Fare thee well to the King of Pop

There are two songs in my lifetime that literally exploded from the jukebox; Two songs that changed the history of American music and, no, neither is the tune that millions are playing today in the wake of Michael Jackson's death.

Yes, I'm old enough to remember the Beatles and if you're not, then you cannot begin to comprehend that first earth-shattering experience of "I Want To Hold Your Hand." There was, quite simply, nothing like hearing that sound for the first time. To properly place it in perspective, consider the Billboard #1 song in the country in the week before "I Want To Hold Your Hand" -- Bobby Vinton's "There I Said It Again." If that isn't a musical and cultural sea change, then I don't know what is.

Still, that second iconic tune of my lifetime wasn't "Billie Jean," but rather the song that started it all. I believe I was in Lincoln Jr. High school, maybe grabbing a soda and an ice cream sandwich from the cafeteria machines. And there was nothing to prepare any of us for that first piano riff of "I Want You Back."

"PPPPPPPPPPPPPPpppppppppppppppppppppppppp
pp...BOOM!

Who ARE these guys and how is that incredible sound coming from that pudgy little kid from Gary, Indiana?

He was little Michael Jackson then. He was also around my age, so I identified Michael as part of my generation. And like a lot of the music that came out in 1969, "I Want You Back" clearly was a message that the 60's were over and the new sound was here.

Back in those days, he was already becoming an American icon, even though it was still as "little" Michael Jackson. He mugged the camera and cracked wise on television as the Jackson 5 appeared on just every variety show of the era. There was a Jackson 5 cartoon show and even Donny Osmond wanted to be like Mike. (Take one listen to the Osmonds' "One Bad Apple" and tell me you can't see it!)

When "Off The Wall" was being released, I was a disco DJ at the Cardinal Bar and then in the business of finding the hottest new grooves to get folks to fill the dance floor. And when The Jacksons (renamed after a messy split with Motown) came to Milwaukee County Stadium later that summer as part of the annual Kool Jazz Festival, I got to see the man at his musical peak.

I remember coming back to rave about his performance - the moves, the songs and oh, that stage presence. People who hadn't yet seen his transformation from child star to American super-duper-star could only wonder, "do you mean 'little" Michael Jackson?" I could only reply, "well, he ain't so little no more."

Of course, this was before the cultural tsunami of "Thriller." While nobody can deny the incredible popular success of that album, many have forgotten the political importance of that moment in time.

You see, before "Billie Jean," MTV (Music Television) was a segregated affair. I know, it's impossible for you youngsters to understand - raised on the likes of 50 Cent and BET - but back then, MTV played a strictly white pop playlist. It was only after the meteoric success of "Billie Jean" (and Prince's "1999") that the network was forced to play black music and the rest, as they say, is history.

That's roughly the 1st Act of Michael Jackson's saga and now an entire generation has grown up with only the memory of his slide down the ladder - from the King of Pop to a suspected pedophile and international punchline. And yet, even as the tawdry embarrassments kept adding up, it was still impossible to hear that opening bass line from "Billie Jean" and not start shaking your booty.

In his own way, Michael Jackson was this colorful pastiche of Diana Ross, Frank Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe. He didn't just want to be like Diana Ross, MJ wanted to BE Diana Ross - a diva in every sense of the word.

Like Sinatra before him, Michael Jackson began as a teen idol and became the world's preeminent entertainer. Most fans don't recall that Old Blue Eyes had his down period, too. In the early 1950's, there was a feeling that - through a series of personal setbacks and lack of popular or critical success - the musical world had passed Sinatra by. It was only after mounting his comeback that the Sinatra legacy we know today came into existence.

And that's perhaps the saddest part of this American tragedy. Michael Jackson never got his own Act Three, never got to resurrect his career and his image past that of a creepy, self-obsessed pedophile. Those Vegas appearances and upcoming worldwide tour never came to be; All of which makes Michael Jackson ultimately more like Marilyn Monroe than Sinatra. MJ never got see the fans love him all over again.

For a good chunk of the later 20th Century, Michael Jackson was simply the most important performer on the planet. There must be millions like me this morning - trying desperately to shove all those uncomfortable later images of the pale, emaciated Michael Jackson from our consciousness and trying instead to recall that most incredible moment when you first saw him dance. When the entire rock'n'roll world stopped to watch.

