Joe

It's the end of another football season and the Super Bowl is at hand.

In 1965 when I was a young teenager of 14, I admired New York Jets quarterback Joe Namath perhaps more than anyone living at that time. This admiration was a combination of a newly pubescent boy, and a insanely popular playboy athlete. It was not purely coincidental that upon the floor of Namath's bachelor pad there rested an expensive, decadent llama-skin rug while at the same time my sock drawer was lined with fake fur from a couple of torn-apart winter gloves. I wanted to be like Joe, even if I couldn't.

In the mid 1960s there were better choices than Joe for personal admiration. There was John Glenn and Martin Luther King Jr., to quickly name two. But I had not seen either Glenn or King throw a fifty yard pass in front of 60,000 cheering fans, let alone fend-off countless beautiful women. Fact is; Joe Namath was probably not even the best quarterback of his day. His football career overlapped the careers of such Hall of Famers as Bart Starr, Johnny Unitas, Sonny Jurgensen. Terry Bradshaw and Roger Staubach. But none of them had the off-field charisma of Joe Willie.

The idolization did not last long; perhaps a football season or two, but right there at that critical stage of my young life, it was going full blast.

Namath retired from football in the mid 70's at a fairly young age. He had bad knees almost his entire career and eventually they brought his playing days to an end. By then his wild popularity had waned and within a few years he was mostly forgotten by both pop America, and by me.

In recent years Namath has occasionally reemerged in the public eye, sometimes in embarrassment. A few years ago during a football game, an aging, drunken Joe Namath flirted with an attractive female media member during an ill-conceived interview. Other appearances have been more positive, thankfully.

It has been fifty years since Joe Namath's rookie season. He seems in good health. He is trim, lucid, and his damaged knee joints have been replaced with artificial ones. But gone are the cheering crowds. His picture has long since disappeared from magazine covers. The groupies have gathered elsewhere. No more crowds of girls. Aside from the occasional reunion, the comradery with teammates is a thing of the past. I hope the older Joe is happy.

I am no longer 14, but I still remember the young Joe Namath and the dubious effect he had on me. I suppose the truth is; I am still something of a fan. I'm a big enough fan that I thought of him this morning... as I was pulling on my fur-lined gloves.  

My Friend the Internet

I was born in 1951. I'd have to think about it but it is very possible that, in my opinion, the internet is finest invention to come along in my lifetime. The computer and antibiotics proceeded my birth, as did the television.

Not every First World citizen would agree with my assessment, of course, particularly older folks. I have some older friends who know nothing of the Net, and don't want to know. And there are others who are internet literate but simply have other interests.

The internet now takes up more of my leisure time than does its rival; the television. In fact, I think the internet might be winning at a 2 to 1 ratio. Part of it is that I often watch TV shows on the Net, particularly shows from the distant past such as It Takes a Thief, Combat!, and Maverick. I watch a lot of Youtube educational videos too. Yesterday I clicked onto a video taken from inside of a WWII B-17 in flight. That was kind of cool.

I keep in contact with a lot of old friends over the internet, either through email, or Facebook. I know what many of my high school classmates are up to these days, thanks to the internet. These were classmates 45 years ago. Such a thing was unheard of, pre Net. Unfortunately, through the internet I have been made aware of the those who have died too.

I pay my bills on the Net. I rarely write a check anymore. I've made all kinds of reservations over the internet too. I've made doctor appointments. In fact, I've gotten doctors' opinions over the internet.

But the thing I like most about the Net is just playing and/or making a nuisance out of myself. In my case, playing, and being a nuisance, are kind of one and the same. I actually have some social "causes", none of which I would have engaged in if not for the ease of the Net and the anonymity it provides. So now and then I will click into some interactive internet forum or website, just to straighten out some misguided folks. Of course I'm not so serious about any of my causes that I would insult or cuss out someone online. I am "playing" after all. Still, there is nothing quite so invigorating as telling people how to think, specifically how to think about religion, race, and the environment. Sometimes I will even get philosophical over the internet. The philosophical things I confer may be ignored, as they are in my real life offline, but when they are posted on the Net, I don't know that my musings are ignored. It is a kind of odd, blissful ignorance, all thanks to my friend; the internet.  

 

A Door, Past and Present

When I was sixteen the Doors, a legendary late 60s to early 70s rock band, came out with their first album which contained the epic single Light My Fire. The year was 1967. I would sing along with Jim Morrison when the song came on the car radio. I found that I could drop my regular speaking voice down a half octave and do a reasonable job on the song; just so long as the car engine and the sound of traffic drowned out the glaring imperfections. A few years later my voice had matured a little and I could do a presentable job singing the Doors' Touch Me. If memory serves me correctly, I actually performed the song in a duet with Morrison in front of a girlfriend, Morrison on the radio, of course.

My imagination has always been able to take me into other dimensions. Back in the late 60s I would listen to Light My Fire and imagine myself fronting the Doors in a giant auditorium of crazed high school students, most of whom being attractive girls. I would not only sing, I would also have a guitar strapped over my shoulders and would play that too. I was both Jim Morrison and Robby Krieger.

It is now 2015. All of the Doors' songs have been remaster and sound terrific. They are readily available for listening on Youtube. No need to do anything other than occasionally remain patient through an annoying, intrusive, 15 second commercial. I do not get Youtube on my car radio so I will listen to the Doors on my home computer. It is equipped with a decent sound system so the remastered songs sound pretty good.

A lot has changed over the years but not the power of my imagination. In 2015 I am still performing Doors music and as always, I sound exactly like the Doors. How could I not sound like them since it is remastered Doors recordings that fuel these flights of fancy. But I am no longer performing with them. I am now in an unnamed band that has an older lady on keyboards, a younger guy on bass, and a younger woman on drums. I think the more youthful woman on drums is a nice touch. It's sort of progressive, in its own way.

In my typical daydreamed concert we are performing at a small venue with a stage in front of several dozen circular tables. The audience is my piers, that is; older people. There is a lot of gray hair and many pairs of bifocals. In fact, before the band dives into song, I, as band spokesman, warn the people, "you'd better be prepared to get hit with some good, old-fashion, energetic rock n' roll because that's what you're are about to hear." I click on the Youtube "play" button and the daydreamed concert begins.

By the end of the second or third song I often envision younger folks stopping to listen. They stand beyond the tables, behind the seated older people. They are obviously impressed, perhaps even overwhelmed, and maybe even shocked that "old stuff" can be so rousing and dynamic.

Once, in a reflective moment, I looked out to the young listeners and saw a familiar face. I could not quite tell for sure but it looked as if he were staring right at me with this terrified look on his face. That kid was me, of course, forty-three years ago. Sorry to disappoint you kid.