Don’t feel like ex-Texas Ranger John Reid if you’ve never heard of Frances Fox Piven. Neither had I. Blessed with a ‘Caldwellian’ IQ so high that I’m virtually unemployable, somehow Frances Fox Piven escaped my ginormous butterfly net. Reluctant to make excuses; let’s just say I wasn’t up to speed on burning sociological issues in 1966. Although a precocious nine year old, I failed to read Professor Piven’s The Weight of the Poor: A Strategy to End Poverty. I was probably too preoccupied trading Beatle bubble gum cards with Mary Alice Turley. (Mary Alice was ape over Paul and I was obsessed with Ringo, correctly deducing that he was the brains behind the operation).
A year later The Monkees replaced The Fab Four’s hold on Mom’s pocketbook. Hopefully this doesn’t sound too boastful, but I was Oakland Park’s only fifth grader to own authentic Monkee Wear. My tight striped pants and extra wide black belt (with equally wide buckle) distracted the usually shy Terri Combs away from the fraction’s dark mysteries. She whispered, “Muck, you’re so mod.”
The next day Billy James, Dale Knottraub and I formed a band. Although neither Billy nor Dale owned authentic Monkee Wear, both wore pointy black Beatle boots. Pointy black Beatle boots were cool but cumbersome if participating in recess activities, like running down girls and kick ball. Always the trend setter, I wore Chuck Taylor All Stars, even if the canvas icons could not be seen because tight, striped, pocket-less and very flared Monkee pants covered my little feet.
Billy was half Gypsy and half Oklahoma Indian. He marched to a different tom-tom. It was Billy’s idea to name our band The Comanches. I was looking to incorporate words like groovy or far out; Dale didn’t care as long as he was the lead singer. Mrs. McCune let us lip-synch I’m a Believer during music class. It was The Comanches' first and last gig. Billy moved on to pellet guns; Dale soon developed an all-consuming passion for rocks. After an afternoon of soul searching, I finally admitted that wearing Monkee pants greatly inhibited physical activities -- such as bike riding and bending over. As for my musical career, my parents made me take Hammond organ lessons from a giantess. I was later granted a pardon when I said the organ sounded like “dead people groaning.”
Had I traded my usual reading/ogling -- Mad Magazine and Dad’s not-so-cleverly stashed Playboy(s) -- for The Nation, maybe Professor Piven’s ungodly leftist assault on America’s economic system might have made a lasting pre-pubescent impression. Glenn Beck, who was two when Piven published her traitorous article, was obviously the wonder of Mt. Vernon, Washington. The future Victoria Jackson of progressive conspiracy theories pegged Professor Pevin as an anathema the same year high school freshman Rush Limbaugh could finally make poo-poo in the stool.
But it is odd that infant shock jock prodigies like Beck always time travel back 40-plus years to warn right-wing extremists of current left-wing extremism. It’s been some time since the Weather Underground planted bombs or the Black Panthers freaked out whitey. The SDS hasn’t overrun campus property since Maude made her sassy television debut. It’s scary to think what dirty deeds Glenn knows (God speaks through his chalk) the Grange have planned. Could be that 1893 will be a living hell for fat cat bankers and railroad men.
