TV AND MOVIELAND
AND HOPALONG CASSIDY AND CULTURE WARS

Pridger isn't all that great a TV or movie fan. He last darkened the entrance of a movie theater over twenty years ago, when he took his young family to see Superman The Movie. TV hasn't been so easy to avoid. It was "that charming stranger" we enthusiastically (seldom reluctantly), welcomed into our homes many years ago. He came only for dinner, but his magnetic personality prompted us to literally keep him on — to comfort us in sickness and health, distract us in times of trials and tribulations, help educate and raise the kids, and tutor the family — to stay and entertain us forever. It not only provides (as TV personality Steve Allen once quipped), "junk food for the mind," but something much worse — it constitutes a mind and nation altering drug.

Few can resist it, and as much as we may dislike admitting it, most of us are married to the television set — and TV programming has become the primary educator of our children. TV is what makes them seem so smart (quite often smarter than adults), even if they are failing at school or destined to graduate as a functionally illiterate person.

Some families have several sets, but that's where Pridger drew the line. There is only one TV, one telephone, and one outhouse on the Pridger premises.

Only the Amish and a few scattered superior individuals are strong enough to resist the world's strongest, most powerfully pervasive, and exceedingly legal, opiate. For most of us, depriving the family of the great TV viewing opportunity would feel almost like being guilty of child and spousal abuse – depriving them of their right to a truly "American" education.

When Pridger was in school, most children had constructive hobbies of some sort. Boys built model airplanes or ships, or built forts, were electric train enthusiasts, or built go-carts, or they liked hiking or bicycling. The girls did other things – usually girl things. Some actually claimed reading as their hobby (which most of us boys couldn't imagine as a "hobby"). Drawing or painting were hobbies shared by a few boys and girls. 

Oh, we watched TV, of course – usually much too much of it. As a passive activity, however, TV watching simply wasn't considered a hobby – it was merely an entertaining, or possibly educational, pass time. But often what we watched inspired us to go out and try to do something.  "Howdy Doody" and Paul Winchell and Jerry Mohoney (his "dummy"), inspired Pridger to try his hand at puppet making and ventriloquism. "Our Gang" comedies inspired Pridger to try a whole lot of crazy things. Davy Crockett inspired him to get out into the woods more often and attempt to learn pioneer woodcraft – and make primitive muzzle-loading fire-arms – even build a rail (actually log), fence across the back yard. Cartoons inspired him to draw animated sequences on the corners of school textbooks. The singing cowboys inspired him to want to play the guitar. And the list goes on. Watching TV wasn't a hobby, but it was often a stimulus to do things. 

Yet, by the time Pridger's children where in school, some thirty years later, their school paper revealed that most girls and boys alike listed "watching TV" or movies, listening to music, or playing video games, as their hobby. None admitted to a constructive, creative, or truly active hobby. Undoubtedly, many must have had constructive, or at least active, hobbies (playing sports games, at least), but, surprisingly, none got listed in the paper Pridger saved. All of the "hobbies" listed were passive acts of being entertained or seeking amusement – playing video games, being the most "active" of the hobbies listed.

Not without shame and on-going recrimination, Pridger admits that he let the stranger into his home too — long ago. What's more, he went the extra mile and got a satellite system, and the "Top 60" program channels, about three years ago — only about ten years behind the nearest Jones family. So his house is little different from the average, and Pridger becomes a chair potato for about two hours every evening.  During this brief period he drinks a beer or two, snacks on popcorn, and actually controls the remote and supervises what he and his family watches.

Pridger's choices are monotonously predictable. The ten o'clock news and weather, skip to CNN's Lou Dobbs when the sports section comes on, then maybe back to see what Nightline is about at the first commercial — then a movie. Pridger's first choice in movies is always a "horse opera" — if there's one available that he hasn't seen recently. Pridger prefers the older westerns where the good guy wins, and seldom takes time to kiss the girl before riding into the sunset in search of greener grazing range.

"Gunsmoke," billed back in the days of radio as the "first adult western," has always been one of Pridger's favorites – both on radio and TV. What an "adult western" was back in the fifties and sixties, however, had very little to do with what is meant by "adult entertainment" today.