 So, while the rest of the world shakes their collective groove thang this morning to "Billie Jean," I am sadly trying to recapture that delicious moment of my childhood when I first heard the magic.

 "PPPPPPPPPPPPPPppppppppppppppppppppppppp
pp...BOOM!

Michael, this morning, I want you back.

If you didnt know Jack, then I feel sorry for you.

Because all who did meet BlackJack -- even avowed cat-haters -- were better people for the experience.
 
Yes, Black Jack -- named for former White Sox SP Jack McDowell -- was merely a cat, but...(to steal one of my own lines from another eulogy -- this one of the late great Shirley Povich) calling Jack a cat is a lot like saying Frank Sinatra could carry a tune and Picasso painted a bit.  

For nearly 12 seasons as the official cat of the Columbian Redbuds, Black Jack was everything I ever wanted to be: a cool black cat with a heart of a warrior, yet totally at home with anybody. He embodied what I like to think are my best qualities -- loyalty, friendship and a sense of making everyone feel at home.
 
Black Jack was never sick a day of his life, but was struck down by massive kidney failure and gone in a week. Jack died on Monday morning at his last home at around 6:15am.
 
All in all, Monday April 13, 2009 was a lousy, sad day for baseball. Black Jack made the trifecta with the demise later in the day of Phillies' announcer Harry Kalas and former Detroit Lions' SP Mark "The Bird" Fidrych.I know Jack and I didnt know The Bird, but I do have one Harry Kalas story to tell.
 
In the late 1990's, as my wife and step-child were about to leave me, I spent nearly every day at old County Stadium as a beat reporter, covering the Milwaukee Brewers. One early evening, in the old press box canteen, I heard that voice...
 
(If you didnt know him from Phillies' games, think either Chunky Soup commercials or This Week In The NFL.)
 
And that voice beckoned..."give me a couple bratwurst and a Budweiser..."  I turned around, said out loud, "hey, I know that voice," and then added, "uh do you really think you can get a Budweiser in this place, buddy?"
 
He slapped himself in the head and we both laughed.
 
Being in that press box for that many years, I also got to know Brewers' announcer Bob Uecker and his reaction to Kalas' death is close to what Id like to have said about my Black Jack.
 
"I know that, sooner or later, we all gotta go sometime, but I will miss that (man.)  If you didnt like (him), you didnt like anybody..."

 
Former Phillies' OF Doug Glanville wrote an op-ed in the New York Times for Kalas and the title now describes my house without Black Jack, "A Devastating Quiet."

 
Another Philly legend, Bill Conlon added, "On black-armband days like this, you think dark thoughts of loss, the sudden taking of comrades with whom you shared days, weeks, months, years, decades and generations, ...as many intertwined lives were weathered like driftwood on a tropical beach that suddenly became storm-tossed and gray."
 
Im probably somewhere between anger and guilt in my own Kubler-Ross stages of loss. Back some 10 years ago after my divorce and I was left with a couple pieces of furniture and those two kitties -- Hector and Black Jack.
 
I know what youre thinking, "YOU got furniture?!"
 
Hector left us in 2007.
 
Black Jack died at home plate last Monday.
 
Needless to say, Jack left with a small mountain of vet's bills and so I am holding a wake sometime this summer at the Mallards' ballpark. Please come out and share a nice memory of Black Jack -- nearly all of you got to meet him -- quaff a brewski in his honor and toss a couple bucks in the "kitty" to help him not die a deadbeat, like his owner.
 
No, I havent had a good cry yet -- maybe after this, but Ueck' still had it right.

If you didnt like BlackJack, you didnt like anybody.
 

There are 43 strip clubs in Tampa, one for each of the games ever played. While some of the locals ain't exactly pleased with this, the Tampa Tribune has a listing for those visiting town for the week.

Still, this isn't the stupidest thing about Super Bowls. Really, there are only three things to care about in Super Bowl Sunday:

1. The ads
2. The Halftime
3. (sorry Pittsburgh and Arizona, but) The Game

The only reason for the game is one last excuse to gamble on pro football, but enough about that later.

As Mr T once observed, predictions are a pain, but I will do my best on the day before the contest.

