Go Blue or Go BOO? A Little Perspective, If You Please

Police Intervene (right) as UM-OSU Clash Escalates (USA Today)

A few thoughts on last Saturday's "disturbance" in Columbus, Ohio, following that inconceivable Michigan-Ohio State contest.

In the immediate aftermath of the skirmish –– the one after the game, not the game itself –– a barrage of TV analysts, college football "experts," fans and U of M haters raced to brand the incident. "Embarrassing," "Disgusting," "Humiliating" were among the disparaging adjectives spewing from the social media machine.

Almost all the pundits had one thing in common: they were grownups. 

Am I attempting to rationalize that wild and violent confrontation, or act as an apologist for it? By no means whatsoever, even though I am Michigan born and bred and if you prick my finger it's possible some maize could trickle out. But let's all take a deep breath, step back and review that moment, shall we?

For one, we ascribe way too much maturity to a bunch of overmuscled, elevated and celebrated young jocks, most of whom are barely out of their teens and have yet to hold a real job. (Unless you count NIL.) Because we see them on national TV during the same fall weekends as the NFL, we tend to mentally perceive them as emotional equals to veteran professionals. 

This just in: they are not.  

Second, most of them have lived in, or heard of, the OSU-Michigan rivalry from the time they were infants. It's "THE GAME." It has been implanted in their psyche. Both teams freely admit they begin planning for that November showdown during their summer training camps. It's practically all the players and coaches hear about from their rabid fan bases and the media all season long. No game means more to either side. 

The Buckeyes had lost to the Wolverines three straight seasons, but this was the year Ohio State would exact its sweet revenge. They had blitzed through the regular season, losing only once to upstart B1G newcomer Oregon, while Michigan, under new head coach Sherrone Moore and a totally rebuilt team, was struggling to remain above .500.

Michigan came into Saturday's clash as a THREE TOUCHDOWN underdog. Three touchdowns! Given the history of the rivalry, that's almost incomprehensible. Ohio State, it seemed, could literally pick any final score it desired. 

That is, until they were outplayed and lost. The final score: 13-10, U-M. 

Now, many of us can't even remember being 19 or 21, but can you imagine being that age and getting told for months by everyone outside your enclave of teammates that there is absolutely NO WAY you can accomplish a goal, then pulling it off anyway? Honestly, I don't think I can.

I'm willing to bet the Michigan starters were too exhausted and filled with euphoria, adrenaline and testosterone to even think about pulling an act of mischief. But two backup players, running back Tavierre Dunlap and offensive lineman Raheem Anderson, had nothing but time and energy on their hands and thought it would an outstanding idea to add insult to defeat by planting a block "M" flag at the 50-yard line. 

Kids.

OSU Players Saw Blue, Then Saw Red (CBS Sports)

Ohio State players were literally protecting their turf, and responded predictably. Did they overreact? That's open to further discussion. But it's notable that OSU Head Coach Ryan Day, possibly still in shock over the final score, had to ask someone what was happening on the field he was standing next to rather that leaping in to protect and control his players.

The pepper spray used on the field by law enforcement personnel seemed a bit of overkill, but I wasn't in the middle of the melee. And on Sunday, the Big Ten fined both schools –– that's BOTH schools –– $100,000 each. An embarrassment tax, if you will. But the league did not suspend anyone from either institution. A little adult supervision beyond Xs and Os might have been appropriate, but can you imagine Moore instructing his team before the game, "Now, after we win today, I don't want ANYONE planting our flag on the field!"

You can't overhype a bunch of young people for months, then expect them not to overreact when the moment they've been waiting for finally arrives. Ask any parent. And I couldn't help but notice as I watched other televised regional "Rivalry Games" that day, brawls broke out during Alabama vs. Auburn, North Carolina vs. NC State, Arizona vs. Arizona State –– even holy rolling Brigham Young University threw a few haymakers during its game against the University of Houston, leading to ejections on both sides.

Michigan-Ohio State received the greatest notoriety because it was "THE GAME" and the biggest clash of the day, both during and after the contest. But it was not an isolated incident.

When you plant a flag on your enemy's turf, you better make sure the other side feels completely  defeated. Otherwise, conflict is almost guaranteed.

Was it a stupid act? Oh, undoubtedly. Was it preventable? If OSU had handled its business, it never could even have been considered.

But was it predictable? Consider the circumstances all around that moment. What do you think?

GUEST COLUMN: Darron Patterson on Sports vs. Racial Injustice

Darron Patterson – "D.P."to me

Boy, do I miss talking to my man Darron Patterson.

He and I happened to be in Detroit at the same time in the late '90s and early 2000s, and because we both were African American professional writers we found each other in that way that birds of a feather tend to unite. Now, anybody who knows me knows how much I breathe for sports, and not only is "D.P." a fount of knowledge on the games people play but he's also a living piece of Black History in his own right as one of the first and few Black sportswriters in the Deep South.

He's a fine writer, a better human being, a funny, funny man, and the Southern-fried growl in his voice always gave me the warm feeling I used to get talking to my late grandfather in Georgia. Eventually Darron relocated his writing business WriteStuf Communications, LLC to Alabama, I moved to Illinois and, as often happens when distance becomes a factor, we talked with each other less and less. So imagine my happy reaction when D.P. reached out to me last week to edit a column he had just finished.

