My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

An Open Letter to Nikki Haley

by on ·Political Humor, Politics, The Way I See It

Nikki Haley, you blew it, girl. But you know that, don’t you? That’s why you’ve been backtracking and trying to clean up your mess ever since the New Hampshire town hall meeting last Wednesday. Your evasiveness on that Civil War question so outraged the spirits of my ancestors that I could visualize them pursing their lips and shaking their heads.

How could a former governor of South Carolina, SOUTH CAROLINA, of all states, flub the answer to a question about the Civil War? Remember Fort Sumter? No, not the Alamo, Fort Sumter. Would you have responded the same way if, instead of campaigning for president, you were on Celebrity Jeopardy, and the final question was, “What was the cause of the United States Civil War?”

Joking aside, between you and I, we know you didn’t really flub it. You knew what you were doing. You were playing your cards right and dealing them from the bottom of the MAGA deck.

When asked about the cause of the Civil War, you mentioned freedom relative to the government’s role and how it would be run. But the “S” word, “slavery,” never slipped off your tongue. And then you tried to flip the script by asking the questioner what he thought caused the Civil War. Nikki. Nikki. Nikki. SMH

I hope you or one of your assistants is reading this, Nikki because I want you to know that it’s people like you who have turned this former political junkie against politics and shady politicians. Yes, I’m gradually weaning myself away from all things political. “What’s that?” you said. Of course, you don’t care. And I don’t care that you don’t care. But let me tell you about when I became interested in politics.

It was decades ago. Before I retired, I worked for a couple of lobbying firms. One day, my employer, a former Chicago State Senator, had me accompany him to Capitol Hill for a meeting with then-Senator Barack Obama. You remember him, don’t you? Of course you do. Some months after I met him, Senator Obama became President of the United States. That made my day but probably spoiled yours.

I enjoyed working at both of the lobbying firms. Shortly after I entered that profession, one manager told me they prefer to be known as a government relations office instead of a lobbying office. Apparently, “lobbying and lobbyists” get a bad rap. (That’s rap as in reputation, Nikki, not music. I’m just saying, in case you didn’t know.) I suppose that bad rap concerns PAC contributions and how they influence politics, right? Surely, you know all about PACS and Super PACS. But we’ll keep that on the down-low.

My position required that I visit the Capitol building and the six Senate and House office buildings on numerous occasions. I even rode the subway beneath the Capitol building, which shuttles senators and staff between their offices a few times. Although my trips to Capitol Hill were usually to retrieve bills from the document room, meet with Congressional staff, or deliver PAC checks, I didn’t mind being the gofer because I got to see and experience a side of the legislative branch of government that many folks don’t.

I think Capitol Hill is one of this city’s most beautiful areas, whether blanketed in snow or adorned in springtime by various beautiful flowers, plants, and trees. That’s why, to this day, I get so angry whenever I think about or see a TV news clip showing the January 6, 2021, insurrectionists climbing up the side of the building like an intrusion of cockroaches.

During my years of employment in government relations offices, I met many politicians besides President Obama. Some of the others I remember include the late Senators Ted Kennedy, Bob Dole, DC Mayor Marion Barry, House Speaker John Boehner, and Former Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin.

I’m glad that I’m retired and away from all things political. Who wants to be associated with that profession? And who would like to be president? Bad question. Strike that. I won’t say that politicians are to blame for all the things tearing this country apart, and I wouldn’t dare suggest that one particular party, sometimes described as the MAGA-ring circus, fueled the fire. Wink.

Even a blind man can see that the whole world is having a nervous breakdown. The detrimental effects of global warming and climate change are wreaking havoc on the environment. With its expensive robotic contraptions and elaborate devices, the technological revolution is further straining the relationship between the affluent and the disadvantaged. And whether the blame gets laid on the economy, social injustice, or the status quo, people everywhere have gone rogue and lost their freakin’ minds. Unconscionable souls embrace all things immoral, evil, and unlawful. Warfare, crime, and mass killings are escalating. Progress is regressing on women’s rights, civil rights, human rights overall, and racists are banning books and trying to whitewash black history. Jumpin’ Black Jesus! What next?

