In prefacing the share, I posed this question: how do deeply religious people justify Trump’s course language, his mockery of a disabled man, his boasts of shooting someone and getting away with it, his name-calling based on looks and gender, and his scathing, below-the-belt attacks on people who dare disagree with him? My post generated a number of interesting comments, all of which were from anti-Tumpers, except for a series of comments from a dear old friend. Sure, it’s good to get a debate going and hear views from all sides. But I’m left wondering why I even bother to share political views on social media, especially when a majority of my contacts are liberals. Do I really think my opinions are going to sway anyone with opposing views? Of course not. Facts, figures, research, logic, the voting-against-your-own-interest argument—none of it matters when it conflicts with deeply-held, family-instilled values and experiences.

When disgraced Fox News personality Bill O’Reilly incited a fear-fest by saying that if elected 2004 Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry would abolish Christmas as a federal holiday and replace it with “winter solstice or something” — it’s obvious we’re dealing with people who value what’s personally sacred, more than policies that might actually improve their lives. Plus, we live in an age of what-about-ism. When the only way a Trump supporter can defend the President is with things like — “Well, what about Clinton’s lying and womanizing?” or “What about Hillary calling Trump’s followers ‘deplorables?’, and “What about the bad things Democrats have done in the past?” — any kind of intelligent debate is off the table.

Yes, I admit that erstwhile Democratic leaders have lied, cheated on their wives, prolonged wars, and mucked up the economy. And I’m appalled. Politics is a dirty, egocentric business. I believe that a lot of politicians start out with the best of intentions, and eventually get sucked into the vortex of sexual temptation, delusions of power, and personal gain from special interest groups with deep pockets.

I can sort of understand how and why Trump initially appealed to certain people, based on his promises to drain the swamp of Club Washington politicians. But I’m just plain baffled by how the deeply religious set can still support him. I consider myself a spiritual, not a religious, person. I dig Jesus as a prophet. And I KNOW that Jesus would not tolerate a Trump. “Oh, he shoots from the hip and sometimes says naughty things, but he’s getting things done!” This is what I usually hear from Trump supporters who are interviewed by reporters at his rallies. Oy vay, what’s the use?

So, here’s MY twist on what-about-ism: What about Obama? What if he had acted in the same brash, name-calling manner as Trump while in office? What if he had bragged about getting away with murder in the streets? Would the public have tolerated it? I think not. I wouldn’t tolerate any bully-leader like that, Democrat or otherwise, no matter how much they improved the economy (if we are to assume that a President is solely responsible for economic improvement).

So, back to my original proclamation: I am done posting or responding to political posts on Facebook. Sure, there’s a certain feeling of hope that grows when we connect with like-minded people. But when we share these never-ending horror stories about the President, what are we really accomplishing? We’re just working ourselves up. Wouldn’t those of us who fear a second term for Trump be better off doing something more constructive to prevent that outcome? And if so, what should we do that’s within our ability or comfort zone?

We liberals on Facebook are merely preaching to the choir. And maybe we feel just a wee bit superior as we consume intelligently-written, in-depth articles and compelling op-ed pieces in venerated publications. In the end, are we disparaging “the others”? Isn’t that a right-wing tactic? When we proclaim on social media that a vote for Trump is a vote for the end of the world as we know it, aren’t we engaging in the same type of fear-mongering that we accuse Republics of? Do we see most Trump supporters — even the highly-educated — as delusional, ill-read, Fox-addicted, xenophobes and racists? Might this be “intellectual bullying?” Are we to dissolve life-long friendships with people whose beliefs conflict with ours? In the days following the massacre of 11 innocent people in a Pittsburgh synagogue, I declared, in my need to blame someone or something, that the killings were incited by Trump’s “immigrant invasion” rhetoric. Maybe, maybe not. Much depends upon the intrinsic human need to process a killer’s horrendous action.

