Monday, August 27, 2007

new Sentinel piece

Remembering the Riviera
‘Shrine of the Silent Art’ was a major player in Knoxville’s movie-house history When the Riviera Theater opened at 510-12 S. Gay St. on Monday, Dec. 6, 1920, with Cecille B. DeMille’s “Conrad in Search of His Youth,” it was the latest crest in a craze for movie theaters that had washed up and down Gay Street for more than a decade, each theater surpassing the last in size and grandeur...
In an undated photo looking north on Gay Street, the Riviera Theater can be seen on the right side.

EAST TENNESSEE HISTORICAL SOCIETY

In an undated photo looking north on Gay Street, the

Riviera Theater can be seen on the right side.

News Sentinel after a fire destroyed much of the Riviera

Theater in downtown Knoxville, it was rebuilt and

opened in January 1964 with the Cary Grant movie “Charade.”

Read the full story here:
http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2007/aug/27/remembering-the-riviera/

Movie house highlights: Pink marble, risqué shows

COMPILED BY SCOTT MCNUTT
Monday, August 27, 2007


    *       Staub Theater, 800-804 S. Gay St., 1872

      With its pink Tennessee marble facings, Mansard roof and balustrade, the Staub Theater was the talk of the town when it opened with Rossini’s opera “William Tell” in 1872...


Read the full story here:
http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2007/aug/27/movie-house-highlights-pink-marble-risqu-shows/

Friday, August 24, 2007

it ain't the pulitzer...

...and it never will be; but this story I did for inMotion Magazine won an Apex Award in the category of Interviews & Personal Profiles.

(complete list of winners at http://www.apexawards.com/A2007_Win.List.pdf)

So I can display this emblem if I want:

 Whee. Anyway, FBOFW, here's the piece:

 

aca
inMotion Volume · 17 · Issue 1 · January/February 2007
Relationships Rescued Him
Journalist who lost hand in Iraq renews commitments to those who helped him recover
by Scott McNutt

Michael Weisskopf // Copyright 2006 Brooks Kraft

In 2003, TIME Magazine senior correspondent Michael Weisskopf went to Iraq to profile “The American Soldier” as TIME’s Person of the Year. The reporter didn’t put much thought into what might befall him in a theater of war. It was a chance to inject some excitement into a stale work routine and add another entry on a lengthy list of professional achievements.

Weisskopf got the story, but he also became it, losing his hand to the blast of an insurgent’s grenade. That loss propelled Weisskopf on an 18-month long, pain-filled journey of recovery, during which, with the care and support of many people, he evaluated his life and re-established his identity. He has chronicled his journey in a book, Blood Brothers: Among the Soldiers of Ward 57. Although Weisskopf’s story encompasses much more than the relationships he made and re-established during his healing process, the book is a testament to the healing power of the bonds that connect each of us to a greater community.

Time and again in Blood Brothers, Weisskopf touches on the theme of a community of caring and explores his own place in a wider web of social connections. As he writes in Blood Brothers: “It had taken a major loss for me to understand what I meant to others. Relationships rescued me. They got me out of Baghdad, into Walter Reed Army Medical Center, and back home. I received that help not because of a grade I had earned, a story written, or lives saved; it was for being me. I resolved to return the love by being less selfabsorbed.”

Weisskopf is one of only a handful of civilians ever to be treated at the military facility. Coworkers at TIME, fellow journalists and Weisskopf’s congresswoman lobbied to get Weisskopf admitted. At Walter Reed, Weisskopf was assigned to “Amputee Alley,” Ward 57. During his time in Ward 57 and after, Weisskopf witnessed and experienced the bonds of friendship, family and caregiving among and for the soldiers recovering there.

For people with limb loss, there can be many different communities, and “combat amputees are a narrow subset,” says Weisskopf. “It’s a lonely world as an amputee – the larger the community of amputees we fit into, I think the richer the community.”

Just establishing a rapport with his fellow amputees on Ward 57 was, in a way, building a bridge between different communities. Weisskopf notes that not only was he a civilian, but he was also at least twice the age of the other patients. Plus, he quips, he was “a professional with more education than I needed.” In his workaday world, he had little in common with the soldiers of Ward 57.

