Mediocre Fred's Mediocre Blog
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "All Night Long" by Joe Walsh
WHY HOCKEY IS DOOMED
Hello again, all. The Fedroplex is a little empty at the moment; everyone's taking off for their final summer trips over the Labor Day weekend. (This includes The Smart Lady, who is in Philadelphia this weekend, much to my chagrin.) Mediocre Fred, though, remains in town, plugging away at this little blog, cheerfully attempting to entertain you, The Reader. Unfortunately, though, there's very little going on that warrants mention. The government is largely on vacation, so there's precious little political news. (Even the California recall election has hit a bit of a lull, as the major candidates have sorted themselves out and are waiting patiently for momentum to show up.) Baseball's pennant races are only beginning to stir, football's not quite going, and basketball and hockey remain dormant. And apart from the sad news in Iraq, there's not much going on in the world scene. In short, it's a great time for a long weekend. However, this column stands between me and my weekend, and I have to write about something, I suppose. This could definitely pose a problem.
However, I was rescued, as I so often am, by The Smart Lady, who apparently recommended me to someone as a hockey fan, which I am. However, those who have come here in hopes of seeing a hockey-related post have been thus far disappointed. Largely this is because it is not hockey season, but hey, I live to serve here. And given the fact that not much else is going on, I figured now is as good a time as any to satisfy the hockey consituency out there. So puckheads, gather 'round, because today's your day. I wish I brought better news.
For non-hockey fans out there, let me set the scene. The labor agreement between National Hockey League players and owners is due to expire at the end of next season, and thus far there has been precious little movement toward a new contract. Talk is swirling that the entire 2004-05 season may be lost to a strike. Further rumors suggest that some older European stars, if a season or more is lost to labor strife, may not come back to America at all, choosing instead to play in their home countries. In short, the NHL faces a serious risk of implosion if matters are not settled. It may even lose its tenuous hold as one of the Big Four American sports (along with football, baseball and basketball) and fall down to the second-tier position occupied by sports like soccer and lacrosse, which have never captured the American imagination. A couple more hits and it will be down around curling and archery.
Sad to say, if there is some sort of convulsive labor-related meltdown, it may be better for the game in the long term. Hockey has been headed in the wrong direction for at least a decade, and maybe apocalypse is the only thing that will save the sport. What's wrong with hockey? A lot. Here is a partial list of the key factors to the NHL's downward spiral in recent years:
1. They made the mistake of trying to hang with the Big Three. NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman, who took over in the early '90s, is generally well-regarded in league circles. He has devoted most of his term to trying to make hockey a truly major sport in America, on the level of baseball, basketball and football. In the process, he's made quite a bit of money for a number of people, which has endeared him to ownership. But in the process, he's set the sport up for a big fall.
Let's face it: Hockey is something of a niche sport. It's never going to have the wide appeal in America that football or baseball do. A smart hockey league would recognize this, focus on its key markets (more on this below), emphasize key rivalries and work on building passionate, devoted fan bases. Gary Bettman, however, felt that there was a bonanza awaiting the league in television revenue if he could successfully nationalize the sport. Well, he has succeeded in doing so. And I imagine profits have gone up, at least for now.
But in the cash grab, Bettman and company have sold the league's soul. Once you switch over from being an attendance-based sport to a TV-based sport (in the sense that more of your revenues come from TV rights contract than from actual ticket buyers), you can't go back. Now you have to follow the demands of the networks that carry you. You have to go into markets that seem like a poor fit. You start placing the interests of the casual semi-fan over the hardcore devotee. In the NHL's case, you break up rivalries of long standing and scrap division names in honor of hockey pioneers, and throw everyone into a geographically-based arrangement whose primary virtue is that it looks nice in the paper. (For instance, my Washington Capitals were removed from a the Patrick Division, which used to offer great rivals like New York, New Jersey, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, and unceremoniously dumped into the Southeast Division, where we find ourselves competing with stalwart hockey towns like Tampa Bay, Atlanta and Carolina. I imagine some day I'll stop screaming.) You encourage owners in small but devoted hockey towns to decamp for half-empty arenas in charmless but trendy new cities. In short, you shoot the traditional fan the big fat bird and tell him, "Hey, what do you want? At leat we kept the Stanley Cup. So what if we gave it to a team in Dallas? Shut up and buy more merchandise."
Oh, and there's another little side effect no one seems to have noticed. Seems the players have also noticed the increase in revenue, and they want their cut. Unfortunately for NHL owners, when you're trying to compete with the big boys, your talent will want big-boy salaries. Which the league's can't actually afford. Which is why the Showdown at the OK Corral looms in a year or so.
2. The league has expanded into market that don't, on closer inspection, actually appear to like hockey. As mentioned above, you can't claim to be a national sport if all your teams are in one region. So Bettman has moved agressively to bring teams into the South and West, in keeping with the shifting demographics of America. While this is an attractive idea in theory, in practice it has produced a league that's barely recognizable to the traditional fan.
I happen to know exactly when it happened. 1990-91 was the last sane NHL season. Here was the divisional alignment at that time:
NORRIS
Chicago
Detroit
Minnesota
St. Louis
Toronto
SMYTHE
Calgary
Edmonton
Los Angeles
Vancouver
Winnipeg
ADAMS
Boston
Buffalo
Hartford
Montreal
Quebec
PATRICK
New Jersey
New York Islanders
New York Rangers
Philadelphia
Pittsburgh
Washington
This is a nice, tight arrangement. It's mostly geographical, but not rigorously so. And with the exception of Los Angeles (which you can't reasonably ignore in any sport), all the teams are in or appreciably near the northern half of the United States. (St. Louis and Washington are sometimes dubbed Southern, but both cities have usually supported their teams well.) As it happens, this was around the time that I was becoming a true hockey fan. Little did I know that the cohesive league I loved so much was about to blow itself to bits.
The following year, the NHL placed an expansion team in San Jose, California. It was called the Sharks, and the jersey were teal and silver. This was quite a departure for the league, but it seemed harmless enough at the time. I nearly bought a Sharks jersey by myself. Little did I know that the novelty was about to become the norm.
In the years since 1990-91, the NHL has expanded from 21 teams to 30, and has abandoned solid hockey cities Minnesota, Hartford, Quebec and Winnipeg. (Minnesota has since gotten a team back.) In order to fill the void, the league has gone to Anaheim, Atlanta, Dallas, Miami, Nashville, Phoenix, Raleigh (NC), San Jose, and Tampa Bay. Any sense of distinctive identity the league had is now gone. In recent years, Dallas, Raleigh, Anaheim and Miami have played in the championship, which has been quite an adjustment for the traditionalist fan. I myself could keep my dinners down during those series.
Now, if the new teams were wildly successful, I could at least grit my teeth and say it's for the good of the league. But by and large, the new wave of soutern teams has flopped. I actually did a little research on this. I took the attendance figures for the last three seasons, and assigned points in inverse order to their finish. (First place got 30 points, second place got 29 points, etc.) I assigned a cutoff of 30 total, which means that a team scoring below that averaged attendance in the bottom third of the league. And the results were staggering. Of the nine new southern teams, six fell below the cutoff, and one (Tampa Bay) barely beat it, finishing with 32 points thanks to a middle-of-the-pack attendance figure this year, a season in which they won their division. The only two genuine successes were Dallas, which has been a top-flight team for several years, and San Jose, which has those snappy uniforms. So the league has sold out for... a bunch of bottom-feeding teams with poor futures. Nice job, Gary.
Hockey is a sport which you have to grow up with to appreciate. Ideally, you'd grow up skating around a frozen pond in December and January, wearing a Maple Leafs or Red Wings sweater with the number of your favorite player and working on your shot. Alternatively, if frozen ponds are not nearby, you can do what I did, catch the games after bedtime via a transistor radio concealed under the pillow. (Yes, I really did this, and yes, I'm sure I was the last kid to do this.) If you don't grow up with the game, you can't appreciate it. Like soccer, if you don't understand what's going on, hockey looks like a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing. Sticking teams in hockey-illiterate markets like Atlanta and Tampa Bay was doomed to failure from the start.
3. The league keeps dancing around the violence issue. This has kind of slipped out of the spotlight lately, but it's a major problem. American hockey has a long and inglorious history of bloodbaths, missing teeth and fisticuffs. "I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out," as the old joke goes. Now, American and Canadians diehards are pretty well used to the violent tradition. Many of them cherish it. But a modern, telegenic league can't be seen as condoning violence. It looks bad on TV if some helmet-head conducts a post-game with someone with a black eye, no teeth or a huge gash on his cheek. So the league has made a big show of cracking down on the violence. But cutting the violence out completely would risk further alienating the hardcore base, which is already disgusted over the prospect of a Phoenix-Carolina Stanley Cup final. So the league sort of winks at the occasional brawl, provided it doesn't occur on National Hockey Night or during the playoffs.
Personally, I dislike the violence and prefer a cleaner game. But I can certainly understand a Philly fan, who grew up on the Broad Street Bullies of the '80s, disagreeing with me. The league tries to placate everyone and winds up with a weird amalgam, with the casual fan still feeling hockey is a sport for ruffians, and the hardcore fan feeling the passion has gone out of the game. And no one could possibly enjoy the newly-favored style of non-violent defense, the infamous "neutral-zone trap" practiced so well by Stanley Cup champion New Jersey, which tends to generate a lot of 1-1 games that feel about as exciting as a trip to the dentist's office for a routine cleaning. Feh.
I could point to other problems, such as the lack of star power in the league, but I think my point is made. I'll revisit the issue next week and unveil my solution to the NHL's woes. For now, though, bed beckons and I must away. Enjoy your weekend, everyone. Labor Day may be a holiday, but Uncle Millie will have his latest column on Monday. Peace.
WHY HOCKEY IS DOOMED
Hello again, all. The Fedroplex is a little empty at the moment; everyone's taking off for their final summer trips over the Labor Day weekend. (This includes The Smart Lady, who is in Philadelphia this weekend, much to my chagrin.) Mediocre Fred, though, remains in town, plugging away at this little blog, cheerfully attempting to entertain you, The Reader. Unfortunately, though, there's very little going on that warrants mention. The government is largely on vacation, so there's precious little political news. (Even the California recall election has hit a bit of a lull, as the major candidates have sorted themselves out and are waiting patiently for momentum to show up.) Baseball's pennant races are only beginning to stir, football's not quite going, and basketball and hockey remain dormant. And apart from the sad news in Iraq, there's not much going on in the world scene. In short, it's a great time for a long weekend. However, this column stands between me and my weekend, and I have to write about something, I suppose. This could definitely pose a problem.
However, I was rescued, as I so often am, by The Smart Lady, who apparently recommended me to someone as a hockey fan, which I am. However, those who have come here in hopes of seeing a hockey-related post have been thus far disappointed. Largely this is because it is not hockey season, but hey, I live to serve here. And given the fact that not much else is going on, I figured now is as good a time as any to satisfy the hockey consituency out there. So puckheads, gather 'round, because today's your day. I wish I brought better news.
For non-hockey fans out there, let me set the scene. The labor agreement between National Hockey League players and owners is due to expire at the end of next season, and thus far there has been precious little movement toward a new contract. Talk is swirling that the entire 2004-05 season may be lost to a strike. Further rumors suggest that some older European stars, if a season or more is lost to labor strife, may not come back to America at all, choosing instead to play in their home countries. In short, the NHL faces a serious risk of implosion if matters are not settled. It may even lose its tenuous hold as one of the Big Four American sports (along with football, baseball and basketball) and fall down to the second-tier position occupied by sports like soccer and lacrosse, which have never captured the American imagination. A couple more hits and it will be down around curling and archery.
Sad to say, if there is some sort of convulsive labor-related meltdown, it may be better for the game in the long term. Hockey has been headed in the wrong direction for at least a decade, and maybe apocalypse is the only thing that will save the sport. What's wrong with hockey? A lot. Here is a partial list of the key factors to the NHL's downward spiral in recent years:
1. They made the mistake of trying to hang with the Big Three. NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman, who took over in the early '90s, is generally well-regarded in league circles. He has devoted most of his term to trying to make hockey a truly major sport in America, on the level of baseball, basketball and football. In the process, he's made quite a bit of money for a number of people, which has endeared him to ownership. But in the process, he's set the sport up for a big fall.
Let's face it: Hockey is something of a niche sport. It's never going to have the wide appeal in America that football or baseball do. A smart hockey league would recognize this, focus on its key markets (more on this below), emphasize key rivalries and work on building passionate, devoted fan bases. Gary Bettman, however, felt that there was a bonanza awaiting the league in television revenue if he could successfully nationalize the sport. Well, he has succeeded in doing so. And I imagine profits have gone up, at least for now.
But in the cash grab, Bettman and company have sold the league's soul. Once you switch over from being an attendance-based sport to a TV-based sport (in the sense that more of your revenues come from TV rights contract than from actual ticket buyers), you can't go back. Now you have to follow the demands of the networks that carry you. You have to go into markets that seem like a poor fit. You start placing the interests of the casual semi-fan over the hardcore devotee. In the NHL's case, you break up rivalries of long standing and scrap division names in honor of hockey pioneers, and throw everyone into a geographically-based arrangement whose primary virtue is that it looks nice in the paper. (For instance, my Washington Capitals were removed from a the Patrick Division, which used to offer great rivals like New York, New Jersey, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, and unceremoniously dumped into the Southeast Division, where we find ourselves competing with stalwart hockey towns like Tampa Bay, Atlanta and Carolina. I imagine some day I'll stop screaming.) You encourage owners in small but devoted hockey towns to decamp for half-empty arenas in charmless but trendy new cities. In short, you shoot the traditional fan the big fat bird and tell him, "Hey, what do you want? At leat we kept the Stanley Cup. So what if we gave it to a team in Dallas? Shut up and buy more merchandise."
Oh, and there's another little side effect no one seems to have noticed. Seems the players have also noticed the increase in revenue, and they want their cut. Unfortunately for NHL owners, when you're trying to compete with the big boys, your talent will want big-boy salaries. Which the league's can't actually afford. Which is why the Showdown at the OK Corral looms in a year or so.
2. The league has expanded into market that don't, on closer inspection, actually appear to like hockey. As mentioned above, you can't claim to be a national sport if all your teams are in one region. So Bettman has moved agressively to bring teams into the South and West, in keeping with the shifting demographics of America. While this is an attractive idea in theory, in practice it has produced a league that's barely recognizable to the traditional fan.
I happen to know exactly when it happened. 1990-91 was the last sane NHL season. Here was the divisional alignment at that time:
NORRIS
Chicago
Detroit
Minnesota
St. Louis
Toronto
SMYTHE
Calgary
Edmonton
Los Angeles
Vancouver
Winnipeg
ADAMS
Boston
Buffalo
Hartford
Montreal
Quebec
PATRICK
New Jersey
New York Islanders
New York Rangers
Philadelphia
Pittsburgh
Washington
This is a nice, tight arrangement. It's mostly geographical, but not rigorously so. And with the exception of Los Angeles (which you can't reasonably ignore in any sport), all the teams are in or appreciably near the northern half of the United States. (St. Louis and Washington are sometimes dubbed Southern, but both cities have usually supported their teams well.) As it happens, this was around the time that I was becoming a true hockey fan. Little did I know that the cohesive league I loved so much was about to blow itself to bits.
The following year, the NHL placed an expansion team in San Jose, California. It was called the Sharks, and the jersey were teal and silver. This was quite a departure for the league, but it seemed harmless enough at the time. I nearly bought a Sharks jersey by myself. Little did I know that the novelty was about to become the norm.
In the years since 1990-91, the NHL has expanded from 21 teams to 30, and has abandoned solid hockey cities Minnesota, Hartford, Quebec and Winnipeg. (Minnesota has since gotten a team back.) In order to fill the void, the league has gone to Anaheim, Atlanta, Dallas, Miami, Nashville, Phoenix, Raleigh (NC), San Jose, and Tampa Bay. Any sense of distinctive identity the league had is now gone. In recent years, Dallas, Raleigh, Anaheim and Miami have played in the championship, which has been quite an adjustment for the traditionalist fan. I myself could keep my dinners down during those series.
Now, if the new teams were wildly successful, I could at least grit my teeth and say it's for the good of the league. But by and large, the new wave of soutern teams has flopped. I actually did a little research on this. I took the attendance figures for the last three seasons, and assigned points in inverse order to their finish. (First place got 30 points, second place got 29 points, etc.) I assigned a cutoff of 30 total, which means that a team scoring below that averaged attendance in the bottom third of the league. And the results were staggering. Of the nine new southern teams, six fell below the cutoff, and one (Tampa Bay) barely beat it, finishing with 32 points thanks to a middle-of-the-pack attendance figure this year, a season in which they won their division. The only two genuine successes were Dallas, which has been a top-flight team for several years, and San Jose, which has those snappy uniforms. So the league has sold out for... a bunch of bottom-feeding teams with poor futures. Nice job, Gary.
Hockey is a sport which you have to grow up with to appreciate. Ideally, you'd grow up skating around a frozen pond in December and January, wearing a Maple Leafs or Red Wings sweater with the number of your favorite player and working on your shot. Alternatively, if frozen ponds are not nearby, you can do what I did, catch the games after bedtime via a transistor radio concealed under the pillow. (Yes, I really did this, and yes, I'm sure I was the last kid to do this.) If you don't grow up with the game, you can't appreciate it. Like soccer, if you don't understand what's going on, hockey looks like a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing. Sticking teams in hockey-illiterate markets like Atlanta and Tampa Bay was doomed to failure from the start.
3. The league keeps dancing around the violence issue. This has kind of slipped out of the spotlight lately, but it's a major problem. American hockey has a long and inglorious history of bloodbaths, missing teeth and fisticuffs. "I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out," as the old joke goes. Now, American and Canadians diehards are pretty well used to the violent tradition. Many of them cherish it. But a modern, telegenic league can't be seen as condoning violence. It looks bad on TV if some helmet-head conducts a post-game with someone with a black eye, no teeth or a huge gash on his cheek. So the league has made a big show of cracking down on the violence. But cutting the violence out completely would risk further alienating the hardcore base, which is already disgusted over the prospect of a Phoenix-Carolina Stanley Cup final. So the league sort of winks at the occasional brawl, provided it doesn't occur on National Hockey Night or during the playoffs.
Personally, I dislike the violence and prefer a cleaner game. But I can certainly understand a Philly fan, who grew up on the Broad Street Bullies of the '80s, disagreeing with me. The league tries to placate everyone and winds up with a weird amalgam, with the casual fan still feeling hockey is a sport for ruffians, and the hardcore fan feeling the passion has gone out of the game. And no one could possibly enjoy the newly-favored style of non-violent defense, the infamous "neutral-zone trap" practiced so well by Stanley Cup champion New Jersey, which tends to generate a lot of 1-1 games that feel about as exciting as a trip to the dentist's office for a routine cleaning. Feh.
I could point to other problems, such as the lack of star power in the league, but I think my point is made. I'll revisit the issue next week and unveil my solution to the NHL's woes. For now, though, bed beckons and I must away. Enjoy your weekend, everyone. Labor Day may be a holiday, but Uncle Millie will have his latest column on Monday. Peace.
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Talkin' 'Bout My Generation" by The Who
THE INFORMATION GENERATION
Hi there, folks. Today is one of those days where a bunch of threads have come together in my head all at once. My mind tends to work that way; it will quietly accumulate and file information without telling me what's going on, then without warning it will suddenly pop out with An Idea. It's kind of like the process wherein you throw a bunch of grapes or grains into a barrel, leave it sit awhile, and all of a sudden one day you have Thunderbird, or Ripple. In this case, the Idea catapulted forward when I read a Washington Post article on the music industry's struggle to combat music piracy on college campuses. In and of itself, it's an interesting issue, but in my mind it combined with a couple other tidbits from the last couple weeks, such as popular Post columnist Bob Levey having to cut back his online discussions from twice weekly to once weekly for financial reasons, and the Post's new free daily Express (which you may have heard something about somewhere). What do they all have in common? All three stories rech the heart of the modern dilemma over communication and information technology. And all three stories share what I consider to be the defining characteristic of my generation: the belief that information is and ought to be fast, free and always accessible. This belief, which has really cropped up within the last decade, threatens to change our understanding of the media, of communication, and many other related issues. At the moment, the evidence indicates that we're not yet ready for this new paradigm. But how we choose to deal with the problem will define a new era, and we can only hope we'll realize this before it's too late.
"All right," I hear you saying, "I've had just about enough of this. This is exactly the kind of grandiose bloviating crap I can get on a thousand other blogs. I was told there would be none of this. I came for a little chuckle, and here I am getting a graduate thesis. So hop off the serious pills, Funny Boy. Make fun of George Steinbrenner's haircut or something." I understand your concern. I try to keep it light around here, and I like it that way. You're certainly not required to read this post. (Although, given that I'm addressing an audience of perhaps four people right now, perhaps I should not be so cavalier about turning people off.) Besides, you may not realize this, but the standard weblog user agreement requires me to pontificate on Web-related issues at least once a month. (I believe it's called the "Navel-Gazing Clause.") I don't like it any better than you do. So just bear with me. You may even learn something, though I make no promises. Fix a cocktail and sit back.
Increasingly, we live in a world where information is always close at hand. Once upon a time, books and newspapers were the only ways of obtaining information about the world at large. Then came radio, which brought Herbert Hoover into living rooms across the country. (A disconcerting thought, perhaps, but so it is.) Then came television, which allowed Richard Nixon to look right into our eyes (downright creepy, but still) and lie to us in living color from the comfort of our own couches. Television changed media remarkably: it gave us images of riots and inaugurations and moon landings as they happened. Even so, it only sped up the news cycle modestly at first, giving us at 6 and 11 PM, for instance, what we might not have read about until tomorrow morning in the paper. Then came CNN, which promised an all-news-all-the-time policy (provided you're willing to interpret the concept of "news" somewhat liberally). This sped things up a little more, allowed news to travel more quickly, demanded that the news cycle speed up to keep pace.
The Internet, though, has revolutionized the way information is disseminated. For one thing, it's instant. If Senator Blutarsky makes an unfortunate remark about homeless people, it can be on 50 Web sites within the hour. (Poor Senator Blutarsky.) Not only does the Net allow news to spread faster, it democratizes information providing. Now you don't need to own a printing press, or a broadcasting tower, or a television studio. All you need is a computer with Web access, which a majority of people (especially young people) now have. The barrier to being a news source has fallen dramatically. Pactically anyone can be a news source now. Hell, I could be considered a news source (though I hope and trust that none of you are relying on me for news). As a result, things that might in an earlier era have passed unobserved now catch the keen eyes of webloggers and online news purveyors, hungry for fresh material to feed the beast. When Trent Lott had his Senator Blutarsky moment at Strom Thurmond's birthday party, the mainstream media played it down or ignored the remark entirely. It was primarily the webloggers (people a lot like myself, only taller and with a greater sense of outrage) who refused to let the story die, stomping and fuming until the other media were forced to take notice. And it's not just news, either; if you need to know the capital of Tajikistan on the spot, now you can figure it out without taking a side trip to the library, tracking down a Tajikistani, or writing a letter to Marilyn Vos Savant. (It's Dushanbe, by the way. You're welcome. Now pay attention.)
My point here is that, so long as you're near a computer, information is always accessible. And now, with wireless hotspots at Starbucks and cellphones with Internet capabilities, you don't even need to be at home. This expectation has quickly become ingrained in our culture, and now we're upset if our Internet connection is down and we have to wait 5 minutes for the Pirates-Dodgers score on ESPN. Instant access, instant gratification, is part of Internet life, and as such part of our lives.
And not only is this information instantly available, it's practically free. Pay an access fee to your Internet service provider, and scads of information is available to you at no additional charge. (And if you work at an Internet-enabled office or go to pretty much any college, you don't even have to pay for access.) You can research papers, play games, talk to your friends, listen to music, catch up on the news and the scores, participate in a public debate, all for free. Suddenly, for the first time in history, information is practically free.
(Side note to those detractors who are planning to write me and explain the concept of public libraries: I know. But it's not the same thing, because of what economists call opportunity cost. Economists and economics majors, feel free to skip this note. The basic concept here is that everything we do, even if it's supposedly free, has a cost attached. Let's say you go to a two-hour free concert on the Mall. It's not really free. You could, for instance, have been working for those two hours. Whatever the worth of the highest-value alternative use you could have made of your time is, that's the opportunity cost. In the case of the concert, let's say you could have made $15 an hour working. So the concert "cost" you $30, even though it's theoretically free. Here's how the concept applies to libraries and the Internet: Let's say you wanted to know the capital of Tajikistan, as in the example above. If you went to the library to find it out, the trip there plus the time to find what you need might be, say, thirty minutes. Add to that the cost of whatever transportation you use to get there, and suddenly you might well think you don't really need to know the capital of Tajikistan. But if you have a Web-capable computer, you can hop on Google as I did and have your answer in five seconds. The opportunity cost is much lower. See? That didn't even hurt, did it?)
The problem arises in that, while the consumption of information is for all intents and purposes free, the production of it is not. Reporters, editors and Web-site designers all need to be paid. So do the people who put together online reference sources. And yes, recording-industry tycoons, so do the people who produce music. This is, after all, their living. I'm sure you, The Reader, wouldn't like it if your company expected you to work for free. (And no, downloading music is not like turning on the radio. Radio stations pay licensing fees for the songs they play on the air. You do not.) Given the gap between the cost of consumption and the cost of production, the money has to come from somewhere. The initial hope was that advertising would fill the gap, as it does for television, which now shows 45 minutes of commercials per hour so that you can enjoy "According to Jim" free of charge. You're welcome. But, unlike TV advertisers, who can only throw their ads out there and guess how many people are responding, Internet advertisers have a direct way of knowing how effective their ads are: by the number of clicks their ads receive. And the numbers aren't adding up; advertising dollars have plummeted, as a lot of companies have decided it's not worth the trouble. (And now with the software that blocks pop-up ads, sort of an Internet TiVo, the ad revenue's only going to keep declining.) And with the corresponding decline in Daddy Warbucks venture capitalists writing out checks for the sake of staying "ahead of the curve," the Internet business model doesn't make much sense right now.
Especially if the Web site cuts into sales of your real product. I'm thinking here of newspaper Web sites, such as the Washington Post's. Now, as a paper, the Post is a terrific bargain. It's packed full of well-written stories, timely information, and quality analysis for only 35 cents. A terrific deal! Except... you can get pretty much all the same information on washingtonpost.com for free. If there was no washingtonpost.com, I'd probably buy the paper. As it stands, I don't. I'm sure I'm not the only one. People like me are killing the Post, and papers all over the country.
There's the problem in a nutshell: my generation basically expects information to be free. Every time someone tries to make us pay for it, we roll our eyes and find another free site. When the recording industry attempts to prevent us from stealing other people's work, we react as though Stalin himself was in charge of RIAA. Basically, our worldview is not sufficiently profitable. Employ all the libertarian arguments you want in favor of file-swapping, but if there's no money to be made in music recording, there won't be any songs to download. If we drive the newspapers out of business, there won't be any washingtonpost.com. Clearly, there needs to be a sea change in attitude.
How is it going to happen? In my opinion, this is the perfect role for government. Someone needs to figure out who should pay for information, who should be paid, and how much money should change hands, at the macro-level. The Internet is an industry in need of regulation, which is precisely what government was designed to do. (Though this may be difficult for some to understand.) Thus far, we've stuck exclusively to market-based solutions to the problems at hand. I've already looked at the failures of advertising and venture capitalists. Let's examine the solutions on the table in the articles I mentioned at the top of the piece.
The RIAA is taking a two-pronged approach to fighting music downloading. First, they've been offering orientation programs on college campuses, designed to discourage incoming freshmen from downloading songs. It's not a bad idea, but it strikes me as not particularly effective. A free-information mindset isn't going to be erased by listening to someone talk for an hour about the evils of file-sharing. The RIAA has also starting suing major song-downloaders for damages. This approach is off in the opposite direction. This is like dealing with a neighbor's yapping dog by sending Rambo over to blow Fido to kingdom come. The recording industry has enough of an image prblem as it is; behaving like jackbooted thugs isn't going to improve relations with anybody. I'm sure the RIAA would say it's only doing what it can, and I'm sure that's true, but the weapons at its disposal aren't the right ones.
As for Express, I'm not sure what the Post thinks it's going to help. On its own, assuming they keep it free, Express isn't going to be a significant moneymaker for the Post. And if it's supposed to be a bridge from the Web site to the real paper, it fails at that, too. There's no Post content in Express, and no encouragement to go read the paper itself (though there is encouragement to go to the Web site). Unless the Post has some sort of master plan that's not currently clear, Express isn't going to be the answer to their circulation woes.
Of the three, Bob Levey is probably closest to the right track. When readers wrote in to protest the cancellation of his second discussion, he explained the economics and said that this was the future of Web sites like the Post's... unless they started charging. A nickel or a dime a visit, for instance. Someone wondered how the Post thought it would be able to get away with charging. Levey replied that it would have to be an industry-wide change: if everyone started charging at the same time, it would work. I happen to think he's right. But I don't think it will happen on its own. And if it happens piecemeal, it will fail. The only way to make sure it happens uniformly, with a minimal customer backlash, is through the government. After all, what's called for here borders on collusion. And the government is the best instrument for making sure the change happens smoothly, and educating the public on why it needs to happen. I'm well-aware of the American suspicion toward the idea of positive government, but on the bright side, it would be almost impossible for a government initiative to be more poorly received than the RIAA suing everybody. The government is large and powerful enough to guide the transition in thinking. This seems like the type of job that should fall to the Department of Commerce, but perhaps a special presidential commission would give the issue the visibility it deserves.
One way or another, someday we will look back on this era with some astonishment: all this information just lying around, everywhere, for free! It will feel a bit like the Wild West, or the Industrial Revolution, perhaps. "All this technology developing, and no rules. How did they survive it?" Hopefully, we'll be able to tell our children, "It was a wild time, for sure, but it couldn't last. Thank God cooler heads prevailed and we figured out a way to make it all work." The Internet isn't going to go away. The question we have to face is, who will write the rules, and to whose benefit? A lot rests on the answers to those questions.
Whew! My head hurts from all that thinking. I don't even have the energy to go find new links. I probably should have stuck to something flippant, like how silly the term "music pirates" is and how Kazaa users should have to go around wearing eye patches and carrying parrots on their shoulders. Tomorrow, I promise, it's back to trivial foolishness. So, until then, I bid you peace.
THE INFORMATION GENERATION
Hi there, folks. Today is one of those days where a bunch of threads have come together in my head all at once. My mind tends to work that way; it will quietly accumulate and file information without telling me what's going on, then without warning it will suddenly pop out with An Idea. It's kind of like the process wherein you throw a bunch of grapes or grains into a barrel, leave it sit awhile, and all of a sudden one day you have Thunderbird, or Ripple. In this case, the Idea catapulted forward when I read a Washington Post article on the music industry's struggle to combat music piracy on college campuses. In and of itself, it's an interesting issue, but in my mind it combined with a couple other tidbits from the last couple weeks, such as popular Post columnist Bob Levey having to cut back his online discussions from twice weekly to once weekly for financial reasons, and the Post's new free daily Express (which you may have heard something about somewhere). What do they all have in common? All three stories rech the heart of the modern dilemma over communication and information technology. And all three stories share what I consider to be the defining characteristic of my generation: the belief that information is and ought to be fast, free and always accessible. This belief, which has really cropped up within the last decade, threatens to change our understanding of the media, of communication, and many other related issues. At the moment, the evidence indicates that we're not yet ready for this new paradigm. But how we choose to deal with the problem will define a new era, and we can only hope we'll realize this before it's too late.
"All right," I hear you saying, "I've had just about enough of this. This is exactly the kind of grandiose bloviating crap I can get on a thousand other blogs. I was told there would be none of this. I came for a little chuckle, and here I am getting a graduate thesis. So hop off the serious pills, Funny Boy. Make fun of George Steinbrenner's haircut or something." I understand your concern. I try to keep it light around here, and I like it that way. You're certainly not required to read this post. (Although, given that I'm addressing an audience of perhaps four people right now, perhaps I should not be so cavalier about turning people off.) Besides, you may not realize this, but the standard weblog user agreement requires me to pontificate on Web-related issues at least once a month. (I believe it's called the "Navel-Gazing Clause.") I don't like it any better than you do. So just bear with me. You may even learn something, though I make no promises. Fix a cocktail and sit back.
Increasingly, we live in a world where information is always close at hand. Once upon a time, books and newspapers were the only ways of obtaining information about the world at large. Then came radio, which brought Herbert Hoover into living rooms across the country. (A disconcerting thought, perhaps, but so it is.) Then came television, which allowed Richard Nixon to look right into our eyes (downright creepy, but still) and lie to us in living color from the comfort of our own couches. Television changed media remarkably: it gave us images of riots and inaugurations and moon landings as they happened. Even so, it only sped up the news cycle modestly at first, giving us at 6 and 11 PM, for instance, what we might not have read about until tomorrow morning in the paper. Then came CNN, which promised an all-news-all-the-time policy (provided you're willing to interpret the concept of "news" somewhat liberally). This sped things up a little more, allowed news to travel more quickly, demanded that the news cycle speed up to keep pace.
The Internet, though, has revolutionized the way information is disseminated. For one thing, it's instant. If Senator Blutarsky makes an unfortunate remark about homeless people, it can be on 50 Web sites within the hour. (Poor Senator Blutarsky.) Not only does the Net allow news to spread faster, it democratizes information providing. Now you don't need to own a printing press, or a broadcasting tower, or a television studio. All you need is a computer with Web access, which a majority of people (especially young people) now have. The barrier to being a news source has fallen dramatically. Pactically anyone can be a news source now. Hell, I could be considered a news source (though I hope and trust that none of you are relying on me for news). As a result, things that might in an earlier era have passed unobserved now catch the keen eyes of webloggers and online news purveyors, hungry for fresh material to feed the beast. When Trent Lott had his Senator Blutarsky moment at Strom Thurmond's birthday party, the mainstream media played it down or ignored the remark entirely. It was primarily the webloggers (people a lot like myself, only taller and with a greater sense of outrage) who refused to let the story die, stomping and fuming until the other media were forced to take notice. And it's not just news, either; if you need to know the capital of Tajikistan on the spot, now you can figure it out without taking a side trip to the library, tracking down a Tajikistani, or writing a letter to Marilyn Vos Savant. (It's Dushanbe, by the way. You're welcome. Now pay attention.)
My point here is that, so long as you're near a computer, information is always accessible. And now, with wireless hotspots at Starbucks and cellphones with Internet capabilities, you don't even need to be at home. This expectation has quickly become ingrained in our culture, and now we're upset if our Internet connection is down and we have to wait 5 minutes for the Pirates-Dodgers score on ESPN. Instant access, instant gratification, is part of Internet life, and as such part of our lives.
And not only is this information instantly available, it's practically free. Pay an access fee to your Internet service provider, and scads of information is available to you at no additional charge. (And if you work at an Internet-enabled office or go to pretty much any college, you don't even have to pay for access.) You can research papers, play games, talk to your friends, listen to music, catch up on the news and the scores, participate in a public debate, all for free. Suddenly, for the first time in history, information is practically free.
(Side note to those detractors who are planning to write me and explain the concept of public libraries: I know. But it's not the same thing, because of what economists call opportunity cost. Economists and economics majors, feel free to skip this note. The basic concept here is that everything we do, even if it's supposedly free, has a cost attached. Let's say you go to a two-hour free concert on the Mall. It's not really free. You could, for instance, have been working for those two hours. Whatever the worth of the highest-value alternative use you could have made of your time is, that's the opportunity cost. In the case of the concert, let's say you could have made $15 an hour working. So the concert "cost" you $30, even though it's theoretically free. Here's how the concept applies to libraries and the Internet: Let's say you wanted to know the capital of Tajikistan, as in the example above. If you went to the library to find it out, the trip there plus the time to find what you need might be, say, thirty minutes. Add to that the cost of whatever transportation you use to get there, and suddenly you might well think you don't really need to know the capital of Tajikistan. But if you have a Web-capable computer, you can hop on Google as I did and have your answer in five seconds. The opportunity cost is much lower. See? That didn't even hurt, did it?)
The problem arises in that, while the consumption of information is for all intents and purposes free, the production of it is not. Reporters, editors and Web-site designers all need to be paid. So do the people who put together online reference sources. And yes, recording-industry tycoons, so do the people who produce music. This is, after all, their living. I'm sure you, The Reader, wouldn't like it if your company expected you to work for free. (And no, downloading music is not like turning on the radio. Radio stations pay licensing fees for the songs they play on the air. You do not.) Given the gap between the cost of consumption and the cost of production, the money has to come from somewhere. The initial hope was that advertising would fill the gap, as it does for television, which now shows 45 minutes of commercials per hour so that you can enjoy "According to Jim" free of charge. You're welcome. But, unlike TV advertisers, who can only throw their ads out there and guess how many people are responding, Internet advertisers have a direct way of knowing how effective their ads are: by the number of clicks their ads receive. And the numbers aren't adding up; advertising dollars have plummeted, as a lot of companies have decided it's not worth the trouble. (And now with the software that blocks pop-up ads, sort of an Internet TiVo, the ad revenue's only going to keep declining.) And with the corresponding decline in Daddy Warbucks venture capitalists writing out checks for the sake of staying "ahead of the curve," the Internet business model doesn't make much sense right now.
Especially if the Web site cuts into sales of your real product. I'm thinking here of newspaper Web sites, such as the Washington Post's. Now, as a paper, the Post is a terrific bargain. It's packed full of well-written stories, timely information, and quality analysis for only 35 cents. A terrific deal! Except... you can get pretty much all the same information on washingtonpost.com for free. If there was no washingtonpost.com, I'd probably buy the paper. As it stands, I don't. I'm sure I'm not the only one. People like me are killing the Post, and papers all over the country.
There's the problem in a nutshell: my generation basically expects information to be free. Every time someone tries to make us pay for it, we roll our eyes and find another free site. When the recording industry attempts to prevent us from stealing other people's work, we react as though Stalin himself was in charge of RIAA. Basically, our worldview is not sufficiently profitable. Employ all the libertarian arguments you want in favor of file-swapping, but if there's no money to be made in music recording, there won't be any songs to download. If we drive the newspapers out of business, there won't be any washingtonpost.com. Clearly, there needs to be a sea change in attitude.
How is it going to happen? In my opinion, this is the perfect role for government. Someone needs to figure out who should pay for information, who should be paid, and how much money should change hands, at the macro-level. The Internet is an industry in need of regulation, which is precisely what government was designed to do. (Though this may be difficult for some to understand.) Thus far, we've stuck exclusively to market-based solutions to the problems at hand. I've already looked at the failures of advertising and venture capitalists. Let's examine the solutions on the table in the articles I mentioned at the top of the piece.
The RIAA is taking a two-pronged approach to fighting music downloading. First, they've been offering orientation programs on college campuses, designed to discourage incoming freshmen from downloading songs. It's not a bad idea, but it strikes me as not particularly effective. A free-information mindset isn't going to be erased by listening to someone talk for an hour about the evils of file-sharing. The RIAA has also starting suing major song-downloaders for damages. This approach is off in the opposite direction. This is like dealing with a neighbor's yapping dog by sending Rambo over to blow Fido to kingdom come. The recording industry has enough of an image prblem as it is; behaving like jackbooted thugs isn't going to improve relations with anybody. I'm sure the RIAA would say it's only doing what it can, and I'm sure that's true, but the weapons at its disposal aren't the right ones.
As for Express, I'm not sure what the Post thinks it's going to help. On its own, assuming they keep it free, Express isn't going to be a significant moneymaker for the Post. And if it's supposed to be a bridge from the Web site to the real paper, it fails at that, too. There's no Post content in Express, and no encouragement to go read the paper itself (though there is encouragement to go to the Web site). Unless the Post has some sort of master plan that's not currently clear, Express isn't going to be the answer to their circulation woes.
Of the three, Bob Levey is probably closest to the right track. When readers wrote in to protest the cancellation of his second discussion, he explained the economics and said that this was the future of Web sites like the Post's... unless they started charging. A nickel or a dime a visit, for instance. Someone wondered how the Post thought it would be able to get away with charging. Levey replied that it would have to be an industry-wide change: if everyone started charging at the same time, it would work. I happen to think he's right. But I don't think it will happen on its own. And if it happens piecemeal, it will fail. The only way to make sure it happens uniformly, with a minimal customer backlash, is through the government. After all, what's called for here borders on collusion. And the government is the best instrument for making sure the change happens smoothly, and educating the public on why it needs to happen. I'm well-aware of the American suspicion toward the idea of positive government, but on the bright side, it would be almost impossible for a government initiative to be more poorly received than the RIAA suing everybody. The government is large and powerful enough to guide the transition in thinking. This seems like the type of job that should fall to the Department of Commerce, but perhaps a special presidential commission would give the issue the visibility it deserves.
One way or another, someday we will look back on this era with some astonishment: all this information just lying around, everywhere, for free! It will feel a bit like the Wild West, or the Industrial Revolution, perhaps. "All this technology developing, and no rules. How did they survive it?" Hopefully, we'll be able to tell our children, "It was a wild time, for sure, but it couldn't last. Thank God cooler heads prevailed and we figured out a way to make it all work." The Internet isn't going to go away. The question we have to face is, who will write the rules, and to whose benefit? A lot rests on the answers to those questions.
Whew! My head hurts from all that thinking. I don't even have the energy to go find new links. I probably should have stuck to something flippant, like how silly the term "music pirates" is and how Kazaa users should have to go around wearing eye patches and carrying parrots on their shoulders. Tomorrow, I promise, it's back to trivial foolishness. So, until then, I bid you peace.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Tuff Enuff" by the Fabulous Thunderbirds
YOU ASKED FOR IT
Hi there, everyone. I'm feeling sort of up and down today. On the upside, The Smart Lady is back into the daily swing of things, and that makes me happy. Ordinarily, this would be a good day simply on that basis. And it was, until I started reading my mail.
I give you credit. You came together and spoke as one voice. Various visitors and all three regular reader alike, you sent the message, and I received it. Oh, did I ever receive it. You've taken a good look at my stuff, and you simply can't get enough... of Hammerin' Hank.
I must admit, I'm a little disappointed in you people. I strain and ponder for as much as 10 minutes at a stretch coming up with fresh, entertaining, interesting material for you, The Reader, and my idiot coworker sits down here and spews this ridiculous drivel about Asian oysters, and all of a sudden he's The People's Choice. What did I ever do to you? Did I offend you in some way? Why are you doing this to me? Hank is a filthy, alcoholic, ignorant buffoon whom I've just realized is standing over my shoulder reading this, so I'd better stop now.
Let it never be said that I do not respond to the people. If it's Hammerin' Hank you want, then Hammerin' Hank you shall have. I've magnanimously agreed to turn over the keyboard to this... friend of yours for another column. Meantime, I'll go heat up some sesame chicken and chew in silence, unloved and unappreciated, while Hank has his way with my blog. I hope you're happy. That said, Mediocre Fred dubiously presents... Hammerin' Hank. Enjoy. Hmpf.
* * * * *
Hi, kids, Hammerin' Hank is back! I'm here to rescue you from another Mediocre Fred snoozefest. You can thank me later. Really, can you believe that guy? "Hi I'm Mediocre Fred blah blah blah I have nothing to say but I'm going to talk anyway blah blah blah I wonder if it's actually possible to bore someone to death hey let's find out blah blah blah I'm a gutless pansy blah blah blah hey have I swooned over The Smart Lady yet today?" Are you all as sick of the Smart Chick as I am? I swear, you'd think he was a lovesick puppy or something. Friends, I tell you, that boy is smitten. If you think it's annoying when he writes about it, try working with him. "Smart Lady this blah blah blah Smart Lady that blah blah blah she's the greatest thing since oxygen blah blah blah." Gag me. I don't give a crap about the Samrt Chick, unless she's going to set up a Web cam so we can watch her-
Hank! Please!
What?
Just because I'm letting you write another column doesn't mean you have free reign to use me as your personal pinata.
Kiss my ass. Who's the most popular writer on this site, you or me?
Touche.
Bless you.
Well. At least leave The Smart Lady out of it. I'll not have you leering all over like that.
She told you to say that, didn't she? You're whipped, boy.
Get on with it.
All right, all right, fine. Today I want to talk about the California governor's race. Now, I'm sure you're probably sick of hearing about it by now. God knows I am. But I think there's an important issue here, in that the top two candidates are foreigners with funny names. Isn't that a kick? This country's going to hell. Seriously, how are you supposed to vote for someone whose name you can't even spell? That's what I like about the Republicans. When it comes to picking presidents, they always go for nice, easy names. That's a party I can respect. I mean, look at the people they've named, starting with the current President and going back: Bush, Dole, Bush, Reagan, Ford, Nixon, Goldwater, and Nixon again. Nice, easy names, and as American as a 16-ounce T-bone. I mean, the last guy with a funny name they picked was that general dude, what's his name-
Dwight Eisenhower.
Yeah, him. And even then, they gave him a nice short nickname, "Ike." It's a simple thing. Why didn't anyone tell this to the people in California? They went out and got themselves a couple weirdos. The Democrats got this guy, Cruz Somebody, I can't even remember his name, let's call him Cruz Control. Allegedly, he's the lieutenant governor, which I don't think is even a real position. It sounds made-up, like in that Gilbert and Sullivan play, the one about the major-general-
The Pirates of Penzance.
Nuh-uh. That's that movie with Johnny Depp in it that just came out. You don't know nothin'.
I don't know why I bother.
Whatever. Anyway, there's that guy, and then the Republicans got this Arnold Swartzenheimer, or whatever. Another weird name! What's up with that? Don't they get it? Right now, the governor's some guy named Gray Davis. How do you think he won? Because people liked him? Of course not! It's because he had an easy name. I mean, duh.
Anyway, ordinarily I'd be sick of both candidates and telling people to write in Pat Buchanan or Fonzie or someone. But I have a definite favorite here. It's Swartzenhoffer. Because he's the Terminator. And the more Terminators we have in office, the better.
See, I think the Terminator is just right to handle the issues in California today. After all, what's the most important issue in California today? Right: It's the damn Mexicans sneaking over the border. Not that I blame them. We've got it all over the Mexicans. We've got better houses, better cars, better land. We've even got better Mexican food than they do! Have you tried the new Grilled Stuft Burrito at Taco Bell? Let's see you match that, Pedro. Obviously, we have no reason to want to go to Mexicana.
Mexico!
What?
It's not Mexicana, it's Mexico, you ignoramus.
No way. Wouldn't they be called "Mexicoans"?
No, it's - oh, I give up.
Good. Anyway, any time we Americans want that Mexican experience, we can go visit South of the Border. But I can imagine why the Mexicans want to come here. Like I say, I don't blame them. But they can't come here. It's the American Dream, not the Mexican-American Dream. They come here with their weird Mexican diseases and cheap electronics, and the next thing you know, California's a cesspool. Plus, they come here and steal our migrant-fruit-picking and busboy jobs. In an economy like this, those are exactly the sort of "entry-level jobs" that should be reserved for real, taxpaying Americans. I'm sure you can see the problem.
So, with the Terminator in charge, California's Mexican problem will be over! You know how, in the movie, the Terminator was sent back into the past to kill the lady before she could have her son who would change the future? They could work it like that. Send him back into the past to vaporize all the immigrants before they could come over and start reproducing. Problem solved! There's no way Cruz Control could do anything like that. He doesn't have the power to go back in time like the Terminator. And anyway, I think he might be Mexican too. You think one of them is going to try to get rid of their own?
And the Terminator can take on more than just the Mexican issue. I understand there's also some big budget deficit in California. It's probably the Mexicans' fault, but even if it isn't, who would you rather have fixing the deficit than the Terminator? Whoever has the money, the Terminator will find him and make him give it back.
Hank. There's not a budget deficit because someone stole the money. There's a deficit because expenditures are exceeding revenues.
Huh?
The government's spending more money than they take in.
Oh. Well, no problem, the Terminator's got that covered, too. Put it this way: If he came to your door, pointed his gun at you and said the state needed more money to pay the bills, you'd be reaching for that wallet pretty damn quick, wouldn't you? So, once again, the Terminator's the man!
To recap, vote for the Terminator in this election, because (a) he can go back in time and get rid of the Mexicans, (2) he can go around and threaten people until they pay to fix the budget, and (III) he's the Terminator, man! He rocks! As for old Cruz Control, he's probably not a bad guy. I'd be willing to let him pick my fruit if he wanted. Got to be a better job than Lieutenant Governor, whatever that is. I still think he made it up.
So, California, get out there and vote on... whatever day the vote is on. Grab your ballot, look for the Terminator, and punch his name with pride! God bless America.
* * * * *
Hammerin' Hank, everyone. Really, people, this is what you want? You'd rather read that than me? You actually prefer the mouth-breathing rants of Hank to my cogent, thoughtful essays?
Uh, yeah, seems they do. Scoreboard, Freddy.
Arrrggghhh. Well, just for that I shouldn't give you any links today. But I will nonetheless. Because I'm a nice guy. For whatever that's worth.
If you haven't looked in the night sky for Mars yet, act fast. It's reaching its closest approach to the earth in 60,000 years right now. The Smart Lady and I looked at it last night, and it was quite bright and easily visible, even through the lights of Dot-Com Canyon. We enjoyed it.
Mike Wilbon made a great case for shortening the NFL preseason in his column yesterday, with the help of Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis. I have to admit, Wilbon's column showed me a side of Lewis I'd never seen before. Previously I'd always thought of Lewis as a gifted player, but an obnoxious, self-centered and thuggish individual. But the Lewis in Wilbon's column is highly intelligent, thoughtful, wise and farsighted. Absolutely worth a look. Ray, I apologize for underestimating you previously.
I really enjoyed Miss Manners' column today. My favorite sentence came in her reply to a man who was deciding whether or not to approach his girlfriend about the fact that she keeps picking up his books before she's finished with them: "Miss Manners suggests that you address the lady before you find yourself addressing a courtroom to explain why you had to dispatch her." Definitely worth a read. Miss Manners has a wonderfully dry sense of humor.
Finally, The Smart Lady returns to healthy blogging today, and she's firing on all cylinders. And I don't care what Hammerin' Hank thinks... I'm going to keep praising her in this space. The Smart Lady is the sun, moon and stars, and everyone should know it.
Oh, blow it out your ass, you pussy.
I'd better go address Hammerin' Hank before I find myself addressing a courtroom about why I had to dispatch him. See you tomorrow, if I'm not in jail then.
YOU ASKED FOR IT
Hi there, everyone. I'm feeling sort of up and down today. On the upside, The Smart Lady is back into the daily swing of things, and that makes me happy. Ordinarily, this would be a good day simply on that basis. And it was, until I started reading my mail.
I give you credit. You came together and spoke as one voice. Various visitors and all three regular reader alike, you sent the message, and I received it. Oh, did I ever receive it. You've taken a good look at my stuff, and you simply can't get enough... of Hammerin' Hank.
I must admit, I'm a little disappointed in you people. I strain and ponder for as much as 10 minutes at a stretch coming up with fresh, entertaining, interesting material for you, The Reader, and my idiot coworker sits down here and spews this ridiculous drivel about Asian oysters, and all of a sudden he's The People's Choice. What did I ever do to you? Did I offend you in some way? Why are you doing this to me? Hank is a filthy, alcoholic, ignorant buffoon whom I've just realized is standing over my shoulder reading this, so I'd better stop now.
Let it never be said that I do not respond to the people. If it's Hammerin' Hank you want, then Hammerin' Hank you shall have. I've magnanimously agreed to turn over the keyboard to this... friend of yours for another column. Meantime, I'll go heat up some sesame chicken and chew in silence, unloved and unappreciated, while Hank has his way with my blog. I hope you're happy. That said, Mediocre Fred dubiously presents... Hammerin' Hank. Enjoy. Hmpf.
* * * * *
Hi, kids, Hammerin' Hank is back! I'm here to rescue you from another Mediocre Fred snoozefest. You can thank me later. Really, can you believe that guy? "Hi I'm Mediocre Fred blah blah blah I have nothing to say but I'm going to talk anyway blah blah blah I wonder if it's actually possible to bore someone to death hey let's find out blah blah blah I'm a gutless pansy blah blah blah hey have I swooned over The Smart Lady yet today?" Are you all as sick of the Smart Chick as I am? I swear, you'd think he was a lovesick puppy or something. Friends, I tell you, that boy is smitten. If you think it's annoying when he writes about it, try working with him. "Smart Lady this blah blah blah Smart Lady that blah blah blah she's the greatest thing since oxygen blah blah blah." Gag me. I don't give a crap about the Samrt Chick, unless she's going to set up a Web cam so we can watch her-
Hank! Please!
What?
Just because I'm letting you write another column doesn't mean you have free reign to use me as your personal pinata.
Kiss my ass. Who's the most popular writer on this site, you or me?
Touche.
Bless you.
Well. At least leave The Smart Lady out of it. I'll not have you leering all over like that.
She told you to say that, didn't she? You're whipped, boy.
Get on with it.
All right, all right, fine. Today I want to talk about the California governor's race. Now, I'm sure you're probably sick of hearing about it by now. God knows I am. But I think there's an important issue here, in that the top two candidates are foreigners with funny names. Isn't that a kick? This country's going to hell. Seriously, how are you supposed to vote for someone whose name you can't even spell? That's what I like about the Republicans. When it comes to picking presidents, they always go for nice, easy names. That's a party I can respect. I mean, look at the people they've named, starting with the current President and going back: Bush, Dole, Bush, Reagan, Ford, Nixon, Goldwater, and Nixon again. Nice, easy names, and as American as a 16-ounce T-bone. I mean, the last guy with a funny name they picked was that general dude, what's his name-
Dwight Eisenhower.
Yeah, him. And even then, they gave him a nice short nickname, "Ike." It's a simple thing. Why didn't anyone tell this to the people in California? They went out and got themselves a couple weirdos. The Democrats got this guy, Cruz Somebody, I can't even remember his name, let's call him Cruz Control. Allegedly, he's the lieutenant governor, which I don't think is even a real position. It sounds made-up, like in that Gilbert and Sullivan play, the one about the major-general-
The Pirates of Penzance.
Nuh-uh. That's that movie with Johnny Depp in it that just came out. You don't know nothin'.
I don't know why I bother.
Whatever. Anyway, there's that guy, and then the Republicans got this Arnold Swartzenheimer, or whatever. Another weird name! What's up with that? Don't they get it? Right now, the governor's some guy named Gray Davis. How do you think he won? Because people liked him? Of course not! It's because he had an easy name. I mean, duh.
Anyway, ordinarily I'd be sick of both candidates and telling people to write in Pat Buchanan or Fonzie or someone. But I have a definite favorite here. It's Swartzenhoffer. Because he's the Terminator. And the more Terminators we have in office, the better.
See, I think the Terminator is just right to handle the issues in California today. After all, what's the most important issue in California today? Right: It's the damn Mexicans sneaking over the border. Not that I blame them. We've got it all over the Mexicans. We've got better houses, better cars, better land. We've even got better Mexican food than they do! Have you tried the new Grilled Stuft Burrito at Taco Bell? Let's see you match that, Pedro. Obviously, we have no reason to want to go to Mexicana.
Mexico!
What?
It's not Mexicana, it's Mexico, you ignoramus.
No way. Wouldn't they be called "Mexicoans"?
No, it's - oh, I give up.
Good. Anyway, any time we Americans want that Mexican experience, we can go visit South of the Border. But I can imagine why the Mexicans want to come here. Like I say, I don't blame them. But they can't come here. It's the American Dream, not the Mexican-American Dream. They come here with their weird Mexican diseases and cheap electronics, and the next thing you know, California's a cesspool. Plus, they come here and steal our migrant-fruit-picking and busboy jobs. In an economy like this, those are exactly the sort of "entry-level jobs" that should be reserved for real, taxpaying Americans. I'm sure you can see the problem.
So, with the Terminator in charge, California's Mexican problem will be over! You know how, in the movie, the Terminator was sent back into the past to kill the lady before she could have her son who would change the future? They could work it like that. Send him back into the past to vaporize all the immigrants before they could come over and start reproducing. Problem solved! There's no way Cruz Control could do anything like that. He doesn't have the power to go back in time like the Terminator. And anyway, I think he might be Mexican too. You think one of them is going to try to get rid of their own?
And the Terminator can take on more than just the Mexican issue. I understand there's also some big budget deficit in California. It's probably the Mexicans' fault, but even if it isn't, who would you rather have fixing the deficit than the Terminator? Whoever has the money, the Terminator will find him and make him give it back.
Hank. There's not a budget deficit because someone stole the money. There's a deficit because expenditures are exceeding revenues.
Huh?
The government's spending more money than they take in.
Oh. Well, no problem, the Terminator's got that covered, too. Put it this way: If he came to your door, pointed his gun at you and said the state needed more money to pay the bills, you'd be reaching for that wallet pretty damn quick, wouldn't you? So, once again, the Terminator's the man!
To recap, vote for the Terminator in this election, because (a) he can go back in time and get rid of the Mexicans, (2) he can go around and threaten people until they pay to fix the budget, and (III) he's the Terminator, man! He rocks! As for old Cruz Control, he's probably not a bad guy. I'd be willing to let him pick my fruit if he wanted. Got to be a better job than Lieutenant Governor, whatever that is. I still think he made it up.
So, California, get out there and vote on... whatever day the vote is on. Grab your ballot, look for the Terminator, and punch his name with pride! God bless America.
* * * * *
Hammerin' Hank, everyone. Really, people, this is what you want? You'd rather read that than me? You actually prefer the mouth-breathing rants of Hank to my cogent, thoughtful essays?
Uh, yeah, seems they do. Scoreboard, Freddy.
Arrrggghhh. Well, just for that I shouldn't give you any links today. But I will nonetheless. Because I'm a nice guy. For whatever that's worth.
If you haven't looked in the night sky for Mars yet, act fast. It's reaching its closest approach to the earth in 60,000 years right now. The Smart Lady and I looked at it last night, and it was quite bright and easily visible, even through the lights of Dot-Com Canyon. We enjoyed it.
Mike Wilbon made a great case for shortening the NFL preseason in his column yesterday, with the help of Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis. I have to admit, Wilbon's column showed me a side of Lewis I'd never seen before. Previously I'd always thought of Lewis as a gifted player, but an obnoxious, self-centered and thuggish individual. But the Lewis in Wilbon's column is highly intelligent, thoughtful, wise and farsighted. Absolutely worth a look. Ray, I apologize for underestimating you previously.
