Adolf Hitler

Tiger Woods and Racial Bias

Tiger Woods 

Tiger Woods is one of the best athletes in modern history. This is despite the fact of many  people finding it hard to believe that hitting a small white stationary ball with a long stick requires any talent whatsoever.

If you happen to be one of those individuals who do not believe golf  to be the most difficult game on earth, try it yourself. The game has simply too many subcomponents to be easily mastered.

In fact, professional golfers have been proven to have the best eye-hand coordination of any other elite athletes; a bet you will surely lose if you gamble over sports trivia and do not know this fact. Tennis players and major league batters come in as close seconds. One sure bet however would be to lay odds that a soccer player wins eye-foot coordination “hands down,” so to speak. Thus, don’t pick the Olympic ice skater as your final answer to that query.

Tiger Woods also happens to be one of the most racially complex individuals to have gained modern notoriety as his mixture is one fourth each: Chinese, Thai, and Afro-American then one eighth each: Dutch (yes, White), and American Indian.

Early in his golf career, because of naïve stupidity, Woods suffered abusive insults from spectators who could not accept the fact that a person of color was breaking down the barriers of the last bastion of the White Man’s recreational sporting domain. Bigots in the galleries would call him “nigger” and occasionally threaten his life.

What could possibly happen next after all, if non-Whites started playing golf? The next horrifying thing would be them clambering to join private clubs or possibly worse, applying to colleges like Harvard University. Quell domage! It would be the absolute end to White culture, as we know it.

These same people who were pre-biased, being not remotely curious enough to discover the truth, were unaware that Tiger himself, in never even claiming the Afro-American as being his own, not only referred to himself instead as being “Cablinasian,” but then went on to marry a white woman of Dutch South African ancestry. Ironic, is it not that she descended from the same jolly lot that brought us the fabulous concept of Apartheid?

In professional sports, the extreme of retrenched recidivistic bias was exemplified by the fact that baseball started out with segregated Negro leagues.

Even in the modern era, the NFL refused to allow the Super Bowl to take place in Arizona until that state formally recognized Martin Luther King Day as a holiday while the USGA had to firmly refuse to allow The Shinnecock Golf Club to host the club’s first Open in 1987 until it agreed to admit at least one black member. Arizona, being the last state in the union to do so, reluctantly capitulated and sanctioned the holiday, as did Shinnecock, which in admitting a wealthy black man living somewhere in the south, knew he would not be too likely to travel north and pollute the hallowed grounds with his actual physical presence.

Even bigotry, I guess can be bought off if the cost is too high or if the price is right. That is Super Bowl football and Men’s U.S. Golf Open = Megabucks.

The real irony about Shinnecock is that the club is named after a local Indian tribe that originally owned the land it is on, but which also succumbed to the same fate of piracy, genocide and germicide that laid waste the rest of Native Americans. In the case of the Shinnecocks, there was additional attrition because so many of the tribe’s men were lost at sea in the whaling days of the 1800s, that local black slaves took their places and married the widowed squaws; because no one else would have them.

When we were kids we sniggered as we referred to them Nindians. Then as a final insult, the golf club did allow the tribe to participate, but only as being grounds workers and greens keepers. As a descendent Shinnecock you could work under the club logo and banner of a cameo Chief in a headdress bonnet, but you could never be considered as a potential member.


Geneticists are quite a bit more practical. They happen to know that the greater the genetic variability in a species, the less likelihood there is for unfavorable mutations and conversely the more likelihood for those favorable ones.

Also, the farther apart genetically, the less likelihood there is for unfavorable dominant or recessive characteristics to filter down in progeny. Ashkenazi Jews, whose entire ancestral DNA can be traced back to only four women, are, for example, particularly susceptible to about 15 genetic metabolic catastrophes or disease susceptibilities, such as Gaucher’s, Tay-Sachs, Ulcerative colitis, and the Niemann-Pick disorder.

Tiger Woods then, exemplifies the fact that human racial admixture is not necessarily the horrible mephitic, pestilential human catastrophe portrayed in the propagandist annals of viperous American White Supremacists.