I’m closing this letter to you now, Nikki. I just had to get some things off my chest and remind you that God don’t like ugly; that includes lying and denying. Before I go, may I suggest some books for you to read? Nevermind that some of them are on the banned list:  The 1619 Project by  Nikole Hannah-Jones; Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Ibram X. Kendi and Jason Reynolds; and Without Consent or Contract: The Rise and Fall of American Slavery by Robert William Fogel

One last thing, girlfriend, and I’m done. Wasn’t it Will Rogers who said, “Everything is changing. People are taking their comedians seriously and the politicians as a joke?”

 

 

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Relishing the Spirt of Christmas

by on ·Christmas

“All these things and more … that’s what Christmas means to me.” Steve Wonder sings.

Commercialization aside. Religious significance understood. That said, for anyone who needs it, I’ll move on and talk about why Christmas is my favorite holiday.

When I was a child, the days between Thanksgiving and the Yuletide season seemed endless. As I write this, there are 16 days left until the big day. Most folks barely finished scrubbing the turkey drippings from the roasting pan before they began dusting off ornaments and decorating the tree. Weeks ago, I pulled out my stack of Christmas CDs and began singing along to tunes like Give Love at Christmas by the fabulous Temptations. (Feel free to click the link and enjoy the song while reading this post.) Listening to Christmas oldies starts a mental slideshow that transports me back through time to the days of my youth.

My parents did what they could to ensure that my siblings and I would have beautiful memories of Christmas. They are gone now, but I cherish those memories and remain forever grateful they did not prevent us from enjoying what so many other children our age did: the magic of Santa Claus.

I feel sorry for the children of contemporary parents who refuse to let their children participate in what they consider the “big lie” about Santa. I learned soon enough (too soon for me) that Santa was a myth, and I was no worse off for having spent many preadolescent years believing in him. When I consider the harsh reality that today’s youngsters contend with – school shootings, pedophiles, child trafficking, and other heartbreaking events, I think children deserve a rest from the chaos and insanity of the world. If only for a few days, let them experience the fantasy of Santa Claus. Some folks will disagree with me, and that’s their prerogative.

I found Christmas so enjoyable when my family would take us down south to visit my grandparents on both sides of the family. It was a blissful time, and the joy was enhanced because aunts, uncles, and cousins whom we rarely saw during the year also gathered at grandma’s house during the holidays.

Next to bonding with my cousins, the best thing about visiting grandma’s was the delicious meals prepared during our time there. I can’t talk about it enough, any more than I can stop thinking about it. Even now, I salivate when remembering mouth-watering meals, including baked ham, roasted turkey, and fried chicken with various side dishes. Collard greens seasoned with fatback or some other cured meat, homemade macaroni and cheese, candied yams, corn, string beans, stuffing, yeast rolls, biscuits, and cornbread slathered with butter and splashed with jelly or jam preserves. Desserts might include fruit cake and apple pie. Grandma made practically everything from scratch. You’d be hard-pressed to find anything prepared from a can or box on her table. And the beverage was almost always Lemonade or Kool-Aid.

In addition to Christmas music, the fragrant smell of live pine or fir trees triggers my memory of those wonderful years.

Also resurfacing during the holiday season are other visions of Christmases past, like when my parents would take us downtown to see the holiday window displays. Department storefronts would be illuminated with colorful, animated exhibitions, including dolls, Santa and his elves, and snowy landscapes. My town’s most extravagant festive showings were at Woodward and Lothrop, the Hecht Company, and Lansburgh department stores.

No matter how often I view it, the four-minute video below fascinates me. As I watch it, I imagine I am seven years old again and standing with my family in front of the storefront display, indifferent to the winter cold. My mouth is gaping in awe, and I envision myself traveling like Alice Through the Looking Glass to the fantasyland on the other side. Watch it, readers, and see if your imagination will take you there.

As I share this peaceful, fantasyland vision with you in the spirit of Christmas, I wish you Happy Holidays! Be safe. Be blessed.