I really enjoyed Miss Manners' column today. My favorite sentence came in her reply to a man who was deciding whether or not to approach his girlfriend about the fact that she keeps picking up his books before she's finished with them: "Miss Manners suggests that you address the lady before you find yourself addressing a courtroom to explain why you had to dispatch her." Definitely worth a read. Miss Manners has a wonderfully dry sense of humor.
Finally, The Smart Lady returns to healthy blogging today, and she's firing on all cylinders. And I don't care what Hammerin' Hank thinks... I'm going to keep praising her in this space. The Smart Lady is the sun, moon and stars, and everyone should know it.
Oh, blow it out your ass, you pussy.
I'd better go address Hammerin' Hank before I find myself addressing a courtroom about why I had to dispatch him. See you tomorrow, if I'm not in jail then.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Talkin' Baseball" by Terry Cashman
NOW BATTING: THE ANTI-DC-BASEBALL CAMPAIGN
Hello, all. As I mentioned yesterday, Charles Pierce wrote a screed slamming DC baseball in yesterday's Slate. If you didn't borther to read it, good for you! But in case you're interested, here it is again. My first impulse was to ignore it entirely, since the article is simple-minded and illogical. But then it occurred to me: Is this what's keeping us from getting a team? Do arguments like Pierce's actually hold sway with the powers that be? If so, that would be a tragedy. It's bad enough not to have a team, but if we lose one to ignorance, we have only ourselves to blame. On that basis, I decided to run through Pierce's rant and demolish it, point by point. Strap in, folks, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. I will put Pierce's quotes in italics, with my responses in standard font.
I beg Major League Baseball not to lose what's left of its senses and give Washington another team for the city to ignore. The endless flocks of lightweight Beltway harpies that would descend on the team—"Hey, Bob, let's go down in the stands and talk to George Stephanopoulos"—in short order would render that team the most insufferable sports experience not involving George Will. Except that it likely would involve George Will.
Cheap shot. Nowhere in his article does Pierce attack the "lightweight Hollywood harpies" who flock to Dodgers games, for instance. He does go after his own team on this score, saying: "Up here in Boston, our poor snakebitten Red Sox are regularly beset by enough Harvard professors to start a small Southeast Asian war." Fair enough. I'm not sure if he's implying he'd rather spend games in the company of English soccer hooligans or drunken brawling Yankees fans, but he's entitled to his opinion. But his slap at George Will is a cheap attempt to stir up populist anger. What his argument conveniently ignores is that no one forces you to read George Will's columns. A Washington team would not be broadcasting Will's commentary over the public-address system. Just as Red Sox fans can choose not to read Doris Kearns Goodwin or Steven Jay Gould, Washington fans can choose to ignore Will. Personally, I like Will's baseball commentary. But I guess Pierce wouldn't want to sit next to me either.
A bit of history: Our nation's capital is not merely a lousy baseball town; it is a staggeringly lousy baseball town. The first Washington Senators stunk at their beginnings and stunk when they blew town for Minneapolis in 1961.
And they won the World Series in 1924 and captured AL pennants in '25 and '33, but that's not the point here. The point is that it's ridiculous to blame Washington for the fact that the Senators stunk on toast. In fact, it's something of a testament to the city that they managed to support a typically-awful team for 60 years. Oh, and Charles: The Twins (as the Senators called themselves after moving to Minneapolis) seem to be doing better these days. How's the box office there? So great that Twins owner Carl Pohlad tried to get his team contracted in 2001. Minneapolis must be a terrific baseball town, though, right? The team's winning!
In between, they were owned by the Griffiths, Clark père and Calvin fils. Calvin managed the not-inconsiderable feat of making his old man look good. He eventually came to blame his bad team's bad attendance on the fact that Washington's largely African-American fan base declined to patronize his ball club, even though those same fans turned out in droves to watch the Negro Leagues play at Griffith's Griffith Stadium.
Okay, let me see if I have this straight: The Senators were a bad team most of the time, and they were operated by a pair of tightwad racist morons, and the team still survived for 60 years? Boy, yeah, Washington baseball fans sure must be lousy. It's not as though Washington picked the Griffiths to own the team by some sort of popular referendum. If we could have replaced them with someone better, believe me, we would have.
Almost unbelievably, Major League Baseball awarded Washington another franchise immediately upon Griffith's departure for the more Caucasian heartland. Senators, Part Deux, played in Washington for 10 years, never got closer than within 15 games of a pennant, had Ted Freaking Williams for a manager for its last three seasons, and failed so resoundingly that, in 1971, after drawing only 7.3 million fans over its entire decade in the District, the team decamped to Texas, where it became known as the Rangers.
Well, gosh, Washington couldn't have gotten another team because MLB thought it was a good baseball town, could it? Once again, Pierce cites the lousy play of the team and pretends that it's the city's fault. And about those attendance figures: Pierce fails to note that attendance took a huge step forward in 1969, jumping to 11,335 a game from 6,749 the year before. (11,335 may not sound impressive, but it was good for 6th in a 12-team league then.) Not coincidentally, the Senators posted a surprising 86-76 record in '69 (managed by the aforementioned Mr. Freaking Williams). Like every other sports town, DC fans turned out when the team was good. And don't even get me started on the Texas move; suffice it to say, the owner of the Senators at the time, a Mr. Bob Short (or $hort, as I fondly call him) had no actual interest in keeping the team in DC from the moment he bought it. These are the kind of things you'd know, Mr. Pierce, if you did what I like to call "research." Try it sometime.
The arguments that Washington deserves a third chance to fail as a baseball town come down to the facts that a) the city's been played for suckers by MLB several times over the past 30 years and b) our Nation's Capital must and shall be represented in our National Pastime. These are, of course, absurd. Major League Baseball plays every city without a franchise for a sucker. It's one of the major pleasures of having an exemption from the nation's antitrust laws. As to the second, well, Washington already is represented in our National Pastime. It has the Redskins.
I'm just going to ignore that football remark, as it has no place in a dignified argument. And it's worth noting that Pierce's reductionist representation of the pro-DC argument ignores the actual reasons for putting a team here, such as a metropolian population of 5 million (double that of chief rival suitor Portland) and some of the highest per-capita incomes in the country. But no, of course DC baseball boosters never use facts. Not in Pierce's world. The point about being played for suckers by MLB in the past is the primary reason we don't have stadium funding in place right now, so (a) is invalid. And as for (b), it's a slogan, idiot. That's like slamming "I Like Ike" because it doesn't articulate a coherent foreign policy. It's a nifty rallying cry, but no one here believes we deserve a team just because we're the capital. After all, if we don't deserve Congressional representation, why should we deserve a baseball team? But that's another argument.
The Montreal Expos...likely will be moving, and there's a call to move them to Washington or, at least, to Northern Virginia. This latter is a dead giveaway. A move to Northern Virginia—which hasn't been the capital of anything since Lee surrendered—is all about sweetheart stadium deals and pacifying Peter Angelos, the obstreperous incompetent who owns the Baltimore Orioles and who is said to be opposed to any new baseball team in Washington itself.
Allow me to take a moment to whack Pierce on the knuckles for his brain-dead throwaway line that Northern Virginia "hasn't been the capital of anything since Lee surrendered." Chuckie, buddy, Northern Virginia wasn't the capital of anything before Lee surrendered either. The capital of the Confederacy in its later stages was Richmond, which (despite what Peter Antichrist might be telling you) isn't in Northern Virginia. It's in southern Virginia. Two different worlds. As for the meat of his assertion... uh, yeah, it is about placating Angelos. Your point? You've got to work with the territory. And if you think there are any "sweetheart stadium deals" to be had in Northern Virginia, you've got another think coming.
Not only that, but a team in Northern Virginia is a tacit acknowledgement of Calvin Griffith's odious notion that black Washington either cannot or will not support a Major League Baseball team.
No, it isn't. This is race-baiting, pure and simple. If the team lands in Northern Virginia (and, for what it's worth, I'd rather have it downtown), it will be because (a) Northern Virginia is the population center of the area, and (b) because Angelos made us do it. There's enough racial mistrust in the country today without you bringing these half-baked nonsense assumption in here. For shame.
Moreover, please God, any team but the Expos. They are a geographically diverse team, and now they play—largely unnoticed, granted—in a delightfully cosmopolitan city...Why take this wonderful mosaic of a team and drop it into a provincial swamp like Washington—a place where Sally Quinn is an arbiter of style, Tim Russert an arbiter of wisdom, and in which Larry King and Don Imus are considered wits.
First of all, it takes a real set of cojones for someone from Boston to call Washington a "provincial swamp." When Pierce refers to the Expos playing in a "delightfully cosmopolitan city," which one does he mean: Montreal or San Juan? Assuming he means Montreal, I agree with him. But no one's coming to the games! I don't care how terrific it is to visit; professional player demand to be paid in dollars, and the Expos aren't pulling enough as is. As for Washington, Pierce went for the easy, cheap caricature, but the Washington I know is a delightfully diverse international city. Granted, we have our share of greying white guys in blue suits, but New York and Boston don't? We've got a mosaic of cultures here, and not just in the city, either. Northern Virginia has vibrant Hispanic and Asian communities. In Annandale, where I went to high school, there are nearly as many signs in Korean as there are in English. The stereotype of Washington as sleepy Southern backwater is 50 years old. Time to give it up.
I could go on, but I think my point is made. If this is the best DC bashers can do, I'd say we ought to have a team all sewn up. (For what it's worth, Rob Neyer makes a thoughtful, balanced case for Portland. I still think DC's a better place for a team, but Portland deserves a shot.) Tell you what, Charles: You let us have the Expos, and I'll get you a pair of earplugs so you can protect yourself should you wind up sitting next to George Will or Doris Kearns Goodwin. Is it a deal?
For you DC baseball boosters, here's a good blog that's keeping an eye on the effort. I recommend it.
This morning on my way into work, there was a gentleman playing his bagpipes outside the Metro. I know it's fashionable to make fun of the bagpipes, but as far as I'm concerned, nothing clears the head on a foggy morning like a good shot of the bagpipes. But then, I'm biased in favor of street musicians in general. In the last couple of weeks, I've heard a pretty good sax blower, a guy on electric guitar singing "Grandma's Hands," a terrific violin players, and a guy doing an a cappella rendition of "Lean on Me." These acts make me grateful I work downtown; they don't do that kind of thing in Dot-Com Canyon, I assure you.
I have nothing but the highest respect for the Washington Post's Bob Levey. I think he's a talented writer, and he's had his finger on the pulse of the city for 20 years. Also, he does a lot of good charitable work. But every once in a while, he uncorks a column that makes me wonder if he's off his medication. This is one of them. Here, Bob imagines a conversation with former Senators pitcher Walter Johnson in his (Bob's) bedroom late at night. The thrust of Bob's (or, rather, "Walter's") argument is that the new Senators should recruit the highest-character guys it can find, and sell itself on that basis. Now, I'm as much in favor of high-character guys as the next fellow. But your typical sports fan is not going to pay $25 a pop to see the Pope go 0-for-4 and drop 3 fly balls. Fans want to see winning baseball. If they want character, they'll turn on the Little League World Series. Nice idea, Bob, but well... (In Bob's defense, it's not easy to write a daily column. I've been at theis gig for all of a month, and I've already had moments when I was tempted to sift through my pockets and write about what I found therein. Even the greats -- and Levey is one -- are entitled to the occasional clunker.)
That's all from this end for now. I don't know what I'll be writing about tomorrow, but the pocket inventory is looking pretty good about now. Take care, and see you tomorrow.
NOW BATTING: THE ANTI-DC-BASEBALL CAMPAIGN
Hello, all. As I mentioned yesterday, Charles Pierce wrote a screed slamming DC baseball in yesterday's Slate. If you didn't borther to read it, good for you! But in case you're interested, here it is again. My first impulse was to ignore it entirely, since the article is simple-minded and illogical. But then it occurred to me: Is this what's keeping us from getting a team? Do arguments like Pierce's actually hold sway with the powers that be? If so, that would be a tragedy. It's bad enough not to have a team, but if we lose one to ignorance, we have only ourselves to blame. On that basis, I decided to run through Pierce's rant and demolish it, point by point. Strap in, folks, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. I will put Pierce's quotes in italics, with my responses in standard font.
I beg Major League Baseball not to lose what's left of its senses and give Washington another team for the city to ignore. The endless flocks of lightweight Beltway harpies that would descend on the team—"Hey, Bob, let's go down in the stands and talk to George Stephanopoulos"—in short order would render that team the most insufferable sports experience not involving George Will. Except that it likely would involve George Will.
Cheap shot. Nowhere in his article does Pierce attack the "lightweight Hollywood harpies" who flock to Dodgers games, for instance. He does go after his own team on this score, saying: "Up here in Boston, our poor snakebitten Red Sox are regularly beset by enough Harvard professors to start a small Southeast Asian war." Fair enough. I'm not sure if he's implying he'd rather spend games in the company of English soccer hooligans or drunken brawling Yankees fans, but he's entitled to his opinion. But his slap at George Will is a cheap attempt to stir up populist anger. What his argument conveniently ignores is that no one forces you to read George Will's columns. A Washington team would not be broadcasting Will's commentary over the public-address system. Just as Red Sox fans can choose not to read Doris Kearns Goodwin or Steven Jay Gould, Washington fans can choose to ignore Will. Personally, I like Will's baseball commentary. But I guess Pierce wouldn't want to sit next to me either.
A bit of history: Our nation's capital is not merely a lousy baseball town; it is a staggeringly lousy baseball town. The first Washington Senators stunk at their beginnings and stunk when they blew town for Minneapolis in 1961.
And they won the World Series in 1924 and captured AL pennants in '25 and '33, but that's not the point here. The point is that it's ridiculous to blame Washington for the fact that the Senators stunk on toast. In fact, it's something of a testament to the city that they managed to support a typically-awful team for 60 years. Oh, and Charles: The Twins (as the Senators called themselves after moving to Minneapolis) seem to be doing better these days. How's the box office there? So great that Twins owner Carl Pohlad tried to get his team contracted in 2001. Minneapolis must be a terrific baseball town, though, right? The team's winning!
In between, they were owned by the Griffiths, Clark père and Calvin fils. Calvin managed the not-inconsiderable feat of making his old man look good. He eventually came to blame his bad team's bad attendance on the fact that Washington's largely African-American fan base declined to patronize his ball club, even though those same fans turned out in droves to watch the Negro Leagues play at Griffith's Griffith Stadium.
Okay, let me see if I have this straight: The Senators were a bad team most of the time, and they were operated by a pair of tightwad racist morons, and the team still survived for 60 years? Boy, yeah, Washington baseball fans sure must be lousy. It's not as though Washington picked the Griffiths to own the team by some sort of popular referendum. If we could have replaced them with someone better, believe me, we would have.
Almost unbelievably, Major League Baseball awarded Washington another franchise immediately upon Griffith's departure for the more Caucasian heartland. Senators, Part Deux, played in Washington for 10 years, never got closer than within 15 games of a pennant, had Ted Freaking Williams for a manager for its last three seasons, and failed so resoundingly that, in 1971, after drawing only 7.3 million fans over its entire decade in the District, the team decamped to Texas, where it became known as the Rangers.
Well, gosh, Washington couldn't have gotten another team because MLB thought it was a good baseball town, could it? Once again, Pierce cites the lousy play of the team and pretends that it's the city's fault. And about those attendance figures: Pierce fails to note that attendance took a huge step forward in 1969, jumping to 11,335 a game from 6,749 the year before. (11,335 may not sound impressive, but it was good for 6th in a 12-team league then.) Not coincidentally, the Senators posted a surprising 86-76 record in '69 (managed by the aforementioned Mr. Freaking Williams). Like every other sports town, DC fans turned out when the team was good. And don't even get me started on the Texas move; suffice it to say, the owner of the Senators at the time, a Mr. Bob Short (or $hort, as I fondly call him) had no actual interest in keeping the team in DC from the moment he bought it. These are the kind of things you'd know, Mr. Pierce, if you did what I like to call "research." Try it sometime.
The arguments that Washington deserves a third chance to fail as a baseball town come down to the facts that a) the city's been played for suckers by MLB several times over the past 30 years and b) our Nation's Capital must and shall be represented in our National Pastime. These are, of course, absurd. Major League Baseball plays every city without a franchise for a sucker. It's one of the major pleasures of having an exemption from the nation's antitrust laws. As to the second, well, Washington already is represented in our National Pastime. It has the Redskins.
I'm just going to ignore that football remark, as it has no place in a dignified argument. And it's worth noting that Pierce's reductionist representation of the pro-DC argument ignores the actual reasons for putting a team here, such as a metropolian population of 5 million (double that of chief rival suitor Portland) and some of the highest per-capita incomes in the country. But no, of course DC baseball boosters never use facts. Not in Pierce's world. The point about being played for suckers by MLB in the past is the primary reason we don't have stadium funding in place right now, so (a) is invalid. And as for (b), it's a slogan, idiot. That's like slamming "I Like Ike" because it doesn't articulate a coherent foreign policy. It's a nifty rallying cry, but no one here believes we deserve a team just because we're the capital. After all, if we don't deserve Congressional representation, why should we deserve a baseball team? But that's another argument.
The Montreal Expos...likely will be moving, and there's a call to move them to Washington or, at least, to Northern Virginia. This latter is a dead giveaway. A move to Northern Virginia—which hasn't been the capital of anything since Lee surrendered—is all about sweetheart stadium deals and pacifying Peter Angelos, the obstreperous incompetent who owns the Baltimore Orioles and who is said to be opposed to any new baseball team in Washington itself.
Allow me to take a moment to whack Pierce on the knuckles for his brain-dead throwaway line that Northern Virginia "hasn't been the capital of anything since Lee surrendered." Chuckie, buddy, Northern Virginia wasn't the capital of anything before Lee surrendered either. The capital of the Confederacy in its later stages was Richmond, which (despite what Peter Antichrist might be telling you) isn't in Northern Virginia. It's in southern Virginia. Two different worlds. As for the meat of his assertion... uh, yeah, it is about placating Angelos. Your point? You've got to work with the territory. And if you think there are any "sweetheart stadium deals" to be had in Northern Virginia, you've got another think coming.
Not only that, but a team in Northern Virginia is a tacit acknowledgement of Calvin Griffith's odious notion that black Washington either cannot or will not support a Major League Baseball team.
No, it isn't. This is race-baiting, pure and simple. If the team lands in Northern Virginia (and, for what it's worth, I'd rather have it downtown), it will be because (a) Northern Virginia is the population center of the area, and (b) because Angelos made us do it. There's enough racial mistrust in the country today without you bringing these half-baked nonsense assumption in here. For shame.
Moreover, please God, any team but the Expos. They are a geographically diverse team, and now they play—largely unnoticed, granted—in a delightfully cosmopolitan city...Why take this wonderful mosaic of a team and drop it into a provincial swamp like Washington—a place where Sally Quinn is an arbiter of style, Tim Russert an arbiter of wisdom, and in which Larry King and Don Imus are considered wits.
First of all, it takes a real set of cojones for someone from Boston to call Washington a "provincial swamp." When Pierce refers to the Expos playing in a "delightfully cosmopolitan city," which one does he mean: Montreal or San Juan? Assuming he means Montreal, I agree with him. But no one's coming to the games! I don't care how terrific it is to visit; professional player demand to be paid in dollars, and the Expos aren't pulling enough as is. As for Washington, Pierce went for the easy, cheap caricature, but the Washington I know is a delightfully diverse international city. Granted, we have our share of greying white guys in blue suits, but New York and Boston don't? We've got a mosaic of cultures here, and not just in the city, either. Northern Virginia has vibrant Hispanic and Asian communities. In Annandale, where I went to high school, there are nearly as many signs in Korean as there are in English. The stereotype of Washington as sleepy Southern backwater is 50 years old. Time to give it up.
I could go on, but I think my point is made. If this is the best DC bashers can do, I'd say we ought to have a team all sewn up. (For what it's worth, Rob Neyer makes a thoughtful, balanced case for Portland. I still think DC's a better place for a team, but Portland deserves a shot.) Tell you what, Charles: You let us have the Expos, and I'll get you a pair of earplugs so you can protect yourself should you wind up sitting next to George Will or Doris Kearns Goodwin. Is it a deal?
For you DC baseball boosters, here's a good blog that's keeping an eye on the effort. I recommend it.
This morning on my way into work, there was a gentleman playing his bagpipes outside the Metro. I know it's fashionable to make fun of the bagpipes, but as far as I'm concerned, nothing clears the head on a foggy morning like a good shot of the bagpipes. But then, I'm biased in favor of street musicians in general. In the last couple of weeks, I've heard a pretty good sax blower, a guy on electric guitar singing "Grandma's Hands," a terrific violin players, and a guy doing an a cappella rendition of "Lean on Me." These acts make me grateful I work downtown; they don't do that kind of thing in Dot-Com Canyon, I assure you.
I have nothing but the highest respect for the Washington Post's Bob Levey. I think he's a talented writer, and he's had his finger on the pulse of the city for 20 years. Also, he does a lot of good charitable work. But every once in a while, he uncorks a column that makes me wonder if he's off his medication. This is one of them. Here, Bob imagines a conversation with former Senators pitcher Walter Johnson in his (Bob's) bedroom late at night. The thrust of Bob's (or, rather, "Walter's") argument is that the new Senators should recruit the highest-character guys it can find, and sell itself on that basis. Now, I'm as much in favor of high-character guys as the next fellow. But your typical sports fan is not going to pay $25 a pop to see the Pope go 0-for-4 and drop 3 fly balls. Fans want to see winning baseball. If they want character, they'll turn on the Little League World Series. Nice idea, Bob, but well... (In Bob's defense, it's not easy to write a daily column. I've been at theis gig for all of a month, and I've already had moments when I was tempted to sift through my pockets and write about what I found therein. Even the greats -- and Levey is one -- are entitled to the occasional clunker.)
That's all from this end for now. I don't know what I'll be writing about tomorrow, but the pocket inventory is looking pretty good about now. Take care, and see you tomorrow.
Monday, August 25, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell
GATHER ROUND, YOUNG LOVERS
Hi there, everyone. I hope you all had a good weekend. I certainly did; more on this anon. As promised, today Mediocre Fred brings you the second installment of Uncle Millie's unique romantic advice. This week's column was mailed to me on the back of a postcard from the Miller brewery, where Uncle Millie has apparently been touring. Actually, to be precise, his column was mailed on the back of several postcards. Apparently, you get to mail one free postcard for each tour you take, and he sent me a total of.... let's see... 37 postcards over a two-day period. The last few postcards are a little sloppy, but I think I can make out the words. I'm not sure why he switched over to German halfway through, but I located a translator. Oh, and if any of our Milwaukee-area readers happen to bump into Uncle Millie on the street, please take away his car keys. Thank you.
Enough preamble. Here's Uncle Millie!
- - - - -
Advice on Mainting a Healthy and Successful Romantic Life, by Uncle Millie
Lads, I bid you welcome. Last week, if I recall correctly, Uncle Millie acquainted you with his illustrious romantic career. Having established my credentials as a romantic without equal, I shall now endeavor to offer you the basic secrets to my success. You may wish to print this out, highlight the important parts and review them before big dates. It's not every day, after all, that a master of love reveals his secrets so openly. So take good care and commit this advice to memory, would you? Good lad. Now, I'll admit that you may not possess Uncle Millie's charm and boyish good looks, which may make it difficult to replicate my level of success with women. But that's quite all right; you needn't measure yourself by my standards. I promise you that, by heeding my advice and following it rigrously, you'll see a dramatic change in your romantic fortunes. So chin up, lad, and pay attention. And remember: Love may seem like hard work, but in the end the rewards can be enormous. Just ask any of my ex-wives.
So, to the advice. Right after a brief pause to sample this fine beverage they've placed in front of me. It's an Icehouse, I'm told. It's not bad, not bad at all. Smooth finish. I recommend it. Anyhow, off we go:
1. The first nugget of advice is perhaps the most important of the gold mine I'll be laying before you: Never put all your eggs in one basket. Now, I know there are those (mostly female thoses) who believe in the notion of "going steady" and "monogamy" and so forth. Poppycock, I say! When placed at an all-you-can-eat buffet, only a dullard confines himself to one dish. And after all, your "steady" girlfriend may leave you tomorrow, and then where are you? You're nowhere, lad: without a girl, without love, without someone to borrow money from. This has even happened to Uncle Millie. There have been low moments, moments when I have found myself without a woman for days at a time. Days! Hard to believe, isn't it? Of course, I've learned from the adversity. I've now got it to the point where, when my seventh wife left me at 2 AM in a motel in a city which I'd never been to before, I had another woman at my side within the hour. Within the hour! Ah, memories...
2. On the art of staring at other girls. Now, as far as I'm concerned, ogling pretty girls is a man's God-given right. After all, why would He have given women curves and men eyes, if He did not intend for us to look? Therefore, you should not let your relationship stop you from exercising your rights. The trick is not to let your girlfriend catch you at it. For example, if you have chosen to wine and dine your beloved at a posh restaurant (which, incidentally, I recommend, unless your woman eats like horse), you should try your level best not to leer at the waitress, and under no circumstances should you hit on her (unless your girlfriend is using the ladies' room and the waitress is really coming on to you). Remember, lad, discretion is the better part of maintaining a relationship.
3. About the matter of paying for dates. In the olden days, when Uncle Millie was a young scamp, the man was required to finance the relationship. There was some alleged reason for this economic blackmail, but I could never figure it out. Remember, lad, we're in a new century! We live in a more enlightened time now. "Go dutch," or better yet, have her pay for everything! Now these arrangments may strike you as somehow ungentlemanly, but trust me, lad: Whatever you save now, you'll pay out in alimony later. This is merely an attempt to even the scales.
4. This next is a common trap that has snared many a young man over the year. Sadly, Uncle Millie has fallen for it. Some devious girls will attempt to pry from you some sort of commitment about the depth of your love for her, future prospects for marriage, names of future children, etc. You must resist. Remember: Commitment is evil. Never reveal such deeply felt sentiment to your beloved. It is a game you cannot win. Suppose your lady love asks you how much you love her. There are two possible outcomes: Her love for you is deeper than yours for her, or vice versa. In my experience, the first scenario is far more likely. Of course, if this is the case, then you'll get the sort of weepy emotional scene you should always strive to avoid: She'll start sniveling about how you don't really care about her, then she'll throw her arms around you and start crying. This is a terribly messy situation. After all, if she's a real tearbucket (and I've known a few), she'll probably wilt the starch in your collar, and if she clings hard enough, she might even ruin the press of your suit. If you think that's bad, consider the alternative. If you truly do you love her sincerely and deeply, this is even worse. Now she has a trump card over you. The next time you get into a fight, you can just bet she'll say something like, "I thought you said you really loved me!" And what kind of comeback can you find for that? You mant to keep her as completely in the dark about your thoughts and feelings as possible. Ideally, she won't even know when you plan to go out with her. She'll sit at home, you will just show up at some point, and she'll feel compelled to go along. If you really and truly feel the need to express deep and heartfelt sentiments, talk to someone you can trust, such as your bartender.
5. Believe it or not, despite your best attempts to keep your girlfriend from knowing your thoughts and feelings, she may, if she's one of those intellectual types (who, incidentally, you should probably avoid), discover some of your "extracurricular activities," if you catch my drift. This will probably lead to some sort of ugly confrontation, not unlike the Spanish Inquisition, wherein your girl will demand some sort of explanation. In this situation, lad, there is only one option available to you: Lie. Lie about everything. Lie without compunction. Because if you don't, lad, it is all over for you. Trust me.
Now, I can easily anticipate your next question. "But, Uncle Millie, what if I can't come up with a good lie on the spot?" That's a perfectly valid query, lad. I happen to be blessed with the ability to "think on my feet," but not all of us can be so blessed. So for you, lad, I would suggest that you prepare yourself in advance. Sit down for a few hours on some rainy night (I myself have used this activity as a filler between marriages) and concoct a list of plausible explanations for situations that you may find yourself in. For example, if you have lipstick on your collar, you could say, "I was assaulted by a disgruntled Mary Kay saleswoman." If you're four hours late for a date: "I got caught behind the Presidential motorcade." Forgot a date entirely: "I had to donate blood (or a kidney, whichever seems more likely)." Caught kissing another girl: "Gee, she looked just like you from here. I guessed I need to get glasses (or get a stronger prescription, if you're wearing glasses already)." Practice these fibs when you can. Work on a natural delivery. When the time comes, you'll be reasy. And if she doesn't believe your excuses, why, you'll just have to dump her. After all, lad, what sort of relationship do you have if she doesn't trust you?
6. Speaking of fibbing, some girls will tell you that they love you for you, and that they just want you to act natural and not change a thing. These girls are lying. This bit about "being true to yourself" is a pile of horse manure. No girl alive can honestly say she wouldn't change a thing about her boyfriend. Who wouldn't rather have a richer, taller, or more attractive man? Therefore, the trick is to determine just what it is your beloved finds appealing in a man, and then tailor yourself to her preferences. For example, if she loves an intellectual man, wear glasses. If she prefers a European fellow, tell her you were born in, say, France. (If you go this route, it might be helpful to carry around a travel guide to your new "hometown" and refer to it on the sly from time to time, so that you may casually toss out charming facts about your birthplace, such as its population density and annual rainfall.) She won't suspect a thing. After all, what can she do, check your birth certificate? (If she actually does this, though, your problems are far larger than your little fabrication.) If she is attracted to athletes, invest in some sports equipment and "accidentally" bring it along on dates. "Whoops," you might say suavely, "I forgot to leave my hockey stick back at the rink, where I am the leading scorer on my team." As you become a bit older, you might be able to invent a modest professional career for yourself. I once convinced a woman that I was the starting first baseman for the Boston Red Sox. I had her going for weeks until she discovered that the Red Sox' starting first baseman was Mo Vaughn, who does not quite resemble me in that his eyes are hazel and he weighs 280 pounds and he is black. Ideally, you want to impersonate a player who is roughly your own race and physical shape. The key here is that you are not lying about yourself, exactly, you are "repackaging" yourself. This is much like the sort of "resume enhancement" wherein you claim to have been manager of a local bank, when in fact the closest you have been to the position of bank manager is the time you were questioned by security guards in the manager's office after attempting to assault an automatic teller machine. In short, everyone "Enhances" his life at some time or another. Trust me, lad, it's a competitive world out there. What odds of success do you think you'll have if you act like yourself?
7. Learn French. Chicks dig it. Trust me. I used to be a French teacher.
8. One final piece of advice, and this is important: At some point, if everything is going well, your beloved may ask you to marry her, or will begin dropping subtle hints that she'd like you to pop the big question. Lad, if you take nothing else away from this adivce, I urge you to listen to this: Never, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be married. I speak from vast experience. The first three or four marriages may seem pleasant, even fun. But believe me, once the alimony bills and the child support begin to add up, the thrill will be gone. A wise man, possibly Shakespeare, once said, "Marriage isn't a word; it's a sentence." Listen to this wise man. Believe me, lad, if you don't, you will come to regret it for the rest of your increasingly miserable and destitute life.
So there's my advice to you. Go forth and multiply! Early and often! If you have any other questions, I'm here to help; I'll be answering your question every week in this space. Now, Uncle Millie has a favor to ask of you. I have an alimony payment coming up, and I'm a bit short, so if you could send your contributions to-
(Editor's Note: At this point Uncle Millie's writing descends into gibberish, followed by what appears to be several verses of the "Too Fat Polka." Therefore, the column does not have a proper end. I apologize to you, The Reader, for this omission.)
- - - - -
And we're back! As I said, I had a good weekend. I spent much of it taking care of The Smart Lady, though we did make time on Saturday evening to attend the Redskins' preseason game. The Smart Lady's office owns a suite, so we were living in high style in the rich man's seats throughout the meaningless exhibition. Just sitting in the suite, I felt the urge to lay somebody off. The Smart Lady appears to be emerging from her illness, which makes me quite happy. Thanks to those of you who sent along your good-health vibes.
An appalling story in the Washington Post: a politician shows backbone! The politician in question is Maryland House of Delegates Speaker Michael Busch, who has looks at the huge forthcoming budget deficit and concluded, sensibly, that closing the gap will in fact require tax hikes. Naturally, he's being fried to a crisp by swing-district Democrats, who are petrified that the voters won't react kindly to honesty. Sadly, they're probably right. But kudos to Busch for saying what must be said.
A big week for sports championships. Tokyo, Japan won this year's Little League World Series over Boynton Beach, Florida. The Long Island Lizards won the Major League Lacrosse championship. And the Washington Freedom won the Founders' Cup! Woohoo! A champion here in the Fedroplex! The Freedom topped the Atlanta Beat, 2-1. I'd be celebrating this title even more vociferously, except that I don't know what sport the Freedom supposedly play. I've never heard of them. And the Atlanta Beat? Methinks some sports desk somewhere made all this up, in order to have some fun at our expense. Shame on them.
For a dissenting view on the DC baseball drive, check out this piece by Charles Pierce in Slate. I, of course, think he's a moron, and plan to spend most of tomorrow's post destroying his argument. But in the interests of equal time, feel free to see what the gentleman has to say.
And with that, I ride into the sunset for another day. I'll be back tomorrow, as always. Try not to miss me too much. See you tomorrow.
GATHER ROUND, YOUNG LOVERS
Hi there, everyone. I hope you all had a good weekend. I certainly did; more on this anon. As promised, today Mediocre Fred brings you the second installment of Uncle Millie's unique romantic advice. This week's column was mailed to me on the back of a postcard from the Miller brewery, where Uncle Millie has apparently been touring. Actually, to be precise, his column was mailed on the back of several postcards. Apparently, you get to mail one free postcard for each tour you take, and he sent me a total of.... let's see... 37 postcards over a two-day period. The last few postcards are a little sloppy, but I think I can make out the words. I'm not sure why he switched over to German halfway through, but I located a translator. Oh, and if any of our Milwaukee-area readers happen to bump into Uncle Millie on the street, please take away his car keys. Thank you.
Enough preamble. Here's Uncle Millie!
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Advice on Mainting a Healthy and Successful Romantic Life, by Uncle Millie
Lads, I bid you welcome. Last week, if I recall correctly, Uncle Millie acquainted you with his illustrious romantic career. Having established my credentials as a romantic without equal, I shall now endeavor to offer you the basic secrets to my success. You may wish to print this out, highlight the important parts and review them before big dates. It's not every day, after all, that a master of love reveals his secrets so openly. So take good care and commit this advice to memory, would you? Good lad. Now, I'll admit that you may not possess Uncle Millie's charm and boyish good looks, which may make it difficult to replicate my level of success with women. But that's quite all right; you needn't measure yourself by my standards. I promise you that, by heeding my advice and following it rigrously, you'll see a dramatic change in your romantic fortunes. So chin up, lad, and pay attention. And remember: Love may seem like hard work, but in the end the rewards can be enormous. Just ask any of my ex-wives.
So, to the advice. Right after a brief pause to sample this fine beverage they've placed in front of me. It's an Icehouse, I'm told. It's not bad, not bad at all. Smooth finish. I recommend it. Anyhow, off we go:
1. The first nugget of advice is perhaps the most important of the gold mine I'll be laying before you: Never put all your eggs in one basket. Now, I know there are those (mostly female thoses) who believe in the notion of "going steady" and "monogamy" and so forth. Poppycock, I say! When placed at an all-you-can-eat buffet, only a dullard confines himself to one dish. And after all, your "steady" girlfriend may leave you tomorrow, and then where are you? You're nowhere, lad: without a girl, without love, without someone to borrow money from. This has even happened to Uncle Millie. There have been low moments, moments when I have found myself without a woman for days at a time. Days! Hard to believe, isn't it? Of course, I've learned from the adversity. I've now got it to the point where, when my seventh wife left me at 2 AM in a motel in a city which I'd never been to before, I had another woman at my side within the hour. Within the hour! Ah, memories...
2. On the art of staring at other girls. Now, as far as I'm concerned, ogling pretty girls is a man's God-given right. After all, why would He have given women curves and men eyes, if He did not intend for us to look? Therefore, you should not let your relationship stop you from exercising your rights. The trick is not to let your girlfriend catch you at it. For example, if you have chosen to wine and dine your beloved at a posh restaurant (which, incidentally, I recommend, unless your woman eats like horse), you should try your level best not to leer at the waitress, and under no circumstances should you hit on her (unless your girlfriend is using the ladies' room and the waitress is really coming on to you). Remember, lad, discretion is the better part of maintaining a relationship.
3. About the matter of paying for dates. In the olden days, when Uncle Millie was a young scamp, the man was required to finance the relationship. There was some alleged reason for this economic blackmail, but I could never figure it out. Remember, lad, we're in a new century! We live in a more enlightened time now. "Go dutch," or better yet, have her pay for everything! Now these arrangments may strike you as somehow ungentlemanly, but trust me, lad: Whatever you save now, you'll pay out in alimony later. This is merely an attempt to even the scales.
4. This next is a common trap that has snared many a young man over the year. Sadly, Uncle Millie has fallen for it. Some devious girls will attempt to pry from you some sort of commitment about the depth of your love for her, future prospects for marriage, names of future children, etc. You must resist. Remember: Commitment is evil. Never reveal such deeply felt sentiment to your beloved. It is a game you cannot win. Suppose your lady love asks you how much you love her. There are two possible outcomes: Her love for you is deeper than yours for her, or vice versa. In my experience, the first scenario is far more likely. Of course, if this is the case, then you'll get the sort of weepy emotional scene you should always strive to avoid: She'll start sniveling about how you don't really care about her, then she'll throw her arms around you and start crying. This is a terribly messy situation. After all, if she's a real tearbucket (and I've known a few), she'll probably wilt the starch in your collar, and if she clings hard enough, she might even ruin the press of your suit. If you think that's bad, consider the alternative. If you truly do you love her sincerely and deeply, this is even worse. Now she has a trump card over you. The next time you get into a fight, you can just bet she'll say something like, "I thought you said you really loved me!" And what kind of comeback can you find for that? You mant to keep her as completely in the dark about your thoughts and feelings as possible. Ideally, she won't even know when you plan to go out with her. She'll sit at home, you will just show up at some point, and she'll feel compelled to go along. If you really and truly feel the need to express deep and heartfelt sentiments, talk to someone you can trust, such as your bartender.
5. Believe it or not, despite your best attempts to keep your girlfriend from knowing your thoughts and feelings, she may, if she's one of those intellectual types (who, incidentally, you should probably avoid), discover some of your "extracurricular activities," if you catch my drift. This will probably lead to some sort of ugly confrontation, not unlike the Spanish Inquisition, wherein your girl will demand some sort of explanation. In this situation, lad, there is only one option available to you: Lie. Lie about everything. Lie without compunction. Because if you don't, lad, it is all over for you. Trust me.
Now, I can easily anticipate your next question. "But, Uncle Millie, what if I can't come up with a good lie on the spot?" That's a perfectly valid query, lad. I happen to be blessed with the ability to "think on my feet," but not all of us can be so blessed. So for you, lad, I would suggest that you prepare yourself in advance. Sit down for a few hours on some rainy night (I myself have used this activity as a filler between marriages) and concoct a list of plausible explanations for situations that you may find yourself in. For example, if you have lipstick on your collar, you could say, "I was assaulted by a disgruntled Mary Kay saleswoman." If you're four hours late for a date: "I got caught behind the Presidential motorcade." Forgot a date entirely: "I had to donate blood (or a kidney, whichever seems more likely)." Caught kissing another girl: "Gee, she looked just like you from here. I guessed I need to get glasses (or get a stronger prescription, if you're wearing glasses already)." Practice these fibs when you can. Work on a natural delivery. When the time comes, you'll be reasy. And if she doesn't believe your excuses, why, you'll just have to dump her. After all, lad, what sort of relationship do you have if she doesn't trust you?
6. Speaking of fibbing, some girls will tell you that they love you for you, and that they just want you to act natural and not change a thing. These girls are lying. This bit about "being true to yourself" is a pile of horse manure. No girl alive can honestly say she wouldn't change a thing about her boyfriend. Who wouldn't rather have a richer, taller, or more attractive man? Therefore, the trick is to determine just what it is your beloved finds appealing in a man, and then tailor yourself to her preferences. For example, if she loves an intellectual man, wear glasses. If she prefers a European fellow, tell her you were born in, say, France. (If you go this route, it might be helpful to carry around a travel guide to your new "hometown" and refer to it on the sly from time to time, so that you may casually toss out charming facts about your birthplace, such as its population density and annual rainfall.) She won't suspect a thing. After all, what can she do, check your birth certificate? (If she actually does this, though, your problems are far larger than your little fabrication.) If she is attracted to athletes, invest in some sports equipment and "accidentally" bring it along on dates. "Whoops," you might say suavely, "I forgot to leave my hockey stick back at the rink, where I am the leading scorer on my team." As you become a bit older, you might be able to invent a modest professional career for yourself. I once convinced a woman that I was the starting first baseman for the Boston Red Sox. I had her going for weeks until she discovered that the Red Sox' starting first baseman was Mo Vaughn, who does not quite resemble me in that his eyes are hazel and he weighs 280 pounds and he is black. Ideally, you want to impersonate a player who is roughly your own race and physical shape. The key here is that you are not lying about yourself, exactly, you are "repackaging" yourself. This is much like the sort of "resume enhancement" wherein you claim to have been manager of a local bank, when in fact the closest you have been to the position of bank manager is the time you were questioned by security guards in the manager's office after attempting to assault an automatic teller machine. In short, everyone "Enhances" his life at some time or another. Trust me, lad, it's a competitive world out there. What odds of success do you think you'll have if you act like yourself?
7. Learn French. Chicks dig it. Trust me. I used to be a French teacher.
8. One final piece of advice, and this is important: At some point, if everything is going well, your beloved may ask you to marry her, or will begin dropping subtle hints that she'd like you to pop the big question. Lad, if you take nothing else away from this adivce, I urge you to listen to this: Never, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be married. I speak from vast experience. The first three or four marriages may seem pleasant, even fun. But believe me, once the alimony bills and the child support begin to add up, the thrill will be gone. A wise man, possibly Shakespeare, once said, "Marriage isn't a word; it's a sentence." Listen to this wise man. Believe me, lad, if you don't, you will come to regret it for the rest of your increasingly miserable and destitute life.
So there's my advice to you. Go forth and multiply! Early and often! If you have any other questions, I'm here to help; I'll be answering your question every week in this space. Now, Uncle Millie has a favor to ask of you. I have an alimony payment coming up, and I'm a bit short, so if you could send your contributions to-
(Editor's Note: At this point Uncle Millie's writing descends into gibberish, followed by what appears to be several verses of the "Too Fat Polka." Therefore, the column does not have a proper end. I apologize to you, The Reader, for this omission.)
- - - - -
And we're back! As I said, I had a good weekend. I spent much of it taking care of The Smart Lady, though we did make time on Saturday evening to attend the Redskins' preseason game. The Smart Lady's office owns a suite, so we were living in high style in the rich man's seats throughout the meaningless exhibition. Just sitting in the suite, I felt the urge to lay somebody off. The Smart Lady appears to be emerging from her illness, which makes me quite happy. Thanks to those of you who sent along your good-health vibes.
An appalling story in the Washington Post: a politician shows backbone! The politician in question is Maryland House of Delegates Speaker Michael Busch, who has looks at the huge forthcoming budget deficit and concluded, sensibly, that closing the gap will in fact require tax hikes. Naturally, he's being fried to a crisp by swing-district Democrats, who are petrified that the voters won't react kindly to honesty. Sadly, they're probably right. But kudos to Busch for saying what must be said.
A big week for sports championships. Tokyo, Japan won this year's Little League World Series over Boynton Beach, Florida. The Long Island Lizards won the Major League Lacrosse championship. And the Washington Freedom won the Founders' Cup! Woohoo! A champion here in the Fedroplex! The Freedom topped the Atlanta Beat, 2-1. I'd be celebrating this title even more vociferously, except that I don't know what sport the Freedom supposedly play. I've never heard of them. And the Atlanta Beat? Methinks some sports desk somewhere made all this up, in order to have some fun at our expense. Shame on them.
For a dissenting view on the DC baseball drive, check out this piece by Charles Pierce in Slate. I, of course, think he's a moron, and plan to spend most of tomorrow's post destroying his argument. But in the interests of equal time, feel free to see what the gentleman has to say.
And with that, I ride into the sunset for another day. I'll be back tomorrow, as always. Try not to miss me too much. See you tomorrow.
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Hot Blooded" by Foreigner
ANGRY OLD MAN
Rooting for a bad baseball team is hard. As a man who follows a team currently hurtling toward its 11th consecutive losing season, I should know. To be sure, rooting for a perennial loser in any sport is difficult, but there's something about baseball, with its 162-game season that amounts to a form of Chinese water torture when your team is in the cellar. If, for instance, you root for a bad football team, at least the bad news only comes once a week. You need only gird yourself for 16 days of misery per season, which is certainly doable. In baseball, though, there's no escaping the daily drumbeat of bad news. The late-inning blown leads, courtesy of a closer who seems to be laying heavy bets on the other side. The nights when your offense decides to stop all the hitting and give peace a chance. The nights when you do get the hits, but can't score any runs. Worst of all, the merciless throttlings at the hands of teams who are clearly and flagrantly displaying superior talent. Maybe if you're lucky, your team will occasionally be featured on Sportscenter, if they hit into a triple play, or if your starter gives up back-to-back-to-back-to-back home runs, or if an opposing player decides that it's "Maim the Mascot Day" at the ballpark. If you're really lucky, perhaps your team will get to play "spoiler," scoring and unlikely win and ruining the chances of an opponent with something to play for. But for most of us cellar-dwelling fans, the pleasures are few and the pain is more or less constant, like a dull throbbing toothache that won't go away, not without a root canal or something similarly painful and expensive, like a new stadium.
But there are the few fortnate bad teams, those that have a focal point, something positive to hang your hat on. Perhaps a team with a lone but likeable superstar, or a promising left-hander, or a center fielder with a knack for spectacular, electrifying catches. Or perhaps a really colorful manager. The sort of manager who gives interesting (if not always printable) quotes. The sort of manager who turns home-plate rhubarbs into a sort of guerrilla performance art, in which the old skipper punctuates his appeal to the umps with creative cursing, kicking of dirt, tossing of bases, and other such theatrics. The kind of manager whose native language appears to be foul. A manager, in short, like Lou Piniella.
For those readers who are not baseball fans, Piniella is the manager of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, a franchise that's been confined to baseball purgatory since its founding in 1998. In the five years (to date) of their existence, the Rays have yet to post a winning season, or even to win 70 games in a year. By comparison, the Arizona Diamondbacks, who were founded the same year, won the World Series in 2001. The team plays in an awful, outdated stadium (a domed stadium with turf, no less... in a climate like Tampa's!) in the wrong part of town (St. Petersburg, which is a good 20- to 30-minute drive from Tampa, where most of the population is) with bad uniforms (although the current look, inaugurated last year, isn't half bad). The crowds are regularly among the worst in baseball (averaging around 10,000; the major-league average is 26,000). The team wouldn't even exist if the city of Tampa, which built the aforementioned stadium/mausoleum in 1991 to attract a team that never came, hadn't threatened to sue Major League Baseball for damages. The threat of relocation or contraction hangs over the team's head like carrion flies over the carcass of a dead possum. Were it not for the absurd 30-year lease the Rays signed on the above-named mausoleum, they might be gone already. Two of their brightest prospects were Nick Bierbrodt, who was shot in the arm at a fast-food drive-through (he's fine now), and Greg "Toe" Nash, who was finally released by the team after being sent to jail for having sex with a 15-year-old girl. In short, this was a team that desperately needed something for its fans to believe in.
Enter Piniella. Known as "Sweet Lou" to his friends, Piniella had a long-time reputation as a hothead, dating back to his days as a minor-league player in the '60s, when he became enraged over a bad day at the plate and kicked an outfield fence, which toppled over on him. Piniella's temper is a bit more under control these days, but only a bit. He raged through managerial tenures with the Yankees (twice), Reds (World Series championship in 1990) and Mariners (guiding the team to its first-ever playoff appearance and winning 116 games in 2001), earning a reputation as a good manager with a bad temper. After the 2002 season, Piniella decided he wanted out of Seattle, so he started running his mouth to reporters about his (low) opinion of management. Then he quit, leaving himself free to seek employment elsewhere. Only there was one catch. Since his contract with the Mariners technically had one year left to run, which meant Seattle was free to seek compensation for Piniella before he could go elsewhere. Piniella, a Tampa native, told reporters that he wanted to move "closer to his family." Translation: he wanted to manage the New York Mets, a big-budget team coming off a hugely disappointing 2002 season. But Seattle GM Pat Gillick, being a warm-hearted and family-oriented soul, insisted that Lou should be even closer to his family. Gillick spurned all compensation offers from the Mets, thereby offering Lou the exciting choice of managing the Devil Dogs or spending the year as Seattle's hostage. Faced with that choice, Lou packed his bags for Florida. He took one look around the Rays organization and declared that he was going to bring a New Attitude to a despondent, moribund club.
The Rays got a taste of the New Attitude in spring training, after they blew a late lead in an exhibition game. Quoth Piniella: "No wonder you f***ing guys lost one-hundred-f***ing-five motherf***ing games last year." And he's been raging ever since. After one loss in Yankee Stadium, he ripped off his trousers during the postgame interview. He covered home plate with dirt during a fight with an umpire. He kicked his cap into the stands after being ejected from a game. In a reprise of an old favorite, he ripped first base from its moorings and heaved it into the outfield. (He'd previously done this in Cincinnati back in 1991). And he's very publicly blasted his players if he perceived a lack of effort. Outfielder Ben Grieve and catcher Toby Hall have felt the sting of Piniella's lash most strongly, but one has to admire the economy of expression in this scene, when Piniella went out to pay a visit to struggling starter Victor Zambrano:
PINIELLA: So, how are you doing?
ZAMBRANO: I'm okay.
PINIELLA: Well, I'm not!!
This is a perfect example of the different standard to which managers and coaches are held, as compared to normal civilized society. For instance, imagine a president who dealt with political opponents in this fashion:
PRESIDENT: So, how goes the budget bill? Any progress?
SENATOR: Well, it's stalled in committee. I think these projections are questionable, and frankly I-
PRESIDENT: Well, frankly I think you can go f*** yourself. I've got a f***ing country to run, and you f***ing motherf***ers are sitting around playing with yourselves and not passing my budget?! Kiss my ass in hell, f***ers!
SENATOR: Well, Mr. President, with all due respect, we've got a problem here, and-
PRESIDENT: The only f***ing problem is that the Congress is run by f***ing incompetents. Now get your candy ass out of here before I-
AIDE: Excuse me, Mr. President, but the Canadian Prime Minister is here to see you.
PRESIDENT: Tell the Prime Minister to bite me.
Now, this president would not in all likelihood be praised as a leader and motivator. Terms like "maniac" and "dangerously unstable" might be more common. But a manager can behave this way, and so long as he wins, everyone will pat him on the head. Piniella is no exception in this regard. No one seems willing to suggest that raw young players with presumably fragile psyches might not necessarily benefit most strongly from Piniella's unique brand of red-ass rage. No, Piniella is just what this team needs, we're told. His "winning background" and "professional work ethic" will make this team into something great some day. Perhaps this is true. Time will tell.
But even if Piniella's act isn't what his team needs, it's definitely what the fans need. The Devil Rays need to prove to Tampa-area fans that the team has a pulse, and what better way to do so than show them Piniella, veins bulging, questioning some umpire's ancestry? By way of contrast, my team of choice (the Milwaukee Brewers) is managed by Ned Yost, a nice man who seems to be a decent manager. But does this get us any play in the press? No. What gets you play is Mount Piniella, ready to erupt. And whether or not it generates results, maybe that's what could help the Devil Rays the most at the moment. For better or worse, the team has a real personality now. The fact that said personality seems liable to split someone's head open with a bat at any moment is even better, as far as the team is concerned.
In the long term, of course, they'll need to show some life. If they keep languishing in last place, no amount of Piniella tantrums will save them, or him. For now, though, the team is young, the payroll is low, the wins are not forthcoming. So the fans at least deserve a show. And for now, that may be enough. Lou Piniella probably never imagined he'd wind up in Tampa this year. But he may wind up being what keeps the Rays in Tampa, for years to come.
That's all for now. Back on the regular schedule Monday, with our friend Uncle Millie making his triumphant return. See you tomorrow.
ANGRY OLD MAN
Rooting for a bad baseball team is hard. As a man who follows a team currently hurtling toward its 11th consecutive losing season, I should know. To be sure, rooting for a perennial loser in any sport is difficult, but there's something about baseball, with its 162-game season that amounts to a form of Chinese water torture when your team is in the cellar. If, for instance, you root for a bad football team, at least the bad news only comes once a week. You need only gird yourself for 16 days of misery per season, which is certainly doable. In baseball, though, there's no escaping the daily drumbeat of bad news. The late-inning blown leads, courtesy of a closer who seems to be laying heavy bets on the other side. The nights when your offense decides to stop all the hitting and give peace a chance. The nights when you do get the hits, but can't score any runs. Worst of all, the merciless throttlings at the hands of teams who are clearly and flagrantly displaying superior talent. Maybe if you're lucky, your team will occasionally be featured on Sportscenter, if they hit into a triple play, or if your starter gives up back-to-back-to-back-to-back home runs, or if an opposing player decides that it's "Maim the Mascot Day" at the ballpark. If you're really lucky, perhaps your team will get to play "spoiler," scoring and unlikely win and ruining the chances of an opponent with something to play for. But for most of us cellar-dwelling fans, the pleasures are few and the pain is more or less constant, like a dull throbbing toothache that won't go away, not without a root canal or something similarly painful and expensive, like a new stadium.
But there are the few fortnate bad teams, those that have a focal point, something positive to hang your hat on. Perhaps a team with a lone but likeable superstar, or a promising left-hander, or a center fielder with a knack for spectacular, electrifying catches. Or perhaps a really colorful manager. The sort of manager who gives interesting (if not always printable) quotes. The sort of manager who turns home-plate rhubarbs into a sort of guerrilla performance art, in which the old skipper punctuates his appeal to the umps with creative cursing, kicking of dirt, tossing of bases, and other such theatrics. The kind of manager whose native language appears to be foul. A manager, in short, like Lou Piniella.
For those readers who are not baseball fans, Piniella is the manager of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, a franchise that's been confined to baseball purgatory since its founding in 1998. In the five years (to date) of their existence, the Rays have yet to post a winning season, or even to win 70 games in a year. By comparison, the Arizona Diamondbacks, who were founded the same year, won the World Series in 2001. The team plays in an awful, outdated stadium (a domed stadium with turf, no less... in a climate like Tampa's!) in the wrong part of town (St. Petersburg, which is a good 20- to 30-minute drive from Tampa, where most of the population is) with bad uniforms (although the current look, inaugurated last year, isn't half bad). The crowds are regularly among the worst in baseball (averaging around 10,000; the major-league average is 26,000). The team wouldn't even exist if the city of Tampa, which built the aforementioned stadium/mausoleum in 1991 to attract a team that never came, hadn't threatened to sue Major League Baseball for damages. The threat of relocation or contraction hangs over the team's head like carrion flies over the carcass of a dead possum. Were it not for the absurd 30-year lease the Rays signed on the above-named mausoleum, they might be gone already. Two of their brightest prospects were Nick Bierbrodt, who was shot in the arm at a fast-food drive-through (he's fine now), and Greg "Toe" Nash, who was finally released by the team after being sent to jail for having sex with a 15-year-old girl. In short, this was a team that desperately needed something for its fans to believe in.
Enter Piniella. Known as "Sweet Lou" to his friends, Piniella had a long-time reputation as a hothead, dating back to his days as a minor-league player in the '60s, when he became enraged over a bad day at the plate and kicked an outfield fence, which toppled over on him. Piniella's temper is a bit more under control these days, but only a bit. He raged through managerial tenures with the Yankees (twice), Reds (World Series championship in 1990) and Mariners (guiding the team to its first-ever playoff appearance and winning 116 games in 2001), earning a reputation as a good manager with a bad temper. After the 2002 season, Piniella decided he wanted out of Seattle, so he started running his mouth to reporters about his (low) opinion of management. Then he quit, leaving himself free to seek employment elsewhere. Only there was one catch. Since his contract with the Mariners technically had one year left to run, which meant Seattle was free to seek compensation for Piniella before he could go elsewhere. Piniella, a Tampa native, told reporters that he wanted to move "closer to his family." Translation: he wanted to manage the New York Mets, a big-budget team coming off a hugely disappointing 2002 season. But Seattle GM Pat Gillick, being a warm-hearted and family-oriented soul, insisted that Lou should be even closer to his family. Gillick spurned all compensation offers from the Mets, thereby offering Lou the exciting choice of managing the Devil Dogs or spending the year as Seattle's hostage. Faced with that choice, Lou packed his bags for Florida. He took one look around the Rays organization and declared that he was going to bring a New Attitude to a despondent, moribund club.
The Rays got a taste of the New Attitude in spring training, after they blew a late lead in an exhibition game. Quoth Piniella: "No wonder you f***ing guys lost one-hundred-f***ing-five motherf***ing games last year." And he's been raging ever since. After one loss in Yankee Stadium, he ripped off his trousers during the postgame interview. He covered home plate with dirt during a fight with an umpire. He kicked his cap into the stands after being ejected from a game. In a reprise of an old favorite, he ripped first base from its moorings and heaved it into the outfield. (He'd previously done this in Cincinnati back in 1991). And he's very publicly blasted his players if he perceived a lack of effort. Outfielder Ben Grieve and catcher Toby Hall have felt the sting of Piniella's lash most strongly, but one has to admire the economy of expression in this scene, when Piniella went out to pay a visit to struggling starter Victor Zambrano:
PINIELLA: So, how are you doing?
ZAMBRANO: I'm okay.
PINIELLA: Well, I'm not!!
This is a perfect example of the different standard to which managers and coaches are held, as compared to normal civilized society. For instance, imagine a president who dealt with political opponents in this fashion:
PRESIDENT: So, how goes the budget bill? Any progress?
SENATOR: Well, it's stalled in committee. I think these projections are questionable, and frankly I-
PRESIDENT: Well, frankly I think you can go f*** yourself. I've got a f***ing country to run, and you f***ing motherf***ers are sitting around playing with yourselves and not passing my budget?! Kiss my ass in hell, f***ers!
