The male literary intellectual as hipster shaman
Slate.com has a dollop of
salve today for detoxing "Deadwood" fans, and a nice reveal of the extras on the series second season DVD for you hooples who have found said box set a mite cost-restrictive.
Beached whales
The Cardinals' starting pitching has deteriorated to such an extreme that the team was still weighing a deal tonight for Red Sox 43-year-old blowhard and tub o' guts David Wells. According to St. Louis Post Dispatch columnist Bernie Miklasz, Boston GM Theo Epstein chilled the Cards' interest late in the afternoon by demanding either rookie standout outfielder Chris Duncan or projected future starter Adam Wainwright in exchange for Jumbo the Runaway Circus Elephant. By 11pm central time, Epstein had reportedly lowered the asking price to San Diego's Triple A catcher George Kottaras, a .233 hitter. Rumors had surfaced that Wells would simply retire if he didn't like the team to which he was traded, and Wells enjoyed a previous stint with the Padres. Where will "Boomer" land? And what surface damage will be done to the area in which he does?
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The man
the Village Voice calls "the greatest all-around player in baseball," "the greatest Latin ballplayer of all-time," and "the fifth greatest Yankee in history after Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, and Joe DiMaggio" had only 49 extra base hits this season through Monday. His OPS (slugging plus on-base percentage) was .871, lower than Cincinnati's Scott Hatteberg.
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Anecdote of the night: From Late Show staffer and on-line chronicler Mike McAtee,
"I didn’t go to the Emmy Awards this year. I decided to stay home and spend time with the family instead. Years from now, maybe I’ll go again and take the girls, but not yet. I really don’t miss going to the Emmys. The only thing I miss is going to Chez Jay, a little dive bar in Santa Monica. The first time I went I spent most of my Saturday morning looking for a good dive bar to enjoy some cold Ales and a ballgame on the TV. It’s not easy to find such a bar in Santa Monica.
"As I trudged back to the hotel, right there across the street from my room was a dirty and dingy bar called Chez Jay. It was exactly what I was looking for. I couldn’t tell if it was really a dive, or just made up to look like one. Whatever, I plunked myself down on a barstool and ordered up a pre-noon mug. Sitting at the bar were 3 guys in dirty jeans and t-shirts. The barkeep was equally disheveled. I felt right at home. On the TV was Notre Dame vs. Nebraska.
"After a minute, the barkeep changed the channel right in the middle of an ND drive. I was a bit upset but being the new guy in the joint, I decided to show no emotion and simply observe. The three guys at the bar had no problem with the channel-change right in the middle of the game. The bartender stopped on a channel that was showing a commercial. I was guessing he knew what program was on. A few seconds later, beach volleyball came on. I figured this was a major sport in Santa Monica and excused the change of channel. But a minute of watching the volleyball game, the bartender again changed the channel. Again, the 3 guys at the bar, each watching the TV intently, showed no sign of disagreement. The barkeep stopped on another channel which had a commercial. Soon, a new show came on. After a minute of news, the bartender changed the channel to the Notre Dame game. While we were away, Notre Dame scored a touchdown. Damn. There’s a time-out and the game goes to a commercial.
"When the game comes back on, the barkeep changes the channel. What the heck was going on? He stopped clicking the remote at another commercial. I was thoroughly confused and decided to lean in on the conversation of the 3 regulars and the barkeep. A car commercial comes on. I hear them talk about where the commercial was shot in California; I hear them talk about who directed the commercial; I hear one of the guys say he was up for the commercial but was not hired. Another commercial comes on. They talk about where the commercial was shot. They talk about who directed it. One guy points out a friend who was in the commercial as an extra. One talks about how he missed out on the commercial audition because he was hungover. Another talks about the lighting. Another commercial comes on. One guy knew the guy who was in charge of the audio in the commercial. One guy pointed out a friend who was featured in the commercial and how much he’s been paid since it first started airing. The bartender comments on how poorly the commercial was shot and the music used was all wrong. I hear them talking about a Monday- all for a commercial about a mile away.
"The Notre Dame – Nebraska football game comes back on. . . . . and the bartender turns the channel. I couldn’t believe it. These 4 guys in a dive bar in Santa Monica were chasing commercials! They were watching TV just for the commercials. They had a comment for every commercial that came on. I stayed another hour watching in fascination and disgust. These 4 guys were struggling actors who were only interested in the commercials. California is nuts."
Enjoy the beach, Boomer.
Sports on the front page
College football season has nearly arrived for 2006 and that means the prime sports hypocrisy season is arriving as well. Today's
Des Moines Register has a
feature on the new Riverside Casino and Golf Resort near Iowa City, and details the flood of cash that will soon be rolling into the University of Iowa football program. The casino has coughed up $165,000 for a three year deal on a skybox at Kinnick Stadium, has purchased dozens of football tickets to give away to preferred customers, i.e. gamblers, and will engage itself in numerous Hawkeye promotional tie-ins.
