Reminder: Paddle Out for my brother Tommy Shay set for April 4

A reminder for my brother Tommy Shay's Paddle Out this Saturday, April 4:

Join us at the Hartford Approach in Daytona Beach at 1:00 PM as we come together to celebrate Tommy’s life.

Bring your board, share some stories, and help us send him off the way he would’ve loved — surrounded by friends, family, and the ocean.

If you can, wear Tommy’s favorite color red in his honor.

Open house to follow at the Martinez home.

We’d love to see everyone down by the sea.

Way back when: My son Kevin with Uncle Tommy
on Daytona Beach.

Ormond Beach No Kings Day Rally brings out the crowds and the creativity

Great crowd of concerned citizens at this morning's No Kings Day Rally at the Grenada Bridge in Ormond Beach, Florida. Many, like me, veterans of previous protests, others just concerned veterans. I parked my scooter next to Vietnam combat vet in a walker who doesn't support whatever this war is we are raging in Iran and vicinity. He grew up in Ormond and knew some of my b-ball teammates from Father Lopez High School (Go Green Wave!). Met a woman my age who, late at night, assembled her big sign held up by a mop handle. She moved recently from Long Island. "Left my blue state to come here." People with their dogs and kids and grandkids. They felt the need to be here on this sunny Saturday. I felt privileged to be in their company. A few photos below by Kevin Shay.

 

That's me with the cool compression socks. The man
behind me, a Navy vet (didn't get his name), lent me his wife's sign.

Some Stetson Law School (and UF) alumni want nothing to do with lawless AG Pam Bondi

Spectrum News in Tampa featured this header the other day:

Stetson Law School Alumni say no to school donations after Bondi congressional hearing fallout.

The move comes after a congressional hearing where [Pam] Bondi came under fire about the handling of the Epstein files. Some 500 Stetson Law School alumni said they’re disappointed in her conduct during that hearing.

Yes, Attorney General of the United States of America Bondi supposedly learned about attorney generaling in the general vicinity of Tampa/St. Pete.

Bondi is a graduate to Stetson Law School in Gulfport and University of Florida in Gainesville. No news yet whether UF alumni don't want their donations going to the school that spawned Bondi. I did write to UF in February saying I wouldn't donate to the school as long as long as Gov. Ron DeSantis keeps screwing around with our school. 

Will any of this make any difference? Well, 500 SLS alumni signed the pledge that went to Stetson. They are upset that the outlaw Attorney General could hang out a Stetson shingle. I don't blame them. I am angry that Bondi attended UF where she supposedly learned something about ethics. You can laugh if you want. I don't think Ethics 101 is required but maybe it's a graduate  course, maybe even one you might find at an accredited law school.

Our governor went to Harvard which is no excuse. He's MAGA through and through. A political opportunist in a crimson and black robe. Or is it a white robe and a hood? 

Welcome to Moses Lake! We lived here once upon a time

Postcard, probably early 1960s, of downtown Moses Lake, Wash.
Elmer's, my father's favorite Chinese/American restaurant, is shown on the left. 

I was going through some of my parents' old postcards that were sent to me by my sister Molly. She was making a clean sweep of her house in Tallahassee for a move to Decatur, Ga. She asked if I wanted these. Heck yes, I said. You never know what you might be missing when a family member sends you old family stuff. There be treasures within.

Let me explain. Two days ago, Chris and I were having lunch in Ormond Beach with my sister Eileen and her husband Brian from Winter Park, the Florida one not the Colorado one. They are planning a trip to Washington State to visit an old friend of Brian's, a rancher outside Moses Lake. I attended half of fourth grade and all of fifth grade at an elementary school I can't remember the name of and we lived on a street whose name I can't remember. Eileen was a toddler so her memories are limited. Mine are sharp, surprisingly so, considering I can't remember the school or street. I do remember my brother and I played little league baseball on the Moses Lake Lakers and I pitched the longest inning in small-time baseball history the summer of 1962. I was the team's last resort, a frustrated righty first baseman normally relegated to the outfield. That evening, we ran out of pitchers so they drafted me and regretted it. My brother Dan was very supportive. 

I also remember one of the books I read in the fourth grade: When Worlds Collide and After Worlds Collide, by Edwin Balmer and Phillip Wylie. I like my sci-fi. It was a warm-up for all the Tom Swift books. I read those in Wichita and a sci-fi collection my father got from Book Of The Month Club. 

Eileen and Brian wanted some details about our time in Moses Lake. I told them about the baseball and the books and our neighbors, the Hattori family, and how Dan and I walked downtown to the movie theater to watch westerns for a pittance. We saw Dan Blocker, Hoss from Bonanza, in the Moses Lake Roundup parade. I remembered rescuing Eileen from drowning at one of the local lakes, Soap Lake or the Potholes Reservoir. We visited the Grand Coulee Dam where my brother Pat was in a photo showing him leaning over the railing and looking down at the massive dam wall, One of my parents took the photo, and then probably yelled at Pat to get off the damn railing. Kids! 