"Adult," in the case of Gunsmoke, meant that the program producers were attempting a relatively serious portrayal of the adventures of a Dodge City lawman, without all the popular Hollywood cowboy cosmetics and gimmicks that most western producers routinely engaged in. In other words, Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall, wasn't like the Lone Ranger, Hopalog Cassidy, Gene Autry, or Roy Rogers. Gunsmoke was simply more down to earth and believable than the ordinary run of popular westerns of the day. But Matt was no less the wholesome, upstanding, good guy.

Sometimes the western is a lousy one, or one Pridger has seen too many times, so he's obliged to search for something else to watch. As he scrolls through the satellite channels, R-rated movies are usually rejected out of hand — even if they are westerns. Though Pridger realizes that many of the best movies produced during the past thirty-five years fall in that category, he nonetheless seldom watches one. It's a matter of principle as well as taste.

The R-rating is supposed to warn parents that perhaps they shouldn't allow their children to view the movie lest they be exposed to inappropriate content. There are no longer any children in Pridger's home, but the R-rating serves to remind him that we are losing the cultural war, and that Hollywood has long been a leader in the assault on what used to be considered "common decency" in entertainment media.

As we all know, the "R" rating means that a movie contains what has been defined by Hollywood itself as "adult content" (i.e., crass obscenity, nudity, semi-explicit sex, extreme violence, or blood and gore, etc.) — all supposedly unsuited for unsupervised immature viewers. Unfortunately, most of today's most highly acclaimed and vigorously promoted movies — particularly those targeting juvenile and young adult audiences —  are R-rated. The R-rating has a lot of pull at the box office. There are even R-rated (and worse), cartoon animations.

Generally, movies of this gender can be depended upon to have the coveted "F-word" embedded somewhere in the script, regardless of how unnecessary to the story line or dialog — this, apparently, to make it all the more appealing to young impressionable audiences (and "teach" them how adults talk). Additionally, the F-word has become the very symbol of the contemporary interpretation of the First Amendment's "Freedom of Speech" clause. The "right" of producers to inject the F-word into the script is protected as freedom of expression by the highest court in the land. The ACLU has fought tooth and nail to see to it, and the Supreme Court has firmly endorsed the constitutionality of that right. It represents freedom of artistic expression in a democratic adult world. In fact the F-word almost seems to have become obligatory, in order to prove that the principles of "freedom of expression" have been adhered to. 

The F-word, in fact, has become the most defining term in America's new, post-Civil Rights, culture. At least this is Pridger's take on it, and it continues to make his blood boil whenever he is reminded of it, and reminded that the entertainment industry, with its tremendous influence, has aggressively assumed the lead role in the debauchery of the culture.

It reminds him of the day his teenage daughter brought home the f-word thinly disguised (for his benefit), as "fricking this and fricking that," and her love affair with the most rabid rap music then being promoted by the entertainment industry among our youth. It reminds him of his teenaged son bringing a rented VHS movie home for dad to watch. It was a "must see," because of the exciting action and amazing special effects. It was Pridger's first introduction to Mr. Terminator himself — now, amazingly, the governor of California. Pridger dutifully watched most of it and tried to enjoy the action, but he couldn't mask his displeasure when the F-word first jumped from the screen and blanketed the family circle – right in his own living room. Of course, it had already long been standard fair for the kids. Even Pridger knew that. They were quite comfortable with the F-word – it was contemporary Americana to them. It was part of the culture they had been raised and educated in outside the restrictive confines of our home.

Pridger explained to his children that he heard that sort of language so much out in the "real world," that he really didn't enjoy having it come out of the boob tube at him, no matter "how good" the movie was supposed to be. Dad was just a hopeless old prude, of course.

This, of course, was long before the advent of satellite TV at the Pridger's home. But even broadcast TV was becoming despoiled. Surprisingly, it was Public Television, rather than a major commercial network, that first brought the F-word to standard broadcast in our house – the most wholesome channel of all – educational TV. Late one night Pridger chanced onto a movie on the local university PBS station and was shocked, dismayed, and very disappointed at what he saw and heard. He only watched for about five minutes, but that five minutes was so crammed full of "f-this" and "f-that" and "MF-this" and "MF-that" that Pridger couldn't believe his ears! Pridger turned the TV off in disgust, without learning the name of the movie, which was in black and white. PBS had apparently hopped on the bandwagon.