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Retired and Aging Like a Boss

by on ·General

The older I get, the more obsessed I am with maintaining control over my time. My son tells me I’m too generous with my time, but he has no idea. I selfishly and unashamedly guard every minute like a bouncer at a Taylor Swift concert. When I am in my groove, whether exercising, meditating, reading a good book, or just chilling, interruptions annoy me worse than a loud-mouth gum snapper. Even while writing this post, I’ve had five interruptions – three phone calls, one text ping, and Amazon at the door. Aiiiiiiih!!! (Sorry, I couldn’t suppress that scream.)

Extroverts might think my life boring. Wrong! I’ve been happily retired for 15 years and am still enjoying my home life. That doesn’t mean I would pass up an offer to live in a secluded cabin in the mountains of Colorado for a quiet writing place. Nevertheless, even in the noisy, bustling city, I’m a bonafide homebody and proud of it!

I know several retirees who, if they aren’t out globe-trotting (bless ’em) or being the life of a party, feel like they are under house arrest. Not me. I don’t like to travel, and I’m not a party animal, nor do I feel the need to socialize constantly; if I do, there’s always Facebook. Since my FB friends are inside the computer and not in the room with me, I can evade drama with one click.

Face-to-face interaction is not as easily avoided. If a friend unexpectedly stops by my place to visit (when I’m in the middle of writing and fantasizing about being the author of the world’s most extraordinary novel or kicking butt in a computerized word game), I smile politely, invite them in, and we chat until they decide to leave. I can’t say (after 10 or 15 minutes), “Okay, you’ve been here long enough. Get going now.” That thought might be in my head, but being rude is not in my nature (and neither is dropping in on someone without calling first). I recently saw a unique doormat in a magazine. Instead of Welcome, it reads, “If you didn’t call first, I’m not home.” That won’t stop my close friends and relatives, but they’ll get a laugh out of it.

Another thing that annoys me is lengthy phone conversations. And let me tell you, even a boss can learn something. I have a dear friend who shares my first name. We met and immediately bonded in junior high school. The last time we saw each other was in 2002, at the funeral of another beloved alumna who died a year after we attended our 35th high school reunion. As we parted, I hugged my namesake and said, “Call me sometimes.”

She said she’d send me an occasional note to stay in touch, then explained that she doesn’t like talking on the phone. I thought that was the strangest thing. What woman doesn’t like talking on the phone? Over a decade later, I get it because I’m the same way now. (Always the late bloomer.) Some women can talk on the phone for hours, like teenagers. Not this woman. My time is limited. I treasure every second. Unless a phone call concerns something important, any conversation lasting longer than a few minutes is too long for me.

Oh, and one more peeve before I give it a rest. Working out at the fitness center used to be my jam. The gym opens at 6 a.m. Three days a week, I get up around 5:30, wash up, grab my gear, and hit the pavement. Fortunately, I have a gym within walking distance of my home, and I enjoy going there most of the time. But there are days…

Some people probably go to the gym to socialize while working out, but I don’t. Not to be misunderstood, I’ve made some good friends at the gym, especially in the years before COVID shut down everything. I waited several months before returning after it reopened. I’ve been back for six months, enjoying myself, rowing, walking on the treadmill, doing lat pull-downs. Just about any vigorous exercise puts me in the zone. For that reason, I don’t particularly appreciate talking while I’m working out.

Most days, I can exercise without interruption. But occasionally, a certain retired gentleman, whom I will not name, approaches me and starts a conversation. He isn’t flirtatious, don’t get me wrong. He just likes to talk – about politics, his wife and family, the bad news on TV, and how the city has changed since he was a kid – anything. Sometimes, I keep repeating “Uh huh” in response to whatever he says, as if I’m working out so strenuously that I don’t have enough breath to hold a conversation. You would think that would deter him. It doesn’t. He keeps talking.

When I see him taking a break from training and walking around the room, I know he’s in talk mode. I try to avoid looking in his direction. I also keep my earbuds in even if my iPod is off, although that’s not always a deterrent. He’ll ignore the buds and start talking to me anyway, so I feign politeness and remove them, but instead of tucking them in my pocket, I continue holding them in my fingers, inches from my ears, hoping he’ll get the message. Make it quick! Occasionally, I’ll keep the earbuds in my ears and repeat, “Huh? Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.” That doesn’t work either. If you think he’ll read this post and get the message, don’t bet on it.