I remember some things and not others. Eileen and Brian seemed impressed with my memory banks, for the most part, but disappointed I didn't remember the street we lived on for 18 months. In those days, your street address was usually drilled into you in case we got lost walking downtown or maybe we had to call the fire department some night. 

My dad's favorite restaurant was Elmer's Chinese-American. I think Elmer was Chinese-American -- that's what Dad told us. We had Japanese-American neighbors and their presence is common on the West Coast, even the dry dusty places like Moses Lake. World War Two was still fresh in the minds of vets like my dad and probably most of the guys he worked with making a home for nuclear missiles in Russki-proof launch silos. 

Moses Lake now has an arts center where an artist friend of mine in Spokane recently had a show. Population here is 27,000 but 104,000 in the county. Not unusual in the West to have people spread out all over the county. I found that out when I worked in Wyoming and Colorado. 

I wish Eileen and Brian Godspeed and hope they find out the dad-blasted name of the street we lived on for only a short while. B-52s used to fly over our house. Maybe that's a clue.

Country Joe: Forget the F. Gimme a N-U-R-S-E!

Thank the nurse that’s nursing you

For saving your life.

For saving your life.

For saving your life.

That’s the end of “Thank the Nurse,” a song by Country Joe McDonald.

Yes, that Country Joe. “Give me an F.” That’s him. He was a hit at the original Woodstock, which, apparently, millions attended, and of the film that followed, which millions saw. Joe supported nurses but especially those who served in war zones, especially Vietnam. He was considered an expert on Florence Nightingale whom he also sang about.

He died on March 7 at his home in Berkeley, Calif. He was 84.

He was reaching retirement age when he toured Wyoming in June 2002 with poet and Musician M.L. Liebler of Detroit. They met in 1997 when M.L. was teaching poetry to Vietnam vets through the Detroit Y Writer’s Voice Project. The two were touring the country promoting their CD "Crossing Borders" that combines music and poetry. They performed in a Cheyenne park and dropped in on the “Smokin’ Poets” reading at Zen’s Bistro in Cheyenne.

"This place has a nice vibe to it,” Joe told a reporter from the Cheyenne paper. “The people who come here are intelligent, sophisticated and not yuppie."

At a later reception, Joe was OK with revisiting Woodstock but really lit up when talking about nurses. He knew a lot and I told him about my grandmother, an army nurse in France during World War 1. At that time, I was only thinking about writing about her experiences. And now I have done it.

Listen to “Thank the Nurse” on Spotify or over at YouTube. I’d provide links but links don’t last. But Joe’s F-I-S-H Cheer lives on. So does this:

When the orderly is sleeping

and the physician can’t be found

no need for apprehension

the nurse is making rounds.

Thank the nurse that’s nursing you

The one that nursed you through

Poem of the world war, this one

This poem grabbed my attention because it captures the moment, as good poetry does.
It was posted on Facebook by friend and one-time writing professor
John Calderazzo in Colorado. Thanks, John.

Death and Tennyson on a conservative podcast

I somehow found myself watching an hour-long podcast with two conservatives. Yes, I know I should have been shocked, appalled even, but it was a conservation between a gray-haired Hoover Institution host and a bearded guy in a ballcap who looked fresh from a Nebraska farm, and was.

The host was Peter Robinson on Uncommon Knowledge. The guest was Ben Sasse, Harvard and Yale grad, former Nebraska congressman, and short-time president of my university, UF in Gainesville. They obviously knew one another to judge by their opening friendly banter. My first question: How do they know each other?

Old colleagues, it turns out, friends, maybe. “Ben Sasse on Mortaliity, Meaning, and the Future of America.” Subjects that affect all of us, conservatives and liberals alike. I found out quickly that Sasse was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer that has spread to other organs and his spine. He says that he is doped up on morphine and winces in pain on camera. But he’s starting a new podcast, “Not Dead Yet.” And he isn’t. He even recites some poetry to close out the hour.

Two intelligent people talking about big issues. I like that. I miss it. Reminds me of watching William F. Buckley’s “Firing Line” with my Dad. I now live frantic over the latest outrage. I stopped that for an hour. It was more than an hour. I interrupted the dialogue to go on the nightly walk with my wife and son. They walk, I drive my Golden scooter. It’s brisk outside, brisk for Florida, a cold wind from the north. We loop the neighborhood, trade greetings with neighbors, and we return, my wife to bed, my son to a rewatch of “Batman Forever,” and me for a snack and a return to the podcast.

Sasse is pretty fly for a white guy from Arlington, Nebraska. He jokes, testifies, gets clinical a few times but remains interesting throughout. His short tenure at UF was marked by controversy. Not sure if I can sum it up. I will leave it to the irascible Independent Florida Alligator to do that (full disclosure: I read the Alligator, support it, and spent two semesters there as a reporter in 1976).