Was this a prank by a overly progressive university student in charge of selecting the late night movie? Or was the movie thought so chock full of literary redeeming material that it was a "must broadcast" for the public good? Pridger doesn't know, and hasn't seen anything like it since on PBS, but it permanently changed the way he thought of public television and public broadcasting in general.

And public radio hasn't been immune to cultural down-sizing either. Garrison Keller's "The Prairie Home Companion" is the example Pridger principally has in mind. He used to listen to it regularly. It's first lengthy run was very epitome of wholesome family entertainment. But Keller finally apparently become bored with the program and decided to quit while on top. However, he soon realized that The Prairie Home Companion was the best thing that ever happened to him and decided to continue to ride its popularity. He resumed the series soon thereafter. Many people had missed Lake Woebegone Days. But when it was resurrected, Keller promised to spice things up a bit – even introduce a little "sex" into the format.

Since then, The Prairie Home Companion has been almost as chock full of sexual innuendo as the average daytime soap opera, and replete with frequent "off color" jokes. This has apparently been considered a popular improvement, and Pridger no longer makes a point of listening to The Prairie Home Companion. But he still hears it occasionally, for old time's sake.

Here's an example of Keller's new idea of humor – a story recently told by a guest who, for some unknown reason, made a point of letting it be know that he was Jewish. Pridger will merely paraphrase the gist of the "joke."

A guy discovers an ugly black spot on his forehead. The doctor tells him that a penis will soon grow there, and there's nothing to be done about it.
   The guy asks the doctor, "You mean that every time I look in the mirror I'll have to see a penis in the middle of my forehead?" 
    "No, you won't see it – the balls will be hanging down over your eyes."

This is cheap stuff – once the fare of stag parties and night-club comedians. Yet this is how Keller has "improved" The Prairie Home Companion. It apparently reflects the cultural aspirations of the real Keller. His Tales from Lake Woebegone have also been similarly spiced up. This is public broadcasting – the educational network – once the most wholesome public entertainment station we had. It's the sign of the times.

HOPALONG CASSIDY — R-RATED?
The Advent of Rating Confusion

But not all R-Rated movies feature the F-word. Some time ago Pridger happened onto a program called "Hopalong Cassidy, Public Hero No. 1." The program, narrated by Dennis Weaver, is a tribute to William Boyd, the famous star of the Hopalong Cassidy westerns. Who would have suspected such a program would be R-rated? But to Pridger's great surprise, he noticed it was.

This was rather perplexing. After all, William Boyd, and his screen persona, the Hopalong Cassidy character, was the literal epitome of wholesomeness in an "old style" western movie hero — the sort of Hollywood character that once instilled the highest moral and ethical standards to the nation's youthful movie goers — a tradition that continued for almost a generation into the TV era.

Hoppy was worshipped by millions of children world-wide, and parents were thankful that they had such a fine and upstanding role model. Boyd was rightfully proud of both the character he portrayed and his loyal following. In fact, being a role model to the nation's youth seems to have been Boyd's primary mission in life. In short, Hopalong Cassidy was the personification of all that is good, at least in a movie cowboy figure.

How could an R-rating be slapped on such a tribute to one of the most wholesome personalities ever to grace the silver screen (and later, TV), setting an exemplary example of virtue to the nation's youth? Perhaps Pridger had missed something, he thought. Had the Hollywood producers contrived to inject the F-word into the script somewhere? Pridger had not seen the entire program, so he watched it again when it was recently aired, watching and listening carefully for any evidence of any contemporary "adult content."

Though narrated by Dennis Weaver, Boyd's widow spoke at length, and in glowing terms, about her famous and almost universally admired husband. At one point, however, she mentioned that Boyd had jokingly called somebody a "son-of-a-bitch." But SOB certainly doesn't constitute justification for an R-rating today. 

If anybody watched the program for its R-rated content, they would have been sorely disappointed. SOB is considered harmless G-rated stuff, or perhaps worthy of no rating at all. It's practically pre-school vocabulary these days. There was, of course, no nudity; no torrid bedroom scenes; nothing "suggestive" of those things; and no excessive blood or gore. Hoppy, in fact, had the amazing ability to shoot a gun out of the bad guy's hand without drawing so much as a drop of blood.

So why the R-rating? The only possible explanation is that the movie was simply chock full of politically incorrect content. Though there was no blatantly identifiable Christian or religious content, the movie was a celebration of the traditional American values and moral virtue from beginning to end. Movies espousing such values are apparently no longer deemed appropriate for youthful viewers, and parents must somehow be warned.

