Who's Bad? Mark Sanford's bad

I never would have pegged the Governor for much of a dancer, but the latest AP article on his marital woes paints a different picture.
It was revealed that Sanford first met his mistress at "an open air dance spot in Uruguay," which sounds like a pretty cool place, way cooler than anywhere I would expect to bump into Sanford, at least.
Now, when asked about other women our governor says, "What I would say is that I've never had sex with another woman. Have I done stupid? I have. You know you meet someone. You dance with them. You go to a place where you probably shouldn't have gone...
"If you're a married guy at the end of the day you shouldn't be dancing with somebody else. So anyway, without wandering into that field we'll just say that I let my guard down in all senses of the word without ever crossing the line that I crossed with this situation."
And I like this euphemism he throws out there towards the end: "We gotta put the genie back in the bottle."

Dwele does 'Human Nature'

I don't know much about soul singer Dwele, but after seeing his tribute to Michael Jackson, I'm going to find out more.
Over the course of seven minutes, he remakes a portion of Michael's classic "Human Nature" instrument by instrument, loop by loop.

My Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson made me eat soap.
I was 8 or 9 years old at the time and an intense fan. We were vacationing in a cabin on Lake Wapello in southern Iowa. There was a TV in the cabin and I was watching it while eating a breakfast of Lucky Charms. We only had Lucky Charms on vacation, so I was on top of the world. Then, whoever was on TV interrupted this beautiful moment by making some kind of Michael Jackson joke.
It had become a pretty popular thing to do at the time ("I pledge allegiance to the flag that Michael Jackson is a ..."), even though every family in America had a copy of "Thriller" and recognized him as an entertainment genius, the type of star who made it seem perfectly reasonable to scream, cry and wet your pants at the very sight of him.
My tear ducts and bladder were never tested, though, because I never got the chance to see him in person. In fact, we were too rural to even have MTV so my parents had to drive me to their friends' house half an hour away just so I could watch the "Thriller" video.
Lack of cable access didn't make me any less of a fan. I had the posters, T-shirts, books and Jackson 5 tapes. In 1988, I wore out the rewind button on the VCR copying the choreography in the video for "The Way You Make Me Feel." I was 12.
To show my devotion in the early years, I used a blue pen to draw little stars surrounding Michael on the "Thriller" cassette cover and wrote "The Stare." What I meant was "The Star," but I realized my mistake too late and was forced to turn the cover inside out for the rest of its life. It wouldn't be the last time I was shamed by my love of Michael.
Michael's fame and odd appearance made him an easy target, but each joke about his sexuality, face, Pepsi burn, Emmanuel Lewis, chimpanzee, etc., deeply hurt me. So when this joker on TV ruined my summer vacation morning with an attack on my hero, without regard for the presence of my parents or a mouth full of magically delicious cereal I gurgled a milky "F*$# you!"
Moments later I was standing in the bathroom, a goldenrod bar of Dial crammed in my mouth, with no regrets.
For someone so haunted by his lack of childhood, he sure made mine a wonderful one. It's such a cliche now, but his music was my soundtrack growing up. We listened to it on Record Day in music class, every day on the school bus, and on vacation with soap in our mouths. I remember playing "Michael Jackson" in second grade, a game which consisted only of me pretending to be Michael Jackson while girls chased me. And every new video or television appearance was an event, a chance to witness the making of a legend.
But from around 1984 on, being a fan of Michael Jackson meant you were always on the defensive. It was hard sometimes. Michael's very being seemed to draw out our society's worst feelings and fears about the big cultural questions of race, sexuality, masculinity and body image. The most famous person in the world during the Reagan '80s was a strikingly slender, baby-faced and effeminate sounding black male who was rapidly changing color and shape before our eyes.
I was the guy who stuck with Michael Jackson a little too long. As a high-schooler in the early 1990s, the coolest thing to do would have been to dump Michael and his sequined-space general uniforms for the flannel shirts and goofy Mexican rug pullovers of the more politically relevant grunge era. But like he once told Paul, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and I just couldn't abandon him like that. I bought "Dangerous" and freaking loved it. "Remember the Time" may be my all-time favorite MJ song.
In college, I had to get "HIStory: Past, Present and Future," but I'd be lying if I said I loved it (there's a Shaquille O'Neal rap on there for the love of God!) or that I didn't hide it more covertly than my roommate hid his bong.
The '80s had conditioned me to defend Michael no matter what, so when the '90s rolled around and the really serious allegations of you-know-what came out, I was as experienced as any of the defense attorneys he could hire. There had always been lies about Michael Jackson. This was nothing new. These were just opportunists trying to take advantage of a strangely naive man-child, was how I would make my closing argument. I was disappointed when he settled out of court, but I understood. He just wanted it to go away. And so did his fans.
I was a full-fledged adult with a real job and a wife expertly trained in identifying cases of child abuse when the second round of accusations -- this time accompanied by real criminal charges and some completely bizarre and damning interviews -- destroyed me. I just couldn't defend him anymore, no matter how great I thought the song "Butterflies" was. I was relieved when he was acquitted, more because the idea of Michael Jackson in jail was unbelievably heartbreaking, rather than any trust in his innocence.
We could hypothesize a hundred reasons for why Michael turned out the way he did. Everyone knows he suffered abuse by his father. They know he lost his childhood to show business. Some know his brothers locked him in a room with a groupie when he was way too young and fragile. We all saw his fame, fortune and scrutiny rise to a level that even the most sane and well-balanced among us would have a hard time protecting our souls against.
A couple of months ago I read about the auction of Neverland Ranch and a bunch of Michael's personal possessions. Four years after giving up my fandom, flipping through the online catalog documenting his video games and toys led me to revisit my feelings for him. I listened to my old favorites again and burned them to a new CD. I thought about his so-called "Peter Pan Complex" and wished he had succeeded in never growing up.
My Michael Jackson, the one I'll bottle up and hold onto, is the 21-year-old Michael, the "Off the Wall" Michael, whose talent was extraordinary while he personally remained somewhat ordinary. His voice was sweet and powerful, his dancing was fresh, incomparable and devoid of crotch grabbing. He was real.