He was deeply affected by the shocking actions of athletes on NBA playoff teams who voted to boycott a game (and cost the networks that cover them untold millions in revenue and worry) in protest over the police shooting of Jacob Blake in Kenosha and America's apparently disposable attitude toward Black lives in general.

I polished it a bit, but I didn't have to do much; like I said, the brother can write. After returning it to him, I was moved and motivated enough to want to share it with you. Thanks, D.P.

Time Has Run Out on the Game

America Plays With Racial Injustice

Having been a sportswriter my entire professional career, I have had a ringside seat to watch African American athletes be treated as nothing more than “entertainers” for rich professional sports owners or mega-bucks college athletic programs.

It was only a matter of time before the pushback to oppression now being seen in demonstrations across the country and around the globe would make its way into the stadiums and arenas where this generation of Black athletes performs.

Now, they too are saying, “I can’t breathe.” Enough is enough.

Players on the NBA’s Los Angeles teams, the Lakers and Clippers, voted to burst the Orlando bubble, walking off the court in protest over the police shooting of 29-year-old Jacob Blake in Kenosha and placing the league’s playoffs in jeopardy. NFL players followed suit by boycotting practice sessions this week; America’s beloved NFL season is suddenly up in the air. And many college players are declaring that their health is more important than satisfying a rabid football fan base in the midst of a pandemic.

Wake up, America. The floodlights have lit up the dark specter of racial injustice.

As a Black sportswriter from the South in the 80’s and 90’s, I’ve had my own up-close encounters with racism.

There was the little old white lady in St. Louis who pushed her half-eaten shrimp shells on my plate, mistaking me for the hotel’s “help” instead of a guest at the same place she was staying. And the guy at a golf club in Birmingham, Ala., who yelled to ask me if “Sadie was still in the kitchen?” as I waited to interview players on their way back to the clubhouse after a tournament.

And let’s not even mention the numerous cabbies I tried to hail on an Indianapolis street corner for more than an hour in frigid weather, all of whom passed me by.

For centuries now, Black people in this country have had to wake up every morning and deal with one thing: We were brought here to never be anything more than slaves to white America.

Slaves and entertainers is what a great majority of white people still believe we are. Nothing more, and in too many cases, a lot less.

The people who cheer for the jersey Black athletes wear are the same people who would cringe if that player walked toward them on a downtown street. Or if any other young Black man approachedthem wearing that same jersey.

For me, a direct descendant of the last load of enslaved people illegally brought to America 160 years ago aboard Clotildan — all to settle a bet between two wealthy white men — racism is clearer now than it’s ever been.

And it hurts more, too.

It hurts to see an innocentBlack woman, a first responder, killed by cops while lying in her own bed. 

It hurts to see a Black jogger chased down and killed by two white men all because he was running in what they deemed was the “wrong neighborhood.”

It hurts to see police shoot a Black man in the back seven times in front of his young sons just because he was attempting to enter his vehicle.

It hurts to see a Black man choked to death by a white policeman for...nobody still knows why.

If you were a Black athlete, would you continue to entertain a largely white audience that only looks past the color of your skin because you can run and jump and catch and throw for the TEAM they love?

Of course you wouldn’t.

If Colin Kaepernick had played any position other than quarterback, his taking a knee during the national anthem to bring attention to racial injustice might very well have gone largely unnoticed. But because he was the quarterback, the face of the San Francisco 49ers'
franchise, he became that runaway slave who needed to be punished so everybody else would fall in line.

It didn’t work.

And now, Black athletes across this country are taking a stand against racial inequality that even their white teammates, coaches and some owners agree must be addressed for the good of the country.

So, what’s the next step?

That’s for America to figure out.

And it’s the 4th quarter. Time is running out….

Amid Dizzying Change, Rayshard Brooks' Actions Handcuff Us All

The Latest Rallying Cry: Rayshard Brooks 

After 244 years of racist business as usual, suddenly it feels like our America is changing dramatically every few hours. 

Can you feel it, too?

Christians know full well that one man can change the world, but seldom has that reality been more powerfully demonstrated as in the weeks following the Memorial Day murder of one man, George Floyd, by members of the Minneapolis police.

Mass protests continue to be staged in cities great and small across the nation. The group Black Lives Matter has gained stature and leverage. Towering statues and other symbols of the Confederacy are being ripped down and destroyed. (Although I'm not completely certain how Christopher Columbus fits into this mix. And excuse me, but regardless of their inherent meaning, aren't such actions a crime? Destruction of public property?)

NASCAR has banned the display of Confederate flags during race weekends. The mayor of Boston, of all cities, has declared racism a public health issue. Yesterday, Juneteenth, the day commemorating the final emancipation of slaves in the U.S., is being discussed as a national holiday. Band-Aid has launched a new line of actual flesh-colored bandages. Great googly-moogly, even Aunt Jemima is being shelved for all time, as Quaker Oats came to realize her image might be racially offensive...after 130 years. 

Uncle Ben is next. Mrs. Butterworth is on high alert.

I am almost –– almost, mind you –– beginning to feel sorry for rednecks, racists, neo-Nazis, white supremacists and other assorted psychopaths. Their narrow little ideology, their bigoted status quo, appears to be crumbling before their eyes. If their Orange Führer gets his well-deserved pink slip in November, they could just lose it. 