The movie portrayed masculine strength, goodness, and heroism in a male dominated society — and, of course, virtuous women fulfilling traditional roles. It portrayed unequivocal good triumphing over evil at every turn. There was no fuzzy gray areas between who or what was good and bad, and the bad guys always lost. It made guns appear to be invaluable instruments of good in the hands of good men. Hopalong, though perhaps not quite perfect, had no serious personality flaws, and never wavered in his moral purpose. He, like Superman, was the champion of "truth, justice, and the American way!"

More significantly, the tribute portrayed adults as being wiser and more knowledgeable than children, and children admiring and learning values from wiser elders. And (heaven forbid!), Hopalong Cassidy was even shown spanking an errant child — and the child being better off for it! Perhaps even worse, humor was allowed to get way out of hand. There was a sequence where a wheelchair-bound man was roped, along with his chair, and pulled backwards down the street by a horseman! Heaven forbid that a handicapped person act as a prop for humor!

All of these things today are as politically incorrect as posting the Ten Commandments on a schoolhouse wall or leading the class in a simple prayer. This is the only possible rationale for the R-Rating. Beware! This movie is all about something Hollywood movie-raters consider dangerous and offensive to the moral new fabric of the nation.

PG-13 RATED "F" WORD MOVIES

Since viewing the Hoppy film, Pridger has become even more confused about what to watch. The tribute to William Boyd was R-Rated but didn't have the F-word anywhere in the script. Then here comes a movie on the "True" Channel called "Assault at West Point," rated PG-13, and Pridger only caught the last two thirds of the film.

The movie is supposedly based on the actual case of the court-martial of a black West Point cadet named Whitaker, who was expelled from the academy (I believe), in the 1880s. Apparently he had been assaulted and beaten senseless by three bigoted white classmates, but then (in a classic case of racial discrimination), charged with the crime himself — that is, he was accused and convicted of beating and tying himself up, and faking unconsciousness when discovered by other classmates.

Pridger was surprised to observe that the F-word had been carefully embedded in the script in spite of the PG-13 rating. Why wasn't this movie given an R-rating to warn parents?

The only thing Pridger can figure is that a reverse rationale was used in this picture than that used in the tribute to William Boyd. The movie, the theme of which was white racism, was so overwhelmingly "politically correct" in its message that whoever did the rating evaluation didn't want to scare off any viewers. The theme was too important, and the story had so much "redeeming literary value" that the F-word passed by the board.

As is usually the case in R-rated movies, the script would not have suffered one bit had the F-word been foregone. The white bigots could just as easily have been depicted calling Whitaker "You G-- damned n----r!" or "You  n----r bastard!" (what Pridger takes to be true PG-13 stuff these days). But no! It had to be "You f-----g n----r!" to properly reflect the rabid nature of white racism.

The point could have been made quite clear without the F-word — and likely it would have been closer to the historical truth. But that is no longer Hollywood's way — nor any longer the American way. Our culture has changed.

The N-word, of course, was appropriate in the historical context of the script. Many whites — right up until Civil Rights got a hammer-lock their tongues — used the term without a whole lot of thought, since it was considered by many to be nothing more than another word for — or a corruption of — the word Negro (meaning black, or African). The word today has become taboo for everybody but African-Americans themselves, and (when used by whites), carries with it the onus of evidence of race hatred, which, in and of itself, almost constitutes a prosecutable hate crime.

Of course, the N-word certainly did (and does), have its negative, derogatory, demeaning, and thus insulting, connotations — just as "honky" or "red-neck," do. But, at least in times gone by, it was less the word itself, than the context and manner in which it was used, that made the critical distinction. Today, of course, all non-blacks with any social sensitivities at all (or fear of law or press), are careful to refer to Americans of African descent as "African-Americans" — carefully and politely articulated. No short cuts, no nick-names, no friendly jibes — and none of that "you people" stuff either.

But the F-word! Now that is something entirely different. That, along with its various derivatives, has become the expletive that everybody of every race can use with prideful abandon. It's routinely used by the top movie, sports, and music stars — the heroes and role models of society. Fortunately (even amazingly), the word is still bleeped out on standard broadcast TV, but these bleeps don't fool anybody. All the kids know exactly what is being bleeped out. The bleeps means that the speaker has used "adult language" – the language of "real life."