Evidently, the university has forgotten the name "Ronnie Harmon." And maybe you have too. For those who have, or
never knew the name, Harmon was a star Hawkeye wide receiver who took money from gamblers before proceeding to fumble four times and drop a touchdown pass in the end zone during the 1986 Rose Bowl. The eventual uncovering of the plot made it onto HBO's "Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel" a couple years back, even as it simultaneously produced virtually no echo effects in Iowa statewide media.
Real estate developers, the athletic department, the gamblers,
the Register-- everyone gets rich on college football except for the players actually risking life and limb creating the product on the field. Then we wag our fingers in haughty, but shallow indignation at the players when they take the fix.
If I hear one more so-called tough-guy football player (really a cuckold) tell the cameras how much he loves his coach and how much his coach has given for the team, I'll hurl the booze from my stadium flask.
If Kirk Ferentz really cared about you, Hawkeye gridders, he'd cut you in for a chunk of his new guaranteed annual $2.84 million state salary.Could we at least start paying the high school players? In Texas, head football coaches at Class 4A and 5A schools, those with more than 950 students, now average $73,804 in annual salary. That's more than $30,000 above what the average teacher makes in the state in a year. As Salon's
King Kaufman points out, the main argument against paying college kids is that they're getting a free education and free room and board, but high school players don't get free housing and
all public school students get the free education.
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The Immaculate Endorsement: Hats off to former Pittsburgh Steeler Franco Harris for putting his principles above the typical sports backslapping. The lefty Democrat Harris has begun campaigning for Pennsylvania incumbent Democratic governor Edward Rendell and against his Republican challenger, Harris' former teammate, Lynn Swann. Says Harris of Swann, "We've always been very close, but right now I feel there needs to be a change in the direction from where our national administration has taken us and where the Republicans in state government want to take us."
Harris is my favorite
Gabe Kaplan/"Kotter" look-a-like.
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It was a tragic day in the Twin Cities where the Hennepin County Board OK'd a 0.15% sales tax increase to help buy Twins owner Carl Pohlad, the 78th richest man in America, a new stadium for his baseball team. The measure passed 4-3. Taxpayers will be footing the bill for 75 percent of the $522 million project. It was a tragic day for West Des Moines, Iowa as well. Pohlad's birthplace remained overdeveloped and, by and large, unslightly.
The best essay you'll read this week...
...excluding some thoughts I may have later about Hamas and the Palestinian question.
It's
Buzzmachine's Jeff Jarvis, on Tom Cruise and the hazards of being a star in the modern world.
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I was traveling and missed last night's Emmy's telecast, an event I so enjoyed covering on the blog last year. Ironic that the awards show would be airing opposite the season's final episode of television's best program, "Deadwood."
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Texas has the Jewish Cowboy
Kinky Friedman, but northeast Iowa has
Pirate James Hill.
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I wanted to say something about the death last week of 57-year-old acting great Bruno Kirby, who passed from complications of leukemia in Los Angeles. The New York Times, among others, pinned the label "character actor" on him in their obituary, but that phrase is terribly inadequate to describe what he-- and others like him-- do on stage and screen. It's a misnomer in fact. The phrase's implication is that these men and women are always playing the same character when, in truth, they're really actors who are so possessed of spark and verve that their immediate distinction is unavoidable. Peter Lorre and William Sanderson are archetypes, but I would open the club to also include Cary Grant and Marilyn Monroe, two lead performers whose personalities could not be bound by written roles.
"When Harry Met Sally" is an example of a Hollywood film significantly better than it has any right to be on paper, and that's due largely in part to Kirby and his supporting cohort, Carrie Fisher. Kirby also illuminated "This is Spinal Tap," "City Slickers," "The Freshman" with Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick, and "Donnie Brasco" costarring Johnny Depp and Al Pacino. Kirby's characters, as written, almost always seemed an afterthought, but he brought them into vivid existence. Though nearly unrecognizable, even with the hindsight of a successful career, he portrayed the young Pete Clemenza in the turn of the century New York scenes of "The Godfather, Part II" alongside Robert De Niro, a role in which the christened Bruno Giovanni Quidaciolu delivered each of his lines in Italian.
The screen will miss his distinctive voice-- that literal husky, high-pitched one, along with the figurative. It will miss his energy and flair. I'll be recalling most fondly the scamp who stole the Broderick character's luggage in "The Freshman" on the boy's first day in the city, and who made off with his best friend's blind date in Harry and Sally. He stole our hearts as well.
Unleashing the Gumbel, and other mid-week tirades
I had to squeeze in time this week to address a couple sore points that have come up in the news this week...
First, a note to Bryant Gumbel---
Keep up the good work. If the NFL Network, the longest step to date towards all pay-per-view sporting events on television, is going to be operated as if by the whim of Kim Jung Il, then you didn't want the job anyway.
