Here’s how the Machiavellian mind of Mr. Gripes – and any competent strategist -- works:

Mr. Obama holds a press conference to refute definitively the tiresome and noisome question of his birthplace. A more informative birth certificate from a hospital in Honolulu did the trick – no more nonsense about his being born in Kenya, and being spirited back to Hawaii to claim American citizenship. Mr. Trump, who certainly must have suspected this whole fairy tale of the President’s African birth was indeed a canard, acknowledged that Barack Obama was a naturally born American. Then, he actually took credit for ferreting out the truth.

OK, Mr. Trump did take a hit, but not a terrible one at this point. Not yet. Here’s where it gets interesting: Mr. Obama, upon releasing the certificate, demonstrates some petulance and annoyance – perhaps feigned – that’s he’s wasting his time with a trivial issue like this. He asserts, “I’ve got better things to do.” He repeats, almost indignantly, “I’ve got better things to do.”

[An aside: of course, within a couple of hours, his next ‘better thing to do’ that day was to catch a plane to Chicago and appear on Oprah, but that’s a tale for another day.] 

Just keep in mind at that very moment he’s in the final planning stages of approving a plan to raid Bin Laden’s compound and killing him.
And, sure enough, within 48 hours he’s announcing the death of Bin Laden by Navy SEALs. 

Bingo. I’ll wager Messrs. Axelrod and others orchestrated the synchronization of these three events: the press conference to obliterate the birth question; a couple of days after, the previously-scheduled Correspondents’ Dinner at which Donald Trump was made a fool of, and immediately after that, the successful elimination of Bin Laden. Trump never saw it coming.

I’ll describe the chain of events in boxing lingo: ‘Southpaw Obama lands a tremendous left hand to the solar plexus of Donald Trump, who stumbles backwards, gasping for air’ [Obama asserts he has more important matters to work on.]  Trump’s on the ropes, defenseless, taking a rapid-fire barrage of rights and lefts. [Trump, at the Washington Correspondents Dinner, is the recipient of many nasty, astringent comedic barbs. Trump, stone-faced, is not amused.] ‘As Trump tries to stay upright, the President unloads a huge left hook right under his chin, sending him to the canvas, flat on his back, and out cold, with only his left foot twitching.’ [Obama announces triumphantly that Bin Laden is dead, unleashing riotous celebrations around the country.] ‘Donald Trump is motionless.’

Boom….Boom….Boom.

We have not heard a squeak out of Donald Trump since. He’s now at 8% popularity among, get this, Republicans  only – no Democrats were polled. Donald Trump is as dead as that possum I saw last weekend splayed out in the middle of Taconic Parkway.


X-Rated … Leave it to the irrepressible New York Post to hammer the final nail into the coffin of Bin Laden. A day or two after it was revealed that pornography was discovered in Bin Laden’s compound, the Post, exhibiting perfect pitch, printed on page one the now-familiar image of a seated Bin Laden viewing his television set. Emblazoned on the screen is the movie title, Debbie Does Abbottabad. Long live the New York Post.

Jim Israel  
Mr. Gripes
May 22, 2011       

Mister Gripes: Sarah Palin, Random Rants, Little League...

Ex-Governor Palin – Put yourself in her shoes [$500 Manolos, of course, compliments of the NRC] – you’d probably do the same thing: it’s a couple of days after the November election, you’ve spent the past 90 days crisscrossing the country speaking to frenzied, adoring crowds, even upstaging the party’s Presidential candidate, flying on private jets, staying at $1,000-a-night hotels, adorned in $150,000 worth of Neiman clothes purchased with a Republican Party credit card, with no heavy lifting for months.

And, now you’re disembarking from a plane in Anchorage, to no cheers, no crowds, no nothing, just an unsettling quiet on a cold, misty evening. Tomorrow you’re governor again, and it’s back to dealing with simpleton legislators and mind-numbing issues like mineral rights and highway funding; plus, those damn Democrats and their ethics committee want to look at your per-diem expense accounts, of all things. Besides that, in a half-hour, you’ll have to get reacquainted with that slacker husband again, clean up after all those squealing children, and, to top it off, deal with that lazy bum, Levi, who not only knocked up your daughter but now sits around the house doing nothing but eating pizza and drinking beer.

And, look what’s out there if only you were unencumbered with a governor’s responsibilities and prohibitions: oodles and oodles of cash. Low-hanging fruit like book deals and speaking engagements all over the world at $50,000 to $250,000 a pop. Millions and millions.

