A tnocs.com Friday Sidebar

• A expanded version of a recent comment at the TNOs column by mt58.

Years ago, my father, a WWII vet and stereotypical Sinatra fan-type of a guy, was watching one of those afternoon courtroom reality shows.

In a bit of stunt casting, the producers had invited a popular rapper of the day to be a featured participant on the program.

If memory serves correctly, my dad related how the performer was portrayed as a “defendant.” He was deemed to be in “breach of contract,” in a silly, transparently contrived beef, complete with gravely sincere witnesses and the testy, faux “evil tour-bus driver.”

Likely wanting to make sure that they had covered all the bases, they even found a way to shoehorn in a tiny bit of the artist’s music during the segment. Product placement at its finest.

The tension was high. But if you have ever watched 30 seconds of reality television, you know that, obviously, it was all going to play out as “a big misunderstanding.”

And indeed, within 11 minutes, before you could say “mesothelioma,” it was all sorted out. The performer was found to be not at fault, whatsoever. The tour bus driver apologized for his terribly misguided accusation. They all made up. They all shook hands. And everyone got to be a “good guy.”

My Dad, clearly not a regular reader of The Source, was still somehow oddly invested and engaged for the entire bit. He was visibly rooting for the performer to be victorious, and was quite pleased about the vindication.

When I came to check on him that night, I was treated to the entire play-by-play. He went on and on, about how, “That singer seems like a really nice kid. Good. Good for him.”

“I like him.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the moment when my father, suddenly and without warning, decided to amend his longtime, favorite running gag.

For years, he would randomly drop the name “Bono” into conversations with his contemporaries, as well as random acquaintances, just to see the perplexed look on their faces. He would then patiently explain who that was, and most importantly: how to properly pronounce the name.

“It’s not Boe-no.”
“It’s Bawn-oh,”
Dad.

He would intone this teachable moment in a perfect inflected mix that told the listener: he might – or might not be making sport of them. You could see it in their eyes: They never could exactly tell.

Dad was pretty good at those kind of fine-line things.

And so, on that day: Bono was officially retired and replaced by a new, and just as unlikely musical random reference, from a septuagenarian who had no business knowing about any of it.

For the duration, Dad would now extoll the virtues and coolness of Artis Leon Ivey, Jr.

It’s funny how something in the news can bring about a long-forgotten memory. This silly story reminds me anew: of how my father was a predictably good and empathetic man. It’s made for a nice comforting thought during a slightly stressful week.

And if he were here today? In my mind, I can hear it now, as clear as a bell:

“That’s a shame about that poor singer, Coolio.”

“He seemed like a really nice kid.”

Have a great weekend, everyone, and please consider popping in over the next 48, for a look, a comment about our great writers’ articles… or just a simple “hello” to tell us ‘what’s up with you.’

I always appreciate how nice you all are for keeping me – and all of our community – such good company.

Please be careful, take good care of yourselves and each other,

…and good on you all.