Another PG-13 movie Pridger recently watched was "Willard," a rather juvenile movie about a downtrodden and mentally disturbed employee who befriends the rats – lots of them – that inhabit the sewers and have access to the cellar of his home. He trains them and uses them to wreak revenge (ultimately murder), on his cruel, foul-mouthed employer. The Hollywood scriptwriter, totally unnecessarily, managed to work the F-word into the dialogue. Only once, but for what purpose? And why wasn't the movie at least R-Rated?

In Pridger's opinion, this is simple evidence of an intentional, and well orchestrated, incremental debasement of our society's standards of basic public decency in language. It is intended that the F-word be thoroughly ingrained into the public mind. And the indoctrination has been pretty thoroughly successful.

THE F-WORD — CENTRAL TO THE "CULTURE" OF THE NEW AMERICA

Now Pridger admittedly lived a pretty sheltered life as a child — broken home, step-father, and lack of religious training notwithstanding. But he got around considerably after running away from home, and has been a sailor all his adult life — so he's been exposed to just about everything society, both foreign and domestic, has to offer. And he's lived long enough to see a lot of changes. By far, the most drastic have been the decline of civility, sportsmanship, educational standards, social discipline, and rules of common decency — especially when it comes to language.

He never heard an adult use the F-word until he ran away from home and forayed out into the cold cruel world.  That's not to say that nobody used it, of course. But back then there were rather strict rules that almost all adults adhered to — most especially around women and children and in public places. The worst one was apt to hear was "Shit!" or the popular edge of the abyss, "Damn!" (Popularized – or legitimized – by Clark Gable in the "Gone With the Wind" movie), or a brief outburst of what now seems like quaint, "good old-fashioned," blasphemy. Pridger had an uncle who was the scandal of the family, because he was regularly given to "taking the Lord's name in vain."

Pridger heard the F-word from time to time during his junior high and high school years. Self-styled "hoods" — usually imports from the big city — or boys from the proverbial "other side of the tracks," were generally the principle culprits. But Pridger had no reason to suspect they were using "adult language." He thought it was a nasty sounding juvenile word boys had invented to express something that was not otherwise easily said — except by sign language, of course — but both were only used by the "bad boys."

When Pridger ran off to New Orleans, he found himself in a truly foreign culture. But the class of people that Pridger fell in with, though rather bohemian and often rough looking (artists and poets), were a rather respectful lot, with two or three exceptions. These exceptions were "beatniks" who apparently felt their mission in life was to blow the lid off of the culture — especially when it came to common decency in language.

Otherwise good and decent individuals, they used what Pridger considered juvenile words to express their dissatisfaction with society and make a mockery of the culture. Though Pridger generally identified with their negative view of "the establishment," he refrained from adopting what seemed to be their juvenile vocabulary, obviously calculated merely to shock and outrage, and to no good purpose that Pridger could see.

Surprisingly, Navy boot camp (circa 1960), language-wise, wasn't all that different from high school. The percentage of recruits that used the F-word was very small, and most of those who did were big city guys or those we suspected had joined up to avoid the penitentiary. The company commander, as rough hewn and mean-spoken as he was, didn't use it (at least in our presence) — though he shocked us by telling us that some of us had "probably never bothered to wash our dirty stinking asses before."

Among the African Americans in our company, the split was very similar. We had five in our company. Only one was markedly foul mouthed. The most impressive black man was a big muscular guy from rural Mississippi. He literally looked like a gorilla, but wasn't shy or withdrawn because of it — and he certainly suffered from no racial inferiority complex that any of us could tell.

There was nobody going to mess with big Billy Wilson, and he made that perfectly clear to everybody right at the onset. And nobody messed with him. "God dawg!" was his favorite oath, and that was the worst language I ever heard pass his lips. But in spite of his formidable build and boisterousness, he was cheerful and one of the most likable and decent men in the company.

Though we hadn't become particularly chummy, Billy had been Pridger's favorite character in boot camp, and his is one of the few names that this former recruit can remember. He was one of the guys Pridger wanted to tell his mother of when he got home on boot leave. Pridger still has to chuckle at how shocked she was when she heard what Billy used to say — "God dawg!" She thought it was terrible blasphemy and was shocked that Pridger would articulate such a thing in her presence. And Pridger's mother was by no means a prudish, or overly pious, individual.