Mr. Gripes is certain Governor Palin, ostensibly a proponent of never giving up on the tough tasks, looked at what was in front of her, and, with not a moment’s hesitation, said, “I’m out of here.” The next Presidential election did not factor into her decision at all. After a national campaign, being governor was ‘dudsville’. And, let’s face it, 2012 is a millennium from now.

To her credit, Ms. Palin possesses tremendous confidence and ambition – those qualities permit her to overlook her faults, and take big risks. Her timing, too, is exquisite, so she pounced at the opportunity.

That’s not to say she’s done with a run at the Presidency. Her ambition will never let that notion disappear. With her vaulted self-esteem, she just knows she’d be a superb President. In fact, a poll of Republicans was conducted by Gallup right after the election, and Mr. Gripes was astounded by one finding: 72% of Republicans indicated they’d vote for Sarah Palin for President. Yikes. Or, as the old sportscaster Mel Allen would exclaim after another Yankee home run, “How about that!”

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Random Rants…

The ‘foot-in-mouth’ act of Joe Biden is sure wearing thin.

I’m really tired of Don Imus constantly pleading for money for his rodeo camp for kids. New Mexico officials, shut it down.

The Daily News sports columnist Mike Lupica has the textbook persona of the pipsqueak he is: pugnacious and obnoxious. Mr. Gripes cannot read or listen to him any longer.

One thought jumps out whenever I observe Bob Woodward of Watergate fame: he’s lost his fastball. There is no cache to Mr. Woodward any longer. His smug countenance says it all: I’m famous, I’m rich, and I’m in tight with the political establishment. Mr. Woodward is a classic American sell-out.

John McCain’s ‘maverick’ days are over. He’s once again nothing but a war-thirsty, ‘let’s commit another 100,000 troops’ conservative. Mr. McCain’s face tells it all: anger, frustration, humiliation and a thinly veiled hatred for the guy who whipped his ass, President Obama.

The hip-hop music craze seems to be fading. Thank God. The complete collapse of Western civilization has been pushed back a few weeks.

Clothes don’t always make the man: David Gregory, who dresses as if his underwear were Armani, can’t hold a candle to the late Tim Russert, who looked like he bought his suits off the rack at Burlington Coat Factory, at 2 for $199.00.

Whenever I see Diane Sawyer on her morning show, I’m reminded of how a New York Times entertainment reporter once described her act: she exudes a “creamy insincerity.” Perfect.

After observing Alan Greenspan testifying before a Senate committee a couple of months ago, I figured out the character defect that very nearly brought down the American economy: he is a man who does not take counsel from anyone kindly – he listens only to himself. Hubris, I think the Greeks call it.

Forget the garment business – it’s relocated to Bangladesh now. New York City’s largest growth industry these days is traffic tickets. It feels like there are a million of those parking ticket maidens out there every day writing summonses at 8:01 am. Shame on you, Mayor Bloomberg. Nothing new though: New Yorkers have been treated with contempt by its leaders for decades – we’re long-suffering fools.

If David Letterman’s intent was to make light of his affairs with staffers by intentionally evoking laughter on his show, he’s nothing but a low-rent skunk.

Roman Polanski forced a 13-year-old to ingest Quaaludes and drink champagne before he raped her. Twenty-five years in maximum security seem a just prison term. And, throw into the cell Whoopi, Penelope, Marty and Woody while you’re at it.

Since 2002, there’s been a net loss of 700,000 automobile manufacturing jobs in the Midwest alone. I traveled through Cleveland and Detroit this summer: a tableau of desolation and empty buildings, America circa 1931. We’re in a heap of trouble, folks.

No one’s going around trumpeting their net worth these days, are they?

Baseball has traditionally been played by ‘boys of summer,’ yet If the 2009 World Series goes to a seventh game, the game will take place on the night of November 3^rd. Insane.

I miss very much my best friend of 45 years, Gerry Z. Wherever you are, Big Z, I hope you’re at a piano, playing Bach, and looking forward to a blissful Sunday afternoon of watching football. Life is so unfair and painful when close friends die.

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Little League – It’s all too much. Too many television cameras, too many anxious ‘my-boy’s-gonna-sign-for-a-million-bucks’ parents, too many perfect playing fields and pristine uniforms, too much pressure, too much exposure and too much cloying ‘Mom-and-Apple-Pie’ sentimentality. Little League’s gone the way of so many other American institutions – a kid’s sheer elation at playing the game of baseball has been smothered by officious parents and, yes, corporate interests. Once upon a time, Little League was a small-town civic responsibility, set up so a locale’s young boys could simply play competitive baseball on placid Saturday afternoons. Now? It’s on television for weeks on end, with competing teams from as far away as Sri Lanka. The fun has been bleached out.