Sometimes, when he is very long-winded, I feel so annoyed I cut my exercise short and leave. Other times, while continuing to work out, I imagine I “inadvertently” drop a five-pound dumbbell on his foot. That might shut him up – temporarily, while he’s swearing, holding the leg with the smashed toes up by the knee, and hopping around on the good foot. Bad idea. I know. But I can’t help what mischievous thoughts enter my mind, now can I? And in civil court, I’ll say, “Your honor, It was an accident. I am so sorry, but he wouldn’t shut up, and as I went to wave him off, the weight slipped from my sweaty hand and landed on his foot.” (Smirk and stifle a wicked laugh.)

Even a retired lady can think like a boss.

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Eyeing The View Through Rose-Colored Glasses

by on ·Entertainment, Women

My closest friends know that my favorite TV show is The View. I’ve watched it for years; even when I was in the workforce, I’d tape it. I’ve even got a View coffee mug. Not since my sister-in-law, Barbara, and I attended Oprah’s show in November 1986, when it was taped in DC, have I been so intent on attending another live show. For years, I’ve had my eyes on The View.

Whoopi Goldberg has served as moderator since the show’s creator, Barbara Walters, retired on May 14, 2014. Depending on the topic, Whoopi offers enthusiastic commentary or sits with her elbow on the table, face resting in her hand, looking bored or making faces to elicit a laugh from the audience.

Over the years, I’ve seen the turnover in cohosts.  Joy Behar, Meredith Vieira, Star Jones, and Debbie Matenopoulos were on the original team. Others who have come and gone are Lisa Ling, Sherri Shepherd, Rosie Perez, Sarah Haines, and Rose O’Donnell. The current team members are Whoopi Goldberg, Ana Navarro, Sunny Hostin, Sara Haines, Alyssa Farah Griffin, and the program’s longest survivor of turnovers, Joy Behar.

Twice in the distant past, I had the opportunity to get tickets to a taping of the show, but bad timing prevented me from attending. Some weeks after I had requested tickets, the second time, one of the show’s staff members phoned me, extending four tickets for the Halloween show; audience members were expected to wear costumes. That would have been fantastic, but it, too, was a missed opportunity.

While contemplating whether to sign up one more time for tickets, I did some research. What I discovered lends truth to the adage,” Everything is not as it seems.” And so it is with The View.

I read dozens of reviews by ticket-holders: those who waited in line to attend a taping and those who were lucky enough to get inside.  Here’s what I know – and what I learned.

The taping takes place at ABC studios in New York on 57 West 66th Street on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Tickets can be requested on the website  https://1iota.com/show/385/the-view. Once on the site, select a desired date on the calendar and click Request Tickets. You may apply for up to four tickets, and when approved, you will be notified via email.

If your side job is scalping and you request tickets with the intent of selling them, forget it. The tickets are free, but they are also non-transferable. The person who registers and requests tickets must be in attendance. ID will be checked. Guests also go through security screening.

Remember that just because you book one of those outrageously priced hotel rooms near the studio (the least expensive one I found was $400 per night) and then travel to the Big Apple by plane, train, or automobile to attend The View doesn’t mean you’ll be admitted. Tickets are issued in excess of capacity, and being a ticket holder does not guarantee admittance, nor is preference given to out-of-towners. That’s why it is essential to read the ticket guidelines.

The View has a dress code for live audience members. “Guests are encouraged to dress ‘upscale casual’ and look trendy. No tank tops, large logos on hats or shirts, t-shirts, shorts, or solid white or solid black tops.”

As if the revelations from people who have “been there” were not enough to change my mind about wanting to attend a taping, I read the book Ladies Who Punch:  The Explosive Inside Story of The View. Written by award-winning journalist Ramin Setoodeh, it promises to deliver “the gossipy, real-life soap operator behind the show,” and it does. Interviews with the cohosts disclose bickering, ego-tripping, and hiring and firing of cohosts. In addition, revelations come to light about the personalities of the cohosts — some unyielding, others fragile — and the backstage shenanigans, including Star Jones’ wedding fiasco, Elizabeth Hasselback’s meltdown, and Rose O’Donnell’s putdowns and temper tantrums. It is all there on every riveting page. Prepare to be surprised. I was.