Despite what we've learned from nearly all other professional football broadcasters in America, these commentators are not intended to be publicists for the league. In no other sport, save for college basketball and football, do the network announcers so shamelessly bow to the authority of the league office.
The NFL will be sending a great message if they can Gumbel: Gene Upshaw is not the commissioner's "personal pet," but we're axing a broadcaster because we couldn't put him on a chain.
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Call me humorless but I don't feel the slightest amount of populist charm emanating from this whole "Snakes on a Plane" phenomenon. Gratefully, the nation's general populace doesn't seem too drawn in by the hype either. There's nothing funny about the pathetic quality of movies coming out of studio and corporate Hollywood, and I, for one, don't plan to reward the particular audacity of this production for its attempt to prove how much utter bullshit we'll pay to watch.
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I respect Joe Lieberman's right to run as an Independent candidate for Senate in Connecticut. After all, it will deliver in even greater anti-war and anti-incumbency message when he goes down in flames a second time, but the corporate Democrats who have hijacked their party need to get it through their thick skulls that GOP Joe is no longer a member of the party. He ceased to be when he announced his contingent candidacy plan. That means: strip him of his committee assignments in the Senate at once. Last week. You know Hillary Clinton is privately hoping that Lieberman wins. That's why she'll only meet with Ned Lamont in her home state. Her gang in Washington is hoping a Lieberman comeback would provide media cover for all the Democrats who tanked it with their war vote, and help wash away much of that anti-incumbency sentiment.
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And finally, on a day he drove in seven runs, word that Albert Pujols has proven himself equal to the Babe-- in the
realm of science.
Money quote:
"GQ writer Nate Penn took the (neuropsychology)
tests the day before Pujols did. Penn thought that some of the skills he has developed as a writer would give him an edge over the baseball player on certain tasks. He did manage to get the better of Pujols on one test, in which the men had to convert a series of numbers into symbols. But when asked simply to copy the symbols, Pujols left everyone else in the dust. He replicated 133 symbols in a minute. It's a testament to his excellent hand-eye coordination. No one else performs at that level. Literally no one. The test makers don't even list a score that high."This is an endorsement as well for baseball players as terrific physical and cognizant talents, and the extraordinary gifts necessary to excel. All ballplayers are not David Wells.
Go ahead and take it off your calendar now
The Great Pujols is no longer listed as a guest on Letterman for this week on the TV show's website. The Friday show is typically the one show during the week that's shot in advance, and it made perfect sense initially that Albert would be taping the appearance today before the Cardinals begin a three game set against the Mets at Shea Stadium Tuesday. But alas, it was not meant to be.
As consolation, though, catch Chris Elliott Tuesday night. He doesn't have the uncanny ability to turn on an inside fastball and keep it from hooking foul down the left field line, but he's damn funny.
And he has Pujols' hairline.
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You may not hear from me again this week. August has proven to be the most hectic month of the year thus far. A friend is getting married on Saturday, and I'm getting my entire 40 hour work week in by 5 o'clock on Thursday.
Also, I need time to digest
this.
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Thought of the day: Has the best of television become so good that movies can no longer compete? Salon's
Heather Havrilesky convinced me.
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On-line passage of the day: Salon sportswriter King Kauffman,
"Funny headline on Yahoo Sports' baseball front page and on MLB.com: 'Tigers Land Neifi Perez.' Land? How about 'have to settle for?' How about 'with no other apparent options, acquire?' Maybe, 'curse the fates, issue uniform to?' Landing Neifi Perez is like landing the flu."
Put it on your calendar TODAY
Albert Pujols on Letterman Friday, August 25th.
Roger & Me
I've got a date with a little personal history this weekend. I'll be in Milwaukee for a couple Brewers games and will have the chance to see 44-year-old Roger Clemens take the hill for Houston.
It's no big deal to say you've seen Clemens pitch when you consider that he's made nearly 700 career starts in the big leagues. But I believe my brother-- who'll be on this trip-- and me possess a unique timeline with "the Rocket." In July of 1984, at the age of nine, we were on a family trip to California, and following a day of fun and frolic at Disneyland, returned to find the Boston Red Sox, in town to play the Angels, staying at our hotel. Along with our cousins, we attacked the lobby with pen and hotel stationary, collecting as many autographs as we could as the team prepared to depart. I wound up securing the autographs of Dwight Evans, Al Nipper, Reid Nichols, Bruce Hurst, the pre-infamous Bill Buckner, and-- while riding alone with him on one of the hotel elevators-- Roger Clemens.