The Alligator announced Sasse’s diagnosis on Dec. 23. That’s a usual calm time in the campus (off-campus in the Alligator’s case) newsroom, with student home for Christmas break. Sasse had this quote during the press conference: “Cancer is a wicked thief, and the bastard pursues us all.” If Sasse sounds more academic than legislative, he closes out the interview with a poem from Alfred Lord Tennyson, “Ring out, Wild Bells.” Tennyson is a particularly good poet to choose for memorization due to his rhyme schemes and repetitions. An example:

Cannon to right of them,/Cannon to left of them,/Cannon behind them/Volleyed and thundered;/Stormed at with shot and shell,/While horse and hero fell.

“Charge of the Light Brigade.” I had to memorize it during seventh grade after-school detention. The nuns punished us in 1963 with poems but I discovered it was a way to store away lines from the masters to blog about in 2026. Bless you sisters.

Tennyson wrote “Wild Bells” in a tribute to a friend who died at 22. It ends with these two stanzas as Sasse recites:

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

 

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Sasse is a Christian. He talks about it in ways we used to hear more often. Light on judgements, heavy on redemption. But it was his comments on academia that spoke to me. At UF, he brought in colleagues to establish the Hamilton School for Classical and Civic Education. Campus ground-breaking for its building was held last month. Sasse has been teaching courses there and was scheduled to teach in the spring (don’t see him on the current course list).

I am suspicious of conservatives taking over universities and screwing around with them. We saw what happened when Gov. DeSantis set out to de-woke New College in Sarasota. DeSantis liked Sasse and was instrumental in his hiring. The search for a replacement at UF has gone on forever. One great candidate was rejected already due to his alleged interest in diversity programs at Penn State. Nobody with Gov D’s mindset has yet been found. Whether that’s because word has spread among potential candidates that they will be stepping into a minefield or whether the search committee is inept. Or a combination of those.

But, watching the Hoover podcast with Sasse, I agreed with some of the things the man said. He is disturbed by students deserting majors in humanities for more “practical” majors, majors that will lead to jobs. Sasse is akin to his liberal colleagues when he bemoans that and his arguments for the humanities is nearly the same. The humanities teach us to be good citizens. Sasse’s course title for this semester was “American Life.” A civics class? Perhaps. Here’s his quote from the podcast:

“We haven’t done basic civics for a really long time.”

Educators have been complaining about that for a long time.

Why don’t kids want to major in history or English? Not practical. But also, those classes have been “niche-efied,’ narrowed down to appeal to small slices of the humanities that narrow the focus of the major. I know from my three years in a state university MFA program that those niches and biases exist and it isn’t healthy for the system as a whole.

Our children and grandchildren are looking at the shifting swirling job market and want to know how to deal with that chaos and the one that’s coming. We don’t know what the jobs will be in 10 or 20 years. We don’t know if there will be jobs. Elon Musk says everyone will be rich so don’t worry about it. OK, Elon, go play with your rocket ships. To make sure we have a good grounding on the world, and to ensure we can keep a functioning democracy, we need better future prospects that Elon provides.

To get back to humanities. Learning the classics isn’t a right-wing plot. It’s something that will ensure our future. If we’re going to get Middle Americans to buy into college educations, we have to make some changes. Here’s Sasse:

“There’s no reason the taxpayers of the state of Texas or the state of Nebraska or Florida should subsidize somebody to teach in a discipline that isn’t wrestling with the big questions and isn’t preparing people for work.”

The humanities do that. It makes us wrestle with big questions and prepares us for work. Some of those questions and careers we don’t know yet. But the humanities will give us the tools to grapple with them.

Dear UF: No donations for you until Gov D is gone

Feb. 17. 2026

TO:             University of Florida Annual Giving Program

FROM:       Michael T. Shay

RE:             Gator Nation Stand Up and Holler Giving Day

I am a proud Florida Gator, class of ’76. I have donated to UF when the budget will allow. I’m retired now and the budget allows but I am not donating and there is one reason for that: Interference in UF by Gov. Ron DeSantis and the GOP-run Florida State Legislature.

It is alarming to see the search for a UF president go on and on as we await DeSantis’s choice to rule the state’s flagship university, my alma mater. These right-wing politicos take their order from the Trump wing of the GOP and it has led to disaster on the national and international scenes.

So today, on the eve of Giving Day, looking at Mr. 2-Bits’ tie pinned to the bulletin board above my PC, I decline to donate until DeSantis and his MAGA goons are gone. Instead, I donated $25 to the Independent Florida Alligator. Their reporters are on the case and I will continue to follow the Alligator with interest and with whatever support I can send their way.

I leave you with this:

Two-bits, four-bits, six-bits, a dollar

All for an independent UF stand up and holler!

The crowd cheers.