In fact, I defy anyone to prove to some small degree that they are not remotely racially polluted and therefore genetically as pure as the driven snow. I am sure there is some degree of mutt or mulatto in all of us just as I also defy anyone to walk up to Tiger Woods today and tell him to his face that he is nothing more than just a common “nigger.” Just the opposite, in fact now anywhere he plays, instead of bigoted jeers, he always receives enormous accolades because skill trumps bigotry.

Yet there always seems to be at least one congenital idiot near the tee box , usually an obnoxious inebriated Caucasian, who feels compelled to shout just as the ball leaves the driver: “You’re the man.” This person is also consanguineously related to the same morons at every tee or green who can’t let any shot go by, whether it is a drive on a 600-yard par five or a forty-foot putt, without screaming: “Get in the hole.”

Although I am not necessarily advocating human interracial breeding, it is interesting to postulate how much better off or possibly even superior the human stock would be, how similar we all might look, and especially how much less hatred would result from a little more genetic mixing. It is interesting to postulate exactly what a racially balanced, genetically blended human being might look like. Not too shabby, would be my guess.

In fact, I find it ironic that having lived in an era when some of my classmates in grade school quietly derided blacks for the color of their skin or the size of their lips that now the year-round sun tan and silicone lip implants have become the current standard for Caucasian beauty.

Contrary in fact to what Hitler believed, the human superman then would be derived not from a limited interbred line of highly selected Aryans, who would eventually succumb to inbred genetic problems like those encountered by the Ashkenazi, but rather would derive from a perfect blend of all the available human DNA on planet earth.


Better yet: does it really matter?


Shinnecock Golf Club logo
© Scintific American: Cover December 2003

The Civil War and Civil Rights. The unintended consequences

Civil Rights


A good old Negro in the slums of the town

Preached at a sister for her velvet gown

Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,

His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.

Beat on the Bible till he wore it out

Starting the jubilee revival shout

(Vachel Lindsay)



John F. Kennedy’s assassination provided this country with the impetus to pass Civil Rights Legislation.

It is it an interesting historical footnote that to this point in time the legislation had been hopelessly stalled in Congress. Another equally interesting fact is that one of the most notorious Southern bigots in U. S. history; Lyndon B. Johnson, finally pushed the Bill through in the wake of the maudlin sentimentality evoked by Kennedy’s death.

Why did it take something like that to spur the conscience of this country into acting on a plan that was plain and simply the right thing to do in the first place?

Even more interesting is the fact that more than one of my relatives in Texas would swear on the Bible that LBJ’s first congressional victory was made possible by just the right number of his already deceased constituency casting votes from their graves.

The finally irony here is that the ultimate political prize was finally garnered for Johnson when a solitary dead man, Kennedy, whose own victory was secured when Richard Daly stuffed the ballot boxes of Cook County, Illinois, then cast one involuntary, solitary vote for President from the morgue of the Parkland Hospital.

I have my own rather simplistic opinion on the rather tragically pathetic saga of the plight of the black man in America. The key point is that Black Americans are the only group of people who came to this country against their will.

In fact many of them were sold into bondage by other Africans after being captured in tribal warfare, or even intentionally captured by other Africans to collect slave trader’s bounties. Brother against brother so to speak and just a subset of the conflicts that still go on in Africa today. Taking a hard look at the genocidal politics of the Sudan and Darfur will make one never again believe the myth that all black men are truly “brothers.”

The experience of the black American was never close to being rooted in the same optimistic dream that either of my bloodlines may have experienced. At the same time that these future slaves were being rounded up, put into chains and thrown into the holds of galley ships, almost every other immigrant group was trying to beg borrow or steal a voluntary ride over on similar vessels.

Once here, these blacks became the only group of foreign immigrants who were without the hope of a franchise as they were put into involuntary forced labor on Southern plantations or farm fields.They were purposely kept illiterate and were forced into a local culture of communal maternal socialism. Families were split apart, black men were forced to forego their manhood and black women were forced into domestic labor, involuntary sexual servitude, or made to wet-nurse plantation owner’s babies. Ironically, some of these same men who may have been suckled at the black nipple would occasionally be the ones to grow up and lynch the sons of the women who had nurtured them.

After about two hundred years of this insanity, the cultural divide between the North and the South finally erupted in a war that was predicated more on a differential way of life than anything rooted simply in the North’s gracious and magnanimous desire to free the black man.

