Obama, A No Show in Paris, He Did Show for the Spurs

President Obama, a most indecisive and ineffective leader, placed his priorities where they matter most to him. Although he was one of the few world leaders who did not show for the unity rally after the murders in Paris, he did find time to greet last years’ NBA champions, the San Antonio Spurs.

Obama always seems to find a decision that he could avoid, if at all possible. Ah well, we get what we pay for.

It takes an uneducated Texas GOP representative, to put Obama’s poor decision making into the right perspective. Randy Weber, a true American and world historian, tweeted “Even Adolph Hitler thought it more important than Obama to get to Paris. (For all of the wrong reasons.) Obama couldn’t do it for right reasons.”

Randy Weber, who represents Texas’s 14^th District, has amazed everyone when he correctly spelled the mass murderer Hitler’s last name, yet his historical acuity was lacking in misspelling his first name, which was Adolf.

Perhaps Randy’s impeccable knowledge will be most useful if Texas GOP Senator Ted Cruz runs for president in 2016, and makes Weber a member of his think tank.

After Thoughts

Why are deranged individuals, who for religious causes, set off a self-attached bomb designed to destroy innocent people, called “suicide bombers?” Aren’t they really murderers, and shouldn’t they be called “homicide bombers?”

There’s also a far more accurate designation for the radical settlers in Israel who have confiscated Arab land, destroyed Arab property, and harassed and harmed innocent Arabs. They are truly “unsettlers,” trying to make the land comfortable for themselves, at the expense of others.

It Doesn’t Pay to Be First

We go to Las Vegas every December, not to gamble or to celebrate any holiday, but to play in the US Nationals Table Tennis Tournament held in their huge convention center.

We stay at the Westgate Hotel, which is a short walk away, since they offer rooms to the players for only $49 a night, and don’t charge any exorbitant resort feels.

To get to the table tennis venue, you have to wend your way through the glitzy, smoke-filled, noisy casino.

For years we would eat at the Paradise Café near our elevators, and far away from the casino gambling raucous hullabaloo.

We ate there the first day, and were pleased to find familiar, friendly servers who were thoroughly acquainted with the menu offerings, and knew what they were doing. As we were leaving, the maître de told us that Paradise would be lost, for it would be closed down and replaced by Sid’s Café the following day.

Sid’s Café was totally unprepared to open, with the majority of the waitpersons still learning what was on the menu, how to serve, and how to use the computers.

Although the menu was similar, the meals were not quite the same. The cost of each meal was higher, the service was slower, and the orders delivered didn’t always match the orders requested. However, the silverware was wrapped in linen napkins, and all restaurant employees were garbed in drab black, funereal-looking uniforms.

You have to understand that when you try something new and untested, there may be a chance for some problems. You should never be the first to try either a new restaurant, or to purchase the “new and improved” model of any electronic device when it’s first introduced.

Some Things Last Forever

Sid’s Café sits in the middle of the casino’s cacophonous deluge of irritable sounds, accompanied by annoying flashing lights attempting to entice guests to come to try their luck at any of the many gambling choices.

While Paradise Café was devoid of these unpleasant sights and sounds, they surround you in stereo at Sid’s. The week before Christmas, there was the added joy to the world with the continuous playing of requisite music for the season.

The selections, which were loudly played again and again and again, seemed to be designed as waterboarding to the ears. Among the more stirring renditions played were “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” “Oh By Gosh, By Golly, It’s Time for Mistletoe and Holly,” “Deck the Halls,” “Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Jingle Bells” and “Jingle Bell Rock.” The holiday’s name is found in other musical numbers, including “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” “”Oh Christmas Tree,” ”I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and “Mele Kalikimaka.”

An exuberant and boisterously loud soul sister provided the grand finale to the musical loop, by bellowing out a song I had never heard before — “Merry Christmas, Happy New Years to All of My Friends.” I hope to never hear it again.

Happy Birthday, La La

When I was a lad of eight or so, the choir at our primarily Jewish elementary school was invited to put on a December concert at a Catholic convent on the other side of town. When my Mother discovered that the lyrics to one of the songs praised Jesus Christ, she convinced me to substitute the words “La La,” instead of using his name. Being a naïve boy then and not understanding why I was so instructed, I did as I was told. I still use the revised lyrics some seventy years later whenever I hear that music, and still sing to myself, “La La, Our Savior Was Born.”

No Applause Needed

If you read Lauren Bacall’s August obituary, you might have skipped over the notation that she had starred in the play Applause that ran on Broadway from March 30, 1970 to July 27, 1972.

The obit did not mention that in the fall of 1972, she and the play toured the country, stopping at the Fresno Convention Center in October. At the time, the city of Fresno had a population of approximately 170 thousand, and it was an agricultural center. It was heavy on the “agri,” and light on the “cultural.”

The exceptions were occasional, national theatrical touring companies like Applause, and quality musicians brought in for a one-night performance. Such was the case on Tuesday, October 31, 1972, when Carlos Montoya performed, and at the time, he was a truly great master of the Spanish flamenco guitar.

Being a bit bored in Fresno much of the time, I would regularly take off on weekends weekend to visit friends in either San Francisco or Los Angeles.

Learning A Lesson

To combat the ennui, I decided to take classical guitar lessons with John Uretria on his farm just outside of town. While living in Detroit in the mid-1960s, I had attempted to learn to play folk guitar but when I had two guitars stolen, I decide that the harmonica was easier to hide from potential thievery.

When I discovered that Carlos Montoya was coming to Fresno, a neighbor and I bought balcony tickets for his performance, which was to start at 7:30 PM.

When There’s a Will

It was a dismal, rainy evening and we arrived before 7 PM. The front door to the Convention Center was locked and rather than go back to the cold car to wait, I suggested that we try and see if there was another door that was open.

There’s Always a Way

Around the back, I found that the stage door was unlocked, and we carefully and quietly entered. We walked up a short flight of stairs, and we were on the stage which had several checkered-cloth tables set up for the next day’s performance of Applause. We sat down at one table, and waited.

In the distance, I heard the sounds of someone playing a classical guitar, and convinced my reluctant companion to come with me to see where the magical sounds were coming from. We approached an open door to a small room, peeked in, and I pulled her aside. We saw a beautiful woman with long, black hair pulled tightly back, and a man with a guitar.

“That’s Carlos Montoya. He’s warming up,” I said with unbounded excitement. My friend wanted us to leave, but instead I entered the room to see the master playing his guitar. In my best high school Spanish I held out my hand and introduced myself, “Pardon Senor Montoya, con su permiso. Mi nombre es Harvey,” and then reverted to English. “I admire you so, and am now taking classical guitar lessons, and wanted to hear you play tonight.”

In the Beginning

Montoya took my hand, turned it over, and said that I must not have been playing long since there was no deep callouses. Then he showed me his hand with callouses deeply embedded from years of playing and practicing, and then he laughed.

As we continued to talk, a man entered, looked at us and pointedly asked in a thick Australian accent, “What are you doing in here?” This Aussie was Montoya’s manager, and didn’t want anyone disturbing him before, during, or after a performance.

“Don’t you recognize me?” I boldly asked, “I’m in the cast of Applause and this is our night off. I wanted to hear the great artist Mr. Montoya play,” and with that his manager stepped back.

Montoya said that he had to relax now, and wondered where we were sitting. When I mentioned the balcony, he said “Oh, no,” and told his manager to get us two seats up front.

That’s where we sat, and although my guitar lessons didn’t last long, the memory of that night still makes me smile as I write this.