In the meantime, I bulleted below some of the comments I read by reviewers and, where necessary, edited or paraphrased.

  • Being a ticket holder does not guarantee entry, even if you arrive early. Guests are advised to arrive by 9:30 a.m. sharp. Standby/same-day tickets are handed out at the audience entrance. To increase your chance of getting a standby ticket, you should arrive and stand in line before 8:30 a.m. The wait can take one to two hours, so dress appropriately for the weather.
  •  A 72-year-old woman wrote: My friend had the tickets in his name. He arrived very early, at about 8:15. [The staff] promptly cut off the priority ticket line at 9:00 a.m. I arrived at 9:03. They told me to go to the “standby” line. After 10 minutes, they said people in the standby line should leave because they were filled to capacity. The attendants didn’t listen to my reasoning that my friend was in line waiting for me even though my friend also tried to reason with them. They were rude and unaccommodating. We had ordered the tickets way in advance. I will never again attempt to get tickets to The View.
  •  Another person wrote: It doesn’t matter how early you arrive and get in line. I showed up at 7 a.m. so we could be the first ones there and get front-row seating, but that didn’t matter. They [the staff] sit you wherever they feel like it. I was furious. We were the first ones there but were assigned to the last row behind the cameras. And if you need to use a restroom during the wait period, you must wait to be escorted.
  • Regarding the taping, the hosts could have cared less if they had a live audience. We were merely props. They could have run a laugh, applause, or other soundtrack and never missed us. There was an opportunity to ask the cohosts questions during commercial breaks, but they pretty much ignored the audience. I have been a fan of The View since day one and am greatly disappointed with the experience. I would not recommend the trip; it is better to watch from home.
  •  Donna Brazile was the guest on the program, and the audience was promised a copy of her book, which I was excited about. After the show’s end, when we were instructed to leave, I asked one of the staff members about the book to no avail.
  • I’ve been to The View a few times. 1iota gives out Priority and General Admission tickets. It doesn’t matter what kind of ticket you have. The staff members who check in the audience decide where they seat you. I don’t find that fair and don’t think it’s worth seeing The View in person because of this process; instead, watch it on TV.
  • I signed up for my tickets online and met great people in line. We were admitted into the studio around 9:45-ish. You get one chance for the bathroom, so TAKE IT! Taping takes an hour; then, you’re quickly kicked out of the studio. The staff will not allow people to use the bathrooms after the show.
  • It was a View Your Deal Day, and [that segment] is not taped in front of the live audience. We sat there for about fifteen minutes while Sarah taped it backstage. You also wait outside for a while before being admitted inside. There’s no awning or anything to protect you if it’s raining or very cold.
  • I’m so disappointed. Thank goodness my husband & I were in NYC for three days because I would have been furious if I had gone just for this show. We received priority tickets, which meant nothing, and we had to stand in line in the rain.

*              *              *

Barbara Walters died on December 30, 2022. Long-time fans of The View will always appreciate the program’s innovativeness and Barbara’s tagline, “I’ve always wanted to do a show with women of different generations, backgrounds, and views.” And so she did.

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A Celebration of Life and Tribute to Friendship

by on ·Friendship

Grief can roll over you like a dump truck driven by a drunk driver. That’s what happened to me last night. The assault was sudden and unexpected.

While sitting at my computer, I decided to reach out to a long-time friend, LaVerne Gill. She was also a former employer. I first searched for her on Facebook and discovered her last entry was in August 2018. We had corresponded online a few years before that, but until then, it had been decades since we touched base. I did a Google search.

There is an adage that says, “Be careful what you ask for because you might get it.” A parallel principle can apply when looking for something or someone – be careful what you search for because you may not get what you anticipated.

In hindsight, I’d have been better off if I’d left well enough alone because what my Google search brought was the last thing I expected:  a YouTube video depicting a full-screen portrait of my friend beneath the title, Rev. LaVerne Gill Memorial Service.

To say that I was shocked is an understatement. My immediate thought was that it couldn’t be. Perhaps it was someone else with the same name, but the accompanying photo dispelled that notion.