SENATOR: Well, Mr. President, with all due respect, we've got a problem here, and-
PRESIDENT: The only f***ing problem is that the Congress is run by f***ing incompetents. Now get your candy ass out of here before I-
AIDE: Excuse me, Mr. President, but the Canadian Prime Minister is here to see you.
PRESIDENT: Tell the Prime Minister to bite me.
Now, this president would not in all likelihood be praised as a leader and motivator. Terms like "maniac" and "dangerously unstable" might be more common. But a manager can behave this way, and so long as he wins, everyone will pat him on the head. Piniella is no exception in this regard. No one seems willing to suggest that raw young players with presumably fragile psyches might not necessarily benefit most strongly from Piniella's unique brand of red-ass rage. No, Piniella is just what this team needs, we're told. His "winning background" and "professional work ethic" will make this team into something great some day. Perhaps this is true. Time will tell.
But even if Piniella's act isn't what his team needs, it's definitely what the fans need. The Devil Rays need to prove to Tampa-area fans that the team has a pulse, and what better way to do so than show them Piniella, veins bulging, questioning some umpire's ancestry? By way of contrast, my team of choice (the Milwaukee Brewers) is managed by Ned Yost, a nice man who seems to be a decent manager. But does this get us any play in the press? No. What gets you play is Mount Piniella, ready to erupt. And whether or not it generates results, maybe that's what could help the Devil Rays the most at the moment. For better or worse, the team has a real personality now. The fact that said personality seems liable to split someone's head open with a bat at any moment is even better, as far as the team is concerned.
In the long term, of course, they'll need to show some life. If they keep languishing in last place, no amount of Piniella tantrums will save them, or him. For now, though, the team is young, the payroll is low, the wins are not forthcoming. So the fans at least deserve a show. And for now, that may be enough. Lou Piniella probably never imagined he'd wind up in Tampa this year. But he may wind up being what keeps the Rays in Tampa, for years to come.
That's all for now. Back on the regular schedule Monday, with our friend Uncle Millie making his triumphant return. See you tomorrow.
Friday, August 22, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "I Wish It Would Rain" by the Temptations
IN PRAISE OF THUNDERSTORMS
Hi there, all. It's beastly hot in Washington today... 95 degrees with enough humidity to make it feel like 105. (Note to those readers from the Southwest who are planning to write me and tell me what hot really feels like: Sure, sure, whatever. Doesn't make it any less hot here. Besides, you don't have to deal with the humidity.) It's times like this that really make me wish for a good cracking summer storm, the kind where the sky turns almost black and the advancing clouds seem to be humming the Funeral March as they swirl over your head and the rain comes in sheets, not drops, as if Niagara Falls had suddenly been diverted over my house. And, of course, thunder and lightning and lots of it.
People tend to fall into one of two camps on thunderstorms. Either they run and hide at the first thunderclap, or they flock to the window to watch the light show unfloding over their heads. I've always been in the latter camp. Give me bolts streaking and winking in the distance, give me brilliant flashes that light up the clouds and then fade away, even give me the big crashers right overhead that pop like flash bulbs and give way to those stunning crashes so loud you think the earth's going to split open and swallow you whole. Doesn't matter. I'll be transfixed no matter what. If I was ever to be struck by lightning, I imagine I'd pick myself up off the ground, wipe the charred eyebrow hairs off my face, wave off the nice people who assumed I'd want to go to the hospital and say, "Not until it's finished." I don't go out deliberately chasing after storm; I'm not quite that crazy. But if one happens to come my way, well, I'll just sit back, relax and enjoy it.
Why am I so enthralled by thunderstorms? I think it's a lot of things. For one thing, I'm a big fan of light shows. As a kid, I used to love taking road trips at night. I'd peer out my car windows as we rumbled along the interstates, squinting into the distance, trying to differentiate those smudges of light and color that drifted by as we passed. To me, a small town full of colorful lights was a sign of industry, a sign of contented inhabitants staking their claim to a patch of the universe, filling it full of those man-made colors, the neons, the vibrant pinks and greens and reds that nature never quite matched, even when the sun was bright as could be. I always found those neon-splashed byways and main drag warm and welcoming, as if the town was putting on a show for you. During the day, those same towns often looked sleepy, drab, a little decrepit and down at the heels. Urban decay is painfully obvious when the sun is out. But at night... ah, the night and the lights hide a multitude of sins. They inject life and vigor, whether or not it's really there. Especially nights in the late fall and early winter, when the air is clear and crisp and your breath rises in a gentle meandering haze, mingling with the lights and blurring the picture a little bit. Better still, when a light snow is falling and frosts everything just so, and the light catches the snow and everything is like a picture postcard somehow. I could never harbor an ill thought about a city I met at night in November in a light snow, no matter how leprous it may be in reality. Thunderstorms are the closest summer equivalent to that moment. Those random flashes, a sudden light briefly blinking out of the darkness, are a lot like those little towns rushing by on the interstate. I like light, and I like randomness, as the thunderstorm is a sweet marriage of both.
Also, there's something impressive about the heavens in full fury. Many of you probably had some sort of parentally-proffered heavenly explanation for thunderstorms. My mom told me the angels were bowling. If so, it must be that so-called "cosmic bowling," because at my bowling alley I never see explosions of light in the unlikely event that I hit something other than the gutter, or the ball return if I'm having a particularly tough outing. No matter... there's definitely something awe-inspiring about watching the clash of the atmospheric titans, forces so much bigger than I creating such havoc. It's a welcome antidote to the self-privileging culture we live in these days, the idea that the individual is king or queen of his or her domain, and that everything is or should be within his or her control. Big booming storms remind us that, try as we might to manage and conquer our planet, some things are just out of our control. No matter how much we stomp and shot and shake our fists, we aren't going to stop the storms. And that's a good thing. They may be momentarily inconvenient, but they do the earth good in the main. And what's so important that we can't sit and watch for a few minutes? Summer storms never last long. I can spare the time, especially to be reminded of my place in the larger scheme of things.
Last, and perhaps best, is when you get to share the storm with someone you care about. Independence and self-reliance is a wonderful thing, yes, but there's something nice about someone curling up next to you and leaning against you for protection, if only for a moment during the biggest boomers. There's somthing a little primal about those big storms, and it's nice to be able to play protector for a little while, whether it be for a significant others, children or pets. I used to ride out childhood storms with my elderly lady cat, Nicky. As soon as the winds started kicking up, she found my lap (she, of course, knew instinctively in which chair at which window I'd be sitting) and let me stroke her back while the angels bowled. Much of the time, she played the aloof role felines are apparently instructed to play in the womb, but during thunderstorms she wanted comfort. My comfort. And how can you not like that?
The weird Washington weather this summer has given me quite a few opportunities for enjoyment so far, but the summer squall season is drawing to a close. But I'm hoping the sky has a couple more shows in store. If it does, you know where I'll be. I'll be in my chair, watching the lights and feeling like a kid again, hearing the angels bowl and waiting for Nicky to find my lap and let me keep her safe.
A bit of a surprising and sad story in the Post today, concerning South Dakota Rep. Bill Janklow. Apparently, Janklow's always had a bit of a lead foot, and last week it cost him. He was driving 20 MPH over the legal limit, ran a stop sign and struck and killed a 55-year-old motorcyclist. Even though Janklow is hugely popular in his state, having served several terms as governor before going to the House last year, it looks like his political career is over. It seems a shame, in a way, until you think about the other guy. He lost a lot more than a career. I know I'm going to drive slower in the future. I hope you, The Reader, will do likewise.
Side note to Portland baseball fans: Oops. Looks like your State Senate voted down funding for a baseball stadium. Sorry about that. But hey, I hear Amway pays pretty well these days. Commissioner, what are you waiting for? Call D.C.! You can even call collect; we promise to accept the charages.
I'm watching "Sweet Dreams" on the Food Network at present. It stars a sweet middle-aged woman named Gale Gand, who shows you how to make quality desserts from the comfort of her warm, homey fake kitchen. What always strikes me about the show is that Gale Gand always has this sorrowful look on her face, like no one invited her to the big dance and now she's stuck at home on a Saturday night babysitting her little sister and showing her how to make apple crostata. She really looks like she needs a hug. So, Gale, if you're out there, consider yourself hugged.
Finally, The Smart Lady is still under the weather, so I'll be by her side with apple-cinnamon tea tonight. Please send along all your good, healthy vibes, so she'll heal as fast as possible. I worry, you know.
As promised, I'll have something this weekend. Remains to be seen what "something" will be, but I'm sure it will come to me. It usually does. Stay cool and see you later.
IN PRAISE OF THUNDERSTORMS
Hi there, all. It's beastly hot in Washington today... 95 degrees with enough humidity to make it feel like 105. (Note to those readers from the Southwest who are planning to write me and tell me what hot really feels like: Sure, sure, whatever. Doesn't make it any less hot here. Besides, you don't have to deal with the humidity.) It's times like this that really make me wish for a good cracking summer storm, the kind where the sky turns almost black and the advancing clouds seem to be humming the Funeral March as they swirl over your head and the rain comes in sheets, not drops, as if Niagara Falls had suddenly been diverted over my house. And, of course, thunder and lightning and lots of it.
People tend to fall into one of two camps on thunderstorms. Either they run and hide at the first thunderclap, or they flock to the window to watch the light show unfloding over their heads. I've always been in the latter camp. Give me bolts streaking and winking in the distance, give me brilliant flashes that light up the clouds and then fade away, even give me the big crashers right overhead that pop like flash bulbs and give way to those stunning crashes so loud you think the earth's going to split open and swallow you whole. Doesn't matter. I'll be transfixed no matter what. If I was ever to be struck by lightning, I imagine I'd pick myself up off the ground, wipe the charred eyebrow hairs off my face, wave off the nice people who assumed I'd want to go to the hospital and say, "Not until it's finished." I don't go out deliberately chasing after storm; I'm not quite that crazy. But if one happens to come my way, well, I'll just sit back, relax and enjoy it.
Why am I so enthralled by thunderstorms? I think it's a lot of things. For one thing, I'm a big fan of light shows. As a kid, I used to love taking road trips at night. I'd peer out my car windows as we rumbled along the interstates, squinting into the distance, trying to differentiate those smudges of light and color that drifted by as we passed. To me, a small town full of colorful lights was a sign of industry, a sign of contented inhabitants staking their claim to a patch of the universe, filling it full of those man-made colors, the neons, the vibrant pinks and greens and reds that nature never quite matched, even when the sun was bright as could be. I always found those neon-splashed byways and main drag warm and welcoming, as if the town was putting on a show for you. During the day, those same towns often looked sleepy, drab, a little decrepit and down at the heels. Urban decay is painfully obvious when the sun is out. But at night... ah, the night and the lights hide a multitude of sins. They inject life and vigor, whether or not it's really there. Especially nights in the late fall and early winter, when the air is clear and crisp and your breath rises in a gentle meandering haze, mingling with the lights and blurring the picture a little bit. Better still, when a light snow is falling and frosts everything just so, and the light catches the snow and everything is like a picture postcard somehow. I could never harbor an ill thought about a city I met at night in November in a light snow, no matter how leprous it may be in reality. Thunderstorms are the closest summer equivalent to that moment. Those random flashes, a sudden light briefly blinking out of the darkness, are a lot like those little towns rushing by on the interstate. I like light, and I like randomness, as the thunderstorm is a sweet marriage of both.
Also, there's something impressive about the heavens in full fury. Many of you probably had some sort of parentally-proffered heavenly explanation for thunderstorms. My mom told me the angels were bowling. If so, it must be that so-called "cosmic bowling," because at my bowling alley I never see explosions of light in the unlikely event that I hit something other than the gutter, or the ball return if I'm having a particularly tough outing. No matter... there's definitely something awe-inspiring about watching the clash of the atmospheric titans, forces so much bigger than I creating such havoc. It's a welcome antidote to the self-privileging culture we live in these days, the idea that the individual is king or queen of his or her domain, and that everything is or should be within his or her control. Big booming storms remind us that, try as we might to manage and conquer our planet, some things are just out of our control. No matter how much we stomp and shot and shake our fists, we aren't going to stop the storms. And that's a good thing. They may be momentarily inconvenient, but they do the earth good in the main. And what's so important that we can't sit and watch for a few minutes? Summer storms never last long. I can spare the time, especially to be reminded of my place in the larger scheme of things.
Last, and perhaps best, is when you get to share the storm with someone you care about. Independence and self-reliance is a wonderful thing, yes, but there's something nice about someone curling up next to you and leaning against you for protection, if only for a moment during the biggest boomers. There's somthing a little primal about those big storms, and it's nice to be able to play protector for a little while, whether it be for a significant others, children or pets. I used to ride out childhood storms with my elderly lady cat, Nicky. As soon as the winds started kicking up, she found my lap (she, of course, knew instinctively in which chair at which window I'd be sitting) and let me stroke her back while the angels bowled. Much of the time, she played the aloof role felines are apparently instructed to play in the womb, but during thunderstorms she wanted comfort. My comfort. And how can you not like that?
The weird Washington weather this summer has given me quite a few opportunities for enjoyment so far, but the summer squall season is drawing to a close. But I'm hoping the sky has a couple more shows in store. If it does, you know where I'll be. I'll be in my chair, watching the lights and feeling like a kid again, hearing the angels bowl and waiting for Nicky to find my lap and let me keep her safe.
A bit of a surprising and sad story in the Post today, concerning South Dakota Rep. Bill Janklow. Apparently, Janklow's always had a bit of a lead foot, and last week it cost him. He was driving 20 MPH over the legal limit, ran a stop sign and struck and killed a 55-year-old motorcyclist. Even though Janklow is hugely popular in his state, having served several terms as governor before going to the House last year, it looks like his political career is over. It seems a shame, in a way, until you think about the other guy. He lost a lot more than a career. I know I'm going to drive slower in the future. I hope you, The Reader, will do likewise.
Side note to Portland baseball fans: Oops. Looks like your State Senate voted down funding for a baseball stadium. Sorry about that. But hey, I hear Amway pays pretty well these days. Commissioner, what are you waiting for? Call D.C.! You can even call collect; we promise to accept the charages.
I'm watching "Sweet Dreams" on the Food Network at present. It stars a sweet middle-aged woman named Gale Gand, who shows you how to make quality desserts from the comfort of her warm, homey fake kitchen. What always strikes me about the show is that Gale Gand always has this sorrowful look on her face, like no one invited her to the big dance and now she's stuck at home on a Saturday night babysitting her little sister and showing her how to make apple crostata. She really looks like she needs a hug. So, Gale, if you're out there, consider yourself hugged.
Finally, The Smart Lady is still under the weather, so I'll be by her side with apple-cinnamon tea tonight. Please send along all your good, healthy vibes, so she'll heal as fast as possible. I worry, you know.
As promised, I'll have something this weekend. Remains to be seen what "something" will be, but I'm sure it will come to me. It usually does. Stay cool and see you later.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
SORRY, FOLKS
No post today. The Smart Lady's feeling sick, and I'm going to go take care of her. I'll make it up to you, The Reader, sometime this weekend with an extra post. See you tomorrow.
No post today. The Smart Lady's feeling sick, and I'm going to go take care of her. I'll make it up to you, The Reader, sometime this weekend with an extra post. See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Dazed and Confused" by Led Zeppelin
ALL RISE FOR THE HONORABLE REPRESENTATIVE MORON
This morning I re-read my post on the California governor's race, which has met a certain favorable reaction, and I was chuckling to myself the whole way through. Not at my scathingly witty remarks, but at the process which brought all these wonderful people into the media spotlight. "Ha ha!" I said to myself. "What a stupid system they have in California. They deserve all the ridicule that Gallagher and Larry Flynt can give them." Then I pondered a little more, and a sobering thought crossed my mind. "Who am I," I said to myself, "to criticize the results of this process?" (At this point, Hammerin' Hank told me to shut up and stop talking to myself, so the rest of this is internal monologue.) "After all, those wacky Californians may come out of this with a bad governor, but my district just sent Jim Moran to Congress again, and we can't even blame a recall." This awful realization spread over me like a virus, and I had to take a long water break before I could sit down to write about how the hell Moran happened.
For those who aren't familiar with Rep. Moran and his, uh, unique career, allow me to acquaint you. Moran began his political career as a councilman in the city of Alexandria, where he was elected mayor in 1985. He was elected to Congress in 1990, where he's remained, like a bad case of mold spores, ever since. And to be fair, Moran has his good qualities. He's a real charmer when he wants to be, warm and well-spoken, with a knack for shaking hands and making eye contact. He's a fairly impressive-looking figure, with a craggy Irish face and thick silver hair. His issue positions seem to be in sync with his heavily Democratic district. And he's a master at constituent service; if one of his voters wants something, ask and it shall be delivered. Kind of like Santa Claus.
Unfortunately, there's another side to the distinguished Representative. Actually, his flaws can be broken down into two categories. The first is that he's corrupt in the old-fashioned, scratch-my-back-and-I'll-scratch-yours sort of way. This is the kind of thing that bothers good-government types, which my district contains in some quantity, but on the other hand, it's so rare to see this kind of corruption carried off with such style in this day and age. It could almost be said that Moran is reviving a lost art.
Unfortunately, the second category of gaffes isn't so amusing. On many occasions, in a wide variety of ways, Moran has demonstrated a complete and utter lack of self-control. Never mind whether politicians should be held to a higher standard; Moran's odious behavior would be unacceptable in a next-door neighbor. It seems that every wacky little thought or impulse that enters his head is translated immediately into words or action, without any of the filters that we expect a typical civilized person to have. This, more than anything, is his main problem as a Congressman. Corruption is unbecoming in a politician, sure, but it's hardly unique, not the kind of thing that makes the out-of-state papers. But his outrageous statements and behavior have stirred up a national hubbub, and this will not do. Speaking as an Eighth District voter, I'm tired of being embarrassed by my Congressman.
As a public service, I've delved back into history in order to provide you, The Reader, with a tour of Congressman Moran's colorful career in politics. This has been made possible by the wonderful site MorAntics, which provides a lot of useful information in this regard. (It is run by the Virginia Republican Party, but it's really more of a public resource than a political tool, in my opnion.) So buckle in, kids, and let's watch Jim Moran as he rises through the ranks, shall we?
As I mentioned above, Moran launched his political career in the Alexandria City Council. Trouble arose, however, in 1984 when he was accused of having a business relationship with a bidder for a city contract, and financed a foreign trip for said partner with city money. This sort of garden-variety, low-level corruption seems laughably quaint now, but the City Council was evidently not amused, and Moran was forced to resign his seat.
Lesser disgraced politicians might have retired to private life at this point, but not our Jim. He bravely told reporters after his resignation, "I've asked myself if I have the courage to get back into public office, but I don't have any doubts at this point. It's too important to me. I miss it already." Detractors may well have pointed out that Moran's ethics, not his courage, were at issue here, but Moran didn't have time for these niggling concerns. He was on a mission. And, in a frankly stunning display of cojones, he immediately stood for election as mayor of Alexandria later than year. And he won! I imagine his courage and charm carried the day. And what's a little graft between friends?
Moran was by all accounts a popular mayor, and his term proceeded without incident. Unless, of course, you count the time he was forced to return campaign contributions from developers who had business with the city. Again, this is sort of a minor-league scandal, but you can't move up to big-time scandals unless you're in the big time. Or so Moran evidently figured, because in 1990 he decided it was time to run for Congress!
Moran's opponent was incumbent Republican Rep. Stan Parris, a man who shared the Moran penchant for verbal rabbit-punching but was utterly devoid of the Moran charisma. Referring to the Mayor's opposition to U.S. intervention in Iraq, Parris charmingly asserted: "The only three people I know who support Saddam Hussein's position are Moammar Gadhafi, Yasser Arafat, and Jim Moran." Moran responded by cheerfully labelling Parris "a deceitful, fatuous jerk" and winningly adding, "I want to break his nose." Eighth District voters turned out, held their noses and elected Moran by a comfortable margin. (This would be good practice for the '94 Virginia Senate race between accused coke-snorting party animal Chuck Robb and accused lying document-shredder Ollie North, which one humorist described as "the first election in which all voting booths were equipped with barf bags.") So the popular hero Moran had done it. He was going to Washington!
Moran's first couple Congressional terms passed quietly, at least until the 1995 altercation with Republican Rep. Duke Cunningham of California. Cunningham attempted to have some Moran comments on Bosnia stricken from the record. Moran, apparently forgetting that he was in fact on the floor of Congress and not in a spaghetti Western, invited Cunningham to step outside. Cunningham agreed, whereupon Moran pushed him through a door. On the other side of the door was noted peacemaker Bob Dornan (R-CA), who politely invited Moran to "get your Irish ass out of here." Everyone apologized after that incident, and things were hunky-dory, at lesat until later that year, when Moran tried to pick a fight with Republican Rep. Dan Burton of Indiana. Moran was ahead on all cards when the scuffle was stopped, but ringside observers felt Moran was carrying his left a little low, which probably would have hurt him in the later rounds.
Moran burnished his reputation for customer service in 1998 and 1999, when he finally had a chance to enter the big-time scandal world. Moran found himself in financial difficulties, which is unfortunate, but thankfully MBNA saved the day with a special low-rate mortgage. Moran said thank you in the best way he knew how: he sponsored a bankruptcy bill that coincidentally worked much to the benefit of companies like MBNA. The following year, Moran's finances were apparently is disrepair again, but -- isn't it wonderful to have friends? -- drug-lobbyist Terry Lierman stepped up and helped out his friend Moran with a low-interest personal loan. In another touching display of gratitude, Moran sponsored a bill that coincidentally worked to the benefit of the drug companies Lierman happened to represent. Later that year, after Moran's wife filed for divorce, the Congressman needed a place to live. Wouldn't you know it? One of his lobbyist friends came through again, renting Moran a house in Arlington. And Moran, Mr. Consituent Service himself, once again demonstrated his appreciation by helping to get a federal fund increase for the industries the lobbyist represented. Let it never be said that Jim Moran does not know how to say "thank you."
Unfortunately, a couple of his consituents weren't saying "thank you" after a bizarre 2000 incident in which Moran grabbed an 8-year-old black child by the throat and cursed him out after the child approached Moran near his car. The child claimed he was admiring Moran's car. Moran claimed that child said he had a gun and tried to carjack the Congressman. The Congressman later expressed regret in a very curious speech in which he said, "I just wanted to hug him. I wish I could adopt a child just like him." (Can't Moran tell the difference between a hug and a choke? Had he been hanging out with Bobby Knight?) No charges resulted from the incident, although it caused a minor headache for Moran when Republican opponent Demaris Miller pointed out that the car Moran was driving that day was leased with campaign funds. Nonetheless, Moran scored an easy victory over Miller and secured a sixth term.
After surviving a tough campaign like that, anyone could use a break. So Moran decided to relax, kick back, and have a nice quiet birthday celebration with his girlfriend. Unfortunately, his other girlfriend decided to show up and surprise him. (I hate when that happens.) Well, there were surprises all around, apparently, and the Congressman's two girlfriends wound up getting into a screaming match on his lawn, bad enough that the police were ultimately summoned. Just another day in the life, I suppose.
Moran's next spot of trouble came courtesy of his mouth, when he told the American Muslim Council that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon was "probably seeking a warrant from President Bush to kill at will with weapons we have paid for." Moran has been a longtime Palestinian supporter, which is all well and good, but Jewish groups were for some reason upset by this remark, and Moran was forced to apologize, telling the Washington Post, "Probably more than anything else, it's what embarrasses me the most -- when I pander to an audience, and I've done it too often." Was the Congressman learning his lesson? Time will tell. Keep reading.
Up until this point, Moran was for me an amusement, a troubled Congressman to be sure, but not my problem. Well, the Virginia legislature thoughtfully decided to make him my problem. In a rare incidence of bipartisan cooperation, the legislature agreed to redraw the Congressional districts to protect as many incumbents as possible. Up until this point, I had been in the 11th District, represented by moderate Republican Tom Davis, who scored an easy victory in 2000, much like Moran. However, the legislature evidently decided their respective margins of victory weren't wide enough, so they carved out a heavily liberal sliver of Davis' district (where I live) and handed it to Moran. Great! Now I could experience Moran's unique brand of charm and personal service. I could hardly wait.
Holding up their end of the crooked bargain, the Republicans obediently located a nobody, Scott Tate, and threw him up to challenge Moran in '02. Apart from the fact that his name looked good on his campaign signs, I never found out a damn thing about the man, and I'm a political junkie. Despite Tate's nonentity status, the Washington Post was so fed up with Moran that it actually endorsed Tate for election. Meanwhile, up in Maryland, liberal Republican Rep. Connie Morella, a wonderful and scandal-free woman by all accounts, was in a tough re-election battle with Chris Van Hollen, a battle she ultimately lost. So Maryland's Eighth District had a choice between two quality, well-liked candidates, while Virginia's Eighth District was stuck with the Nowhere Man against an incumbent who at this point was doing his best impression of the Rascal King. Moran won re-election. It wasn't close. Everyone went home and tried to forget about it.
But no! Moran wouldn't let us forget. He spoke at an anti-war forum in Reston in March 2003, and was rolling along, soaking up the good vibrations and winning the crowd over, right up until (as always) he put his foot in it. He told the assembled crowd, "If it were not for the strong support of the Jewish community for this war with Iraq, we would not be doing this." Um. Well. It seemed to me it was the President's strong support for war with Iraq that carried the day. Also, it wasn't really clear what Moran meant by "this." Critics claimed he meant the war. Moran claimed he meant the forum. Reasonable people can disagree, I suppose. Except Moran later went on to say that he believed a pro-Israel PAc was out to defeat him and was going to run the campaign of one of his opponents in order to do so. Oh. Virginia governor Mark Warner probably said it best when he issued a statement saying, "Perhaps Congressman Moran should remember that the first thing you do when you find yourself in a hole is you quit digging."
So there you have the Moran record in a nutshell. I skipped over a number of smaller incidents, I assure you. How does this man still have a job, you may well ask? Well, as I said, he is charming. Plus he has the advantages of long-term incumbency. Also, he's in an overwhelmingly Democratic district. And it's reported that he doesn't take kindly to being tangled with. Taken together, this would explain his string of fairly easy victories.
But that can change. After years of no Democratic opposition and barely more of a fight from the Republicans, Moran faces a stiff primary challenge in 2004. His primary Democratic challenger is Fairfax Board of Supervisors Chair Kate Hanley, a woman with a solid record of experience and not a taint of scandal in her history. State Senator Leslie Byrne and attorney Jeremy Bash are also thinking of entering the primary. So, if you live in the Eighth District, it's time to circle the wagons. Whether you're a Republican or Democrat, you must realize that the best shot at picking off Moran is in the primary. The district is so Democratic that a Republican win would be nearly impossible, no matter what Moran does next. Even if you're not thrilled with Hanley, at least the humiliation will be over. The Moran Circus will be shut down. And it's about time.
In the wake of his war remarks, which resulted in his losing the position of minority whip, Moran told Fox News, "I may wear a tie, but I'm probably not meant to be in the Congress." If Moran himself admits this, I think it's time we agree with him.
If you missed it yesterday, Paul Newman wrote a terrific editorial in the New York Times skewering the Fox News lawsuit against Al Franken. It's hilarious, practically a must-read. I also understand Paul Newman used to be some sort of actor.
Apparently Rob Neyer was as distressed by the Cubs' acquisition of Tony Womack as I was. This column barbecues the Cubs for the Womack signing, along with other recent moves. I laughed almost the whole way through. Neyer's often brilliant, and this column is right up there.
Finally, I noticed a mini-explosion in site visits yesterday, thanks almost entirely to the dedicated work of The Smart Lady, who cannot be thanked enough. So, if you're here for the first time, welcome! I hope you find something here to enjoy. Drop me a line if you've got something to say. Also, Site Meter suggests that I may actually have a couple regular readers, which frankly stuns me. So, if you're a regular reader, e-mail me! I want to know who's out there, and what you think of the Mediocre Experience so far. I look forward to hearing from you.
And that's it for today. I'll be on the road the next couple days, so we'll see how that affects my posting schedule. I'll get you one a day, promise, but I'm not sure when. So, hang in there and I'll see you tomorrow.
ALL RISE FOR THE HONORABLE REPRESENTATIVE MORON
This morning I re-read my post on the California governor's race, which has met a certain favorable reaction, and I was chuckling to myself the whole way through. Not at my scathingly witty remarks, but at the process which brought all these wonderful people into the media spotlight. "Ha ha!" I said to myself. "What a stupid system they have in California. They deserve all the ridicule that Gallagher and Larry Flynt can give them." Then I pondered a little more, and a sobering thought crossed my mind. "Who am I," I said to myself, "to criticize the results of this process?" (At this point, Hammerin' Hank told me to shut up and stop talking to myself, so the rest of this is internal monologue.) "After all, those wacky Californians may come out of this with a bad governor, but my district just sent Jim Moran to Congress again, and we can't even blame a recall." This awful realization spread over me like a virus, and I had to take a long water break before I could sit down to write about how the hell Moran happened.
For those who aren't familiar with Rep. Moran and his, uh, unique career, allow me to acquaint you. Moran began his political career as a councilman in the city of Alexandria, where he was elected mayor in 1985. He was elected to Congress in 1990, where he's remained, like a bad case of mold spores, ever since. And to be fair, Moran has his good qualities. He's a real charmer when he wants to be, warm and well-spoken, with a knack for shaking hands and making eye contact. He's a fairly impressive-looking figure, with a craggy Irish face and thick silver hair. His issue positions seem to be in sync with his heavily Democratic district. And he's a master at constituent service; if one of his voters wants something, ask and it shall be delivered. Kind of like Santa Claus.
Unfortunately, there's another side to the distinguished Representative. Actually, his flaws can be broken down into two categories. The first is that he's corrupt in the old-fashioned, scratch-my-back-and-I'll-scratch-yours sort of way. This is the kind of thing that bothers good-government types, which my district contains in some quantity, but on the other hand, it's so rare to see this kind of corruption carried off with such style in this day and age. It could almost be said that Moran is reviving a lost art.
Unfortunately, the second category of gaffes isn't so amusing. On many occasions, in a wide variety of ways, Moran has demonstrated a complete and utter lack of self-control. Never mind whether politicians should be held to a higher standard; Moran's odious behavior would be unacceptable in a next-door neighbor. It seems that every wacky little thought or impulse that enters his head is translated immediately into words or action, without any of the filters that we expect a typical civilized person to have. This, more than anything, is his main problem as a Congressman. Corruption is unbecoming in a politician, sure, but it's hardly unique, not the kind of thing that makes the out-of-state papers. But his outrageous statements and behavior have stirred up a national hubbub, and this will not do. Speaking as an Eighth District voter, I'm tired of being embarrassed by my Congressman.
As a public service, I've delved back into history in order to provide you, The Reader, with a tour of Congressman Moran's colorful career in politics. This has been made possible by the wonderful site MorAntics, which provides a lot of useful information in this regard. (It is run by the Virginia Republican Party, but it's really more of a public resource than a political tool, in my opnion.) So buckle in, kids, and let's watch Jim Moran as he rises through the ranks, shall we?
As I mentioned above, Moran launched his political career in the Alexandria City Council. Trouble arose, however, in 1984 when he was accused of having a business relationship with a bidder for a city contract, and financed a foreign trip for said partner with city money. This sort of garden-variety, low-level corruption seems laughably quaint now, but the City Council was evidently not amused, and Moran was forced to resign his seat.
Lesser disgraced politicians might have retired to private life at this point, but not our Jim. He bravely told reporters after his resignation, "I've asked myself if I have the courage to get back into public office, but I don't have any doubts at this point. It's too important to me. I miss it already." Detractors may well have pointed out that Moran's ethics, not his courage, were at issue here, but Moran didn't have time for these niggling concerns. He was on a mission. And, in a frankly stunning display of cojones, he immediately stood for election as mayor of Alexandria later than year. And he won! I imagine his courage and charm carried the day. And what's a little graft between friends?
Moran was by all accounts a popular mayor, and his term proceeded without incident. Unless, of course, you count the time he was forced to return campaign contributions from developers who had business with the city. Again, this is sort of a minor-league scandal, but you can't move up to big-time scandals unless you're in the big time. Or so Moran evidently figured, because in 1990 he decided it was time to run for Congress!
Moran's opponent was incumbent Republican Rep. Stan Parris, a man who shared the Moran penchant for verbal rabbit-punching but was utterly devoid of the Moran charisma. Referring to the Mayor's opposition to U.S. intervention in Iraq, Parris charmingly asserted: "The only three people I know who support Saddam Hussein's position are Moammar Gadhafi, Yasser Arafat, and Jim Moran." Moran responded by cheerfully labelling Parris "a deceitful, fatuous jerk" and winningly adding, "I want to break his nose." Eighth District voters turned out, held their noses and elected Moran by a comfortable margin. (This would be good practice for the '94 Virginia Senate race between accused coke-snorting party animal Chuck Robb and accused lying document-shredder Ollie North, which one humorist described as "the first election in which all voting booths were equipped with barf bags.") So the popular hero Moran had done it. He was going to Washington!
Moran's first couple Congressional terms passed quietly, at least until the 1995 altercation with Republican Rep. Duke Cunningham of California. Cunningham attempted to have some Moran comments on Bosnia stricken from the record. Moran, apparently forgetting that he was in fact on the floor of Congress and not in a spaghetti Western, invited Cunningham to step outside. Cunningham agreed, whereupon Moran pushed him through a door. On the other side of the door was noted peacemaker Bob Dornan (R-CA), who politely invited Moran to "get your Irish ass out of here." Everyone apologized after that incident, and things were hunky-dory, at lesat until later that year, when Moran tried to pick a fight with Republican Rep. Dan Burton of Indiana. Moran was ahead on all cards when the scuffle was stopped, but ringside observers felt Moran was carrying his left a little low, which probably would have hurt him in the later rounds.
Moran burnished his reputation for customer service in 1998 and 1999, when he finally had a chance to enter the big-time scandal world. Moran found himself in financial difficulties, which is unfortunate, but thankfully MBNA saved the day with a special low-rate mortgage. Moran said thank you in the best way he knew how: he sponsored a bankruptcy bill that coincidentally worked much to the benefit of companies like MBNA. The following year, Moran's finances were apparently is disrepair again, but -- isn't it wonderful to have friends? -- drug-lobbyist Terry Lierman stepped up and helped out his friend Moran with a low-interest personal loan. In another touching display of gratitude, Moran sponsored a bill that coincidentally worked to the benefit of the drug companies Lierman happened to represent. Later that year, after Moran's wife filed for divorce, the Congressman needed a place to live. Wouldn't you know it? One of his lobbyist friends came through again, renting Moran a house in Arlington. And Moran, Mr. Consituent Service himself, once again demonstrated his appreciation by helping to get a federal fund increase for the industries the lobbyist represented. Let it never be said that Jim Moran does not know how to say "thank you."
Unfortunately, a couple of his consituents weren't saying "thank you" after a bizarre 2000 incident in which Moran grabbed an 8-year-old black child by the throat and cursed him out after the child approached Moran near his car. The child claimed he was admiring Moran's car. Moran claimed that child said he had a gun and tried to carjack the Congressman. The Congressman later expressed regret in a very curious speech in which he said, "I just wanted to hug him. I wish I could adopt a child just like him." (Can't Moran tell the difference between a hug and a choke? Had he been hanging out with Bobby Knight?) No charges resulted from the incident, although it caused a minor headache for Moran when Republican opponent Demaris Miller pointed out that the car Moran was driving that day was leased with campaign funds. Nonetheless, Moran scored an easy victory over Miller and secured a sixth term.
After surviving a tough campaign like that, anyone could use a break. So Moran decided to relax, kick back, and have a nice quiet birthday celebration with his girlfriend. Unfortunately, his other girlfriend decided to show up and surprise him. (I hate when that happens.) Well, there were surprises all around, apparently, and the Congressman's two girlfriends wound up getting into a screaming match on his lawn, bad enough that the police were ultimately summoned. Just another day in the life, I suppose.
Moran's next spot of trouble came courtesy of his mouth, when he told the American Muslim Council that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon was "probably seeking a warrant from President Bush to kill at will with weapons we have paid for." Moran has been a longtime Palestinian supporter, which is all well and good, but Jewish groups were for some reason upset by this remark, and Moran was forced to apologize, telling the Washington Post, "Probably more than anything else, it's what embarrasses me the most -- when I pander to an audience, and I've done it too often." Was the Congressman learning his lesson? Time will tell. Keep reading.
Up until this point, Moran was for me an amusement, a troubled Congressman to be sure, but not my problem. Well, the Virginia legislature thoughtfully decided to make him my problem. In a rare incidence of bipartisan cooperation, the legislature agreed to redraw the Congressional districts to protect as many incumbents as possible. Up until this point, I had been in the 11th District, represented by moderate Republican Tom Davis, who scored an easy victory in 2000, much like Moran. However, the legislature evidently decided their respective margins of victory weren't wide enough, so they carved out a heavily liberal sliver of Davis' district (where I live) and handed it to Moran. Great! Now I could experience Moran's unique brand of charm and personal service. I could hardly wait.
Holding up their end of the crooked bargain, the Republicans obediently located a nobody, Scott Tate, and threw him up to challenge Moran in '02. Apart from the fact that his name looked good on his campaign signs, I never found out a damn thing about the man, and I'm a political junkie. Despite Tate's nonentity status, the Washington Post was so fed up with Moran that it actually endorsed Tate for election. Meanwhile, up in Maryland, liberal Republican Rep. Connie Morella, a wonderful and scandal-free woman by all accounts, was in a tough re-election battle with Chris Van Hollen, a battle she ultimately lost. So Maryland's Eighth District had a choice between two quality, well-liked candidates, while Virginia's Eighth District was stuck with the Nowhere Man against an incumbent who at this point was doing his best impression of the Rascal King. Moran won re-election. It wasn't close. Everyone went home and tried to forget about it.
But no! Moran wouldn't let us forget. He spoke at an anti-war forum in Reston in March 2003, and was rolling along, soaking up the good vibrations and winning the crowd over, right up until (as always) he put his foot in it. He told the assembled crowd, "If it were not for the strong support of the Jewish community for this war with Iraq, we would not be doing this." Um. Well. It seemed to me it was the President's strong support for war with Iraq that carried the day. Also, it wasn't really clear what Moran meant by "this." Critics claimed he meant the war. Moran claimed he meant the forum. Reasonable people can disagree, I suppose. Except Moran later went on to say that he believed a pro-Israel PAc was out to defeat him and was going to run the campaign of one of his opponents in order to do so. Oh. Virginia governor Mark Warner probably said it best when he issued a statement saying, "Perhaps Congressman Moran should remember that the first thing you do when you find yourself in a hole is you quit digging."
So there you have the Moran record in a nutshell. I skipped over a number of smaller incidents, I assure you. How does this man still have a job, you may well ask? Well, as I said, he is charming. Plus he has the advantages of long-term incumbency. Also, he's in an overwhelmingly Democratic district. And it's reported that he doesn't take kindly to being tangled with. Taken together, this would explain his string of fairly easy victories.
But that can change. After years of no Democratic opposition and barely more of a fight from the Republicans, Moran faces a stiff primary challenge in 2004. His primary Democratic challenger is Fairfax Board of Supervisors Chair Kate Hanley, a woman with a solid record of experience and not a taint of scandal in her history. State Senator Leslie Byrne and attorney Jeremy Bash are also thinking of entering the primary. So, if you live in the Eighth District, it's time to circle the wagons. Whether you're a Republican or Democrat, you must realize that the best shot at picking off Moran is in the primary. The district is so Democratic that a Republican win would be nearly impossible, no matter what Moran does next. Even if you're not thrilled with Hanley, at least the humiliation will be over. The Moran Circus will be shut down. And it's about time.
In the wake of his war remarks, which resulted in his losing the position of minority whip, Moran told Fox News, "I may wear a tie, but I'm probably not meant to be in the Congress." If Moran himself admits this, I think it's time we agree with him.
If you missed it yesterday, Paul Newman wrote a terrific editorial in the New York Times skewering the Fox News lawsuit against Al Franken. It's hilarious, practically a must-read. I also understand Paul Newman used to be some sort of actor.
Apparently Rob Neyer was as distressed by the Cubs' acquisition of Tony Womack as I was. This column barbecues the Cubs for the Womack signing, along with other recent moves. I laughed almost the whole way through. Neyer's often brilliant, and this column is right up there.
Finally, I noticed a mini-explosion in site visits yesterday, thanks almost entirely to the dedicated work of The Smart Lady, who cannot be thanked enough. So, if you're here for the first time, welcome! I hope you find something here to enjoy. Drop me a line if you've got something to say. Also, Site Meter suggests that I may actually have a couple regular readers, which frankly stuns me. So, if you're a regular reader, e-mail me! I want to know who's out there, and what you think of the Mediocre Experience so far. I look forward to hearing from you.
And that's it for today. I'll be on the road the next couple days, so we'll see how that affects my posting schedule. I'll get you one a day, promise, but I'm not sure when. So, hang in there and I'll see you tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Lollipop" by the Chordettes
FILLING YOU IN ON THE LATEST OUTRAGE
You'll have to excuse me, folks. I'm not myself today. I was just sitting peacefully, minding my own business, when I got the news. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. The initial shock rendered me helpless at first, but once the details began to filter down, I quickly recovered from the shock and discovered a whole new emotion: Anger. I tried to hold back, count to ten and calm down before I started writing. But the bile welled up in me, clogging my throat and blurring my vision, and I couldn't restrain myself. I hope my faithful readers will forgive the searing tone of righteous rage that will permeate this piece. I know it's not in my usual line. But this isn't any usual event. If you've heard the news by now, you probably share my sense of anger. If you haven't, well, Mediocre Fred is sorry to have to break it to you, but here it is: They've changed the Five Flavor Life Savers.
If you grew up here on Earth, you're probably aware of the Five Flavor tradition, but in case you're not, here's a little capsule (with the help of the Life Savers Web site): Life Savers were invented in 1912 in Cleveland, by a chocolatier named Clarence Crane, who evidently noticed his sales dropping in the summer, when chocolate tends to turn to soup if you look at it hard enough. Chocolate has a worse time of it in summer than I do. So Crane invented these sugary little rings, which he named Life Savers (so called because they're just like the circle of life, or something... my notes are splashed with tomato sauce, and I was too lazy to look it up again. Sorry). He started with peppermint, but the franchise quickly extended to fun fruity flavors like lemon (1924), lime (ditto), and cherry (1934). I have no idea why lemon and lime came before the clearly superior cherry. Perhaps there was a scurvy epidemic in the '20s. But all that's just preamble for the big breakthrough, the introduction of the Five Flavor roll in 1935. The Big Five established then set the standard for decades to come, not least because of the awesome-looking striped wrapper it produced. The wrapper featured those exciting, vibrant rainbow colors which we come to know and love as children:
RED (cherry)
ORANGE (orange, oddly enough)
YELLOW (lemon)
GREEN (lime)
and, uh, WHITE (pineapple)
Why they decided on pineapple instead of, say, grape is anyone's guess. (In fact, to the best of my knowledge there's never been a grape Life Saver, which has never been satisfactorily explained, at least not to me.) Whoever made that call, though, was divinely inspired: Pineapple syncs far better with the other, largely citrusy flavors on the roll than grape would have. There is (or was) a certain balance to the flavors, apart from their colors, transitioning from the rich, robust "wild" cherry to the exotic, tangy pineapple. (I suspect the Life Saver people grow their cherries in captivity, but as usual, I have no proof. Someone should investigate this.) The middle three citrus flavors served as just the right palate cleanser to get you from one end of the spectrum to the other. You had the mellow, unassuming orange giving way to that tart splash of lemon to that quasi-Carribean aroma offered by lime. It was a marvel, candy nirvana, really. And the people responded, as evidence by the fact that the Five Flavor combination was hugely successful in its original incarnation for 68 years. Sixty-eight! Think about that. Obviously, the Big Five were an institution, a masterpiece not to be trifled with.
And just as obviously, someone had to trifle with it. Corporations do that, just to keep consumers awake. Ask Coke. Life Savers doesn't say whose brainstorm was responsible for the change, but I have my guess. Some junior Life Savers executive was probably sitting in his cubicle, staring at a motivational poster and trying to figure out a way to get himself noticed for a promotion. Suddenly, his ticket to the big time arose out of the blue. "Let's change the Five Flavor roll!" he shouted. "It's time we did something different!" I suspect that if he worked for the government, he'd suggest that we paint the Statue of Liberty pink, or point all of our nuclear missiles at St. Louis, because it was "time we did something different." Now, the good thing about huge corporations is supposed to be that they're so hidebound that "innovations" such as these are dismissed out of hand. Clearly, the Life Savers corporation is not hidebound enough. Our junior-executive friend must have pitched his idea to upper management, probably during a week when their medications were being adjusted, and management loved it. They voted unanimously for the idea, and doubtless gave the junior executive a corner office with a view of whatever natural beauty is closest to Life Savers headquarters. While I, tireless defender of tradition and crusader against those who would desecrate our candy, am stuck in a cublicle with a view of a brick wall. But I digress.
First they tried to get rid of pineapple. They mounted a marketing campaign a couple years back, informed people that pineapple was history, and invited them to visit Life Savers' Web site and vote for a new flavor. Now, I like pineapple. But a lot of people I talked to didn't. Something about its weird foreign vibe set people on edge, I guess. So I was definitely nervous. But pineapple, showing the kind of clutch resourcefulness that Gray Davis can only envy, beat the recall, and the Big Five were preserved. The people had spoken, and they sent a clear message to the Life Savers corporation: Do not mess with the Five Flavors. We like the Five Flavors. Uphold tradition and you shall be rewarded.
So the quick-thinking Life Savers management team, looking over the results, decided that the problem was that they weren't thinking big enough. So they plotted an even bigger switcheroo. They preserved pineapple, which apparently was now "the people's choice," and "wild" cherry, because they knew the rioting that would ensue if they tried to remove that old standby. But they threw the other flavors up for a vote against a bunch of others. This time, they bypassed the big marketing campaign, the better to conceal their nefarious intentions. Publicizing the poll to friends and family of Life Savers management, they finally achieved their noxious goal, and recently announced that the deed was done. Orange, lemon and lime, the Holy Citrus Trinity, our great beloved friends, were history.
And in their place? Oh, this really gets my blood boiling. Replacing the old reliables, we have watermelon, a flavor so popular that when it got its own roll in '92, it lasted a whole three years before flaming out, and raspberry and blackberry, two refugees from the Wild Berry roll. (Side note on the Wild Berry roll: It contains five flavors, three of which are raspberry, black raspberry and blackberry. At least two of those have to be duplicates. If black raspberry doesn't taste like raspberry, doesn't it taste like... blackberry?) The sacrilege of the change is bad enough, but there are several additional indignities heaped on top:
- By replacing three flavors at once, voters had no way of coordinating the new flavors to the rest of the roll or to each other. The hallmark of the Five Flavor experience has always been that synergy, and they just whacked through that with a machete. Students of American history may recall that in the early days of the Republic, there was no separate balloting for Prsident and Vice-President, so the top two votegetters got the spots. In 1796, this meant we got a John Adams/Thomas Jefferson combination, a fine and noble team of Founding Fathers who just happened to hate each other's guts. That's more or less what happened here.
- Particularly galling is the fate of pineapple, "the people's choice." As previously stated, I like pineapple. But without its citrus anchors, pineapple exists in its own flavor universe. None of the new flavors is a good bridge. Pineapple can't make it on its own, and now it has no help. Argh.
- Cherry, raspberry and blackberry already exist together on the Wild Berry roll. They're cannibalizing themselves! And it's not as though anyone ever says, "Boy, I could really use a berry fix... oh, and watermelon and pineapple, too." The combination is an abomination, and a redundant one at that.
- Watermelon's green now! Of all the outrage! Green is supposed to be lime. Watermelon should be pink. Except that pink is now raspberry. Although raspberries are actually red. But red is already reserved for cherry. But never mind the math: In a pathetic attempt to salvage something like the seductive old Five Flavor wrapper, they've sold out green for leprous watermelon. Jujyfruits conoisseurs will understand my feelings. They remember the confusion that resulted when, one day, green stopped being mint and started being lime. Or Pine-Sol; it was hard to tell. That ticked people off, so they changed it to a weird, unpleasant mint-lime amalgam without telling anyone. Now I can't palm off the green ones on anybody. Snarl.
The Life Savers corporation has had a long and inglorious history of poor decisions. For instance, they heartlessly whacked my favorite flavors, buttercream and cinnamon, back in the '80s, while preserving such sterling flavors as Cryst-O-Mint, which doesn't taste like anything, and Butter Rum, which the company claims as a top seller despite the fact that it looks and tastes like compressed cat urine. And we won't even get into the hypocrisy of the name. I have yet to see proof that those candies, delicious as they are, have ever saved an actual life.
My point is, we need to stand up and fight the change! Don't roll over and let the giant, monolithic Life Savers corporation shamelessly meddle with our traditions this way! We must resist! I hereby call for a boycott of the Five Flavor roll until Life Savers restores the rightful colors and flavors we've come to know and love. I'm sure it goes without saying that you, The Reader, are behind me on this now, so tell your friends and neighbors. Together, we can change the world. Let's put our money where our mouth is, where our beloved Five Flavors used to be.
Jon Stewart got off a good line on The Daily Show last night, asking why we were all rushing to pat New York on the back for passing a 9-hour blackout without rioting or cannibalism. I laughed, as did The Smart Lady, but E.J. Dionne argues that the lack of violence during the blackout is quite meaningful, and a positive sign. In a stirring dissent, Richard Cohen argues that this spasm of do-goodism proves that New York has become a city full of pantywaists who might as well be living in Iowa or something. Angry New Yorkers, please direct your hate mail to Mr. Cohen.
Today's Post also carried a feature on sedation dentistry, wherein the dentist essentially knocks you out and fixes everything while you're out. I'm torn about this. On the one hand, I never liked dentists. The hygienists always nagged me about flossing, and it usually did hurt whenever I went. On the other hand, what if I'm lying there knocked out and the dentist realizes he has a payment due on his vacation home? What's to stop him from replacing a few extra teeth? I'll never be able to prove it wasn't necessary. I suppose my point here is: Kids, remember to floss.
Hey, Cubs fans! You may be struggling to make headway in the NL Central race, but fear not! All your troubles are over. Tony Womack's here! I'll never forgive Tony for submarining my fantasy team two years ago, so let me just say to you Chicagoans: You probably thought you had it good after you dumped Jose Hernandez and Lenny Harris, but look what you have now. Enjoy the wall ivy. Too bad we'll never know how it looks in October.
That's all for now. Have a happy Tuesday. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. See you tomorrow. Arrivederci.
FILLING YOU IN ON THE LATEST OUTRAGE
You'll have to excuse me, folks. I'm not myself today. I was just sitting peacefully, minding my own business, when I got the news. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. The initial shock rendered me helpless at first, but once the details began to filter down, I quickly recovered from the shock and discovered a whole new emotion: Anger. I tried to hold back, count to ten and calm down before I started writing. But the bile welled up in me, clogging my throat and blurring my vision, and I couldn't restrain myself. I hope my faithful readers will forgive the searing tone of righteous rage that will permeate this piece. I know it's not in my usual line. But this isn't any usual event. If you've heard the news by now, you probably share my sense of anger. If you haven't, well, Mediocre Fred is sorry to have to break it to you, but here it is: They've changed the Five Flavor Life Savers.
If you grew up here on Earth, you're probably aware of the Five Flavor tradition, but in case you're not, here's a little capsule (with the help of the Life Savers Web site): Life Savers were invented in 1912 in Cleveland, by a chocolatier named Clarence Crane, who evidently noticed his sales dropping in the summer, when chocolate tends to turn to soup if you look at it hard enough. Chocolate has a worse time of it in summer than I do. So Crane invented these sugary little rings, which he named Life Savers (so called because they're just like the circle of life, or something... my notes are splashed with tomato sauce, and I was too lazy to look it up again. Sorry). He started with peppermint, but the franchise quickly extended to fun fruity flavors like lemon (1924), lime (ditto), and cherry (1934). I have no idea why lemon and lime came before the clearly superior cherry. Perhaps there was a scurvy epidemic in the '20s. But all that's just preamble for the big breakthrough, the introduction of the Five Flavor roll in 1935. The Big Five established then set the standard for decades to come, not least because of the awesome-looking striped wrapper it produced. The wrapper featured those exciting, vibrant rainbow colors which we come to know and love as children:
RED (cherry)
ORANGE (orange, oddly enough)
YELLOW (lemon)
GREEN (lime)
and, uh, WHITE (pineapple)
Why they decided on pineapple instead of, say, grape is anyone's guess. (In fact, to the best of my knowledge there's never been a grape Life Saver, which has never been satisfactorily explained, at least not to me.) Whoever made that call, though, was divinely inspired: Pineapple syncs far better with the other, largely citrusy flavors on the roll than grape would have. There is (or was) a certain balance to the flavors, apart from their colors, transitioning from the rich, robust "wild" cherry to the exotic, tangy pineapple. (I suspect the Life Saver people grow their cherries in captivity, but as usual, I have no proof. Someone should investigate this.) The middle three citrus flavors served as just the right palate cleanser to get you from one end of the spectrum to the other. You had the mellow, unassuming orange giving way to that tart splash of lemon to that quasi-Carribean aroma offered by lime. It was a marvel, candy nirvana, really. And the people responded, as evidence by the fact that the Five Flavor combination was hugely successful in its original incarnation for 68 years. Sixty-eight! Think about that. Obviously, the Big Five were an institution, a masterpiece not to be trifled with.
And just as obviously, someone had to trifle with it. Corporations do that, just to keep consumers awake. Ask Coke. Life Savers doesn't say whose brainstorm was responsible for the change, but I have my guess. Some junior Life Savers executive was probably sitting in his cubicle, staring at a motivational poster and trying to figure out a way to get himself noticed for a promotion. Suddenly, his ticket to the big time arose out of the blue. "Let's change the Five Flavor roll!" he shouted. "It's time we did something different!" I suspect that if he worked for the government, he'd suggest that we paint the Statue of Liberty pink, or point all of our nuclear missiles at St. Louis, because it was "time we did something different." Now, the good thing about huge corporations is supposed to be that they're so hidebound that "innovations" such as these are dismissed out of hand. Clearly, the Life Savers corporation is not hidebound enough. Our junior-executive friend must have pitched his idea to upper management, probably during a week when their medications were being adjusted, and management loved it. They voted unanimously for the idea, and doubtless gave the junior executive a corner office with a view of whatever natural beauty is closest to Life Savers headquarters. While I, tireless defender of tradition and crusader against those who would desecrate our candy, am stuck in a cublicle with a view of a brick wall. But I digress.
First they tried to get rid of pineapple. They mounted a marketing campaign a couple years back, informed people that pineapple was history, and invited them to visit Life Savers' Web site and vote for a new flavor. Now, I like pineapple. But a lot of people I talked to didn't. Something about its weird foreign vibe set people on edge, I guess. So I was definitely nervous. But pineapple, showing the kind of clutch resourcefulness that Gray Davis can only envy, beat the recall, and the Big Five were preserved. The people had spoken, and they sent a clear message to the Life Savers corporation: Do not mess with the Five Flavors. We like the Five Flavors. Uphold tradition and you shall be rewarded.
So the quick-thinking Life Savers management team, looking over the results, decided that the problem was that they weren't thinking big enough. So they plotted an even bigger switcheroo. They preserved pineapple, which apparently was now "the people's choice," and "wild" cherry, because they knew the rioting that would ensue if they tried to remove that old standby. But they threw the other flavors up for a vote against a bunch of others. This time, they bypassed the big marketing campaign, the better to conceal their nefarious intentions. Publicizing the poll to friends and family of Life Savers management, they finally achieved their noxious goal, and recently announced that the deed was done. Orange, lemon and lime, the Holy Citrus Trinity, our great beloved friends, were history.
And in their place? Oh, this really gets my blood boiling. Replacing the old reliables, we have watermelon, a flavor so popular that when it got its own roll in '92, it lasted a whole three years before flaming out, and raspberry and blackberry, two refugees from the Wild Berry roll. (Side note on the Wild Berry roll: It contains five flavors, three of which are raspberry, black raspberry and blackberry. At least two of those have to be duplicates. If black raspberry doesn't taste like raspberry, doesn't it taste like... blackberry?) The sacrilege of the change is bad enough, but there are several additional indignities heaped on top:
- By replacing three flavors at once, voters had no way of coordinating the new flavors to the rest of the roll or to each other. The hallmark of the Five Flavor experience has always been that synergy, and they just whacked through that with a machete. Students of American history may recall that in the early days of the Republic, there was no separate balloting for Prsident and Vice-President, so the top two votegetters got the spots. In 1796, this meant we got a John Adams/Thomas Jefferson combination, a fine and noble team of Founding Fathers who just happened to hate each other's guts. That's more or less what happened here.
- Particularly galling is the fate of pineapple, "the people's choice." As previously stated, I like pineapple. But without its citrus anchors, pineapple exists in its own flavor universe. None of the new flavors is a good bridge. Pineapple can't make it on its own, and now it has no help. Argh.
- Cherry, raspberry and blackberry already exist together on the Wild Berry roll. They're cannibalizing themselves! And it's not as though anyone ever says, "Boy, I could really use a berry fix... oh, and watermelon and pineapple, too." The combination is an abomination, and a redundant one at that.
- Watermelon's green now! Of all the outrage! Green is supposed to be lime. Watermelon should be pink. Except that pink is now raspberry. Although raspberries are actually red. But red is already reserved for cherry. But never mind the math: In a pathetic attempt to salvage something like the seductive old Five Flavor wrapper, they've sold out green for leprous watermelon. Jujyfruits conoisseurs will understand my feelings. They remember the confusion that resulted when, one day, green stopped being mint and started being lime. Or Pine-Sol; it was hard to tell. That ticked people off, so they changed it to a weird, unpleasant mint-lime amalgam without telling anyone. Now I can't palm off the green ones on anybody. Snarl.
The Life Savers corporation has had a long and inglorious history of poor decisions. For instance, they heartlessly whacked my favorite flavors, buttercream and cinnamon, back in the '80s, while preserving such sterling flavors as Cryst-O-Mint, which doesn't taste like anything, and Butter Rum, which the company claims as a top seller despite the fact that it looks and tastes like compressed cat urine. And we won't even get into the hypocrisy of the name. I have yet to see proof that those candies, delicious as they are, have ever saved an actual life.