Pridger never heard his father (an irreverent agnostic who lived to the age of 91), use any sort of vulgar language. The same goes for his step-father, who was an ex-communicated Catholic, and WWII Army combat veteran. Nor any of other the relatives. Good old-fashioned swearing, on infrequent occasions, was sufficient for the most progressive of them.

It was during Pridger's stint in the Navy aboard ship when he first realized African-Americans actually had their own culture — that they really were "different." Before this, Pridger had had too little contact with blacks to make any judgments. At the schools Pridger attended there were only two or three blacks in whole system, and though he was aware of racial prejudice, it seemed not to be much of a problem. The overwhelming majority of us treated the blacks with the same respect with which we treated members of our own race. One black girl was always on the honor role, so blacks did just as well as the whites academically — better, in fact, on a percentage basis.

The way the cultural difference manifested itself in the Navy was in the language blacks seemed inclined to use when huddled together in their own group. Though the service was integrated, the blacks naturally tended to keep to themselves. But that didn't mean they were quiet and unobtrusive. While individually most of them were as decent as anybody else, in groups they tended to be loud and obnoxious, with profuse use of expletives. It seemed that every other word was "Sheeit this" and "sheeit that", "F this or F that," and "MF this and MF that." The latter term was the most offensive of all, but by no means the least favored.

The noise and language bothered many of us in the confines of the ship's berthing compartments, of course, but there wasn't much that could be done about it — at least things were quiet after taps. Some of the white guys, however, began adopting the more colorful black vernacular. "Cursing like a sailor" (or soldier), has always been part of military (if not gender), culture, but Pridger came to the opinion that when it came to the habitual profuse use of the worst obscenities, the black race had the white race and all its sailors beat hands down — and, to Pridger, this became the primary distinction between the races, aside from skin color. For the first time, Pridger could clearly see why so many whites were eager to maintain a system of racial segregation.

This, of course, was on the brink of the big Civil Rights revolution of the early 60s.

After being discharged from the Navy, Pridger spent most of the next fifteen years in the Far East, and concerned himself very little with the social revolution then taking place in the United States, though he did hear the news on a fairly regular basis. When he returned home in 1977, he returned to a nation that had been "miraculously" transformed. Things were supposed to have changed for the better.

Pridger had made a few visits to the States during that period, and got a few tastes of the changes taking place. He remembers taking a bus from his father's home in Southern Illinois to go see his mother and family in Michigan. The bus was unable to get within five miles of the Detroit station, and Pridger was obliged to make his way to Pontiac only by a difficult series of city bus routes and transfers.

The reason? The big Detroit race riots that were transforming the "Motor City" into a shambles were under way at that very moment. The African-American population, having received it's full civil rights, had turned Detroit into a war zone. And Detroit hasn't recovered to this day, in spite of the passage of more than a generation and billions spent on "urban renewal."

The first city bus Pridger boarded after getting off the Greyhound brought him face to face with another of the blessings that had overtaken the nation. When Pridger handed the driver a five dollar bill for change, it was rejected. Exact fare was required! The driver, a black man, explained that it had become far too dangerous for drivers to carry change. Pridger had to get off, find a place to get change, and catch another bus.

The city of Pontiac was going through similar changes. The center of that one time thriving metropolis imploded upon itself after the whites moved out to the suburbs and businesses followed post haste. It had been the county seat, but all the county offices moved out of town too, as did the "Pontiac Free Press," which became the "Oakland County Free Press," because downtown was no longer the congenial place it once was.

Downtown was no longer safe or inhabitable, and most of the inner city neighborhoods had been taken over by blacks. What riots and forced integration started, urban renewal finished, and downtown became like a ghost town. The tragic scenario repeated itself in countless cities throughout the nation.

Pridger remembers reading in the then still "Pontiac Free Press" of the wrangling going on in the Pontiac school system. There was a big push on to teach "Black English" in the schools. Pridger had heard plenty of Black English by then, and couldn't imagine such a subject being seriously discussed as a school subject. What good was a language where practically every other word would have to be bleeped out on radio or TV, or dashed out in the public prints? Whether or not it was adopted by the school board Pridger doesn't know.

Then, there was the time in 1970, when Pridger found himself among a group of hitch-hikers somewhere around the Big Sur in California.