“But there are a bunch of common denominators among those at Walter Reed and on Ward 57 that cut through all that,” Weisskopf says. “Primarily, it was that all of us there were struggling for identity.” That struggle cut the psychological distance between young soldiers who like guns, tattoos and fast machines and a self-described “middle-aged hack” who had gone to Iraq to clinically observe those soldiers going about their mission and to dispassionately write up his observations.

“I felt keenly that I’d gone to Iraq as a guy who was looking in from the outside and left Ward 57 in my own platoon of wounded warriors,” explains Weisskopf. “The distance between us broke down because what they were going through, I was going through. There are few people in society who can understand that unless you were there.”

One of the wounded warriors with whom Weisskopf bonded is Pete Damon. Damon, a helicopter mechanic whose National Guard unit was sent to Iraq, lost both arms when the metal rim on a helicopter tire he was inflating exploded. Weisskopf, whose right hand was destroyed when he grabbed and tossed away a grenade that was lobbed into the back of a transport vehicle, felt a kinship to Damon, and not only because of his physical loss. Each man had questions about his role in what led up to his respective trauma. Damon could not remember the events leading up to his mishap; Weisskopf had questions about the impulse that moved him to seize the grenade.

“I felt keenly that I’d gone to Iraq as a guy who was looking in from the outside and left Ward 57 in my own platoon of wounded warriors,” explains Weisskopf. “The distance between us broke down because what they were going through, I was going through. There are few people in society who can understand that unless you were there.”

Each man encouraged the other to fill in the gaps, and through this similar sense of purpose, a friendship was forged. It would see each of them through to successfully resolve (if not fully answer) their questions about their losses, as well as bring them together for simple camaraderie. Weisskopf even accompanied Damon to visit the parents of Damon’s partner, who was killed in the same explosion that took Damon’s arms. “I also had a debt to Pete because he gave me insight, tremendously,” says Weisskopf. “He triggered something in me that helped me. So, I went there as a friend. I didn’t go there as a journalist. I felt like we were helping each other.”

Another blood brother who helped Weisskopf along his journey is Jim Mayer, a.k.a. “The Milkshake Man,” whom Weisskopf dubbed one of the “Angels of Ward 57.” Mayer, a Vietnam vet and a bilateral below-knee amputee, is a military peer visitor trainer, certified by the Amputee Coalition of America. Such peer visitors help new amputees adjust to their situation, demonstrating through their own experience that reconnecting to a larger community is possible.

Mayer’s dedication to the soldiers of Ward 57 is near legendary, even going beyond the peer visitor model. That Weisskopf was not a vet made no difference to Mayer. The two men first met when Mayer, offering his customary milkshakes and a chance for conversation, poked his headed into Weisskopf’s room on Ward 57. Well-intended though Mayer was, this attempt at relationship-building was ill-timed, because at that moment, Weisskopf was trying to learn to use the bathroom one-handed. Despite that inauspicious beginning, the two eventually hit it off and remain friends.

“It made me realize early on – every amputee has to – you must accept help from others. It was very easy to get it from my kids. It gave them a real senseof power and a sense of importance. Every kid should have that. I think they truly rose to the occasion, and I am very fortunate to have them.”

Deeming Mayer “an amazing man,” Weisskopf says that he was important because “he figured out correctly that what every new amputee ponders is, ‘Will I ever be normal again?’ What Jim would do with that milkshake was bring you a little piece of ordinary life. It reminded you that you were part of humanity. You had normality within your grasp.” Weisskopf goes on to note that Mayer has now served hundreds of amputees as a friend, confidant and blood brother.

“At first, Michael didn’t want to take a milkshake intended for a service member,” recalls Mayer. “I can’t tell you how much his attitude about that impressed me. I learned that he was a to-the-point talker and a sharp listener. It didn’t take me long to observe that, as a seasoned correspondent, Michael could sniff out b.s. from 50 feet away. So I always tried to concentrate on what he was saying and feeling and respond candidly. To this day, Michael and I can go for a period of no contact and then immediately start talking about anything, with no reservations.”

The bond of family also helped Weisskopf in ways he had not anticipated. Having lost his father at an early age, Weisskopf felt guilt about almost depriving his young children, Skyler and Olivia, of their father. From his experience, he began to understand what had driven his father to work himself literally to death and to forgive him for it. His son and daughter, in turn, showed Weisskopf that they could forgive his “gamble on a job assignment” because of the bonds of love between parent and child. They also showed their father that they could help him in ways that he had once helped them.

