Editorials and Opinions

Gary Tischler • July 26, 2011

Rue McClanahan of the Golden Girls
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If you’re a television star, as opposed to any other kind of star, you are who you play even unto death.

This is why A-list movie stars were and are rarely seen on television, except when promoting their latest project on late night talk shows.

In the kingdom of television, Seinfeld will always be, well, Seinfeld, Carroll O’Connor will always be remembered as Archie Bunker, Ted Danson, no matter what he does, will be Sam the bartender on “Cheers” and the late Dixie Carter will always be remembered first and foremost as Julia Sugarbaker.

And so on.

“The Golden Girls”, the mid-’80s and early ’90s sitcom about four women of a certain age, which defied the conventional wisdom that people wouldn’t watch a show about women of a certain age, is a splendid example of the adage that on TV you are and will always remain who you play.

And so on “The Golden Girls”, Bea Arthur will always be the retired school teacher Dorothy Zborniak, Estelle Getty will always be her crusty Sicilian mother, Sophia Petrillo, and Betty White will always be the dimly long-winded Rose Nyland.

And Rue McClanahan, who died recently at the age of 76, will always be Blanche Deveraux, man-hungry and slightly slutty, but with dash, a breathy languorous, dishy way about her that gave Scarlett O’Hara a run for her Confederate money.

No question it wasn’t all that McClanahan did in her showbiz life. She was a dazzling hoofer, stepping her way to stardom in numerous shows, and also criss-crossing with Arthur on “Maude” (the other role Arthur will be forever remembered for) and with White on “Mama’s Family.” She starred on stage in “The Vagina Monologues,” among other plays, and in 2008 starred in a cable series called “Texas Sordid.”

“The Golden Girls” was an anomaly among TV shows in an age where the young audience was already courted for its spending power. It was a big hit for seven years and lives on mightily in syndication on Lifetime. Shows like that become national mantras for a reason, in this case, because the women were complex, funny and struggling with life issues that were familiar to anyone getting older, or younger people with parents. And that the women were portrayed by gifted, vivid actresses who remain hard to forget.

McClanahan had a sassiness about her, a certain shamelessness that refused to bow to age. She was going to be the prom queen for as long as they had proms and young guys with eyes that roved everywhere.

They’re almost all gone now. Arthur died last year, and Getty passed away the year before. All four actresses won Emmys for their roles at one time or another.

Only one of the Golden Girls remains standing, and that’s Betty White, who defies the rule. Rose may be memorable, but White goes beyond any television role. She is television, and was television, going back to her roles on radio, game shows, daytime soaps, trashy movies (she played a monster mom who controlled a deadly alligator), memorable commercials and, most recently, an acclaimed appearance as the oldest person to ever host “Saturday Night Live,” courtesy of a wild campaign on Facebook.

Those Golden Girls, they’re golden.

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Peter Orlovsky of the Beat Generation
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Peter Orlovsky died May 30 of lung cancer.

If you want to find Peter, really see him in sunshine and splendor, go to the National Gallery of Art’s West Building, where he remains luminous in black and white in the exhibition of beat poet and icon Allan Ginsberg’s photographs.

Orlovsky’s prominent presence in this exhibition — along with Ginsberg himself, William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac and Gregory Corso — can be accounted for by the fact that he was, off and on, through thick and thin and other relationships, Ginsberg’s great love and companion for over 40 years.

In the exhibition, Ginsberg, in front of the camera and behind it, reigns supreme, as guru, jester, enthusiast supreme. Orlovsky, supine, up front with his stunning face, seems bemused, a kind of passive Pan to all the other great writers and cavorters. He was one of the true boys, like Neil Cassady or the often sullen Kerouac.

Orlovsky was, of course, more than Ginsberg’s muse and companion, even inspiration. He was a poet himself, and became quite a fine one, though never quite attained the quality or style that could blot out the literary sky like Ginsberg with his “Howl.” He published several books of poetry, including one with Ginsberg, “Straight Hearts Delight: Love Poems and Selected Letters.”