Pridger had been hitch-hiking up the coast and had been dropped off in the proverbial middle of nowhere, among towering redwoods. During his walk, before getting another ride, he happened on a small group of hitch-hikers gathered in the rocky creek bed beside the highway. They were standing around talking, laughing, and having a jolly good time. A bottle of brandy was making the rounds, along with the inevitable reefer, and they welcomed Pridger to the party. Pridger joined in, took a healthy swig or two of the proffered brandy, did a "Clinton" (a term not yet then in use, of course), on the reefer as it passed through his hands, and prepared to make the best of the amicable company.

Among the group was a strikingly beautiful blond who immediately attracted Pridger's undivided attention. It seemed great to see such a specimen "out on the open road." Ladies had seldom hitch-hiked back in the old days, but here was a girl brave and independent enough to brave the road with the guys. There seemed something refreshing, even invigorating, about it – and Pridger was interested.

Here, Pridger thought, in this splendidly romantic setting, was perhaps the girl of his dreams. Pridger sidled up to her and struck up the beginnings of a conversation. She was a UCLA student, and an obviously brilliant one. In fact, she said she intended to become an educator. Pridger's interest was considerably dampened, however, as she eagerly outlined her philosophy. The language coming from those superbly crafted lips might have curled the paint off of an outhouse!

Pridger feared the trees around them would wilt. He knew his admiration for her wilted. That she was proudly enamored with the F-word was made super-clear. She revealed in it — and even gave a little speech on it — extolling its virtues as the the "most wonderfully utilitarian word in the English language." It was a word for all occasions, she declared. She loved it! It gave her an exquisite feeling of power and freedom.

The lady could, and literally did, make a sailor alternately blush and blanch. So much for the prospects of romance under the stately redwoods. It was right then that the direction of the future of the national culture seemed to dawn on Pridger's foggy brain. This enthusiastically liberated young lady was a snapshot of the future. She was not only a future educator, she was a bellwether of the national culture itself. Pridger had met a real, serious, "liberal." No doubt, Pridger imagined, she would become a college professor at some prestigious university some day.

Not only was Pridger disappointed in this otherwise beautiful person, he was also depressed by an eerie foreboding. Our "liberation" wasn't going to be as pretty as many of us idealistic rebels had hoped and imagined. This, in addition to what was coming down the pike in the name of Civil Rights was troubling, to say the least.

Pridger didn't linger very long with the group. He was headed to San Francisco to catch a ship back to the Far East.

These occurrences are partly what sparked Pridger's initial interest in politics, or — more accurately — a combination of sociology and conspiracy theory. Pridger had the feeling that there must be a lot more at work behind the cultural transformation taking place in the nation than a few beatniks, flower children, and Civil Rights activists. How could these minority forces overpower the great majority which was still overwhelmingly religious and conservative?

At that time Pridger didn't know he was a conservative. He had always thought of himself as being very liberal and progressive. He was very much against rampant industrialization, urbanization, "over development," and the debasement of the environment – and hasn't changed his viewpoint on these things. In reality, he knew absolutely nothing, or at least very little, about the social and political forces at work in the nation – the right and left, etc. He knew nothing of politics and had cared less. But his experiences, and the perplexing changes overtaking the nation, soon prompted him to begin an investigation.

Unfortunately the pretty blond at Big Sur was one among a huge number of the nations' "best and brightest" who were sold on the f-word and made it their own – and hoped to make it universal. Gurney Norman, was one. He got a group of like-minded hippy types together in the early 1970s and came up with the "Whole Earth Catalog." A wonderful idea, resource, and publication. Pridger loved the concept of the catalog (and still has his original), but Norman, calling his position in the organization "Divine Right," was an f-word man (as were most of the hippies), and he aspired to see the word in print more often. The Whole Earth Catalog was his chance to get his brand of "drama" into print in the guise of "Divine Right's Trip – Our Story Thus Far." The f-word made its début on the first page, from the lips or the radiator of "Urge" D.R.'s 1963 Volkswagen bus.

When Pridger finally did return to the States for good in 1977, he found that pornography was being shown in downtown theaters, and that everything that had once been called obscene and vulgar was now termed "adult." The entertainment industry had long abandoned it's moral and language decency codes, and TV broadcasters had abandoned the "Voluntary Code of Good Broadcasting Practices." Now, only the vilest, but nonetheless sufficiently common, words were bleeped out on TV, where before common decency had been respected across the board with no bleeps necessary at all.

