Rippin' Off Roland: Songs That'll Keep Me in the Car

In his latest blog entry, Roland wrote, "I'll bet everyone has a song or two that keeps them from getting out of the car. If you can park it in the driveway, you wait it out, but if you know the people inside will wonder what you're waiting for, you might take on extra lap around the block."

It got me thinking about those songs that have really grabbed me. Yep, those songs that'll keep me in the car until I'm finished. (Dylan usually joins me in groovin' to the tune, but Rhonda will often roll her eyes and run into the house. Then Dylan yells, "TURN IT UP!")

Actually, if you ask me next week, half of this list might change. It isn't that my tastes change so much, it's just that what springs to mind will likely rotate around. One of the small perennial frustrations of my life is the tendency to hear some great song from the past on the radio, and think, "Oh yeah, I'm gonna download that or buy the CD." But, when I'm sitting in front of the computer, will I remember to order it from Amazon or the iTunes store? Naw. I could blame it on middle age, but the fact is that I've always been that way. That's one reason, for the last twenty years or so, that I've planned to always carry a notebook around with me. When a song or a thought comes to me, I could jot it down before it percolates away from my conscious memory. Thing is, I've bought lots of little notebooks for that purpose over the years. I always forget to carry them along. If I ever become a well-known author, maybe I can sell all of my blank little notebooks on Ebay.

Anyway, here's my first list of "Songs That'll Keep Me Sitting in the Car."

"Cinnamon Girl" by Neil Young. Especially the live version from Rust Never Sleeps.
"Highland Wedding" by Steve Morse.
"Gulf Coast Highway" by Nanci Griffith.
"Willin'" by Little Feat. Especially the live version from Down Upon the Suwannee River.
"Erotomania" by Dream Theater.
"Moonlight Mile" by the Rolling Stones. Video here is from a movie of the same name.
"One After 909" by the Beatles. Video here is from Let It Be, of course.
"UFO Tofu" by Bella Fleck and the Flecktones.
"You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC.
"Copperhead Road" by Steve Earle.
"Ride Captain Ride" by Blues Image.
"Jamming" by Bob Marley.
"A Long December" by Counting Crows.
"Goodbye Stranger" by Supertramp.
"The Road and the Sky" by Jackson Browne.
"Hank Senior Moment" by John Gorka.
"Black" by Pearl Jam.
"Hot Rod Lincoln" by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen.
"Leprechaun Promenade" by the Dixie Dregs.
"Wasted Time" by the Eagles.
"Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" by Eric Clapton.
"Stay With Me" by Faces.
"If I Had a Boat" by Lyle Lovett.
"Past the Point of Rescue" by Hal Ketchum.
"I'll Stop Loving You" by Mike Reid.

And that's all I have to say about that. For now.

The Parking Lot Incident, Case Closed

Back in April, I wrote here about an incident at Dylan's school. To recap, Rhonda arrived at Dylan's school, and saw a man in a new BMW come to a halt behind a parked pickup. He then jumped out of his car and ran to the pickup. He jumped into the cab, knocking his son prone, then got atop him. He began pummeling the helpless kid. Rhonda ran down the stairs to the parking lot to confront the man, screaming "STOP IT! STOP IT!" The father backed out of the cab and glared at Rhonda. "He's my son. I'll do what I want." "You're committing a crime!" Rhonda yelled. After another brief exchange in which Rhonda refused to back down (don't mess with an Italian woman protecting a kid) the man jumped into his BMW and sped away.

A couple of weeks ago, Rhonda got a subpoena in the mail. It was for the man's misdemeanor trial for assault and battery. Rhonda was to testify in court as to what she saw that day.

The trial never happened. The D.A.'s office offered the father "D.A.'s Probation." What that means is that if Dear Daddy keeps his nose clean for six months, the case will be dismissed. He'll have no record. It will be as if the beating never happened.

I would have assumed that the father would have at least been required to attend anger management and/or parenting classes. Nope. Dear Daddy won't be burdened by any such requirements.

I know that he owns a yogurt shop in town, and I've heard that he owns two or three other businesses as well. I suppose that he's rather, er, connected.

Our D.A.'s office is quick to stick anyone busted for drugs with a felony, even if the only person hurt is the drug user. In the case of methamphetamine, the D.A. himself has decided that any amount of methamphetamine found on person or property will result in felony charges being filed.

Now, methamphetamine is nasty crap. But, it bothers me that certain chemical residues scattered about the bottom of someone's dresser drawer will saddle that someone with a felony, while a father can beat the stuffing out of a fourteen year-old kid and hardly get so much as a slap on the wrist.

Here, as in so many places, it seems that how a person is treated once accused of a crime has much to do with socioeconomic standing. I often wonder if, more and more, justice in these United States is more a commodity than a right.