It was, as in most wars, more about culture, economics, tax revenues and centralized Federal power than anything else. It was also a conflict the rural South could never hope to win from the outset, because it could never remotely match or mobilize the resources generated in the industrialized North. One small example of a minor technological advance that made a huge difference in the long run, or the long march to be more literal, was the Frye Company boot being better than any shoe produced in the South. While southern boys were eventually forced to fight in bare feet and moccasins, northern troops were marching through Georgia in fine leather footwear.

The Grey clad soldier, trained to hunt since childhood, could probably shoot better, but there were just too many better equipped and well fed men in the Blue uniforms for them to overcome these stacked odds.

As Generals Grant and Sherman cut their respective swaths through the South, the aftermath was the destruction of an entire cultural infrastructure which had been supported by slavery, only to then be followed up by the so-called emancipation of a group of people who suddenly found themselves with no place to go. While they were being liberated as a group, the unanswered questions were that they were “free” to go where and “free” to do what?

  • Greetings to all you slaves. We have fought long and hard to preserve our Union. And now that we have won the war, we are here to let you know you are free to leave this prison plantation, where forced against your free will you have had to call it “home.”
  • But free to go where boss? Free to do what? Where do I go? What am I supposed to do?
  • I’m not exactly sure, but I hear they plan to give all of you forty acres and a mule somewhere down Alabama way.
  • Yeah boss. But I still need some way to get down there, I can’t eat dirt; I’ll still have to feed the mule and what about a house?
  • Well, I don’t think I can help you with that part. And because our work here is done, perhaps you should just run along, get the hell out of here, and move on up to Detroit.

The Blacks, originally cast into the shadows as Union Army camp followers principally to be protected from vigilante Whites or in order to simply be fed, suddenly found themselves left behind as a residual group of people who were no better off than the ancient tribes of Israel fated to wander aimlessly through the desert. After the Northern army subsequently disbanded, they were literally left hung out on a limb; caught between greedy Carpetbaggers and vengeful whites who themselves had now been cast into abject poverty and share cropping subsistence living.

In this American Diaspora there was no trek to a promised land. The only open choices were migrate to the great cities in the North; where because they were less than welcomed by their great liberators, they soon aggregated into urban slums; or alternatively, to remain impoverished, suppressed and harassed by White supremacists and the KKK in the newly created shantytowns of the south.

Basically they were simply forgotten as the North complacently patted itself on the back as it perpetuated the great myth of having been the salvation of the Southern slave. American Civil War history always comes with the propaganda that it was only about slavery. It wasn’t. Slavery was a side issue. The American Civil War was a cultural clash about sovereignty, inappropriate taxation, maintaining a way of life, State’s rights and ultimately about preserving centralized Federal economic dominance.

A parallel view was offered by a Polish freedom fighter after the Nazis were defeated and he was asked if he felt guilty about the concentration camps and why he hadn’t helped to liberate them:

  • To us the Jews were an irrelevant side issue, a mere footnote. We didn’t even think about them. For us that was not what the war was all about. For us it was only about one thing: getting our country back.

Many Union soldiers felt the same way and almost laid down their arms when told they were fighting only to free the slaves.

Concurrently in 1865, the Federal Government had seriously failed to realize that forty acres and a mule was not going to cut it in an environment that was trying to force both the southern as well as the northern White man to suddenly love, cherish and live harmoniously side by side with his newly liberated Black neighbor and brother. One cannot destroy an entire culture and then passively hope that enlightenment will spontaneously appear upon its heels, when it is far more likely that the evil head of hatred will rise out of the ashes like a like a Phoenix. Chaos or anarchy then prevails; until there is a new revolution or a new social hierarchy appears.

It happened here, it happened in Germany after World War I, it happened in post Saddam Hussein Iraq, and it will happen again anywhere there is a vacuum of hatred left behind in the wake of a great yet unwillingly forced social upheaval.

Perhaps however the most egregious mistake at the Federal level was to never make any attempt whatsoever to educate the newly liberated slave population, leaving them then for the most part as functional illiterates who could neither read nor write.

There are some historians who believe before he was shot that Lincoln’s original plan was to send the blacks back to Africa. There are others who believe that the blacks would have been better off if the former slaves had been offered a free state in America. That however, would have implied the forced dislocation of local whites in Alabama and Mississippi, setting the stage for a plight similar to that of modern Palestinian.