1. With FedEx and many others pulling their ads in this sorry economy, it is a virtual lock that Budweiser will "win" another Ad Bowl -- of the best (or most talked about) ad during the game, PLEASE no farting horses this time, eh?

2. The Boss, Mr Springsteen, will play four songs. He'll have to start with Born To Run, he'll plug his new album and title cut and finish with The Rising.

I'd love it if he played something like Tenth Avenue Freezeout or Rosalita, but my guess is a staple from his political rallies of late, Promised Land

So, the prediction for halftime IS:

1. Born To Run
2. Waiting On A Dream
3. Promised Land
4. The Rising (with a likely cast of thousands onfield for the finale).

Now, if you care about the game.

Pittsburgh has had two weeks to plan a defense for Larry Fitzgerald -- my guess is that Troy Polamalu will shadow him all day. The Steelers will run the ball at will and smack the Arizona Cardinals around -- make it 34-17, Steel CIty.

Why do I think Super Bowls are stupid? Because they make people think that pro football and the NFL started in 1970.

If the Steelers win on Sunday, their fans will giddily announce, hey we've won SIX Super Bowls. I'll calmly reply, wonderful, that only puts you SIX NFL titles behind the Green Bay Packers!

Oh, but that's different, right? WHY!?

If we counted baseball titles like football, almost all of the Yankees' championships would be entirely devalued. (Not the worst idea, but...) That means, from Babe Ruth to DiMaggio to Mantle -- none of them ever won the big one!

In fact, the 1968 Baltimore Colts and 1969 Minnesota Vikings both WON NFL championships, you know, Because they lost to the AFL champs, they've been kicked to the history curb.

12 NFL titles. Good luck, Steelers, 49ers and Cowboys. You're still looking up at the REAL Title Town!

Hanging tough with the Insane Forced Balloon Posse...

January 5th is

(A) the day you go back to school after Xmas vacation,

(B) the day you throw your Xmas tree out or

(C) the lousiest day of the year to have a birthday.

At least, in much of North America, as it's usually the coldest day on the first Monday after the holidays. Everybody is broke and cold and miserable. And it's the date I've been fated to celebrate my birth.

It used to be the first date in the Big Ten men's basketball schedule, for some reason they keep moving it up to where it began this season in December 2008.

Of course, it used to be that all of the college bowl games were over with, but again for some reason they scheduled the Fiesta Bowl for January -- giving the Big Ten another chance to lose a bowl game.

Not to get Orwellian, but some birthdays are more equal than others. And mine flat sucks!

My lifelong dream is to celebrate it one day at the ballpark -- either, Puerto Rico or the Dominican Republic, which ever is cheaper -- and call everybody back up in Wisconsin on my cell phone.

"Hey, what's the windchill today?  Well, it's the third inning here, so I've gotta get another beer...see ya!"

Instead, back in glacial Madison, Wisconsin...we are forced to celebrate at the city's Birthday Palace, the venerable Nitty Gritty. On your special day, you are asked for your ID, they ring a bell, scribble your name on the board below the celebs with your sorry excuse for a birthday and give you a mug for free beer.

It used to be just certain entry-priced brews, but now they splurge and let you swill on the finer stuff. The only caveat is that this year, the bartender insisted that a balloon must be kept tied to the mug.

You're kidding me, right? Forced balloons? I can lose the balloon, right?

Nope, lose the balloon and lose the free beer privleges.

Wait a minute, I thought we just had an election to end this kind of tyranny. What the hell did we just vote for, if an American can't enjoy a lousy birthday's free brewskis without FORCED balloon?

And so, a sad, cold mostly friendless night becomes even more sad as we slurp with our balloon along for the ride. We men just looked at each other in sorry resignation -- fated to our balloon bondage.

One suggestion from a loyal reader was to create a half-Birthday date during the baseball season. So, should it be six months ahead on July 5th?

And what about that alternative Jan 5th? Would PR or the DR be a better place to enjoy a beer in the bleachers -- WITHOUT BALLOONS -- at a ballpark somewhere?

Well, that, my friends, is up to you. I'm asking your opinions on this.

1. Should I "move" my birthday to July 5 or

2. which is the best place to watch a baseball game on Jan. 5th?