“Not long ago, I had tied their shoes,” Weisskopf writes. “Now they were tying mine. I had patched up their cuts and scrapes; now they were changing my dressings.” This change in the adult-child balance of power caused a change in Weisskopf’s perception of parenthood as well. Before going to Iraq, he’d considered it a job. Now, he calls it a love affair. “It was wonderful,” Weisskopf says. “It made me realize early on – every amputee has to – youmust accept help from others. It was very easy to get it from my kids. It gave them a real sense of power and a sense of importance. Every kid should have that. I think theytruly rose to the occasion, and I am very fortunate to have them.”

One of the central themes of Blood Brothers is Weisskopf’s struggle to understand what led him to grab the live grenade that cost him his right hand. He wasn’t sure that he was the sort of person who would act nobly in a time of crisis. Now, with the help of many people who care for him professionally and personally, Weisskopf accepts that his was an honorable act, one that saved the lives of the soldiers who were in the Humvee with him.

He also sees that his actions reverberate throughout a larger community. On receiving the Daniel Pearl Award for Courage and Integrity in Journalism, Weisskopf wrote, “Even if I inhabited a world of self-interest, I acted on a larger stage with consequences reaching far beyond me.” But even if Weisskopf recognizes that his actions have impact in a broader community, Jim Mayer hopes his friend knows their importance to one community in particular.

Asked about the larger context of the recovery process for people with limb loss at Walter Reed, Mayer says, “Walter Reed and the Amputee Coalition of America have trained and certified over 90 peer visitors. I’m lucky to be one of them and also to be a part of the original core group of volunteers who graduated from ACA’s Train the Trainer Program.

“But Michael’s talks and friendship on Ward 57 reminded me that, aside from general reference points like ACA’s Phases of Recovery, each patient has a very individualized path to recovery and thriving in life, one with very unique twists, turns and setbacks. Michael writes eloquently about that in recording his and Pete Damon’s and the others’ recoveries in Blood Brothers. That gift from Michael is worth a lot more to me and my fellow peer visitors than whatever we may have given to Michael on Ward 57.”

 
TopBack to Top Last updated: 06/07/2007

© Copyrighted by the Amputee Coalition of America. Local reproduction for use by ACA constituents is permitted as long as this copyright information is included. Organizations or individuals wishing to reprint this article in other publications, including other World Wide Web sites must contact the Amputee Coalition of America for permission to do so.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

New Knoxville Voice column -- Battlin' Babies

This one's for my wife.

As always, I recommend picking up and reading the hardcopy Knoxville Voice -- lots of commentary and articles not found elsewhere in local media. At the least, go check it out on line:

http://www.knoxvoice.com

And the editorial in the latest KV is being discussed on line over at the "other" KV, Randy Neal's Knoxviews:

http://www.knoxviews.com/node/5327

Battlin’ Babies

by Scott McNutt

Local baby "fight club" ring busted

From APB wire report -- KNOXVILLE, TN. Today, federal authorities here charged Michael "Vapuh Rub" Vicks, a celebrity athlete who played ball with the local university, with running a "baby fight club" ring whose bouts ended with the torture and murder of the losing infants. Officials at the university here deny rumors that Vapuh Rub set up and extended his fight club circuit through connections with the university’s athletic program.

Charges against the Vapuh Rub ring include cruelty, abuse, neglect, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Vicks asserts that the babies were unwanted anyway, having been picked up as newborns off the street or through the state foster care system. The babies, with ordinary names like Bart, Lisa, Maggie, Sluggo and Nancy Boy (a tag-team tandem), and Jane, ranged in fighting age from 6 to 24 months.

Federal authorities dispute Vicks’ contention that the babies were unwanted. A federal spokesperson said they will charge Vicks with at least one count of kidnapping, in the case of the baby Jane Doe. A federal spokesperson reported that the heartbroken parents had reported the child missing months ago. Said the spokesperson, "Over the course of the investigation, the parents often lamented, ‘Whatever happened to baby Jane?’"

Authorities say no weight classes were set between babies of differing ages, meaning that helpless infants often went into the cage with careening toddlers. "It was inevitable that carnage would ensue," said the spokesperson.