My point is, we need to stand up and fight the change! Don't roll over and let the giant, monolithic Life Savers corporation shamelessly meddle with our traditions this way! We must resist! I hereby call for a boycott of the Five Flavor roll until Life Savers restores the rightful colors and flavors we've come to know and love. I'm sure it goes without saying that you, The Reader, are behind me on this now, so tell your friends and neighbors. Together, we can change the world. Let's put our money where our mouth is, where our beloved Five Flavors used to be.
Jon Stewart got off a good line on The Daily Show last night, asking why we were all rushing to pat New York on the back for passing a 9-hour blackout without rioting or cannibalism. I laughed, as did The Smart Lady, but E.J. Dionne argues that the lack of violence during the blackout is quite meaningful, and a positive sign. In a stirring dissent, Richard Cohen argues that this spasm of do-goodism proves that New York has become a city full of pantywaists who might as well be living in Iowa or something. Angry New Yorkers, please direct your hate mail to Mr. Cohen.
Today's Post also carried a feature on sedation dentistry, wherein the dentist essentially knocks you out and fixes everything while you're out. I'm torn about this. On the one hand, I never liked dentists. The hygienists always nagged me about flossing, and it usually did hurt whenever I went. On the other hand, what if I'm lying there knocked out and the dentist realizes he has a payment due on his vacation home? What's to stop him from replacing a few extra teeth? I'll never be able to prove it wasn't necessary. I suppose my point here is: Kids, remember to floss.
Hey, Cubs fans! You may be struggling to make headway in the NL Central race, but fear not! All your troubles are over. Tony Womack's here! I'll never forgive Tony for submarining my fantasy team two years ago, so let me just say to you Chicagoans: You probably thought you had it good after you dumped Jose Hernandez and Lenny Harris, but look what you have now. Enjoy the wall ivy. Too bad we'll never know how it looks in October.
That's all for now. Have a happy Tuesday. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. See you tomorrow. Arrivederci.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "The Waiting Is the Hardest Part" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING REALLY DIFFERENT!
Hi there, readers. I promised you a guest columnist today, and a guest columnist you shall have. Hoping to avoid a repeat of the Hammerin' Hank fiasco, I didn't go out and get a ranter. Instead, I decided to go for something else entirely. You see, Mediocre Fred hopes to provide you, The Reader, with a full-service blog experience. Sure, I could try to content you with whatever limited entertainment or wisdom might be contained in my rambling, usually pointless discursions on whatever's in my head. But I'd rather at least occasionally bring in someone who might actually provide you with useful information. So I hired a romantic-advice columnist.
Mediocre Fred feels that romantic advice is an area that could stand some improvement in general. Like so many of us, I had my romantic struggles back in the day (before I met The Smart Lady, of course), and I felt like I had nowhere to turn to get quality advice targeted toward someone like me. I still perceive such a lack in the advice-offering world, so I went looking for someone with a unique romantic perspective. After possibly 10 or 15 minutes of serious consideration, I decided on today's guest, Uncle Millie.
I'd launch into a lengthy introducion of Uncle Millie, but he told me it wasn't necessary. He said he could be lengthy enough on his own and didn't need my help. So let me just say that he's had a major effect on my life, and I'm hoping he'll affect yours, too. I'll step aside now, and I'll be back on the other side with a few links for the day. Friends and readers, Mediocre Fred proudly presents...
- - - - -
Young Love: A Field Guide, by Uncle Millie
Greetings, lads and lasses! My name is Millard J. McLeary Jr., but you can call me Uncle Millie. Everybody does, except for my ex-wives, who call me names Mediocre Fred tells me I can't repeat here, and my children, who call me collect. I'm here to provide sound, road-tested advice gained through many years and many relationships. Many, many relationships. Uncle Millie does not wish to brag, but Wilt Chamberlain has nothing on me. I've been through all stages of the romantic relationship, several times, from the whiskey-soaked first glances to the whiskey-soaked first conversation to the whiskey-soaked first date to the whiskey-soaked first marriage to the nigthmarish, sadly un-whiskey-soaked divorce settlement. So whether you're in the market for a new love or have already acquired that special someone all your own, Uncle Millie is here to help.
I thought I'd start out today by sharing some of my own background, how I came to have all this romantic wisdom and experience. Next week, I'll share my basic tips on finding and maintaining a great romance. And then the week after that, I'll start taking your romantic questions, providing my unique romantic advice to those in need. I'll sort of be the Mother Teresa of romantic advice, dropping in on poor, starving Third World nations with my own brand of selfless benevolence. For today, though, we'll start with the history. Go ahead, pull up a chair and prepare to be enlightened. Oh, and while you're up, could you fix your Uncle Millie a gin-and-tonic? There's a good lad.
Now, as you might expect, your Uncle Millie was a romantic lad from the very beginning. I played all the romantic childhood games, like Post Office, Spin-the-Bottle, Doctor and Punishing the Naughty French Maid. I had quite a number of relationships even then, but some of those special lasses remain in my memory to this day. Like the tall one with the red hair and the green eyes, or perhaps her eyes were brown. Her name was Cassie. Or Carrie. Or possibly Casey. But never mind her... she couldn't hold a candle to Phyllis, the one with the legs, who was the mayor's daughter. Or niece. Or am I thinking of Felicia? No, Felicia was the one whose father had that big Cadillac, with the big back seat, where we used to... No matter. My point is, even as a little scamp I was in the romantic way, a lesson you would do well to copy, if you're still young. If you're no longer young, you'll need to settle for being horny. Which is also fine. But I digress.
College was a blur. Drinking, whoring, staggering around looking for someplace else to drink, drinking some more, puking, whoring while puking, and more drinking. I can say without reservation that college was the finest six months of my life. Unless you count the part of it I spent in jail for making love to a young woman on the Dean's lawn. After being expelled over said incident, I returned to my hometown, head unbowed, and took a position at the local grocery store. I believe it was the missionary position. I supported myself by selling encyclopedias door-to-door. Unfortunately, the book-store owner found out what I was doing and made me give the encyclopedias back. About that time, I thought it was time to settle down with a woman, the kind who could provide me with a stable home life and a steady paycheck.
My first wife, Dorothy, was my high-school sweetheart. She was a sweet girl, with long brown hair and legs to match. I really believe we might have had a chance at true and long-lasting happiness, if she hadn't gotten so upset over every minor thing I did wrong. I left the toilet seat up and she got upset. I had a couple too many drinks at Mass and she got upset. I came home an hour or four late from work and she got upset. I knocked up another woman and she got upset. Eventually it came to be too much, and I finally had enough and left.
The woman I knocked up became Wife Number Two. Her name was Cindy. She was a real fiery lass. When she caught me cheating the first time, she set fire to my ties. The second time, she set fire to my car. The third time, she set fire to my hair, and not the hair on my head, either. I put up with as much of this behavior as I could, but when my fire-insurance coverage was dropped, I was forced to pack up my ashes and strike out on my own again.
Sadly, alcohol played a major role in my next two marriages. My prodigious drinking probably caused the end of my third marriage, to Ellen, and it definitely was the cause of my fourth marriage. My fourth marriage was all right for a couple months, but then the hangover wore off, and it was over. I'm not sure I ever got the name of my fourth wife, but it doesn't matter. She didn't get mine, either, which means she can't sue me for alimony. Thank heaven for small mercies.
I was almost ready to give up on love at this point, but then I met Carolyn. She was a tall, pageant-quality blonde with eyes that were as clear and placid as a pond in a meadow. She told me that she was a contortionist with the circus, and then proceeded to prove it, for three days on end. After she made her case so eloquently, how could I resist making her my fifth wife? Talk about The Greatest Show on Earth! We had a wild and wonderful time together. Unfortunately, we wound up being stalked by my second ex-wife, who stood outside our window waving her torch and screaming something about vigilante justice. At the time I couldn't figure out how she'd found out where we lived, although looking back, Carolyn and I probably had the only bedroom on the block with a trapeze in it. We tried to laugh off the threats, but when we cam home one day to find our holly bushes burning, we decided that either God or Cindy was trying to send us a sign. We parted friends, and I still remember Carolyn fondly. In fact, of all my ex-wives, she's the one I miss the most.
I don't think my sixth marriage should count, since it was a union of convenience for us both. Rosa needed to get married to stay in the country, and I needed a place to hide from the family-support people. In the end, they got Rosa anyway and sent her back to Mexico, and I was once again on my own. Our marriage was brief, but I still think of her every time I visit Taco Bell.
I worked briefly as a professional wine-taster, but that ended when they insisted that I not swallow the wine. Can you imagine? I was just starting to get over that crushing disappointment when I met Maureen. She was a warm and loving lass, and it wasn't long before we, too, were married. We had a happy year or two, but things unraveled in time. At first glance, it was the same old story: the late nights, the flimsy alibis, the lipstick on the collar, the strange perfume on the clothes, the unexplained panties in the jacket pocket. The odd part was, all that was on her clothes. She had always seemed somewhat uninterested in bed, and now I understood why. Clearly, the pressure of marrying a man of my romantic background was too much, so much so that she gave up on the male gender altogether, knowing that nothing awaited her there but disappointment. After me, it was all downhill.
Since Maureen and I went our separate ways a couple years back, I've been between marriages. I've used that time to take stock of my life, and figure out what my direction should be. I had long discussions with my good friends Jamison and Bushmill, and ultimately I decided that I could best serve humanity by sharing my experience, counseling young lovers in the ways of romance as only I could. After all, if someone's only been married once or twice, what do they really know about it? I've had experience. I've had a much wider variety of women than most, which enables me to relate to any of you lads, no matter what's wrong with your women. You can count on Uncle Millie to steer you right. Having taken just about every wrong turn it is possible to take, I'm well-equipped to help you find the path of right.
Now, lest some of you think that my experience has made me bitter and incapable of seeing the brighter side of romance, I assure you that it is not so. I have fond memories of at least half of my wives. Also, I am the father of nine or ten very special children, and they can't take that away from me, no matter what the state says. Sure, I've had some bumps in the road, but if I had my life to live over, I wouldn't change a thing. Except for marrying my fourth wife. And my second. And my seventh. Other than that, not a thing.
So that's how I got to be where I am today, prepared to magnanimously dispense my advice to the confused youth of today. I ask nothing in return other than your attention and consideration. Also, my glass is empty. Would you mind? Good lad.
- - - - -
Well, thank you, Uncle Millie! He'll be a regular fixture here, posting his column every Monday, so long as he is out of prison. If you have any questions for Uncle Millie, e-mail them to my address (mediocrefred1979@yahoo.com) and I'll see that he gets them.
Not a big news weekend. ESPN's Jim Caple offered up a pretty clever faux news report on the New York blackout. Not his best effort, but not bad.
Continuing the proud tradition of hard-nosed, take-no-prisoners journalism that has made it such a smashing success, the Washington Post's Sunday Source column brings us a no-hold-barred look at... gelato cocktails. Frankly, they don't even sound good. And for those of you with strong stomachs and an appreciation of bad journalism, try this lead paragraph on for size:
The invitation combined suburban hedonism and culinary sophistication: a hot tub party with gelato cocktails. So we arrived at the home of Marc and Jill Dosik -- a Brookville, Md., couple celebrating their first year running Cafe Gelato in Bethesda -- hungry and ready to drink. Smoking olive oil wafting from the grilled pollo Italiano panini pulled guests outside. On the deck, candles flickered, the blender whirred and the hot tub burped.
Horrifying, simply horrifying. The Sunday Source must be stopped.
Looks like interim California governor "Battleship" Gray Davis is attempting to win the voters over with personality, in the sense of demonstrating that he has one. I wish him luck.
The Post's Outlook section brings us a Vermont reprter calling Howard Dean a moderate. The author makes some good points, and it will be interesting to see how Dean positions himself going forward. If you're interested in Dean, pro or con, read this article; it's one of the best looks at his Vermont record I've seen so far.
Finally, I want to thank The Smart Lady for installing Site Meter on this blog. Now I can see exactly how unpopular I am, rather than having to guess at it. Specificity is much better. The Smart Lady and I had a wonderful weekend. We did something for each of us: she took me to the mall, and I took her out to play baseball. (Uncle Millie says: "Lad, don't let 'em go shopping! It'll be your ruination. Once they start spending money, it's all over." I'll take his opinion under advisement.) The lesson, as always: The Smart Lady rocks.
That's all for today. I'll be back in the driver's seat tomorrow. Try to contain your excitement. See you tomorrow. A bientot.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING REALLY DIFFERENT!
Hi there, readers. I promised you a guest columnist today, and a guest columnist you shall have. Hoping to avoid a repeat of the Hammerin' Hank fiasco, I didn't go out and get a ranter. Instead, I decided to go for something else entirely. You see, Mediocre Fred hopes to provide you, The Reader, with a full-service blog experience. Sure, I could try to content you with whatever limited entertainment or wisdom might be contained in my rambling, usually pointless discursions on whatever's in my head. But I'd rather at least occasionally bring in someone who might actually provide you with useful information. So I hired a romantic-advice columnist.
Mediocre Fred feels that romantic advice is an area that could stand some improvement in general. Like so many of us, I had my romantic struggles back in the day (before I met The Smart Lady, of course), and I felt like I had nowhere to turn to get quality advice targeted toward someone like me. I still perceive such a lack in the advice-offering world, so I went looking for someone with a unique romantic perspective. After possibly 10 or 15 minutes of serious consideration, I decided on today's guest, Uncle Millie.
I'd launch into a lengthy introducion of Uncle Millie, but he told me it wasn't necessary. He said he could be lengthy enough on his own and didn't need my help. So let me just say that he's had a major effect on my life, and I'm hoping he'll affect yours, too. I'll step aside now, and I'll be back on the other side with a few links for the day. Friends and readers, Mediocre Fred proudly presents...
- - - - -
Young Love: A Field Guide, by Uncle Millie
Greetings, lads and lasses! My name is Millard J. McLeary Jr., but you can call me Uncle Millie. Everybody does, except for my ex-wives, who call me names Mediocre Fred tells me I can't repeat here, and my children, who call me collect. I'm here to provide sound, road-tested advice gained through many years and many relationships. Many, many relationships. Uncle Millie does not wish to brag, but Wilt Chamberlain has nothing on me. I've been through all stages of the romantic relationship, several times, from the whiskey-soaked first glances to the whiskey-soaked first conversation to the whiskey-soaked first date to the whiskey-soaked first marriage to the nigthmarish, sadly un-whiskey-soaked divorce settlement. So whether you're in the market for a new love or have already acquired that special someone all your own, Uncle Millie is here to help.
I thought I'd start out today by sharing some of my own background, how I came to have all this romantic wisdom and experience. Next week, I'll share my basic tips on finding and maintaining a great romance. And then the week after that, I'll start taking your romantic questions, providing my unique romantic advice to those in need. I'll sort of be the Mother Teresa of romantic advice, dropping in on poor, starving Third World nations with my own brand of selfless benevolence. For today, though, we'll start with the history. Go ahead, pull up a chair and prepare to be enlightened. Oh, and while you're up, could you fix your Uncle Millie a gin-and-tonic? There's a good lad.
Now, as you might expect, your Uncle Millie was a romantic lad from the very beginning. I played all the romantic childhood games, like Post Office, Spin-the-Bottle, Doctor and Punishing the Naughty French Maid. I had quite a number of relationships even then, but some of those special lasses remain in my memory to this day. Like the tall one with the red hair and the green eyes, or perhaps her eyes were brown. Her name was Cassie. Or Carrie. Or possibly Casey. But never mind her... she couldn't hold a candle to Phyllis, the one with the legs, who was the mayor's daughter. Or niece. Or am I thinking of Felicia? No, Felicia was the one whose father had that big Cadillac, with the big back seat, where we used to... No matter. My point is, even as a little scamp I was in the romantic way, a lesson you would do well to copy, if you're still young. If you're no longer young, you'll need to settle for being horny. Which is also fine. But I digress.
College was a blur. Drinking, whoring, staggering around looking for someplace else to drink, drinking some more, puking, whoring while puking, and more drinking. I can say without reservation that college was the finest six months of my life. Unless you count the part of it I spent in jail for making love to a young woman on the Dean's lawn. After being expelled over said incident, I returned to my hometown, head unbowed, and took a position at the local grocery store. I believe it was the missionary position. I supported myself by selling encyclopedias door-to-door. Unfortunately, the book-store owner found out what I was doing and made me give the encyclopedias back. About that time, I thought it was time to settle down with a woman, the kind who could provide me with a stable home life and a steady paycheck.
My first wife, Dorothy, was my high-school sweetheart. She was a sweet girl, with long brown hair and legs to match. I really believe we might have had a chance at true and long-lasting happiness, if she hadn't gotten so upset over every minor thing I did wrong. I left the toilet seat up and she got upset. I had a couple too many drinks at Mass and she got upset. I came home an hour or four late from work and she got upset. I knocked up another woman and she got upset. Eventually it came to be too much, and I finally had enough and left.
The woman I knocked up became Wife Number Two. Her name was Cindy. She was a real fiery lass. When she caught me cheating the first time, she set fire to my ties. The second time, she set fire to my car. The third time, she set fire to my hair, and not the hair on my head, either. I put up with as much of this behavior as I could, but when my fire-insurance coverage was dropped, I was forced to pack up my ashes and strike out on my own again.
Sadly, alcohol played a major role in my next two marriages. My prodigious drinking probably caused the end of my third marriage, to Ellen, and it definitely was the cause of my fourth marriage. My fourth marriage was all right for a couple months, but then the hangover wore off, and it was over. I'm not sure I ever got the name of my fourth wife, but it doesn't matter. She didn't get mine, either, which means she can't sue me for alimony. Thank heaven for small mercies.
I was almost ready to give up on love at this point, but then I met Carolyn. She was a tall, pageant-quality blonde with eyes that were as clear and placid as a pond in a meadow. She told me that she was a contortionist with the circus, and then proceeded to prove it, for three days on end. After she made her case so eloquently, how could I resist making her my fifth wife? Talk about The Greatest Show on Earth! We had a wild and wonderful time together. Unfortunately, we wound up being stalked by my second ex-wife, who stood outside our window waving her torch and screaming something about vigilante justice. At the time I couldn't figure out how she'd found out where we lived, although looking back, Carolyn and I probably had the only bedroom on the block with a trapeze in it. We tried to laugh off the threats, but when we cam home one day to find our holly bushes burning, we decided that either God or Cindy was trying to send us a sign. We parted friends, and I still remember Carolyn fondly. In fact, of all my ex-wives, she's the one I miss the most.
I don't think my sixth marriage should count, since it was a union of convenience for us both. Rosa needed to get married to stay in the country, and I needed a place to hide from the family-support people. In the end, they got Rosa anyway and sent her back to Mexico, and I was once again on my own. Our marriage was brief, but I still think of her every time I visit Taco Bell.
I worked briefly as a professional wine-taster, but that ended when they insisted that I not swallow the wine. Can you imagine? I was just starting to get over that crushing disappointment when I met Maureen. She was a warm and loving lass, and it wasn't long before we, too, were married. We had a happy year or two, but things unraveled in time. At first glance, it was the same old story: the late nights, the flimsy alibis, the lipstick on the collar, the strange perfume on the clothes, the unexplained panties in the jacket pocket. The odd part was, all that was on her clothes. She had always seemed somewhat uninterested in bed, and now I understood why. Clearly, the pressure of marrying a man of my romantic background was too much, so much so that she gave up on the male gender altogether, knowing that nothing awaited her there but disappointment. After me, it was all downhill.
Since Maureen and I went our separate ways a couple years back, I've been between marriages. I've used that time to take stock of my life, and figure out what my direction should be. I had long discussions with my good friends Jamison and Bushmill, and ultimately I decided that I could best serve humanity by sharing my experience, counseling young lovers in the ways of romance as only I could. After all, if someone's only been married once or twice, what do they really know about it? I've had experience. I've had a much wider variety of women than most, which enables me to relate to any of you lads, no matter what's wrong with your women. You can count on Uncle Millie to steer you right. Having taken just about every wrong turn it is possible to take, I'm well-equipped to help you find the path of right.
Now, lest some of you think that my experience has made me bitter and incapable of seeing the brighter side of romance, I assure you that it is not so. I have fond memories of at least half of my wives. Also, I am the father of nine or ten very special children, and they can't take that away from me, no matter what the state says. Sure, I've had some bumps in the road, but if I had my life to live over, I wouldn't change a thing. Except for marrying my fourth wife. And my second. And my seventh. Other than that, not a thing.
So that's how I got to be where I am today, prepared to magnanimously dispense my advice to the confused youth of today. I ask nothing in return other than your attention and consideration. Also, my glass is empty. Would you mind? Good lad.
- - - - -
Well, thank you, Uncle Millie! He'll be a regular fixture here, posting his column every Monday, so long as he is out of prison. If you have any questions for Uncle Millie, e-mail them to my address (mediocrefred1979@yahoo.com) and I'll see that he gets them.
Not a big news weekend. ESPN's Jim Caple offered up a pretty clever faux news report on the New York blackout. Not his best effort, but not bad.
Continuing the proud tradition of hard-nosed, take-no-prisoners journalism that has made it such a smashing success, the Washington Post's Sunday Source column brings us a no-hold-barred look at... gelato cocktails. Frankly, they don't even sound good. And for those of you with strong stomachs and an appreciation of bad journalism, try this lead paragraph on for size:
The invitation combined suburban hedonism and culinary sophistication: a hot tub party with gelato cocktails. So we arrived at the home of Marc and Jill Dosik -- a Brookville, Md., couple celebrating their first year running Cafe Gelato in Bethesda -- hungry and ready to drink. Smoking olive oil wafting from the grilled pollo Italiano panini pulled guests outside. On the deck, candles flickered, the blender whirred and the hot tub burped.
Horrifying, simply horrifying. The Sunday Source must be stopped.
Looks like interim California governor "Battleship" Gray Davis is attempting to win the voters over with personality, in the sense of demonstrating that he has one. I wish him luck.
The Post's Outlook section brings us a Vermont reprter calling Howard Dean a moderate. The author makes some good points, and it will be interesting to see how Dean positions himself going forward. If you're interested in Dean, pro or con, read this article; it's one of the best looks at his Vermont record I've seen so far.
Finally, I want to thank The Smart Lady for installing Site Meter on this blog. Now I can see exactly how unpopular I am, rather than having to guess at it. Specificity is much better. The Smart Lady and I had a wonderful weekend. We did something for each of us: she took me to the mall, and I took her out to play baseball. (Uncle Millie says: "Lad, don't let 'em go shopping! It'll be your ruination. Once they start spending money, it's all over." I'll take his opinion under advisement.) The lesson, as always: The Smart Lady rocks.
That's all for today. I'll be back in the driver's seat tomorrow. Try to contain your excitement. See you tomorrow. A bientot.
Friday, August 15, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Hot Child in the City" by Nick Gilder
AMERICA THE CHEERFULLY CONFUSED, REVISITED
Yesterday I linked to a Washington Post poll which found Americans to be strongly opposed to the Episcopal Church's decision to recognize same-sex marriages, and just as strongly opposed to their own religion doing the same. Faithful readers of my bilge (all three of you) will recall that, way back in the halcyon days when I was just getting started last month, I offered up a flippant, smart-alecky take on a similar poll showing a decline in support for gay civil unions. While I stand by my previous flippancy, I find this poll more interesting, because I think it reveals the fundamental and genuine confusion of Americans about homosexual issues. So today I'm going to take a less flippant tack and probe a little bit into why we feel the way we do about Those People. Part of our ambivalent attitudes stem from honest confusion, conflicting impulses within ourselves. But a goodly part of our uncertainly, I believe, stems from the confusing way in which the current debate over homosexuality is framed. Some of the confusion is deliberate, some not, but all of it makes it hard for honest Americans who want to do right on this issue, but just can't see how.
Let's start with the raw data of the poll. 60% of respondents were opposed to the Episcopal Church's decision, and 63% said that they would oppose their own religion blessing same-sex unions. Asked if they would leave their church if it chose to bless such marriages, 47% said they would, and 48% said they would not. So far, this looks pretty straightforward; in fact, some commentators have argued that this simply reflects the American attitude toward separation of church and state. Let gay couples have partnership rights, sure, but keep the church out of it. But support for government-sponsored civil unions has fallen too. In May, respondents were evenly split on whether or not civil unions should be permitted. In the latest poll, support has collapsed; the numbers run 57-38 against. What happened? In my flippant post of last month, I argued that this reflects the time-honored American tendency to support minority rights until it looks as though the minorities in question might get them. But I think there's more to it than that. The numbers reflect a genuine ambivalence in our society about homosexuality.
This issue was brought into the limelight after the Sumpreme Court's decision in Lawrence v. Texas, which struck down anti-sodomy laws as unconsitutional. I don't intend to dissect the decision here, because I don't really think it's relevant. (The Smart Lady has informed me that she's working up a post on it, and I'm sure it will be smart, and when she does I promise to link to it.) What's relevant to the discussion here is that it put homosexuality on the front burner of our national dialogue. And not just surface characteristics of homosexuality, which have been a hot topic for a while (on this, more below), but actual homosexual practices. And although the case itself was strictly about sodomy, the decision opened the door to discussion of same-sex marriage. The logic there is simple enough: If state-sponsored discrimination against homosexual practices is no longer okay, on what basis do we deny them the rights extended to opposite-sex married couples? Homosexual activists naturally wanted to strike while the iron was hot and push to expand the gains in public acceptance they'd made. Just as naturally, anti-homosexual activists wanted to circle the wagons, using Lawrence to invoke the specter of amorality run rampant. After all, if gay sex is okay, Sodom and Gomorrah must be right around the corner, right? So both sides of the issue seized the media spotlight and began clamoring for public attention. All this clamoring more or less forced the average American to pay attention.
So with the increased attention on the issue, public support for gay marriage took a nosedive. Frankly, this does not surprise me. Let's imagine that you're an average, everyday straight American. You really don't ever think about gay people, unless "Will and Grace" is on, or some pollster calls you to ask what you think. And when that pollster does call, you think: Well, yeah, it does seem right and just for them to have the same rights I do. Plus, tolerance is in. Wouldn't want the pollster to think I was a bigot. So, sure, gay marriage, what the hell? Then here comes Lawrence, and all of a sudden GLAAD and the 700 Club and PFLAG and the Christian Coalition are screaming at you all the time on the news. Equality now! Stop the immorality! Stop the oppression! Save our souls! And so on and so forth. Honestly, this is all a big bother for you. Unless you have a close gay friend or relative who might be affected, the rights of Those People suddenly seem kind of remote. And you don't like to make trouble, and all this is nothing but trouble. Can't they go back to talking about that poor Laci Peterson? This time when the pollster calls, you've got a whole new thought process. Now you're thinking: Well, the Pastor spent his last three sermons blasting homosexuality as evil. I'm not sure if he's right, but it does seem like now there's all this fuss and bother, which there wasn't before. Why can't Those People just go away and leave us alone? So, no thank you on the gay marriage. I consider this an entirely natural reaction, even though there's not really much contemplation of the issue at hand here. The dive in support strikes me as natural enough, even assuming a throughly edifying public debate. But this public debate we've had so far hasn't been edifying in the least, and that only serves to make average Americans more frustrated and more apt to wish the whole thing would just go back into the closet, so to speak.
Political debate goes nowhere when one or more of the participants wraps himself or herself in the mantle of moral rectitude, and both sides have done a pretty fair job of that so far. Gay activists tend to argue that we have a basic right to organize our sex lives as we wish, and they have a point there, but they lose a lot of people when they draw parallels to the struggle over civil rights. Not that there aren't parallels, but expecting people to just smile and cheerfully accept what amounts to a huge cultural paradigm shift strikes me as asking a bit much. The concept of marriage has become awfully fuzzy around the edges over time, but to say, "Oh, that's an outdated concept. Get with the times," doesn't consitute a valid debate. You need to meet people where they are, slowly pull them over to your side, rather than hammer them for failing to make the leap when you say it's time. To the extent that the gay lobby is telling people, "It's coming and you'd better just learn to deal," I don't think that's a valid contribution to public debate.
But if gays are that way, the religious right is worse. I understand and respect your belief that homosexuality is evil, whether or not I happen to agree with it. But "You're evil and you're going to hell" is not the start of a debate, or even a continuation of one. It closes off all discussion. I've always been uncomfortable with religious leaders thrusting themselves into politics, not because they shouldn't be politically active citizens but because theirs is too often a position of moral absolutism. Moral absolutism is well and good in its sphere, but it's positively toxic to political debate. Politics is the art of half a loaf, of creating compromises that we can all live with, and terms like "good" and "evil" don't really lend themselves to that. So when Pat Robertson jumps up on his soapbox, you can pretty much be assured that there's no actual debate going on. The sides here aren't talking to each other, they're talking past each other.
(Full disclosure: Since I'm discussing religion here, I think it's relevant to mention my own religious background. My mother is a Southern Baptist, and my father an agnostic. I attend church sporadically and I do believe in God, but I've never been a regular parishoner and I don't belong to any denomination in particular. So there you have it.)
But even if people like Robertson weren't fouling the waters with their discussion-ending polemics, religion would still inform the average American's opinion of gay marriage. You can trumpet the separation of church and state all that you like, but you can't prevent people from allowing their beliefs to color their political opinions, especially when the subject is marriage. Marriage is a very awkward church-state mixture, with both a religious component and a public-society component. Even many people who never set foot in a church in their lives still want that religious sanction when it's time to wed. So it's natural to bring your religious beliefs into any discussion of gay marriage.
Of course, if helps if said beliefs are carefully thought over beforehand. Unfortunately, they often aren't. I want to be careful here, because I suspect this will give grave offense to many sincere believers out there. It's not intended to. If you've searched your heart and soul and you have decided that your religious beliefs are correct, then bless you and please feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph. But for an awful lot of people out there, their religion is entirely a function of the church they were brought up in. This is natural, to be sure, but it tends to lead to lazy thinking. When you're young, you tend to swallow whole what you're told by the authority figures you trust. But if you don't re-examine those beliefs as you get older, they take on sort of a cozy, metaphysical certitude. So when some activist group start telling you that Pastor Bob was wrong all those years, you tend to react as though you'd just been told that Santa Claus didn't exist. Activist groups have opinions. Pastor Bob is the voice of authority. Who would you believe? (As a side note and a good example, if I were told today I had to pick a denomination to belong to, I suppose I'd have to say Southern Baptist, because that's the church I went to as a kid. But a lot of the things Southern Baptists do tick me off, and I'm sure I could find a better theological match if I did some research. But I never have. Lazy thinking.)
Ah, but can't we just steer out of the whole religious swamp? That's the presumed beauty of civil unions: the whole public-society part of marriage without the religious component. It almost seems like a magic bullet. Homosexuals get the equal partnership rights that seem fair, and churches aren't forced to recognize unions they view as unholy. Sounds great! But just because no one's forcing your church to recognize a marriage doesn't mean that your church has stopped believing that homosexuality is evil, so it's not a perfect solution. Still, I think we might well be headed that way as a compromise if we hadn't made a huge semantic botch along the way. "Civil unions" are a somewhat nebulous concept. It sounds a little like bureaucratese, and it's certainly doesn't make a gripping newspaper headline or TV graphic. But "gay marriage"... that's a snapper! Problem is, because the media are so willing to cram the whole debate under the "gay marriage" banner, civil unions and marriage get conflated, and it can be hard to remember the difference. (The religious right also helps this along by conflating the two at every opportunity.) Not only does this collapse a nuanced debate into a black-and-white dichotomy, it also means that politicians like John Kerry and Howard Dean, who are careful to explain their support for civil unions but not marriage, are slammed as evasive. They're not being evasive! They're attempting to put a fine point on a debate that's lacking in same.
Finally, the recent pop-culture fascination with gays hasn't helped matters at all, in my opinion. Using the media to depict gays as regular folks is one things, but now homosexuality is fashionable, which is another matter. Also, the shows tend to depict surface stereotypes of gays, rather than portraying them as complex individual. This may be good or bad from the average American's perspective, but it's distorting, and that doesn't help. Why, who wouldn't want to let those witty, well-groomed, personable young men from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" get married? I make a distinction between the recent gay-themed shows and, say, the black sitcoms of the '70s. Sitcoms like "The Jeffersons" and "Good Times" dealt straightforwardly with racial issues, but the characters were also fairly well-rounded. The homosexuals on these new shows strike me as a little tokenish. Not all gays are trim and nattily dressed and making catty remarks at every opportunity. It's hard enough for the average straight American to really understand homosexuality, and these shallow stereotypes don't help.
Gee, this is awfully heavy for a Friday. I apologize for not being funny. But there's nothing to laugh about here. Sexuality and marriage are two emerging issues in our culture, issues that will need to be discussed and settled in the future, and we're depriving ourselves of the chance to discuss it meaningfully. As for me, it's hard to say where I stand. I know a lot of good people of upstanding character whom I like and respect who sincerely believe that homosexuality is evil. And I know a lot of good people of upstanding character whom I like and respect who believe that condemning homosexuality is evil. They both make good points, and it's not an easy thing for me to sort out. I suspect a lot of average Americans have the same problem. What I'd like, and what many of them would probably like too, is a real, meaningful dialogue. Enough with shouting slogans at each other. This isn't a pep rally. If we're on the cusp of making decision that will define our future culture, can't we sit down over a cup of coffee and talk it out first? I think it would make a lot of Americans feel a lot more comfortable.
The Smart Lady took on the gay marriage issue a few days ago. (WARNING: There are opinions here. But you know that by now, right? Smart Lady = opinions and cogent, sharp discussion. Mediocre Fred = aimless, meaningless fluff on things that don't matter.) She indulges in a little gratuitous name-calling, in my opinion, but the bulk of her commentary is pretty thoughtful. It's definitely worth a read if you want to continue the discussion on this subject.
Big blackout in the Northeast yesterday, as I'm sure you heard. Now of course, there's no real good to come out of a giant swath of the country losing power. But Mediocre Fred has always liked blackouts. I consider them an ideal opportunity to break out the candles and the battery-operated CD player with Marvin Gaye in the deck, and... but I fear I've said too much already. The Fedroplex was out of the blackout zone, so you may spare yourself the lurid visual. (Mediocre Fred also likes thunderstorms. If I'm having a particularly slow week next week, I may well post on that subject. I promise to leave Marvin Gaye out of it.)
In baseball news, it looks like the Expos will have one home next year. Where that home will be is anyone's guess. Mediocre Fred has a request on record, but I say the smart money is on Monrovia. Commissioner Bud's always doing his best to improve the game's international appeal.
Is Tiger Woods in a slump? Mike Wilbon says no. Sally Jenkins says yes. Mediocre Fred says: Who cares?
Finally, Mediocre Fred has a special treat for you on Monday. It's a guest columnist! No, not Hammerin' Hank; I stuffed him back in his cage and he should be in there until he figures out how to pick the lock. It's someone new! I think you'll like him. I'm pretty excited myself. Stay tuned for that new feature of the Mediocre Experience on Monday, here in this space.
Another weekend, some more time off. Once I get home and find some aspirin, I'll be ready to enjoy what promises to be a fine weekend. I hope yours is too. Guest column on Monday. In the words of the late great Carl Perkins, "Well it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go, cat, go!"
AMERICA THE CHEERFULLY CONFUSED, REVISITED
Yesterday I linked to a Washington Post poll which found Americans to be strongly opposed to the Episcopal Church's decision to recognize same-sex marriages, and just as strongly opposed to their own religion doing the same. Faithful readers of my bilge (all three of you) will recall that, way back in the halcyon days when I was just getting started last month, I offered up a flippant, smart-alecky take on a similar poll showing a decline in support for gay civil unions. While I stand by my previous flippancy, I find this poll more interesting, because I think it reveals the fundamental and genuine confusion of Americans about homosexual issues. So today I'm going to take a less flippant tack and probe a little bit into why we feel the way we do about Those People. Part of our ambivalent attitudes stem from honest confusion, conflicting impulses within ourselves. But a goodly part of our uncertainly, I believe, stems from the confusing way in which the current debate over homosexuality is framed. Some of the confusion is deliberate, some not, but all of it makes it hard for honest Americans who want to do right on this issue, but just can't see how.
Let's start with the raw data of the poll. 60% of respondents were opposed to the Episcopal Church's decision, and 63% said that they would oppose their own religion blessing same-sex unions. Asked if they would leave their church if it chose to bless such marriages, 47% said they would, and 48% said they would not. So far, this looks pretty straightforward; in fact, some commentators have argued that this simply reflects the American attitude toward separation of church and state. Let gay couples have partnership rights, sure, but keep the church out of it. But support for government-sponsored civil unions has fallen too. In May, respondents were evenly split on whether or not civil unions should be permitted. In the latest poll, support has collapsed; the numbers run 57-38 against. What happened? In my flippant post of last month, I argued that this reflects the time-honored American tendency to support minority rights until it looks as though the minorities in question might get them. But I think there's more to it than that. The numbers reflect a genuine ambivalence in our society about homosexuality.
This issue was brought into the limelight after the Sumpreme Court's decision in Lawrence v. Texas, which struck down anti-sodomy laws as unconsitutional. I don't intend to dissect the decision here, because I don't really think it's relevant. (The Smart Lady has informed me that she's working up a post on it, and I'm sure it will be smart, and when she does I promise to link to it.) What's relevant to the discussion here is that it put homosexuality on the front burner of our national dialogue. And not just surface characteristics of homosexuality, which have been a hot topic for a while (on this, more below), but actual homosexual practices. And although the case itself was strictly about sodomy, the decision opened the door to discussion of same-sex marriage. The logic there is simple enough: If state-sponsored discrimination against homosexual practices is no longer okay, on what basis do we deny them the rights extended to opposite-sex married couples? Homosexual activists naturally wanted to strike while the iron was hot and push to expand the gains in public acceptance they'd made. Just as naturally, anti-homosexual activists wanted to circle the wagons, using Lawrence to invoke the specter of amorality run rampant. After all, if gay sex is okay, Sodom and Gomorrah must be right around the corner, right? So both sides of the issue seized the media spotlight and began clamoring for public attention. All this clamoring more or less forced the average American to pay attention.
So with the increased attention on the issue, public support for gay marriage took a nosedive. Frankly, this does not surprise me. Let's imagine that you're an average, everyday straight American. You really don't ever think about gay people, unless "Will and Grace" is on, or some pollster calls you to ask what you think. And when that pollster does call, you think: Well, yeah, it does seem right and just for them to have the same rights I do. Plus, tolerance is in. Wouldn't want the pollster to think I was a bigot. So, sure, gay marriage, what the hell? Then here comes Lawrence, and all of a sudden GLAAD and the 700 Club and PFLAG and the Christian Coalition are screaming at you all the time on the news. Equality now! Stop the immorality! Stop the oppression! Save our souls! And so on and so forth. Honestly, this is all a big bother for you. Unless you have a close gay friend or relative who might be affected, the rights of Those People suddenly seem kind of remote. And you don't like to make trouble, and all this is nothing but trouble. Can't they go back to talking about that poor Laci Peterson? This time when the pollster calls, you've got a whole new thought process. Now you're thinking: Well, the Pastor spent his last three sermons blasting homosexuality as evil. I'm not sure if he's right, but it does seem like now there's all this fuss and bother, which there wasn't before. Why can't Those People just go away and leave us alone? So, no thank you on the gay marriage. I consider this an entirely natural reaction, even though there's not really much contemplation of the issue at hand here. The dive in support strikes me as natural enough, even assuming a throughly edifying public debate. But this public debate we've had so far hasn't been edifying in the least, and that only serves to make average Americans more frustrated and more apt to wish the whole thing would just go back into the closet, so to speak.
Political debate goes nowhere when one or more of the participants wraps himself or herself in the mantle of moral rectitude, and both sides have done a pretty fair job of that so far. Gay activists tend to argue that we have a basic right to organize our sex lives as we wish, and they have a point there, but they lose a lot of people when they draw parallels to the struggle over civil rights. Not that there aren't parallels, but expecting people to just smile and cheerfully accept what amounts to a huge cultural paradigm shift strikes me as asking a bit much. The concept of marriage has become awfully fuzzy around the edges over time, but to say, "Oh, that's an outdated concept. Get with the times," doesn't consitute a valid debate. You need to meet people where they are, slowly pull them over to your side, rather than hammer them for failing to make the leap when you say it's time. To the extent that the gay lobby is telling people, "It's coming and you'd better just learn to deal," I don't think that's a valid contribution to public debate.
But if gays are that way, the religious right is worse. I understand and respect your belief that homosexuality is evil, whether or not I happen to agree with it. But "You're evil and you're going to hell" is not the start of a debate, or even a continuation of one. It closes off all discussion. I've always been uncomfortable with religious leaders thrusting themselves into politics, not because they shouldn't be politically active citizens but because theirs is too often a position of moral absolutism. Moral absolutism is well and good in its sphere, but it's positively toxic to political debate. Politics is the art of half a loaf, of creating compromises that we can all live with, and terms like "good" and "evil" don't really lend themselves to that. So when Pat Robertson jumps up on his soapbox, you can pretty much be assured that there's no actual debate going on. The sides here aren't talking to each other, they're talking past each other.
(Full disclosure: Since I'm discussing religion here, I think it's relevant to mention my own religious background. My mother is a Southern Baptist, and my father an agnostic. I attend church sporadically and I do believe in God, but I've never been a regular parishoner and I don't belong to any denomination in particular. So there you have it.)
But even if people like Robertson weren't fouling the waters with their discussion-ending polemics, religion would still inform the average American's opinion of gay marriage. You can trumpet the separation of church and state all that you like, but you can't prevent people from allowing their beliefs to color their political opinions, especially when the subject is marriage. Marriage is a very awkward church-state mixture, with both a religious component and a public-society component. Even many people who never set foot in a church in their lives still want that religious sanction when it's time to wed. So it's natural to bring your religious beliefs into any discussion of gay marriage.
Of course, if helps if said beliefs are carefully thought over beforehand. Unfortunately, they often aren't. I want to be careful here, because I suspect this will give grave offense to many sincere believers out there. It's not intended to. If you've searched your heart and soul and you have decided that your religious beliefs are correct, then bless you and please feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph. But for an awful lot of people out there, their religion is entirely a function of the church they were brought up in. This is natural, to be sure, but it tends to lead to lazy thinking. When you're young, you tend to swallow whole what you're told by the authority figures you trust. But if you don't re-examine those beliefs as you get older, they take on sort of a cozy, metaphysical certitude. So when some activist group start telling you that Pastor Bob was wrong all those years, you tend to react as though you'd just been told that Santa Claus didn't exist. Activist groups have opinions. Pastor Bob is the voice of authority. Who would you believe? (As a side note and a good example, if I were told today I had to pick a denomination to belong to, I suppose I'd have to say Southern Baptist, because that's the church I went to as a kid. But a lot of the things Southern Baptists do tick me off, and I'm sure I could find a better theological match if I did some research. But I never have. Lazy thinking.)
Ah, but can't we just steer out of the whole religious swamp? That's the presumed beauty of civil unions: the whole public-society part of marriage without the religious component. It almost seems like a magic bullet. Homosexuals get the equal partnership rights that seem fair, and churches aren't forced to recognize unions they view as unholy. Sounds great! But just because no one's forcing your church to recognize a marriage doesn't mean that your church has stopped believing that homosexuality is evil, so it's not a perfect solution. Still, I think we might well be headed that way as a compromise if we hadn't made a huge semantic botch along the way. "Civil unions" are a somewhat nebulous concept. It sounds a little like bureaucratese, and it's certainly doesn't make a gripping newspaper headline or TV graphic. But "gay marriage"... that's a snapper! Problem is, because the media are so willing to cram the whole debate under the "gay marriage" banner, civil unions and marriage get conflated, and it can be hard to remember the difference. (The religious right also helps this along by conflating the two at every opportunity.) Not only does this collapse a nuanced debate into a black-and-white dichotomy, it also means that politicians like John Kerry and Howard Dean, who are careful to explain their support for civil unions but not marriage, are slammed as evasive. They're not being evasive! They're attempting to put a fine point on a debate that's lacking in same.
Finally, the recent pop-culture fascination with gays hasn't helped matters at all, in my opinion. Using the media to depict gays as regular folks is one things, but now homosexuality is fashionable, which is another matter. Also, the shows tend to depict surface stereotypes of gays, rather than portraying them as complex individual. This may be good or bad from the average American's perspective, but it's distorting, and that doesn't help. Why, who wouldn't want to let those witty, well-groomed, personable young men from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" get married? I make a distinction between the recent gay-themed shows and, say, the black sitcoms of the '70s. Sitcoms like "The Jeffersons" and "Good Times" dealt straightforwardly with racial issues, but the characters were also fairly well-rounded. The homosexuals on these new shows strike me as a little tokenish. Not all gays are trim and nattily dressed and making catty remarks at every opportunity. It's hard enough for the average straight American to really understand homosexuality, and these shallow stereotypes don't help.
Gee, this is awfully heavy for a Friday. I apologize for not being funny. But there's nothing to laugh about here. Sexuality and marriage are two emerging issues in our culture, issues that will need to be discussed and settled in the future, and we're depriving ourselves of the chance to discuss it meaningfully. As for me, it's hard to say where I stand. I know a lot of good people of upstanding character whom I like and respect who sincerely believe that homosexuality is evil. And I know a lot of good people of upstanding character whom I like and respect who believe that condemning homosexuality is evil. They both make good points, and it's not an easy thing for me to sort out. I suspect a lot of average Americans have the same problem. What I'd like, and what many of them would probably like too, is a real, meaningful dialogue. Enough with shouting slogans at each other. This isn't a pep rally. If we're on the cusp of making decision that will define our future culture, can't we sit down over a cup of coffee and talk it out first? I think it would make a lot of Americans feel a lot more comfortable.
The Smart Lady took on the gay marriage issue a few days ago. (WARNING: There are opinions here. But you know that by now, right? Smart Lady = opinions and cogent, sharp discussion. Mediocre Fred = aimless, meaningless fluff on things that don't matter.) She indulges in a little gratuitous name-calling, in my opinion, but the bulk of her commentary is pretty thoughtful. It's definitely worth a read if you want to continue the discussion on this subject.
Big blackout in the Northeast yesterday, as I'm sure you heard. Now of course, there's no real good to come out of a giant swath of the country losing power. But Mediocre Fred has always liked blackouts. I consider them an ideal opportunity to break out the candles and the battery-operated CD player with Marvin Gaye in the deck, and... but I fear I've said too much already. The Fedroplex was out of the blackout zone, so you may spare yourself the lurid visual. (Mediocre Fred also likes thunderstorms. If I'm having a particularly slow week next week, I may well post on that subject. I promise to leave Marvin Gaye out of it.)
In baseball news, it looks like the Expos will have one home next year. Where that home will be is anyone's guess. Mediocre Fred has a request on record, but I say the smart money is on Monrovia. Commissioner Bud's always doing his best to improve the game's international appeal.
Is Tiger Woods in a slump? Mike Wilbon says no. Sally Jenkins says yes. Mediocre Fred says: Who cares?
Finally, Mediocre Fred has a special treat for you on Monday. It's a guest columnist! No, not Hammerin' Hank; I stuffed him back in his cage and he should be in there until he figures out how to pick the lock. It's someone new! I think you'll like him. I'm pretty excited myself. Stay tuned for that new feature of the Mediocre Experience on Monday, here in this space.
Another weekend, some more time off. Once I get home and find some aspirin, I'll be ready to enjoy what promises to be a fine weekend. I hope yours is too. Guest column on Monday. In the words of the late great Carl Perkins, "Well it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go, cat, go!"
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Communication Breakdown" by Led Zeppelin
A LITTLE SOMETHING DIFFERENT
Bad news, friends and readers: Mediocre Fred has writer's block. I don't know if it's a slow news week or if I haven't gotten enough sleep or what, but I find myself completely unable to produce my usual high-concept mediocrity today. I suppose I could try to patch together another potpourri, or just skip it today and come back tomorrow, but I don't want to disppoint you, The Reader, with such half-measures. Try as I might, though, I found that writing was just beyond me today. So I was on the tenterhooks of a dilemma.
Fortunately, though, my cubicle-mate Hammerin' Hank noticed my existential anxiety, and agreed to guest-write my post for today. Hank is a man of strong opinions, and I tried to explain to him about the opinion-free format here at Mediocre Fred. But he threatened to sock me if I didn't let him write what he wanted, and given the size advantage I quickly saw the wisdom of his position. So let me give fair warning to you, The Reader, that Hank might very well be expressing some opinions here. I'll set his commentary off in asterisks, so that you can bypass it if you so choose. I'll be back on the other side of the asterisks with a few links for today.
Hank refused to tell me what he's writing about, so I can't offer a preamble here. I suppose it will be an adventure for all of us (I'll be reading over his shoulder as he types). I could tell you more about Hank, but he told me to shut up and get out of his way, so here's our guest commentator, Hammerin' Hank! Enjoy. I hope.
* * * * *
Howdy folks, Hammerin' Hank here. I want to thank Mediocre Fred for this opportunity to inflict my views upon the world. Y'all don't know what you've been missing. I'm sure y'all are ready for a real man's opinion about stuff, 'cause I know you ain't getting it from Freddy over there. He's not a bad fella, mind you, but sometimes I wonder about him. He sits there all day humming old disco tunes and babbling about this Smart Lady chick. Which kinda surprises me, because I didn't think he was really interested in women, you know what I mean? He wasn't flaming, or anything, but he always struck me a little, you know, light in the loafers.
Ahem. Hank, I believe I asked you to deliver commentary on the news, not on my personal habits. Do you mind?
Not at all. I'm having a blast.
The news, please, Hank.
All right, fine, you old tightass. Man, Freddy can't take a joke, you know what I mean? Anyhow, I was reading this morning's Washington Post while I was on the can, and I saw something there that pissed me off. Seems that Maryland and Virginia are looking into putting Asian oysters in the Chesapeake Bay. Something about "overfishing of the native stock" or some such bull. But I know what's really going on. It's another goddamn plot to let immigrants take away our jobs. Stay with me here, this is a subtle argument.
Point one, immigration sucks. All them folks come over here from these other dirtbag nations like El Labrador and San Gorgonzola, countries that have been in business maybe a week and a half, looking to steal our good American jobs with good American paychecks and good American smoke breaks. This is no different. Why do we gotta go get Asian oysters? What's wrong with our good old American oysters? So the supplies are dwindling because of this overfishing. So what? We could just as easily have gotten American oysters from other states to supplement what we got in the Chesapeake. For instance, I hear a lot of good things about these Rocky Mountain oysters, or "prairie oysters" as they're sometimes called. Why can't we just get a bunch of Rocky Mountain oysters and dump 'em in the Chesapeake? If they don't want to leave the Rockies, offer them targeted tax cuts to get 'em to come. It'll work out.
What pisses me off worse, though, is the fact that we had to go get Asian oysters. "Oh, yeah, get the Asian oysters! They're way better than American oysters!" Bullshit. Everyone just thinks Asian oysters are better because they're smarter. Well, as far as I'm concerned, that's nothing but trouble. You bring the Asian oysters over here, they get in all the fast-track classes and get 1600s on their SATs and get fancy advanced degrees in law and medicine and whatever, and it just makes the American oysters look bad. Back in the good ol' days, we Americans always thought we were the best, and we were! No one could prove otherwise, and if they could we could just march in and invade them to shut 'em up. Now you've got these Asian kids over here, and all of a sudden we ain't good enough. Now our kids have to go study, and do their homework, and that's just un-American. Why, it's threatening to cut into their shoplifting time! No one has the right to come over here and make our kids work hard, and the same goes for the oysters. Put those Asian oysters in there, and next thing you know the American oysters will spend all their time cramming for their exams, and they just aren't going to taste the same.
Speaking of taste, I don't know about you, but I'm convinced that all those Asian oysters are going to taste like rice. That's all they eat over there, you know. I don't want to eat oysters that taste like rice. I want my oysters to taste of nothing but pure, clean seawater and raw, untreated industrial waste. It's the American way!
In conclusion, let's review the facts at hand. One, immigration takes away our jobs. B, immigration forces our kids to study. And four, no one wants to eat rice-oysters. From the inescapable and forceful logic of this argument, it's clear that Asian oysters are nothing but a menace to our American way of life. If you ask me, they should just get back on their rickshaws and head right back to Ching-Lo-Mein or Chow-Yun-Fat or wherever the hell they're from. And if we can't get 'em back to Asia, we should take some useless spare state like Kansas, and create a little re-education camp and-
Um, thank you, Hank. Hammerin' Hank, everyone.
I ain't finished yet! I got lots more to say.
I'll bet you do, but unfortunately, we're out of time. So thank you-
What's the matter, can't handle my 150-proof opinions? Are my big, strong, firm viewpoints too much for your delicate little namby-pamby sensibilities? Is that it?
No. I simply-
Naw, come on, you little pansy. You wanna step outside?
No, I don't, actually. I just want to finish this post up and-
Your sorry ass wouldn't know good writing if it waited behind your car in the parking garage and beat the living crap out of you with a tire iron. Catch my drift?
Unfortunately, yes. Fortunately, I didn't drive. Don't you have work to do?
Nuh-uh. They just pay me to go around and have opinions on stuff.
And they definitely get their money's worth there, I assure you.
You know, I've read your stuff, and you suck. I could write better crap than yours when I'm piss-drunk. So bite me.
Go away, Hank.
Whatever. I'm gone, y'all. Jeremy Shockey rules!
* * * * *
Sorry about that, folks. That was a little experiment that failed. I promise to quarantine Hank at least until he gets his distemper shots. At least I have a powerful incentive not to get writer's block any more. Ah, well. Let's move on.
This Post article carries the headline, "Redskins Sign Punter, Set Up Duel to Remain on Team." And my initial response was very positive. Finally, a reason to watch training camp! I was figuring maybe they'd give each punter a pistol or perhaps a longbow, set them back ten paces, and whoever survives makes the team. Talk about must-see TV! But no, instead they're just going to let the punters "duel" for their jobs in the next preseason game. What a letdown. The Post shouldn't get our hopes up like that.
You're not funny, jackass!
Shut up, Hank. On ESPN's site, Rob Neyer has an excellent, statistic-based look at the Anaheim Angels' decline from the World Series win of 2002 to the sub-.500 quagmire they find themselves in today. The thing I like most about Neyer is that he refuses to buy the mythological "conventional wisdom" as an explanation for events. He assumes that there's a logical, statistical basis for everything that happens, and then sets out to find it. If you really want to understand the game, rather than just accepting all the old tenets religiously, Neyer's a great place to start.
Today's Post carries the results of a very interesting poll, which find that a significant majority of Americans are opposed to churches giving their blessing to same-sex marriages. Some may point to this as another example of gay backlash, but I think it's more subtle than that. I may well post on this tomorrow. It's worthy of comment.
Finally, happy 50th anniversary to the Wiffle Ball! Now, personally, I was never a Wiffle Ball man. Even as a kid, we always used tennis balls, which provided for us the combination of satisfying distance and lack of window-shattering heft. Even if you put your best cut on the Wiffle Ball, it doesn't go anywhere. Also, if you play too much Wiffle, it screws up your real baseball swing. But I respect the Wiffle nonetheless, instrumental as it is to many a suburban backyard ballgame. So a firm salute to an American institution. May you have another 50 years of deluding suburban kids into thinking they have a decent curveball.
That's all from this outpost for today. Friday tomorrow! I can't wait. See you then. Shalom.
That means, "The boring guy's done running his mouth and you can go back to having fun now."
Hey, Hank. Is that offer to step outside still open?
A LITTLE SOMETHING DIFFERENT
Bad news, friends and readers: Mediocre Fred has writer's block. I don't know if it's a slow news week or if I haven't gotten enough sleep or what, but I find myself completely unable to produce my usual high-concept mediocrity today. I suppose I could try to patch together another potpourri, or just skip it today and come back tomorrow, but I don't want to disppoint you, The Reader, with such half-measures. Try as I might, though, I found that writing was just beyond me today. So I was on the tenterhooks of a dilemma.
Fortunately, though, my cubicle-mate Hammerin' Hank noticed my existential anxiety, and agreed to guest-write my post for today. Hank is a man of strong opinions, and I tried to explain to him about the opinion-free format here at Mediocre Fred. But he threatened to sock me if I didn't let him write what he wanted, and given the size advantage I quickly saw the wisdom of his position. So let me give fair warning to you, The Reader, that Hank might very well be expressing some opinions here. I'll set his commentary off in asterisks, so that you can bypass it if you so choose. I'll be back on the other side of the asterisks with a few links for today.
Hank refused to tell me what he's writing about, so I can't offer a preamble here. I suppose it will be an adventure for all of us (I'll be reading over his shoulder as he types). I could tell you more about Hank, but he told me to shut up and get out of his way, so here's our guest commentator, Hammerin' Hank! Enjoy. I hope.
* * * * *
Howdy folks, Hammerin' Hank here. I want to thank Mediocre Fred for this opportunity to inflict my views upon the world. Y'all don't know what you've been missing. I'm sure y'all are ready for a real man's opinion about stuff, 'cause I know you ain't getting it from Freddy over there. He's not a bad fella, mind you, but sometimes I wonder about him. He sits there all day humming old disco tunes and babbling about this Smart Lady chick. Which kinda surprises me, because I didn't think he was really interested in women, you know what I mean? He wasn't flaming, or anything, but he always struck me a little, you know, light in the loafers.
Ahem. Hank, I believe I asked you to deliver commentary on the news, not on my personal habits. Do you mind?
Not at all. I'm having a blast.
The news, please, Hank.
All right, fine, you old tightass. Man, Freddy can't take a joke, you know what I mean? Anyhow, I was reading this morning's Washington Post while I was on the can, and I saw something there that pissed me off. Seems that Maryland and Virginia are looking into putting Asian oysters in the Chesapeake Bay. Something about "overfishing of the native stock" or some such bull. But I know what's really going on. It's another goddamn plot to let immigrants take away our jobs. Stay with me here, this is a subtle argument.
Point one, immigration sucks. All them folks come over here from these other dirtbag nations like El Labrador and San Gorgonzola, countries that have been in business maybe a week and a half, looking to steal our good American jobs with good American paychecks and good American smoke breaks. This is no different. Why do we gotta go get Asian oysters? What's wrong with our good old American oysters? So the supplies are dwindling because of this overfishing. So what? We could just as easily have gotten American oysters from other states to supplement what we got in the Chesapeake. For instance, I hear a lot of good things about these Rocky Mountain oysters, or "prairie oysters" as they're sometimes called. Why can't we just get a bunch of Rocky Mountain oysters and dump 'em in the Chesapeake? If they don't want to leave the Rockies, offer them targeted tax cuts to get 'em to come. It'll work out.