Editor's Note: Read the Alligator's latest story on the unending UF presidential search.

Surfing, A Paddle-Out Remembrance

My sister Maureen asked me to dig through my photo albums for pictures of my brother, Tommy, who died on Christmas Day. She and her tech-savvy son Sean are putting together a video presentation for a reception following a Paddle-Out on Saturday, April 4, at Hartford Avenue approach in Daytona Beach. We're looking for a good time in the a.m., when the tide is low and we can park on the beach (very few parking spaces on the approach). Surfers of all ages are invited. You don’t have to claim membership in the Hartford Heavies. No membership existed. No member ID cards. No dues. No boring meetings dictated by Roberts Rules of Order.  Only requirement was to rise early after a night of questionable activities. Grab your board and get to the beach to ride waves fresh to Daytona from the vast ocean. Never been ridden before. Yours.

Any photos of Hartford Ave Days you’d like to share? Let me know in the comments.

This one posted on Facebook by Ken Osteen, still surfing: 

Coach Osteen: "Sadly we lost another member of our

Undefeated Seabreeze Jr Surf Team of 1975-76, Tommy Shay.

Heck of a surfer and grew up to be a good man. RIP Tommy"

(second from right).

In this very fictional story, my wife asks me about that sultry woman's voice in my office

My historical novel, "Zeppelins Over Denver," will be out soon from The Ridgeway Press. I recently proofed all 395 typeset pages and now need new glasses or possibly new eyes if they are available. I spent most of my working life editing my own work and that of others. Not everyone appreciates editing, as you may discover if your boss asks you to "take a look" at his article for the corporate web site. The editor's goal is to make every written piece shine like a diamond or at least like a good knock-off over at the pawn shop. Readable, it has to be. Comprehensible. Maybe even dazzling. 

Writers rarely read their published books because they have read them over and over again. You would think it gets old. It does. In the new world of self-published books, an editor should be worth its weight in gold but now we have computers and A.I. One thing that helped me through 128,373 words was a new gadget on Microsoft Word. It is the "Read Aloud" prompt. The writer blocks text and then this mellifluous female voice reads your text. OK, it's slightly artificial. I noted some grievous mispronunciations, but they are surprisingly few. What I wasn't prepared for was the artificial voice emphasizing chosen words. One of them is this: What? I caught a lilt in her voice. I was charmed. I decided to give her a name, Rita Read Aloud. She has personality. 

However, I was tempted to change Rita's voice into a male one because most of my fictional characters are male (but not all). I decided to ask Gary Google if this was wise. Responses were surprising. The male voices sound mechanical, robot-like. One respondent warned that if I switched off the female voice to male, I would never get Rita back. The finality of divorce. Suitably forewarned, I kept Rita and am happy I did. Somewhere around Chapter 27, I started talking back to her and we are now in a long-term relationship which has led to a world of domestic problems.

Wife: Who was that you were talking to in your office?

Me: That was just me.

Wife: Sounded like a female voice.

Me: Robot. Just a robot. On MS Word. A very bland robot voice.

Wife: I thought I heard her say WHAT? like she really meant it, as if she was responding meaningfully in some way, as if....

Me: I shut the office door slowly, you know, like that last scene in The Godfather when Michael Corleone shuts himself off from the love of his life. Just like that.

From the Desk of the Lapsed Catholic: The Church Speaks Out, Loudly

I was raised Catholic and spent my formative years at mass and in catechism when not attending Catholic School. I'm a recipient of most of the church's sacraments, although never taken Holy Orders or gone all the way to extremes, Extreme Unction that is, now known as the Sacrament of Anointing the Sick.  Yet, I am a Lapsed Catholic in current parlance. That means I don't go to mass religiously and partake in the eucharist (communion). I vote for Democrats (was once told by a Catholic deacon that I would go to hell if I voted for John Kerry, a Catholic and altar boy). I abhor certain church policies on women's rights and gender equality. The abuse of young people by priests is horrible. I trained to be an altar boy but never finished because our family kept moving so Dad could build missile silos in preparation for Armageddon. 

I spent four years at a Catholic High School in Florida kicking Southern Baptist asses on the basketball court and received Mister Catholic graduation honors from the Knights of Columbus of Daytona Beach of which my father and future father-in-law wore those funny hats with the fringe on top. I made fun of this Mr. Catholic award for many years as I was a snarky know-it-all Liberal which I remain, in most ways. But now, at last, I can wear it with pride as the church speaks out on the anti-human fascist policies of Trump and his henchmen and henchwomen.

The ICE killings in Minneapolis have sickened me. They are lawless thugs doing the bidding of the Thug in Chief, Donald Trump. I have been trying to keep out of politics on these pages out of deference for others. But no longer. Just joined the millions who have listened to Bruce Springsteen's anthem, "Streets of Minneapolis." Go listen. It may make you cry. It may curdle your blood. It may make you think. We just can't let this outrage continue.