In retrospect, that ride was more significant than "Pirates of the Caribbean," "Space Mountain," or any other that day. Clemens was exactly half the age he is now, fresh from the University of Texas, and had thus far won only three games in his big league career. Two years later, he would win his first Cy Young Award, finishing 24-4 for the Series-bound Sox. In 1987, we made our one and only trip to Fenway Park in Boston, and fortune would again flash her flirtatious grin. If you're going to see only one game at Fenway in your life, as Ray Kinsella also did (in "Field of Dreams,") you can do a lot worse than to catch Roger Clemens' spot in the Boston rotation in the mid-1980s, but that's what we did. En route to his second of seven Cy Young awards that September night, Clemens beat the Indians for his 15th win of the season and his 55th career victory. Needless to say, it was a pretty memorable night at the ballpark for two Iowa farm boys and their Dad.
Now 19 years later, the pitching schedule has fallen into place again, and we'll get to see Clemens go for his
346th career win, with his 345 already good for 8th on the all-time list and the highest total since Warren Spahn's retirement in 1965. When last we saw Roger in person, not only was
he still in the American League, but so were the Brewers.
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I can't remember, was it "Seinfeld" or "Curb Your Enthusiasm" that did the bit on how your rotation of clothing is like a starting pitching rotation in baseball? In either case, my current clothing rotation sucks. It's gone downhill faster than the Cardinals' starting circuit. Tomorrow, on my day off, I'm going to hit the stores and turn my fortunes around. Walt Jocketty will be put to shame by comparison for his failure to upgrade the Cardinals' starting staff with such ruthless cunning. Next time you see me, you'll say to yourself, "Hey, is that
Daniel Craig?"
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We'll end with another charming recollection of a time when the city of Boston and its sports teams were much less objectionable than they are today: "King of all Bloggers" Ken Levine recalls some of
my favorite "Cheers" episodes-- in particular the two starring Kevin McHale.
Hey asshole!
The most interesting act at the Iowa State Fair that gets no newspaper, radio, or television publicity is the dunk tank in the Midway. It's been a couple years since I witnessed it firsthand but my co-workers were discussing it this afternoon, and their descriptions brought my vague memories flooding back.
The principal character at the dunk tank-- the dunk-ee, if you will-- is "Snaps" the Clown, but he's not "Snaps," as in snaps and buttons, or an equally innocuous, say, Snap, Crackle, and Pop. He's "Snaps," as in "Yo mama... Snap. Oh no, you di'nt." If you venture to the north edge of the Midway, especially during the evening hours of the fair, you'll witness a very vulgar, mean-spirited show.
A colleague heard him shout at a very obese woman something along the lines of "Did the elephants escape from the zoo?" Just unbelievably nasty things. My instinct would have been to doubt her account, but I immediately remembered being blown away by the carnie's audacity when I witnessed the late night version of the act myself. I recall little other than that, in general, "Snaps" was making Mel Gibson look like
Leo Buscaglia, hurling vicious insults against the masculinity of various boyfriends at the carnival, the physical appearance of their girlfriends, and advising the boys on what he might do with said girlfriends if given a window of opportunity. I remember asking myself-- Does the fair's Blue Ribbon Foundation know about this guy? The puffed-up studs were fighting to take their tosses at the bulls-eye.
Anybody who watches "Carnivale" or a particular episode of "The Simpsons" knows about "the Carnie Code"-- the unwritten, universal law that all carnies look out for each other. And they'd better if one of their own is throwing that much manure at the local clientele. It may be the reason they're always getting chased out of your town and mine.
If you find yourself at the fair during one of these remaining evenings, and your sensibilities aren't feeling particularly delicate, check out this sour, but authentic taste of old-fashioned rural Americana.
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HBO subscribers and thieves, don't miss Spike Lee's
two-part cinematic account of Hurricane Katrina's devastation upon New Orleans. "When the Levees Broke" airs Monday and Tuesday nights.
Hometown Heroes and Zeroes
It pains me some to promote another of Major League Baseball's annual corporate internet tie-ins, especially one with all of the potential baggage this one may have, but I'm intrigued nevertheless by
"Hometown Heroes," a vote by fans for the most representative player in the history of each franchise.
Before offering up my 30 team choices though, I deliver this important caveat-- "most representative" does not also imply "best representative." Some teams suck. I'm also not interested in "character value" except as it pertains directly to the character of that particular team. I don't give a shit who deserves an equivalent of the "Texas Rangers Heisman Trophy." When the official MLB panel includes an admitted cheater like scuff-baller Don Sutton and a guy who just got canned by ESPN for sexual harassment, I think we can all put our Puritan impulses back in the closet before proceeding.
I also offer
this warning: I'm not above hard core stereotyping. This type of vote lends itself too easily to it.
My choices for the players who most embody the legacy of their franchises are:
ANGELS: Fred Lynn
He's not one of the five nominees, but he embodies the club-- Southern California laid-back. Probably too laid-back. Under the radar. Established star purchased by the Cowboy Gene Autry in the 1980s. Their top choice was destined to be cool customer Jim Edmonds, had they had the good sense to keep him.