Already there are indications the racist horde is not taking this revolution lying down. This week the statue of the late Black tennis legend Arthur Ashe was defaced in Ashe's hometown of Richmond, Va. Far worse, two Black men, Robert Fuller and Malcolm Harsch, were found hanging from separate trees in small California towns about 45 miles apart, both outside municipal buildings. 

Local law enforcement agencies declared no signs of foul play in either case; the death of Fuller, 24, initially was ruled a suicide. I don't know about you, but I find it inconceivable that any Black man or woman, regardless of age, would not be intrinsically aware of the despicable history behind such an image and choose that means to end their life. More likely, some very depraved and meticulous lowlifes assisted both men in their demise by bringing back the "L Word." 

Not that one. The one that rhymes with "pinching." The FBI has taken over both investigations. 

My old bones tell me that what we're witnessing now is merely the opening act of an intense drama that may take months, if not years, to play out. As Quentin Bryce once said, "No one gives up power and privilege willingly, do they?" 

This is only the beginning, folks. Only the beginning.

Obviously it's going to take some time for the full impact of George Floyd's legacy to take root everywhere. As evidence, witness this month's outrage: the police shooting of 27-year-old Rayshard Brooks in a Wendy's parking lot in Atlanta June 12. 

Should Garrett Rolfe, the Atlanta PD officer who shot Brooks as he ran from custody with a stolen Taser, be charged with felony murder, among 10 other charges? Oh, hell, yes. But I realize that much of what I'm about to say may sound like I think Rayshard Brooks deserved what happened to him. THAT IS ABSOLUTELY NOT THE CASE. No one deserves to be shot in the back, no matter the circumstances. If you can believe Hollywood, that was the one unpardonable sin even in the lawless days of the Wild West.

However, here's what I don't hear anyone talking about: if you know you're on probation, as Brooks was, why would you get so drunk that you pass out in the drive-thru while trying to get a Baconator? It was a Black employee who called police because Brooks was literally shutting down the business. Was Rayshard thinking about his wife and four kids and Father's Day then? Doesn't there have to be some degree of personal accountability?

This confrontation was markedly different from the cop-on-Black encounter in Minneapolis last month that saw Derek Chauvin turn his left knee into a lethal weapon. From all accounts, the interaction between Brooks, Rolfe and his patrol partner Devin Brosnan was courteous, respectful, almost friendly for nearly 40 minutes. When Brooks failed his Breathalyzer test, standard procedure would be to apprehend him for driving under the influence –– for his own good, as well as the safety of others.

Moments From This Moment, Things Went Horribly Wrong 

Think about it. It is not an officer's responsibility to give a drunk person a lift home, or call an Uber for them. Say they let him drive home and he gets in an accident. Say they let him walk home and he stumbles into the street and gets struck by a vehicle, or is mugged in his diminished condition. Who would get the blame?

Everything seemed to be going without a hitch until handcuffs appeared. Brooks came alive. Presumably he knew being taken into custody could be a potential probation violation. His solution was to wrestle the two officers, steal one of their Tasers, break free and try to outrun them, while firing the Taser in their direction. And then, in one senseless, adrenalin-filled, unforgivable moment, it was over. Three shots. Did Rolfe need to take three shots? Or any shots at all? Erika Shields, the Atlanta Police Chief, resigned her position the next day.

I could easily put myself in Brooks' shoes. Or driver's seat. I won't say I was a terrible driver in my younger days, but then again I didn't have to: my attorney in Detroit, Lawrence Korn, once showed me an entire file cabinet drawer in his office detailing my moving violations and the many courts he had appeared in to represent me. He also gave me the single best piece of advice I've ever received.

As you might imagine, there are some Detroit suburbs that might not take too kindly to a young brother daring to speed through their community. "Say 'Yes, sir,' 'No, sir,' and always be respectful," Korn told me. "If they take you into custody, let them. I can't defend you if you act like an ass in the street."

Rayshard Brooks followed that playbook to the letter all the way down the field. Then he fumbled at the goal line. And it cost him his life.

There is a natural tendency among some Black men to "flex" their manhood, demand respect, refuse to be viewed as a "punk" in their own neighborhood. I get it. But flexing against anybody with a gun and the legal authority to use it is just a bad idea. What do you think Brooks' wife, Tomika Miller, would rather have heard the next morning: "Your husband was found intoxicated in a Wendy's parking lot, so we took him to jail to let him sleep it off," or "We're very sorry, Ma'am"?

For what it's worth, Rolfe's life and family have been forever destroyed, too. All over two disastrously bad split-second decisions. Damn.

And in a related subject that really pisses me off, whose stroke of genius was it to torch the Wendy's where the tragedy occurred? What the hell did the restaurant do to be punished? Wonder if the franchisee was a person of color? And the employees, the majority of whom likely were African American, are suddenly out of work. For the sake of a symbol. Don't Black Jobs Matter, too?

It seems like that infamous knee is leading to a lot of knee-jerk responses. I get the distinct feeling that too many people are reacting out of guilt, anger or impulse right now without taking time to think anything through. That can lead to progress, at least in the short term, but it also can be very dangerous.

Can you feel it, too?

Making 'The Scene' Many Years Ago Proved An Important Point

Natty Nat Morris, King of 'The Scene.' (His Photo)

According to the extraordinary Detroit historian Ken Coleman, on this New Year's Eve/New Year's Day holiday 31 years ago Detroit's local dance show The Scene made its final broadcast on WGPR-TV Channel 62, America's first black-owned TV station.