I've written my legislators, for all the good it will do. But I keep at it. When I lived in Wyoming during the first Trump presidency, I helped organize protests in the state capitol. I am in Florida now and if any state needs a clean sweep of its ruling junta it's Florida. Gov. DeSantis is as much a thug as Trump. Our congressional rep in Florida District 6, Randy Fine, has gloried in the murders of protesters on the streets of Minneapolis. He's disgusting. 

From Occupy Democrats on Facebook (I was involved with Occupy in olden times):

Pope Leo's hometown cardinal shreds the Trump administration for lying about the murder of Alex Pretti, says that their smear campaign "flies in the face of what our eyes told us."

The Catholic Church is waging all-out holy war against MAGA...

"You have long been an advocate for immigrants' rights. What is your reaction to what we have seen from federal agents and the Department of Homeland Security in just the last few days alone?" Stephanie Ruhle asked Cardinal Blase Cupich of Chicago during his appearance on MS NOW.

"It's clear that we need to return to the understanding of what human dignity is about. People have to be treated in humane way," said Cupich. "Name-calling, referring to people as vermin or animals, garbage, really puts us in a very difficult position in this country because it's based on an understanding that each and every human being had dignity."

Cupich appeared to be referring directly to Trump's horrific rhetoric. The president has called Congresswoman Ilhan Omar, a Somali immigrant and Muslim woman, "garbage" and attacked "radical left thugs that live like vermin."

"And so we're going down a path in many ways a far distance from who we should be and claim to be as a nation in the world," Cupich added.

Ruhle than asked the cardinal what it "does to a nation" when "people in positions of authority" including the president use such "dehumanizing" rhetoric.

"Well I can tell you what it has done in the past..." said Cupich. "You know today we mark Holocaust Remembrance Day and it's important to recall the terrible tragedy that happened to the many people who were killed simply because of their faith and their traditions."

"The Holocaust didn’t begin when they opened concentration camps. It began with words,” he continued. "And I think that we have to keep that in mind and learn from history that words do matter. And so it is important to call people out."

"The Holy Father Pope Leo said something really very instructive for us in these days. He said that the real crisis we're facing is one of relativism, where we reduce the truth to an opinion, or alternative facts," said the cardinal, referencing Kellyanne Conway's infamous MAGA slogan from the first Trump presidency.

"And I think that we need to lean into that insight as well because we saw actually what happened and yet there's a narrative out there that's trying to be marketed to the American people that flies in the face of what our eyes told us," he added.

Feeling helpless? I get some direction from an unexpected Substack source

Didn't know anything about Jackie Summers until I read his "Field Notes for Cracking an Empire" on a Facebook repost. Common-sense tips from an African-American activist, chef and "serial entrepreneur." His field notes gave me hope that my daily activities for social justice can lead to something. Go to https://jackiesummers1.substack.com/p/field-notes-for-a-cracking-an-empire

The revolution will not be televised, but Skywalkers will

The strangest part of “Skywalkers: A Love Story” on Netflix is that it is more love story than a how-to on 21^st-century Internet attention-getting. It’s both, really, but love story trumps likes and NFTs.

Ivan and Nikola are two people in search of likes in the cyber universe. To do that, they climb to the tops of the world’s tallest buildings, perform for the camera and drones, and post it all online. “Rooftopping,” it’s usually called. But now “Skywalking”  is in the film co-directed by Jeff Zimbalist and Maria Boukhonina.

Skywalkers Ivan Beerkus and Angela Nikolau make money through NFTs (but don’t ask me how). It’s illegal what they do, trespassing at least and could be a danger to their own lives and those of rescuers and pedestrians below. My thought was this: don’t these two have anything better to do? I mean, what good do they do for humanity? If I sound like an old geezer that’s because I am. These rooftoppers were damaged during childhood, neglected and maybe worse. But come on – stunting on top of tall buildings is the best you can do?

My attitude horrified my family. “It’s a love story – pay attention!” That was my daughter. “It’s incredible what they do,” asserted my son who used to free-climb the ancient granite rock formations of Vedauwoo in Wyoming. “My God,” my wife said something like this: “You sacrificed your Favorite Son pedigree to be the writer you dreamed of being.” She was the most upset and it chastened me because I truly was not thinking clearly.

It was a love story. It began as a spree but then the duo became concerned for the other’s welfare. Ivan didn’t want Nikola to fall from a great height and die. Nikola seemed shocked by this and after a lot of turmoil   including a break-up, she reconsidered, discovered she didn’t want him to fall from a great height and die.

Many of their skywalker friends had already died. Death became real and it was no longer a lark. It was deadly serious. That’s what makes their conquest of the world’s tallest building in Dubai so glorious. They did it, discovered each other along the way.