ASTROS: Lance Berkman
Biggio and Bagwell are too classy for this organization, which until the last decade shared neither their workmanlike ethic nor was consistently good. The Astros played in a butt-ugly dome wearing orange space suit uniforms. Their fans didn't-- and still don't-- know the game, and now they're playing in an amusement park with a ridiculous hill in center field and a choo-choo train. They succeed despite themselves thanks to playing in the largest market in the league that doesn't have to be shared with another team. I picked Berkman because he's a native Texan and he looks like a moron.
ATHLETICS: Mark McGwire
The franchise currently residing in Oakland has been so many things, it's almost impossible to choose. Owner Connie Mack embodied the team, owning it for nearly half a century. It was a juggernaut for half a decade in the 30s in Philadelphia, but one of the worst teams of all time in the '50s and '60s, first under Mack, then under different leadership in Kansas City. McGwire had a Philly work ethic, a California temperment, and maintains loyalties in the Midwest. Like the franchise, he had a couple periods of dominance and some hard falls to match.
BLUE JAYS: Roberto Alomar
Consistent and underrated. Largely forgettable.
BRAVES: Greg Maddux
The Braves, unlike other teams that have relocated more than once, enjoyed some success at each stop. As a result, though, no one area of the country-- Boston, Milwaukee, or Atlanta-- can ever own all of them completely. This also is Maddux. And like his approach on the mound, they don't blow you away but one day you look up and they've claimed nearly as much success as anyone.
BREWERS: Jim Gantner
Choosing Hall-of Famers Yount or Molitor seems too generous for a franchise that's never won anything. Their lesser infield mate fits the part better.
CARDINALS: Stan Musial
I'm so glad you asked. The greatest Cardinal of them all. Extended success. Eye-popping career numbers. Consistent brilliance. Spirited personality. There are never dark clouds over the Cardinals and I believe that to be because four generations of fans and participants have drawn from Musial. I'm proud of the Cardinals entire list of nominees. Committed and brilliant. A great bonus is that if you add Mark McGwire to the mix as a sixth man, only two years have passed since 1941 that one of those players wasn't on the team.
CUBS: LaTroy Hawkins
You expected a great player? They haven't won the World Series since 1908. A Chicago native, Hawkins came to play in his hometown amidst unbridled optimism and wound up laying a giant egg. Par for the course.
DEVIL RAYS: Esteban Yan
Or any one of another several hundred nobodies. It's definitely not Wade Boggs. He was a great hitter.
DIAMONDBACKS: Mark Grace
I'm engaging in a little prognostication here, but I believe Arizona is destined to forever be the franchise players gravitate to to finish their career. Half of them live in Phoenix. Grace made the most of his short visit to the desert, and so have the D'Backs thus far.
DODGERS: Sandy Koufax
Professional, elegant, with a legacy that extends beyond the diamond. I chose the lefty hurler over Jackie Robinson just because his great career seems slightly more representative and included playing tenure in Los Angeles, a great baseball environment.
GIANTS: Bobby Bonds
He has a link to nearly all of the other nominees. Great talent, some success. Struck out too much.
INDIANS: Bob Feller
It's hard for a National Leaguer to warm to the Cleveland franchise. The idea of Jackie Robinson, Juan Marichal, or Bob Gibson competing balls-out against that offensive depiction of an Indian makes the team seem perpetually out of its time. Feller is, likewise, too angry, too stubborn, and too stuck in 1948.
MARINERS: Edgar Martinez
The giant asterisk. The Mariners play in an untraditional baseball city. They didn't exist before the designated hitter, and have played a majority of their home games indoors. They've hardly ever played meaningful games. Like the Indians, they're from another time, but unlike the Indians, it's a time in the future-- a future I hope never arrives. Martinez was a DH. Nothing more. Lacking completeness.
MARLINS: Jeff Conine
A man in perpetual motion between franchises. Traded from the Marlins and then arriving back again. Not a standout ballplayer by any stretch of the imagination. Still, he's found himself at the top of the baseball universe twice. He must be doing something right.
METS: Darryl Strawberry
Dizzying highs. Horrendous lows. Every peak and valley blown ridiculously out of proportion by the media. The Mets are baseball's "coked-up" franchise.
NATIONALS: Never heard of 'em.
ORIOLES: Eddie Murray
Hmmm, I wonder who will win this vote... It won't be Murray. But I pick him-- workmanlike and intense. If you think Baltimore is blue-eyed and resembles Paul Newman like Cal Ripken, Jr., then you haven't seen HBO's "The Wire." Murray's upbringing in the Watts section of Los Angeles in the '60s hardened him for a career in one of the Eastern seaboard's toughest harbors and for an American League division occupied by the high-priced whorehouses of Boston and New York.