America’s moved so far and so fast from its innocent days of 50, 60 years ago. Allow me, kind readers, to recall Mr. Gripes’ own momentous first day of Little League. Asked to appear for a tryout at a local elementary school, I dutifully showed up, a shy, eager, energetic and, above all, frightened boy of 7 or 8, with about fifty other boys. We were told to get in line, as one of the coaches proceeded down the queue, writing down names. When he was in front of me, the coach, who was, I dimly remember, a rather aggressive, loud type, screamed out, “Son, where’s your glove?” My parents, adherents to a decidedly benign-neglect approach to child-rearing, had forgotten to purchase a baseball glove for their eldest son. To my eternal mortification and humiliation, of all the kids at this tryout, I was the only boy -- and a doctor’s son, to boot -- who did not have a glove.

The coach, who knew my father in passing, just stood there, incredulous, shaking his head slightly, further embarrassing me. In retrospect, I suspect he was contemplating a riddle Mr. Gripes has been pondering ever since, “What planet do these Israels come from?” I have little memory of anything else from that day, except I took my fielding trials at shortstop with a first baseman’s mitt borrowed from my cousin, did not mishandle any ball hit to me, came in first or second in all of the sprint races, and didn’t hit badly either. The smirk on that coach’s face disappeared. Following the tryout, I was handed a note to be taken home and given to my father. I didn’t have the nerve to examine it, but I’ll bet it went along the lines of, “Jimmy appears to possess the instincts to be a pretty good ballplayer, but please for God’s sake, buy him a goddam glove, will you, Doc!” Two days later, I received a brand-new, gorgeous Bobby Richardson infielder’s glove. From that day on, I never stopped playing baseball for twenty years.

My point – too long, I know – is this: In those days, boys played baseball all the time – on school playgrounds, in friends’ backyards, on streets, everywhere, until nightfall, when we couldn’t see the ball any longer. We chose sides, and played and played. There were no adults around to supervise, to organize, or to schedule. We simply played because we loved to swing that bat and run those bases. For Mr. Gripes, it was the great passion – by far – of his childhood. And there were not any meddling parents around. Yes, there was Little League, but essentially until the age of 13 or 14, it was strictly for Saturdays, with a practice or two during the week. It turned out we were given the gift of time and space to learn the basics of cooperation and fair play on our own. And, above all, baseball taught us about getting back up after failure – maybe it’s the pitcher forgetting about the monstrous home run he just gave up, and mustering up the nerve to face another batter, or the hitter completely overmatched a couple of times at bat, yet not giving up when he gets up again. That’s a great lesson, the idea of failing, rising off the mat and moving forward despite formidable obstacles. And, boys then played the game in total anonymity; sure, parents came to Little League games, but for the most part we were left alone. That’s Mr. Gripes’ advice: allow children to find their own passion. Parents and coaches, sure, enjoy your child’s Little League games, but try not to interfere – just let the kids be kids. That way, the love for the game will endure.

Iran, Big Bopper and the Imperfect Perfect Game

Iran - A nation that operates solely on religious principles - the theocracy in Iran, for one --cannot endure - impossible. A clash between a burgeoning class of young, educated citizens and a corrupt ruling religious order was inevitable. Something's got to give in this struggle, and I'm afraid in the short run it's not going to be the deadly grim and frightened mullahs.
The 'Supreme Leader': That appellation, redolent of Orwell or the Land of Oz, sums up beautifully the pomposity, grandiosity and, yes, the fraudulence of the ruling mullah class. The story goes that the Grand Ayatollah Khomeini, the leader of the revolution that overthrew the Shah, was the embodiment of God on Earth. As he was dying, he passed, through his fingertips, his divinity to Ali Khamenei, the present ruler and Supreme Leader. Since he's essentially the channel of God's will, every decision he makes is just, final and absolute. Today, he's murdering his country's women and children. Some divinity. A theocracy must fail - to cite Karl Marx, the contradictions become too apparent.

In the flush of elation after the Shah was overthrown, the Iranian revolution and ruling class were sustained for thirty years. This past election destroyed the legitimacy of the regime, though. The Supreme Leader, injecting the will of God, steals the election. The Big Lie didn't work any longer. Iranians were not duped; the ruling mullahs treated the voters as dumb, powerless fools, and enraged the citizenry. And, then, when students, not yet besieged by work, marriage, children or all the other burdens of middle age, decided to act on their impulses, the revolution was on.