Please reply with your thoughts and keep the balloons to yourself

Don't go away mad, don't go away sad, don't go away glad...

If I had run into ESPN's Mike Greenberg on the morning of March 4th, I would have slapped his smirky face off. Then, in a moment of Cosby-esque furor, I would have shrieked, "YOU PICK THAT GODDAMN FACE UP!" And then, I would  have slapped it off again. That just begins to tell you how mad I was --- and likely, still am -- at Mr. Greenberg.

Of course, if I allow myself to get logical, I know that he's not the only reason why my QB is playing for his team and not for mine. But when it comes to love -- and yes, you can love a team and its QB as deeply and profoundly as anything in this world -- logic is besides the point.

Still, Greenie was among the Greek Chorus of sportswriters and talking heads who forced Brett Favre's hand back in March to retire -- kind of. "Oh, you have to tell us all what you're going to do,' they cried. "You CAN'T let the Packers go into the draft without saying whether you're going to retire or not, " moped Greenie and all the others -- ESPN's nattering nabobs of negativity.

So, of course, after he says goodbye, Brett Honey starts to get that proverbial itch and wants to come back to Green Bay. Except that team's present brain trust (and I use that term loosely) has other plans that don't include #4.

Ted Thompson might accomplish much in his NFL management career, but I doubt it. When he dies, the New York Times' obit will read, "MAN WHO TRADED FAVRE."

And where does #4 wind up? Yuppers, Greenie's beloved New York Jets! I used to like the Jets, I really did. Unlike Greenberg, I can actually remember Joe Willie Namath playing in Shea Stadium, the Heidi game and "chicken ain't nothing but a bird." (As another former denizon of Shea used to say, you can look it up, Greenie.)

Like any spurned lover, it would be much nicer to slide into the shadows and not reminded of it. No dice. All of the Wisconsin CBS affiliates are trying to cash in on the Brett Favre love train and have been broadcasting nothing but Jets games this fall. It's like some girl leaves you for the rich guy and you have to keep seeing them ride by in that flashy car.

Back in September, when locals were choosing sides and some were going through their own Kubler-Ross levels of loss, many were still saying Packers Uber Alles. This team can still be a winner, they shouted from the highest hills. I begged to differ.

When they were hyperventilating over the 2-0 start, I humphed and said, this team will finish 7-9 or 9-7 -- it's simply mediocre without you-know-who at QB. Now that it's December, to paraphrase Denny Green, the Packers are who I thought they were.

Okay, Ted Thompson becomes the Grinch who stole the Packers' season. I can hate him for the rest of my life -- and likely will. And Brett Favre becomes just another ex who dumped me when things got tough. That leaves Greenie.

Let's tally it up, shall we? Mike Greenberg:

A) pissed and moaned that Favre should retire

B) was rewarded by Favre playing for his New York Jets

C) wouldn't know trivia if it bit him on the tuckus, but still got to host a trivia show -- (even if nobody watched Duel) and

D) is still ducking me in a debate on who would make a better next baseball Commissioner.

Yes, I threw the gauntlet down back last summer -- even had a few fans write back with their own pledges to vote for me.

I feel not unlike Kool Moe Dee trying to call out LL Cool J in that rapper's duel back in the day. LL couldn't rap his way out of a paper bag, but jeez louise, he's sooooooo cute anyway. LL is making movies these days and Kool Moe is left with little more than the knowledge that he was the superior rhyme writing talent.

Still, I'm still throwing it down, Greenie. You got Duel, you got Golic (okay, you can keep HIM) and now, you stole MY QB! If I may channel my inner Ice T, it's on! As Kool Moe once rapped, "if somebody knows the boy, better tell him 'cuz the boy ain't got no heart."

I again challenge you, Mike Greenberg, to a debate on who would make a better baseball Commissioner. You can bring all of your ESPN buddies -- Buster Olney, Peter Gammons and the rest -- have them ask us both the same questions. Afterwards, let's see if they don't say, "jeez Greenie I like you but the Beer Man made some good points out there.'

Yes, a Beer Man should be the next Commissioner. And if someone like me -- the product of a white mother and black father -- can grow up to be President, why can't another White Sox fan aspire to run the National Pasttime.

And it would give me something to do while avoiding Greenie and the Bretts.