Ginsberg died in 1997. Orlovsky continued to write. Both appear very much alive in Ginsberg’s photos, which not only resurrects their life as a couple, but a whole culture that was counter to the Eisenhower’s placid small-town, suburban 1950s America long before there was a counter-culture that went by that name.
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Coach John Wooden
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John Wooden, who died at the fine age of 99, was the best basketball coach ever. Period.
Coaching the UCLA Bruins of the ’60s and ’70s, he won 10 NCAA championships in 12 years, including seven in a row between1967 to 1973, the height of the Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Bill Walton eras. He won 620 games in 27 seasons. His record of NCAA titles is not likely to be topped in the men’s game any time soon, if ever, given that most college players with an aptitude for the pros are drafted before becoming upperclassmen, and the kind of consistency and solidity provided by four-year players no longer exists.

Wooden, known as the Wizard of Westwood, a nickname he apparently hated, was not much for razzle-dazzle. In fact, he was both one of a kind and a throwback, a man who was deeply devoted to his religion and to his family in a way that would brook no hint that he was anything other than what he appeared to be. He wrote love letters to his wife for years after she passed away, and, speaking of his Christian faith, was famously quoted as saying that “If I were ever prosecuted for my religion, I truly hope there would be enough evidence to convict me.”

He coached teams, not individuals, even though he had spectacular stars among his list of players. He was no overnight sensation — he didn’t win his first NCAA title until his 16th year at UCLA — but by the end he had won a record 88 games in a row, 38 straight NCAA tournament games in a row and 98 straight home games.

The record also shows that he never made more than $35,000 a year. He obviously did not have an agent, never asked for a raise and turned down an offer to coach the Los Angeles Lakers. Imagine all that.

Jeff Malet •

As everyone on the planet now knows, basketball superstar LeBron James decided to abandon the city of Cleveland, its team, the Cavaliers, and its loyal fan base as soon as his contract ran out. Cleveland owner Dan Gilbert called his departure a “cowardly betrayal.”. Former fans burned his number 23 jersey and stomped on cardboard cutouts of his image.

What is most surprising of all is that anyone could have expected any other outcome.

At the heart of organized professional sports is a tenuous balance between fans, players and owners. For the better part of the last century, team owners had the upper hand and could exercise monopoly control over its players. If a player was not satisfied with the team’s salary offer, he had no alternative except to sit out the season or play overseas. Team owners were also free to sell or trade player’s contracts with other teams, often without the player’s consent. This was commonly referred to as “the reserve clause,” which kept a player beholden for life to the team with whom they originally signed. This had the natural effect of keeping players’ salaries (and ticket prices) low. There was a sense of order to the league. Players tended to stay with teams, often for their entire careers, and fans could develop a loyalty and true attachment to them. It was a time when it was not uncommon for star players like Stan Musial, Ted Williams, Willie Mays and Hank Aaron to spend virtually their entire baseball careers with one team. When a player did depart for another team, he was “traded“ for like value.

This comfortable system started to unravel when baseball player Curt Flood, a star center fielder for the St. Louis Cardinals, refused to accept a trade to Philadelphia following the 1969 season, and took his case all the way to the Supreme Court. Though Flood’s legal case was ultimately unsuccessful, it encouraged other players in the league to begin a quest for free agency. Ultimately the reserve clause was struck down in 1975 when an arbitrator ruled that since pitchers Dave McNally and Andy Messersmith played for one season without a contract, they could become free agents. The decision essentially dismantled the reserve clause and opened the door to widespread free agency. Players in other sports demanded and ultimately received the right to negotiate with other teams at the expiration of their contracts. The result was predictable. Players salaries escalated to such a high altitude that some have even become team owners. In 1930, Babe Ruth was making $5,000 more than President Herbert Hoover. When asked by a reporter if he thought it was right to be making more than the President, Babe responded “Why not? I had a better year than he did.” LeBron James will roughly match the current President’s salary every two games.