Sugar is sugar.
Salt is salt.
This makes me sad.
It's not Ken's fault.

I'm sad because (a) the fact that I was in Detroit so long ago to remember the show in its '80s heyday means I'm getting pretty freakin' old, and (b) the end of an era shouldn't take place during a holiday, especially one that traditionally marks the end of one thing and the beginning of something new. Eras should end in April or October, so they can pass with as little attention as possible.

And make no mistake, The Scene was an era in itself. It was by no means Detroit's only TV teen dance series –– long may you wave, Robin Seymour –– but it was far and away the most improbable.

The poorest-man's version of Soul Train, it featured a slicker-than-Royal-Crown emcee, Nat Morris, a radio DJ who initially didn't want the job; a makeshift set; a less-than-zero budget, and dancers imported primarily from nearby Martin Luther King High School. Yet its live Monday-through-Friday telecasts were undeniably the most popular offerings on Channel 62's program lineup.

Techno, one of Detroit's many musical gifts to the world, was incubated on The Scene if not born there. And there was more pure, unedited, unadulterated booty shakin' on camera than any 8 Mile gentleman's club could hope to offer on a Saturday night.

(Guys and gals of the period, you know I'm not lyin'.)

Mr. Coleman's commemoration on his @HistoryLivesDet online feed immediately called to mind the vivid memory of my one and only appearance on The Scene and the truism I learned from it. Yes, my lumbering, middle-aged, rhythmically challenged self once danced in the center of Geektown.

And believe me, it wasn't my idea.

It happened back in the days when I worked as a television critic for The Detroit News, so I had covered WGPR and The Scene extensively. It was just about this time of year, when the North American International Auto Show was in the minds and hearts of all Motor Citizens.

My very best friend at the time –– we'll call him Dave –– had managed to make a romantic inroad with one of the models working the Auto Show circuit. He was desperate to impress her any way he could, and it so happens her young daughter had come to Detroit with her. While mom was on a turntable pointing at passenger space, daughter was stuck in a RenCen hotel room watching TV...and stumbling upon The Scene.

"Oh, my girl would love to be on that show," I'm sure she cooed to Dave. Knowing Dave, I'm just as sure he told her, "I can make that happen. I know a guy."

I was the guy.

After saying "Absolutely not!" at least a dozen times, I promised Dave I would at least try. (Bro' code, you know.) I knew The Scene had a standing troupe of dancers who appeared on almost every broadcast and the show did not accept walk-ons. I don't remember how many people at WGPR I spoke to –– I might even have called Natty Nat himself –– but finally I received a special dispensation to have little Taffy or Tiffany or whatever her name was shake her groove thing on the set.

The only condition was, since I made the request I had to accompany her to the station. Dave owed me. Big time.

A day or so later, the girl, her mother, Dave and I made the trek down Jefferson Avenue to the WGPR studios. I left work early to get there, so I was still dressed in a suit and tie.

Bare Bones, But bootylicious: the set of 'The Scene.'

I remember there was a small set of bleachers positioned just out of camera range for parents and chaperones to sit and watch while the show was in progress. We sat. We watched. The girl was euphoric. The model was impressed. Dave was ecstatic. I was apathetic, despite the shaking of booty all around me.

As the show ended and the closing credits were beginning to roll, the cameramen began teasing me. "Hey, Jim! Why don't you dance?" "Hey, get on the floor for a second!" "C'mon, Jim, show us what you got!"

I was laughing, but suddenly I thought, "Oh, why not? When will I ever be this close to The Scene again? Besides, it's the last minute of the show, with the credits rolling. Who will possibly see me?" So I got up, walked onto the floor and did some impression of Herman Munster trying to boogie.

The next morning I arrived for work at the News building. The first person who saw me, the security guard at the front desk, greeted me with a grin and a question: "Hey! Didn't I see you on The Scene last night?"

He wasn't the last. Throughout that day, at least a dozen people asked me the exact same question. At lunch, people who didn't even know me approached to inquire about my 30 seconds of dancefloor fame. I was stunned. And impressed.

My takeaway from that encounter: The Scene was Detroit's definition of a guilty pleasure. Our shared experience. Almost no one admitted to watching it, yet everyone seemed to know what happened on it.

I'm willing to bet Channel 62 didn't subscribe to ratings services like Nielsen back then –– gracious, they could barely afford cameras –– but if they had WGPR might have challenged the network affiliates for numbers in the late afternoon. What was the name of this town? Scenetown.

If you want to know more about The Scene, or rekindle memories of your own, my friend and former colleague Tim Kiska did a wonderful Q&A with Morris on the occasion of the show's 30th anniversary reunion party. I encourage you to read it here.

This Is the Reason I Never Got to Interview Aretha Franklin

I alluded to it on Facebook. I referenced it in my memorial tribute to her for BLAC Detroit magazine. I hadn't thought about the story for years until Aretha Franklin and her once-in-a-generation voice left us so suddenly the morning of August 16 after a long and difficult fight with pancreatic cancer. (And why haven't we cured cancer yet, BTW?)

So after some prodding, I'm now going to tell you why, during more than 30 years as a journalist based in Detroit whose specialty was writing about rock, pop and R&B music, I never had the opportunity to meet or interview the legendary Queen of Soul who lived right up I-75.