Roll the credits. There they are performing in the Dubai sky and a batch of songs roll with the credits. One song catches my attention. It sounds like a hymn and I don’t get it because The Good Lord is named in the lyrics and and I hadn’t seen any gimme that old-time religion in this documentary. The music was beautiful. I scanned the credits for the music and discovered “Stand on The Word” by The Joubert Singers. I went to YouTube and listened many times.

It’s a rousing hymn, as gospel as can be. Looking for the lyrics, I came across a link to “David Byrne’s Desert Discs,” a list of songs from his BBC Radio Program he would take to a desert island if he ever got the “Cast Away” treatment and didn’t have Wilson to talk to. “Stand on The Word” by The Joubert Singers (studio recording) was on the list with “I Wanna Be Your Dog” by The Stooges and “The Revolution Will Not be Televised” by Gil-Scott Heron. That’s some list, Mr. Byrne.

The “Skywalkers” will be televised. And now it’s all over but the critiquing. They are all over the Internet. Some have the same issues with it that I do. From Wikipedia:

"Nell Minow, writing for RogerEbert.com, rated the film 2 out of 4 stars, describing the protagonists as "two careless adrenaline junkies taking ridiculous risks to get likes on social media" and criticizing them for being 'completely self-centered.' "

Co-director Zimbalist said this:

“There’s a danger to romance,” Zimbalist told Netflix’s Queue. “It crushes us. It breaks our hearts. It breaks our hopes. Here, that danger is material. If the love falls apart, if the trust falls apart, it’s life or death. That felt like such a potent way of taking this amorphous sense that we all have in our romance and externalizing it and making it tangible.”

I get it. Well, I got it, with help from my family.

But back to “Stand On The Word” and God’s role in the soundtrack.

Curiosity took me to Google and it sent me to the Red Bull Music Academy. Musicians probably know this source but dorky 75-year-old bloggers do not.

Aaron Gonsher wrote on RBMA on May 20, 2016: “The Tangled History of the Joubert Singers’ “Stand On The Word.” He tracks its known history:

"In 1982, Phyliss McKoy Joubert was working as the Minister of Music at the First Baptist Church in Crown Heights, New York, when she gathered a group of musicians to record the gospel album 'Somebody Prayed For This.' 'Stand On The Word,' the album’s opener and the first song Joubert had ever written, was performed by a group of sweet-voiced children that she christened the Celestial Choir, and it stood out as a tinny yet remarkably addictive assertion of God’s omnipotence."

Decades of mixes and remixes followed. One was allegedly done by the legendary DJ Larry Levan of the Paradise Garage in NYC. He featured it as a late-night disco tune.

That’s how he works

That’s how

The good Lord, he works

Gonsher sums up the song’s origins this way:

“Stand On The Word” remains a worship song regardless of whose fingerprints are smudged on a remix….The chorus rising in one voice, splitting into call-and-response, and its exhilarating piano lines can’t be seen as anything but gospel music….It doesn’t matter who received the revelation first – only that it was eventually transmitted. And if so, that’s all there is to it: That’s how the good lord works.

Yep. As the song says. As the singer sings. Skywalkin’ all the way.

Sunday morning round-up: Big & Strange, WY and FL

A round-up is a task performed by cowboys when they bring in the cattle.

I am not a cowboy. But I spent 30 years in The Cowboy State of Wyoming so sometimes feel like one.

Yesterday, a big galoot from Laramie, Wyoming – Frank Crum, 6-foot-7, 315-pound OL for the Denver Broncos -- caught a touchdown pass from Bo Nix as the Broncos beat the Bills. Crum grew up in Laramie, played football at Laramie High School, and played six years for the UW Cowboys. His father and grandfather all played for UW. Way to go, big fella.

Later, in overtime, Bo Nix powered the Broncos to the OT win. He broke his ankle along the way and now is out for the rest of the playoffs.

Meanwhile, UW’s Josh Allen, everyone’s favorite in Laramie where UW retired his uniform number in tribute, sat and watched his Super Bowl dreams evaporate.

A big, strange day for Wyoming. Wyoming excels in Big & Strange.

I miss it. Now living in Florida which has its own Big & Strange.

Earlier in the day, Chris and I cheered on the Florida Gators as they beat Vanderbilt 98-94 in NCAA men’s basketball. The Gators (UF my alma mater) are a hard-driving bunch with players from all over, some appearing mysteriously out of The Portal. There’s this small guard Xiavian Lee who portalized from Princeton to make amazing shots and there’s Rueben Chinyelu who steamrolls his way to the bucket. I was happy to see the win and glad there was no OT to interfere with the Broncos/Bills game. I know of no Wyoming connection for the Gators but looking for one.