Sadly for the fans, the breaking up of team cohesion has become the norm and their loyalties have been tested. Players today swap jerseys faster than Larry King changes wives. The advent of free agency inevitably tilted the balance of power in favor of those teams with the largest war chests and stretches fundamental principals of fairness. Players want to move to successful franchises, tilting the balance still further. Compared to what it was, the overall product is debased. Alas, most of us are too young to know that for sports fans, things used to be much better.

Jeff Malet •

I assure you that my images on this page are not the result of trick photography or Photoshop chicanery. That is indeed House Majority Leader Steny Hoyer locking hands with Republican Whip Eric Cantor. And that’s outspoken conservative Congresswoman Jean Schmidt having her softball signed by Speaker Nancy Pelosi.

There they were. Members of Congress of both parties wielding baseball bats, but not at each other.

For one entire evening, bipartisanship indeed reigned supreme as female members of Congress participated at the Second Annual Congressional Women’s Softball game at Guy Mason Park on June 16. The fundraiser raised money for the Young Survival Coalition, a breast cancer advocacy group. The D.C. Women’s Press Corps team came back from an early deficit to defeat the Congressional members squad 13-7 in a spirited match. It was much closer than the final score would indicate, with the Congressional team actually leading until the final inning against a Press team that was, on average, literally half their age.

It’s unfortunate that convivial Congressional events such as these are so rare. The “process” is partly to blame. Members of Congress require enormous quantities of cash to get re-elected. Fundraising demands that they spend a large amount time traveling back to their own districts, leaving less opportunity to socialize with their peers.

Apparently, the way to raise the big money these days is to appeal to the more extreme elements. Partisan acrimony seemed to reach a low point when, during the last Presidential State of the Union address, South Carolina Republican Congressman Joe Wilson screamed “You lie!” Wilson promptly became a hero to the right wing, and millions of dollars poured into his coffers.

Joe Wilson’s remark was not the lowest point in Congressional incivility. That might have been in the spring of 1856, when another South Carolina Congressman, Preston Brooks, assaulted Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts literally on the floor of the United States Senate. Sumner had given a speech attacking Brooks’ relative, Senator Andrew Butler. A few days later, Brooks confronted Sumner at his writing desk in the Senate Chamber. Brooks said, “Mr. Sumner, I have read your speech twice over carefully. It is a libel on South Carolina, and Mr. Butler, who is a relative of mine.” As Sumner began to stand up. Brooks began beating Sumner with his wooden walking cane which had a gold head. Sumner, trapped by his desk and blinded by his own blood, collapsed into unconsciousness. Brooks continued to beat Sumner until he broke his cane.

Other Senators rose to help Sumner but were blocked by fellow South Carolina Congressman Laurence M. Keitt, who took out a pistol, shouting “Let them be!” Sumner would be unable to return to his duties in the Senate for three years while he recovered. South Carolinians sent Brooks brand new canes with one bearing the inscription “Hit him again.” Brooks resigned his seat but his constituents, considering him a hero, promptly returned him to Congress.

It is no accident that Congress today has a favorability rating only slightly higher than that of British Petroleum.

As everyone knows, a filibuster is a form of parliamentary obstruction in which a lone member of a legislative body can delay or prevent a vote on a legislative measure. It is not new. One of the first known practitioners of the filibuster was the Roman senator Cato the Younger over 2,000 years ago. There was a rule at the time that all business in the Roman Senate had to be wrapped up by nightfall. With his long-winded speeches, Cato would stop a vote just by talking — and talking. Needless to say, Julius Caesar was not pleased.

Our legislative branch of government had worked reasonably well over the years precisely because the filibuster was only rarely invoked. A minority party that can keep its members in line has the power to stop any legislation or nomination in its tracks, which is what the Republicans have done on almost every occasion since Obama became president.

Under the rules of the U.S. Senate, any senator can speak on any subject unless three-fifths of the Senate (60 members) bring debate to a close by invoking cloture under Rule XXII. Changes to the Senate rules can be changed by a simple majority. Unfortunately, a rule change itself can be filibustered, which makes any change difficult. In the current environment when the majority party fears becoming the minority party, the prospect of eliminating the filibuster rule would seem remote at best.