One compromise came with the creation of the African State of Sierra Leone, but few Blacks bought into the opportunity to emigrate. And for those who stayed behind, the ball game was pretty much lost in the first inning. In truth, how many of these blacks had the resources to emigrate anyway or how many of them then being two generations removed from their original roots would have wanted to make that trip. They didn’t even speak the language anymore.

The game was lost because for those blacks that did stay behind; the offer never came for a decent franchise and more importantly, a decent education. Today’s inner city ghettos are nothing better than segregated concentration camps without barbed wire fences while most ghetto schools are the last place a slum dwelling child can hope to learn elocution, science, math and literacy.

It is truly ironic that these are the same issues debated in Congress to this very day and because of the strange reason they never seem to get resolved, continue to serve as the nidus that keeps the flames of racial hatred and bigotry alive and well. America swallowed a bitter pill when it first imported slaves, kept them ignorant and oppressed, then ignoring any specific needs they may have had as a second-class minority group, suddenly decided to let them go free.

Having never really been integrated; the result is now societal dis-integration.

Perhaps the only bright spot on the horizon for the Black man in America in 1865 was that in at least being relegated to ‘second class citizenry’ they were actually doing better than the Red man, who was relegated to no class of citizenship at all; other than the meaningless euphemistic classification of being called “sovereign citizens.”

Big deal. All this really means is that on the small parsed out reservations left for them to live on; they are not required to pay Federal taxes, can sell tax free cigarettes, or if they are lucky enough, to be granted permission to open a casino. But then again anyone else living below the poverty defined income level doesn’t have to pay taxes either.

The leg up for the American freed slave was that they at least were not targeted for genocide. With the Civil War having drawn to a successful conclusion, the U.S. military then turned an expansive eye toward the vast open territories of the West, where the dangerously fearsome Red man roamed.

In a great post war propaganda campaign likening these “Red” people to renegade wild animals, they soon became an easy target for sanctioned mass extinction and the sub Rosa agendas of eminent domain that secretly but savagely originated in the White House. The U.S. President and the Congress wanted the western Indians out of the way, while the U. S. cavalry, well trained and fresh on the heels of a civil victory was sent to secure the land for white settlers. Mass murder was condoned and encouraged at the highest levels of power.

At the 1870s stage of weapons sophistication, with the invention of the Colts 45 revolver and the Winchester repeating rifle, Smallpox was no longer necessary for effecting genocide. The bullet was infinitely more predictable in its effectiveness than germ warfare, was also a great deal safer to handle and certainly gave the white soldier an efficient advantage over the paltry effectiveness of the bow, the arrow or the hand spear. The guns were so accurate they could kill a man from over a mile away. The American Indian “problem” was eliminated when the population became so small that both it and its principle food source, the concurrently decimated Buffalo, could never recover. In so doing they were also eliminated as a legitimate political force.

What a great country. We killed off our indigenous population and then freed a new population that had been imported as slaves from another continent.

Hitler would have been proud of us. The American Lebensraum was in full bloom. The Red man was soon to be virtually eliminated, while the ignorant illiterate Black man was left to lurk quietly in the background, and soon to fall underneath the national radar screen; or at least temporarily. It was only until their increasing numbers made them a legitimate political force that required more diligent attention be paid to their collective voices.

Free at last; free at last, completely ignored; yet one day in the not too distant future about to become fully resurrected with a vengeance and a new means to power: Voter Registration.


Wounded knee 2

And look before you ere you leap;

For, as you sow, you are like to reap. 

(Samuel Butler)


Race Relations (1960s….. and on)

Black Humor 

I first met Stanley at High School wrestling practice. He was in the 118-pound weight class, having filled in for me when I moved up to the 128-pound division. Stanley was black, as was another team member, Albert, while one of the better wrestlers on the squad was a white kid named Billy. Because of our common bond on the wrestling team, we ate lunch together every day, along with another black kid named Donald. Unfortunately, having lunch together never became an exercise in boosting team spirit, because for the most part we had already accepted ourselves as mediocre athletes.

The school system itself was rated class ‘C’ in New York State, a designation that relegated all of us as being nothing more than small fish in a large pond. But we did share the additional common bond of being straight ‘A’ students and thus additionally lumped together in the “Advanced Classes.” It was a time in American history when brains were still more highly regarded than brawns.