Political commentator David Brooks wrote a very interesting piece in the New York Times on January 9, titled “Trump Has Made Us All Stupid.” His thesis is that Democrats are becoming hysterical with fear and loathing in the same manner as Republicans, spending more time and energy hating Trump than dissecting facts and presenting fair and balanced news. (Personally, I’m growing weary of liberal-leaning MSNBC’s increasingly over-the-top editorial stance.) Brooks’s article opines, “Hating Trump together has become the ultimate bonding, attention-grabbing and profit-maximization mechanism for those of us in anti-Trump world. So you get a series of exaggerated fervors — the Mueller report! Impeachment! The Steele dossier! — that lead ultimately nowhere. Most of this week’s argument about the Middle East wasn’t really about the Middle East. It was all narcissistically about ourselves! Democrats defend terrorists! Republicans are warmongers!” Perhaps we’re just all too smug, judgmental and worried for our own good.

When I showed an early draft of this article to a friend, she said, “Well, that’s all well and good, but we need to hold these Trump supporters accountable!” Really?

Facebook is not a forum in which I feel comfortable sharing my thoughts and passions. I prefer to limit any socio-political posts to articles about action-oriented ways to advance liberal ideals. And, more importantly, I will continue to use The Hip Quotient as a forum to share content that encourages people to create and experience art, music, film, and literature that empower us all.

“Tiny Dancer” is the opening track of 1971’s “Madman Across the Water.” It’s one of those “backseat openers,” as I call them. I’d leave a department store — either P.T. or Weston’s or Hills, in what I once thought was the Big Town of Indiana, PA — with my parents, climb into the backseat of whatever big old Cadillac Daddy was driving at the time, take the record out of the bag, slice open the cellophane covering with my thumbnail, and pore over every word and image on the sleeve and vinyl disc during the 30-minute ride back to our small-town, four-room apartment.

“Madman” was one of those albums that stayed on the platter of my cheap Sears Silverstone record player for weeks on end. I eventually digitized the LP — without applying Dolby (I wanted to hear the snap, crackle, pop) — so that I could listen to it in its original format on all my “devices.” Now, check out this vid. In fact, watch it two or three times. For me, it’s AGERTSAT – A Good Enough Reason to Stay Alive Today!

© Dana Spiardi, May 22, 2017

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When the Mary Tyler Moore Show debuted on CBS on September 19, 1970, I was 10, and at the height of my tuffy tomboy period. And while I liked the program’s heroine Ms. Richards well enough, at that age I wasn’t too interested in her career or her elegance or her fabulous wardrobe. I watched the show mainly for the laughs and the offbeat characters: Dimwitted Ted Baxter, curmudgeonly Mr. Grant, kooky Rhoda, and haughty Phyllis.

But as I came of age during the show’s long network run (through 1977), I grew to embrace Mary Richards as a role model. She had a cool apartment in an old Victorian house and an exciting job in the male-dominated news business (which was of great interest to me; I’d end up declaring a journalism major in college). For all her physical perfection, she evoked an air of vulnerability as she stammered her way through arguments with her grouchy boss over pay raises and equality. She never managed to throw one decent dinner party — something I’d relate to one day. She was so tidy and practical, organizing her closets when she felt like blowing her top. But what I loved best about Mary was that she never seemed to care that she didn’t have a boyfriend, a husband or kids. All too often, writers succumb to marrying off a character when they’ve run out of good storylines or are trying to attract a new audience. TV’s first single working woman, Ann Marie (Marlo Thomas) of That Girl, remained a free agent during most of the series’ five-season run, but ended up becoming engaged to goofy ol’ Donald Hollinger in 1971. No, the Mary Tyler Moore Show writers (one-third of whom were women, a rarity back then!) stuck to the feminist agenda. In fact, I suspect that the sitcom’s star, the talented MTM herself, wanted it that way.

I was a very late bloomer and never had a boyfriend in junior high or high school, except for a brief four-month period in 10th grade (and it’s important to note that he was a boy from a neighboring town, and was either unaware or unconcerned that I was considered D-List material at my own school. Read more.) So, the fact that a beautiful, intelligent, classy dame like Mary Richards never had a steady beau gave me hope. She had an interesting career. She had friends. She was liked. She was happy. All of THAT, without a man or kids. Wow. The theme song lyrics from the show’s first season said it all:

How will you make it on your own?
This world is awfully big,
Girl, this time you’re all alone.
But it’s time you started living.
It’s time you let someone else do some giving.
Love is all around, no need to waste it,
You can never tell, why don’t you take it.
You might just make it after all.
You might just make it after all.