Meanwhile, we continue to sock people away in prison who are guilty of nothing but possessing certain chemical substances. It doesn't seem to matter than the majority of them are only hurting themselves. No, that doesn't matter. The powers-that-be are mad at drug abusers because they keep using drugs after being told not to do so. Thus, the priority seems to put people in prison because "we're" mad at them, not because we're afraid of them.

I think we should save prison for people who scare us.

But then, in Shasta County, the powers-that-be seem not so afraid--or mad--at fathers who beat the crap out of their own sons in public. Especially, perhaps, if those fathers drive new BMW's.

Just a Little Rant About Donnie and Marie

So, the patriarch of the Osmond family died, I hear. Some news outlets--many those oriented toward entertainment--are treating his death as quite the tragedy. Sheesh, what bullshit. The guy was the better part of a century old. He had eighty grandchildren and great grandchildren. Where's the tragedy?

An old girlfriend lost her dad when she was six. That's a tragedy. My wife lost her dad a week before she graduated from college. That's a tragedy. My dad died several years before his only grandchild was born. That's a tragedy.

I suppose it's a bit like tilting at windmills to rant about how those who manage to stay visible in our popular culture seem to expect the rest of us to accept that their losses are more profound than those of we "everyday" people. They can kiss my ass. When Dale Earnhardt died in a racing accident, it made me sick to hear people whine and go on about it. Sure, it was a shame, and a real loss to his family, friends, and fans. I get it. But hey, Earnhardt accepted the risk he took, and he was compensated handsomely for it. He died a rich man. Days before he died, six National Guard troops died in a helicopter crash in Hawaii. Most folks who got all weepy about Earnhardt, it seems, didn't give a flying fornication about those young men and women, and a couple of them were taking on the risks inherent with serving their country while qualified for food stamps.

If you want to pour your heart out to someone facing a personal tragedy, I'd suggest just looking about your own community. Donnie and Marie have plenty of hangers-on to commiserate with.

As for Donnie and Marie, I'm sure they feel real pain over the passing of their father. Still, it makes me a little ill to see them do their crying act on TV, all the while with dry eyes. I wish they'd just go away for a while, and treat their father's passing with dignity. I think that would be the decent thing to do. Using their father's death as a lame springboard to revive long-flagging careers is just plain low-class.

Zora Folley, My Dad, and a Mysterious Death

His name was Zora Folley. Unless you're a boxing history buff, or an ESPN Classic junkie, you probably haven't heard of him, but he's considered one of the best heavyweight boxers to never win the title.

He was born in Dallas, Texas in 1932, and moved to Chandler, Arizona in 1942. Baseball became his sport of choice. He entered the U.S. Army at the age of sixteen, claiming he was eighteen. His real beginning as a boxer was probably due to a quirk of fate: He had scant boxing experience when he was asked to replace an injured contestant--his platoon sergeant, as it turned out--in a match scheduled at his base at Fort Ord, California.

The match was originally set up for the post heavyweight title, but that title was held by Folley's injured platoon sergeant. Folley lost the match, but decided to stay with boxing, becoming an absorbed student of the sport. A year later, Folley beat the man who'd beat him during his first match. Soon after, he won the 6th Army championship, then went on to win the All-Army and All-Service titles. He fought in the Korean War, earned five battle stars, and left the Army in 1953.

Folley turned pro soon after leaving the Army. He became a top contender during Floyd Patterson's reign as heavyweight champion, but never got the chance to fight Patterson for the title. That was partly because of a loss to Henry Cooper in 1958 (Folley won the rematch in 1961), but some claim that Patterson manager Cus D’Amato (who decades later would become Mike Tyson's manager) ducked Folley, considering him too great a risk to Patterson's championship.

With his hoped-for bout with Patterson never coming about, his chance at the heavyweight title came in 1967, at the age of thirty-five. His opponent was Muhammad Ali. It would be Ali's last fight before his three year ban from boxing. Despite the fact that many boxing cognoscenti considered Folley to be in the twilight of his career, Folley gave Ali one of his toughest pre-ban battles, the fact Ali knocked him out in the seventh round notwithstanding.

Ali saw Folley's son crying in the crowd after the fight. Ali sought the boy out, hugged him, and told him that no one could have beaten his dad had the fight happened years earlier, in Folley's prime.

Folley went on to fight for three more years after his defeat at the hands of Ali, although at irregular intervals. He retired after Mac Foster stopped him in the first round in 1970. His career closed out at 79 wins, 11 loses, 6 draws, and 43 knockouts.