What pisses me off worse, though, is the fact that we had to go get Asian oysters. "Oh, yeah, get the Asian oysters! They're way better than American oysters!" Bullshit. Everyone just thinks Asian oysters are better because they're smarter. Well, as far as I'm concerned, that's nothing but trouble. You bring the Asian oysters over here, they get in all the fast-track classes and get 1600s on their SATs and get fancy advanced degrees in law and medicine and whatever, and it just makes the American oysters look bad. Back in the good ol' days, we Americans always thought we were the best, and we were! No one could prove otherwise, and if they could we could just march in and invade them to shut 'em up. Now you've got these Asian kids over here, and all of a sudden we ain't good enough. Now our kids have to go study, and do their homework, and that's just un-American. Why, it's threatening to cut into their shoplifting time! No one has the right to come over here and make our kids work hard, and the same goes for the oysters. Put those Asian oysters in there, and next thing you know the American oysters will spend all their time cramming for their exams, and they just aren't going to taste the same.
Speaking of taste, I don't know about you, but I'm convinced that all those Asian oysters are going to taste like rice. That's all they eat over there, you know. I don't want to eat oysters that taste like rice. I want my oysters to taste of nothing but pure, clean seawater and raw, untreated industrial waste. It's the American way!
In conclusion, let's review the facts at hand. One, immigration takes away our jobs. B, immigration forces our kids to study. And four, no one wants to eat rice-oysters. From the inescapable and forceful logic of this argument, it's clear that Asian oysters are nothing but a menace to our American way of life. If you ask me, they should just get back on their rickshaws and head right back to Ching-Lo-Mein or Chow-Yun-Fat or wherever the hell they're from. And if we can't get 'em back to Asia, we should take some useless spare state like Kansas, and create a little re-education camp and-
Um, thank you, Hank. Hammerin' Hank, everyone.
I ain't finished yet! I got lots more to say.
I'll bet you do, but unfortunately, we're out of time. So thank you-
What's the matter, can't handle my 150-proof opinions? Are my big, strong, firm viewpoints too much for your delicate little namby-pamby sensibilities? Is that it?
No. I simply-
Naw, come on, you little pansy. You wanna step outside?
No, I don't, actually. I just want to finish this post up and-
Your sorry ass wouldn't know good writing if it waited behind your car in the parking garage and beat the living crap out of you with a tire iron. Catch my drift?
Unfortunately, yes. Fortunately, I didn't drive. Don't you have work to do?
Nuh-uh. They just pay me to go around and have opinions on stuff.
And they definitely get their money's worth there, I assure you.
You know, I've read your stuff, and you suck. I could write better crap than yours when I'm piss-drunk. So bite me.
Go away, Hank.
Whatever. I'm gone, y'all. Jeremy Shockey rules!
* * * * *
Sorry about that, folks. That was a little experiment that failed. I promise to quarantine Hank at least until he gets his distemper shots. At least I have a powerful incentive not to get writer's block any more. Ah, well. Let's move on.
This Post article carries the headline, "Redskins Sign Punter, Set Up Duel to Remain on Team." And my initial response was very positive. Finally, a reason to watch training camp! I was figuring maybe they'd give each punter a pistol or perhaps a longbow, set them back ten paces, and whoever survives makes the team. Talk about must-see TV! But no, instead they're just going to let the punters "duel" for their jobs in the next preseason game. What a letdown. The Post shouldn't get our hopes up like that.
You're not funny, jackass!
Shut up, Hank. On ESPN's site, Rob Neyer has an excellent, statistic-based look at the Anaheim Angels' decline from the World Series win of 2002 to the sub-.500 quagmire they find themselves in today. The thing I like most about Neyer is that he refuses to buy the mythological "conventional wisdom" as an explanation for events. He assumes that there's a logical, statistical basis for everything that happens, and then sets out to find it. If you really want to understand the game, rather than just accepting all the old tenets religiously, Neyer's a great place to start.
Today's Post carries the results of a very interesting poll, which find that a significant majority of Americans are opposed to churches giving their blessing to same-sex marriages. Some may point to this as another example of gay backlash, but I think it's more subtle than that. I may well post on this tomorrow. It's worthy of comment.
Finally, happy 50th anniversary to the Wiffle Ball! Now, personally, I was never a Wiffle Ball man. Even as a kid, we always used tennis balls, which provided for us the combination of satisfying distance and lack of window-shattering heft. Even if you put your best cut on the Wiffle Ball, it doesn't go anywhere. Also, if you play too much Wiffle, it screws up your real baseball swing. But I respect the Wiffle nonetheless, instrumental as it is to many a suburban backyard ballgame. So a firm salute to an American institution. May you have another 50 years of deluding suburban kids into thinking they have a decent curveball.
That's all from this outpost for today. Friday tomorrow! I can't wait. See you then. Shalom.
That means, "The boring guy's done running his mouth and you can go back to having fun now."
Hey, Hank. Is that offer to step outside still open?
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Philadelphia Freedom" by Elton John
(Note on this selection: A fortune awaits the Philly-based sports team that chooses to call itself the "Freedom." You've got all that Revolutionary imagery, you've got a name that rolls off the tonuge, and you've got a cool theme song that everyone likes. Just take the part at the end where Elton John sings, "Phil-a-delphia Freedom... you know I lo-o-ove you... you know I lo-o-ove you... you know I lo-o-o-ve you... yes I do!", splice in some footage of the crowd going wild and the Freedom making a couple successful plays, and bingo, instant commercial. I can't believe no one's done this yet. But I digress.)
HE'S KERRY, KERRY SORRY
Uh-oh, John Kerry's put his foot in it again. Or perhaps more accurately, he's put his mouth in it again. Truth be told, I'm starting to feel sorry for the patrician senator from Massachusetts. He was dubbed the "front runner" some time ago, long before it could do him any good with voters, who largely aren't paying attention. All the "front runner" designation earns you now is the increased attentions of the press, who need something to stave off boredom while traipsing through corn fields in Iowa watching grey-haired men in conservative suits shake hands and make meaningless pledges about ethanol. Possibly as revenge for being forced to spend the summer in such glamorous locations as Ottumwa and Mason City (and no offense intended to any Iowans who may be reading this), the press tend to make a sport of whacking the presumed "front runner" like a pinata at Cinco de Mayo. As a result, we political junkies read negative but largely meaningless pieces about Kerry's "aloofness," or his "waffling," or how one of the President's aides thinks he "looks French," whatever that means. (Does the Statue of Liberty "look French"? Does Jerry Lewis? Does "Frenchy" from Grease?) What's more, Kerry is rich, handsome, uite successful and married to a charming and lovely woman, so he doesn't exactly come off as a sympathetic figure. It's hard to perceive someone like Kerry as being bullied by the press, as opposed to the way it would sound if they said the same things about, say, Dennis Kucinich. (Oh, wait. Nobody cares what anyone says about Kucinich. Never mind.) Right now, the "front runner" status is just a giant Trojan Horse for Kerry, nothing but an excuse for the press to magnify every little misstep he makes.
And he made a big one Monday in Philadelphia. The Washington Post reports that Kerry was stumping in Philly, and in keeping with a long-standing tradition, he went over to Pat's Steaks and ordered himself a cheesesteak. All candidates do this when they're in Philly. In Iowa, you talk about ethanol. In Philly, you eat a cheesesteak. Yet another reason why it's better to campaign in Philly. (It occurred to me to wonder how the aforementioned Kucinich, who is a vegetarian, would handle this tradition. But then it occurred to me that, unless he suddenly develops a realistic shot at winning in the next few months, no one will give a damn what he eats.) So Kerry went down to Pat's and did his bit. It was immediately clear that cheesesteaks don't constitute a mainstay of the Senator's diet (and as trim as he is, I'm not surprised), and this is what led to his fatal mistake. Actually, there were two mistakes outlined in the Post article. And Senator Kerry, if you're reading this, I'm here to help.
I'm not a Philly native, but I am a big cheesesteak guy. ("Big" in multiple senses of the word.) When I'm walking down the street, minding my own business, and I catch a whiff of onions and beef on the grill, I'm done for. Much like Toucan Sam, I follow my nose right into the restaurant and order one of the demon sandwiches. (I describe them as "demon sandwiches" on the advice of my doctor.) It's warm, it's meaty, it's cheesy, it's greasy... what more could a man want from his lunch? (Assuming the man doesn't care about living until dinner.) Clearly, Senator Kerry, you're accustomed to fine dining, the kind of repast you find in drawing rooms and salons in the nation's capital and the Back Bay. This is what you've become accustomed to, and for that I can't blame you. But that's not how regular people eat. Regular people eat places like Pat's, places where "decor" is a sun umbrella over your picnic bench and where artistry and presentation aren't even on the menu. That's clearly not your area of expertise. So sit back and take a lesson in the art of the cheesesteak.
There's a certain ethos that comes along with the eating of a cheesesteak, an ethos that doesn't accompany the foods that I'm sure you typically eat, Senator. For one thing, it's hugely unhealthy. Take a fatty cut of beef, slather cheese on it, plop on some grease-besotted onions and dump the whole thing in a fluffy hoagie roll... I've yet to see the diet plan that enorses this combination. But that's the point. You take a bite of a cheesesteak and you're saying to hell with the doctors, to hell with the Food Police, I'm eating what tastes good, dammit. No tofu-and-wheat-germ casserole for me, no sir. Also, cheesesteaks are notoriously messy. The grease runs down your arm, the onions fall on your shirt, chunks of meat fall into your lap and stain your trousers. Again, that's the point. You're supposed to revel in the mess; it implies that you're the sort of person who can't be bothered with matters of grooming and hygiene. Cheesesteaks are definitely not a "metrosexual" food. Also, the cheesesteak is a uniquely Philly food. So it's all overlaid with a layer of street-tough Philly rudeness. When you order a cheesesteak at a place like Pat's or Geno's, the guy behind the counter is rude. You're supposed to be rude right back. It all goes quick, and if you're not ready, you're banished to the back of the line. You're supposed to eat quick, too, and not share. Eating a cheesesteak should make you feel a little like a street kid, if you do it right.
To sum up, the cheesesteak is rough, blunt, unfettered, anti-elitist and proud of it. That's why they're such a popular campaign prop. What better way to prove your regular-guy credentials than to tear pell-mell into this gut-bomb of a sandwich, wipe your mouth on your sleeve and say "What you lookin' at?" to anyone who dares look askance? The cheesesteak is a sort of test, you see, Senator. Remember George Bush Sr. at the country market in 1992? By not knowing the price of a gallon of milk or a dozen eggs, he proved to critics that he was "out of touch." (Never mind that I don't know the price of milk or eggs, and I buy them every week.) The point, Senator, is that this is your chance to show the press that you're an ordinary average Joe at heart. Unfortunately, you dropped the ball. Let's review your mistakes, and see what we can learn.
First off, the Post reports that you attempted to order your cheesesteak with Swiss cheese. No, no, no. If you weren't running for office, ordering Swiss on your steak probably would have gotten you thrown out of Pat's entirely. There is no such thing as a Philly cheesesteak with Swiss. To use a Boston reference point, this would be like going into Cheers bar and ordering frog legs and a Pilsner Urquell. A complete no-no. I can already hear you protesting, "But I like Swiss cheese on my sandwiches." Who cares? I bet you like less than 75% fat on your sandwiches, too. The rules are different here, so it behooves you to know how things are done. (Philly food critic Craig Laban described ordering Swiss as an "alternative lifestyle" in the City of Brotherly Love. Is that the image you want?) When in Philly, the top cheese choice is Cheez Whiz, the miracle orangey stuff that comes in a bottle. Secondary choices -- the only secondary choices -- are American and provolone cheese, but if you're running for president, you get the Cheez Whiz. All right, now I hear you muttering, "I'll be damned if I cross my lips with any product spelled 'cheez.'" And I can't blame you. I'm a provolone man myself. But look: you're running for the highest office in the land. You're only going to have to do this once. Smile and eat the damned Whiz. It won't kill you.
(Incidentally, I don't totally blame Kerry for this gaffe. Where's the staff? This is precisely the sort of embarrassing gaffe that can be easily avoided if a staffer takes you aside beforehand and says, "By the way, boss, go for the Whiz." Someone should be getting hell over this.)
Secondly, the Post reports that you consumed the sandwich by "nibbling daintily" at it, the way you might consume a cucumber sandwich at afternoon tea. They also ran the picture to back up the assertion, and that's a nibble, pardner. Let me be as clear about this as possible: This ain't Britain. We're not getting a little nosh before we go fox-hunting. This is serious eating, pal. We go for the gusto when we've got a cheesesteak on the plate. This is the time to let your primal urges come out. Imagine that you're a caveman, holding the thighbone of some unidentified animal that you've just killed. Eat it like that. And if you get Cheez Whiz on your shirt or a grease spot on your tie, so what? It'll make your image look that much better in Philly. And I'm sure you've got a change of clothes with you somewhere. As Laban said, "Throwing fistfuls of steak into the gaping maw, fingers dripping -- that's the proper way." Exactly. Go after that sandwich like you're Tim Allen, reveling in your masculinity. Post-consumption grunting is optional.
All I can say, Senator, is that if this is your idea of "bonding with the common man," you're in deep trouble. You seem like an interesting guy; I bet you're fun to hang around when the cameras are off. But you've got to let your hair down a little sometimes, show a flash of the real guy, unpolished and raw. If you can't do that, it's like saying you don't trust the voters to know the real you. And if that's the message you're sending, you may as well start returning the donations now. As Howard Dean has shown, people like a candidate who seems human. The cameras are still low, so you've got time to work on this. But not much. And if you need more advice, you know where to find me. Next time, though, I'm charging a consultant's fee.
I was paging through the Philadelphia Inquirer to see if I could find a local angle on the Kerry story, and it occurred to me just what a different world we live in here in the Fedroplex. As an example, let's compare the front page of today's Inquirer to today's Washington Post. Stories listed in descending order of their placement on the page.
INQUIRER:
- Pennsylvania schools failing to meet the No Child Left Behind standards
- Blackout brings downtown Philly to a standstill
- 3 men arrested in the New York area in a plot to smuggle shoulder-mounted missiles into the US
- British heat wave continues
- After 16 straight rainy days, Philly finally has a dry day
- Topping the briefs section: Local Little League team's quest to make the World Series foiled
POST:
- Decline in President Bush's approval ratings stops
- Internet worm sweeping country, infects Maryland DMV computers
- Kenyan children whose parents died of AIDS struggle to survive
- Washington on track for the wettest summer on record
- 2 Israelis killed in suicide bombing
- World Health Organization calls for an end to antibiotic growth promoters in animal food
- Arnold Schwarzenegger not yet supplying details of his platform in California governor's race
Wow. When I was younger, I more or less felt I was brought up in a typical Northeastern city. Shows what I know. It really is another planet here.
More depressing news in Herb Brooks' death. His friends report that Brooks seemed very tired when playing golf the morning of his fatal accident, and may well have fallen asleep at the wheel. Also, authorities report that Brooks wasn't wearing his seat belt, and that if he had been, he probably would have survived. This story just gets worse and worse, and I can barely write about it any more. But, in all seriousness, please buckle up when you drive. And if you're feeling too tired to drive, don't. I can't afford to lose any readers. (If you follow the link, take a note of the crossed hockey-stick memorial at the site of the accident. A perfect tribute, but... just heartbreaking. I can't write about this any more. Let's have a moment of silence and move on.)
Michael Wilbon weighs in with a provocative and very thoughtful article on Allen Iverson, and whether or not he's the real symbol of America among today's NBA players. I was thinking of writing about Iverson in a future post -- he's a fascinating character -- but Wilbon did it so well I may not have to. I recommend this very highly.
Finally, The Smart Lady's coming back today! I can barely keep the grin off my face. Readers should look forward to the return of her smart and incisive blog. And as for me, I look forward to the sunshine coming back to my days. If you see this before I talk to you, welcome back, Smart Lady, and I've missed you much.
Another day, another dollar. I'm sure I'll be writing about something tomorrow... I just hope something newsworthy and interesting happens between now and then. See you Thursday. Keep the faith.
(Note on this selection: A fortune awaits the Philly-based sports team that chooses to call itself the "Freedom." You've got all that Revolutionary imagery, you've got a name that rolls off the tonuge, and you've got a cool theme song that everyone likes. Just take the part at the end where Elton John sings, "Phil-a-delphia Freedom... you know I lo-o-ove you... you know I lo-o-ove you... you know I lo-o-o-ve you... yes I do!", splice in some footage of the crowd going wild and the Freedom making a couple successful plays, and bingo, instant commercial. I can't believe no one's done this yet. But I digress.)
HE'S KERRY, KERRY SORRY
Uh-oh, John Kerry's put his foot in it again. Or perhaps more accurately, he's put his mouth in it again. Truth be told, I'm starting to feel sorry for the patrician senator from Massachusetts. He was dubbed the "front runner" some time ago, long before it could do him any good with voters, who largely aren't paying attention. All the "front runner" designation earns you now is the increased attentions of the press, who need something to stave off boredom while traipsing through corn fields in Iowa watching grey-haired men in conservative suits shake hands and make meaningless pledges about ethanol. Possibly as revenge for being forced to spend the summer in such glamorous locations as Ottumwa and Mason City (and no offense intended to any Iowans who may be reading this), the press tend to make a sport of whacking the presumed "front runner" like a pinata at Cinco de Mayo. As a result, we political junkies read negative but largely meaningless pieces about Kerry's "aloofness," or his "waffling," or how one of the President's aides thinks he "looks French," whatever that means. (Does the Statue of Liberty "look French"? Does Jerry Lewis? Does "Frenchy" from Grease?) What's more, Kerry is rich, handsome, uite successful and married to a charming and lovely woman, so he doesn't exactly come off as a sympathetic figure. It's hard to perceive someone like Kerry as being bullied by the press, as opposed to the way it would sound if they said the same things about, say, Dennis Kucinich. (Oh, wait. Nobody cares what anyone says about Kucinich. Never mind.) Right now, the "front runner" status is just a giant Trojan Horse for Kerry, nothing but an excuse for the press to magnify every little misstep he makes.
And he made a big one Monday in Philadelphia. The Washington Post reports that Kerry was stumping in Philly, and in keeping with a long-standing tradition, he went over to Pat's Steaks and ordered himself a cheesesteak. All candidates do this when they're in Philly. In Iowa, you talk about ethanol. In Philly, you eat a cheesesteak. Yet another reason why it's better to campaign in Philly. (It occurred to me to wonder how the aforementioned Kucinich, who is a vegetarian, would handle this tradition. But then it occurred to me that, unless he suddenly develops a realistic shot at winning in the next few months, no one will give a damn what he eats.) So Kerry went down to Pat's and did his bit. It was immediately clear that cheesesteaks don't constitute a mainstay of the Senator's diet (and as trim as he is, I'm not surprised), and this is what led to his fatal mistake. Actually, there were two mistakes outlined in the Post article. And Senator Kerry, if you're reading this, I'm here to help.
I'm not a Philly native, but I am a big cheesesteak guy. ("Big" in multiple senses of the word.) When I'm walking down the street, minding my own business, and I catch a whiff of onions and beef on the grill, I'm done for. Much like Toucan Sam, I follow my nose right into the restaurant and order one of the demon sandwiches. (I describe them as "demon sandwiches" on the advice of my doctor.) It's warm, it's meaty, it's cheesy, it's greasy... what more could a man want from his lunch? (Assuming the man doesn't care about living until dinner.) Clearly, Senator Kerry, you're accustomed to fine dining, the kind of repast you find in drawing rooms and salons in the nation's capital and the Back Bay. This is what you've become accustomed to, and for that I can't blame you. But that's not how regular people eat. Regular people eat places like Pat's, places where "decor" is a sun umbrella over your picnic bench and where artistry and presentation aren't even on the menu. That's clearly not your area of expertise. So sit back and take a lesson in the art of the cheesesteak.
There's a certain ethos that comes along with the eating of a cheesesteak, an ethos that doesn't accompany the foods that I'm sure you typically eat, Senator. For one thing, it's hugely unhealthy. Take a fatty cut of beef, slather cheese on it, plop on some grease-besotted onions and dump the whole thing in a fluffy hoagie roll... I've yet to see the diet plan that enorses this combination. But that's the point. You take a bite of a cheesesteak and you're saying to hell with the doctors, to hell with the Food Police, I'm eating what tastes good, dammit. No tofu-and-wheat-germ casserole for me, no sir. Also, cheesesteaks are notoriously messy. The grease runs down your arm, the onions fall on your shirt, chunks of meat fall into your lap and stain your trousers. Again, that's the point. You're supposed to revel in the mess; it implies that you're the sort of person who can't be bothered with matters of grooming and hygiene. Cheesesteaks are definitely not a "metrosexual" food. Also, the cheesesteak is a uniquely Philly food. So it's all overlaid with a layer of street-tough Philly rudeness. When you order a cheesesteak at a place like Pat's or Geno's, the guy behind the counter is rude. You're supposed to be rude right back. It all goes quick, and if you're not ready, you're banished to the back of the line. You're supposed to eat quick, too, and not share. Eating a cheesesteak should make you feel a little like a street kid, if you do it right.
To sum up, the cheesesteak is rough, blunt, unfettered, anti-elitist and proud of it. That's why they're such a popular campaign prop. What better way to prove your regular-guy credentials than to tear pell-mell into this gut-bomb of a sandwich, wipe your mouth on your sleeve and say "What you lookin' at?" to anyone who dares look askance? The cheesesteak is a sort of test, you see, Senator. Remember George Bush Sr. at the country market in 1992? By not knowing the price of a gallon of milk or a dozen eggs, he proved to critics that he was "out of touch." (Never mind that I don't know the price of milk or eggs, and I buy them every week.) The point, Senator, is that this is your chance to show the press that you're an ordinary average Joe at heart. Unfortunately, you dropped the ball. Let's review your mistakes, and see what we can learn.
First off, the Post reports that you attempted to order your cheesesteak with Swiss cheese. No, no, no. If you weren't running for office, ordering Swiss on your steak probably would have gotten you thrown out of Pat's entirely. There is no such thing as a Philly cheesesteak with Swiss. To use a Boston reference point, this would be like going into Cheers bar and ordering frog legs and a Pilsner Urquell. A complete no-no. I can already hear you protesting, "But I like Swiss cheese on my sandwiches." Who cares? I bet you like less than 75% fat on your sandwiches, too. The rules are different here, so it behooves you to know how things are done. (Philly food critic Craig Laban described ordering Swiss as an "alternative lifestyle" in the City of Brotherly Love. Is that the image you want?) When in Philly, the top cheese choice is Cheez Whiz, the miracle orangey stuff that comes in a bottle. Secondary choices -- the only secondary choices -- are American and provolone cheese, but if you're running for president, you get the Cheez Whiz. All right, now I hear you muttering, "I'll be damned if I cross my lips with any product spelled 'cheez.'" And I can't blame you. I'm a provolone man myself. But look: you're running for the highest office in the land. You're only going to have to do this once. Smile and eat the damned Whiz. It won't kill you.
(Incidentally, I don't totally blame Kerry for this gaffe. Where's the staff? This is precisely the sort of embarrassing gaffe that can be easily avoided if a staffer takes you aside beforehand and says, "By the way, boss, go for the Whiz." Someone should be getting hell over this.)
Secondly, the Post reports that you consumed the sandwich by "nibbling daintily" at it, the way you might consume a cucumber sandwich at afternoon tea. They also ran the picture to back up the assertion, and that's a nibble, pardner. Let me be as clear about this as possible: This ain't Britain. We're not getting a little nosh before we go fox-hunting. This is serious eating, pal. We go for the gusto when we've got a cheesesteak on the plate. This is the time to let your primal urges come out. Imagine that you're a caveman, holding the thighbone of some unidentified animal that you've just killed. Eat it like that. And if you get Cheez Whiz on your shirt or a grease spot on your tie, so what? It'll make your image look that much better in Philly. And I'm sure you've got a change of clothes with you somewhere. As Laban said, "Throwing fistfuls of steak into the gaping maw, fingers dripping -- that's the proper way." Exactly. Go after that sandwich like you're Tim Allen, reveling in your masculinity. Post-consumption grunting is optional.
All I can say, Senator, is that if this is your idea of "bonding with the common man," you're in deep trouble. You seem like an interesting guy; I bet you're fun to hang around when the cameras are off. But you've got to let your hair down a little sometimes, show a flash of the real guy, unpolished and raw. If you can't do that, it's like saying you don't trust the voters to know the real you. And if that's the message you're sending, you may as well start returning the donations now. As Howard Dean has shown, people like a candidate who seems human. The cameras are still low, so you've got time to work on this. But not much. And if you need more advice, you know where to find me. Next time, though, I'm charging a consultant's fee.
I was paging through the Philadelphia Inquirer to see if I could find a local angle on the Kerry story, and it occurred to me just what a different world we live in here in the Fedroplex. As an example, let's compare the front page of today's Inquirer to today's Washington Post. Stories listed in descending order of their placement on the page.
INQUIRER:
- Pennsylvania schools failing to meet the No Child Left Behind standards
- Blackout brings downtown Philly to a standstill
- 3 men arrested in the New York area in a plot to smuggle shoulder-mounted missiles into the US
- British heat wave continues
- After 16 straight rainy days, Philly finally has a dry day
- Topping the briefs section: Local Little League team's quest to make the World Series foiled
POST:
- Decline in President Bush's approval ratings stops
- Internet worm sweeping country, infects Maryland DMV computers
- Kenyan children whose parents died of AIDS struggle to survive
- Washington on track for the wettest summer on record
- 2 Israelis killed in suicide bombing
- World Health Organization calls for an end to antibiotic growth promoters in animal food
- Arnold Schwarzenegger not yet supplying details of his platform in California governor's race
Wow. When I was younger, I more or less felt I was brought up in a typical Northeastern city. Shows what I know. It really is another planet here.
More depressing news in Herb Brooks' death. His friends report that Brooks seemed very tired when playing golf the morning of his fatal accident, and may well have fallen asleep at the wheel. Also, authorities report that Brooks wasn't wearing his seat belt, and that if he had been, he probably would have survived. This story just gets worse and worse, and I can barely write about it any more. But, in all seriousness, please buckle up when you drive. And if you're feeling too tired to drive, don't. I can't afford to lose any readers. (If you follow the link, take a note of the crossed hockey-stick memorial at the site of the accident. A perfect tribute, but... just heartbreaking. I can't write about this any more. Let's have a moment of silence and move on.)
Michael Wilbon weighs in with a provocative and very thoughtful article on Allen Iverson, and whether or not he's the real symbol of America among today's NBA players. I was thinking of writing about Iverson in a future post -- he's a fascinating character -- but Wilbon did it so well I may not have to. I recommend this very highly.
Finally, The Smart Lady's coming back today! I can barely keep the grin off my face. Readers should look forward to the return of her smart and incisive blog. And as for me, I look forward to the sunshine coming back to my days. If you see this before I talk to you, welcome back, Smart Lady, and I've missed you much.
Another day, another dollar. I'm sure I'll be writing about something tomorrow... I just hope something newsworthy and interesting happens between now and then. See you Thursday. Keep the faith.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Elected" by Alice Cooper
CALIFORNIA TO GRAY DAVIS: DROP DEAD!
As you might possibly have heard, if you're a political junkie who watches a lot of C-SPAN, the state of California is due to mount an election in a couple of months, during which they will determine whether or not to recall the incumbent Governor, "Every Silver Lining's Got a Touch of" Gray Davis, and if so, with whom he will be replaced. The media, who know a circus when they see one, have descended upon the Golden State, having gone ga-ga over this example of direct democracy, sort of, in action.
You see, California has a lot of wacky laws, and one of them is that, in the event of a recall election, anyone who can pony up $3500 and a petition with 65 signatures can run. I'm sure that the good-government types who thought this up back in the '20s figured this would be a nice democratizing gesture, to provide a government that needn't be bought by big-money interests. They probably also figured that the recalls would be for unglamorous positions like judge, insurance examiner or county coroner. What they surely didn't foresee was what has happened here, which is that everybody and his uncle rushed down to the county courthouse and plunked down the cash and the signatures, leaving us with a recall ballot only slightly more organized that the 1968 Democratic convention. At last count, almost 200 people had filed to be included, and well over 100 will likely be certified for a spot on the ballot. What does this mean for the California voter, other than a massive headache in the voting booth? Well, it guarantees that just about every possible viewpoint will be represented. That is, if the media aren't permitted to limit the debate.
Because of the disturbing media fixation on the "horse race," they naturally tend to focus on the "major candidates." "Major candidates" are defined as those who have actually held political office, or who are on TV a lot, or whose last movie grossed over $100 million. There's also a small bit of interest in colorful "fringe candidates," B-list celebrities who speak colorfully and make good copy for a lazy reporter on deadline. (The cheer that went up in newsrooms across the country when Gallagher, noted thespian of melon-smashing fame, jumped into the race was of a level unseen since the O.J. SImpson trial.) This method of covering elections is a time-honored politcal-reporting tradition, and I wouldn't argue with it. Usually. But this is not a usual situation. In this case, the standard political-reporting techniques result in about 180 candidates being completely ignored. And I don't think this is fair.
So I've determined to do something about this. With the help of the Los Angeles Times, which published a section on all the candidates a couple days back, Mediocre Fred is going to turn the spotlight on the so-called "minor candidates." I do this not only as a service to the candidates themselves, or to California voters. I do this as a service to the American public, to allow our citizens to see what happens when democracy is allowed to stay out by itself after dark. This is the political process at its rawest. I hope you're prepared to experience what can only be called...
Mediocre Fred's Guide to the Rest of the California Governor's Race
To start with, as you can imagine, the process is subject to certain abuses, and one of them is that people with the same name as other, more famous people throw their hats into the ring in the hopes that confused voters will go for a name they recognize. As a result, we have California gubernatorial "candidates" like Edward Kennedy, Michael Jackson, Richard Simmons, David Robinson, Robert Dole and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Wait, what's that? Arnold's actually running? Oh, come on, be serious. The Terminator guy? You're pulling my leg. You're not? Oh. Whatever.
But apart from these candidates, you have a wide variety of rank-and-file Californians, the sort of everyday just-plain-folks you might meet in the supermarket, or in line at Disneyland, or at a cult meeting. I've decided that the best way to make these candidates come alive is to present them in their own words. (Now, I didn't actually interview them myself, of course -- can you imagine the phone bill? -- but I did copy their words out of the LA Times, and I think I should get credit for my efforts.) I found the candidates with the most salient messages, and I will now present to you the candidates as they see themselves, their policies and visions as they present them. (With commentary attached. I mean, hell, you could read the quotes yourself out of the Times. Granted, I plucked out the choicest quotes, saving you the time of picking them out yourself, but still, I feel I owe a debt to you, The Reader. Customer service is my mission.)
Further preable would be, in my view, superfluous. I hereby present the unheard voices of the California recall election. Enjoy.
Angelyne (Nonpartisan - Bel Air): "We've had Gray. We've had Brown. Now it's time for some blond and pink."
This slogan makes me see red. Change it now or I'm going to turn green. And not with envy.
Iris Adam (Natural Law - Irvine): "The recall is disruptive. Sustainable economy, quality education, health care are not Republican or Democratic issues. They are important issues. We need to infuse coherent consciousness into the process to solve the problems of California."
I think we need to infuse coherent thinking into your statements. If the recall is disruptive, why are you running?
Art Brown (D - Canoga Park): "I absolutely have some genuine issues. I started for publicity, but now that I'm running, I kind of want to run."
I'm absolutely convinced by the genuineness of this candidate. I kind of want to absolutely sort of maybe vote for him. Or something.
Todd Carson (R - Newport Beach): "The state's not run like a business, and it needs to be because you're dealing with dollars."
Wrong, wrong, wrong. Didn't you read "Babbitt"? Government is not a business. This will be the subject of a future post, but for now I'll just say: Doesn't he sound like a fun date? "Okay, so I took you to dinner -- that's $50 -- and to the movies -- another $20 -- so you owe me 45 minutes of passionate sex. Hey, we're dealing with dollars here! I'm running this relationship like a business." Unfortunately, he's married. Sorry, ladies!
Gary Coleman (Nonpartisan - Culver City): "I'd send private citizens and investigators to go get California's $38 billion back."
Here he's referring to the state budget deficit. So, what do you think is going on here, Gary? Did California just forget and leave the $38 billion on top of a bureau at some motel? Did it leave the money with, say, Nevada for safekeeping, and now they can't get it back? "I don't understand... Nevada always seemed so trustworthy. They always watered my plants and took in the mail when I was away. So I figured the money was safe with them..." I'd make more jokes along this line, but the sad thing is, a lot of voters probably think this is actually what happened.
Warren Farrell (D - Carlsbad): "One of my purposes is to create stronger families so we have more functional citizens that are paying taxes than are tax sponges."
This quote makes no sense. No sense at all. I've read it ten times, and I still don't understand what the hell he's saying, or what policies would flow from this concept. Although at least with tax sponges, you can squeeze them and the money comes right out, right?
Dan Feinstein (D - San Francisco): "Cutting higher education is a bad thing to do."
Holy mackerel! Such astounidng boldness! Do you think someone can get elected in this age with fearless maverick statements like that? At least he's an alternative to all those anti-higher-education candidates out there. Thank God for a political system that gives us options!
Lorraine Abner Zurd Fontanes (D - Westwood): "My platform is basically common sense for California. It's time we got together and stopped bickering."
And if you don't pass the FY 2005 budget right now, I'm sending you to bed without supper!
Hank Gehman (Nonpartisan - Berkeley): "I just decided I wanted to use this [recall] as a vehicle to create a forum for Californians."
Huh? Is an election not officially a forum until Hank Gehman enters the race? If so, thank God he got his papers in on time.
Howard Gershater (Nonpartisan - Camarillo): "If I'm supposed to run for this office, please let there be some sign At that very instant, this giant comet streaks across the sky and the comet is as bright as can be for five seconds. OK, thank you, I got the message."
Funny, I thought God was backing Larry Flynt in this race. Guess I was wrong.
Ralph Hernandez (D - Antioch): "The state needs a take-charge guy at the top. I am a take-charge kind of guy....I am tight with a dollar, and I believe the state should be [so] with the public's money."
This guy sounds like my grandfather. "In my day, we didn't have all these fancy-dan luxuries you kids take for granted. No air conditioning, no television, no Proposition 13. We knew the value of a dollar in my day. None of these lavish $38 billion deficits for us, no sir. I ought to run right up to Sacramento and give those so-and-sos what-for! In fact, I think I will. Right after my nap."
Kelly Kimball (D - Tarzana): "You've got guys like us who will run for governor simply to exploit a product -- it appears now that is what this system will allow." (Editor's note: Kimball co-owns a low-price beer company, and is running to promote his brand.)
Frankly, I admire this kind of honesty. If he'll ship me a keg, he's got my vote.
Gary Leonard (D - Los Angeles): "I'm running because I can. This is history and I wanted to be part of it. I'm serious about doing this, but I'm not serious about winning. I don't think there will be another opportunity to do this and I just couldn't pass it up."
You know, it's only a shame this election isn't closer to the holidays. What better gift to give the person who has everything? "Why, honey! A gubernatorial campaign! It's just what I always wanted."
Todd Lewis (Nonpartisan - West Hollywood): "People are going to know the Bum Hunter is doing this, and hopefully it will get the young demographic to go out there, support me, register to vote, and be involved in future elections."
To those of you who have feared that youth disconnection with the political process is going to ruin our country, fear no longer. For the savior of democracy is at hand. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: the Bum Hunter.
Shu Yih Liu (Nonpartisan - Westwood): "I don't have any interest in personal fame. I see that there is a big solution for the deficit. California has lost its chi -- its aura -- and I have the solution. As soon as I am in the position to do so, I will announce plan to solve the problems in California."
It's not a campaign in California unless a New Age kook is involved. And here she is!
Paul "Chip" Mailander (D - San Diego): "One of our members came in last Sunday and said that of all the people, I should run. He said I was a great person and would make a great governor. I'd have to look at the fiscal crisis, then chip away at it, as they say in golf." (Editor's note: Mailander is a golf pro.)
Let's just ignore the horrible pun at the end, shall we? What interests me here is the way he was convinced to run. You'd think this was an election for neighborhood watch captain or something. "Hey, you seem like an honest guy and I like the cut of your jib. You should be governor!" Only in California.
Robert Mannheim (D - Agoura Hills): "When I first heard it would take 65 signatures and $3,500 I said, 'Hey, it sounds like a lot of fun.' "
Ironically, that's exactly what Steve Forbes said when he decided to run for president.
Jack Mortensen (D - Folsom): "I have the right to stand up. I'm going to stand up and I'm going to see if the people of California feel the same way I do."
Okay, the people of California feel the same way you do. You have every right to stand up. Now go sit down.
Chuck Pineda Jr. (D - Sacramento): "I'm kind of like the Spartacus of the Democratic Party."
Okay, Chuck, you've got to choose: the gladiator movies or the gubernatorial campaign. One of them has got to go. You pick.
Heather Peters (R - Santa Monica): "I'm running to take the politics out of government and return the power to the people."
Yeah, nothing worse than politics mucking up government. Damn politics. Should I point out to her that this election is a political process, thereby inherently embroiling her in politics? Or do you think that would make her head explode?
Ned Roscoe (Libertarian - Napa): "I have a better chance of winning the election than I do of purchasing a winning lottery ticket."
Dude, you're a Libertarian. Your chances of winning the lottery are way higher than your chances of winning this election. And your chances of being struck and killed by lightning are higher than your odds of either. Chew on that.
Jim Vandeventer, Jr. (R - Los Angeles): "I'm running because I've been watching all of the insanity going on, and it has got to come to an end."
Amen, brother. Amen.
So there you have it, folks. The election is less than two months away. You still have time to relocate to another state. Act fast!
* * * * *
Actually, my feelings on the recall are more mixed. On one hand, I'd react with varying degrees of horror if just about any of these people were going to be my governor. On the other hand, it's kind of cool to see people step forward like this. If it means politics becomes cool for them again, I'm all for that, even if it takes the Bum Hunter to do so.
And despite my smart-alecky report, not all of the minor candidates are wackos. For instance, take Badi Badiozamani (Nonpartisan - San Diego). He emigrated from Iran in 1981 and came to Calfornia. He founded his own insurance business. Now he's on the local Business Advisory Board and International Affairs board. And he's running for governor. When asked why, he said, "This is an opportunity for me to offer my experience and assistance back to the state that let me and my family live the American dream." Were it not for this election, there's no way Badiozamani would ever have run for governor. And now, through this chaotic madness of a process, he can. You can take Larry Flynt, Gray Davis, Bill Simon Jr., Arianna Huffington and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Take them far away. Please. For me, the symbol of this recall is Badi Badiozamani. Good luck, Badi. May the American dream be yours, now and forever. You can be my governor any time.
Oh, this is rich. America Online is suggesting that it will ask parent company AOL Time Warner to drop the "AOL" in order to keep the online company from being tainted by Time Warner's bad publicity. Of course, most of Time Warner's bad publicity in recent years has been due to AOL. This is like the school nerd hanging out with the captain of the football team, then spotting a hot woman and telling the football captain, "Take a hike. You're bad for my image." I hope Time Warner grants AOL its wish. As for AOL... good luck out there. You'll need it.
A very sad note today, as Herb Brooks died in a one-car crash in Minnesota at age 66. For those who are too young to remember, Brooks was the coach of the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team, the team that gave us the "Miracle on Ice." Brooks' death hit me hard, even though I'm too young to remember that Olympics, and I've never been much of a jingoist (I hardly ever watch the Olympics at all, actually). So why do I feel the loss so much? Well, I've seen the tapes (and if you've lived in America around Winter Olympics time even once, you probably have too), and even though I was only a kid at the time, I can feel how they felt then. Feeling the electricity of that crowd in Lake Placid, watching the team skate around holding the flag, hearing Al Michaels scream, "Do you believe in miracles?"... 23 years gone, now, and that moment is still magic. You can just tell that it made the whole country ecstatic, all at once. It was a moment of pure joy, with nothing to stain it, just a big naitonal celebration. We don't have those much any more, so the memories of the ones we did have are all the sweeter. Godspeed, Herb. Tony Kornheiser did a great appreciation in the Post.
That's all for today. Tomorrow, I'll have a clever sign-off for today's post. Rock on, and see you tomorrow.
CALIFORNIA TO GRAY DAVIS: DROP DEAD!
As you might possibly have heard, if you're a political junkie who watches a lot of C-SPAN, the state of California is due to mount an election in a couple of months, during which they will determine whether or not to recall the incumbent Governor, "Every Silver Lining's Got a Touch of" Gray Davis, and if so, with whom he will be replaced. The media, who know a circus when they see one, have descended upon the Golden State, having gone ga-ga over this example of direct democracy, sort of, in action.
You see, California has a lot of wacky laws, and one of them is that, in the event of a recall election, anyone who can pony up $3500 and a petition with 65 signatures can run. I'm sure that the good-government types who thought this up back in the '20s figured this would be a nice democratizing gesture, to provide a government that needn't be bought by big-money interests. They probably also figured that the recalls would be for unglamorous positions like judge, insurance examiner or county coroner. What they surely didn't foresee was what has happened here, which is that everybody and his uncle rushed down to the county courthouse and plunked down the cash and the signatures, leaving us with a recall ballot only slightly more organized that the 1968 Democratic convention. At last count, almost 200 people had filed to be included, and well over 100 will likely be certified for a spot on the ballot. What does this mean for the California voter, other than a massive headache in the voting booth? Well, it guarantees that just about every possible viewpoint will be represented. That is, if the media aren't permitted to limit the debate.
Because of the disturbing media fixation on the "horse race," they naturally tend to focus on the "major candidates." "Major candidates" are defined as those who have actually held political office, or who are on TV a lot, or whose last movie grossed over $100 million. There's also a small bit of interest in colorful "fringe candidates," B-list celebrities who speak colorfully and make good copy for a lazy reporter on deadline. (The cheer that went up in newsrooms across the country when Gallagher, noted thespian of melon-smashing fame, jumped into the race was of a level unseen since the O.J. SImpson trial.) This method of covering elections is a time-honored politcal-reporting tradition, and I wouldn't argue with it. Usually. But this is not a usual situation. In this case, the standard political-reporting techniques result in about 180 candidates being completely ignored. And I don't think this is fair.
So I've determined to do something about this. With the help of the Los Angeles Times, which published a section on all the candidates a couple days back, Mediocre Fred is going to turn the spotlight on the so-called "minor candidates." I do this not only as a service to the candidates themselves, or to California voters. I do this as a service to the American public, to allow our citizens to see what happens when democracy is allowed to stay out by itself after dark. This is the political process at its rawest. I hope you're prepared to experience what can only be called...
Mediocre Fred's Guide to the Rest of the California Governor's Race
To start with, as you can imagine, the process is subject to certain abuses, and one of them is that people with the same name as other, more famous people throw their hats into the ring in the hopes that confused voters will go for a name they recognize. As a result, we have California gubernatorial "candidates" like Edward Kennedy, Michael Jackson, Richard Simmons, David Robinson, Robert Dole and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Wait, what's that? Arnold's actually running? Oh, come on, be serious. The Terminator guy? You're pulling my leg. You're not? Oh. Whatever.
But apart from these candidates, you have a wide variety of rank-and-file Californians, the sort of everyday just-plain-folks you might meet in the supermarket, or in line at Disneyland, or at a cult meeting. I've decided that the best way to make these candidates come alive is to present them in their own words. (Now, I didn't actually interview them myself, of course -- can you imagine the phone bill? -- but I did copy their words out of the LA Times, and I think I should get credit for my efforts.) I found the candidates with the most salient messages, and I will now present to you the candidates as they see themselves, their policies and visions as they present them. (With commentary attached. I mean, hell, you could read the quotes yourself out of the Times. Granted, I plucked out the choicest quotes, saving you the time of picking them out yourself, but still, I feel I owe a debt to you, The Reader. Customer service is my mission.)
Further preable would be, in my view, superfluous. I hereby present the unheard voices of the California recall election. Enjoy.
Angelyne (Nonpartisan - Bel Air): "We've had Gray. We've had Brown. Now it's time for some blond and pink."
This slogan makes me see red. Change it now or I'm going to turn green. And not with envy.
Iris Adam (Natural Law - Irvine): "The recall is disruptive. Sustainable economy, quality education, health care are not Republican or Democratic issues. They are important issues. We need to infuse coherent consciousness into the process to solve the problems of California."
I think we need to infuse coherent thinking into your statements. If the recall is disruptive, why are you running?
Art Brown (D - Canoga Park): "I absolutely have some genuine issues. I started for publicity, but now that I'm running, I kind of want to run."
I'm absolutely convinced by the genuineness of this candidate. I kind of want to absolutely sort of maybe vote for him. Or something.
Todd Carson (R - Newport Beach): "The state's not run like a business, and it needs to be because you're dealing with dollars."
Wrong, wrong, wrong. Didn't you read "Babbitt"? Government is not a business. This will be the subject of a future post, but for now I'll just say: Doesn't he sound like a fun date? "Okay, so I took you to dinner -- that's $50 -- and to the movies -- another $20 -- so you owe me 45 minutes of passionate sex. Hey, we're dealing with dollars here! I'm running this relationship like a business." Unfortunately, he's married. Sorry, ladies!
Gary Coleman (Nonpartisan - Culver City): "I'd send private citizens and investigators to go get California's $38 billion back."
Here he's referring to the state budget deficit. So, what do you think is going on here, Gary? Did California just forget and leave the $38 billion on top of a bureau at some motel? Did it leave the money with, say, Nevada for safekeeping, and now they can't get it back? "I don't understand... Nevada always seemed so trustworthy. They always watered my plants and took in the mail when I was away. So I figured the money was safe with them..." I'd make more jokes along this line, but the sad thing is, a lot of voters probably think this is actually what happened.
Warren Farrell (D - Carlsbad): "One of my purposes is to create stronger families so we have more functional citizens that are paying taxes than are tax sponges."
This quote makes no sense. No sense at all. I've read it ten times, and I still don't understand what the hell he's saying, or what policies would flow from this concept. Although at least with tax sponges, you can squeeze them and the money comes right out, right?
Dan Feinstein (D - San Francisco): "Cutting higher education is a bad thing to do."
Holy mackerel! Such astounidng boldness! Do you think someone can get elected in this age with fearless maverick statements like that? At least he's an alternative to all those anti-higher-education candidates out there. Thank God for a political system that gives us options!
Lorraine Abner Zurd Fontanes (D - Westwood): "My platform is basically common sense for California. It's time we got together and stopped bickering."
And if you don't pass the FY 2005 budget right now, I'm sending you to bed without supper!
Hank Gehman (Nonpartisan - Berkeley): "I just decided I wanted to use this [recall] as a vehicle to create a forum for Californians."
Huh? Is an election not officially a forum until Hank Gehman enters the race? If so, thank God he got his papers in on time.
Howard Gershater (Nonpartisan - Camarillo): "If I'm supposed to run for this office, please let there be some sign At that very instant, this giant comet streaks across the sky and the comet is as bright as can be for five seconds. OK, thank you, I got the message."
Funny, I thought God was backing Larry Flynt in this race. Guess I was wrong.
Ralph Hernandez (D - Antioch): "The state needs a take-charge guy at the top. I am a take-charge kind of guy....I am tight with a dollar, and I believe the state should be [so] with the public's money."
This guy sounds like my grandfather. "In my day, we didn't have all these fancy-dan luxuries you kids take for granted. No air conditioning, no television, no Proposition 13. We knew the value of a dollar in my day. None of these lavish $38 billion deficits for us, no sir. I ought to run right up to Sacramento and give those so-and-sos what-for! In fact, I think I will. Right after my nap."
Kelly Kimball (D - Tarzana): "You've got guys like us who will run for governor simply to exploit a product -- it appears now that is what this system will allow." (Editor's note: Kimball co-owns a low-price beer company, and is running to promote his brand.)
Frankly, I admire this kind of honesty. If he'll ship me a keg, he's got my vote.
Gary Leonard (D - Los Angeles): "I'm running because I can. This is history and I wanted to be part of it. I'm serious about doing this, but I'm not serious about winning. I don't think there will be another opportunity to do this and I just couldn't pass it up."
You know, it's only a shame this election isn't closer to the holidays. What better gift to give the person who has everything? "Why, honey! A gubernatorial campaign! It's just what I always wanted."
Todd Lewis (Nonpartisan - West Hollywood): "People are going to know the Bum Hunter is doing this, and hopefully it will get the young demographic to go out there, support me, register to vote, and be involved in future elections."
To those of you who have feared that youth disconnection with the political process is going to ruin our country, fear no longer. For the savior of democracy is at hand. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: the Bum Hunter.
Shu Yih Liu (Nonpartisan - Westwood): "I don't have any interest in personal fame. I see that there is a big solution for the deficit. California has lost its chi -- its aura -- and I have the solution. As soon as I am in the position to do so, I will announce plan to solve the problems in California."
It's not a campaign in California unless a New Age kook is involved. And here she is!
Paul "Chip" Mailander (D - San Diego): "One of our members came in last Sunday and said that of all the people, I should run. He said I was a great person and would make a great governor. I'd have to look at the fiscal crisis, then chip away at it, as they say in golf." (Editor's note: Mailander is a golf pro.)
Let's just ignore the horrible pun at the end, shall we? What interests me here is the way he was convinced to run. You'd think this was an election for neighborhood watch captain or something. "Hey, you seem like an honest guy and I like the cut of your jib. You should be governor!" Only in California.
Robert Mannheim (D - Agoura Hills): "When I first heard it would take 65 signatures and $3,500 I said, 'Hey, it sounds like a lot of fun.' "
Ironically, that's exactly what Steve Forbes said when he decided to run for president.
Jack Mortensen (D - Folsom): "I have the right to stand up. I'm going to stand up and I'm going to see if the people of California feel the same way I do."
Okay, the people of California feel the same way you do. You have every right to stand up. Now go sit down.
Chuck Pineda Jr. (D - Sacramento): "I'm kind of like the Spartacus of the Democratic Party."
Okay, Chuck, you've got to choose: the gladiator movies or the gubernatorial campaign. One of them has got to go. You pick.
Heather Peters (R - Santa Monica): "I'm running to take the politics out of government and return the power to the people."
Yeah, nothing worse than politics mucking up government. Damn politics. Should I point out to her that this election is a political process, thereby inherently embroiling her in politics? Or do you think that would make her head explode?
Ned Roscoe (Libertarian - Napa): "I have a better chance of winning the election than I do of purchasing a winning lottery ticket."
Dude, you're a Libertarian. Your chances of winning the lottery are way higher than your chances of winning this election. And your chances of being struck and killed by lightning are higher than your odds of either. Chew on that.
Jim Vandeventer, Jr. (R - Los Angeles): "I'm running because I've been watching all of the insanity going on, and it has got to come to an end."
Amen, brother. Amen.
So there you have it, folks. The election is less than two months away. You still have time to relocate to another state. Act fast!
* * * * *
Actually, my feelings on the recall are more mixed. On one hand, I'd react with varying degrees of horror if just about any of these people were going to be my governor. On the other hand, it's kind of cool to see people step forward like this. If it means politics becomes cool for them again, I'm all for that, even if it takes the Bum Hunter to do so.
And despite my smart-alecky report, not all of the minor candidates are wackos. For instance, take Badi Badiozamani (Nonpartisan - San Diego). He emigrated from Iran in 1981 and came to Calfornia. He founded his own insurance business. Now he's on the local Business Advisory Board and International Affairs board. And he's running for governor. When asked why, he said, "This is an opportunity for me to offer my experience and assistance back to the state that let me and my family live the American dream." Were it not for this election, there's no way Badiozamani would ever have run for governor. And now, through this chaotic madness of a process, he can. You can take Larry Flynt, Gray Davis, Bill Simon Jr., Arianna Huffington and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Take them far away. Please. For me, the symbol of this recall is Badi Badiozamani. Good luck, Badi. May the American dream be yours, now and forever. You can be my governor any time.
Oh, this is rich. America Online is suggesting that it will ask parent company AOL Time Warner to drop the "AOL" in order to keep the online company from being tainted by Time Warner's bad publicity. Of course, most of Time Warner's bad publicity in recent years has been due to AOL. This is like the school nerd hanging out with the captain of the football team, then spotting a hot woman and telling the football captain, "Take a hike. You're bad for my image." I hope Time Warner grants AOL its wish. As for AOL... good luck out there. You'll need it.
A very sad note today, as Herb Brooks died in a one-car crash in Minnesota at age 66. For those who are too young to remember, Brooks was the coach of the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team, the team that gave us the "Miracle on Ice." Brooks' death hit me hard, even though I'm too young to remember that Olympics, and I've never been much of a jingoist (I hardly ever watch the Olympics at all, actually). So why do I feel the loss so much? Well, I've seen the tapes (and if you've lived in America around Winter Olympics time even once, you probably have too), and even though I was only a kid at the time, I can feel how they felt then. Feeling the electricity of that crowd in Lake Placid, watching the team skate around holding the flag, hearing Al Michaels scream, "Do you believe in miracles?"... 23 years gone, now, and that moment is still magic. You can just tell that it made the whole country ecstatic, all at once. It was a moment of pure joy, with nothing to stain it, just a big naitonal celebration. We don't have those much any more, so the memories of the ones we did have are all the sweeter. Godspeed, Herb. Tony Kornheiser did a great appreciation in the Post.
That's all for today. Tomorrow, I'll have a clever sign-off for today's post. Rock on, and see you tomorrow.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Ain't No Sunshine (When She's Gone)" by Bill Withers
A COLOSSAL DISASTER
Recently, my parents took a trip to Rome, and they sent me back a postcard featuring the Colosseum, which I read and then displayed on my wall, which I often do with postcards. Shortly thereafter, they visited St. Louis and sent me a postcard of Busch Stadium. As it happened, I put it up on the wall right next to the Roman Colosseum one, and seeing the two of them together got me thinking. Busch Stadium was built in 1966, and the city of St. Louis is working on getting a new stadium built to replace it. The Colosseum was built in the year 80 AD, and we haven't heard word one from the city of Rome about putting up a replacement. And let's be honest, folks: it's about time the Colosseum came down. Everyone keeps yapping about "historical landmarks" and how we have to preserve it and so forth, but come on, what modern team is going to want to play in an old dump like that? It's time to face the facts: The Colosseum is way overrated. It's a crumbling, out-of-date old relic that survives only because of nostalgia and misplaced civic pride. The sooner the city gets up the guts to rip it down and replace it with a modern facility, the better. Sit down and strap in, folks, because Mediocre Fred is about to blow the lid off this supposedly beloved ancient icon. I dare you to find this kind of analysis anywhere else.
Initially, I wanted to examine the Colosseum up close, adding that extra level of up-close analysis to my expose. However, my attempt to get my company to send me to Rome on their dime was tragically shot down. They gave me the usual bureaucratic nonsense about the trip "not having anything to do with my job." And since my budget does not allow for self-financed Italian excursions, the trip was out. However, continuing the proud Mediocre Fred tradition of bringing you, The Reader, the highest-quality research I can manage in a five-minute period, I pulled the postcard off my wall and studied it intently until my eyes started getting blurry. I have it close at hand as I type, in case I need to refer to it for something. Armed with this information, I am prepared to offer my scathing, no-holds-barred review. Prepare to have your world rocked.
Exterior Architecture: Even the briefest glance at the Colosseum confirms that it is yet another of those boring "ashtray-style" stadia that blighted the American landscape in droves in the '60s and '70s. Granted, the Roman one came first. But as far as I'm concerned, they deserve extra demerit points for spawning the movement that gave us such monstrosities as Veterans Stadiums a scant couple millennia later. The exterior works on a clear arch motif, which ties in pretty decently with the surrounding architecture, but hasn't that been done to death already? To its credit, the Colosseum has a higher outer wall on the north side, which breaks up the monotony a little bit, but event hat's not enough to save this. It's a total snooze-fest, if you ask me. If we hated this look on the Cincinnati waterfront, why would we want to see the same damn thing in Rome? Also, I can't say enough about the miserable condition it's in. Worse than Yankee Stadium. I mean, I know money's tight and all, but geez, can't the City Council cough up a few million for a renovation? Even a coat of paint would help. A big thumbs down for the outside.
Interior Architecture: Here we go again. More of the damned arches. Not only that, but the interior is boring as all get out. It's a fully enclosed structure, nothing but seats, arches, and more seats. What a snore. Why couldn't they have stuck in some water fountains like they have in Kansas City, or maybe a rock garden like Anaheim's? As it is, if it weren't for the advanced state of decay in the seating bowl, you might as well be in Philadelphia for all you can tell. Nothing here to stand out.
Amenities: It's here that the Colosseum really starts to show its age. At least your '60s-era American ashtray had plenty of bathrooms and concession stands galore. Not this dump. Squint as I might, I could not locate a single hot-dog stand, a single souvenir shop, or a single Starbucks, to say nothing of the upscale in-stadium restaurants you'll find in your newer, more upscale structures. I couldn't tell for sure about the bathrooms, but I'm sure that if it has them, they've got those low-class trough-style urinals that make you feel like an animal. And I'm sure the lines at the ladies' rooms are murder. There appear to be luxury boxes in the upper row (or perhaps they're press boxes), but they're not even glassed-in! And forget about air-conditioning. The lack of exciting architecture is just an annoyance, but these luxuires are what the modern sporting fan expects, dammit, and the Colosseum just isn't keeping up.
Seating Comfort: Oh, don't get me started. The seats are in such disrepair that I'll bet most of them are uninhabitable. And the habitable ones... well, they're stone benches. Yes, that's right, stone. Seriously, this is just pathetic. In this day and age, if you don't have plastic chairs, you might as well forget about it. On the plus side, there aren't any of those view-blocking pillars you often see in your older parks, but that doesn't make up for the stone seats.
Sound System: Ha ha. There isn't one. Can you believe that? As if you're supposed to sit in one place and watch a multiple-hour game without getting your "We Will Rock You" fix. Also, as near as I can tell, there's no Jumbotron either. I'm aghast! If fans don't have the opportunity to get themselves on the Jumbotron, why even bother going to the game?
Playing Surface: Disgraceful. Looks like a stone surface, terribly uneven, practically unplayable. Really, Rome, you should be ashamed. Even Astroturf is better than this. This field is a lawsuit waiting to happen, as far as I'm concerned. Let's just move on.