It will be much easier to keep that image of Michael now that he's gone. It's difficult just typing those words.

He's gone.

I hate that this had to happen. It's sad and another American Tragedy.
Still, I have no regrets.

From the final pages of Michael's 1988 autobiography Moon Walk (yes, I still have it on my bookshelf):

"Often in the past performers have been tragic figures. A lot of truly great people have suffered or died because of pressure and drugs, especially liquor. It's so sad. You feel cheated as a fan that you didn't get to watch them evolve as they grew older. One can't help wondering what performances Marilyn Monroe would have put in or what Jimi Hendrix might have done in the 1980s.

"To me, nothing is more important than making people happy, giving them a release from their problems and worries, helping to lighten their load... To me, that's what it's all about. That's wonderful. That's why I don't understand when some celebrities say they don't want their kids in the business.

"I think they say that because they've been hurt themselves. I can understand that. I've been there too."

Summer Concert Series: Michael Jackson Memorial

Perfection from an 11-year-old



This is why people still do the robot



A favorite by the post-Motown Jacksons



The only thing tighter than this performance is Tito's sparkly softball uniform



A performance so good you don't mind the lip-synching



Just because you have to see it again

1958-2009

Sad.

I need time to process.

See you tomorrow.

More on Sanford

It looks like the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act money was the only stimulus Gov. Sanford could bring himself to refuse.
The State newspaper published e-mails between Sanford and his Argentine mistress, and it's pretty nasty. I can just hear his teeth whistling as he whispers his frugal, fiscally sound sweet nothings in her ear.