Stanley gave me a moniker, based on the fact of my temporary summer sojourns to the Hamptons. He perpetually referred to me as “Rich Al”, while I referred to him as “Stan the Man.” Either way the nicknames were infinitely better than “Four Eyes” for me, and who knows what else for him.

The concept of racial segregation in the New York public school system was nonexistent, accounting for why I had so much trouble with it when I visited my relatives in the South. There was no “back of the bus” in New York.

Actually in those days we referred to “people of color” as Negroes, because it was not until the Civil Rights movement of the concurrent coming decade that the black people of this country re-labeled themselves as either being “Black” or as “Afro-Americans.” Although it was still true that the slang term “nigger” would occasionally be heard, it was also true that I would also occasionally hear the term “wop” or “dego.” I guess the big difference was that I never took verbal racial slang seriously or personally. Also nobody was being lynched, and the only known local discriminatory murders were relegated to the shocking yet entertaining mafia mob hits that made front-page news in the big city New York newspapers; degos killing degos so to speak.

My roommate in medical school, who was Jewish tried to explain it to me in the context that slang terminology should be reserved only for the worst elements of a particular minority group, such as Kike, Frog, Limey, Mick, Wop, Dego, Wetback, Spic, and Nigger, while proudly pointing out that he personally had too much class to ever be called a “Kike” himself. He said that it was the Kikes who gave the rest of the Jewish people a bad name. This was a concept I could easily embrace because not only did I never think of myself as being a “Wop” but also as I went through life certainly came to know plenty of Aryan protestant white supremacist morons and their toothless “Trailer Park Trash” cousins.

Thus coming from a background where schools had already been integrated, but unlike my bigoted southern relatives, I never thought of my black friends as being different from myself. We had common bonds, we liked each other and we had fun together. The black boys did not attempt to segregate themselves in any way or to draw attention to any potential differences between themselves and anyone else. We simply did not think about skin color. In fact there were times in high school that I wish my black body guard Vernon had been able to come along to protect me from a few of the local, relatively oafish white goon athletic jocks who seemed to have the same distain for students with brains that was shared by our ever endearing gym coach.

None of my black friends spoke with the patois that later came to be known as “Ebonics.” They all eventually went to college and as far as I know they all went on to have very successful careers. Their parents were upwardly mobile people who had ingrained in their children a sense that success was measured by fully integrating themselves into a predominantly white culture via the path of higher education. How strange and yet how very similar this credo was to the ethics imparted to his children by my Italian grandfather. “It’s America. Speak English.”

Many years later when I was in medical practice, I frequently played tennis with a Black community activist who spent a great deal of time with local underprivileged Black children. He actually ran a cultural center that specifically catered to their needs. However, he got himself into considerable trouble when he tried to make these children understand that successful integration into society was also predicated on playing by the rules of that society.

For example, he would tell them that they would get no where fast if they went to job interviews wearing: baggy shorts with the ass seams hanging halfway down to the cuffs revealing their butt cracks, low rider jeans with chubby bellies and navel rings spilling out the front, idiotic or intimidating logo tee shirts, high top sneakers, nose rings, multiple earrings, or shoes adorned with sparkling twinkle lights. He also explained to them that the better their elocution and the better they physically presented themselves, the better the chance of getting ahead in the job or salary market. But generally speaking this is the case for all of us and unfortunately now applies to a new sub-segment of  tattooed, body-pierced functionally illiterate multi-racial teenage population in general; “Like, you know, right?”

Local black political groups severely criticized him for his efforts describing it as an attempt to undermine “Black culture” and “Black history” while simultaneously accusing him of making a flagrant attempt to ruin the cultural roots of their children. This is the same insanity that prevails in the Sons of Italy organization when they keep trying to become Italians again.

What’s the point? This is America and as long as any group of Americans separates itself, then highlights or harps on its unique differences, the very visual imagery of smelting, which evokes perfect integrated admixing, becomes lost in a country that had for centuries touted itself as being the world’s melting pot. It is recidivistic logic.