Access: To its credit, Rome appears to have done a good job building a roadway infrastructure up to and around the Colosseum. Plus, I keep hearing something about how "all roads lead to Rome," so I assume the freeway system is pretty decent. But considering the size of the stadium, they really dropped the ball with the parking, or rather the lack of it. It's all well and good that you can get to the stadium quickly, but if you can't park your car, what good is that? I don't see any sign of a subway stop, either. What do they expect you to do, park your car in the middle of the street? Rome, you blew it here.
Surrounding Neighborhood: Looks like a reasonably pleasant, low-density neighborhood, which is nice. It appears to be a fairly low-crime area, so you can safely leave your car, if you can find some place to park it. But I see no sign of any sports bars or other quality pre- and post-game entertainment venues. And the Colosseum is so big, and such an eyesore, that it really brings the whole neighborhood down.
I could go on, but I think my point is made. And don't think I'm the only one to notice. While MLB has been peddling the Expos around like a vintage salt-shaker collection at a flea market, pretty much considering any market over 10,000 people with a rich ownership group and a compliant legislature, have you heard them mention Rome? Even once? Nope, me either. Know why? Because the Colosseum is such an outdated deathtrap of a stadium that it's not even good enough for the Expos.
What I'm saying is that Rome has a golden opportunity here, and they're pissing it away. There's a franchise available, and no one's stepped up to grab it yet. If Rome would lay out a couple-three hundred million, dynamite the Colosseum and build a state-of-the-art, retractable-roof facility, complete with parking lots. Put in a few concession stands with cute names ("The Leaning Tower of Pizza," for instance), a good-sized team store, get a corporate sponsor (I wonder if Coke would be interested), and bada-boom, bada-bing, you're in business. The Expos would be playing in Rome faster than you could say, "Ciao bella." All they have to do is get rid of this damned white elephant that's nothing but a big drain on the city treasury, and get modern. Now, I know some Romans will probably be upset at the loss of the old girl, and that's natural. But such is life. Myself, I can't imagine any more sacred, treasured, and holy structure than Fenway Park. And they're planning to ditch that and build a modern stadium at last, right? Time marches on. Who knows? With the stadium as the centerpiece of a downtown urban-renewal project, maybe they could get that old "Holy Roman Empire" back together. It worked for Cleveland, didn't it?
Novelist Kate Lehrer launches an assault on summer in Sunday's Washington Post. Once again, your pal Mediocre Fred is ahead of the curve in denouncing the demon season. Am I a trend-setter? Well, I suppose it's possible (he said, adjusting the collar on his leisure suit).
Remember Ray Charles' life lessons from last week? Well, here's James Caan doing the same thing for Esquire. Worth a read; Caan's lessons are pretty, um, earthy.
Here's a Lesson in Internet Age Economics for you, courtesy of one of my co-workers: Allow me to introduce the Zapata Corporation. In years past, they were a reasonably successful family-owned fish-oil company. But apparently, in the late '90s, the family decided to get in on the Internet boom, and using those crucial transferrable skills gained from the fish-oil business, launched zap.com in 1998. Near as I can tell, zap.com was a Geocities-like network for privately-owned Web pages. For some odd reason, despite the hard-won experience their years in the fish-oil business gave them, this venture failed. Sort of. You see, despite the fact that zap.com has no product and no revenue, the Zapata Corporation has kept the business running. To quote their Web site:
Zap.Com ceased Internet operations in December of 2000 and has no existing business operations, other than to comply with its reporting requirements under the Securities Exchange Act of 1934. Currently, Zap.Com’s principal activities are exploring methods to enhance stockholder value. Zap.Com is likely to search for assets or businesses that it can acquire so that it can become an operating company. Zap.Com may also consider developing a new business suitable for its situation.
Now, I personally cannot imagine what new business would be suitable to zap.com's situation, other than panhandling, but I admire their optimism. Here's the latest SEC report from them. It contains a lot of heavy financial-type terminology, but I'd like to call your attention to this passage in particular:
In general, any new business development is difficult, and the Company’s particular realities impose significant constraints that make such an undertaking even more difficult. These constraints include the following: the need to acquire or develop the business without paying substantial cash or taking on significant debt; the handicap of not having actively traded stock to use to procure this business; the requirement that, after launch, the business will need a significant capital investment to fund its initial operations; and the requirement that the new business immediately produce a positive cash flow.
In other words: We'd like to start producing something, but the fact that we have no product, no money, and no real way of getting money could prove to be a problem. If you can wade through the bureaucratese, the report is a real scream; it's like a parody of a real business. Now, I ask you: Ain't America grand? Where else could a heartwarming non-failure story like zap.com take place?
That's all I have for today. Keep those cards and letters coming. Tomorrow I'll probably write something a little heavier, unless I come up with something frivolous and foolish to write between now and then. See you Tuesday. Cheers!
Quote of the Day
"I've been lucky. The critics never went out of their way to single me out for doing bad work."
-James Caan
A COLOSSAL DISASTER
Recently, my parents took a trip to Rome, and they sent me back a postcard featuring the Colosseum, which I read and then displayed on my wall, which I often do with postcards. Shortly thereafter, they visited St. Louis and sent me a postcard of Busch Stadium. As it happened, I put it up on the wall right next to the Roman Colosseum one, and seeing the two of them together got me thinking. Busch Stadium was built in 1966, and the city of St. Louis is working on getting a new stadium built to replace it. The Colosseum was built in the year 80 AD, and we haven't heard word one from the city of Rome about putting up a replacement. And let's be honest, folks: it's about time the Colosseum came down. Everyone keeps yapping about "historical landmarks" and how we have to preserve it and so forth, but come on, what modern team is going to want to play in an old dump like that? It's time to face the facts: The Colosseum is way overrated. It's a crumbling, out-of-date old relic that survives only because of nostalgia and misplaced civic pride. The sooner the city gets up the guts to rip it down and replace it with a modern facility, the better. Sit down and strap in, folks, because Mediocre Fred is about to blow the lid off this supposedly beloved ancient icon. I dare you to find this kind of analysis anywhere else.
Initially, I wanted to examine the Colosseum up close, adding that extra level of up-close analysis to my expose. However, my attempt to get my company to send me to Rome on their dime was tragically shot down. They gave me the usual bureaucratic nonsense about the trip "not having anything to do with my job." And since my budget does not allow for self-financed Italian excursions, the trip was out. However, continuing the proud Mediocre Fred tradition of bringing you, The Reader, the highest-quality research I can manage in a five-minute period, I pulled the postcard off my wall and studied it intently until my eyes started getting blurry. I have it close at hand as I type, in case I need to refer to it for something. Armed with this information, I am prepared to offer my scathing, no-holds-barred review. Prepare to have your world rocked.
Exterior Architecture: Even the briefest glance at the Colosseum confirms that it is yet another of those boring "ashtray-style" stadia that blighted the American landscape in droves in the '60s and '70s. Granted, the Roman one came first. But as far as I'm concerned, they deserve extra demerit points for spawning the movement that gave us such monstrosities as Veterans Stadiums a scant couple millennia later. The exterior works on a clear arch motif, which ties in pretty decently with the surrounding architecture, but hasn't that been done to death already? To its credit, the Colosseum has a higher outer wall on the north side, which breaks up the monotony a little bit, but event hat's not enough to save this. It's a total snooze-fest, if you ask me. If we hated this look on the Cincinnati waterfront, why would we want to see the same damn thing in Rome? Also, I can't say enough about the miserable condition it's in. Worse than Yankee Stadium. I mean, I know money's tight and all, but geez, can't the City Council cough up a few million for a renovation? Even a coat of paint would help. A big thumbs down for the outside.
Interior Architecture: Here we go again. More of the damned arches. Not only that, but the interior is boring as all get out. It's a fully enclosed structure, nothing but seats, arches, and more seats. What a snore. Why couldn't they have stuck in some water fountains like they have in Kansas City, or maybe a rock garden like Anaheim's? As it is, if it weren't for the advanced state of decay in the seating bowl, you might as well be in Philadelphia for all you can tell. Nothing here to stand out.
Amenities: It's here that the Colosseum really starts to show its age. At least your '60s-era American ashtray had plenty of bathrooms and concession stands galore. Not this dump. Squint as I might, I could not locate a single hot-dog stand, a single souvenir shop, or a single Starbucks, to say nothing of the upscale in-stadium restaurants you'll find in your newer, more upscale structures. I couldn't tell for sure about the bathrooms, but I'm sure that if it has them, they've got those low-class trough-style urinals that make you feel like an animal. And I'm sure the lines at the ladies' rooms are murder. There appear to be luxury boxes in the upper row (or perhaps they're press boxes), but they're not even glassed-in! And forget about air-conditioning. The lack of exciting architecture is just an annoyance, but these luxuires are what the modern sporting fan expects, dammit, and the Colosseum just isn't keeping up.
Seating Comfort: Oh, don't get me started. The seats are in such disrepair that I'll bet most of them are uninhabitable. And the habitable ones... well, they're stone benches. Yes, that's right, stone. Seriously, this is just pathetic. In this day and age, if you don't have plastic chairs, you might as well forget about it. On the plus side, there aren't any of those view-blocking pillars you often see in your older parks, but that doesn't make up for the stone seats.
Sound System: Ha ha. There isn't one. Can you believe that? As if you're supposed to sit in one place and watch a multiple-hour game without getting your "We Will Rock You" fix. Also, as near as I can tell, there's no Jumbotron either. I'm aghast! If fans don't have the opportunity to get themselves on the Jumbotron, why even bother going to the game?
Playing Surface: Disgraceful. Looks like a stone surface, terribly uneven, practically unplayable. Really, Rome, you should be ashamed. Even Astroturf is better than this. This field is a lawsuit waiting to happen, as far as I'm concerned. Let's just move on.
Access: To its credit, Rome appears to have done a good job building a roadway infrastructure up to and around the Colosseum. Plus, I keep hearing something about how "all roads lead to Rome," so I assume the freeway system is pretty decent. But considering the size of the stadium, they really dropped the ball with the parking, or rather the lack of it. It's all well and good that you can get to the stadium quickly, but if you can't park your car, what good is that? I don't see any sign of a subway stop, either. What do they expect you to do, park your car in the middle of the street? Rome, you blew it here.
Surrounding Neighborhood: Looks like a reasonably pleasant, low-density neighborhood, which is nice. It appears to be a fairly low-crime area, so you can safely leave your car, if you can find some place to park it. But I see no sign of any sports bars or other quality pre- and post-game entertainment venues. And the Colosseum is so big, and such an eyesore, that it really brings the whole neighborhood down.
I could go on, but I think my point is made. And don't think I'm the only one to notice. While MLB has been peddling the Expos around like a vintage salt-shaker collection at a flea market, pretty much considering any market over 10,000 people with a rich ownership group and a compliant legislature, have you heard them mention Rome? Even once? Nope, me either. Know why? Because the Colosseum is such an outdated deathtrap of a stadium that it's not even good enough for the Expos.
What I'm saying is that Rome has a golden opportunity here, and they're pissing it away. There's a franchise available, and no one's stepped up to grab it yet. If Rome would lay out a couple-three hundred million, dynamite the Colosseum and build a state-of-the-art, retractable-roof facility, complete with parking lots. Put in a few concession stands with cute names ("The Leaning Tower of Pizza," for instance), a good-sized team store, get a corporate sponsor (I wonder if Coke would be interested), and bada-boom, bada-bing, you're in business. The Expos would be playing in Rome faster than you could say, "Ciao bella." All they have to do is get rid of this damned white elephant that's nothing but a big drain on the city treasury, and get modern. Now, I know some Romans will probably be upset at the loss of the old girl, and that's natural. But such is life. Myself, I can't imagine any more sacred, treasured, and holy structure than Fenway Park. And they're planning to ditch that and build a modern stadium at last, right? Time marches on. Who knows? With the stadium as the centerpiece of a downtown urban-renewal project, maybe they could get that old "Holy Roman Empire" back together. It worked for Cleveland, didn't it?
Novelist Kate Lehrer launches an assault on summer in Sunday's Washington Post. Once again, your pal Mediocre Fred is ahead of the curve in denouncing the demon season. Am I a trend-setter? Well, I suppose it's possible (he said, adjusting the collar on his leisure suit).
Remember Ray Charles' life lessons from last week? Well, here's James Caan doing the same thing for Esquire. Worth a read; Caan's lessons are pretty, um, earthy.
Here's a Lesson in Internet Age Economics for you, courtesy of one of my co-workers: Allow me to introduce the Zapata Corporation. In years past, they were a reasonably successful family-owned fish-oil company. But apparently, in the late '90s, the family decided to get in on the Internet boom, and using those crucial transferrable skills gained from the fish-oil business, launched zap.com in 1998. Near as I can tell, zap.com was a Geocities-like network for privately-owned Web pages. For some odd reason, despite the hard-won experience their years in the fish-oil business gave them, this venture failed. Sort of. You see, despite the fact that zap.com has no product and no revenue, the Zapata Corporation has kept the business running. To quote their Web site:
Zap.Com ceased Internet operations in December of 2000 and has no existing business operations, other than to comply with its reporting requirements under the Securities Exchange Act of 1934. Currently, Zap.Com’s principal activities are exploring methods to enhance stockholder value. Zap.Com is likely to search for assets or businesses that it can acquire so that it can become an operating company. Zap.Com may also consider developing a new business suitable for its situation.
Now, I personally cannot imagine what new business would be suitable to zap.com's situation, other than panhandling, but I admire their optimism. Here's the latest SEC report from them. It contains a lot of heavy financial-type terminology, but I'd like to call your attention to this passage in particular:
In general, any new business development is difficult, and the Company’s particular realities impose significant constraints that make such an undertaking even more difficult. These constraints include the following: the need to acquire or develop the business without paying substantial cash or taking on significant debt; the handicap of not having actively traded stock to use to procure this business; the requirement that, after launch, the business will need a significant capital investment to fund its initial operations; and the requirement that the new business immediately produce a positive cash flow.
In other words: We'd like to start producing something, but the fact that we have no product, no money, and no real way of getting money could prove to be a problem. If you can wade through the bureaucratese, the report is a real scream; it's like a parody of a real business. Now, I ask you: Ain't America grand? Where else could a heartwarming non-failure story like zap.com take place?
That's all I have for today. Keep those cards and letters coming. Tomorrow I'll probably write something a little heavier, unless I come up with something frivolous and foolish to write between now and then. See you Tuesday. Cheers!
Quote of the Day
"I've been lucky. The critics never went out of their way to single me out for doing bad work."
-James Caan
Friday, August 08, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Modern Love" by David Bowie
EXPRESS YOURSELF
This past Monday, as Washington-area readers are probably aware, the Washington Post launched Express, a free daily distributed primarily near Metro stations, both through unmistakeably yellow boxes and old-fashioned newshawkers. The 20-page tabloid-sized paper features bite-size articles from wire services, somewhat longer features from other papers, excerpts from washingtonpost.com chats, and other tidbits such as horoscopes, crosswords and pictures. Express is "designed to be read in 15 to 20 minutes -- the length of the average Metro ride," according to publisher Christopher Ma's debut-issue letter, and it's aimed at the under-30 crowd, a generation with microsecond attention spans that hasn't gotten into the newspaper-buying habit. Presumably, the Post hopes that Express will get younger folks reading, and ultimately buying the real paper. But is Express good enough to catch the attention of the young? Is it worth reading?
I'm part of the generation that Express is designed to attract. Age-wise, I fall squarely in the target demographic. I'm educated, I get much of my news online, and I ride the Metro to work every day. And I don't subscribe to the Post. I read it online and sometimes peruse the dead-tree edition at work, but I don't have it delivered and I rarely buy it at newsstands. I'm not opposed to subscribing, but I'm lazy and not inclined to pay for what I can get for free. So the Express is designed to attract people like myself. I'm not a perfectly typical example of my generation, by any means. I read Henry James for pleasure, so I imagine I could reasonably be said to have a longer than average attention span for my age cohort. But I'm not opposed to lighter reading, especially on my commute, so I decided to pick up Express this week, "take it for a read" as the ads request, and report back to you, The Reader, with my impression. And my impressions are distinctly mixed. I shall explain further below.
I must admit that I came to Express fully prepared to despise it. The Post's last attempt to win over the younger set was the "Sunday Source" section, which I simply cannot stand. So long as there are plants to water, sock drawers to arrange or paint to watch dry, I have better things to do than indulge in the Source's cotton candy for the mind. With the exception of the "Answer Man" column, which occasionally digs up some intriguing D.C.-area lore, the Source is utterly useless. The "articles" touch on few meaningful subjects, and those that cover worthwhile subjects are painfully shallow. What's more, the "articles" are very heavy on pictures and very light on text, which frosts my shorts. If I want pictures, I'll go to the National Gallery, or turn on the television. When I read a newspaper (emphasis on "read"), I expect there to be something for me to read. The Source insults the intelligence of the younger reader. On the bright side, The Smart Lady reports that it makes an excellent rabbit-cage lining. If Express was to be an extended version of Sunday Source, then I was prepared to toss it to the ground in contempt and go back to "Portrait of a Lady."
I had further cause for concern after reading Express managing editor Dan Caccavaro's chat on washingtonpost.com. Mostly the chat was fluffy, optimistic talk about great things to come, but one chatter asked, "If you could list your mission statement in ten words or less, what would it be?" and Caccavaro replied: "Express provides a quick, comprehensive and entertaining summary of the day's news in an intelligent, easily accessible and attractively designed package." By my count, that's 21 words. I did not consider this a good omen for a paper that's allegedly designed to deliver the new in concise fashion. Also, I was less than thrilled when I reach into the Express newsbox. The boxes are supposed to be "distinctive", and they are, if by distinctive you mean "garish and cheap." For starters, they're plastic. Even the CityPaper, a free weekly here in D.C. and other big cities, manages to supply metal boxes. Second, they're yellow. Very yellow. Excruciatingly yellow. If you ever ate Screaming Yellow Zonkers as a kid, the shade will look nostalgically familiar. These boxes could be used as road cones in a dense fog. Third, there's the door. Now, even cheap free circulars that use plastic boxes usually have a door that's made out of the same plastic with a window in front, kind of like an Easy-Bake Oven. The Express box's door is made entirely of window film, with an annoying little magnetic strip that prevents you from removing the paper before the door snaps shut on your hand. The omens, you could say, were not positive.
My opinion brightened a bit the next morning, when I saw the hawkers. I'm a sucker for the old-fashioned-stand-on-a-street-corner-and-yell style of newspaper selling. These hawkers don't yell; they stand more of less silently, holding out a copy of the paper for you to take if you wish, kind of like Hare Krishnas passing out literature in airports. Nontheless, I was impressed by the human touch. Also, the hawkers wore bright yellow smocks with a copy of Express in a plastic sleeve, which I thought was downright clever. The positive vibe from the hawkers cancelled out the previous negative feelings, and now I was ready to read with an unbiased mind.
And I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Express was reasonably well-supplied with actual text. Though the individual articles were very short, there were plenty of them, and my eye flitted around the page, absorbing information about a variety of stories. The page layout is a little crowded and not necessarily intuitive, but it's a vast improvement over the Sunday Source's ten-pictures-per-word policy. The news section was packed tight with three- and four-paragraph stories about issues of the day, along with even shorter "In Brief" news blurbs. My primary complaint about the stories is that they're like eating honeysuckle. During childhood summers, I used to take walks in the evening and look for honeysuckle vines. Once I found one, I plucked a few flowers, pulled out the tendril and enjoyed the little sticky-sweet drops. I loved the taste of honeysuckle, but you had to pluck a couple dozen flowers in order for it to amount to much of anything. Express articles are a lot like that; reading the paper will make you water-cooler conversant and give you the heads-up on the headlines, but there's no in-depth information included. If you like what you read and you want to know more, you're stuck... unless you can get to a real paper and get the full story. And as for water-cooler conversation, a five-minute tour of the Post's Web site will supply that information. So I'm torn on the news coverage. On one hand, the dead-tree Post isn't free and most people can't access the Web on the Metro, so Express could be filling a void there. On the other hand, you don't really learn anything you wouldn't be able to find out fairly easily by other means. Call it a wash.
As for the longer articles, they're geared toward the interests of the younger set, I suppose: gossipy entertainment article on "The Daily Show" and the Hilton sister's reality TV show, product reviews of cordless phones and vacuum cleaners, sports teasers on the Redskins and on Manchester United's American tour, and so forth. The longer articles offer a little more to sink your teeth into, which is a plus, but again, it's eminently skippable information. I don't feel that the articles are a complete time-waster, but on the other hand, I don't feel like I've learned much of anything, either. Another wash.
For graphic relief, the paper is well-studded with pictures and pulled quotes, which are designed to catch the reader's eye and make the page "pop." Some of the quotes are attention-grabbers (for instance, the Dennis Green quote in Wednesday's post on sports and race came from Express), but most of them are, well, pretty bland. Angelina Jiolie describing her son: "He can do his hair in a Mohawk if I put gel in his hand." Basketball player Yao Ming on his young career: "The first year was an adjustment... the second year and years to come are the learning stage." Anyone else asleep? On the other hand, we do have this from Stephen King: "'Who Let the Dogs Out' is better than all the songs Ms. [Celine] Dion has recorded, put together." Now that's inspired. But by and large, the quotes really aren't gripping. And if pulled quotes aren't interesting, what the hell are they there for? The pictures are much the same way. A sullen, scary-looking Kobe Bryant flashing thumbs-up at the Teen Choice Awards. Sheep eating garbage on a beach in Albania. A front-page photo of a girl is ragged clothes running across the street. (It turns out she's in Liberia and she's running from bullets, but that's not at all obvious unless you read the caption. And I'd hope that a picture that takes up 40% of the front page would be arresting on its own.) Perhaps over time, the pictures and quotes will get better, and they'll serve their eye-catching role. For now, though, I recommend a copy of Bartlett's and LIFE magazine's "Year in Pictures" series. Another wash.
As far as I'm concerned, a good paper must have a good crossword. The one in Express is okay... mostly short words, and designed to be just challenging enough to keep you occupied during that 15- to 20-minute window. I did them on the bus ride home, which is approximately 25 minutes, and I never left the bus with the crossword unfinished. Not bad.
The letters to the editor section primarily consisted of readers commenting on the Express concept, largely positive (though there were a couple negative ones). Only one letter commented on an actual article. I'm guessing this trend of concept commenting will decline over time, and I hope it does, because it's frankly pretty tiresome.
I also disapproved of the sloppy editing. I did some newsroom time back in the day, so I know that editing's not easy, especially with a new paper. But the mistakes I caught were almost emarrassingly obvious. The caption for the Bryant photo misspelled the word "surprise." A Wednesday news article on a lottery winner having his money stolen identified the winnder as Jack Whittaker, while the caption of the accompanying photo identified him as Tom Whittaker. And in the most glaring example, Tuesday's sports section ran an article on the Redskins resigning quarterback Danny Wuerffel. The headline, photo caption, and sidebar (four times) incorrectly spelled his last name "Weurffel." This is wince-worthy, in my opinion, but Wuerffel is not an easy name to spell. What makes it particularly grating is that the accompanying article spells his name correctly! What's worse, the article was written by an AP man named Joseph White. So the (presumably) out-of-town AP stringer gets the name right, and the local editors get it wrong. Sloppy editing of this sort really grates on my nerves.
On the plus side, the tabloid size is far more convenient for Metro reading than the full sheet, and the paper is stapled together at the fold. This is a nice touch, and I appreciate it.
So, what's the verdict? I don't know. I know I wouldn't pay to get this. But on the other hand, I won't reject it if offered to me for free, which appears to be the plan. I could easily never pick it up again and not be missing much. But it is better than sitting and staring out the window at the lights of the Metro tunnel. A number of Post columnists have bashed Express as a worthless trifle, which is an admirable display of corporate independence, but said columnists are all well into middle age, and they're not the target audience. Factoring in the audience, and the fact that it's free, I suppose I give Express a weak thumbs-up. But if this is supposed to be a gateway to getting people like me to pay, they'd better get back to the drawing board. Express is quick, but it's a quick train to nowhere.
The Smart Lady tells me that in order to be a true blog, I should link to more outside articles, so here goes:
Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin) wrote an editorial for the New York Times about weapons of mass destruction, and it's a real scream. I recommend it highly. (WARNING: This link contains opinions. I think. Although with Steve, you can never really be sure.)
And speaking of The Smart Lady (and I do love speaking of her, as I'm sure you've gathered), here she is being smart on a wide variety of topics. (WARNING: This link definitely contains opinions, which may not necessarily reflect those of Mediocre Fred &c. But since Mediocre Fred has no opinions, this shouldn't surprise you, now should it?) Unless her opinions are too much for you, you should definitely read her regularly. She spends a lot of time thinking, and unlike me, it doesn't even make her head hurt.
Scott Miller's Midwest road show hits Cleveland, and I highly recommend his article on the Indians' rise and fall. And I don't just recommend it because his analysis largely agrees with mine from Tuesday's post. Really. Although it is fun when people who do actual research wind up making me look smart.
And if you baseball fans are casting about for a late-season bandwagon to hop on, how about the Marlins? They've got a good shot at the wild card, they're a scrappy and lovable bunch of underdogs, and they have the luminescent Dontrelle on the mound.
Finally, The Smart Lady's leaving town for a few days, so I'll have a little less sunshine in my life for a while. I'll do my best not to let that interfere with the standard of indifferent quality that Mediocre Fred has established to date, but if I seem a little off next week, that's why. If this puzzles you, you haven't met The Smart Lady. She's really swell.
Another week down, and once again I'm off for the weekend. Try to console yourselves. Have a rockin' weekend, and catch you again Monday. And now, in the words of Dr. Johnny Fever from WKRP in Cincinnati, "It's time for this town to get down!" Ciao.
EXPRESS YOURSELF
This past Monday, as Washington-area readers are probably aware, the Washington Post launched Express, a free daily distributed primarily near Metro stations, both through unmistakeably yellow boxes and old-fashioned newshawkers. The 20-page tabloid-sized paper features bite-size articles from wire services, somewhat longer features from other papers, excerpts from washingtonpost.com chats, and other tidbits such as horoscopes, crosswords and pictures. Express is "designed to be read in 15 to 20 minutes -- the length of the average Metro ride," according to publisher Christopher Ma's debut-issue letter, and it's aimed at the under-30 crowd, a generation with microsecond attention spans that hasn't gotten into the newspaper-buying habit. Presumably, the Post hopes that Express will get younger folks reading, and ultimately buying the real paper. But is Express good enough to catch the attention of the young? Is it worth reading?
I'm part of the generation that Express is designed to attract. Age-wise, I fall squarely in the target demographic. I'm educated, I get much of my news online, and I ride the Metro to work every day. And I don't subscribe to the Post. I read it online and sometimes peruse the dead-tree edition at work, but I don't have it delivered and I rarely buy it at newsstands. I'm not opposed to subscribing, but I'm lazy and not inclined to pay for what I can get for free. So the Express is designed to attract people like myself. I'm not a perfectly typical example of my generation, by any means. I read Henry James for pleasure, so I imagine I could reasonably be said to have a longer than average attention span for my age cohort. But I'm not opposed to lighter reading, especially on my commute, so I decided to pick up Express this week, "take it for a read" as the ads request, and report back to you, The Reader, with my impression. And my impressions are distinctly mixed. I shall explain further below.
I must admit that I came to Express fully prepared to despise it. The Post's last attempt to win over the younger set was the "Sunday Source" section, which I simply cannot stand. So long as there are plants to water, sock drawers to arrange or paint to watch dry, I have better things to do than indulge in the Source's cotton candy for the mind. With the exception of the "Answer Man" column, which occasionally digs up some intriguing D.C.-area lore, the Source is utterly useless. The "articles" touch on few meaningful subjects, and those that cover worthwhile subjects are painfully shallow. What's more, the "articles" are very heavy on pictures and very light on text, which frosts my shorts. If I want pictures, I'll go to the National Gallery, or turn on the television. When I read a newspaper (emphasis on "read"), I expect there to be something for me to read. The Source insults the intelligence of the younger reader. On the bright side, The Smart Lady reports that it makes an excellent rabbit-cage lining. If Express was to be an extended version of Sunday Source, then I was prepared to toss it to the ground in contempt and go back to "Portrait of a Lady."
I had further cause for concern after reading Express managing editor Dan Caccavaro's chat on washingtonpost.com. Mostly the chat was fluffy, optimistic talk about great things to come, but one chatter asked, "If you could list your mission statement in ten words or less, what would it be?" and Caccavaro replied: "Express provides a quick, comprehensive and entertaining summary of the day's news in an intelligent, easily accessible and attractively designed package." By my count, that's 21 words. I did not consider this a good omen for a paper that's allegedly designed to deliver the new in concise fashion. Also, I was less than thrilled when I reach into the Express newsbox. The boxes are supposed to be "distinctive", and they are, if by distinctive you mean "garish and cheap." For starters, they're plastic. Even the CityPaper, a free weekly here in D.C. and other big cities, manages to supply metal boxes. Second, they're yellow. Very yellow. Excruciatingly yellow. If you ever ate Screaming Yellow Zonkers as a kid, the shade will look nostalgically familiar. These boxes could be used as road cones in a dense fog. Third, there's the door. Now, even cheap free circulars that use plastic boxes usually have a door that's made out of the same plastic with a window in front, kind of like an Easy-Bake Oven. The Express box's door is made entirely of window film, with an annoying little magnetic strip that prevents you from removing the paper before the door snaps shut on your hand. The omens, you could say, were not positive.
My opinion brightened a bit the next morning, when I saw the hawkers. I'm a sucker for the old-fashioned-stand-on-a-street-corner-and-yell style of newspaper selling. These hawkers don't yell; they stand more of less silently, holding out a copy of the paper for you to take if you wish, kind of like Hare Krishnas passing out literature in airports. Nontheless, I was impressed by the human touch. Also, the hawkers wore bright yellow smocks with a copy of Express in a plastic sleeve, which I thought was downright clever. The positive vibe from the hawkers cancelled out the previous negative feelings, and now I was ready to read with an unbiased mind.
And I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Express was reasonably well-supplied with actual text. Though the individual articles were very short, there were plenty of them, and my eye flitted around the page, absorbing information about a variety of stories. The page layout is a little crowded and not necessarily intuitive, but it's a vast improvement over the Sunday Source's ten-pictures-per-word policy. The news section was packed tight with three- and four-paragraph stories about issues of the day, along with even shorter "In Brief" news blurbs. My primary complaint about the stories is that they're like eating honeysuckle. During childhood summers, I used to take walks in the evening and look for honeysuckle vines. Once I found one, I plucked a few flowers, pulled out the tendril and enjoyed the little sticky-sweet drops. I loved the taste of honeysuckle, but you had to pluck a couple dozen flowers in order for it to amount to much of anything. Express articles are a lot like that; reading the paper will make you water-cooler conversant and give you the heads-up on the headlines, but there's no in-depth information included. If you like what you read and you want to know more, you're stuck... unless you can get to a real paper and get the full story. And as for water-cooler conversation, a five-minute tour of the Post's Web site will supply that information. So I'm torn on the news coverage. On one hand, the dead-tree Post isn't free and most people can't access the Web on the Metro, so Express could be filling a void there. On the other hand, you don't really learn anything you wouldn't be able to find out fairly easily by other means. Call it a wash.
As for the longer articles, they're geared toward the interests of the younger set, I suppose: gossipy entertainment article on "The Daily Show" and the Hilton sister's reality TV show, product reviews of cordless phones and vacuum cleaners, sports teasers on the Redskins and on Manchester United's American tour, and so forth. The longer articles offer a little more to sink your teeth into, which is a plus, but again, it's eminently skippable information. I don't feel that the articles are a complete time-waster, but on the other hand, I don't feel like I've learned much of anything, either. Another wash.
For graphic relief, the paper is well-studded with pictures and pulled quotes, which are designed to catch the reader's eye and make the page "pop." Some of the quotes are attention-grabbers (for instance, the Dennis Green quote in Wednesday's post on sports and race came from Express), but most of them are, well, pretty bland. Angelina Jiolie describing her son: "He can do his hair in a Mohawk if I put gel in his hand." Basketball player Yao Ming on his young career: "The first year was an adjustment... the second year and years to come are the learning stage." Anyone else asleep? On the other hand, we do have this from Stephen King: "'Who Let the Dogs Out' is better than all the songs Ms. [Celine] Dion has recorded, put together." Now that's inspired. But by and large, the quotes really aren't gripping. And if pulled quotes aren't interesting, what the hell are they there for? The pictures are much the same way. A sullen, scary-looking Kobe Bryant flashing thumbs-up at the Teen Choice Awards. Sheep eating garbage on a beach in Albania. A front-page photo of a girl is ragged clothes running across the street. (It turns out she's in Liberia and she's running from bullets, but that's not at all obvious unless you read the caption. And I'd hope that a picture that takes up 40% of the front page would be arresting on its own.) Perhaps over time, the pictures and quotes will get better, and they'll serve their eye-catching role. For now, though, I recommend a copy of Bartlett's and LIFE magazine's "Year in Pictures" series. Another wash.
As far as I'm concerned, a good paper must have a good crossword. The one in Express is okay... mostly short words, and designed to be just challenging enough to keep you occupied during that 15- to 20-minute window. I did them on the bus ride home, which is approximately 25 minutes, and I never left the bus with the crossword unfinished. Not bad.
The letters to the editor section primarily consisted of readers commenting on the Express concept, largely positive (though there were a couple negative ones). Only one letter commented on an actual article. I'm guessing this trend of concept commenting will decline over time, and I hope it does, because it's frankly pretty tiresome.
I also disapproved of the sloppy editing. I did some newsroom time back in the day, so I know that editing's not easy, especially with a new paper. But the mistakes I caught were almost emarrassingly obvious. The caption for the Bryant photo misspelled the word "surprise." A Wednesday news article on a lottery winner having his money stolen identified the winnder as Jack Whittaker, while the caption of the accompanying photo identified him as Tom Whittaker. And in the most glaring example, Tuesday's sports section ran an article on the Redskins resigning quarterback Danny Wuerffel. The headline, photo caption, and sidebar (four times) incorrectly spelled his last name "Weurffel." This is wince-worthy, in my opinion, but Wuerffel is not an easy name to spell. What makes it particularly grating is that the accompanying article spells his name correctly! What's worse, the article was written by an AP man named Joseph White. So the (presumably) out-of-town AP stringer gets the name right, and the local editors get it wrong. Sloppy editing of this sort really grates on my nerves.
On the plus side, the tabloid size is far more convenient for Metro reading than the full sheet, and the paper is stapled together at the fold. This is a nice touch, and I appreciate it.
So, what's the verdict? I don't know. I know I wouldn't pay to get this. But on the other hand, I won't reject it if offered to me for free, which appears to be the plan. I could easily never pick it up again and not be missing much. But it is better than sitting and staring out the window at the lights of the Metro tunnel. A number of Post columnists have bashed Express as a worthless trifle, which is an admirable display of corporate independence, but said columnists are all well into middle age, and they're not the target audience. Factoring in the audience, and the fact that it's free, I suppose I give Express a weak thumbs-up. But if this is supposed to be a gateway to getting people like me to pay, they'd better get back to the drawing board. Express is quick, but it's a quick train to nowhere.
The Smart Lady tells me that in order to be a true blog, I should link to more outside articles, so here goes:
Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin) wrote an editorial for the New York Times about weapons of mass destruction, and it's a real scream. I recommend it highly. (WARNING: This link contains opinions. I think. Although with Steve, you can never really be sure.)
And speaking of The Smart Lady (and I do love speaking of her, as I'm sure you've gathered), here she is being smart on a wide variety of topics. (WARNING: This link definitely contains opinions, which may not necessarily reflect those of Mediocre Fred &c. But since Mediocre Fred has no opinions, this shouldn't surprise you, now should it?) Unless her opinions are too much for you, you should definitely read her regularly. She spends a lot of time thinking, and unlike me, it doesn't even make her head hurt.
Scott Miller's Midwest road show hits Cleveland, and I highly recommend his article on the Indians' rise and fall. And I don't just recommend it because his analysis largely agrees with mine from Tuesday's post. Really. Although it is fun when people who do actual research wind up making me look smart.
And if you baseball fans are casting about for a late-season bandwagon to hop on, how about the Marlins? They've got a good shot at the wild card, they're a scrappy and lovable bunch of underdogs, and they have the luminescent Dontrelle on the mound.
Finally, The Smart Lady's leaving town for a few days, so I'll have a little less sunshine in my life for a while. I'll do my best not to let that interfere with the standard of indifferent quality that Mediocre Fred has established to date, but if I seem a little off next week, that's why. If this puzzles you, you haven't met The Smart Lady. She's really swell.
Another week down, and once again I'm off for the weekend. Try to console yourselves. Have a rockin' weekend, and catch you again Monday. And now, in the words of Dr. Johnny Fever from WKRP in Cincinnati, "It's time for this town to get down!" Ciao.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
ON A WING AND A MAYOR
On New Year's Day at the beginning of this year, a shocking thing happened in Dot-Com Canyon, something so astounding that my heart nearly stopped: The McDonald's down the street shut its doors for good. Now, I'll grant that it wasn't a great McDonald's: the service was sluggish even by fast-food standards, it was in an out-of-the-way location, and it didn't have a drive-through. And yes, there is another one on the other side of town. But still, this is McDonald's! A national institution! Seeing them shut a location down is like waking up one day to discover that, say, Kentucky has gone out of business. It just doesn't happen, not in the America I know.
My McDonald's fell victim to a store-closing wave the company undertook after a losing finiancial quarter, something nearly unheard of in McDonald's history. Observers have pointed to a number of reasons for the hard times at the Golden Arches. Some say McDonald's failed to respond to customers' demands for more choices, and more healthy choices in particular. Others say that "fast casual" eateries, a step up from fast food, have given busy parents a better option than hauling over to Ronald's place when they don't have time to cook. Still others say that McDonald's simply grew cocky, resting on its laurels rather than making the moves it needed to keep up with emerging competitors. And I'm sure all these analysts spent a lot of time coming up with these theories. But they're all wrong. I know the real problem. And when I stared at those padlocked doors, a grim smile crossed my face as I thought, Well, you bastards, it was coming all along, and now it's happened. You finally got what you deserve. That's what you get for getting rid of Mayor McCheese.
A brief history lesson for our younger readers: Once upon a time, back in the '70s, McDonald's decided to start basing its advertisements to children around a place called McDonaldland. You may have heard of it. You've probably also heard of at least some of its residents. Surely you know Ronald McDonald, patron clown saint of the franchise. And you probably know his friendly, dumb, purple, Barney-esque sidekick Grimace. Those with better memories may also recall the cheerfully criminal, robbling Hamburglar and even chipper Birdie the Early Bird. But way back when, there used to be a lot more residents of McDonaldland. Anyone remember the Professor? Captain Crook? Officer Big Mac? But somewhere along the line, in the mid-'80s or thereabouts, the other characters slowly faded away, to be replaced by the likes of the vile McNugget Buddies and the Happy Meal Guys. And the unkindest cut of all was the loss of our beloved Mayor McCheese. McCheese was the epitome of mayoral style, with his giant cheesburger head, little purple fedora, pince-nez glasses, pink tail-coat, pinstriped trousers, shoes with yellow spats, and purple diplomatic sash with the Golden Arches emblazoned thereon. The man was clearly born to govern. But McDonald's would have us believe that, somewhere along the line, he just retired from politics to devote more time to his family, or possibly to his gardening. As if a man with politics in his blood (well, that and a lot of cholesterol) could just walk away that easily.
I admit that his disappearance really bugged me. After all, if he's no longer the Mayor of McDonaldland, who is? No one else has come forward to claim the sash. Sure, Ronald McDonald strolls around like he owns the place, but I don't trust a politician with a fright wig on his head. (Note to Al Sharpton: This applies to you, too.) I got suspicious, so I did a little digging, and discovered the true story, the story McDonald's apparently doesn't want you to know. So, without further ado, I present the Mediocre Fred exclusive:
Mayor McCheese: An American Life
James Arthur McCheese Berger was born on February 16, 1942 in a small townhouse in Playland. Playland residents today know their town as a high-class, outer-ring McDonaldland suburb full of tach zillionaires cruising around in their Hot Wheels, but back in those days Playland was a grim, tidy, working-class town. The kind of town where people worked hard all week, got their checks on Friday, then drank all weekend, in a sad attempt to kill the pain, the numbing prefabricated sameness of it all. This is the world of Jimmy's childhood. Father Hamilton "Ham" Berger, a man the Mayor described in his memoir as "a beefy guy with a big smile and an eye for a nice set of buns," abandoned the family when little Jimmy was 4. Mother Maggie McCheese struggled to make ends meet, sacrificing luxuries like radios, automobiles and extra pickles to make sure Jimmy always had the basics. Though h was teased a lot in school -- the kids called him "Fat Head" -- he was a conscientious student and he made a few friends, such as Big Mac, whose friendship would serve both men well later in life. At age 12, he dropped the "Berger" and adopted his mother's surname. This would prove to be fortunate later, when he was trying to break onto the Irish-dominated political scene in McDonaldland. But at the time, it was just a tribute of a boy to his mother for all she'd done to help him.
Though his grades were good, he didn't do well enough on his Menu Boards to win a scholarship to Hamburger University. And since Maggie couldn't possibly afford to foot the bill for his education, college was sadly out of the question. So 18-year-old Jim (as he now called himself) left home and settled in a cold-water flat in downtown McDonaldland, and started work as a cub reporter for the local daily, the Greasy Street Gazette. Jim quickly attracted notice -- he was said to have "a real nose for news" -- and his rise through the ranks was meteoric. His odyssey reached its apex on March 27, 1968, when longtime Gazette editor-in-chief Speedee went on a drunken bender and accidentally drowned in the soda fountain in the town square. The publishers stunned the world by naming 26-year-old Jim McCheese as Speedee's replacement. "He deserved a break today," they said at the press conference.
The same year, Jim's personal life took a turn for the better as well. In November 1967, Jim met Joyce Fry, a slim blonde who was working as a temporary receptionist at the Gazette building. After a whirlwind courtship, the two were married on June 20, 1968 at the Arch of the Hory Spirit Church. Joyce and Jim took a honeymoon to Shamrock Springs, and came home, feeling on top of the world.
Just when Jim figured life couldn't get any better, a new window opened. McDonaldland officially incorporated in 1970, necessitating the election of a mayor. Once founder Ronald McDonald declared himself out of the running, proclaiming himself "uninterested in politics," the race was wide open. At the urging of friends, McCheese threw his comically small hat into the ring. His opponents were his old grade-school chum Big Mac, just back from a tour of duty in Vietnam, and Hamburglar, an obscure third-party candidate who was unable to articulate a coherent program. After a fierce but polite campaign, Jim won election by 4 points over Big Mac, with Hamburglar a distant third. At his inauguration, Mayor-elect McCheese told cheering citizens: "I love to see you smile, and I'm going to see that you do!"
McCheese began his new administration by naming his old friend Big Mac as chief of police. He advanced a strong agenda for making McDonaldland thrive, creating "Happy Meal Homes" for at-risk youth and securing funding for a new performing arts center, to be named the "Speedee Memorial Arch-itorium" in a touching tribute to his late Gazette boss. While McDonaldland wasn't exactly a model of diversity (all its inhabitants were male and largely hamburger-oriented), it did quickly win acclaim as a great place to live, apart from the occasional crime wave. In 1974, his opponent for re-election, Grimace, looked like he might make a race of it early on, but faded quickly after being forced to admit an untreated addiction to shakes. Mayor McCheese scored a 25-point victory, and a second term.
His second term built on the successes of his first. The Speedee Arch-itorium opened its doors in 1975 with a production of the famed musical "The Phantom of the Fry-Basket". The Mayor scored a real coup in 1976, when he brought an expansion NBA franchise, dubbed the Golden Archers, to McDonaldland. Employment growth remained strong, and though crime continued to bedevil the city, it had not then raged out of control. For a while, Mayor McCheese looked like he might run unopposed in 1978, but the opposition cleaned out the fry basket and dredged up a candidate, Captain Crook, a man with a well-known criminal past. McCheese captured a whopping 76% of the vote, and it began to look like the Mayor might well be Mayor-for-Life (kind of like Washington, DC).
It's not hard to pinpoint where it all started going wrong. In June of 1979, McCheese legally changed his first name to "Mayor." This act of hubris presaged a stunning turn of events which turn McDonaldland -- and McCheese's life -- upside down. Stagflation hit McDonaldland in a big way in the second half of '79. Angry, unemployed McDonaldlanders formed mobs, demanding McCheese's head... with extra ketchup and hold the onions, thank you. Then, crime levels shot up, and the Greasy Street Gazette, ironically the same paper that served as the springboard for McCheese's launch to fame a decade earlier, published a searing expose of police corruption in October 1980. The Hamburglar Gang had brazenly bought off patrolmen, promising them a kickback in exchange for running their hamburger "chop shop" unmolested. Officer Big Mac denied any knowledge of the kickbacks, but as the Gazette revealed, he was on the secret sauce half the time and barely knew what was going on in his own department. In an inspiring display of loyalty, Mayor McCheese refused to fire the embattled police chief. Despite the Big Mac feeding frenzy, the Mayor swore he'd use his political capital to save his friend, no matter what.
But shortly thereafter, the Mayor's political capital began to shrink as fast as the real wages of McDonaldland workers. On February 17, 1981, the Gazette reported stunning allegations by the Fry Guys, those lovable mop-topped ambassadors of fun, that the Mayor had molested them during a visit to City McHall the previous year. McCheese angrily denied the charges, but there was grease in the water. Wags began to whisper that McCheese might not survive the next election.
His re-election prospects took a sharp and stunning blow that fall, when longtime McCheese patron Ronald McDonald, declaring that he was "sick of the stench emitting from the Mayor's office," declared that he would run against McCheese in the 1982 election. McCheese was privately stunned and hurt by McDonald's betrayal. Then one night, at a bar with a friend, his private emotions became public news. Within earshot of a Gazette reporter, a well-oiled McCheese derided McDonald as "just a damn dirty clown." That quote, splashed across the front page of the Gazette the next morning, sealed McCheese's fate. Frankly, the Mayor was fried. In a stunning comedown for the once-revered McCheese, he suffered a 60-39 pounding at the hands of the man with the big red shoes.
McCheese took defeat very hard. He barricaded himself in City McHall, refusing to leave until forcibly escorted out by his old friend Big Mac, whom he never did bring himself to fire. In April of 1983, Joyce McCheese filed for divorce. "He's a broken man," she said to reporters. "All he does all day is sit under the heat lamp and mutter to himself." McCheese took to drinking. He frequently capped off his evenings outside the Gazette building, screaming obscenities at the paper that had built him up and then torn him down. "Damn you!" he'd shout. "You're going to fry... in Hell!!" The town tried to turn a blind eye, but when McCheese began dropping his pants at the end of his tirades, Officer Big Mac was forced to take action. McCheese served eighteen months in prison for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure.
The time in prison served as a wake-up call to McCheese. Once he got out, he slowly began to reassemble his shattered life. He quit drinking. He wrote, "I am no longer the Mayor" a hundred times a day, until he convinced himself to believe it. He was finally cleared of the lingering Fry Guy charges in 1987, when the presiding judge declared, "I'm not even sure molestation is possible. They've got nothing to molest." McCheese fulfilled an old dream by taking courses at Hamburger U., graduating with a B.A. in political science in 1989. That same year, he reconciled with Joyce, and the two remarried in June of that year. He took to running to stay in shape. Slowly, piece by piece, McCheese put himself back together.
Meanwhile, the McDonald administration had turned into a disaster. Though he was a beloved icon and he spoke well, Ronald hadn't the slightest clue how to govern effectively. He had no program to promote. He had no idea how to control the crime problem, or stop the flow of jobs out of the city. Whole chunks of downtown McDonaldland fell into shocking decay, so bad that citizens didn't want to leave their houses at night. In 1988 the Golden Archers, fed up with high rents and dangerous streets around McDonaldland arena, relocated to Nashville. McDonald also fell into an acrimonious relationship with the McNugget Buddies on City Council. The low point came in April 1989, when Ronald threated the McNuggets that he would "chew [them] up and spit [them] out" if they did not pass his budget. In an eerie echo of McCheese's downfall seven years earlier, Ronald's intemperate remark, which also got page-one treatment in the Gazette, crystallized public opposition to him. In December 1989, Ronald announced that he would not seek re-election.
McDonald's announcement paved the way for McCheese to step into the race, which he did in January 1990. Deputy Mayor Birdie picked up Ronald's fallen banner. Though she put on an energetic campaign, the predominantly male McDonaldland populace was not yet ready for a female mayor, and in November 1990, McCheese rolled to an easy victory, reclaiming the office that even the Gazette said "he never should have lost."
Once in office, the Mayor worked quickly to re-establish a relationship with the McNuggets, passing a balanced budget with a strong urban-renewal program which successfully convinced businesses and young professionals back to the inner city. The economy turned around quickly, and boom times were back for the previously doomed city. Mayor McCheese cruised to re-election in 1994 over Mac Tonight, a former singing star whose womanizing ways and disturbing moon-shaped head turned voters off, and in 1998 over wealthy financier Archibald "Arch" Deluxe, whose campaign fizzled spectacularly when he attempted to position himself as "the grown-up choice." After the '98 election, McCheese swore he would avoid the third-term jinx this time around, and rededicate himself to his new role as "the people's mayor."
In the early 2000s, the McDonaldland tech bubble went bust, and unemployment started to climb again. Mayor McCheese worked aggressively to minimize the effects of the downturn, but he faced a stiff challenge in the 2002 election from neo-conservative pundit Phil A. O'Fish, who blasted McCheese as a "fat cat" who was "out of touch with the needs and desires of people today." The two staged a ferocious debate at the Speedee Arch-itorium, but a surprise late endorsement from former nemesis Ronald McDonald carried the day for the incumbent, who turned back the O'Fish tide and scored a dramatic, Truman-like come-from-behind victory.
Today, at age 61, Mayor McCheese has given no sign of stepping aside, despite undergoing triple-bypass surgery in April of this year. He continues to guide the city with a firm but spongy hand, and has once again captured the hearts of the citizens. Mayor McCheese is one of those only-in-America success stories, and he himself is a real American hero.
* * * * *
So now you know the real story. So why is McDonald's trying to hide this? Why aren't they broadcasting this inspiring story nationwide? I know why. The damn dirty clown. If Mayor McCheese's dramatic comeback were revealed, Ronald's inept, bumbling mismanagement would be exposed for all to see. He ran the worst administration any major city has seen in decades. He's lucky that they didn't get annexed by the Burger Kingdom during his administration. So now Ronald skips merrily along, making kiddies smile and pretending he's nothing more than a gifted entertainer, and meanwhile he buries the legend of McDonaldland's greatest citizen, all out of pride. Well, to hell with the clown. We can't let this happen! Fight the power! Spread the word... McCheese is alive and well!
Fortunately, Mediocre Fred isn't the only one spreading the word. David Gray has produced a fitting tribute to the great man. There's even an online petition to restore the Mayor to his proper glory. I hope you'll sign it. Only you, The Reader, can help us expose the lies, cut through the deception and save the name of a great man. If you'll excuse me, though, I must be off. I'm hungry.
Express review tomorrow. See you Friday. I bid you peace.
On New Year's Day at the beginning of this year, a shocking thing happened in Dot-Com Canyon, something so astounding that my heart nearly stopped: The McDonald's down the street shut its doors for good. Now, I'll grant that it wasn't a great McDonald's: the service was sluggish even by fast-food standards, it was in an out-of-the-way location, and it didn't have a drive-through. And yes, there is another one on the other side of town. But still, this is McDonald's! A national institution! Seeing them shut a location down is like waking up one day to discover that, say, Kentucky has gone out of business. It just doesn't happen, not in the America I know.
My McDonald's fell victim to a store-closing wave the company undertook after a losing finiancial quarter, something nearly unheard of in McDonald's history. Observers have pointed to a number of reasons for the hard times at the Golden Arches. Some say McDonald's failed to respond to customers' demands for more choices, and more healthy choices in particular. Others say that "fast casual" eateries, a step up from fast food, have given busy parents a better option than hauling over to Ronald's place when they don't have time to cook. Still others say that McDonald's simply grew cocky, resting on its laurels rather than making the moves it needed to keep up with emerging competitors. And I'm sure all these analysts spent a lot of time coming up with these theories. But they're all wrong. I know the real problem. And when I stared at those padlocked doors, a grim smile crossed my face as I thought, Well, you bastards, it was coming all along, and now it's happened. You finally got what you deserve. That's what you get for getting rid of Mayor McCheese.
A brief history lesson for our younger readers: Once upon a time, back in the '70s, McDonald's decided to start basing its advertisements to children around a place called McDonaldland. You may have heard of it. You've probably also heard of at least some of its residents. Surely you know Ronald McDonald, patron clown saint of the franchise. And you probably know his friendly, dumb, purple, Barney-esque sidekick Grimace. Those with better memories may also recall the cheerfully criminal, robbling Hamburglar and even chipper Birdie the Early Bird. But way back when, there used to be a lot more residents of McDonaldland. Anyone remember the Professor? Captain Crook? Officer Big Mac? But somewhere along the line, in the mid-'80s or thereabouts, the other characters slowly faded away, to be replaced by the likes of the vile McNugget Buddies and the Happy Meal Guys. And the unkindest cut of all was the loss of our beloved Mayor McCheese. McCheese was the epitome of mayoral style, with his giant cheesburger head, little purple fedora, pince-nez glasses, pink tail-coat, pinstriped trousers, shoes with yellow spats, and purple diplomatic sash with the Golden Arches emblazoned thereon. The man was clearly born to govern. But McDonald's would have us believe that, somewhere along the line, he just retired from politics to devote more time to his family, or possibly to his gardening. As if a man with politics in his blood (well, that and a lot of cholesterol) could just walk away that easily.
I admit that his disappearance really bugged me. After all, if he's no longer the Mayor of McDonaldland, who is? No one else has come forward to claim the sash. Sure, Ronald McDonald strolls around like he owns the place, but I don't trust a politician with a fright wig on his head. (Note to Al Sharpton: This applies to you, too.) I got suspicious, so I did a little digging, and discovered the true story, the story McDonald's apparently doesn't want you to know. So, without further ado, I present the Mediocre Fred exclusive:
Mayor McCheese: An American Life
James Arthur McCheese Berger was born on February 16, 1942 in a small townhouse in Playland. Playland residents today know their town as a high-class, outer-ring McDonaldland suburb full of tach zillionaires cruising around in their Hot Wheels, but back in those days Playland was a grim, tidy, working-class town. The kind of town where people worked hard all week, got their checks on Friday, then drank all weekend, in a sad attempt to kill the pain, the numbing prefabricated sameness of it all. This is the world of Jimmy's childhood. Father Hamilton "Ham" Berger, a man the Mayor described in his memoir as "a beefy guy with a big smile and an eye for a nice set of buns," abandoned the family when little Jimmy was 4. Mother Maggie McCheese struggled to make ends meet, sacrificing luxuries like radios, automobiles and extra pickles to make sure Jimmy always had the basics. Though h was teased a lot in school -- the kids called him "Fat Head" -- he was a conscientious student and he made a few friends, such as Big Mac, whose friendship would serve both men well later in life. At age 12, he dropped the "Berger" and adopted his mother's surname. This would prove to be fortunate later, when he was trying to break onto the Irish-dominated political scene in McDonaldland. But at the time, it was just a tribute of a boy to his mother for all she'd done to help him.
Though his grades were good, he didn't do well enough on his Menu Boards to win a scholarship to Hamburger University. And since Maggie couldn't possibly afford to foot the bill for his education, college was sadly out of the question. So 18-year-old Jim (as he now called himself) left home and settled in a cold-water flat in downtown McDonaldland, and started work as a cub reporter for the local daily, the Greasy Street Gazette. Jim quickly attracted notice -- he was said to have "a real nose for news" -- and his rise through the ranks was meteoric. His odyssey reached its apex on March 27, 1968, when longtime Gazette editor-in-chief Speedee went on a drunken bender and accidentally drowned in the soda fountain in the town square. The publishers stunned the world by naming 26-year-old Jim McCheese as Speedee's replacement. "He deserved a break today," they said at the press conference.
The same year, Jim's personal life took a turn for the better as well. In November 1967, Jim met Joyce Fry, a slim blonde who was working as a temporary receptionist at the Gazette building. After a whirlwind courtship, the two were married on June 20, 1968 at the Arch of the Hory Spirit Church. Joyce and Jim took a honeymoon to Shamrock Springs, and came home, feeling on top of the world.
Just when Jim figured life couldn't get any better, a new window opened. McDonaldland officially incorporated in 1970, necessitating the election of a mayor. Once founder Ronald McDonald declared himself out of the running, proclaiming himself "uninterested in politics," the race was wide open. At the urging of friends, McCheese threw his comically small hat into the ring. His opponents were his old grade-school chum Big Mac, just back from a tour of duty in Vietnam, and Hamburglar, an obscure third-party candidate who was unable to articulate a coherent program. After a fierce but polite campaign, Jim won election by 4 points over Big Mac, with Hamburglar a distant third. At his inauguration, Mayor-elect McCheese told cheering citizens: "I love to see you smile, and I'm going to see that you do!"
McCheese began his new administration by naming his old friend Big Mac as chief of police. He advanced a strong agenda for making McDonaldland thrive, creating "Happy Meal Homes" for at-risk youth and securing funding for a new performing arts center, to be named the "Speedee Memorial Arch-itorium" in a touching tribute to his late Gazette boss. While McDonaldland wasn't exactly a model of diversity (all its inhabitants were male and largely hamburger-oriented), it did quickly win acclaim as a great place to live, apart from the occasional crime wave. In 1974, his opponent for re-election, Grimace, looked like he might make a race of it early on, but faded quickly after being forced to admit an untreated addiction to shakes. Mayor McCheese scored a 25-point victory, and a second term.
His second term built on the successes of his first. The Speedee Arch-itorium opened its doors in 1975 with a production of the famed musical "The Phantom of the Fry-Basket". The Mayor scored a real coup in 1976, when he brought an expansion NBA franchise, dubbed the Golden Archers, to McDonaldland. Employment growth remained strong, and though crime continued to bedevil the city, it had not then raged out of control. For a while, Mayor McCheese looked like he might run unopposed in 1978, but the opposition cleaned out the fry basket and dredged up a candidate, Captain Crook, a man with a well-known criminal past. McCheese captured a whopping 76% of the vote, and it began to look like the Mayor might well be Mayor-for-Life (kind of like Washington, DC).