Just finished reading (for the second time) “Never a Lovely So Real,” a biography of Nelson Algren by Colin Asher. I love the book for its unflinching portrait of Algren powered by Asher’s love of the subject. Algren was my first writing mentor, a strange old man dressed in rumpled clothes and a beat-up cap who taught writing to UF undergrads in 1974. I was a non-trad student, a university newbie at 23 who had been out doing something interesting. Nelson taught writing in many places (including the MFA bastion at Iowa) and was openly scornful of learning writing in the academy. He came from those mean streets of Chicago and learned his trade on the road. He wrote about the travails of regular folks. He must have looked around that stifling classroom and said what do these people know of the ways of the world? Go out and do something interesting and then write about it. I did. Was still learning. Algren told great stories and my Vietnam vet buddy Mike and I took Nelson to a strip club on Gainesville’s outskirts and had a swell time. We smoked pop with him although he said it didn’t do much for him as he had smoked it many times with jazz cats in 1930s Chicago. Nelson liked one of my stories and gave me his agent’s contact info which I never followed up on. He also gave us all a list of recommended reading and I worked my way through it, parked deep in the stacks of the UF library. Asher has a new book coming out which sounds cool. It’s titled “The Midnight Special: The Secret Prison History of American Music” and will be released by W.W. Norton on June 30. Check out his cool web site at colinasher.com for more info.

I get up every day cursing Trump and his fascist minions. Cursing is one thing. Doing something about it is another. I am a lifetime voter and Democrat who has been active in party politics. It ain’t always pretty but you gotta get your hands dirty if you want to make something. Algren was blacklisted for 30 years for being a Commie. His pal in the WPA Writers Project, Richard Wright, was forced out of the U.S. for his activism. I write regularly to the dimwits who want to turn Florida into a Maga Playground. Write. Demonstrate. Vote, please vote. There’s a good chance that Trump and his goons will find excuses to close the polls in November. Do not let him do that. It’s up to you.

Because Lorca was a poet, his country hushed him

 

Posted Jan. 9 on Facebook by the poet. Ninety long years ago,
Lorca was murdered by fascists. His spirit lives on.

A (belated) Christmas memory, Colorado and Capote

"The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere

Is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

That's the refrain in "Colorado Christmas" by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, a song written by Steve Goodman. I listened to it numerous times during the Christmas season and call it up other times. It's pure nostalgia, a musician in a L.A. hotel dreaming about "Telluride and Boulder Down below." No mention of Denver, my hometown, or Aurora, where I did some of my growing up, or Fort Collins, where I attended grad school. Telluride is a wonder, deep in the Rockies, well known for skiing and summer music festivals. Something beautiful about sitting on a grassy field under the stars listening to music. Boulder, of course, is known coast-to-coast for its counterculture vibe, beatniks and hippies, Naropa Institute, the CU cafeteria named for a Colorado cannibal, "South Park," and the Flatirons jutting up to the west like, well, flatirons. John Fante grew up in Boulder. You can get heated up about your favorite cause and then cool off at the Dalton Trumbo Fountain Court on the CU campus.

So, is NGDB from Colorado? They are in the Colorado Music Hall of Fame and many in its roster of performers live in Colorado. Long-time member Jimmy Ibbotson had a recording studio in Woody Creek outside Aspen, also known as the lair of the late Hunter S. Thompson.

I first heard "Colorado Christmas" in Aspen. Christine and I were up in Starwood, heading to our friend Steve's father's house, when we got stuck in a snowbank. We drove an AMC/Renault compact, not even front-wheel drive. Driving up the night before, we got lost and stopped at an intersection where a big 4WD was parked. Obviously lost, we waved, the window rolled down, and John Denver poked out his head. Yes, he said, this is the right road to Starwood. We thanked him and didn't even ask him for a song. We maneuvered up the scary road to the summit. Two hours later we drove down. The next morning, we drove back up and got stuck. As we did the usual rock-and-roll motion to free the car, "Colorado Christmas" came on the radio. I thought it was the most beautiful song I ever heard even though at that very moment we were stuck on a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow. "The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere..." What could we do? We laughed, and kept on rollin'.

We live in Florida now.

Speaking of Christmas memories --

"A Christmas Memory" was a 1966 Emmy-winning televised story by Truman Capote. A remake appeared later but it lacked what made the earlier one stand out, narrator Capote. So special to hear his voice recall a rural Alabama childhood memory. A young Capote (Buddy in the story) is deserted by his parents and stays with his grown-up second cousin Sook whose goal for the season is to make 30 fruitcakes for friends and neighbors. She is dirt-poor in the midst of the Great Depression and she and Buddy scrape together what they have saved during the year and set out on their quest. First stop: salvage "windfall pecans" from Farmer Callahan's grove. They buy makings at the general store and a bottle of bootleg whiskey from Ha Ha Jones Fish Fry and Dancing Cafe. They make the cakes and distribute them just in time for Christmas. The cakes are sweet and imply a bit of a buzz. The sweetest part is the young Capote and his grown-up voice, this tiny story that came from the writer who gave us true stories of Kansas murderers, Manhattan society dames, and tortured souls who haunt Tiffany's. Capote was a tortured soul but how he could write. 