Girls, you CAN make it. Don’t ever let society pressure you into thinking you need a guy to make your dreams come true. Parents, sit your young ladies down and introduce them to the life and times of MTM!

In loving memory of Mary Tyler Moore, December 29, 1936, to January 25, 2017.

© Dana Spiardi, January 26, 2017

Well, this past weekend, I got that chance, when I not only met, but KISSED, Lawrence Samuel Storch during his appearance at a Monster Bash convention near Pittsburgh PA.There he was, at age 94, a bit frail, but tidy and quietly attentive, signing autographs and posing for pictures with adoring fans. First off, I told him I loved him, and thanked him for his eight decades of service to the entertainment industry. Then, I went straight for the gags, rephrasing the classic F-Troop line, “Now, why does everybody say I’m so dumb?” He smiled and began to sign the photo I purchased from his tabletop display. “Make sure you sign it ‘with love,’” I said. He answered, “Okay, but shall I sign it ‘Larry’ or ‘Larry Storch’?” I told him to include his last name, in the off chance some philistine would see the picture on my wall and ask about his identity.

Then, I regaled him with my story of how I used to sit with my girlfriends, Kathy B. and Mary M., in a small lunchroom at our workplace in the 1980s, sharing F-Troop gags and singing the theme song. (Mary’s husband Majeed once bemoaned, “She makes me watch that show every night on Nickelodeon!” Hey, what better way for an intellectual from Saudi Arabia to absorb American high-culture?) Well, Mary’s F-Troop dreamboat may have been klutzy Captain Wilton Parmenter (played with pratfall-panache by the talented Ken Berry), but Kathy and I were staunch Storchers from day one. And we weren’t the only ones! As I was waiting in line to meet Larry, I overheard a woman gushing to him about the huge crush she had on him as a kid.

What can I say? Some of us just have highly-refined taste in men. We don’t dig the ones with the usual matinee idol looks (although, check out some early publicly stills of Larry; he was a hottie!) There was just something about that little guy. As Agarn, he was downright adorable in his yellow kerchief, red undershirt, suspenders, and oversized hat (he was the only one in the show who donned a white one; how nonconformist, I thought!) But his appeal had more to do with the lovable, relatable nature of his character: all bark and no bite, always late to grasp a joke or insult (“who says I’m dumb?”), a relentless hypochondriac, berating the cowardly troops of Fort Courage one minute and falling apart at the seams the next, burying his head in the chest of scheming Sergeant O’Rourke (the mighty Forrest Tucker) and tearfully wailing, “Oh, Sarge!” (For the record, I used to think Mr. Tucker looked a bit like my dad).

The tomboy in me longed to be Captain Parmenter’s sharpshooting, trading-post paramour Wrangler Jane (the late Melody Patterson, a 16-year-old cutie who lied about her age to get the part), strutting the wooden sidewalks with frontier fearlessness, in boots, fringed jacket, tight buckskin britches, and lasso gloves. But I figured I’d always be more akin to the hapless Agarn.

Eventually, I’d grow into a cynic, read “Catch 22,” and realize that stories about bumbling military misfits might be closer to real life than I’d like to imagine. As an adult I’d roll my eyes at the racist portrayal of F-Troop’s Hekawi Indian characters (who, nonetheless, were wiser than the soldier-dogs). But back when I was a child of six, the metaphors of a misfiring canon, a tone-deaf bugler, and a blind man in the watchtower were nothing more than gags.

Today, I wish I could view my misfit life, with all its misfirings, tone-deaf thoughts, and confusion along the watchtower, as a silly satire like F-Troop. Well, maybe it’s possible, if I can just march-step outside my cluttered Fort Fear of a mind and find some humor in my self-absorbed situations.

I see my encounter with Larry Storch as a type of wake-up call, as I trudge through a difficult phase of my life…my own personal war’s-end Reconstruction Period. He’s 94 years young, still spreading joy and inspiring playfulness. Today, I choose to embrace my inner-Agarn soul, with all its flaws, goofiness, and sweetness. I’m proud to be a humble little corporal, making the daily rounds through my own personal Fort Courage.

