By W.T. WIMPY HIROTO
Have been in somewhat of a yo-yo frame of mind lately — more like a funk — you know, not quite all there — wherever there might be these days. Like walking past an acquaintance without so much as a nod or how-de-doo. Worse yet, engaging in conversation with someone and leaving without a clue as to who “someone” was. Of course, opening the refrigerator door and drawing a blank as to why falls into yet another category.
One reason, I suppose, is because of time on my hands (as well as lotion and liver spots). Sharp-eyed readers, of which CR2S has many, have noted less reference to age in recent writings and a more upbeat tone. For good reason. Who wants to read a stream of woebegones? Having your own to contend with leaves little room for a complaining columnist.
To be sure, references to death and dying will continue, but more as a matter of fact than morbidity. I’m pleased to have lived this long (and still have marbles), but it’s really never no mind how old or young one is. They say age is irrelevant. But it depends upon who “they” happen to be.
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Which brings us to the Saga of Donald Sterling. Rather belated but one is often better served if you wait until the initial ranting and raving dissolves into a mere uproar; most sane people are moving on to more important things than an aging philandering bigot. Like Beyonce being named one of the most influential people in the world by Time magazine. I’m definitely in the minority (oh sure, again!), because the brouhaha didn’t raise my blood pressure one iota. Racism is like the back itch you can’t quite reach; an irritation that won’t go away.
Why can’t we put aside prejudice and stow politically correct posturing? Take a deep breath and look at the big picture: A blathering old man (albeit a rich one) complaining about the company a girlfriend flaunts. She’s not even a bed mate, allegedly. The subject matter was not inane sexual banter, yet banner headlines and the drumbeat of discrimination followed. Some of the knee-jerk reactions have been as laughable as Sterling’s bigoted comments. At least he didn’t use the “N” word; about the only thing he did right. Having a plantation mouth/mentality might make him a yahoo, and better qualified for “Duck Dynasty” than a hangman. Like maybe invite Cliven Bundy’s cattle to graze on his Malibu home lawn. For a fee, of course.
Would I think/feel/react differently if I were African American? Oh sure and mochiron. But I’m not. Nor white. So as a minority that doesn’t even count anymore, the need to be heard falls somewhere between Tiger Woods and Kobe Bryant — which means nil. But I do have a question: Who has never uttered an insensitive racial slur — publicly or privately — or not made a discriminatory comment? NBA owner? Player? Fan? Entertainer? Celebrity? NAACP? (Which, by the way, should be colored red with embarra$$ment.)
I’ve got a kid brother, whom I named Donald many reasons ago. So I’m thinking about suing the Prejudiced One. For what? Well, give me time, I’ll think of something as soon as I get outraged. Meanwhile, why don’t we move long and worry about global warming rather than vilify an octogenarian who picked the wrong third-generation companion? {I feel for him, in all honesty, but can’t quite reach that far.}
What bothers me is the brouhaha over a pathetic billionaire airhead. I’m thinking maybe I should hire a personal assistant, too. Young(er), of course, but leery of anyone who changes her name — often. Cars and a condo wouldn’t be included as perks, but definitely a no-recording agreement will be. Meanwhile, I spend time worrying about another grandson who is trying to figure out where to go to college. It takes me back to when I didn’t have a clue of what to do and where to go. I’m also concerned about my KRH neighbors who fret about their future at Keiro. I have absolutely no worries except what to write about next week. Everyone should be as fortunate.
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I did a reading last week. First time. Reading earlier “Crossroads to Somewhere” columns before an audience proved difficult and satisfying. A chore because there were so many to choose from, with most pre-computer; which meant flipping through a bunch of old clippings. Then they had to be retyped in 14-point bold face to make for easier reading. The satisfaction came because most of the stuff was pretty good (a biased opinion). Filling an hour turned out to be a tedious pleasure.
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What were the color combinations we learned in grammar school? Mix black and white and you get gray. Yellow and blue resulted in orange. Au contraire. That describes a sad coward.
Go ahead, ban me for life. Sue me. LOL.
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W.T. Wimpy Hiroto can be reached at williamhiroto@att.net Opinions expressed in this column are not necessarily those of The Rafu Shimpo.