Sanford shocker

I knew Governor Sanford was nice, but apparently he's been a little too nice with a woman other than his wife.
South Carolina politics is never boring.
Here's the link to the fantastically weird story: Sanford Admits Affair.
Let all of the "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" references commence.
And on a side note, it's really sort of twisted to see the women smiling in the background as Sanford admits he cheated on his wife.

Summer Concert Series: Bob Dylan

Bobby Dylan is coming to my little old town next month and he's bringing Willie Nelson and Johnny Cougar with him. It's going to be fun, but nothing at all like this:



or this:



and especially not this:

Home, sweet Holidome

A Holidome I've never visited

One great thing about my experience in fatherhood is that I get to revisit the joys of my own childhood through my daughter.
I get to go to parks and ride on swings and slides. I get to go to baseball games and buy cheap, but expensive souvenirs. I get to judge a hotel by the size of its pool.
I’ve got two questions for you: 1) What happened to all the Holidomes? 2) Do you know the Holidomes of which I speak?
For the uninitiated losers, a Holidome was a style of Holiday Inn popular from the 1970s through the 1980s. It distinguished itself from mere mortal hotels by the presence of a dome-like roof over a dusty collection of the most beautiful potted trees and ferns, a big swimming pool, a Jacuzzi, sauna, pool tables, Ping-Pong tables, miniature golf, an arcade and well-stocked, state-of-the-art vending machines.
When you grow up in rural Iowa, buying a package of Zingers from a motorized machine is a big deal, OK?
Holidomes were pretty popular up north, where families wanting to avoid the type of cabin fever that can lead to death by hatchet would pile into the car, take a short road trip away from home and check in for a weekend of Holidome-style family fun. I even went to a few Holidome birthday parties where the only logical way to clean the orange Cheetos crust off your fingers seemed to be to take a quick dip in the hot tub.
A Holidome was heaven on earth for a kid – this kid, anyway – and I wanted my daughter to be able to have that same great experience growing up.
My dad taught me to swim the backstroke in the cavernous oasis of a Holidome pool. If I remember correctly, it was the Des Moines Airport/Conference Center Holiday Inn, conveniently located at 6111 Fleur Drive. I can recall looking up at the domed skylight as I backstroked my first length of the pool and thinking life can’t get any better than this.
And you know what? It hasn’t. Because over the last 20 years they’ve gotten rid of all the dang Holidomes.
We took a little family road trip last weekend to Savannah and I was given the assignment of finding us a kid-friendly hotel. To me, that meant Holidome, nothing less, but Savannah is all fancy and doesn’t have a Holidome. In fact, a little research revealed there isn’t a Holidome in the entire state of Georgia or South Carolina.
There used to be one in Columbia. I saw it with my own eyes.
My wife was sent there seven years ago by the state government for professional training in how to snatch babies for Child Protective Services and I went “to visit her.” Actually, I just wanted to remember what it felt like to play Ms. Pac-Man sopping wet and full of Cheetos. I did, and it felt surprisingly similar to having an angry wife lock you out of a hotel room. Those are your tax dollars at work, folks!
Back in present-day Savannah without a Holidome (they say Sherman didn't burn Savannah because it was so beautiful and gave the city to Lincoln as a Christmas present, but they don't tell you that Lincoln returned it when he found out it didn't have a Holidome), I ended up booking us a couple of nights in a new hotel on the outskirts of the famed historic district with a great view of the Savannah Housing Authority’s Fred Wessels Homes, also known as “the projects.”
They did have free internet, waffles in the morning and a pool the size of Oprah’s toilet, in which no one is short enough to learn the backstroke.
The Holidome definitely spoiled me, and there have been some other long-lasting negative side effects.
I’ve been scolded for turning my nose up at a lot of very classy – some might say “romantic” – overnight accommodations because the lobby did not smell of chlorine like I’ve been conditioned to believe any good hotel’s must.
Also, I blame the Holidome for my lifelong disgust and fear of standing in someone else’s wet. With so much of the excitement centered on aquatic fun, there are a lot of wet spots around a Holidome. To this day, having to put my bare feet into a puddle of water created by the runoff from some wet stranger’s body, or even a close family friend, can ruin an otherwise great time.
Just thinking about waiting in line on the stairs leading to the top of a waterslide makes me nauseous. I suppose if I can avoid passing along that kind of pain and psychosis to my daughter, I can live without a Holidome.