Although Afro-Americans should certainly retain pride in their ancestral roots and to the sorry point that they are the only minority group who did not voluntarily come to America, they should also realize that to a great extent as a result of tribal warfare, it was their own African brothers who sold them into bondage in the first place. Also, by the same token there is nothing that would prohibit anyone, be he White, Black, Yellow or Green, from emigrating and returning to any supposed country of lovable origin. If anyone feels as though America is such a horrible place to live; there is nothing preventing them or any other person at any time from packing a bag, getting out and going “home” again.

It was not until I understood politics a little better that I came to realize politicians in general derive power bases specifically by polarizing constituents. The problem then, not only with Black Leadership in the United States, but with any group purposefully promulgating racial, cultural or ideological differences, is that the sub-rosa agenda is solely to retain the power derived by what should really be referred to as “reverse bigotry.” Unfortunately, in this country, the next “minority” group standing in line is the ever-growing Hispanic population; that will only create yet another set of pre-conditions for more intense minority racial unrest.

Minority group leaders instead should be encouraging their constituents to do everything they can to learn the common vernacular and to play by the rules subscribed to by polite civilized society.

In honest truth, as they fly around the country in private jets clothed in three thousand dollar suits; lashing out on their on their pulpits; it is the sad fact that after over four decades of preaching hateful diatribe and rhetoric, I have not seen the likes of a Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton or (now) Barack Obama constructively improve the plights of their own people. They know that the key to improving the financial bottom line of the inflammatory power broker is by keeping their constituents poor, ignorant, barefoot, pregnant, living in slums or shanties; then by perpetually stirring them to be angered by the political ploy of blame shifting. Most of these venal rabble-rousers would sell their souls to maintain a lifestyle their constituents could never even remotely hope to achieve.

Instead of constantly harping on what makes us all different from one another by ladling out pointed imprecations we should be cultivating more of what we all have in common. We should take all the positive elements each culture has to offer, and then integrate them so tightly into the structure of our society, that no one could ever actually remember their origins.

Worse yet reverse bigotry is also played out every day in the world’s political theaters, is disgracefully counterproductive, and by constantly sowing the seeds of dissent only succeeds in fomenting or perpetuating wars. Thus, as long as pre-existing hatred can be cultured or artificially manufactured where none already exists, and as long as it is predicated on perceived critical physical, social, cultural or religious differences, there will always be leaders who derive a power base by fully exploiting the ‘Principle of the Scapegoat.’ Adolf Hitler used this tool to the extreme.

On the positive side, one indigenous gift that my Black friends owned and then shared with me was a unique style of humor predicated on the ability of a person to be able to laugh at oneself; or more importantly to always wear a laugh on a shirtsleeve. My less than desirable personality traits of being shy, humorless, tight-assed, and stiff-lipped were entirely changed by my lunchtime friends.

They tirelessly poked fun at me until I learned to undo the psychological damage of my brother’s malicious teasing, and then translated that teasing to more subliminal levels. This opened a world of laughter by teaching me for the first time the counter productivity of taking oneself too seriously.

I eventually graduated the social scene with honors when I capitulated to the soul-soothing phenomenon known as the belly chuckle along with a final understanding that double entendre escalating interpersonal banter is so completely harmless, that if left to itself can reach the pinnacle of sidesplitting laughter.

On the macro level the television situation comedy show, Amos and Andy, was a prime example of black humor, or just plain humor at its best. To this day I cannot understand why American Black leadership, deeming it to be a degrading portrayal of black people, had it perpetually banned from the airwaves. I never thought of it as degrading but simply a series of funny scenarios about the general human condition, the ever diminishing rewards that come from deceit or investing excessively wasted time in schemes and dreams to “get rich quick.” Were the lovable characters of the King Fish and Andy any more racially degrading than the character portrayals of the doltish Lou Abbott, the idiotic Three Stooges, the perpetually angry obese blue-collar bus driver Ralph Kramden or the moronic half witted pseudo-palsied Jerry Lewis?

These friends also went a long way to advance my retarded socialization process as they repeatedly pointed out that I would never get a date or ever get a girlfriend by simply standing around the high school canteen hoping against hope that some girl would come up and ask me to dance. They constantly explained that nothing was ever really going to happen unless I made it happen first or became more of a protagonist. In so doing they became the first ones who taught me how to approach members of the opposite sex without excessively shy fear.