I stared at the screen for the longest time, my hand cliching the mouse and my index finger hovering over the clicker. I felt compelled to click the arrow to start playing the two-hour video, but I dared not. How could I virtually attend her memorial service when it was just moments earlier that I learned she died three years ago? Had I not been sitting down, I would have fallen to my knees, covered my face with both hands, and wailed. Instead, I sat there, staring in disbelief at the screen until I suddenly began crying uncontrollably as my mind reeled back 36 years.

It was the summer of 1988. I had been searching for a part-time job to supplement the salary from my full-time position and came across an ad from the classified section in a newspaper. The editor was seeking a journalist for a local Weekly. I was not a journalist, but I knew I could write. My confidence was bolstered by my previous writing for various publications.

I called the listed number, and the editor was accommodating enough to schedule my interview during my lunch break the following day. The next day, I caught a cab to the office of the Metro Chronicle at the National Press Building.

I will always believe that my first assignment was a test to see if I could cut the muster. Following the interview and as I was preparing to leave to return to my “day” job, LaVerne asked if I’d like to review a play. Of course, I said I would.

She handed me two tickets and a press kit and told me to attend the play at The Studio Theater that night (Tonight! Say what? That was my first thought.). Then, she told me she needed me to turn in the assignment by noon the next day. (My second thought was, HUH? Tomorrow!)

“Can you do that?” She asked.

“Sure, I can,” I said, hoping that my voice would not reveal my sense of trepidation.

After getting off work, I hurried home, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed to the theater. I recruited my teenage daughter to accompany me. Reminding me she had school the next day did not save my reluctant companion.

The play The Mystery of Irma Vep was a Gothic melodrama.

We returned home around 10 or 11 p.m.; I don’t remember exactly. I do remember being dog-tired after a long workday. And I remember staying up all night pecking on my IMB Correcting Selectric III typewriter while working on that assignment. (I didn’t have a computer then.) I don’t remember how many unsatisfactory pages I ripped from the typewriter and tossed in the wastebasket. I finally completed the article at 6 a.m. Then, I showered, got dressed, and went to work. I couldn’t drink enough coffee that day to thwart a sleepless night. I was wired. And 5 o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

LaVerne became a dear friend and mentor. My quasi-reporter job allowed me to meet and interview numerous people, from everyday citizens to an Emmy award winner with a national TV station and various local politicians, including one whom I most admired and still do, DC’s Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton.

During my three and a half years with the Metro Chronicle, I went from freelancing and having op-ed pieces and some articles published in The Washington Post, The Washington Afro-American, and a few other newspapers to being a regular contributor to the Metro Chronicle.

LaVerne was a kind, gentle, beautiful black woman. Her laughter and smile were contagious. Her philosophy was, “Remember you can do whatever you want to do. Just help someone along the way.”

She eventually ceased publication of the paper and told me that she was going to pursue a degree in theology. In addition to her numerous skills, LaVerne was a brilliant writer. Before she left town, she gave me a signed copy of her book African American Women in Congress, which I will always treasure.

After reminiscing about my time with LaVerne, I watched the video. I listened as she received numerous accolades from those who arrived at the podium. A silver urn with bright red roses around it was on a pedestal before the stage.

Speaking through tears and sniffles, her sister-in-law spoke on behalf of the family, sharing LaVerne’s passions and travels to Europe, Africa, Coast Rica, Guana, and numerous other places. One minister, referencing LaVerne’s four master’s degrees and books she authored, including one she worked on in her last days, described the Howard University graduate as “An accomplished second career woman.” Indeed, she was.

Next Friday would have been my friend’s 76 birthday. She died during the pandemic, but I don’t know if COVID-19 was the cause of her death.

As the saying goes, “God works in mysterious ways.” I wonder why yesterday was the day I decided to contact her. And I believe God intended for me to discover that video. Although time and distance do not destroy true friendship, periodically reaching out is always a good idea because we don’t know when that friend will be gone forever.

This post is my belated tribute to publisher, author, humanitarian, radio talk show host, world traveler, and theologian Reverend LaVerne McCain Gill. (A photo and full biography are available on Amazon.)

I feel blessed to have known her.

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