Summer Concert Series: Happy Loving Day

Forty-two years ago today, the Supreme Court agreed that Richard and Mildred Loving had the right to marry in the state of Virginia, and thus finally legalized interracial marriage all across these United States of America.
Yes, I just used "thus." It's that serious.
Each June 12th, we celebrate Loving Day to recognize the Lovings and their struggle, as well as to remind people that our crazy racist history is not that far in the past and there's still plenty of work to do in the present.
Below, you'll find a brilliant convergence of our Loving Day celebration and Summer Concert Series with some live performances by the greatest mixed race musician on the planet featuring the funkiest multiracial, inter-gender band of all time.






Don't let the coat and Spandex unitard dissuade you from supporting interracial marriage.

Summer Concert Series: James and Doug

Can You Dig It?'s Summer Concert Series continues with a one-of-a-kind double bill.
First up is balding rock god Doug Martsch of Built to Spill performing a short acoustic set for folks who couldn't get into his band's soldout show in Denver three years ago, including one very intense dude in a hat.




Closing the show is the one and only Godfather of Soul making the white girls scream with moves that created the blueprint for every pop song and dance man to follow.

My Supreme Court nomination

It’s been a long and difficult search, but my patience and perseverance has paid off as my job hunt has finally revealed the perfect next occupation for me: Supreme Court Justice.
First off, you won’t find a more secure job in the country. Once you’re on, you’re on for good. No matter how bad your performance is, nobody gets laid off or fired – apparently, just like at KFC.
The dress code is bathroom casual, with only a robe required, and the salary is right in my range. Last year, associate justices made $208,100. Chief Justice John Roberts made an extra $9,300. I’m sure I can flub up a swearing-in ceremony for that kind of change.
There are some definite drawbacks. One, you’ve got to make small talk about movies and stuff around the Coke machine with Clarence Thomas. If you’ve got a delicate disposition or the wrong taste in film, this can ruin your day. I’m sure I can handle it.
The hiring process is another story.
First, just to get in the running you’ve got to have lots of knowledge of the law and legal experience. Unfortunately for me, I don’t think being asked to blow into an officer’s face after getting caught throwing toilet paper on your high school’s trees late one night after graduation is an adequate resume builder for the Supreme Court.
For the select few whose education, job history, experience, politics and level of empathy meets the qualifications established by whichever sitting President is making the appointment, you’ve then got to subject yourself to a level of scrutiny second only to the process of selecting a U.S. President or American Idol.
I can’t imagine having the cable news networks poring over all of my past quotes and former associates. It will only be a matter of time before they uncover that unfortunate thing I said about a midget, a donkey and Kenny Rogers, or when that regrettable sound byte is looped over and over from that one early morning on WPCC’s “The Doghouse” where I claimed to be bigger than Ralph Dale Earnhardt Sr., the Dalai Lama and Ronald Reagan combined.
It would be a tough road to confirmation, so I’m happy to wait it out a bit.
I like President Obama’s nomination of Sonia Sotomayor as the first Latina to the Supreme Court. As the husband of a Latina myself, I have to say that or risk waking up with raw guinea pig meat and ginger root in my shoes. You know how loca they can get when you don’t agree with them? ¡Cuidado, Scalia!
I had heard a rumor that Jennifer Lopez was on the short-list to be the first Latina nominated, but there was some concern about there being enough room for all the justices if she were to sit on the bench. Get it?
Ah, man! That joke would have killed back in George W. Bush’s first term.