Clearly this is not what our Founding Fathers intended. I do not suggest that the parties have to agree. Partisan differences are healthy necessities in an American democracy, but serious matters such as immigration, energy, our environment, the deficit and unemployment all demand immediate attention. In a rapidly changing environment, doing nothing is seldom a good option.

The filibuster rule is a purposeless artifact from another time and place. At Wimbledon and the World Cup elimination rounds, someone has to advance, and a tiebreaker is often used to establish a winner. Penalty kicks wouldn’t do too well in the Senate, but a simple up or down vote would work just fine.

Benjamin Franklin once wrote that “in free governments the rulers are the servants and the people their superiors and sovereigns.” That’s a tall challenge, to be sure, but the harmony that prevailed on a Georgetown softball field offers the prospect that all things are possible. [gallery ids="99156,102854,102856" nav="thumbs"]

Veena Trehan •

For D.C. residents wilting in 90-plus-degree days, stepping out of the heat can be a welcome relief. But chilly stores and restaurants are bringing winter back at great harm to our budget, bodies, and planet. Crank up your thermostats, Washingtonians, and rack up these benefits:

#1 An Accidental Bikini-Ready Bod — Georgetown saleswoman Durban Clarke is on an unintentional diet. “Normally I have a big ol’ sandwich for lunch,” she sighs languidly, withering in an 84-degree store with broken air conditioning. “Today I could barely finish a pear.” Not surprising: eating less and lighter is typical when hot. That’s useful information for locals trying to shed a few pounds before lounging in swimwear as well as others aiming to drop more. And the evidence is beyond anecdotal. A study in a 2006 International Journal of Obesity cites air conditioning as an important, often overlooked contributor to the nationwide obesity epidemic. It’s time for Washingtonians to warm up — and slim down.

#2 Eliminating the Implicit Instruction: “Bring a Jacket, It’s 95 Degrees” —
Many workers must dress both for inside temperatures in the 60s or low 70s and sweltering outside air or suffer the consequences. For one Georgetown worker keeping warm starts at her core. “I wear a padded bra every day to work,” she confesses. But avoiding frequent battles over thermostat settings with her male coworkers requires even more — her chair holds a jacket and a sweater while her desk hides a space heater. Numerous other locals use their props in winter and summer with little basis. Four of five people around the world are comfortable between from about 76 and 89 degrees at a 92-degree outdoor temperature, according to analysis in the air conditioning book “Losing Our Cool” by Stan Cox.

#3 “It’s How Much?” (or Avoiding Statement Shock) —
It took the last seven summers to bring two 100-degree days but the mercury’s already reached 100 three times this year. And June featured more than twice the usual count of 90-degree days. The soaring heat is sending electricity bills skyward. Boosting the thermostat can keep them in check. Pepco recommends setting air conditioning to 78 degrees and using energy-efficient fans. “Every degree you raise your thermostat can result in a 5 percent savings on the cost of cooling your home,” says Clay Anderson, spokesman for the electric company which serves more than 750,000 Maryland and D.C. residents.

#4 Conserving Energy: It’s In Again — Conservation may not be as hip as it was in 1979 when solar panels topped the White House and jumpsuit-clad residents pored over electric bills. But the reasons to cut back are just as compelling. Local provider Pepco’s fuel mix relies much more on carbon-emitting sources (three-quarters overall, including 40 percent coal) than carbon-free (about one-quarter nuclear and renewables). And using carbon-producing energy can contribute to a nasty cycle where greater greenhouse gas emissions bring warmer temperatures which prompt more a/c use. Turning down the thermostat — particularly during hot daytime hours — can also help avoid electrical equipment failures. Make it warmer to shrink carbon footprints and lessen grid stress.