It's not hard to pinpoint where it all started going wrong. In June of 1979, McCheese legally changed his first name to "Mayor." This act of hubris presaged a stunning turn of events which turn McDonaldland -- and McCheese's life -- upside down. Stagflation hit McDonaldland in a big way in the second half of '79. Angry, unemployed McDonaldlanders formed mobs, demanding McCheese's head... with extra ketchup and hold the onions, thank you. Then, crime levels shot up, and the Greasy Street Gazette, ironically the same paper that served as the springboard for McCheese's launch to fame a decade earlier, published a searing expose of police corruption in October 1980. The Hamburglar Gang had brazenly bought off patrolmen, promising them a kickback in exchange for running their hamburger "chop shop" unmolested. Officer Big Mac denied any knowledge of the kickbacks, but as the Gazette revealed, he was on the secret sauce half the time and barely knew what was going on in his own department. In an inspiring display of loyalty, Mayor McCheese refused to fire the embattled police chief. Despite the Big Mac feeding frenzy, the Mayor swore he'd use his political capital to save his friend, no matter what.
But shortly thereafter, the Mayor's political capital began to shrink as fast as the real wages of McDonaldland workers. On February 17, 1981, the Gazette reported stunning allegations by the Fry Guys, those lovable mop-topped ambassadors of fun, that the Mayor had molested them during a visit to City McHall the previous year. McCheese angrily denied the charges, but there was grease in the water. Wags began to whisper that McCheese might not survive the next election.
His re-election prospects took a sharp and stunning blow that fall, when longtime McCheese patron Ronald McDonald, declaring that he was "sick of the stench emitting from the Mayor's office," declared that he would run against McCheese in the 1982 election. McCheese was privately stunned and hurt by McDonald's betrayal. Then one night, at a bar with a friend, his private emotions became public news. Within earshot of a Gazette reporter, a well-oiled McCheese derided McDonald as "just a damn dirty clown." That quote, splashed across the front page of the Gazette the next morning, sealed McCheese's fate. Frankly, the Mayor was fried. In a stunning comedown for the once-revered McCheese, he suffered a 60-39 pounding at the hands of the man with the big red shoes.
McCheese took defeat very hard. He barricaded himself in City McHall, refusing to leave until forcibly escorted out by his old friend Big Mac, whom he never did bring himself to fire. In April of 1983, Joyce McCheese filed for divorce. "He's a broken man," she said to reporters. "All he does all day is sit under the heat lamp and mutter to himself." McCheese took to drinking. He frequently capped off his evenings outside the Gazette building, screaming obscenities at the paper that had built him up and then torn him down. "Damn you!" he'd shout. "You're going to fry... in Hell!!" The town tried to turn a blind eye, but when McCheese began dropping his pants at the end of his tirades, Officer Big Mac was forced to take action. McCheese served eighteen months in prison for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure.
The time in prison served as a wake-up call to McCheese. Once he got out, he slowly began to reassemble his shattered life. He quit drinking. He wrote, "I am no longer the Mayor" a hundred times a day, until he convinced himself to believe it. He was finally cleared of the lingering Fry Guy charges in 1987, when the presiding judge declared, "I'm not even sure molestation is possible. They've got nothing to molest." McCheese fulfilled an old dream by taking courses at Hamburger U., graduating with a B.A. in political science in 1989. That same year, he reconciled with Joyce, and the two remarried in June of that year. He took to running to stay in shape. Slowly, piece by piece, McCheese put himself back together.
Meanwhile, the McDonald administration had turned into a disaster. Though he was a beloved icon and he spoke well, Ronald hadn't the slightest clue how to govern effectively. He had no program to promote. He had no idea how to control the crime problem, or stop the flow of jobs out of the city. Whole chunks of downtown McDonaldland fell into shocking decay, so bad that citizens didn't want to leave their houses at night. In 1988 the Golden Archers, fed up with high rents and dangerous streets around McDonaldland arena, relocated to Nashville. McDonald also fell into an acrimonious relationship with the McNugget Buddies on City Council. The low point came in April 1989, when Ronald threated the McNuggets that he would "chew [them] up and spit [them] out" if they did not pass his budget. In an eerie echo of McCheese's downfall seven years earlier, Ronald's intemperate remark, which also got page-one treatment in the Gazette, crystallized public opposition to him. In December 1989, Ronald announced that he would not seek re-election.
McDonald's announcement paved the way for McCheese to step into the race, which he did in January 1990. Deputy Mayor Birdie picked up Ronald's fallen banner. Though she put on an energetic campaign, the predominantly male McDonaldland populace was not yet ready for a female mayor, and in November 1990, McCheese rolled to an easy victory, reclaiming the office that even the Gazette said "he never should have lost."
Once in office, the Mayor worked quickly to re-establish a relationship with the McNuggets, passing a balanced budget with a strong urban-renewal program which successfully convinced businesses and young professionals back to the inner city. The economy turned around quickly, and boom times were back for the previously doomed city. Mayor McCheese cruised to re-election in 1994 over Mac Tonight, a former singing star whose womanizing ways and disturbing moon-shaped head turned voters off, and in 1998 over wealthy financier Archibald "Arch" Deluxe, whose campaign fizzled spectacularly when he attempted to position himself as "the grown-up choice." After the '98 election, McCheese swore he would avoid the third-term jinx this time around, and rededicate himself to his new role as "the people's mayor."
In the early 2000s, the McDonaldland tech bubble went bust, and unemployment started to climb again. Mayor McCheese worked aggressively to minimize the effects of the downturn, but he faced a stiff challenge in the 2002 election from neo-conservative pundit Phil A. O'Fish, who blasted McCheese as a "fat cat" who was "out of touch with the needs and desires of people today." The two staged a ferocious debate at the Speedee Arch-itorium, but a surprise late endorsement from former nemesis Ronald McDonald carried the day for the incumbent, who turned back the O'Fish tide and scored a dramatic, Truman-like come-from-behind victory.
Today, at age 61, Mayor McCheese has given no sign of stepping aside, despite undergoing triple-bypass surgery in April of this year. He continues to guide the city with a firm but spongy hand, and has once again captured the hearts of the citizens. Mayor McCheese is one of those only-in-America success stories, and he himself is a real American hero.
* * * * *
So now you know the real story. So why is McDonald's trying to hide this? Why aren't they broadcasting this inspiring story nationwide? I know why. The damn dirty clown. If Mayor McCheese's dramatic comeback were revealed, Ronald's inept, bumbling mismanagement would be exposed for all to see. He ran the worst administration any major city has seen in decades. He's lucky that they didn't get annexed by the Burger Kingdom during his administration. So now Ronald skips merrily along, making kiddies smile and pretending he's nothing more than a gifted entertainer, and meanwhile he buries the legend of McDonaldland's greatest citizen, all out of pride. Well, to hell with the clown. We can't let this happen! Fight the power! Spread the word... McCheese is alive and well!
Fortunately, Mediocre Fred isn't the only one spreading the word. David Gray has produced a fitting tribute to the great man. There's even an online petition to restore the Mayor to his proper glory. I hope you'll sign it. Only you, The Reader, can help us expose the lies, cut through the deception and save the name of a great man. If you'll excuse me, though, I must be off. I'm hungry.
Express review tomorrow. See you Friday. I bid you peace.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Ball of Confusion" by the Temptations
LOOKING AT SPORTS IN BLACK AND WHITE
Last week, the NFL fined Detroit Lions general manager Matt Millen $200,000 for failing to consider any minority candidates before hiring new head coach Steve Mariucci. NFL rules require that teams must interview at least one minority candidate before filling any head-coaching or front-office vacancy. On the surface, this seems like straightforward rule enforcement: step out of line, pay the fine. But probing a little deeper into this issue lands the neutral observer smack in a tangled web of intentions, ill will, bad memories, and the history of race relations in sport.
See, the problem with the easy analysis in the Lions' situation is that Millen attempted to contact several minority coaches for interviews, and they all turned him down. Why? Because Millen made no secret of his enthusiasm for Mariucci at the start of the process. Mariucci is a proven winner, having compiled a 57-39 record as coach of the San Francisco 49ers. Mariucci is also a Michigan native, and had expressed a desire to return to his roots. An unbiased observer could only call it a natural fit. If you're Matt Millen, coming off a disastrous 3-13 season (and a 2-14 season before that), and you find that not only are you not fired, but a coach of Mariucci's caliber wants to coach your team, what are you going to say, besides "How soon can you get here?" Nonetheless, Millen attempted to comply with the NFL guideline. But the minority candidates he called, knowing about Millen's desire for Mariucci, all turned down the chance to be the Lions' quota-filler. As Dennis Green, the former Vikings coach who was one to turn down the interview, put it: "I don't ever think you should interview for a job that's not available. I call it 'ghost chasing.'" And Green, too, has an excellent point. Given the long odds that face minority candidates, and given the perception that you only get so many shots at the head job before you're branded as a permanent bridesmaid, why squander a precious chance to keep Millen from paying some fine, or to let the league feel superficially good about itself for being "inclusive"? If I were Green, I'd have turned Millen down too. But does this make Millen worthy of censure? Did he deserve the fine? I think it's hard to answer that clearly.
I think the idea behind the rule is a good one. Minority coaching and front-office candidates have been getting the shaft, in all sports, for decades. From former Dodger scout Al Campanis telling a national TV audience that black "lacked the necessities" for general managing to former football analyst Jimmy "The Greek" Snyder bemoaning the decline in the number of white quarterbacks, the white sporting establishment has made its antiquated racial views painfully clear over the years. (Campanis and Snyder were both quickly fired, yes, but any reasonably media-savvy organization had to know it couldn't survive the backlash if those two were kept on.) A couple years back, a friend and I, fed up with the continual poor treatment of minorities when big-time coaching and front-office positions came up, proposed the idea of an uber-sports representation firm called, "Yes, We're Black. Is That A Problem For You?" The firm would sign on passed-over or short-shrifted blacks such as Art Shell, Sherman Lewis, Ted Cottrell, Cito Gaston, Willie Randolph, Dave Stewart and Dennis Johnson and would then hire a figure such as Johnnie Cochran to aggressively market these men, and scold and embarrass the establishment until minorities got the chances they deserved. I always figured that if I owned a sports franchise, I would hire as many minorities as possible, not for affirmative-action reasons so much as the fact that, given how few minorities are employed in the upper levels of sport, the talent pool has almost got to be deeper than that of unemployed whites. Now, no league can mandate specifically who must be hired, but the interview rule is, in my view, the next best thing. At least if the owners are forced to at least talk to minority candidates, there's a better chance that, even if the owner doesn't hire the minority candidate, he might recommend that person to the next owner with a coaching vacancy. It gets a foot in the door, and that's a plus.
Beyond that, though, the clear moral stances get very scarce in this case. For example:
Point: Millen violated the rule. He deserves to be fined. End of story.
Counterpoint: He attempted to comply with the rule. It's not his fault if no one would come in for an interview. What happens if all the minority coaching candidates gang up and decide to deliberately stonewall a GM they don't like? Is that the GM's fault?
Point: Millen may not have complied with the letter of the law, but he complied with the spirit of it.
Counterpoint: The hell he did. He started the process by handpicking a white candidate, announcing to the world that he would hire the white candidate, then looked around as an afterthought to see if there was some minority he could use to comply, technically.
Point: If Millen really wanted to get a minority interview, he should have kept his mouth shut about Mariucci until he got one. He deserves the fine if for no other reason than his own stupidity.
Counterpoint: Get real. If a coach as great as Mariucci actually expresses interest in your last-place team, you don't sit and wait for Dennis Green to return your call. Mariucci had other options, most of which were probably better than this, so you've got to seize that kind of fortune when it arrives. Besides, with the media as pernicious as it is today, you think Millen's interest would have been a secret even if he'd never said a word?
Point: The fine is pure grandstanding by the NFL. They're just making an example of Millen because people like Cochran and Jesse Jackson threatened to raise hell. Millen just had the bad luck of being the first, and most obvious, violator of the policy.
Counterpoint: This is not grandstanding. The rule was designed specifically to prevent things like this from happening. This is a perfect example of the old-boy network in action. By this logic, if some racist owner, for instance, decided to head off any contact with minority candidates by jumping at a white guy the first thing off the bat, the league is supposed to sit back and say okay? That's worse than the old policy. That's flashing racism the big old thumbs-up.
And so on. You can go on like this for some time, and still not reach an answer. Did Millen deserve the fine? As a matter of policy, yes. As a matter of justice, I don't know. I think it was an unfortunate situation for all sides, in that everybody behaved in the natural, expected way, and a $200,000 fine results. That doesn't seem right. But what would be better?
Some commentators have suggested that Lions' ownership, not Millen, deserves the fine for failing to insist on a racially inclusive process from the start. (Mike Wilbon of the Washington Post pointed out that Millen, a man with no GM experience, was picked to run the Lions over Larry Lee, a black man who had been running much of Detroit's front office quite capably for some years prior to Millen's arrival.) That makes some sense, and it does solve the problem that fining Millen seems unfair, but is Lions' ownership supposed to tell Millen to forget about Mariucci, in effect overruling the football judgment of the man who was hired to make decisions about football? It's an interesting idea, but I'm not sure if it's any better than the current setup. Some have proposed that the league interview some of the top minority candidates on videotape, and make those tapes available to anyone who has a slot to fill. This would solve the problem of candidates turning down interview requests, but the point of the interview rule is to encourage face-to-face contact between management and minority candidates, and this plan would prevent that from happening. Also, what to stop a racist owner from checking out a videotape from the NFL's library and never watching it? Another nice theoretical idea that fails in practice. As discussed before, hiring quotas really aren't practical here, since any one team has only a limited number of slots to fill. Let's say that the NFL mandated that 1 out of every 5 head coaches hired had to be a minority. Now, let's say your coach quits, creating the fifth vacancy of the offseason. All the other teams quickly hire white coaches. Now you have to take a minority coach, whether or not there's a white coach you have in mind. No one wins with that scenario, especially since the minority hired to fill that coaching slot would surely be on an extremely short leash. (Ask Ray Rhodes how that feels; he got canned by the Packers after one 8-8 season.) All these ideas amount to good intentions which could easily go awry when put to the test.
In fact, the NFL's minority-hiring problem reflects the race-relations battle in our society at large. (Although, to date, the NFL's policies have not produced any significant white backlash.) Defenders of affirmative action tend to argue that, like the NFL's minority-hiring policy, it may not be perfect, but it's the best option out there. Detractors (at least those who don't argue, laughably, that we're "beyond" racial issues) tend to argue that affirmative action serves to punish those with good hearts when circumstances get in the way. As with football, most people would argue that America's racial situation remains a problem. But as decades of experiments, strife, and disappointed expectations have shown, there is no perfect solution. The best we can do is maintain goodwill and open minds, and keep the national dialogue open. And a lot of times, we can't even manage that.
Perhaps the best thing about the NFL's policy is that, if nothing else, at least people are talking about what the league can do to improve things. I salute commissioner Paul Tagliabue's efforts, and I hope that at least we can still keep talking.
The Smart Lady sent me an article that, in the context of reviewing a book about an African-American Boston neighborhood, argues that urban ethnic and racial neighborhoods, contrary to their reputation as local centers that improve the quality of life for their residents, are actually preventing needed development from occurring. I'm not sure I agree. I see the author's point; having needy minorities gather together in neighborhood clusters can make it easier for politicians to deny aid to them, both because of the lack of political will and the sense that they're already helping themselves through neighborly charity and the efforts of local churches. Also, businesses can't avoid poor black neighborhoods if there aren't any to avoid. On the other hand, if you eliminate any sense of neighborhood cohesion and try to make all areas as heterogeneous as possible, you get something that looks... a lot like Dot-Com Canyon. I'm not knocking my hometown, but an awful lot of it looks like an awful lot of other places. Neighborhoods provide a sense of uniqueness. Also, neighborhoodless suburbs lack a sense of community. They're more or less utilitarian concepts: here we work, here we sleep, here we eat, here we shop. Neighborhoods are part of what make cities stand out from the surrounding suburbs. There's plenty of room for argument here, though, and this article makes its points well.
A couple ESPN articles that deserve attention: Jim Caple provides a summer reading list for baseball fans, and Caple and Rob Neyer debate a number of baseball topics. I particularly enjoyed Neyer's rip on Pat Gillick for failing to make a deal at the trading deadline: "He says he 'tried' to get a hitter. Who gives a fat #@$% if Gillick tried? Jeff Cirillo 'tries' to hit, but what good does that do anybody?" I wish I'd thought of that for my trading-deadline analysis last Friday.
Oh, and James Lileks got his site back up and running after some server-related disaster earlier in the week. This is great news for the rest of us, since it means we are once again treated to his delightful mixture of ironic commentary on deceased pop culture, pungent commentary on political issues and his aptly named "Backfence" column, which runs in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. (WARNING: The previous link contains opinions. Sometimes strong ones. Children, the elderly, and those with serious heart conditions should not click on this link before discussing it with a doctor.) If you've never visited Lileks' site before, what are you waiting for? Click thee forward and enjoy.
That's all for now. In the spirit of Pat Gillick, I'll "try" to write another post this evening. (Translation: See you Thursday.) Toodles.
LOOKING AT SPORTS IN BLACK AND WHITE
Last week, the NFL fined Detroit Lions general manager Matt Millen $200,000 for failing to consider any minority candidates before hiring new head coach Steve Mariucci. NFL rules require that teams must interview at least one minority candidate before filling any head-coaching or front-office vacancy. On the surface, this seems like straightforward rule enforcement: step out of line, pay the fine. But probing a little deeper into this issue lands the neutral observer smack in a tangled web of intentions, ill will, bad memories, and the history of race relations in sport.
See, the problem with the easy analysis in the Lions' situation is that Millen attempted to contact several minority coaches for interviews, and they all turned him down. Why? Because Millen made no secret of his enthusiasm for Mariucci at the start of the process. Mariucci is a proven winner, having compiled a 57-39 record as coach of the San Francisco 49ers. Mariucci is also a Michigan native, and had expressed a desire to return to his roots. An unbiased observer could only call it a natural fit. If you're Matt Millen, coming off a disastrous 3-13 season (and a 2-14 season before that), and you find that not only are you not fired, but a coach of Mariucci's caliber wants to coach your team, what are you going to say, besides "How soon can you get here?" Nonetheless, Millen attempted to comply with the NFL guideline. But the minority candidates he called, knowing about Millen's desire for Mariucci, all turned down the chance to be the Lions' quota-filler. As Dennis Green, the former Vikings coach who was one to turn down the interview, put it: "I don't ever think you should interview for a job that's not available. I call it 'ghost chasing.'" And Green, too, has an excellent point. Given the long odds that face minority candidates, and given the perception that you only get so many shots at the head job before you're branded as a permanent bridesmaid, why squander a precious chance to keep Millen from paying some fine, or to let the league feel superficially good about itself for being "inclusive"? If I were Green, I'd have turned Millen down too. But does this make Millen worthy of censure? Did he deserve the fine? I think it's hard to answer that clearly.
I think the idea behind the rule is a good one. Minority coaching and front-office candidates have been getting the shaft, in all sports, for decades. From former Dodger scout Al Campanis telling a national TV audience that black "lacked the necessities" for general managing to former football analyst Jimmy "The Greek" Snyder bemoaning the decline in the number of white quarterbacks, the white sporting establishment has made its antiquated racial views painfully clear over the years. (Campanis and Snyder were both quickly fired, yes, but any reasonably media-savvy organization had to know it couldn't survive the backlash if those two were kept on.) A couple years back, a friend and I, fed up with the continual poor treatment of minorities when big-time coaching and front-office positions came up, proposed the idea of an uber-sports representation firm called, "Yes, We're Black. Is That A Problem For You?" The firm would sign on passed-over or short-shrifted blacks such as Art Shell, Sherman Lewis, Ted Cottrell, Cito Gaston, Willie Randolph, Dave Stewart and Dennis Johnson and would then hire a figure such as Johnnie Cochran to aggressively market these men, and scold and embarrass the establishment until minorities got the chances they deserved. I always figured that if I owned a sports franchise, I would hire as many minorities as possible, not for affirmative-action reasons so much as the fact that, given how few minorities are employed in the upper levels of sport, the talent pool has almost got to be deeper than that of unemployed whites. Now, no league can mandate specifically who must be hired, but the interview rule is, in my view, the next best thing. At least if the owners are forced to at least talk to minority candidates, there's a better chance that, even if the owner doesn't hire the minority candidate, he might recommend that person to the next owner with a coaching vacancy. It gets a foot in the door, and that's a plus.
Beyond that, though, the clear moral stances get very scarce in this case. For example:
Point: Millen violated the rule. He deserves to be fined. End of story.
Counterpoint: He attempted to comply with the rule. It's not his fault if no one would come in for an interview. What happens if all the minority coaching candidates gang up and decide to deliberately stonewall a GM they don't like? Is that the GM's fault?
Point: Millen may not have complied with the letter of the law, but he complied with the spirit of it.
Counterpoint: The hell he did. He started the process by handpicking a white candidate, announcing to the world that he would hire the white candidate, then looked around as an afterthought to see if there was some minority he could use to comply, technically.
Point: If Millen really wanted to get a minority interview, he should have kept his mouth shut about Mariucci until he got one. He deserves the fine if for no other reason than his own stupidity.
Counterpoint: Get real. If a coach as great as Mariucci actually expresses interest in your last-place team, you don't sit and wait for Dennis Green to return your call. Mariucci had other options, most of which were probably better than this, so you've got to seize that kind of fortune when it arrives. Besides, with the media as pernicious as it is today, you think Millen's interest would have been a secret even if he'd never said a word?
Point: The fine is pure grandstanding by the NFL. They're just making an example of Millen because people like Cochran and Jesse Jackson threatened to raise hell. Millen just had the bad luck of being the first, and most obvious, violator of the policy.
Counterpoint: This is not grandstanding. The rule was designed specifically to prevent things like this from happening. This is a perfect example of the old-boy network in action. By this logic, if some racist owner, for instance, decided to head off any contact with minority candidates by jumping at a white guy the first thing off the bat, the league is supposed to sit back and say okay? That's worse than the old policy. That's flashing racism the big old thumbs-up.
And so on. You can go on like this for some time, and still not reach an answer. Did Millen deserve the fine? As a matter of policy, yes. As a matter of justice, I don't know. I think it was an unfortunate situation for all sides, in that everybody behaved in the natural, expected way, and a $200,000 fine results. That doesn't seem right. But what would be better?
Some commentators have suggested that Lions' ownership, not Millen, deserves the fine for failing to insist on a racially inclusive process from the start. (Mike Wilbon of the Washington Post pointed out that Millen, a man with no GM experience, was picked to run the Lions over Larry Lee, a black man who had been running much of Detroit's front office quite capably for some years prior to Millen's arrival.) That makes some sense, and it does solve the problem that fining Millen seems unfair, but is Lions' ownership supposed to tell Millen to forget about Mariucci, in effect overruling the football judgment of the man who was hired to make decisions about football? It's an interesting idea, but I'm not sure if it's any better than the current setup. Some have proposed that the league interview some of the top minority candidates on videotape, and make those tapes available to anyone who has a slot to fill. This would solve the problem of candidates turning down interview requests, but the point of the interview rule is to encourage face-to-face contact between management and minority candidates, and this plan would prevent that from happening. Also, what to stop a racist owner from checking out a videotape from the NFL's library and never watching it? Another nice theoretical idea that fails in practice. As discussed before, hiring quotas really aren't practical here, since any one team has only a limited number of slots to fill. Let's say that the NFL mandated that 1 out of every 5 head coaches hired had to be a minority. Now, let's say your coach quits, creating the fifth vacancy of the offseason. All the other teams quickly hire white coaches. Now you have to take a minority coach, whether or not there's a white coach you have in mind. No one wins with that scenario, especially since the minority hired to fill that coaching slot would surely be on an extremely short leash. (Ask Ray Rhodes how that feels; he got canned by the Packers after one 8-8 season.) All these ideas amount to good intentions which could easily go awry when put to the test.
In fact, the NFL's minority-hiring problem reflects the race-relations battle in our society at large. (Although, to date, the NFL's policies have not produced any significant white backlash.) Defenders of affirmative action tend to argue that, like the NFL's minority-hiring policy, it may not be perfect, but it's the best option out there. Detractors (at least those who don't argue, laughably, that we're "beyond" racial issues) tend to argue that affirmative action serves to punish those with good hearts when circumstances get in the way. As with football, most people would argue that America's racial situation remains a problem. But as decades of experiments, strife, and disappointed expectations have shown, there is no perfect solution. The best we can do is maintain goodwill and open minds, and keep the national dialogue open. And a lot of times, we can't even manage that.
Perhaps the best thing about the NFL's policy is that, if nothing else, at least people are talking about what the league can do to improve things. I salute commissioner Paul Tagliabue's efforts, and I hope that at least we can still keep talking.
The Smart Lady sent me an article that, in the context of reviewing a book about an African-American Boston neighborhood, argues that urban ethnic and racial neighborhoods, contrary to their reputation as local centers that improve the quality of life for their residents, are actually preventing needed development from occurring. I'm not sure I agree. I see the author's point; having needy minorities gather together in neighborhood clusters can make it easier for politicians to deny aid to them, both because of the lack of political will and the sense that they're already helping themselves through neighborly charity and the efforts of local churches. Also, businesses can't avoid poor black neighborhoods if there aren't any to avoid. On the other hand, if you eliminate any sense of neighborhood cohesion and try to make all areas as heterogeneous as possible, you get something that looks... a lot like Dot-Com Canyon. I'm not knocking my hometown, but an awful lot of it looks like an awful lot of other places. Neighborhoods provide a sense of uniqueness. Also, neighborhoodless suburbs lack a sense of community. They're more or less utilitarian concepts: here we work, here we sleep, here we eat, here we shop. Neighborhoods are part of what make cities stand out from the surrounding suburbs. There's plenty of room for argument here, though, and this article makes its points well.
A couple ESPN articles that deserve attention: Jim Caple provides a summer reading list for baseball fans, and Caple and Rob Neyer debate a number of baseball topics. I particularly enjoyed Neyer's rip on Pat Gillick for failing to make a deal at the trading deadline: "He says he 'tried' to get a hitter. Who gives a fat #@$% if Gillick tried? Jeff Cirillo 'tries' to hit, but what good does that do anybody?" I wish I'd thought of that for my trading-deadline analysis last Friday.
Oh, and James Lileks got his site back up and running after some server-related disaster earlier in the week. This is great news for the rest of us, since it means we are once again treated to his delightful mixture of ironic commentary on deceased pop culture, pungent commentary on political issues and his aptly named "Backfence" column, which runs in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. (WARNING: The previous link contains opinions. Sometimes strong ones. Children, the elderly, and those with serious heart conditions should not click on this link before discussing it with a doctor.) If you've never visited Lileks' site before, what are you waiting for? Click thee forward and enjoy.
That's all for now. In the spirit of Pat Gillick, I'll "try" to write another post this evening. (Translation: See you Thursday.) Toodles.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Today's Musical Selection: "Small Town" by John Mellencamp
TAKE ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART(LAND)
Scott Miller of CBS Sportsline is spending this week touring the Midwest, trying to see if baseball can be saved there. (Today he hit Pittsburgh, and Cincinnati, St. Louis, Cleveland and Detroit are on the docket for later this week.) He was inspired to do this, he says, when he noticed that an awful lot of baseball's weakest teams are located there, despite the fact that the stadium-building wave has hit the region in force. Miller is clearly sympathetic to Midwestern baseball, but it's clear he's not at all certain it has much of a future.
This is a subject that strikes close to home for me. Not literally; Dot-Com Canyon is a long way from the Midwest. But I've always considered myself a Midwesterner in spirit, if not by birth. I've always looked fondly on the region. My favorite team hails from there (the Milwaukee Brewers... go ahead, get it out of your system, and we'll move on. I'll wait). If I ever give up and ditch the Fedroplex, I know I'll be making tracks for the Great Lakes region. Every time I visit, I'm utterly charmed. (I did a swing through Chicago and Milwaukee a couple weeks back, and it took all my strength to get me on the plane back to DC.) What's more, I think baseball is perfectly suited to Midwest summers. The warm, breezy evenings, away from the East Coast's oppressive humidity, just cry out for a ballgame, whether at the park, on the radio, or with your friends in the fields. And plenty of baseball icons staked their claim in the Heartland: Ernie Banks, Stan Musial, Roberto Clemente, Robin Yount, Bob Gibson, Harry Caray, Bill Veeck, Bob Uecker, even Ronald Reagan (who began his career recreating Cubs games on the radio in Des Moines). Bill Clinton spent his boyhood summers by the radio, pulling in the Cardinals on KMOX. If baseball died in the Midwest, the sport would lose a lot.
Miller's focus seems to be on cataloguing the current state of the Midwest's teams, and what their future might be. I'm more interested in what went wrong. After all, Midwestern teams have all had moments of glory in the past. (For the purposes of this discussion, I'm using Miller's definition of the Midwest, which encompasses the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Cincinnati Reds, the Detroit Tigers, the Cleveland Indians, the Chicago Cubs and White Sox, the Milwaukee Brewers, the Minnesota Twins, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Kansas City Royals.) Pittsburgh, Cincinnati and Detroit were three of the strongest teams in baseball in the late '60s and early '70s. The Royals and Brewers were powerhouses in the late '70s and early '80s. The Twins and Cardinals went to five World Series between them from '82 to '91. Even long-dormant Cleveland had a nice run in the mid-to-late-'90s, reviving memories of their late-'40s/early-'50s glory days. (As for the Cubs and White Sox, well... hey, look, the Sears Tower!) Until recently, the Midwest was a regular postseason player.
Lately, though, it's been grim. Other than the Indians (who ruled a weak division), the Cardinals (ditto, only less completely), and the Twins (and somebody had to win the Central last year), Midwestern teams have primarily seen the playoffs from the vantage point of the couch.
But why is this so? Bud Selig likes to blame the economic system for killing these teams off, and to a degree he has a point. But that explanation is too simple. There are other factors at work that have conspired to hurt Midwestern baseball. Here, in my view, are the primary ones:
1. Market size is killing us. It's hard to draw fans if there aren't many potential fans to draw from, and a lot of Midwestern cities have relatively small population bases. Based on metropolitan area, Milwaukee, Kansas City and Cincinnati are the three smallest cities in the major leagues. Pittsburgh isn't much bigger than those three, and Cleveland isn't much bigger than Pittsburgh. St. Louis and the Twin Cities are moderate-sized markets, on a par with for instance) Seattle and Miami. The only truly large markets in the Midwest are Chicago and Detroit. Also, population demographics don't favor the Midwest. In general, the American populace is moving to the south and to the west, away from the "Rust Belt" and into the "Sun Belt." Lower population means fewer butts in the seats, and (the key to today's game) fewer eyeballs on the TV screen. Why do you think Peter Antichrist is fighting so hard to include Washington in his "market"? The ticket sales, somewhat, but he could easily fill the stadium with Baltimore-area residents if he'd put a halfway-decent team on the field. No, what he really wants is access to the lucrative DC media market. The Midwest has precious few lucrative media markets, and (with the exception of Chicago's WGN) no superstations that would allow for a national fan base.
And when it comes to baseball's precious few national outlets (ESPN, Fox Game of the Week, the playoffs), the Midwest routinely gets snubbed. The networks can't be held accountable for the playoffs, since they can't reasonably show teams that aren't participating, but the rest of the season? The next time you're bored out of your skull, try this fun little experiment: Take the schedules of ESPN's Sunday and Wednesday Night Baseball and Fox's Game of the Week, and count up the number of times Midwestern teams appear. Now subtract out the Cubs' and Cardinals' appearances. Compare that total to the number of times the Yankees alone appear. Hmmm...
2. Even where there are big markets, there are problems. All right, I know it's fashionable to pile on Detroit as a dump, and I'd rather not. I think Detroit has a certain degree of faded industrial charm, frankly. But it's impossible to ignore the decaying buildings and the prevalence of violent crime in the downtown core, which is precisely where the stadium is located. I don't know about you, but my idea of a fun ballpark experience doesn't involve taking my life into my hands. Frankly, I prefer the risk of death or serious injury to be as remote as possible. Detroit, I like you, and I apologize for perpetuating stereotypes. But if you expect me to go see a night game at Comerica, you'd better send a bodyguard or two.
The same applies to the South Side of Chicago, where the White Sox play ball, sort of. I visited the South Side on my tour of Chicago, so I can state this from first-hand experience: You don't want to live there. You don't want to hang around there for a long time. You don't want to hang around there at all after dark. In the case of both the Tigers and White Sox, the location of the stadium is already a strike against the team. Factor in that both have been mediocre-to-awful in recent seasons, and that neither team has had a great many bright stars of late, and that's three strikes. You know the rest.
And then there's the Cubs. I have a fondness for the Cubs, depite their rivalry with the Brewers. Wrigley Field is a temple, easily my favorite stadium of all time. It's in a pretty nice neighborhood. The fans are smart and passionate. There's an electricity that lasts from the first pitch to the last Lenny Harris ground-out. All the elements are there for a highly successful franchise. And yet, and yet... George Will was right when he called the Cubs "baseball's Williamsburg." The team ethos isn't about winning, but rather about savoring the old-timey feel and bemoaning the supposed curse that hangs over the Cubs like carrion flies over a dead squirrel on the side of the road. I love the whole Cub experience, but here's a dirty little secret: if you transferred the franchise to, say, Sacramento and stuck them in a cookie-cutter ashtray-style stadium a la the Vet, they wouldn't have failed to win a World Series since 1908. The ghosts of the past have excused Cub failures for decades, and it's kept the team from being the top-echelon powerhouse that, honestly, it ought to be. Even the name suggests fuzzy, cuddly resignation: the Cubs. Come on. Change the colors to silver, purple and black, call 'em the Grizzlies or somesuch, and dynamite Wrigley and replace it with the aforementioned ashtray, and they'd make the Series within five years. Guaranteed.
3. Not enough stars. If you can't put a winning team on the field, the next-best thing is to put a star player out there, and hope the fans will come out to see the star. (Dontrelle Willis is currently playing this role in Miami, as I discussed previously.) Mark McGwire did this in St. Louis, and Sammy does this for the Cubs (not that fans need an excuse to come to Wrigley). Cleveland has its share of bright lights, such as Jim Thome, Roberto Alomar and (snicker) Albert Belle, during its winning years. But the other Midwestern teams haven't managed to develop or acquire drawing cards like these. At this point, Bud Selig is going to jump up and say that this is all the economic system's fault, that these teams can't afford to keep the stars they develop. But let's be honest... they haven't really developed that many to start with. Don't believe me? All right, go ahead, name the biggest stars on those Midwestern teams apart from the three I already mentioned. Here's my list:
- Kansas City: Johnny Damon. Remember all the fuss when the Royals let Damon go? Remember how the team was never going to recover from the loss of Mr. Electricity? Well, Damon has since gone to Oakland and then Boston, and he's been... fine. Not incredible, not a superstar, but... fine. He's a capable major leaguer, but nothing too special.
- Minnesota: Uhh, Torii Hunter? Brad Radke? You tell me. Last year's team was very good, sure, but what made it so captivating was its very starlessness. Not one player on the team qualifies as a true drawing card. For further evidence, look at this year. With essentially the same roster, they're struggling to play .500 ball. See any stars there? Didn't think so.
- Milwaukee: Either Richie Sexson or Jeromy Burnitz. Sexson's still with the club, and he's popular, not to mention a quality first baseman. But, assuming you don't live in Milwaukee or root for the Brewers, what have you heard about him? Did you know he was an All-Star? As for Burnitz, he got bounced to the Mets in a salary dump, and then shipped to LA when the Mets underwent a purge of their own. Awful last year, good this year, a star in neither.
- Chicago White Sox: Frank Thomas. Should be a Hall of Famer someday. But what do you think of when you think of Thomas? His decade of quiet, understated excellence, or the fits he pitched the last couple years when he felt the Sox weren't treating him fairly? Though he deserves better, Thomas is more likely to go down in the annals for his mouth than for his bat.
- Cincinnati: Ken Griffey, Jr. Once a sure-shot Hall of Famer. Should probably still make it. But coincidentally, and sadly, his return to his hometown coincided with the dissolution of his career. His Reds tenure has been a never-ending string of pouts and leg injuries. The Junior we saw in Seattle was a smiling, affable megawatt star. The Junior we've seen in Cincinnati is a surly, fragile shadow of his former self. Like Thomas, Griffey deserves better, but facts are facts.
- Detroit: Juan Gonzalez. Gonzo's tenure in Motown made Thomas and Griffey look like the winner and first runner-up in the Mr. Congeniality contest. Gonzalez moaned about the chilly weather, whined about the relatively distant fences and complained constantly about leaving Texas. At the first opportunity, he bolted back to the Rangers for less money than Detroit offered. This time, Detroit fans are the ones who deserve better.
- Pittsburgh: Brian Giles. He's been a truly great player during his tenure in Pittsburgh. We'll see what happens when he's traded before next season. Based on the list above, though, are you optimistic?
First and foremost, fans like to see winning. If they can't have winning, they like to see star players. If they can't have stars, fans like to set their season tickets ablaze and switch to football. Which reminds me...
4. The decline of the baseball teams has, in many of these cities, coincided with the rise of the football teams. Theoretically, these are not mutually exclusive. Baseball and football season don't overlap by much (and they overlap even less if the baseball team never makes the playoffs). But football has a nasty habit of creeping up and taking over the entire year if the baseball season isn't sufficiently interesting. Living in Washington, I can testify to this first-hand. Since we don't have a baseball team, and our basketball and hockey teams stink like week-old mackerel, the dreadfully-named Redskins are all we have. And we are already well into football mode here. Televised scrimmages beat Orioles games in the ratings. Sports-talk hosts field Redskins questions in June. Redskins merchandise is already creeping back into the front windows at sporting-goods stores. To make matters worse, the season doesn't end after the Super Bowl, either. Whenever the Redskins make an offseason move (such as, say, purchasing the New York Jets' roster wholesale), it's front-page news. I'm not anti-football or anything, but the level of coverage the Redskins get is disgusting, especially when you factor in that they've been a .500-ish team for the last four seasons. It's like kudzu. Returning to my point, though, if the football team sucks up all the media oxygen, the baseball team will have an even harder time winning the attention of a fan base that isn't all that large to begin with (see #1).
And in a lot of these cities, the football teams have been on the rise of late. In Pittsburgh, Bill Cowher and his amazing Leno-esque jaw have led the Steelers into near-perennial playoff contention. In Cleveland, the reborn Browns have jumped into the playoff hunt just as the novelty of the new stadium and "new" team were starting to wear off. In Wisconsin, the Packers' success has inspired thousand of otherwise sane individuals to sport foam wedges of cheese on their heads in public. (Though the Packers don't play in Milwaukee any more, they are a state-wide obsession, and many Milwaukeeans have season tickets.) The colorful and exciting Randy Moss-paced Vikings have captivated Minnesota's attention, and will doubtless continue to do so as long as owner Red McCombs can't convince the league to let him move to Los Angeles. The St. Louis Rams competed in two of the most exciting recent Super Bowls. (Oh, yes, they did. You remember, don't you? Remember Kurt Warner? The Arena League guy? Isn't hasn't been that long...) Even the Bears put together a great 2001 season, and now have a newly remodeled (and vastly improved) Soldier Field to show off. This excuse doesn't apply to Detroit and Cincinnati, but no explanation is perfect.
5. Except for Cleveland, they all hit the stadium-building boom at the wrong time. Five of the Midwest's teams have built new stadia in the last 15 years. (Or, to be more accurate, had stadia built for them, at the pleasure of local taxpayers.) St. Louis has a new facility in the works, and Minnesota and Kansas City have both threatened to skip town (or offer themselves up to the contraction ax) unless they get new playgrounds. But the new parks haven't led to any sort of a renaissance in almost all of those cases. In large part, this is because they handled the openings poorly. But also, they failed to hit the wave at the right time.
Let's start with the White Sox, because their problem was obviously timing. The new Comiskey Park (this new corporate monstrosity of a name is beneath contempt) was built in 1991. By the standards of its time, it was pretty standard: spacious, largely circular, well-supplied with concourses, and largely bland and charmless. While it lacked the fancy gizmos and trick roof of Toronto's SkyDome, it was perfectly acceptable at the time. (And in fairness to all parties concerned, old Comiskey was on the verge of being condemned, and the White Sox had one ofoot out the door to Tampa before a last-minute legislative push got the stadium done.) Shortly thereafter, Baltimore (which had its own stadium on the drawing board) scrapped its plan to build a Comiskey-esque multi-purpose stadium and replaced it with Camden Yards, a modern classic. Its quirky, asymmetrical dimensions (minus any stupid self-conscious "quirks" like that hill in the Astros' new park), integration into the surrounding neighborhood, and incorporation of an old railraod warehouse made it a sight to behold. And "new" Comiskey suddenly looked about as hip and modern as Sansabelt slacks. The White Sox actually had a solid team in those years, but who cared? Mediocre ballpark, same crummy neighborhood. (But don't be glum, White Sox management: the ballpark you would have occupied in Tampa looks just as stale and unappealing as the one you play in now, and at least Comiskey's not a dome.)
Baltimore's turnaround inspired copycats in Cleveland, Dallas and Denver. Cleveland experienced a turnaround like Baltimore's, perhaps even greater; the Rangers and Rockies got more modest bumps. Perhaps the "magic stadium" fallacy really developed its first cracks then. But said fallacy feel with a thud when the next wave of duds opened up: Detroit, Pittsbrugh, Milwaukee, Cincinnati... apart from a little attendance uptick the first year or two, the nice new parks have done nothing to help the teams that play in them. The stadium shell game suddenly stopped working. Why? Well, let's look at Cleveland and see what it was, exactly, that they did right.
The Indians' Jacobs Field success story was something of a perfect storm. First of all, the old stadium was so bad and so inhospitable that it was actually a national joke (it was dubbed "The Mistake by the Lake"). Sure, Riverfront and Fulton County were awful, but they were generically awful. Municipal Stadium was uniquely bad. The new stadium, which was nice in any case, looked that much better by comparison. Second, the Indians had carefully timed the opening of the new park to coincide with their organizational building plan. The farm system, which for so long had resembled the Dust Bowl, finally began to produce quality prospects, and the Indians shrewdly locked those prospects up to long-term deals. They made shrewd trades to acquire players such as Omar Vizquel, Roberto Alomar and Sandy Alomar, Jr. Very few of those long-term prospects fizzled, nor did any of the trades blow up in Cleveland's face (at least not at the beginning). Plus, getting the stadium in right at the start of the retro wave meant it stood out. It was a destination in and of itself (unlike, say, Comerica). Plus, the city of Cleveland was undergoing a notable revitalization at that time. The Cavs moved out of the moors of Richfield and back downtown. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame finally opened its doors. The downtown core became a haven for young professionals, as opposed to a haven for filth and decay. It was like the movie "Major League" brought to life. It was all perfect. But almost impossible to duplicate. Even Cleveland couldn't keep it up. Eventually, too many deals that sent away prospects for that "final piece of the puzzle" caught up to the Tribe. They're now back to rebuilding. We'll see when they resurface.
The new parks in other Midwestern cities had little hope of capturing the same magic. The novelty factor was pretty much gone. None of the cities involved has undergone an urban renewal in recent years. Perhaps most importantly, the teams lacked quality prospects in the farm system, so Cleveland's long-term plan wasn't really feasible for them. Add in the free-agent signings that went bust (Griffey, Kenny Lofton, Marquis Grissom, Jeffrey Hammonds, &c.) and it's a wonder these teams are even treading water.
(By the way, some of you are probably wondering where Seattle's and San Francisco's new parks fit into my little timeline. Apples and oranges; both the Mariners and Giants were already good when they moved to their new digs. They were riding a wave that had already started.)
6. Okay, okay, Bud, the economics do count. Commissioner Selig's attack on the economic system isn't totally off-base. The above-noted population differences don't matter so much in football, for instance, because they have a far more redistributionist economic system. Green Bay can compete with New York on even footing, or something like it, thanks to the NFL's revenue sharing. (For those of you who are wondering, "So why doesn't baseball just copy the NFL?", two points: 1. Football's TV contracts are national. Baseball's contracts are primarily local. It's the local broadcast disparities that drive baseball's imbalance. 2. Saying that baseball should be able to agree to an equal-revenue system because football did is like saying Israelis and Palestinians should be able to live in peace because Americans and Canadians do.) Because the Yankees' revenue stream is so much larger than the Royals', George Steinbrenner can afford to make mistakes that David Glass can't. (Fun historical note: George Steinbrenner was available to buy the Yankees in 1973 because he'd failed in his attempt to buy the Indians. The two teams went for approximately the same price, about $10 million. Think George would be so gung-ho for laissez-faire economics if he'd been running the Indians all these years?) So yes, the economic system does matter. Did the new labor agreement fix things, as Selig claims? We shall see. I'm not holding my breath.
So, there's the decline and fall of Midwestern baseball in a nutshell. Can it be saved? That's the question. I am inclined to say yes. Why? Because the St. Louis Cardinals exist.
If ever there was a love affair between a baseball team and its city, I'd say the Cards and St. Louis would have to rank as one of the all-time greatest couples. Sure, they've had quality baseball and, more recently, Mark McGwire to sustain them, but St. Louis fans have been coming out for the Cards pretty steadily for decades. The roots of their passion run deep, not just in St. Louis, but throughout southern Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas, and even Oklahoma nd Tennessee. KMOX helped breed a generation of Cardinals fans throughout the lower Midwest and the South, and they've remained loyal, no matter how many expansion teams clot the landscape. In the old days, folks would load up their trucks and drive from hundreds of miles around to St. Louis for weekend games. The Cardinals have managed to combine a large, loyal fan base with an actual commitment to winning (unlike the aforementioned Cubs). The Cards are a true Midwestern success story.
Now, Detroit, Pittsburgh and Milwaukee may not be able to develop a regional following as st. Louis did, but there are signs of hope. When I was in Milwaukee, I took a look around, to see what sort of fan base the Brewers had to work with. And I was pleasantly surprised. A lot of folks walking around town sported Brewers shirts and hats. The parking-lot scene at Miller Park was vibrant: folks has grills going all over, the small of brats permeated the lot, kids were playing catch while their dads tended to the meat and talked about Sexson's swing, Sheets' arm, Podsednik's glove. Inside the stadium, there was a crowd of 34,000 for a Saturday night game (not too shabby), and they were in a fun-loving mood. They were chatting and laughing from the first pitch to the last. And while they weren't as intensely focused on the game as the Cubs fans were, they cheered at all the right moments and even showed a sense of playfulness. When a struggling Brewers reliever finally threw a strike after nine straight balls, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. And though the Brewers lost an early lead and didn't threaten much in a 5-1 loss, the majority of the fans stayed through to the last pitch. The next morning, over 100 people crammed into a shopping mall in suburban Brookfield at 9 AM to get Brooks Kieshnick's autograph. Don't know Brooks? Well, they do.
Is it salvation? No, it isn't. But it's a start.
That's all from me for today. Stay in the shade and see you tomorrow.
TAKE ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART(LAND)
Scott Miller of CBS Sportsline is spending this week touring the Midwest, trying to see if baseball can be saved there. (Today he hit Pittsburgh, and Cincinnati, St. Louis, Cleveland and Detroit are on the docket for later this week.) He was inspired to do this, he says, when he noticed that an awful lot of baseball's weakest teams are located there, despite the fact that the stadium-building wave has hit the region in force. Miller is clearly sympathetic to Midwestern baseball, but it's clear he's not at all certain it has much of a future.
This is a subject that strikes close to home for me. Not literally; Dot-Com Canyon is a long way from the Midwest. But I've always considered myself a Midwesterner in spirit, if not by birth. I've always looked fondly on the region. My favorite team hails from there (the Milwaukee Brewers... go ahead, get it out of your system, and we'll move on. I'll wait). If I ever give up and ditch the Fedroplex, I know I'll be making tracks for the Great Lakes region. Every time I visit, I'm utterly charmed. (I did a swing through Chicago and Milwaukee a couple weeks back, and it took all my strength to get me on the plane back to DC.) What's more, I think baseball is perfectly suited to Midwest summers. The warm, breezy evenings, away from the East Coast's oppressive humidity, just cry out for a ballgame, whether at the park, on the radio, or with your friends in the fields. And plenty of baseball icons staked their claim in the Heartland: Ernie Banks, Stan Musial, Roberto Clemente, Robin Yount, Bob Gibson, Harry Caray, Bill Veeck, Bob Uecker, even Ronald Reagan (who began his career recreating Cubs games on the radio in Des Moines). Bill Clinton spent his boyhood summers by the radio, pulling in the Cardinals on KMOX. If baseball died in the Midwest, the sport would lose a lot.
Miller's focus seems to be on cataloguing the current state of the Midwest's teams, and what their future might be. I'm more interested in what went wrong. After all, Midwestern teams have all had moments of glory in the past. (For the purposes of this discussion, I'm using Miller's definition of the Midwest, which encompasses the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Cincinnati Reds, the Detroit Tigers, the Cleveland Indians, the Chicago Cubs and White Sox, the Milwaukee Brewers, the Minnesota Twins, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Kansas City Royals.) Pittsburgh, Cincinnati and Detroit were three of the strongest teams in baseball in the late '60s and early '70s. The Royals and Brewers were powerhouses in the late '70s and early '80s. The Twins and Cardinals went to five World Series between them from '82 to '91. Even long-dormant Cleveland had a nice run in the mid-to-late-'90s, reviving memories of their late-'40s/early-'50s glory days. (As for the Cubs and White Sox, well... hey, look, the Sears Tower!) Until recently, the Midwest was a regular postseason player.
Lately, though, it's been grim. Other than the Indians (who ruled a weak division), the Cardinals (ditto, only less completely), and the Twins (and somebody had to win the Central last year), Midwestern teams have primarily seen the playoffs from the vantage point of the couch.
But why is this so? Bud Selig likes to blame the economic system for killing these teams off, and to a degree he has a point. But that explanation is too simple. There are other factors at work that have conspired to hurt Midwestern baseball. Here, in my view, are the primary ones:
1. Market size is killing us. It's hard to draw fans if there aren't many potential fans to draw from, and a lot of Midwestern cities have relatively small population bases. Based on metropolitan area, Milwaukee, Kansas City and Cincinnati are the three smallest cities in the major leagues. Pittsburgh isn't much bigger than those three, and Cleveland isn't much bigger than Pittsburgh. St. Louis and the Twin Cities are moderate-sized markets, on a par with for instance) Seattle and Miami. The only truly large markets in the Midwest are Chicago and Detroit. Also, population demographics don't favor the Midwest. In general, the American populace is moving to the south and to the west, away from the "Rust Belt" and into the "Sun Belt." Lower population means fewer butts in the seats, and (the key to today's game) fewer eyeballs on the TV screen. Why do you think Peter Antichrist is fighting so hard to include Washington in his "market"? The ticket sales, somewhat, but he could easily fill the stadium with Baltimore-area residents if he'd put a halfway-decent team on the field. No, what he really wants is access to the lucrative DC media market. The Midwest has precious few lucrative media markets, and (with the exception of Chicago's WGN) no superstations that would allow for a national fan base.
And when it comes to baseball's precious few national outlets (ESPN, Fox Game of the Week, the playoffs), the Midwest routinely gets snubbed. The networks can't be held accountable for the playoffs, since they can't reasonably show teams that aren't participating, but the rest of the season? The next time you're bored out of your skull, try this fun little experiment: Take the schedules of ESPN's Sunday and Wednesday Night Baseball and Fox's Game of the Week, and count up the number of times Midwestern teams appear. Now subtract out the Cubs' and Cardinals' appearances. Compare that total to the number of times the Yankees alone appear. Hmmm...
2. Even where there are big markets, there are problems. All right, I know it's fashionable to pile on Detroit as a dump, and I'd rather not. I think Detroit has a certain degree of faded industrial charm, frankly. But it's impossible to ignore the decaying buildings and the prevalence of violent crime in the downtown core, which is precisely where the stadium is located. I don't know about you, but my idea of a fun ballpark experience doesn't involve taking my life into my hands. Frankly, I prefer the risk of death or serious injury to be as remote as possible. Detroit, I like you, and I apologize for perpetuating stereotypes. But if you expect me to go see a night game at Comerica, you'd better send a bodyguard or two.
The same applies to the South Side of Chicago, where the White Sox play ball, sort of. I visited the South Side on my tour of Chicago, so I can state this from first-hand experience: You don't want to live there. You don't want to hang around there for a long time. You don't want to hang around there at all after dark. In the case of both the Tigers and White Sox, the location of the stadium is already a strike against the team. Factor in that both have been mediocre-to-awful in recent seasons, and that neither team has had a great many bright stars of late, and that's three strikes. You know the rest.
And then there's the Cubs. I have a fondness for the Cubs, depite their rivalry with the Brewers. Wrigley Field is a temple, easily my favorite stadium of all time. It's in a pretty nice neighborhood. The fans are smart and passionate. There's an electricity that lasts from the first pitch to the last Lenny Harris ground-out. All the elements are there for a highly successful franchise. And yet, and yet... George Will was right when he called the Cubs "baseball's Williamsburg." The team ethos isn't about winning, but rather about savoring the old-timey feel and bemoaning the supposed curse that hangs over the Cubs like carrion flies over a dead squirrel on the side of the road. I love the whole Cub experience, but here's a dirty little secret: if you transferred the franchise to, say, Sacramento and stuck them in a cookie-cutter ashtray-style stadium a la the Vet, they wouldn't have failed to win a World Series since 1908. The ghosts of the past have excused Cub failures for decades, and it's kept the team from being the top-echelon powerhouse that, honestly, it ought to be. Even the name suggests fuzzy, cuddly resignation: the Cubs. Come on. Change the colors to silver, purple and black, call 'em the Grizzlies or somesuch, and dynamite Wrigley and replace it with the aforementioned ashtray, and they'd make the Series within five years. Guaranteed.
3. Not enough stars. If you can't put a winning team on the field, the next-best thing is to put a star player out there, and hope the fans will come out to see the star. (Dontrelle Willis is currently playing this role in Miami, as I discussed previously.) Mark McGwire did this in St. Louis, and Sammy does this for the Cubs (not that fans need an excuse to come to Wrigley). Cleveland has its share of bright lights, such as Jim Thome, Roberto Alomar and (snicker) Albert Belle, during its winning years. But the other Midwestern teams haven't managed to develop or acquire drawing cards like these. At this point, Bud Selig is going to jump up and say that this is all the economic system's fault, that these teams can't afford to keep the stars they develop. But let's be honest... they haven't really developed that many to start with. Don't believe me? All right, go ahead, name the biggest stars on those Midwestern teams apart from the three I already mentioned. Here's my list:
- Kansas City: Johnny Damon. Remember all the fuss when the Royals let Damon go? Remember how the team was never going to recover from the loss of Mr. Electricity? Well, Damon has since gone to Oakland and then Boston, and he's been... fine. Not incredible, not a superstar, but... fine. He's a capable major leaguer, but nothing too special.
- Minnesota: Uhh, Torii Hunter? Brad Radke? You tell me. Last year's team was very good, sure, but what made it so captivating was its very starlessness. Not one player on the team qualifies as a true drawing card. For further evidence, look at this year. With essentially the same roster, they're struggling to play .500 ball. See any stars there? Didn't think so.
- Milwaukee: Either Richie Sexson or Jeromy Burnitz. Sexson's still with the club, and he's popular, not to mention a quality first baseman. But, assuming you don't live in Milwaukee or root for the Brewers, what have you heard about him? Did you know he was an All-Star? As for Burnitz, he got bounced to the Mets in a salary dump, and then shipped to LA when the Mets underwent a purge of their own. Awful last year, good this year, a star in neither.
- Chicago White Sox: Frank Thomas. Should be a Hall of Famer someday. But what do you think of when you think of Thomas? His decade of quiet, understated excellence, or the fits he pitched the last couple years when he felt the Sox weren't treating him fairly? Though he deserves better, Thomas is more likely to go down in the annals for his mouth than for his bat.
- Cincinnati: Ken Griffey, Jr. Once a sure-shot Hall of Famer. Should probably still make it. But coincidentally, and sadly, his return to his hometown coincided with the dissolution of his career. His Reds tenure has been a never-ending string of pouts and leg injuries. The Junior we saw in Seattle was a smiling, affable megawatt star. The Junior we've seen in Cincinnati is a surly, fragile shadow of his former self. Like Thomas, Griffey deserves better, but facts are facts.
- Detroit: Juan Gonzalez. Gonzo's tenure in Motown made Thomas and Griffey look like the winner and first runner-up in the Mr. Congeniality contest. Gonzalez moaned about the chilly weather, whined about the relatively distant fences and complained constantly about leaving Texas. At the first opportunity, he bolted back to the Rangers for less money than Detroit offered. This time, Detroit fans are the ones who deserve better.
- Pittsburgh: Brian Giles. He's been a truly great player during his tenure in Pittsburgh. We'll see what happens when he's traded before next season. Based on the list above, though, are you optimistic?
First and foremost, fans like to see winning. If they can't have winning, they like to see star players. If they can't have stars, fans like to set their season tickets ablaze and switch to football. Which reminds me...
4. The decline of the baseball teams has, in many of these cities, coincided with the rise of the football teams. Theoretically, these are not mutually exclusive. Baseball and football season don't overlap by much (and they overlap even less if the baseball team never makes the playoffs). But football has a nasty habit of creeping up and taking over the entire year if the baseball season isn't sufficiently interesting. Living in Washington, I can testify to this first-hand. Since we don't have a baseball team, and our basketball and hockey teams stink like week-old mackerel, the dreadfully-named Redskins are all we have. And we are already well into football mode here. Televised scrimmages beat Orioles games in the ratings. Sports-talk hosts field Redskins questions in June. Redskins merchandise is already creeping back into the front windows at sporting-goods stores. To make matters worse, the season doesn't end after the Super Bowl, either. Whenever the Redskins make an offseason move (such as, say, purchasing the New York Jets' roster wholesale), it's front-page news. I'm not anti-football or anything, but the level of coverage the Redskins get is disgusting, especially when you factor in that they've been a .500-ish team for the last four seasons. It's like kudzu. Returning to my point, though, if the football team sucks up all the media oxygen, the baseball team will have an even harder time winning the attention of a fan base that isn't all that large to begin with (see #1).