Seems almost inconceivable, right? At the very least, like some severe dereliction of my professional critic's duty.

And understand, as one of only a handful of people covering contemporary music for a daily newspaper in the heart of rock 'n' roll and the home of Motown (the best job ever invented, IMHO), I was, as a dear friend of mine used to say, "world famous in Detroit." Over the decades, I forged some personal relationships that went beyond the normal reporter-celebrity hostility.

I was an invited guest at Bob Seger's wedding – not to cover it, but to dance, eat cake and wish him and Nita well, like a normal person. I was introduced to sushi by Ted Nugent – granted, he pushed my face into a platter of it, but I probably wouldn't have tried it any other way and it remains one of my favorite delicacies to this day. Thanks, Ted. (I think.)

I have warbled a duet with Stevie Wonder, gone eyewear shopping with the Four Tops' Duke Fakir,  hung out with Was before they became (Not Was).

The Queen as Princess: I Never Got to Hold Court.

But no Aretha.

Here is why.

Our story begins at one of those multiple-act, R&B concert extravaganzas of the '80s – you remember, the ones where Frankie Beverly and Maze always brought a lot of "Joy and Pain" somewhere in the middle – at Detroit's Cobo Arena. Unlike many such soulapaloozas of that era, this particular concert demanded to be reviewed: the diva herself, Aretha Franklin, was giving a rare performance downtown as the headlining act.

That review fell to me. I had been the Detroit News pop music critic for a year or so at that point, but was still a unknown entity to many. I was between marriages at the time and living in a sprawling old apartment off Jefferson Avenue with a roommate, an African American gent we'll call Dave.

As roommates go, Dave was practically ideal: he worked a steady job during the day, paid his share of the bills on time and liked his cognac – perhaps a bit too much – at night. The apartment was so huge that we practically never saw each other, and when we did he was a very pleasant drunk. Or he was passed out.

Dave's girlfriend, Patty, had been pestering him for weeks to go to this Cobo show, and eventually he asked me if I could help him obtain tickets. Since he practically never took advantage of my position to ask for anything, I reluctantly said I would. I was reluctant not because I didn't want to help or thought he wouldn't pay for the tickets, but because I was almost certain I couldn't get them seats somewhere else in the arena. They would have to sit next to me.      

("What does this have to do with you and Aretha?" you're asking. It will all make sense soon, I promise. Patience.)

It's not that I didn't want to socialize with Dave and Patty. It's just that the nature of a music critic is to be objective and analytical when everyone else is partying hearty, and I could never escape the feeling of needing to play host when I acquired tickets for people. It was going to be hard enough to stay focused at a concert as long as this without serving as part of the entertainment for the couple seated next to me.

Especially, as you could have predicted, when Dave arrived at the show well lubricated.

My roommate kept wanting to engage me in slurred, rambling conversations about the concert between gulps of the adult beverages he was enjoying nonstop. To make matters worse, apparently no two acts could use the same equipment: after each performance, the road crew sauntered onstage, broke down the drum kit and other musical accessories, then rebuilt the entire stage for the next artist. Each set change took at least 45 minutes.

I almost started to cry. Between Dave's incessant babbling and the roadies' we're-gettin'-paid-regardless work ethic, this was shaping up to be the longest night of my professional life.

By the time Ashford & Simpson took their final bows, I couldn't stand anymore.

"I'll be back in a little while, folks," I informed Dave and Patty, and left my seat.

That was a lie. I had no intention of returning. I knew I had a spot reserved for me in the Cobo press box, near the very top of the arena. Normally I preferred to sit among the audience, to get a first-person feel for the energy and emotion of the crowd, but this was a special circumstance. A concert emergency. I had to get away to preserve what was left of my sanity.

("But what does this have to do with you and Aretha Franklin?" I'm gettin' there! I'm gettin' there! Hang on. The good part is coming!)

By the time she got on, Aretha was thinking, "Ain't No Way."

While I was high above the stage in the press box, reviewing my notes and happy as a critic clam, what I didn't know was that back on the floor drunken David had begun to miss his concert buddy. (Why Patty wasn't enough to amuse him, I'll never know.) He decided to track me down and convince me to return to my seat.

In his foggy, cognac-soaked consciousness, Dave reasoned, "Jim's writing about the concert. If he's not here, where would he be?

"Oh, yeah: he must be backstage!"

With that, Dave boldly stumbled off to retrieve his wayward roomie. He got as far as one side of the stage, whereupon he was confronted by a phalanx of security guards each about the size of a mini SUV.

Dave was undaunted. "I'm looking for Jim McFarlin!" he bellowed. "McFARLIN! JIM McFARLIN!"

Fearing a contact high from his breath, the guards quickly turned Dave around and tossed him back into the crowd. However, his voice had echoed throughout the cavernous recesses behind the stage.

It wasn't until much later that I figured out people thought he was yelling that he was Jim McFarlin, demanding access to the stars.

Now, here's the kicker: between the multitude of acts and the interminable set changes, Aretha didn't arrive on stage until well past midnight. As B.B. King might have noted about the Queen, the thrill was gone.