Denied a chance at the title during his prime, Folley could have chosen to wallow in self-pity in a downward spiral toward a parody of his former self. Instead, Folley defied the stereotype of the washed-up fighter by becoming a pillar of the community in his home town of Chandler. A well-spoken, thoughtful gentleman, liked by most everyone, he was elected to the city council. In an article on the Sweet Science website, Pete Ehrmann wrote this: If he’d been the stereotypical down-and-out ex-pug, the circumstances surrounding Folley’s death probably wouldn’t have raised many eyebrows. But in fact, Folley actually gilded his stature as one of Chandler’s top citizens after his retirement from boxing. Always dapper and well-spoken, he became a salesman for Rudolph Chevrolet, and when the city fathers were looking for someone to fill a vacancy on the City Council, Folley was an easy choice. The happily married father of eight was the picture of the kind of post-boxing success that eluded so many former fighters.

Sadly, Folley's squeaky-clean image was tarnished in the eyes of some by the intrigue surrounding his death, in 1972. Folley had been visiting a friend and two women in a motel in Tucson. As the story went, Folley and his friend engaged in horseplay near the pool, seeing who could throw the other in, and Folley ended up in the pool. One of the women ran to the motel office to report that Folley was badly hurt. Folley was taken to a nearby hospital, where he died about an hour after midnight. He was forty years old.

A motel clerk told a local reporter that Folley's injuries included a large bump on the forehead, a hole on top of Folley’s head, and another wound in the back on his head. People would soon question how Folley could suffer such extensive injuries by simply falling into a pool. Over the years, many theories have made the rounds as to how Folley really died, but with the autopsy and police report long lost or destroyed, it appears that the questions surrounding his death will never be put to rest.

*

The questions surrounding Folley's death are harbored mostly by friends of Folley's, Chandler residents, and some boxing history enthusiasts. I harbor that intrigue too, since I feel a connection to Folley, however thin.

It's a "two degrees of separation" thing: my dad, for a short time, became acquainted with Mr. Folley.

My dad was in the Army during Korea, completing his basic training at Fort Ord, California. (I was also stationed there after graduating from Army flight school, and you can read about an experience I had at one of Dad's old haunts here.) After watching him during hand-to-hand combat training, the D.I.'s decided that Dad had a talent for boxing. After he finished basic, he was selected to serve as cadre at a basic training company, with the eventual plan that he would go to Airborne training before deployment to Korea. The real reason Dad got held behind in a cadre slot was his boxing talent. Dad's company commander felt that he had the potential to excel as a light-heavyweight.

Dad, within a few months, took on several other boxers at Fort Ord, and was undefeated after a fairly concentrated string of fights. His trainers decided that he was ready to fight the post light-heavyweight champ, but they were unhappy with Dad because he didn't enthusiastically apply himself to defensive fundamentals. That is, he would rely on reflexes and quickness to evade punches, and was sloppy with his guard. They felt that a certain heavyweight on post, known for his amazing quickness and attention to fundamentals, could teach Dad a lesson or three.

That man was Zora Folley.

Although Dad's trainers called it a sparring session, there was a fairly sizable crowd at hand to see an undefeated light-heavyweight take on Folley, who was at the time either the All-Army or All-Service champ. (I can't remember, recalling Dad's accounts, which title Folley held during the "sparring session.") However, Folley knocked Dad down three times in the first round. The fight was over.

Dad was jarred by his encounter with Mr. Folley. He'd had little trouble with fellow light-heavyweights he'd faced, and was beginning to feel invincible in his weight class. He saw a 6th Army title in his future, maybe more. He didn't necessary expect to get the best of an accomplished heavyweight, but he did expect to at least give him a good fight. "I didn't see half of his punches coming," Dad told me. It was a sobering experience for a guy who'd previously relied on a defensive style perhaps best described as "Muhammad Ali Lite." Dad talked of quitting. His trainers urged otherwise. Folley himself paid a visit to the barracks to encourage Dad to continue. Although he wasn't swayed from his discouragement by Folley's visit, nor by the urging of his trainers, he was impressed by Folley the man. "He was a first-class guy," Dad said, "a real gentleman."

I've often told people that Zora Folley ended my dad's boxing career. However, I'm guilty of simplifying a bit too much. The fact is, I'll never know whether Dad would have chosen to continue with boxing (although he told me he was leaning strongly toward quitting), because soon after his fight with Folley, Dad came down with rheumatic fever. His decision was made for him, at that point.

*

High-profile assassinations will fascinate folks for decades. Like many people, I often wonder if there is more to the JFK, RFK, and MLK killings than meets the eye. I find myself hoping that we'll know the real truth in my lifetime.

By contrast, the death of Zora Folley isn't much mentioned in magazine articles or TV crime shows today. His death made a splash on the national news scene, but only for a short time. He may not have been the victim of foul play, and any case, I suspect that not that many people are still wondering if something nefarious happened at that Tucson motel in 1972.

I do, though. Perhaps its because of that "two degrees of separation," but for the rest of my days, I'll wonder if we'll ever learn the real truth about the death of Zora Folley, that "first-class guy" and "real gentleman," who, for a few rounds in 1967, gave Muhammad Ali a run for his money.