And in a lot of these cities, the football teams have been on the rise of late. In Pittsburgh, Bill Cowher and his amazing Leno-esque jaw have led the Steelers into near-perennial playoff contention. In Cleveland, the reborn Browns have jumped into the playoff hunt just as the novelty of the new stadium and "new" team were starting to wear off. In Wisconsin, the Packers' success has inspired thousand of otherwise sane individuals to sport foam wedges of cheese on their heads in public. (Though the Packers don't play in Milwaukee any more, they are a state-wide obsession, and many Milwaukeeans have season tickets.) The colorful and exciting Randy Moss-paced Vikings have captivated Minnesota's attention, and will doubtless continue to do so as long as owner Red McCombs can't convince the league to let him move to Los Angeles. The St. Louis Rams competed in two of the most exciting recent Super Bowls. (Oh, yes, they did. You remember, don't you? Remember Kurt Warner? The Arena League guy? Isn't hasn't been that long...) Even the Bears put together a great 2001 season, and now have a newly remodeled (and vastly improved) Soldier Field to show off. This excuse doesn't apply to Detroit and Cincinnati, but no explanation is perfect.
5. Except for Cleveland, they all hit the stadium-building boom at the wrong time. Five of the Midwest's teams have built new stadia in the last 15 years. (Or, to be more accurate, had stadia built for them, at the pleasure of local taxpayers.) St. Louis has a new facility in the works, and Minnesota and Kansas City have both threatened to skip town (or offer themselves up to the contraction ax) unless they get new playgrounds. But the new parks haven't led to any sort of a renaissance in almost all of those cases. In large part, this is because they handled the openings poorly. But also, they failed to hit the wave at the right time.
Let's start with the White Sox, because their problem was obviously timing. The new Comiskey Park (this new corporate monstrosity of a name is beneath contempt) was built in 1991. By the standards of its time, it was pretty standard: spacious, largely circular, well-supplied with concourses, and largely bland and charmless. While it lacked the fancy gizmos and trick roof of Toronto's SkyDome, it was perfectly acceptable at the time. (And in fairness to all parties concerned, old Comiskey was on the verge of being condemned, and the White Sox had one ofoot out the door to Tampa before a last-minute legislative push got the stadium done.) Shortly thereafter, Baltimore (which had its own stadium on the drawing board) scrapped its plan to build a Comiskey-esque multi-purpose stadium and replaced it with Camden Yards, a modern classic. Its quirky, asymmetrical dimensions (minus any stupid self-conscious "quirks" like that hill in the Astros' new park), integration into the surrounding neighborhood, and incorporation of an old railraod warehouse made it a sight to behold. And "new" Comiskey suddenly looked about as hip and modern as Sansabelt slacks. The White Sox actually had a solid team in those years, but who cared? Mediocre ballpark, same crummy neighborhood. (But don't be glum, White Sox management: the ballpark you would have occupied in Tampa looks just as stale and unappealing as the one you play in now, and at least Comiskey's not a dome.)
Baltimore's turnaround inspired copycats in Cleveland, Dallas and Denver. Cleveland experienced a turnaround like Baltimore's, perhaps even greater; the Rangers and Rockies got more modest bumps. Perhaps the "magic stadium" fallacy really developed its first cracks then. But said fallacy feel with a thud when the next wave of duds opened up: Detroit, Pittsbrugh, Milwaukee, Cincinnati... apart from a little attendance uptick the first year or two, the nice new parks have done nothing to help the teams that play in them. The stadium shell game suddenly stopped working. Why? Well, let's look at Cleveland and see what it was, exactly, that they did right.
The Indians' Jacobs Field success story was something of a perfect storm. First of all, the old stadium was so bad and so inhospitable that it was actually a national joke (it was dubbed "The Mistake by the Lake"). Sure, Riverfront and Fulton County were awful, but they were generically awful. Municipal Stadium was uniquely bad. The new stadium, which was nice in any case, looked that much better by comparison. Second, the Indians had carefully timed the opening of the new park to coincide with their organizational building plan. The farm system, which for so long had resembled the Dust Bowl, finally began to produce quality prospects, and the Indians shrewdly locked those prospects up to long-term deals. They made shrewd trades to acquire players such as Omar Vizquel, Roberto Alomar and Sandy Alomar, Jr. Very few of those long-term prospects fizzled, nor did any of the trades blow up in Cleveland's face (at least not at the beginning). Plus, getting the stadium in right at the start of the retro wave meant it stood out. It was a destination in and of itself (unlike, say, Comerica). Plus, the city of Cleveland was undergoing a notable revitalization at that time. The Cavs moved out of the moors of Richfield and back downtown. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame finally opened its doors. The downtown core became a haven for young professionals, as opposed to a haven for filth and decay. It was like the movie "Major League" brought to life. It was all perfect. But almost impossible to duplicate. Even Cleveland couldn't keep it up. Eventually, too many deals that sent away prospects for that "final piece of the puzzle" caught up to the Tribe. They're now back to rebuilding. We'll see when they resurface.
The new parks in other Midwestern cities had little hope of capturing the same magic. The novelty factor was pretty much gone. None of the cities involved has undergone an urban renewal in recent years. Perhaps most importantly, the teams lacked quality prospects in the farm system, so Cleveland's long-term plan wasn't really feasible for them. Add in the free-agent signings that went bust (Griffey, Kenny Lofton, Marquis Grissom, Jeffrey Hammonds, &c.) and it's a wonder these teams are even treading water.
(By the way, some of you are probably wondering where Seattle's and San Francisco's new parks fit into my little timeline. Apples and oranges; both the Mariners and Giants were already good when they moved to their new digs. They were riding a wave that had already started.)
6. Okay, okay, Bud, the economics do count. Commissioner Selig's attack on the economic system isn't totally off-base. The above-noted population differences don't matter so much in football, for instance, because they have a far more redistributionist economic system. Green Bay can compete with New York on even footing, or something like it, thanks to the NFL's revenue sharing. (For those of you who are wondering, "So why doesn't baseball just copy the NFL?", two points: 1. Football's TV contracts are national. Baseball's contracts are primarily local. It's the local broadcast disparities that drive baseball's imbalance. 2. Saying that baseball should be able to agree to an equal-revenue system because football did is like saying Israelis and Palestinians should be able to live in peace because Americans and Canadians do.) Because the Yankees' revenue stream is so much larger than the Royals', George Steinbrenner can afford to make mistakes that David Glass can't. (Fun historical note: George Steinbrenner was available to buy the Yankees in 1973 because he'd failed in his attempt to buy the Indians. The two teams went for approximately the same price, about $10 million. Think George would be so gung-ho for laissez-faire economics if he'd been running the Indians all these years?) So yes, the economic system does matter. Did the new labor agreement fix things, as Selig claims? We shall see. I'm not holding my breath.
So, there's the decline and fall of Midwestern baseball in a nutshell. Can it be saved? That's the question. I am inclined to say yes. Why? Because the St. Louis Cardinals exist.
If ever there was a love affair between a baseball team and its city, I'd say the Cards and St. Louis would have to rank as one of the all-time greatest couples. Sure, they've had quality baseball and, more recently, Mark McGwire to sustain them, but St. Louis fans have been coming out for the Cards pretty steadily for decades. The roots of their passion run deep, not just in St. Louis, but throughout southern Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas, and even Oklahoma nd Tennessee. KMOX helped breed a generation of Cardinals fans throughout the lower Midwest and the South, and they've remained loyal, no matter how many expansion teams clot the landscape. In the old days, folks would load up their trucks and drive from hundreds of miles around to St. Louis for weekend games. The Cardinals have managed to combine a large, loyal fan base with an actual commitment to winning (unlike the aforementioned Cubs). The Cards are a true Midwestern success story.
Now, Detroit, Pittsburgh and Milwaukee may not be able to develop a regional following as st. Louis did, but there are signs of hope. When I was in Milwaukee, I took a look around, to see what sort of fan base the Brewers had to work with. And I was pleasantly surprised. A lot of folks walking around town sported Brewers shirts and hats. The parking-lot scene at Miller Park was vibrant: folks has grills going all over, the small of brats permeated the lot, kids were playing catch while their dads tended to the meat and talked about Sexson's swing, Sheets' arm, Podsednik's glove. Inside the stadium, there was a crowd of 34,000 for a Saturday night game (not too shabby), and they were in a fun-loving mood. They were chatting and laughing from the first pitch to the last. And while they weren't as intensely focused on the game as the Cubs fans were, they cheered at all the right moments and even showed a sense of playfulness. When a struggling Brewers reliever finally threw a strike after nine straight balls, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. And though the Brewers lost an early lead and didn't threaten much in a 5-1 loss, the majority of the fans stayed through to the last pitch. The next morning, over 100 people crammed into a shopping mall in suburban Brookfield at 9 AM to get Brooks Kieshnick's autograph. Don't know Brooks? Well, they do.
Is it salvation? No, it isn't. But it's a start.
That's all from me for today. Stay in the shade and see you tomorrow.
Monday, August 04, 2003
IN PRAISE OF IRASCIBILITY
This morning's Washington Post Style section features an article on Howard Dean, and specifically on whether he is too cranky to be president. Personally, I think Dean should stick with crankiness; every time he tries to smile, at least for the cameras, he looks like one of those cardboard cutouts you used to see in grocery stores, where some small-bore celebrity would strike a stagey Mister-Rogers-meets-Ren-and-Stimpy smile, supposedly depicting the euphoria that would ensue if you sampled a particular brand of onion dip. Also, the smiling Dean gives off an unsettling "I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay" vibe. But that's not my point here. What got me to thinking was the following passage, about halfway into the article:
Crankiness used to be an acceptable trait. Your father might have been cranky, at least before he took his nap or had his martini.
Harry Truman was cranky. Americans embraced him for it, shouted "Give 'em hell, Harry!" Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld is brilliantly cranky, but he's not running for anything. W.C. Fields was famously cranky, and that played for laughs, until he went two or three shades beyond, to misanthropic, and we definitely don't want to be going there...
President Bill Clinton was privately cranky, but publicly empathetic. Clinton pioneered in feeling your pain. After a while, a certain segment of the electorate got sick of it.
That gave me pause. Rumsfeld notwithstanding, good old-fashioned crankiness has definitely gone out of fashion. Today, public figures aren't generally allowed to be cranky; rather than being viewed as an endearing quirk, it's considered to be a sign that the public figure "can't handle the pressure" or "doesn't know how to carry himself." (You might notice that these things are often said of Dean.) If a celebrity isn't smooth, glib, and either warmly empathetic or coolly self-assured, he or she is considered to have a personality defect. And when it comes to politics, the last thing we want is a crotchety old man who answers question he considers foolish with a snarl, as opposed to a carefully-tailored, focus-group-pleasing thirty-second sound bite. I think the thrust of the article is right; no one wants a cranky leader any more.
But is this a good thing? I say it isn't. I should confess my own bias here. I'm fairly often, and fairly noticably, cranky. I snap at questions I think foolish (as you, The Reader, may well find out some day). I snap at the alarm when I wake up in the morning. I snap at the local radio stations for not playing better songs. I snap at network television for not having come up with an original programming idea in the last 15 years that doesn't involve swimsuit models swimming in pools filled with electric eels. I snap at businesses that don't return my calls. If it weren't for the semi-mystic soothing powers of The Smart Lady, I could probably manage to be cranky 24/7 (and I am sometimes tempted). So you, The Reader, might determine a certain self-interested streak in my pro-cranky stance. And perhaps there is. But I think that crankiness is a proud tradition in our culture, and that if we lose it, we'll be missing out on a lot.
But before we start on that argument, allow me to digress into a brief discussion of what cranky is not. Cranky is not neurotic. Because neurotic is considered likeable these days, some people confuse it with cranky and argue that crankiness is not, in fact, dead. The primary difference is that neurotic people think the world is crazy, while cranky people think the world is just driving them crazy. Cranky is also not hotheaded or "temperamental." (My favorite "temperamental" quote is one that was once applied to baseball manager Lou Piniella: "He's temperamental, but it's 98 percent temper and 2 percent mental.") Being cranky is more subtle than throwing a temper tantrum. Temperamental says, "Look at me!" Cranky says, "Leave me alone." As for hotheadedness, shooting off your mouth and saying stupid things isn't a sign of crankiness. It's a sign that you need to adjust the filter between your brain and your mouth. (One might reasonably argue that Harry Truman was more hotheaded than cranky, but I think he was both.) And, as the article correctly points out, cranky is not misanthropic. One of the reasons that crankiness got a bad name is that it has become associated with people who hate everybody. These people are not cranky. They are misanthropic. "F*** off" is not a cranky response. (Note about the asterisks: Though I doubt any kids are going to be reading this, I prefer not to use that kind of language. And if you don't like it, well, f*** off.)
Now that we've got our parameters established, more or less, what made crankiness unfashionable? Well, I mentioned the connection with misanthropy, which didn't help, but there has also been a reaction against real crankiness. Why? The article mentions one possibility, in reference to Dean. Quoth the article, "Dean's flintiness may derive from his sheer cognitive processing power and an impatience with those who aren't as quick." In other words, his crankiness his (in this formulation) a sort of intellectual snobbery. If you can't see where I'm going as fast as I can, there's somethng wrong with you. This can certainly be annoying for those without the same mental gifts, but it's especially damaging in a culture as anti-intellectual as America's. We're suspicious enough of the smart people as it is; if they compound the felony by getting snappish if we can't follow along, that's more than ample cause for censure.
Also, modern-day society places a premium on "openness" and "sharing our feelings" and "understanding each other" and other such garbage. True crankiness implies a sort of drawing inward, implying that you don't want to "share." (For those of you who remember the Wonder Years TV show, think of Kevin's father. He was frequently cranky. And what did he say when he was cranky? Either he just snarled or, if he was feeling particularly verbose, he would say, "I don't want to talk about it.") On the other hand, being temperamental or neurotic implies that you're projecting your feelings on the world. In our society, this is considered healthy, as opposed to just annoying.
Finally, and this applies specifically to public figures, we live in a media-saturated culture that needs to be fed pretty much constantly just in order to have something to fill up all that time and space. The media need material, and "I don't want to talk about it" just doesn't cut it. Quotable, accessible people are a must. So, in a fairly neat trick, the media have managed to portray reticence as some sort of flaw. He's got something to hide. She doesn't trust the American people. He's not being candid. She refuses to make herself accountable to the people she serves. He's out of touch. She doesn't have the right temperament for the job. By this logic, people who talk freely on as many subjects as possible, even if they have a sort of breezy disregard for the accuracy of what they say, are good, while people who hold back, for whatever reason, are bad. That this logic directly serves the interest of the media is a happy synergy.
So, you might be wondering, what's so great about crankiness? Well, for one thing, a little cranky reserve might ironically cause us to like each other better, since we wouldn't always be forced to know what everyone else is thinking. I am thinking particularly of those people who give themselves carte blanche to be wantonly rude and offensive in the name of "honesty." May the heavens preserve us from more of this "honesty."
Also, a renewed admiration for crankiness might save us from getting suckered in by those whose primary virtue is their ability to speak well and pretend to empathize with people. I'm reminded of the sage advice, "The key to politics is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you can do anything." American politics is cluttered with handsome blow-dried simpletons with nice smiles who have figured out how to say what people want to hear. If you're really as placid about everything as these people appear to be, either you're a very skilled liar or you don't have much going on upstairs. There's more to government than mouthing platitudes.
Finally, and perhaps best of all, a return to crankiness would free us of this egalitarianism-from-hell wherein every idea and every statement is considered to be of equal merit. This is wrong. Some questions and ideas really are stupid. We'd be a lot better off as a society if politicians didn't feel the need to preface every response with "That's a wonderful question, one that I've thought a lot about." Wouldn't it be great if one day, when some reporter asks Senator Blutarsky whether or not he feels that the American people would prefer a budget with more spending and lower taxes, he'd shoot the reporter a look that could kill and reply, "Frankly, that's an idiotic question. I've never thought about it, precisely because I think it's too stupid a question even to consider"? (As a side note, I think this explains a lot of Rumsfeld's appeal, the fact that he doesn't hesitate to attack questions he thinks are stupid. However, as the article points out, he's not running for anything.)
So what can we cranky people do about it? Unite! Don't be shy about letting your snappishness show. The next time someone says something stupid, don't smile patiently and nod. Snarl. Roll your eyes. Glare. Let them feel the heat of your disapproval. If you're feeling as though you really need a nap, or a martini, don't make nice. Go ahead and be irascible. You'll get your nap or martini soon enough, if it's clear that you need one (and assuming no one slugs you first). Demand crankiness in politicians. Be suspicious of candidates who seem unflappable and serene. What are they hiding? Are they really listening? We can bring crankiness back if we try hard enough! Now, go away and leave me alone. Time for my nap. Until tomorrow.
This morning's Washington Post Style section features an article on Howard Dean, and specifically on whether he is too cranky to be president. Personally, I think Dean should stick with crankiness; every time he tries to smile, at least for the cameras, he looks like one of those cardboard cutouts you used to see in grocery stores, where some small-bore celebrity would strike a stagey Mister-Rogers-meets-Ren-and-Stimpy smile, supposedly depicting the euphoria that would ensue if you sampled a particular brand of onion dip. Also, the smiling Dean gives off an unsettling "I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay" vibe. But that's not my point here. What got me to thinking was the following passage, about halfway into the article:
Crankiness used to be an acceptable trait. Your father might have been cranky, at least before he took his nap or had his martini.
Harry Truman was cranky. Americans embraced him for it, shouted "Give 'em hell, Harry!" Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld is brilliantly cranky, but he's not running for anything. W.C. Fields was famously cranky, and that played for laughs, until he went two or three shades beyond, to misanthropic, and we definitely don't want to be going there...
President Bill Clinton was privately cranky, but publicly empathetic. Clinton pioneered in feeling your pain. After a while, a certain segment of the electorate got sick of it.
That gave me pause. Rumsfeld notwithstanding, good old-fashioned crankiness has definitely gone out of fashion. Today, public figures aren't generally allowed to be cranky; rather than being viewed as an endearing quirk, it's considered to be a sign that the public figure "can't handle the pressure" or "doesn't know how to carry himself." (You might notice that these things are often said of Dean.) If a celebrity isn't smooth, glib, and either warmly empathetic or coolly self-assured, he or she is considered to have a personality defect. And when it comes to politics, the last thing we want is a crotchety old man who answers question he considers foolish with a snarl, as opposed to a carefully-tailored, focus-group-pleasing thirty-second sound bite. I think the thrust of the article is right; no one wants a cranky leader any more.
But is this a good thing? I say it isn't. I should confess my own bias here. I'm fairly often, and fairly noticably, cranky. I snap at questions I think foolish (as you, The Reader, may well find out some day). I snap at the alarm when I wake up in the morning. I snap at the local radio stations for not playing better songs. I snap at network television for not having come up with an original programming idea in the last 15 years that doesn't involve swimsuit models swimming in pools filled with electric eels. I snap at businesses that don't return my calls. If it weren't for the semi-mystic soothing powers of The Smart Lady, I could probably manage to be cranky 24/7 (and I am sometimes tempted). So you, The Reader, might determine a certain self-interested streak in my pro-cranky stance. And perhaps there is. But I think that crankiness is a proud tradition in our culture, and that if we lose it, we'll be missing out on a lot.
But before we start on that argument, allow me to digress into a brief discussion of what cranky is not. Cranky is not neurotic. Because neurotic is considered likeable these days, some people confuse it with cranky and argue that crankiness is not, in fact, dead. The primary difference is that neurotic people think the world is crazy, while cranky people think the world is just driving them crazy. Cranky is also not hotheaded or "temperamental." (My favorite "temperamental" quote is one that was once applied to baseball manager Lou Piniella: "He's temperamental, but it's 98 percent temper and 2 percent mental.") Being cranky is more subtle than throwing a temper tantrum. Temperamental says, "Look at me!" Cranky says, "Leave me alone." As for hotheadedness, shooting off your mouth and saying stupid things isn't a sign of crankiness. It's a sign that you need to adjust the filter between your brain and your mouth. (One might reasonably argue that Harry Truman was more hotheaded than cranky, but I think he was both.) And, as the article correctly points out, cranky is not misanthropic. One of the reasons that crankiness got a bad name is that it has become associated with people who hate everybody. These people are not cranky. They are misanthropic. "F*** off" is not a cranky response. (Note about the asterisks: Though I doubt any kids are going to be reading this, I prefer not to use that kind of language. And if you don't like it, well, f*** off.)
Now that we've got our parameters established, more or less, what made crankiness unfashionable? Well, I mentioned the connection with misanthropy, which didn't help, but there has also been a reaction against real crankiness. Why? The article mentions one possibility, in reference to Dean. Quoth the article, "Dean's flintiness may derive from his sheer cognitive processing power and an impatience with those who aren't as quick." In other words, his crankiness his (in this formulation) a sort of intellectual snobbery. If you can't see where I'm going as fast as I can, there's somethng wrong with you. This can certainly be annoying for those without the same mental gifts, but it's especially damaging in a culture as anti-intellectual as America's. We're suspicious enough of the smart people as it is; if they compound the felony by getting snappish if we can't follow along, that's more than ample cause for censure.
Also, modern-day society places a premium on "openness" and "sharing our feelings" and "understanding each other" and other such garbage. True crankiness implies a sort of drawing inward, implying that you don't want to "share." (For those of you who remember the Wonder Years TV show, think of Kevin's father. He was frequently cranky. And what did he say when he was cranky? Either he just snarled or, if he was feeling particularly verbose, he would say, "I don't want to talk about it.") On the other hand, being temperamental or neurotic implies that you're projecting your feelings on the world. In our society, this is considered healthy, as opposed to just annoying.
Finally, and this applies specifically to public figures, we live in a media-saturated culture that needs to be fed pretty much constantly just in order to have something to fill up all that time and space. The media need material, and "I don't want to talk about it" just doesn't cut it. Quotable, accessible people are a must. So, in a fairly neat trick, the media have managed to portray reticence as some sort of flaw. He's got something to hide. She doesn't trust the American people. He's not being candid. She refuses to make herself accountable to the people she serves. He's out of touch. She doesn't have the right temperament for the job. By this logic, people who talk freely on as many subjects as possible, even if they have a sort of breezy disregard for the accuracy of what they say, are good, while people who hold back, for whatever reason, are bad. That this logic directly serves the interest of the media is a happy synergy.
So, you might be wondering, what's so great about crankiness? Well, for one thing, a little cranky reserve might ironically cause us to like each other better, since we wouldn't always be forced to know what everyone else is thinking. I am thinking particularly of those people who give themselves carte blanche to be wantonly rude and offensive in the name of "honesty." May the heavens preserve us from more of this "honesty."
Also, a renewed admiration for crankiness might save us from getting suckered in by those whose primary virtue is their ability to speak well and pretend to empathize with people. I'm reminded of the sage advice, "The key to politics is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you can do anything." American politics is cluttered with handsome blow-dried simpletons with nice smiles who have figured out how to say what people want to hear. If you're really as placid about everything as these people appear to be, either you're a very skilled liar or you don't have much going on upstairs. There's more to government than mouthing platitudes.
Finally, and perhaps best of all, a return to crankiness would free us of this egalitarianism-from-hell wherein every idea and every statement is considered to be of equal merit. This is wrong. Some questions and ideas really are stupid. We'd be a lot better off as a society if politicians didn't feel the need to preface every response with "That's a wonderful question, one that I've thought a lot about." Wouldn't it be great if one day, when some reporter asks Senator Blutarsky whether or not he feels that the American people would prefer a budget with more spending and lower taxes, he'd shoot the reporter a look that could kill and reply, "Frankly, that's an idiotic question. I've never thought about it, precisely because I think it's too stupid a question even to consider"? (As a side note, I think this explains a lot of Rumsfeld's appeal, the fact that he doesn't hesitate to attack questions he thinks are stupid. However, as the article points out, he's not running for anything.)
So what can we cranky people do about it? Unite! Don't be shy about letting your snappishness show. The next time someone says something stupid, don't smile patiently and nod. Snarl. Roll your eyes. Glare. Let them feel the heat of your disapproval. If you're feeling as though you really need a nap, or a martini, don't make nice. Go ahead and be irascible. You'll get your nap or martini soon enough, if it's clear that you need one (and assuming no one slugs you first). Demand crankiness in politicians. Be suspicious of candidates who seem unflappable and serene. What are they hiding? Are they really listening? We can bring crankiness back if we try hard enough! Now, go away and leave me alone. Time for my nap. Until tomorrow.
A MONDAY POTPOURRI
Rather than try to put together a coherent post about any one subject, I think I'll follow my mind today and offer of a sampling of things that I thought about over the weekend.
Watching Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN, I heard Joe Morgan complaining about the deals made at the trading deadline. Focusing particularly on the fire sale in Cincinnati (about which I expounded a bit on Friday), he said that he didn't like the way that "in all these deals, it seems like the good teams are getting better." Well, uh, Joe... that's kind of the point of making deals at the trading deadline. Good teams -- the ones in pennant contention -- are naturally wanting to get that extra player or two to put them over the top, so of course they're going to get better. For instance, take Sidney Ponson, arguably the best pitcher on the market at the deadline. Logically speaking, who's more likely to give up the prospects needed for what is in all likelihood a two-month rental of Ponson: a team like San Francisco, which has a shot at the Series, or a team like Texas, which has a shot at booking the best October tee times if they reserve now? Joe is a bright guy and one of the game's better analysts, but every once in a while he says something really silly, and this was one of those times.
George Will's Sunday op-ed was a sharp denunciation of politicians who are all too willing to destroy the basic civil conventions of our political system for partisan or personal gain. (WARNING: Opinions contained herein. Proceed at your own risk.) I'm glad we have Will to write articles like this. Whatever your opinion of his politics (Mediocre Fred, of course, has no opinion), Will is one of the very few political columnists whose distaste for incivility and gracelessness in politics extends beyond a condemnation of what the other side is doing. So a tip of the hat to the gentleman columnist. I join Will in deploring high-handed and thuggish political tactics; too much political debate these days is only about two steps up from "Will the distinguished gentleman from Minnesota please bite me?"
I noticed that the Washington Post's free new daily rag, the Express, hit the streets today. I didn't manage to grab a copy, but I promise I will soon and will offer my review of it by the end of the week. If it's anything like that new Sunday Source section, though, don't expect a favorable review. My opinion of the Sunday Source is that newspapers have no business catering to people who don't want to read. We'll see if the Express is at least designed for the literate.
I highly, highly recommend Ralph Wiley's article on the Patrick Dennehy murder. Wiley's a frustrating writer for me... he jumps up on his soapbox far too often for my taste, and sometimes I think he takes outrageous positions just for the sake of being contrary, but when he's on, he's on. The Dennehy case is right in his wheelhouse, and he hit a grand slam with this column. And my God, the man can write. It's hard to single out any particular passages, because the article hangs together so well as a piece, but try this on for size:
Dennehy had his parents, he had his big whip SUV (however he got it is irrelevant to his death, but the fact that he had it might not be). He had his scholarship at Baylor. He was smart. He was likeable. People noticed him. Women desired him. He had contacts all over. It was reported his father said he wasn't going to play for Baylor this season, which Bliss denies, but he still had the scholarship either way. He had that smart, beautiful girlfriend (being smart makes the pretty ones beautiful) in Albuquerque, and Dotson met her, too. Dennehy shared his life with Dotson, but the real important stuff, he couldn't share. Dennehy was quick, popular, had all kinds of other friends, none of whom has said a bad word about him in the post-mortem.
In short, Dennehy had everything Dotson did not have.
Iago didn't have this much to resent. Othello wasn't this blind.
Carlton Dotson had no car, no money, no future at Baylor; his scholarship had been revoked; his wife cut short their brief union in part because Dotson was "hearing voices," according to his ex-mother-in-law, who reported this to Baylor coaches. In fact, Dotson had seen a psychiatrist. He had no reason to stay in Waco. He was on his own. All he had to do was go home. But there he had no future. So he stayed in Waco, to hang out with Dennehy.
And Dennehy let him. Why? Dotty had no place else to go. Except insane.
On my best days, I aspire to writing like that. Wiley is a genius writer, and for that I can forgive a lot of flaws, especially if articles like these result. Do yourself a favor and read the whole thing.
Last night, just before bed, I read that Colin Powell's resigning at the end of Bush's term. Not much of a surprise, I guess; he must be tired of butting heads with the rest of the administration. But whether you sided with him in his battles with Rumsfeld or not, you still have to admire his class, dignity, and professionalism. Powell is a credit to the administration (and would be to any other), and he will be missed.
Just for fun, here's some life lessons from Ray Charles. He's slowed down a lot in recent years, but he's still a gas.
Finally, I took The Smart Lady to a minor-league baseball game on Saturday. The Smart Lady is not a baseball fan, but she did get animated at the moments of high drama and later told me she'd enjoyed herself quite a bit more than she expected. I played the role of color commentator/answer man, filling her in on the rules she didn't know and providing a little background to enhance the experience. She was an active student, never hesitating to ask ask questions and reading the program to pick up further tidbits. I had a great time (greater than usual, even -- as a rule, spending time with The Smart Lady always puts a smile on my face), and I was glad to see that she did too. For you baseball fans out there who are thinking of dragging your spouses or significant others to a game sometime: I recommend starting with a minor-legue game. The seats are closer, making the action feel more immediate, and the whole experience is on a more manageable scale than in the 60,000-seat mini-mall-pleasure-dome in which the local big leaguers ply their trade. Also, minor-legue teams are more fan-oriented, and are focused toward giving the fans an entertainment experience, and opposed to saying, "Here's the ballgame. Take it or leave it." For the non-fan, the tricycle races, T-shirt launches and name-that-tune games go a long way toward breaking up the potential monotony. This morning's Post had a pretty clever article on "semi-fans" written by Deborah Missal. Smart Lady, this one's for you.
If I'm not napping this evening, I may well post again. If I do succumb to catatonia, stay healthy and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Tally-ho!
Quote of the Day
"You better live every day like it's your last day, 'cause one day you're gonna be right."
-Ray Charles
Rather than try to put together a coherent post about any one subject, I think I'll follow my mind today and offer of a sampling of things that I thought about over the weekend.
Watching Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN, I heard Joe Morgan complaining about the deals made at the trading deadline. Focusing particularly on the fire sale in Cincinnati (about which I expounded a bit on Friday), he said that he didn't like the way that "in all these deals, it seems like the good teams are getting better." Well, uh, Joe... that's kind of the point of making deals at the trading deadline. Good teams -- the ones in pennant contention -- are naturally wanting to get that extra player or two to put them over the top, so of course they're going to get better. For instance, take Sidney Ponson, arguably the best pitcher on the market at the deadline. Logically speaking, who's more likely to give up the prospects needed for what is in all likelihood a two-month rental of Ponson: a team like San Francisco, which has a shot at the Series, or a team like Texas, which has a shot at booking the best October tee times if they reserve now? Joe is a bright guy and one of the game's better analysts, but every once in a while he says something really silly, and this was one of those times.
George Will's Sunday op-ed was a sharp denunciation of politicians who are all too willing to destroy the basic civil conventions of our political system for partisan or personal gain. (WARNING: Opinions contained herein. Proceed at your own risk.) I'm glad we have Will to write articles like this. Whatever your opinion of his politics (Mediocre Fred, of course, has no opinion), Will is one of the very few political columnists whose distaste for incivility and gracelessness in politics extends beyond a condemnation of what the other side is doing. So a tip of the hat to the gentleman columnist. I join Will in deploring high-handed and thuggish political tactics; too much political debate these days is only about two steps up from "Will the distinguished gentleman from Minnesota please bite me?"
I noticed that the Washington Post's free new daily rag, the Express, hit the streets today. I didn't manage to grab a copy, but I promise I will soon and will offer my review of it by the end of the week. If it's anything like that new Sunday Source section, though, don't expect a favorable review. My opinion of the Sunday Source is that newspapers have no business catering to people who don't want to read. We'll see if the Express is at least designed for the literate.
I highly, highly recommend Ralph Wiley's article on the Patrick Dennehy murder. Wiley's a frustrating writer for me... he jumps up on his soapbox far too often for my taste, and sometimes I think he takes outrageous positions just for the sake of being contrary, but when he's on, he's on. The Dennehy case is right in his wheelhouse, and he hit a grand slam with this column. And my God, the man can write. It's hard to single out any particular passages, because the article hangs together so well as a piece, but try this on for size:
Dennehy had his parents, he had his big whip SUV (however he got it is irrelevant to his death, but the fact that he had it might not be). He had his scholarship at Baylor. He was smart. He was likeable. People noticed him. Women desired him. He had contacts all over. It was reported his father said he wasn't going to play for Baylor this season, which Bliss denies, but he still had the scholarship either way. He had that smart, beautiful girlfriend (being smart makes the pretty ones beautiful) in Albuquerque, and Dotson met her, too. Dennehy shared his life with Dotson, but the real important stuff, he couldn't share. Dennehy was quick, popular, had all kinds of other friends, none of whom has said a bad word about him in the post-mortem.
In short, Dennehy had everything Dotson did not have.
Iago didn't have this much to resent. Othello wasn't this blind.
Carlton Dotson had no car, no money, no future at Baylor; his scholarship had been revoked; his wife cut short their brief union in part because Dotson was "hearing voices," according to his ex-mother-in-law, who reported this to Baylor coaches. In fact, Dotson had seen a psychiatrist. He had no reason to stay in Waco. He was on his own. All he had to do was go home. But there he had no future. So he stayed in Waco, to hang out with Dennehy.
And Dennehy let him. Why? Dotty had no place else to go. Except insane.
On my best days, I aspire to writing like that. Wiley is a genius writer, and for that I can forgive a lot of flaws, especially if articles like these result. Do yourself a favor and read the whole thing.
Last night, just before bed, I read that Colin Powell's resigning at the end of Bush's term. Not much of a surprise, I guess; he must be tired of butting heads with the rest of the administration. But whether you sided with him in his battles with Rumsfeld or not, you still have to admire his class, dignity, and professionalism. Powell is a credit to the administration (and would be to any other), and he will be missed.
Just for fun, here's some life lessons from Ray Charles. He's slowed down a lot in recent years, but he's still a gas.
Finally, I took The Smart Lady to a minor-league baseball game on Saturday. The Smart Lady is not a baseball fan, but she did get animated at the moments of high drama and later told me she'd enjoyed herself quite a bit more than she expected. I played the role of color commentator/answer man, filling her in on the rules she didn't know and providing a little background to enhance the experience. She was an active student, never hesitating to ask ask questions and reading the program to pick up further tidbits. I had a great time (greater than usual, even -- as a rule, spending time with The Smart Lady always puts a smile on my face), and I was glad to see that she did too. For you baseball fans out there who are thinking of dragging your spouses or significant others to a game sometime: I recommend starting with a minor-legue game. The seats are closer, making the action feel more immediate, and the whole experience is on a more manageable scale than in the 60,000-seat mini-mall-pleasure-dome in which the local big leaguers ply their trade. Also, minor-legue teams are more fan-oriented, and are focused toward giving the fans an entertainment experience, and opposed to saying, "Here's the ballgame. Take it or leave it." For the non-fan, the tricycle races, T-shirt launches and name-that-tune games go a long way toward breaking up the potential monotony. This morning's Post had a pretty clever article on "semi-fans" written by Deborah Missal. Smart Lady, this one's for you.
If I'm not napping this evening, I may well post again. If I do succumb to catatonia, stay healthy and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Tally-ho!
Quote of the Day
"You better live every day like it's your last day, 'cause one day you're gonna be right."
-Ray Charles
Friday, August 01, 2003
BREAKIN' VOWS
Truth be told, I'm not actually feeling that frisky today (or to be more accurate, I'm saving my frisk for later), but I did feel sufficiently moved to comment on one of the major issues of the day, the "yellowcake" affair. Now, I have to admit that what follows looks an awful lot like an opinion, and I promised I'd have none of those. I think this needs to be said, though. If you'd like to maintain the purity of the opinion-free experience, fair enough; I'll meet you down under the asterisks. For you hardy sould who dare to press on, I hope you will gain much wisdom and enlightenment from...
MEDIOCRE FRED'S TAKE On YELLOWCAKE-GATE
Lately there's been an awful lot in the news about "yellowcake"... who has it, who wants it, who tried or didn't try to by it from whom, who did or didn't know who was or wasn't trying to buy it, who did or didn't try to insert or remove references to it from the President's speech while the President, being a busy man, had his back turned. Well, as far as I'm concerned, everyone needs to calm down and take a collective chill pill. What's the story here? Yellow cake is a delicious dessert, and there's plenty for anyone who wants some.
I first became acquainted with yellow cake (when did it become one word, anyway?) at my eighth birthday party. My birthday fell on Super Bowl Sunday that year (as it sometimes does) and Mom made a big yellowcake and decorated it up to look like a football field. Mmmm! I ate as much as Mom would let me have, then I snuck downstairs after she sent me to bed and ate some more. Even the monster stomachache I had afterward didn't dissuade me.. I was in love. Every year thereafter, while other kids were debating the relative merits of devil's food, angel food, or even red velvet, I never had a moment's doubt. Nothing but yellow cake for me. That sweet, warm buttery goodness... I can taste it even now, and it's been months since I had any. Yellow cake rules.
Now there's a big fuss about the Iraqis trying to purchase yellow cake for themselves. Apparently, they had to go all the way to Niger to get some. I usually get mine at the grocery store. It's a testament to the level of deprivation that the poor Iraqis suffered that they have to go to a whole different continent to enjoy the same dessert that we take for granted. But I can't blame them. If I had to, I think I would go to Niger to get my yellow cake. In fact, I know I would; yellow-cake withdrawal is a nasty, painful thing. But I'm straying from my point, which is: Why deny our fellow humans this simple pleasure? On the outside, we may look different, but on the inside, we all share a love for baked goods.
Now Washington's all in an uproar about whether the US knew that the Iraqis hadn't really purchased yellow cake from Niger. Now, looking back on it, the story does look a little silly: don't they have Safeways in Iraq? But, hell, I'm not always sure when I've purchased yellow cake. I thought I had some yellow cake in my pantry, but I checked and it's actually German chocolate cake, which is to yellow cake what Alpo is to filet mignons at Sam and Harry's. But enough about my disappointment. People keep shouting about intelligence failures, but dammit, that's not fair. I'm pretty intelligent, I think. It's not got to do with intelligence, it's got to do with organization. If my pantry was better organized, I'm sure I would have known whether I had yellow cake or not. I'm sure it's the same in Iraq. While we're over there, we should take a good hour or two and straighten up their pantry. They'll thank us for it later, I'm sure.
Now some Democrats are talking about impeaching the President. Are you crazy? Impeach the President because a bunch of Iraqis got hungry? Although since I mention it, peaches are really great over yellow cake, especially if you get the kind in the heavy syrup and cook it with cinnamon and nutmeg and...
Oh, wait. I've just discovered that their "yellowcake" isn't a dessert. It's apparently some kind of nuclear starter kit or something. Which is way out of my league. Never mind. Next time, I promise to get The Smart Lady's help before I try expressing opinions on something. Sorry to bother you.
* * * * *
Okay, we're back. For those of you who want some actual informed opinions on something, The Smart Lady's on fire today! (WARNING: This link contains actual opinions. These opinions do not necessarily represent the views of Mediocre Fred, his Mediocre Blog, or the population of Newfoundland.) I thought she was particularly thoughtful on the economy and her vision of foreign policy. But then, I think pretty much everything she does is nifty. So judge for yourself, if you like.
For you baseball fans, Ray Ratto's ESPN article is a laugh and a half. He goes behind the scenes to explore what really went on at the trading deadline in Cincinnati.
And for all you boyfriends and girlfriends out there looking for something to talk about over your linguine tonight, might I suggest this for your reading pleasure.
That's it for me this week. I know some bloggers keep it up through the weekend, but since no one reads this anyway, I think I'll take a stab at having an actual life. See you Monday. In the words of the immortal Vince Fontaine from Grease, "Put your mittens around your kittens, and awayyyyy we go!"
Truth be told, I'm not actually feeling that frisky today (or to be more accurate, I'm saving my frisk for later), but I did feel sufficiently moved to comment on one of the major issues of the day, the "yellowcake" affair. Now, I have to admit that what follows looks an awful lot like an opinion, and I promised I'd have none of those. I think this needs to be said, though. If you'd like to maintain the purity of the opinion-free experience, fair enough; I'll meet you down under the asterisks. For you hardy sould who dare to press on, I hope you will gain much wisdom and enlightenment from...
MEDIOCRE FRED'S TAKE On YELLOWCAKE-GATE
Lately there's been an awful lot in the news about "yellowcake"... who has it, who wants it, who tried or didn't try to by it from whom, who did or didn't know who was or wasn't trying to buy it, who did or didn't try to insert or remove references to it from the President's speech while the President, being a busy man, had his back turned. Well, as far as I'm concerned, everyone needs to calm down and take a collective chill pill. What's the story here? Yellow cake is a delicious dessert, and there's plenty for anyone who wants some.
I first became acquainted with yellow cake (when did it become one word, anyway?) at my eighth birthday party. My birthday fell on Super Bowl Sunday that year (as it sometimes does) and Mom made a big yellowcake and decorated it up to look like a football field. Mmmm! I ate as much as Mom would let me have, then I snuck downstairs after she sent me to bed and ate some more. Even the monster stomachache I had afterward didn't dissuade me.. I was in love. Every year thereafter, while other kids were debating the relative merits of devil's food, angel food, or even red velvet, I never had a moment's doubt. Nothing but yellow cake for me. That sweet, warm buttery goodness... I can taste it even now, and it's been months since I had any. Yellow cake rules.
Now there's a big fuss about the Iraqis trying to purchase yellow cake for themselves. Apparently, they had to go all the way to Niger to get some. I usually get mine at the grocery store. It's a testament to the level of deprivation that the poor Iraqis suffered that they have to go to a whole different continent to enjoy the same dessert that we take for granted. But I can't blame them. If I had to, I think I would go to Niger to get my yellow cake. In fact, I know I would; yellow-cake withdrawal is a nasty, painful thing. But I'm straying from my point, which is: Why deny our fellow humans this simple pleasure? On the outside, we may look different, but on the inside, we all share a love for baked goods.
Now Washington's all in an uproar about whether the US knew that the Iraqis hadn't really purchased yellow cake from Niger. Now, looking back on it, the story does look a little silly: don't they have Safeways in Iraq? But, hell, I'm not always sure when I've purchased yellow cake. I thought I had some yellow cake in my pantry, but I checked and it's actually German chocolate cake, which is to yellow cake what Alpo is to filet mignons at Sam and Harry's. But enough about my disappointment. People keep shouting about intelligence failures, but dammit, that's not fair. I'm pretty intelligent, I think. It's not got to do with intelligence, it's got to do with organization. If my pantry was better organized, I'm sure I would have known whether I had yellow cake or not. I'm sure it's the same in Iraq. While we're over there, we should take a good hour or two and straighten up their pantry. They'll thank us for it later, I'm sure.
Now some Democrats are talking about impeaching the President. Are you crazy? Impeach the President because a bunch of Iraqis got hungry? Although since I mention it, peaches are really great over yellow cake, especially if you get the kind in the heavy syrup and cook it with cinnamon and nutmeg and...
Oh, wait. I've just discovered that their "yellowcake" isn't a dessert. It's apparently some kind of nuclear starter kit or something. Which is way out of my league. Never mind. Next time, I promise to get The Smart Lady's help before I try expressing opinions on something. Sorry to bother you.
* * * * *
Okay, we're back. For those of you who want some actual informed opinions on something, The Smart Lady's on fire today! (WARNING: This link contains actual opinions. These opinions do not necessarily represent the views of Mediocre Fred, his Mediocre Blog, or the population of Newfoundland.) I thought she was particularly thoughtful on the economy and her vision of foreign policy. But then, I think pretty much everything she does is nifty. So judge for yourself, if you like.
For you baseball fans, Ray Ratto's ESPN article is a laugh and a half. He goes behind the scenes to explore what really went on at the trading deadline in Cincinnati.
And for all you boyfriends and girlfriends out there looking for something to talk about over your linguine tonight, might I suggest this for your reading pleasure.
That's it for me this week. I know some bloggers keep it up through the weekend, but since no one reads this anyway, I think I'll take a stab at having an actual life. See you Monday. In the words of the immortal Vince Fontaine from Grease, "Put your mittens around your kittens, and awayyyyy we go!"
Today's Musical Selection: "(Lookin' For Some) Hot Stuff" by Donna Summer
THURSDAY NIGHT FEVER
Well, after a fairly quiet run-up to the baseball trading deadline, a few teams dusted off their cell phones and made some interesting deals. Here's my analysis of the transactions that went down yesterday. I'll do my best to bring you something beyond the usual, the "story behind the story," if you will. Without further ado:
BOSTON acquired SP Jeff Suppan, RP Brandon Lyon, and minor-league P Anastacio Martinez from PITTSBURGH for IF Freddy Sanchez, minor-league P Mike Gonzalez and sweet, cold cash
The Red Sox solidify a shaky starting rotation in exchange for a highly-touted minor-league prospect, but that's not the real story here. The real story, for those who have paid attention, involves Brandon Lyon. I remember reading the headline, "Boston makes playoff push, acquires Suppan and Lyon" and thinking to myself, "Wait a second. Didn't the Sox just trade Lyon away a few days ago?" And indeed they did! Lyon was part of the Scott Sauerbeck deal. In fact, so were Martinez and Gonzalez. The original deal was Lyon and Martinez for Sauerbeck and Gonzalez. Both teams seemed happy with that deal then, but a minor problem arose when Lyon, shortly after deplaning in Pittburgh, went on the DL with a bum elbow. This is generally considered bad form in trading, somewhat akin to bringing home the new car you've just bought and discovering that the dealer "neglected" to include the engine. Fortunately, Pittsburgh had kept the receipt, and Boston cheerfully agreed to reverse the swap... only they, um, kind of kept Sauerbeck. Which means that Pittsburgh, which was feeling pretty good about itself up until now, gave Sauerbeck away for free! Kudos to Pirates GM Dave Littlefield for sticking to his guns and demanding that the Sawx make things right. In the future, Dave, you might want to stay off the sauce until the trading deadline is past, okay?
NEW YORK (AL) acquired 3B Aaron Boone and RP Gabe White from CINCINNATI for SP Brandon Claussen, minor-league P Charlie Manning, and a bus ticket to be named later
The Yankees made a move to patch one of their few holes and ward off the pesky advance of the Red Sox, but that's not the real story here. The real story is that Reds CEO John Allen is, apparently, a mealy-mouthed lying bastard. Why do I say this? Because the trade didn't sit well with Reds veterans, who apparently took exception to being written out of the race after Allen told them otherwise. Let's back up a little and explain the circumstances. On Monday, three days before the trading deadline, Cincinnati fired its general manager, manager, hitting coach, third-base coach, peanut vendors, grounds crew, and mascot. Ordinarily, a wholesale housecleaning of this scale so late in the season indicates that ownership is waving the proverbial "white flag," indicating its proverbial "surrender" to the proverbial "advancing Mongol hordes," in the hope that its proverbial "village" won't be proverbially "pillaged." This alarmed the aforementioned veterans, who felt themselves to be still very much alive in the race. So they went, en masse, to Allen's office to complain. Allen promptly assured them that, no, they weren't giving up and yes, they still considered themselves contenders and no, they shouldn't pay attention to that man behind the curtain. Satisfied, the players left, whereupon Allen immediately dealt away his closer, starting third baseman and one of his better outfielders. This is called "betrayal." On the other hand, Allen probably did the smart thing... the Reds are fifth in a bad division and going nowhere. Also, it's reported that the Reds reacted to the Boone deal by crying in the clubhouse. Now, I know it was traumatic to lose your friends and all, but... hel-LO! There's no crying in baseball! Didn't anyone see "A League of Their Own"? Sheesh.
SAN FRANCISCO acquired SP Sidney Ponson from BALTIMORE for SP Kurt Ainsworth, SP Damian Moss, minor-league SP Ryan Hannaman and a year's supply of Rice-a-Roni
The Giants pay dearly to add another ace to a starless staff in hopes of knocking out the Braves come playoff time, but that's not the real story here. The real story here is the subtle message this deal sends to young Baltimore players. See, for years Ponson has been the proud owner of the Nuke LaLoosh "million-dollar arm, five-cent head" tag. Ponson has always had an obvious talent, but having apparently taken behavioral training from Armando Benitez, has never really applied that talent as fully as he could. Until this year. Whether it's a flash in the pan or whether he's finally got his head in shape, we don't yet know. What we do know is that Ponson's contract is up, and he's due for a substantial raise from someone. And apparently, that someone isn't Baltimore. After assuring the nervous Baltimore faithful that, unlike all the other times, the Orioles were serious about signing him and that under no circumstances would he be dealt, they offered him a contract with a raise so small it could barely be seen by the naked eye, then kicked him to the curb at the deadline. So, all you young Oriole prospects out there, Peter Antichrist is telling you something. He's sidling up behind you, leaning gently so his lips are right up against you ear, and screaming, "DON'T EVER GET GOOD, 'CAUSE IF YOU DO, YOU'RE HISTORY! GOT IT?!" And if you don't believe him, call Mike Mussina and ask him how he likes the long-term deal Baltimore gave him a couple years back. There's also a hidden X-factor in this deal, which is that Ponson was made a knight by his home country of Aruba this year. Will the Aruban Knight factor put the Giants over the top? Further study is required.
LOS ANGELES acquires 3B Robin Ventura from NEW YORK (AL) for minor-league OF Bubba Crosby and minor-league P Scott Proctor
New York sheds an excess bat after the Boone deal and the Dodgers patch a gaping hole at the hot corner, but that's not the real story. The real story is that Los Angeles gave up a player named "Bubba Crosby" in the deal. Is he any good? Search me; I've never heard of him. All I know is that his name is "Bubba Crosby," and that is good enough for me. Under no circumstances should you ever traded a player as colorfully named as Bubba Crosby, unless you're getting a similarly colorful name, such as Hiram Bocachica or Trenidad Hubbard, in return. The Dodgers will rue the day they dealt Bubba Crosby, no matter how this season turns out. Good players come and go, but Bubba Crosby, once lost, is gone forever.
KANSAS CITY acquires RP Al Levine from TAMPA BAY for cash
The Royals try to extend their improbable division-leading run by grabbing a veteran bullpen stalwart, but (say it with me now) that's not the real story here. The real story is the hidden gem in this deal, Cash. Tampa Bay has had some real trouble filling the hole in right field this year, and Cash is just the kind of versatile utility player that might be able to slide right in and fill it. The Rays are also short on young starting arms, and the always-innovative Lou Piniella might be tempted to plug Cash in there for a couple outings. Hell, Tampa badly needs a new GM, and as the saying goes, "Cash is king." It's my prediction that, as the years pass, fans will look back at Cash as the unsung hero of this deal. (Oh, you try coming up with something clever to say about this trade.)
SEATTLE acquired Nobody from NOWHERE in exchange for no players to be named later
Pat Gillick makes the same deal he makes every year to bolster the team for the stretch run, but that's not the real story here. The real story is... oh, hell, that is the real story. Mariners fans, why do you bother? It's all going to end up the same way it does every year. Someone needs to get Gillick a cell-phone plan with more "anytime" minutes, or else someone should check and see if Gillick is still alive, because from where I'm sitting, Seattle, your GM is a statue.
So there you have it. I hope you learned the kind of "inside facts" here that you can't get anywhere else. And if you didn't... well, I'm not surprised. Go read Jayson Stark if that's what you're into. See if I care.
Talk to you soon. Write if you get work.
THURSDAY NIGHT FEVER
Well, after a fairly quiet run-up to the baseball trading deadline, a few teams dusted off their cell phones and made some interesting deals. Here's my analysis of the transactions that went down yesterday. I'll do my best to bring you something beyond the usual, the "story behind the story," if you will. Without further ado:
BOSTON acquired SP Jeff Suppan, RP Brandon Lyon, and minor-league P Anastacio Martinez from PITTSBURGH for IF Freddy Sanchez, minor-league P Mike Gonzalez and sweet, cold cash
The Red Sox solidify a shaky starting rotation in exchange for a highly-touted minor-league prospect, but that's not the real story here. The real story, for those who have paid attention, involves Brandon Lyon. I remember reading the headline, "Boston makes playoff push, acquires Suppan and Lyon" and thinking to myself, "Wait a second. Didn't the Sox just trade Lyon away a few days ago?" And indeed they did! Lyon was part of the Scott Sauerbeck deal. In fact, so were Martinez and Gonzalez. The original deal was Lyon and Martinez for Sauerbeck and Gonzalez. Both teams seemed happy with that deal then, but a minor problem arose when Lyon, shortly after deplaning in Pittburgh, went on the DL with a bum elbow. This is generally considered bad form in trading, somewhat akin to bringing home the new car you've just bought and discovering that the dealer "neglected" to include the engine. Fortunately, Pittsburgh had kept the receipt, and Boston cheerfully agreed to reverse the swap... only they, um, kind of kept Sauerbeck. Which means that Pittsburgh, which was feeling pretty good about itself up until now, gave Sauerbeck away for free! Kudos to Pirates GM Dave Littlefield for sticking to his guns and demanding that the Sawx make things right. In the future, Dave, you might want to stay off the sauce until the trading deadline is past, okay?
NEW YORK (AL) acquired 3B Aaron Boone and RP Gabe White from CINCINNATI for SP Brandon Claussen, minor-league P Charlie Manning, and a bus ticket to be named later
The Yankees made a move to patch one of their few holes and ward off the pesky advance of the Red Sox, but that's not the real story here. The real story is that Reds CEO John Allen is, apparently, a mealy-mouthed lying bastard. Why do I say this? Because the trade didn't sit well with Reds veterans, who apparently took exception to being written out of the race after Allen told them otherwise. Let's back up a little and explain the circumstances. On Monday, three days before the trading deadline, Cincinnati fired its general manager, manager, hitting coach, third-base coach, peanut vendors, grounds crew, and mascot. Ordinarily, a wholesale housecleaning of this scale so late in the season indicates that ownership is waving the proverbial "white flag," indicating its proverbial "surrender" to the proverbial "advancing Mongol hordes," in the hope that its proverbial "village" won't be proverbially "pillaged." This alarmed the aforementioned veterans, who felt themselves to be still very much alive in the race. So they went, en masse, to Allen's office to complain. Allen promptly assured them that, no, they weren't giving up and yes, they still considered themselves contenders and no, they shouldn't pay attention to that man behind the curtain. Satisfied, the players left, whereupon Allen immediately dealt away his closer, starting third baseman and one of his better outfielders. This is called "betrayal." On the other hand, Allen probably did the smart thing... the Reds are fifth in a bad division and going nowhere. Also, it's reported that the Reds reacted to the Boone deal by crying in the clubhouse. Now, I know it was traumatic to lose your friends and all, but... hel-LO! There's no crying in baseball! Didn't anyone see "A League of Their Own"? Sheesh.
SAN FRANCISCO acquired SP Sidney Ponson from BALTIMORE for SP Kurt Ainsworth, SP Damian Moss, minor-league SP Ryan Hannaman and a year's supply of Rice-a-Roni
The Giants pay dearly to add another ace to a starless staff in hopes of knocking out the Braves come playoff time, but that's not the real story here. The real story here is the subtle message this deal sends to young Baltimore players. See, for years Ponson has been the proud owner of the Nuke LaLoosh "million-dollar arm, five-cent head" tag. Ponson has always had an obvious talent, but having apparently taken behavioral training from Armando Benitez, has never really applied that talent as fully as he could. Until this year. Whether it's a flash in the pan or whether he's finally got his head in shape, we don't yet know. What we do know is that Ponson's contract is up, and he's due for a substantial raise from someone. And apparently, that someone isn't Baltimore. After assuring the nervous Baltimore faithful that, unlike all the other times, the Orioles were serious about signing him and that under no circumstances would he be dealt, they offered him a contract with a raise so small it could barely be seen by the naked eye, then kicked him to the curb at the deadline. So, all you young Oriole prospects out there, Peter Antichrist is telling you something. He's sidling up behind you, leaning gently so his lips are right up against you ear, and screaming, "DON'T EVER GET GOOD, 'CAUSE IF YOU DO, YOU'RE HISTORY! GOT IT?!" And if you don't believe him, call Mike Mussina and ask him how he likes the long-term deal Baltimore gave him a couple years back. There's also a hidden X-factor in this deal, which is that Ponson was made a knight by his home country of Aruba this year. Will the Aruban Knight factor put the Giants over the top? Further study is required.
LOS ANGELES acquires 3B Robin Ventura from NEW YORK (AL) for minor-league OF Bubba Crosby and minor-league P Scott Proctor
New York sheds an excess bat after the Boone deal and the Dodgers patch a gaping hole at the hot corner, but that's not the real story. The real story is that Los Angeles gave up a player named "Bubba Crosby" in the deal. Is he any good? Search me; I've never heard of him. All I know is that his name is "Bubba Crosby," and that is good enough for me. Under no circumstances should you ever traded a player as colorfully named as Bubba Crosby, unless you're getting a similarly colorful name, such as Hiram Bocachica or Trenidad Hubbard, in return. The Dodgers will rue the day they dealt Bubba Crosby, no matter how this season turns out. Good players come and go, but Bubba Crosby, once lost, is gone forever.
KANSAS CITY acquires RP Al Levine from TAMPA BAY for cash
The Royals try to extend their improbable division-leading run by grabbing a veteran bullpen stalwart, but (say it with me now) that's not the real story here. The real story is the hidden gem in this deal, Cash. Tampa Bay has had some real trouble filling the hole in right field this year, and Cash is just the kind of versatile utility player that might be able to slide right in and fill it. The Rays are also short on young starting arms, and the always-innovative Lou Piniella might be tempted to plug Cash in there for a couple outings. Hell, Tampa badly needs a new GM, and as the saying goes, "Cash is king." It's my prediction that, as the years pass, fans will look back at Cash as the unsung hero of this deal. (Oh, you try coming up with something clever to say about this trade.)
SEATTLE acquired Nobody from NOWHERE in exchange for no players to be named later
Pat Gillick makes the same deal he makes every year to bolster the team for the stretch run, but that's not the real story here. The real story is... oh, hell, that is the real story. Mariners fans, why do you bother? It's all going to end up the same way it does every year. Someone needs to get Gillick a cell-phone plan with more "anytime" minutes, or else someone should check and see if Gillick is still alive, because from where I'm sitting, Seattle, your GM is a statue.
So there you have it. I hope you learned the kind of "inside facts" here that you can't get anywhere else. And if you didn't... well, I'm not surprised. Go read Jayson Stark if that's what you're into. See if I care.
Talk to you soon. Write if you get work.