PADRES: Trevor Hoffman
Oh, you've been playing down there all this time? Didn't notice. You have over 400 saves? Interesting. We'll get back to you when we decide if your existence means anything.
PHILLIES: Lenny Dykstra
Particularly the night he crashed his car.
PIRATES: Honus Wagner
Greatest success at the turn of the last century, but still has a lingering gravitas. And I'm not just being complimentary because they're cleaning the Cardinals' clocks this weekend.
RANGERS: Gary Matthews, Jr.
Gary Junior is to Gary Senior as the Rangers are to the Washington Senators.
RED SOX: Ben Affleck
I'm so blinded by hatred, his is the only name or face I can conjure.
REDS: Pete Rose
Rose is to Cincinnati as Larry Flynt is to Cincinnati.
ROCKIES: Dante Bichette
Something's just not natural about either one. But maybe this whole "baseballs in the humidor" thing is just the balance that the league needs to combat Human Growth Hormone.
ROYALS: Juan Gonzalez
Things can really go to hell, can't they?
TIGERS: Lou Whitaker
I'm trying to figure out why Alan Trammell would be on the list of Detroit nominees when Whitaker isn't. Are white guys more traditional heroes? OK, sorry I had to play that card, but I don't have any other explanations for that omission. This is a tough category, so I'm copping out with a protest vote.
TWINS: Kent Hrbek
A pro wrestler wannabe for the franchise whose domed stadium helped bring a taste of professional wrestling to baseball. Have they blown up that place yet?
WHITE SOX: Chick Gandil
Nellie Fox typifies a certain style of ballplaying common to many White Sox teams, but I'm selecting the ringleader of the Black Sox scandal-- Gandil. Fair or otherwise, that incident is still the White Sox franchise's lasting imprint on the game.
YANKEES: Joe DiMaggio
Ruth is too jolly. Gehrig, too heroic, and Mantle, too countrified. Yankees fans believe the rest of the league looks at them as a Yogi Berra, victorious on the field but also charmingly human. We don't. The Yankees are machine-like and callous, awash in their own phony aura and crippling insecurity. DiMaggio pouted on the set of "The Seven Year Itch" when Marilyn's skirt blew up from the street grille and refused to return to the stadium unless he was introduced as "the greatest living ballplayer." Steinbrenner tries to mask his insecurity by trying to buy the pennant. The Yankees might have 26 World Championships, but it's no way to live your life.
F DOT
Preposterous American censorship of the day: Today's Des Moines Register has
the latest chapter in the ongoing saga of the state Department of Transportation's attempt to strip Chevrolet Corvair owner John Miller of his so-called objectionable license plates. The Boone man's classic "hot rod" has the plate inscription "F NADER," a reference to consumer advocate Ralph Nader and his 1965 book "Unsafe at Any Speed" attacking General Motors for the production of the staggeringly dangerous automobile.
The first I can recall reading about these plates-- and what may have originally brought it to the attention of the DOT-- was an article several months ago by Register columnist John Carlson highlighting the various personalized plates in the state. Before that, Miller presumably motored around central Iowa with the plates without incident for several years.
I'm probably as big a fan of Ralph Nader as there is in this state-- only two thousand of us voted for him in 2004, but this effort to revoke the plates is-- as a I said above-- preposterous. "F" is not a vulgarity, and the only people who haven't heard the word "fuck" are the kids who don't know what it means anyway. If Miller wants to tool around Boone and evoke mild chuckles from his gearhead buddies, while conveying a vague sense of corporate dupability and, by the way, still inviting a fiery explosion, that's his business. (Except for maybe that last part.)
The word "fuck" is utterly arbitrary as vulgarity anyway, only as powerful as we allow it to be. Now people are offended by even the sparest abbreviation of it. We let these completely meaningless language restrictions dominate our lives. I noticed driving in Cedar Rapids a couple weeks ago that in a residential neighborhood, the intersecting street signs went from A Avenue to B Avenue to C to D to E
to Franklin to G. People can't even allow themselves to live on
F Avenue, such is the current power of the word "fuck."
Let me tell you, I've
been to your F Avenue, and it doesn't look like you're doing a lot of fucking there. People won't think any less of you if they see the sixth letter of the alphabet on your postal correspondence.
I need an F'ing drink.
Baseball Tonight
The
righteous. The
sarcastic. The
sinister. The
comical. The
mysterious. And the
tragic.
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Connecticut primary update 8/9/06: Finishing a point from Sunday, the Joe Lieberman character in "Talladega Nights" is Ricky Bobby's wife.
The cocoon people
Are Americans just checking out completely? What the hell is going on? Two separate polls released this week have me shaking my head. First, in a CNN poll, 1,047 adults were asked this question: "Based on what you have read or hear about the actor Mel Gibson, do you think he is or is not anti-Semitic-- that is, prejudiced against Jewish people?" A whopping 52 percent of respondents said he "is not anti-Semitic." Twenty three percent believe he is, and 24 percent said they were unsure.