#5 (No More) “You’re Hot Then You’re Cold” —
So sings a furious Katy Perry afraid of being jilted at the altar. Frequent temperature hiccups might be easier on the emotions but they’re uncomfortable physically. In fact, a year after central air conditioning was installed in the U.S. Capitol, Rep. John Rankin rose to complain that the 15 to 20 degree temperature differential was too much. “This is a regular Republican atmosphere,” said the Mississippi Democrat, “and it’s enough to kill anyone if it continues.” In fact, surrounding temperatures rarely varied by 30-plus degrees until this century, and many signs show we aren’t made to duck in and out of cold spaces. The quick switch stresses out bodies that have to adjust their internal thermostat, which can bring on headaches and chills and lower immunity to colds.

Of course, the usual cautions apply. Stay hydrated. Be alert for symptoms that might indicate heat illness, particularly in vulnerable populations like seniors and children. But generally, boost those temps as an act of consideration for your coworkers and clients, and for people everywhere.

Gary Tischler •

Baseball will always be the same, no matter how much it isn’t the same.

You can dress it up all you want with mascot races, raffle drawings, over-priced hot dogs, home-run explosions and astronomical salaries, but there will always be small boys down by the dugout, staring longingly at the kid pitcher, seeing their someday selves. There will always be older people sitting in the shady seats under bleachers, taking it all in, remembering. There will always be guys in T-shirts, sons and fathers with matching mitts, suburban college kids basking in beer, guys posing with the portraits of legends like DiMaggio, Mantle and Cobb.

There will always be phenoms.

That’s what the Washington Nationals have right now: an out-and-out, genuine, dyed-in-the-fastball phenom and All-American young guy with a beard stubble and a hundred-mile-an-hour whiffer.

That would be Stephen Strasburg, the rookie sensation pitcher who, in four starts since coming up from the minors like a savior, has won two, lost one, and struck out a ton. He’s young, unassuming, professional, married and throws a ball that sinks like the Titanic on its last breath.

That’s what a group of seniors from the Georgetown Senior Center, still game in their own way, and still reeling with memories from the loss of founder Virginia Allen, got to see for a trip to the ballpark led by Jorge Bernardo, driving the van and leading the way.

They ate hot dogs, stayed out of the sun, they cheered as grandmother and grandson (Marta Mejia and Sebastian Carazo), aunt and nephew (Helen Adams and Gerard Duckett) and mother and daughter (Janice Rahimi and Jamila), or as themselves, like Gloria Jiminez, Jane Markovic, Betty Snowden, Betty Hoppel and volunteer Mary Meyer.

Some cheered as old diehard Chicago baseball fans, like Vivian Lee, who, as the presidential mascot race came up, remembered the ways of White Sox owner Bill Veeck, Jr., who was the first great baseball promoter. “People thought he was a little bit crazy,” she said. “In Chicago, you were back in the 1950s and probably now a White Sox Fan or a Cubs fan. I was a White Sox fan. We lived in Hyde Park.”

We reminisced, rattled off old names: Early Wynn, Chico Carresquel, Minnie Minoso, Rocky Colavito, Nellie Fox and so on.

Baseball lives on like that, in the reciting of names.

Down by the field, before the game, Strasburg was warming up: raised leg, follow through, intense concentration, red uniform on green field. Cameras were clicking in the sun.

The game was like a slow, teasing dance. Strasburg struck out nine, but gave up nine hits, most of them, strangely, on two-strike counts. It may be that the kid doesn’t know how to throw a bad pitch on purpose, which is a learned thing with time.

In front of us, a young man was yelling and screaming, drowning out the occasional “yikes” from our group. He could have been Strasburg — except for the tattoos, the nose piercing, the fanatic eyes. But he did sport a wobbly chin beard and he bounced up, hand held high, before I realized he was high-fiving. He ran down the row of the Georgetown ladies and high-fived them all after another Strasburg strike out.

That’s the game, folks.

It ended 1-0 for the Kansas City Royals, on dinkers and dubious hits and on nothing much for us.

But everyone will remember the afternoon, the silence on the field, the shadows, the stillness until the windup and the pitch.

That was baseball, the day the folks from the Georgetown Senior Center came to watch.