Listen to Linda: Don't ignore those symptoms

This is a reprint of a Wyoming Tribune-Eagle column by old friend and work colleague Linda Coatney of Cheyenne, Wyo. It speaks of a subject important to us all, especially those of a certain age. Reprinted as a public service, whether you're in the windswept wilds of Wyoming or the soggy swamplands of Central Florida. 

We remember our brother Tommy

Tommy Shay and his dog Duke

In Memoriam: Tommy Shay 

Thomas Gerard Shay (“Tommy”), age 65, passed away peacefully after a short illness on Christmas Day, 2025, with family at his side.  He was an organ donor and willed his body to medical research. He was born in Denver on Jan. 28, 1960, and grew up in Wichita, KS, Moses Lake, WA, and Daytona Beach, and was a long-time resident of Palm Bay where he worked as a machinist for 30 years at Winchester Interconnect, Melbourne. He is survived by brothers Michael Shay (Christine) and Timothy Shay (Jen) both of Ormond Beach, four sisters Molly Shay Shakar of Decatur, GA, Eileen Shay Casey (Brian) of Winter Park, FL, Maureen Shay Martinez (Ralph) Ormond Beach. and Mary Shay Powell (Neill), Tallahassee, and his significant other, Tani Hopkins, Decatur, GA. His brothers Daniel Shay (Nancy) of Ormond Beach and Patrick Shay (Jean) of Palm Bay preceded him in death, as did his parents, Anna Hett Shay and Thomas Reed Shay. His family meant everything to him and he will be mourned by his nephews and nieces: Kevin, Annie, Meghan, Connor, Ryan, Bryce, Thomas, Michael, Katie, Maggie, Erin, Katie, Olivia, Finn, Mayzee, Sean, Maddie, Olivia, Morgan and his many great-nieces and nephews. Tommy grew up surfing in Daytona Beach and was a founding member of the “Hartford Heavies.” The family dog, Shannon, was his constant companion while he surfed.  As an adult, he spent Sundays surfcasting with friends on Melbourne Beach. He lent a helping hand to family, friends, and neighbors who looked forward to ripe avocados and limes from Tommy’s backyard orchard. He camped with his dogs Ophie and his hound Duke who passed away in 2023. He was proud of his stamp and coin collections. Tommy was a metal detector hunter and tossed foreign coins on the beach for other hunters to find. “He looked out for everyone,” said his surf-fishing buddy.  Tommy loved dogs and requested donations be made to Riley’s Rescue of Brevard County, 215 Krefeld Rd. NW, Palm Bay, FL 32907 or FL Aid to Animals/Palm Bay, 3585 Bayside Lake Blvd. SE, Palm Bay, FL 32909. Tommy was a spiritual person but at his request, no service will be held. His family has tentatively scheduled a Paddle Out on April 4, 2026 at the Hartford Avenue approach in Daytona Beach; details to be determined.

The family welcomes comments and remembrances. 

https://www.news-journalonline.com/obituaries/psar1368055

When surfers die

Dedicated to my brother, Tommy Shay, 65, who died Christmas Day in Orlando from cancer complications.

Paddle out, man. Dig deep, feel the tide’s pull as you stroke against it. Surf is bitchin’ today. A storm heads through, leaves behind a five-foot swell that breaks clean in the offshore wind. You paddle with the swell, ocean feathers around you and something magnificent jumps in your chest as you glide with the wave. This moment will last forever. You kick free and head back to the breakers to find a circle of surfers in a becalmed sea. One holds an urn of ashes. In it are beach sunrises, great waves, friendships. The ashes drift with the sea. One last time, you paddle out to meet the sun.

Paddle Out for Tommy tentatively scheduled at Hartford Av approach in Daytona for April 4, with warmer seas and fair winds. 

On the beach – just us kids

I’m the only surfer in this high school annual photo. Me, in front, my board, an Oceanside 9-foot-6 Nose Rider, orange, easy to spot after wipeout (no leashes then). I lead John, Tim, Richard, Elizabeth balanced on top, trusting four high school boys not to drop her in the Daytona dunes. Bob (also an “S”) shoots the photo. Just a group of Esses on the winter beach. We are featured in the annual’s “S” page, headshots predictable, all in Catholic School uniform, hijinks saved for the beach pic. We tried to be the Beach Boys, us guys, hoisting surfer girl who wasn’t a surfer but smart, nice, defying gravity. She’s now in the Colorado mountains, I hear. Tim owns a bookstore in Philadelphia, not sure about John, I was Richard’s best man at his wedding, before I abandoned beaches for the Rocky Mountains. Richard is out in the Florida bush. Bob died during Covid. We were friends, roommates in a broken-down house in Gainesville. Bob the arborist, trimmed trees, grew homegrown. We were 17 or 18 on this day, 1968, class of ’69. The world boiled around us. We were on the beach. Just us kids.