Nearly half the audience was gone, too, apparently taking all the energy with them. Aretha made no attempt to disguise her frustration, outrage or fatigue – who could blame her? – and performed her set as if it was way past her bedtime. A true diva deserved better than this! As I recall it, she meandered through a handful of her hits, just enough to fulfill the requirements of her contract, said good night and stalked off the stage.

That's essentially what I wrote in my review: the show was exhausting, ran way too long, Aretha didn't show up until the next morning, turned in a lackluster performance and we all went home. The review ran in Sunday's paper.

By Monday morning there was an impromptu picket line marching in front of the newspaper, demanding my immediate firing.

As it turned out, the Rev. Cecil Franklin, Aretha's brother, longtime manager and by many accounts her most trusted confidant, received reports that Jim McFarlin was stinking drunk at the concert and tried to crash his way backstage. Then he had the audacity to criticize and disparage his sister in the newspaper? In Detroit? The city she called home?

The Rev. Cecil Franklin

Who the hell is Jim McFarlin? Oh, he got to go!

Cecil had hastily organized a group of fellow ministers and Aretha fans to protest this blatant lack of R-E-S-P-E-C-T. When I first saw the pickets that morning, while entering through the building's side entrance as most employees did, I assumed they were raging against something else. It wasn't until I was summoned to my managing editor's office later that day and asked to respond to allegations that I was intoxicated while at work for and representing the newspaper that reality bit me.

I was dumbstruck. How do you prove a negative?

Thankfully, I was able to reach out to a few fellow scribes who had been with me in the press box and attested to my sobriety. (Insert deep sigh of relief here.) My job, which nearly ended before it had a chance to gain traction, was saved by the grace of God.

As you might guess, this resolution did not go over well with Cecil. He was absolutely certain I was seven sheets to the wind the night I dared to pan the great Aretha Franklin in print after she deigned to perform in front of her home folks.

Once I started to put all the pieces together, I tried to contact Cecil to explain, to apologize for any misconceptions. He wasn't having it.

I have no way to prove this, of course, but I can't help but believe that my review, and his failure to get me canned because of it, stuck in Cecil's craw from that day until his death in 1989. Couple that with Aretha's complete trust in him and her well-documented mistrust of the media in general, and my journalistic goose was cooked.

I made a few more overtures to interview her over the years, but as time passed it became clear to me that an audience with the Queen simply was not going to happen. I'll admit it: I gave up.

Now, of course, I wish I hadn't. However, it's difficult to envision how that conversation might have gone. I've learned over the years that many celebrities don't remember their glowing reviews, but they can recite every word of their negative critiques. I can imagine being halfway through our interview and having her erupt, "YOU! Did you used to write for the News? Get out!"

Aretha Franklin was a national treasure housed in Detroit. We were blessed to have her, and I will miss the notion of her living in the Motor City, even though we never spoke.

Oh, and Dave and Patty eventually got married, prompting him to move out of our apartment. Just as well. Our relationship was never quite the same.

After the '90 Day Fiancé' Tell All, Host Shaun Robinson Tells...a Lot

'90 Day Fiancé' host Shaun Robinson

Imagine watching the season-ending, all-secrets-revealed episode of your favorite guilty pleasure reality series, then having the host of the wrap-up show call you personally to talk about it.

How freakin' cool would that be?

Well, it happened to me. Sort of.

My wife Karen has indoctrinated me into the pure voyeuristic joy that is reality TV on TLC. And next to My 600-lb. Life (don't judge), which returns for its sixth season at 8/7c on Wednesday, Jan. 10, the one series we happily rearrange our schedules to watch together is 90 Day Fiancé.

You must have heard of it. The show follows a group of American singles looking for love – and, some might say, hopelessly foolish and naive – who use a unique 90-day visa called a K-1 to bring their foreign fiancés here from homelands around the globe. Once they arrive in the States, the spouses-to-be have three months to get married or they must leave the country. 

Emotional stress, culture shock and suspicious friends and families result, while cynical viewers question the couples' every move from their living rooms and on social media. Every week, the glaring question persists: are the foreigners really in it for love and marriage, or are they merely faking it to gain U.S. citizenship?

The series is wildly successful, drawing at least 2 million viewers a week and spawning multiple spinoff shows like Before the 90 Days. At the end of each season, all the principals gather on a New York soundstage for a concluding interview session and status report on their relationships. (You can watch the most recent "tell all" episode by clicking here.) 

For the past four seasons, that two-hour wrap-up blockbuster has been hosted by the veteran entertainment journalist and beauteous TV personality, Shaun Robinson.

Who, in the spirit of full disclosure, is my first cousin.

So when Shaun called recently to offer holiday wishes and talk about her impending trip home to Detroit, Karen and I couldn't help ourselves.

"Yeah, Yeah, Shaun, great to hear from you," we said over the speakerphone. "Now, tell us about Elizabeth and Andrei! Did Azan ever show up? What is Nicole really like?"

Shaun had to laugh, because she's become used to that reaction. In her 16 years as a fixture on the nationally syndicated daily entertainment series Access Hollywood, she says she never received the public attention she now gets routinely from her once-a-season appearance on 90 Day Fiancé.

"It's like Access Hollywood didn't exist, like I was never there," she marvels. "I was at a bat mitzvah recently and a couple came up to me like, 'Oh, my God, is that you? Is that you? We thought it was, but we weren't sure. Oooh, we've got to ask you about Danielle and Mohamed.'"