More surprisingly, though, the same people were posed this: "As you may know, Mel Gibson made several negative comments about Jews after being arrested on suspicion of drunken driving. Which of the following statements comes closest to your view? I was never a fan of Gibson. I was a fan of Gibson before this incident but am not a fan now. I am still a fan of Gibson." Twenty-three percent never had love for Gibson, which seems about right, but 58 percent say they're still a fan, and only 7 percent say they've changed their minds during the last two weeks. (Eight percent unsure.) Are these people ape-shit crazy? If Mad Mel's isn't the behavior of an anti-Semite, what conceivably is? Does the fourth beer of the evening cause some sort of supernatural change in your worldview? Not after
the Australian League of Rights. Not after
"The Passion of the Christ." It's frightening to think such despicable statements could have such little impact on America's celebrity worship.
That's not the most confounding poll, however. Americans have been busy punching the knobs on the way-back machine over Iraq. A Harris poll released July 21st finds that despite all of the
lack of evidence to the contrary, a full 50 percent of Americans believe Iraq had weapons of mass destruction before the US invaded in 2003-- and that's
up from 36 percent since last year. Huh?
"I'm flabbergasted, " says media critic Michael Massing, who has written at length on the media's failure to challenge White House WMD assertions during the ramping to war, "This finding just has to cause despair among those of us who hope for an informed public able to draw reasonable conclusions based on evidence."
I don't think it's stupidity. I think it's that the people are truly checking out. They're building tiny cocoons large enough for just friends, family, and shitty television shows. They're even shutting out their local communities. People aren't not just
cranking up the A/C to clean the warming, putrid air, they're using the noise to shut out the outer world. Bush Cheney, Inc. has torn from us our ability to even be outraged anymore. It's too exhausting under a baking sun. After the morphing of bin Laden into Saddam Hussein, the corporate lootings, Lynndie England, Abu Ghraib, Jeff Gannon and the paid commentators, Guantanamo Bay, New Orleans, Teri Schiavo, and the failures to constructively engage North Korea and Iran, Americans hardly blink when the Vice President shoots a guy.
The most heroic sacrifice in the new millennium will be the one made by the people who simply stay engaged.
George Walker, Texas Ranger
Will Ferrell and Adam McKay's new movie "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" seems as pointed a satire of global conflict as the Marx Brothers' 1934 classic "Duck Soup." If you thought you were going to the theater to see only a send-up of NASCAR or those rags-to-riches country & western stories, you'll stay to see Ferrell (a champion left-wing fundraiser of late) transform his George W. Bush impression from a recurring SNL treat to a big screen image for the ages.
The similarities between the current President and racing legend Ricky Bobby should be blatant enough for all to see: the mythical predestination for power, the genial baffoonery and weakness for frat house hijinks, a preference for the least-complicated image of Jesus, the mushrooming insecurity and the cowboy posturing, a disdain for all things sophisticated, that often-vacant facial expression, and, of course, the Daddy issues. Even the bratty kids. And the corporate sponsorship. If he indeed intended an indictment of the Bush presidency, Ferrell deserves immense credit for his decision to portray Ricky Bobby, not as the confident victor, but as a miscast born-follower. Watching the driver clumsily deliver his first post-race sideline interview nearly had me in bitter tears over the fraudulent bill of goods American voters were sold by the Republican party six years ago. The key
difference between these two comic characters is that Bush will endure his wipe-outs on the track and never reach redemption.
I saw "Talladega Nights" last night with an audience made up almost entirely of teenagers and race fans. (I judge the second category by the vast array of race-themed clothing on hand.) I hope they all saw what they were intended to see. There were laudable "eewwws" from the kiddies when the French Formula 1 driver Jean Girard (Sacha Baron Cohen) kissed his life partner (played by Andy Richter.) But there was a sweetness in the film towards those men, and the hilarious, Peter Sellers-inspired Girard has a passion for racing to match those of Ricky Bobby and R.B.'s equally macho Southern Man "Shake'n Bake" partner Cal Naughton Jr. (John C. Reilly.)
I'm glad NASCAR has fully endorsed the film. Its sport and brainless flag-waving have, for too long, gone hand-in-hand, and there's a real message in this movie about acceptance and diplomacy. Crepes, after all, are only "thin pancakes," as Naughton points out. Speaking as an American who prefers Jean Girard's taste in Charlie Parker to Ricky Bobby's in Lynard Skynard, it's nice to see a mainstream, and none-too-subtle, critique of the current mindset in power that doesn't come wrapped as preachy documentary or angry diatribe. The well-executed satires always feel completely genuine even when their narratives are going wildly unhinged.