One investigator at the scene was appalled by the horrors that confronted her. "It seemed like an ordinary tract house anywhere in Suburb, USA," she said. "But once we got inside…there were playpens everywhere filled with writhing, naked, scrawny, starving, neglected, abused, battlin’ babies. It was ghastly and grotesque. One two-year-old was using ‘Tickle-Me Elmo’ to bludgeon a six-month-old to death. In my 12 years on the Special Victims Unit, I never seen anything remotely like it."

Vicks claimed that his group was not being intentionally cruel to the babies, because they didn’t know babies could feel pain. He insisted that the babies were well taken care of. "If they didn’t win, they were taken care of real well," he said.

"Look here, babies cry all the time, am I right?" Vicks continued. "You ever hear a baby not cry? I didn’t think so. So, if we was electrocuting them or burning them or using them for target practice or hanging them or drowning them in jelly or whatever, we didn’t know they was in pain. And when we poured gasoline down their throats and dropped a match down it and taped their mouths shut, then cut their arms off and put battery acid on the open wounds and then disemboweled them and finally strangled them to death, it’s not like we could tell they was hurting, you know. They might have just been hungry for all we knew."

Vicks denied that he or any in his ring had actually killed a sentient being during the aftermath of the baby fight matches. "These were just really late, late term abortions," Vicks scoffed. "Look, man, I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like we were eating them or anything. And they’re just a bunch of fucking babies, anyway."

Officials with the local university publicly denied having any knowledge of Vicks’ underground activities. But one official, speaking anonymously, acknowledged that federal authorities had alerted the university to their ongoing investigation.

"Michael was contacted by us," the anonymous official said. "Michael was urged to seek counseling. In fact, for all athletes with ties to the institution, we held a consciousness-raising seminar titled, "Hurting Babies Could Get You into Trouble," and he was invited to that. He didn’t attend.

"We pled with him. We used every emotional appeal we could think of. ‘Think of the university,’ we said. ‘Think of our reputation if this gets out. Think of what this will do to our fund raising. Think what this will do to revenues from athletic event attendance.’ We even talked about how it might be affecting him. ‘Sure it feels good now,’ we said. ‘But think how this might hurt your future signing bonuses. Think how it might impact your lifetime earnings from endorsements and promotions, calculated over an athlete’s average career span and takinginto account salaries, investments, stocks, fees from potential movie rights and public appearances, and minus the cost of diapers and upkeep of playpens.’

"Nothing moved him. Michael was always stubborn. It’s what made him an exceptional talent. He said, ‘I gotta show them babies who’s boss.’"

A Federal spokesperson noted that anonymous sources tended to be long-winded.

When asked what steps the university was prepared to take to ensure that none of its other former athletes were involved in the baby fight club ring and to investigate the charges that its athletic program was used to set up the ring, a university spokesperson was remarkably candid.

"What steps will we be taking? We’ll be dragging our feet, but circling the wagons," he said. "We’ll suspend ties with Michael pending the outcome of his case, of course, but we’ll hedge our bets so that if it appears that his reputation can be rehabilitated, we’ll leave the door open for re-instituting our connections at some later time. That is, if it’s profitable for the university to do so. If he’s going to cost us money, we’ll drop him like a fly ball.

"As for the assertion that other former athletes might be involved and might have used connections within the athletic program to further the ring, we’ll deny that. Naturally, if the feds find that any of our other former athletes are involved, we’ll suspend connections with them too. And we’ll throw them to the wolves if need be. At all costs, the institution must be insulated from bad publicity.

"We’ll resist federal authorities if they try to do an investigation into our affairs. We’ll claim that we’re handling the matter internally and conducting our own investigation, same as we always do. And our investigation will conclude that, with a few doublespeak tweaks that won’t amount to anything, the system of checks and safeguards already in place against this sort of thing is sufficient to prevent it from happening again.

"In short, to preserve short-term earnings potential, we’ll deny, obfuscate, distract, stonewall, cast blame elsewhere, and absolutely refuse to accept any responsibility for this affair. The survival of the institution as a viable moneymaking entity is at stake.

"And long term? Ultimately, the institution will survive. Because the public’s appetite for Michael Vicks-type ‘warriors’ to engage in gladiator-type exhibitions is insatiable, over and above any petty concerns of morality or decency.

"Besides, they’re just a bunch of fucking babies."