Shaun says she typically doesn't have an opportunity to spend much time with the couples prior to the Saturday tapings, which typically last 11 hours, from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m., and from which only the juiciest portions are broadcast. So her goal is to be deferential to all the couples, giving them the opportunity to share the spotlight and answer the questions millions of Americans are dying to know.

"At the end of the day, they're just average, everyday people looking for love, so you try to be real respectful," she says. "At least one of them is in love and wants to get married, so sometimes there's just an innocence about them.

"Now, you don't always know the motivation of the foreigner, or even the American for that matter, but that's not for me to determine. There are times when I push and push and still don't get anything useable at the end.”

It’s knowing when and how hard to push that makes her role as moderator a challenge, she says. While her job often appears the equivalent of herding cats — sometimes angry, emotional, or love-blind cats –– Shaun likens it more to being a tightrope artist.

"You have to walk a very fine line," she says. "Some viewers may think we go too hard on some of the couples. Others might believe we don't push hard enough. Whichever way you go, somebody's going to be upset.

"I'm not going to change who I am. My goal is not to make anyone on the soft angry or storm off the set, although they may do that anyway. But I've got to stay true to who I am." 

One of the most memorable participants from the show's Season Four would have been delighted never to see or hear Shaun Robinson question him again.

"One day at JFK, I'm walking to baggage claim and I see a guy walking in front of me with a GoPro," Shaun recalls. "I look and I do a double take – it's Mohamed! He was coming back to do the show the second time, he  had just landed and he was documenting everything.

"So I walk over and say, 'Hi, Mohamed! Shaun Robinson.' He looks at me and goes, 'You? Are you doing the show? They told me there was going to be a different host.'

Couples like Nicole and Azan Keep Viewers Talking Nationwide. (TLC)

"'Nope. It's me.'

"He goes, 'Well, OK. But you better go easy on me this time.'

"See, here's the thing: they're on the show, but when it's over they realize that it's all real, because they have got to deal with the public and social media when the cameras go off. And social media can be brutal on these people." 

Here are a few realities viewers may be surprised to learn about Shaun's role on this reality-TV special:

• While the couples tell all, Shaun doesn't ask much: virtually none of the questions she poses during the special are her own. Producers script the questions in advance on cue cards, and a director is giving Shaun followup suggestions through her IFB earpiece. "They're in my ear the whole time, like, 'ask this, ask that,'" she says.

• Due to scheduling, when the "tell all" show is taped, the last three regular seson episodes have yet to air. Thus no one involved with the finale can react to viewer queries, from social media or any other means, regarding the couples' final romantic twists and turns.

• Even with its extended, two-hour-plus running time, with 11 hours of raw footage to choose from, editors inevitably have to leave some choice scenes on the cutting-room floor. For example, some viewers wondered on social media why Shaun failed to follow the lead of Nicole's mother and make Nicole reveal how much money she regularly sends to her intended, Azan.

Shaun says she did.

"I kept asking, 'Nicole, how much have you sent him?' and Nicole kept begging her mother, 'don't tell, don't tell...,'" she says. "Finally it became apparent that she wasn't going to say, so we just went on. A lot of the stuff is edited out."

Shaun says she binge-watches the season just before hosting the finale so everything is fresh in her mind. Her mother, Joanne, is a devoted fan and keeps her abreast of the goings-on from week to week. Even Mom tries to ply her for some inside dope.

"She tries to get all the secrets out of me" she says, laughing. "I posted a picture of everybody on the sofa, and she called me and said, 'Oh, it looks like Luis didn't show up.' I told her, 'Let's let that be a surprise.'"

Shaun has been a little busy lately for regular TV viewing. She recently completed an in-depth hourlong interview with former teen idol Corey Feldman to accompany the new Lifetime movie A Tale of Two Coreys, about Feldman's relationship with the late Corey Haim, set to debut at 9 p.m. EST Saturday, Jan. 6. TLC values her work so highly that they also tabbed her to host the "tell all" finale of My Big Fat Fabulous Life later this season, And she is moving into the next phase of her career, behind the camera, as executive producer or producer on a number of projects.

But while she's sitting in the best seat at the 90 Day Fiancé house – in the center of the sofa surrounded by the show's capricious couples – she does form some firsthand impressions. "You get a better sense of them in person, when you're sitting right next to them," she says.

Shaun Robinson: "Ive got to stay true to who I am."

– "Andrei actually was very levelheaded. Elizabeth seems like she definitely does love him. She said she would move to wherever he moves. She seemed like she had her head on straight."

– "Nicole just seems very young and immature."

– "When Luis came out he sat on the other side of the sofa. 'Why don't you want to sit next to Molly?'  I asked. All of a sudden, he can't understand English! I literally asked him four times."

– "The one that just tripped me out — well, a number of tripped me out in one way or another — but David was something else.”

And as to Azan? "OK, first of all, Azan doesn't even want to come to the United States, OK? He's happy over there in Morocco. He could stay in Morocco and not have a job. But when he didn't show up and he didn't call in, she [Nicole] just started boo-hooing."

You Want My Attention? Call Me 'Jim,' 'Sir' – ANYTHING But 'Boss'

A few Saturdays ago, in one of the most idyllic and unexpected settings you can imagine, it happened again.

And my blood boiled. Again.