A couple of thoughts on religion in general: at the outset, let me state emphatically that Mr. Gripes is a strong proponent of freedom of religion - any individual should be permitted to worship whomever or whatever they choose: Buddha, the Virgin Mary, false idols, The Supreme Moose of the Northwest, witch doctors, burning bushes, Zeus, or, indeed, although I can barely refrain from cursing, psycho-wacko Scientology with all its nutty Hollywood trappings - it's not my business to object. But what I can't support is the imposition of a particular religion on any other person. Worship in your church, and leave everyone else alone. 'Organized' religion, though, doesn't leave well enough alone. Every religion, certainly, thinks its divine path is the only true path to enlightenment and to whatever awaits us after death. Emanating from a belief in a religion's superiority is the urgency to convert practitioners of alien faiths. And, that in a nutshell is why so many murderous, bestial cruelties have occurred through the ages. The prospects of a glorious, idyllic afterlife have been the excuse to unleash unspeakable horrors on the 'unenlightened' masses. The reality is that there's no such thing as a 'superior' religion: none of us knows what awaits us, none of us has seen God, and, if indeed there is a merciful God, he works on a 'level playing field'; He would assert surely, 'No religion, just like no man should lord over any other man, is superior to any other religion.' Unfortunately, world history, seized by power, money and the sexual allure of women, has rarely operated according to that precept - just the opposite, in fact.

By the time you, my readers, have read this column, I fear the courage and collective strength of millions of protesting Iranians may have already been expunged by the implacable mullah power structure in Iran. The state has all the weapons, police and sadistic militias on their side, and will not hesitate, once the decision is made, to shoot and kill their own citizens; the ruling mullahs, no longer legitimate in the eyes of citizens, desperately cling to power. The will of God must be served even if thousands are murdered. The universities will be closed for a long time, and when they're re-opened the curriculum will be entirely Islamic-based. Suppression works when the opposition has no guns.
But, despite a foreboding sense that this will end in terrible bloodshed, Mr. Gripes marvels at the irrepressible human soul. Exploited, beaten, humiliated, and treated often as nothing more than lumps of animal flesh, the arc of history demonstrates that human beings just don't give up; their instinctive yearning for lives of free will and free thought inexorably compel them to act, in the face of impossible odds and likely imprisonment or death. That's courage. History tells us over and over this spirit can never be vanquished for long.

NY Postscript - A month ago, Mr. Gripes described the inconceivable catastrophe that's befallen New York citizens: I was referring to our New York State government, a quagmire of immense proportions. I'm sorry [actually not so sorry: it's grist for Mr. Gripes' mill] to say it's gotten even more farcical.
Let me describe the current scene: the NY Senate, comprised of 62 individuals, as of two weeks ago was split 32 Democrats and 30 Republicans. A majority leader, who guides the activities of the body, was a Democrat, obviously. Everything changed about 10 days ago, when 2 Democrats moved over to the Republican side, giving the Republicans control of the Senate; they naturally voted in a Republican as the new majority leader. Not so fast: the Democrats, boiling mad, asserted the majority leader election was bogus, and refused to enter the chamber to conduct business. In fact, they locked the doors to the Senate, and no one could get in. Unbelievable.

Governor David Paterson, a non-comprehending boob constantly stumbling over himself, not because he's blind, but because of his bumbling incompetence, initially says and does nothing, but then, astoundingly, insists the delay in Senate business is preventing lobbyists [??] from carrying out their occupational duties. It only gets worse. One of the Democrats-turned-Republican reneges on his new party, and returns to the Democratic fold. Now, it is 31-31, a deadlock. [Let me make a stab at the inducement that compelled this man to come back to the party: he's promised funding for his son-in-law's non-profit 'community' program, of which exactly $11.31 will actually go to the community, and $432,000 will be his son-in-law's annual salary for 'running' the one-desk, no-phone operation.]

Let's go on: It's 31-31. Nothing's happening as of this writing, and hasn't for a week. No sessions, no legislation, no meetings, nothing. Each one of these clowns goes before the TV cameras, and says we must get on "with the people's business," but it's the other party's fault. During this period, it's gotten so ridiculous that one senator, who would be the new Republican leader, wanted a judge to permit him to cast TWO votes in any legislative vote: one as a regular senator, and one as majority leader. This action, he claimed, is necessary to break a deadlocked vote. A legislator asking for a judicial OK so he could vote two times: that's got to be a first in the history of the glorious, 'one-man-one-vote' republic.