In having a more realistic and down to earth approach to sexuality than the rigid brainwashing doctrine of the Catholic Church, they gave me pointers on “the how to try to feel a girl’s tits by sneaking the arm around under the blouse in the RKO movie theater while she was distracted by eating her popcorn maneuver,” or by explaining to me what it might really take to turn a woman on and to have her actually enjoy it. Their approach and counsel was infinitely more palatable than the tenet that procreation was a divine mystery intended to be devoid of pleasure, that women do not really enjoy sex, and that the act itself for both genders should be an obligation primarily performed to keep the Catholic Church in business by: “Making an army for Christ.”

This coaching was “all the things you really wanted to know about sex but were afraid to ask your father, your mother or your local parish Priest.” Or perhaps it was more like what these mentors were really afraid to tell you. But the black kids finally corrected once and for all any gross misconceptions that my old friend Eddy had conveyed about his own perverted version or interpretation of the so-called “facks-a life.” No, the idea is not to stick your penis into a woman’s ass and then piss in it.

Come to think of it, I do not believe my father ever really did tell me about those facts or even remotely approached anything about them in explicit detail. Or if he did, it was with a half embarrassed preamble that would begin as: “You know you are getting to the age where you are becoming a man….;” which would then progress through a series of oblique, intangible or non-biological vagaries becoming just about as good as the version one gets at the age of five when a child asks his father where babies come from.

  • Well son, when a man and woman really love each other, the man plants a seed inside of the woman.
  • Oh, now I get it dad. The man eats a cherry and then spits the pit down her throat.
  • Not quite son. It’s more like how they do it on a farm.
  • So it’s like plowing a furrow and planting a field?
  • Not quite. Anyway; you’ll figure it out or maybe your mother can tell you.

However as I grew up and learned the truth more or less on my own, somehow I could never bring myself to refer to my penis as “The Little Tractor” or “My Seed Hod.”

Then of course there was my mother’s allegorical version of planting the seed on a farm. When I finally did get to the stage in my senior year of seriously wanting to date someone, it was simply stated and tersely boiled down to this dire caveat:

  • Just don’t get anyone pregnant. If you do, you’ll have to marry her, move out and get a job; because your father and I certainly won’t support you and some loose legged whore who ruts around like a barnyard pig and then has your bastard kid.

Tell me quick, before I faint.

Is you my friend.

Or is you ain’t?

(My lunch buddy, Stanley)



Tales of the Bomb: The Cold War

Tales of the Bomb

The New York Yankees team nickname is “The Bronx Bombers.” As a team, they lived and died by the ferocity of their ability to generate base hits, backed up by a front office that translated this talent into the commercialized vicarious image of a World War II B-49 incendiary bomb saturation raid on cities like Dresden or Tokyo.

Another allegory, I will never understand is why the infantile mentality of the sports fan cravenly desires that the more the opposing team is beaten to shit, the better. This primitively tribal mindset must have its origins in the atavistic mentality of a territorial cave dweller; staying up late at night trying to create more lethal cutting edges on the arrowheads for tomorrow’s raid on his next-door neighbor.

The other amazing thing about this primitive human mental predisposition is that it never even remotely takes into consideration the possibility that any sports contest could ever end in a tie. For example, as the British sometimes do at the end of a squarely tied Cricket Match, if two professional golfers then are tied at the end of seventy-two holes at the U.S. Open Championship, why is the possibility never considered that the two men involved could be called “equal champions,” share the purse and call it a day? After all, the PGA ultimately retains possession of the trophy itself, so what’s the point? All the winner gets to take home is the money, some fame, a few exemptions and his name carved on the thing.

Or if a baseball World Series, in which both teams each win three games and the seventh game is tied at the end of the ninth inning why isn’t it deemed a draw so that fans and players alike can go home happy?

However the culture of Western European Civilization, the same culture that brought the world an aggressive territorial imperative, always seems to require a winner and a loser, especially when it decides to play war, then goes on to suck the rest of the world into helping put it to an end. In some ways it is a shame that World War I did not end as a tied stalemate in the trenches of France, so that revenge would not have to be revisited twenty years by the vanquished disenfranchised Germans.

On the contrary, it was a good thing for our own way of life that the allies won the Second World War. Then again we didn’t start it.