© Dana Spiardi, June 26, 2017

Okay, folks, let Agarn teach you to dance, in one easy lesson! Also featured in this clip are Hollywood legend Edward Everett Horton as medicine man Roaring Chicken, Italian-American character actor Frank de Kova as Chief Wild Eagle, and Forrest Tucker as Sarge.

And, because I know you’re just dying to sing along, here’s the F-Troop theme song from the show’s opening credits!

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Well, as it turns out, they sat in the Lennons’ living room and watched Saturday Night Live! Imagine their surprise when SNL producer Lorne Michaels appeared on their TV screen, announcing an offer to pay the Beatles $3,000 to come together and perform three songs on his show! He held up a check and said, “NBC has authorized me to offer you a certified check for $3,000….you can divide it anyway you want. If you want to give Ringo less, that’s up to you.” What a commentary on the creative pecking order, albeit at poor Ringo’s expense!

John later told David Sheff, author of the book All We Are Saying, “He [Paul] was visiting us at our place in the Dakota. We were watching it [SNL] and almost went down to the studio, just as a gag. We nearly got into a cab, but we were actually too tired.”

WHAT? Two healthy guys in their mid-thirties, too tired? From what…smoking too much weed? How dare they deprive the world of what would have been the biggest event in rock history! Oh, well. Yoko would have tagged along and ruined the whole thing anyway.

A month later, Michaels again tried to lure the Beatles, this time with a sum of $3,200 and an offer by NBC to pay for their hotel accommodations! He asked SNL announcer Don Pardo to provide more details. Here’s the hilarious transcript:

First of all, the lads from Liverpool will be picked up by a radio-dispatched Checker cab that will whisk them to the Cross Town Motor Inn, located in the heart of New York’s fashionable garment district. Once there, they will check in, in the recently renovated lobby; and then it’s off to their rooms via round-the-clock elevator service. They’ll be treated like royalty, as pitchers of ice water are hand-delivered to their rooms, and they can drink that water from glasses sanitized for their convenience. Oops — Ringo spilled a little something on his jacket? No problem — not with prompt forty-eight-hour dry cleaning service! ‘In by Tuesday, out by Thursday.’ And let’s just put a shine on those shoes, too, with a free shoe shine cloth. And, Lorne, since the Beatles will be staying in separate rooms, the four Mop Tops can speak to each other as much as they want because there is no charge for room-to-room calls. And, after a hard day’s night, the Beatles can sleep as late as they like with a leisurely checkout time of 10 A.M. That’s the Cross Town Motor Inn, a hotel tradition, hosting New York’s visitors since 1971. Yeah, yeah, yeah! Back to you Lorne!

Okay, pretty funny, but the huge sums offered by other industry moguls were nothing to scoff at. Three months before Lorne Michaels’ offer, promoter Bill Sargent tried to bait the Beatles with a payment of $50 million. And later in the year, Sid Bernstein, the man who promoted the Beatles’ early U.S. tours, offered a staggering $230 million for them to perform a one-time-only charity concert. The four turned it down, although sources say Paul considered it.

The closest thing to a Beatles reunion took place on May 19, 1979, when Paul, George, and Ringo jammed at the wedding of Eric Clapton and Pattie Boyd (George’s ex-wife). They performed shaky, alcohol-laced renditions of “Get Back,” “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” and “Lawdy Miss Clawdy.” But where was John? He and Clapton had been tight in the early ’70s, when the guitarist performed with John at his Live Peace in Toronto concert. Did Eric and Pattie forget to send John an invitation? Did Yoko receive it and toss it in the trash? In Peter Doggett’s book, You Never Give Me Your Money, Clapton said, “John later phoned me to say that he would have been there too if he had known about it.” Sadly, all hopes for a Beatles reunion were abandoned on December 8, 1980, when John was assassinated as he entered his apartment.

When the Beatles played their impromptu “concert” on the rooftop of the Apple Records building during the “Let It Be” recording sessions in January 1969, little did anyone know it would be the final live performance of the greatest and most influential band in history. It was the world’s finest free concert. Priceless.

Here’s Lorne Michaels, offering The Beatles the BIG check, on April 24, 1976:

© Dana Spiardi, April 24, 2013