Back to the business of the 'people'. Mr. Gripes is a 'people' in this great commonwealth, and he'd like to proffer a people's resolution to fix all of this: let's borrow from France two guillotines, refurbish and lubricate them, restoring the blades to their razor-sharp calibration of, say, 1793. Place them outside on the Albany public plaza, in plain view of Senators peering down from the large French windows of their chamber. Relate to the Senators that they'd better get to work, or citizens, amassing in large numbers on the square, will be permitted to enter the Senate, and conduct less parliamentary but far more purposeful business of their own, perhaps replicating the actions of a vigilante mob. Surely that, as the cliché goes, "will focus the minds" of our august senators, who might even extract their thumbs out of their rear ends and take up the "business of the people."

The 'Perfect' Game - This year is the 50th anniversary of the greatest pitching performance in baseball history: a 5'7" lefthander of middling ability named, in alliterative fashion, Harvey Haddix, threw twelve innings of perfect baseball - facing 36 batters - and got them all out, not one runner reaching first base. Sometimes, though, a man who has achieved his dream is humbled by sudden reversals in life. Mr. Haddix, who for this one game outpitched Mathewson, Walter Johnson, Koufax, Cleveland, Feller, Maddox, all of the greats, never did complete his perfection, and in fact lost the game. After 12 innings, the score was 0-0. In the 13th inning, the opponent, the Milwaukee Braves, got their first base runners on base, and scored a couple of runs on a Joe Adcock [remember him?] home run - later changed to a double due to a Hank Aaron running mistake -- and won the game. I distinctly recall reading about this the following morning, and simply thinking, "Wow... this'll never happen again." 36 up and 36 down. And he got beat.

Chat rooms - Here's a statistic I saw the other day in the Wall Street Journal: out of the 300,000,000 Chinese citizens who have access to the Internet, 100,000,000 use chat rooms. Consider that. China's a country with a tightly controlled press, no right to assemble in a public gathering, and an educational system that extols a mass-murderer like Mao Tse-tung, run by a decrepit, corrupt Communist government -- yet chat rooms thrive. Mr. Gripes observes the on-going atomization of American society, as family and social ties continually diminish in importance, and can only conclude that when - not if - China evolves into a more democratic, fair-minded social system, we are cooked. The Chinese ethos of collective will and massive cooperative effort - witness the phenomenon of the chat room - with the backing of a future government that citizens believe in -- will simply roll over the world.

Elvis - An eight-year-old neighbor of mine some 25 years ago, Amanda, was asked for her opinion of Elvis Presley. Her answer: "Presley? I didn't know Elvis had a last name." You're right, Amanda, there'll always be just one Elvis. As summertime commences, I'd just like to offer a couple of tiny biographical tidbits about the monumental Mr. Presley:

* He never appeared in a public performance, other than playing his guitar on his apartment stoop for a couple of friends, before his incandescent discovery. Not at high school, not at church, nowhere.
* Mariah Carey was recently awarded a well-earned plaque for selling her 150-millionth album. In order to catch Elvis, Ms. Carey would have to sell another 850,000,000 records: Elvis is over one billion, and counting.
* A couple of months before his first song was played on the radio [it debuted after midnight one Saturday night, by a bored D.J. who decided to play something new], Elvis and his buddies were arrested for vagrancy in a Memphis park, and escorted out by policemen. Six months after that airing, a park concert was scheduled, and Mr. Presley had to be shielded from thousands of screaming fans, so he was escorted into the identical park by the very same cops. Ah, the vicissitudes of life. Incidentally, Tim McCarver, the TV baseball announcer, grew up in Memphis and was at that concert. Mr. McCarver, a macho ex-major-league catcher with the St. Louis Cardinals, later declared, "Elvis was the most beautiful man I ever saw."

Chantilly Lace - Today's the first day of summer. Summertime, the beach and rock 'n roll are interwoven. In its honor, I'd like to present as the final piece in today's column the pure essence of rock 'n roll, millions of miles from the elaborate dross rock 'n roll has become. The Who, Pink Floyd, U-2, Jewel, Madonna, and Coldplay: some of these performers are excellent, but they're so removed from the essence of early rock 'n roll. The Big Bopper in Chantilly Lace joyously brings it back:

Hello Baby, yeah, this is the Big Bopper speaking,
Ha, Ha, you sweet thing,
Do I what? Will I what? Oh, baby, you know what I like...
Chantilly Lace and a pretty face and a pony tail hangin' down
A wiggle and a walk and a giggle and a talk made the world go round
There ain't nothing in the world like a big-eyed girl to make me act so
Funny, make me spend my money, make me fool so loose like a long-
Necked goose,
[yelling] OH BABY THAT'S WHAT I LIKE.
Roll over, Chaucer, and tell Shelley the news. Early rock 'n roll always speaks the truth.

Comments? Feel free to send remarks to: JamesIsrael77@yahoo.com
June 20, 2009