It is also probably a good thing that men the likes of Enrico Fermi, Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein paved the way for the development of the atomic bomb, as it undoubtedly shortened that war while potentially saving the lives of perhaps an additional million U.S. soldiers, who would have had to invade Japan on a dreary quest to take it back one little island at a time.

Another blessing for the Allies was the fact that Werner Heisenberg, a German scientist, secretly handed Bohr, a fellow Norwegian physicist, the significant technical secrets for atomic bomb development, while at the same time purposefully stalling his own atomic bomb development efforts in Hitler’s Germany. He did it because being a scientist, he understood the potential benefit of atomic energy yet at the same time dreaded the equally potential devastation it could cause if handed over to a homicidal maniac.

Finally, one of the very best things of all was that after Bohr gave the secret to Fermi, Enrico’s first test nuclear reaction in the basement of a building at the University of Chicago did in fact remain controlled and neither blew the city to shreds nor made it into a nuclear wasteland.

Nice going, Enrico, even though word has it that when the first control rods were slowly pulled out of the reactor, everyone in the room crossed their fingers, played switch and then dropped a small atomic load in their underpants.

Do not get me wrong. I have no sympathy for the Japanese. Anyone who is well versed in their barbaric atrocities in the 1930s and 1940s also knows that they got what they deserved when Hiroshima and Nagasaki were incinerated. Beside that, and because every school child in America knows that you should never start anything that you will unlikely be able to finish, the Japanese should have also given it a bit more careful consideration before they took their well practiced murderous rampage off the Chinese mainland and then hysterically torpedoed the U.S. fleet at Pearl Harbor. The United States ultimately had the final word on “Bonsai,” which at the end of the conflagration roughly translated into the American vernacular: “Fuck You.”

Japanense flag


The point is that the development of atomic energy and atomic bombs would undoubtedly have come along sooner or later, but it always seems to be the unfortunate case that wars in general accelerate technology, with many of those technologies first being used for the purpose of more efficient ways to kill.

It is only in the aftermath of war that the peacetime applications of these new technologies become applied to make life better and easier for the rest of us. Or as the famous advertising logo goes: “Better living through bloody chemistry.” 

I also take pause to wonder if the fathers of nuclear energy at that time really fathomed the nature and the potential danger of the evil genie they had uncorked from inside the bowels of that tiny otherwise innocuous looking uranium atom, because the real problem for the baby boomer generation came after the fact of America’s atomic secrets being covertly handed over to the Soviet Union by Communist sympathizers. 

Unfortunately, however well intentioned these Communist mole sympathizers may have been in their zeal to support what they thought to be a more idealistic societal system, they had no real clue as to what they had really accomplished by giving the most brutal dictator in history, Joseph Stalin, the key to the sun. They had unintentionally made the United States and the Soviet Union equal champions in a contest that could never have a clear winner while it could only have the very real potential to make both sides into equally annihilated losers. 

When our fathers and grandfathers came back from the bloody theaters of World War II they probably had no clue that their victorious joy would be so short lived; only to be blunted by the newest threat of a raining cloud of nuclear dusted perpetual winter; otherwise known as “The Cold War.” They also undoubtedly had no idea that for the next fifty years their children and grandchildren would come to know this same fear as something ingrained into the sub Rosa psychology of every day life.  

The only thing they knew for sure as these heroes disembarked the troop carriers was that for the second time in a single generation there had been fought yet one more in an endless series of wars to end all wars. Another war to make the world understand that in the final analysis there never is a real winner or a clear loser. 

Dr. Strangelove offered the best advice to the next generation on coping with the niggling fear of sudden nuclear holocaust. “Stop worrying and learn to love it.” After all, it makes completely obsolete the grotesque hand-to-hand combat so arduously endured by the Veterans of all the wars that went before.

It was finally an achievement that could make a global war not only more effective but added to it the pluri-potential bonus of potentially making subsequent wars for the very first time one hundred percent impersonal. 

Just push a button, and then go into a peaceful serene slumber as a hundred major cities in some far off lands become instantly incinerated.



News headline 

International Nuclear War Ends in Tie: Equal losses on both sides. Leaders ponder next moves.


 fat man 

Little Boy and Fat Man: The World’s first atomic bombs

Badda-bing. Badda-boom.

(Mafioso proverb)



Photo © National Archives