I officiate weddings as a hobby and a passion, and I had just completed a ceremony uniting a delightful young couple in a ballroom resplendent in gold and black. The newly-minted Mr. and Mrs. departed the room to the rousing applause of friends and family. Romance and euphoria filled the air.

I delivered my final instructions to the guests, advising them where and when the reception would commence, and stepped off the podium. As I did, out of the corner of my left eye, I detected a man gesturing to me.

"Hey – hey, Boss," he shouted.

Really? Really? Did he have to go there?

Sidney Poitier knew what he wanted to be called: "MISTER Tibbs!" (MGM Studios)

No matter that I had introduced myself by name to the crowd not once, but twice during the proceedings. Despite the fact I had identified myself as an ordained officiant, not a pastor or minister of a church, he could have been forgiven for calling me "Reverend." "Sir," "Mister," even "Hey, you" would have been quite acceptable.

But why do white men – even young white men, particularly when working as servers in restaurants – persist in calling black men "Boss" or "Chief?"

Is it somehow ingrained in their ancestral DNA?

I started to unleash a stream of outrage and indignation in his face, then immediately thought better of it. After all, I was a hired pro in this setting. It's likely I would never see this man again. Wrong time, wrong location for a history lesson. And a wise display of restraint on my part, as it turned out, since the man happened to be the father of the groom, who had a relatively simple question. That could have turned a bit dicey. But still....

After returning home and sharing the cause of my seething, my wife said I may be making too much of such a brief encounter. She had a point. However, as far as I know, she has never been an African-American male before.

As a professional writer more than half my life, I know all too well that words have power. They often carry meanings far deeper, and sometimes more insidious, than your online dictionary might reveal. Every time I get "Boss" or "Chief" – and it happens far more often than you can imagine – I immediately flash back to one of the most memorable scenes from one of the seminal films of my teens, and the quote ranked as No. 16 on the American Film Institute's list of the top 100 movie quotes of all time.

Early in the 1967 film In the Heat of the Night (which, if you haven't seen in 50 years, I don't know what to say about you), Sidney Poitier, playing top Philadelphia Police investigator Virgil Tibbs, is arrested on suspicion of murder while visiting his mother in the small Southern town of Sparta, Miss. He is hauled before the local sheriff, portrayed by Oscar winner Rod Steiger, who eventually ridicules his calm self-confidence.

"Virgil," the sheriff snarls. "That's a funny name for a n----r boy that comes from Philadelphia. What do they call you up there?"

"They call me MISTER Tibbs!" he responds, without hesitation. Blacks, who not that long before would have been forced to watch the scene from theater balconies, erupted in cheers.

That movie came out at the height of the civil rights movement in America, but in many ways great and subtle, the battle for respect rages on.

I was brought up to address every man, whether my age or (especially) older, as "Sir." If such deferential etiquette was still being taught in homes and schools today, I wouldn't be writing this.

When a white stranger takes the uninvited liberty of addressing me as "Boss" or "Chief," it jerks my thoughts to a gone-but-not-forgotten era in our nation when slaveowners, or "planters," and their hired plantation operators would designate overseers, usually black males, to keep the other darkies in line.

The white men would call these overseers "Boss" or "Chief," too, but it was the cruelest of inside jokes: while they may have had a measure of control over their own kind, they held no actual authority beyond that, real or imagined. They were powerless, and they knew it. The real bosses may have known the overseer's name, but why bother remembering it? It was totally unimportant to them.

This is an actual chief. I have no tribe, nor headdress.

And now, more than 150 years later, some white men still believe these are titles black men somehow will find complimentary. We don't. They are oh-so-subtly demeaning and insulting. Perhaps these men are ignorant to the origin of these greetings, unaware of the emotions they arouse.

Perhaps not.

And I am not alone in this feeling. While searching to find the exact Poitier quote from In the Heat of the Night, I came across this opinion piece from Bill Maxwell in the Tampa Bay Times several years ago:
http://www.tampabay.com/opinion/columns/you-can-call-me-sir/1277074

With all the societal turmoil sweeping our country at the moment, the #MeToo movement and its fallout, a complaint like this may seem trivial, almost silly. At the end of the day, though, isn't all of it simply a question of mutual respect?

While writing this I recalled an incident this summer as I was walking into a neighborhood grocery store to do my morning marketing. A slender Caucasian man in a large straw hat, possibly my age or older, approached me at the door.

"Excuse me, Boss," he began. "I'm a little short of change for the bus, and I was wondering –"

It was early, so my synapses were firing on all cylinders. I stopped him in mid-sentence.

"I'm not your boss, sir," I replied. "I've never even met you before."

He looked at me and blinked, obviously trying to process my words.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "So anyway, Chief, could I possibly – "

My Lord.

"I'm not your chief, either," I interrupted. "I've never led a tribe, and I don't own a headdress. Now, I'm going in the store."

I left him standing there, with his mouth open. I didn't give him a dime. This man wanted me to give him money, and he still couldn't find it in his heart or vocabulary to call me "Sir." Or nothing at all!

I've had Caucasian friends tell me that I'm hypersensitive on this issue, that white people call each other "Boss" and "Chief" all the time.

Well, that may be. But I've never been present to witness it. (Maybe because they don't want to confuse the situation.) The first time I hear a white man address another white male stranger as "Boss," my outrage may lessen considerably.

I'm waiting.