Things hadn't changed that much in the hills of Southern Illinois where Pridger made his home, but the nation as a whole was a totally different place than that in which he had grown up. In 1979 Pridger and his family went to Florida to live for a couple of years. Pridger was initially shocked at all the "Adult Community" signs he saw down there. No children allowed! It was a while before he realized that these were not pornographic sex communities, but retirement communities for old folks who simply didn't want to have noisy children around.

While Pridger was pleased to find that his first shocked impression had been a rather silly error, he was still a little troubled to think that there could be a society in which so many old folks no longer desired to be around children. What kind of a civilization were we becoming?

MARTIN LUTHER KING'S UNINTENDED LEGACY

A common language is as important to a nation and a society as rules of common decency, civility, and quality education. A common religious faith also helps tremendously too, of course. But it seems that all have been radically downgraded in the race toward racial equality and other forms of "liberation." It was much easier, and much more expedient, to drop the bar rather than insist that the previously disadvantaged upgrade. Upgrading would have taken time, and careful planning, and been more difficult.

Going down hill is always easier than going down hill. So, the lowest common denominator was adopted as the "equalization factor." And it was important to get all Americans to speak one language. And this has been the heartrending failure of our society in the wake of the Civil Rights movement — we took to the low road in language and culture.

Of course, there were many in white America who found this route perfectly to their liking. The black population never really had anything like a monopoly on foul language and low culture. There was a large minority of whites, both the ignorant and the well educated, who thought language liberation was great. To be able to say the F-word with impunity was freedom of expression — and a right that ought not to be officially suppressed. Besides, said the social engineers, this would bring the races together as nothing else could, and we'd have racial harmony.

While "Affirmative Action" programs were initiated to  help elevate a conspicuous few educationally and economically — they also served to mask the reality of what was going on in the very heart of the nation. The net result is that the state of the black race as a whole is not any better today than it was sixty years ago. In fact, a good case can be made that it is much worse off now than it was before Civil Rights — along with a significant percentage of the white lower class.

White lynching of blacks — and white discrimination against blacks as a whole — is no longer a problem, the number of black youths meeting with violent death has sky-rocketed in the nation since Civil Rights. Both black on black, and black on white, crime have mushroomed. The death toll taken on blacks by black urban gangs alone now literally puts the combined depredations of white lynch mobs and the KKK of a former era to shame. This is not evidence of social progress by stretch of the imagination — at least not in Pridger's book.

And race relations have not really improved. If anything, they've deteriorated markedly, in spite of a growing black middle-class and an increasing number of African-Americans in high office and positions of power. The black community is split between the haves and have-nots, as all societies are, and the have-nots are growing much faster than the haves. And they are increasingly resentful — along with many, if not most, whites. Most whites, however, are still relatively well off, so they remain quite — a cowed majority.

Pridger is cowed too, of course — hunkered down amongst the sheep, trying to remain inconspicuous. And he's damned careful to file and pay his taxes on time.

The culture and the language was quickly and easily down graded to make us into "one people" who all speak the same language. In this sense, the F-word appears to be the very symbol of race equality — and now two generations have grown up, and millions of immigrants have been initiated, believing that pornography and the F-word have always been central to American culture.

Of course, the high goal of social justice, and Civil Rights, wasn't the cause of and for this degenerative process — it was merely the ideal cover for something altogether different. It wasn't black driven, it was white driven, with a dark motive that has nothing to do with race or justice. But Pridger won't get into the wider issues here.

It wasn't Martin Luther King's intention to bring white cultural down. He fought for integration for the opposite reason. His aim was to help his people rise up and join in the advantages of what he apparently thought was a culture with greater opportunities — and hopefully transform that culture into one in which skin color was no barrier to full membership.

Now, in spite of the aforementioned "leveling processes," we are a nation divided as never before. Only our general common, and continuing, affluence as a nation (and the fact that even the poorest people are generally well fed, if not downright overweight, and have an over abundance of entertainment to keep them distracted), prevent chaos and anarchy from asserting itself — that, and the fact that at least two million people are kept behind bars at any given moment (a very disproportionate number of them black). This, shocking situation in "the land of the free and the home of the brave"!

John Q. Pridger