The elephant in the room
It's a thrilling time to be a Democrat-- as I remain in registration and guarded optimism. GOP bitch Joe Lieberman is on the verge of being flattened by the powerful left hook of Connecticut primary voters. A Quinnipiac poll this week shows his Senate opponent, Ned Lamont, opening a 13 percentage point lead over the incumbent.
And no campaign appearance by Bill Clinton last week could stop the bleeding. The former Prez came to Connecticut to help woo minority voters, but it's his guess or anyone else's what Clinton could do to rally their support for a Senator who has fought Affirmative Action, supported school voucher programs that devastate our inner city schools, and who supported the Bush tax cuts that save those at the poverty line only about a dollar a month. For added defeat, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton arrived shortly after Clinton to stump for Lamont.
What is especially gratifying is that grass roots activists, connected by the internet, are receiving the lion's share of credit for organizing the Lieberman opposition-- deserved or otherwise. Gratifying because it speaks to a possible snowball effect for other state and national races. When bloggers propel a candidacy and then the "old media," such as that ultimate old media outlet, the New York Times, follows suit-- the Times endorsed Lamont last week-- it gets attention.
The herd-like television media has fallen in behind, followed by the other triangulators. That "center-right" beltway claptrap, "Meet the Press," welcomes Howard Dean's brother on Sunday to discuss the on-line effort for Lamont, Bill Clinton has switched to
sucking up to Al Gore, and his wife has redirected her legislative attention from flag-burning to
Rumsfeld-burning. (Though it's noteworthy that she's still blaming the Iraqi disaster on execution rather than the mission.)
The new best-case scenario in Connecticut: Lamont wallops Lieberman in Tuesday's vote, then Lieberman re-enters the race as an Independent and gets walloped a second time. I'm all for "GOP Joe's" second-chance candidacy at this point. It would continue to focus the nation's attention on the difference between real Democrats and their Fox News counterparts.
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Quote of the day: "We have a good president. I pray for him. Sometimes I'd like to pull down his britches and switch him, but I still love him." -- U.S. Rep. Ralph Hall, (R) Texas
Content of the statement aside, who
talks like that? There are really some fucking idiots in the Congress.
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My new favorite sports website is
www.uniwatchblog.com. It's all of the important sports news of the day but presented through the prism of the participants' clothing. I particularly enjoyed the August 1st entry outlining the winners and losers fashion-wise at baseball's trading deadline. The Cardinals, rightly so, are renown by now for possessing
the most spectacular uniform in sports.
The Best Is Yet To Come
Happy birthday to one of our national treasures.
Lone Star
The
idiocy of ESPN's Jayson Stark aside, the Houston Astros absolutely did the best thing by refusing to surrender Roger Clemens back to the Yankees or Red Sox at baseball's trading deadline on Monday. Club owner Dayton McLane owes nothing more to Clemens than the $700,000 he pays him each time he takes to the hill for the Astros this season. Clemens kept the Astros off-kilter for half a year waiting to decide whether or not he would return for the '06 campaign. He held about $20 million of the club's cash in limbo and then didn't bother to show up until the club was already 10 games out of first place.
It's thoughtless to even presume that Clemens wanted to be traded from a team in his native state. Maybe a meaningless start before "a half-empty ballpark in Pittsburgh" is exactly how Clemens envisioned finishing his career, provided that he be wearing the orange, red, yellow, and black uniform of the Houston ballclub. If he had wanted to re-sign with Boston or New York, heaven knows he had his chance. Maybe he'd have never left them to begin with.
The Astros are certainly in the toilet, but it's worth noting they were a competitive ballclub prior to Clemens' arrival. If the team's record since May 4th (30-47) puts them in the company of the hapless Royals, it's hard to make the case that the late arriving Clemens has done his part to lead the victory parade. They may have saved $7 million by trading the Rocket away, but maybe that just reveals how much his starts mean at the gate of Minute Maid Park, and maybe GM Tim Purpura wasn't willing to part with that prime attraction for a collection of so-called prospects from baseball's most overhyped organizations. After all, if either AL East power had real prospects to showcase, they wouldn't have to buy everyone else's. Maybe Purpura was actually holding out for a good offer rather than simply handing over a 343 game winner to the Yank-Sox to spite the other 28 MLB clubs, including his own. Maybe the Cardinals should hand Albert Pujols over to George Steinbrenner in exchange for a bag of balls and the return of Bob Sykes'
ghost.
The Astros, for all of their problems, are only 6 games out of the Wild Card (isn't modern baseball great?) and at no time has Clemens declared this would be his final season. McLane owes Clemens exactly what the Hall of Fame pitcher owes him-- a commitment to winning. He certainly doesn't owe him a fucking "script."
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It's a shame that gay "Soprano" Vito Spatafore had to get whacked before becoming the target customer for Derek Jeter's new cologne.
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Bob Sykes is still alive. Sorry I scared you before.
