Of course, such a fabulous photo causes the mind to race. Mine: I know it's only been a week, but is there anything you miss about your former job? Not really...
Thursday, June 23, 2011
I Blame Roger Ebert
Roger Ebert shared this photo as being in need of a caption. His: What, and leave show business?
Of course, such a fabulous photo causes the mind to race. Mine: I know it's only been a week, but is there anything you miss about your former job? Not really...
Of course, such a fabulous photo causes the mind to race. Mine: I know it's only been a week, but is there anything you miss about your former job? Not really...
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Anthony's Weiner, Newt's Balls and Sarah's...Uh...Whatever!
Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY) may sit on my side of the aisle in Congress, but he's a fool. All the psychologizing has been offered: he's self-destructive, he's self-hating, he's misogynistic, he's power-mad, he's, he's, he's. Fine. To me, he's an arrogant fool. Go home. Stop plaguing my party. Grow up! But don't expect me to wait around for you to do so. You blew it, pal!
Like Ron White testified out of his own experience, "You can't fix stupid."
As with Newt Gingrich. Newt apparently decided that the statue of limitations had passed on notifying wife #1 of his divorce filing in the midst of her cancer treatment, and wife #2 in the aftermath of an ALS diagnosis. And when asked the inevitable questions, he proclaimed his love and constancy for Mrs. Gingrich #3, apparently still healthy, as proof he's gotten his act together. Then the enormous Tiffany's debt reared its ugly head. Not exactly living up to the Family Values bullshit, Newty! Sit down and shut up, please!
This week has also marked the return of Sarah Palin, and her endlessly arrogant stupidity, to the campaign trail. After the spectacular Paul Revere f-up, available on video all over the internet, she decided on the same Big Lie strategy that Weiner, Gingrich, Arnold, et al, have pursued. She announced that she didn't mess it up! Hey, go for it, pal.
If the people of this country decide to go as stupid as many of those in leadership positions often do, then we really will have the government we deserve!
Like Ron White testified out of his own experience, "You can't fix stupid."
As with Newt Gingrich. Newt apparently decided that the statue of limitations had passed on notifying wife #1 of his divorce filing in the midst of her cancer treatment, and wife #2 in the aftermath of an ALS diagnosis. And when asked the inevitable questions, he proclaimed his love and constancy for Mrs. Gingrich #3, apparently still healthy, as proof he's gotten his act together. Then the enormous Tiffany's debt reared its ugly head. Not exactly living up to the Family Values bullshit, Newty! Sit down and shut up, please!
This week has also marked the return of Sarah Palin, and her endlessly arrogant stupidity, to the campaign trail. After the spectacular Paul Revere f-up, available on video all over the internet, she decided on the same Big Lie strategy that Weiner, Gingrich, Arnold, et al, have pursued. She announced that she didn't mess it up! Hey, go for it, pal.
If the people of this country decide to go as stupid as many of those in leadership positions often do, then we really will have the government we deserve!
Monday, May 23, 2011
All Camping, All the Time!
Wouldn't want to leave you hanging on something as significant as the End of the World. Harold Camping took to the airwaves tonight to explain himself, or God, or something. In laying out why Crapture didn't happen Saturday, Camping made like John Cleese in the classic Argument Clinic sketch: he simply said it DID happen! Only, instead of the spectacular fireworks, blood and gore show that this brand of bitter bigot aches for, God decided to simply use May 21 for a quiet, Dean Wormer-like double-secret Judgement Day. Kind of like the subdued way that the Oscars make their nominations at a breakfast in February before putting on the big, fabulous shindig with blood-red carpets and borrowed jewels in March/April. So, the prophet clued us in tonight that the Big Show is actually going to be October 21.
In a totally related note, the AP reports that "In 2009, the nonprofit Family Radio reported in IRS filings that it received $18.3 million in donations, and had assets of more than $104 million, including $34 million in stocks or other publicly traded securities.
Nice little nest egg for eternity, no? But that's ok, since all those marks who gave it won't be needing their kids' college funds, their retirement savings or home downpayments once God gets done smoting and all. Just one question: how much does an 89 year old guy need to steal to feel secure? You know, for his Golden Years. On Earth.
In a totally related note, the AP reports that "In 2009, the nonprofit Family Radio reported in IRS filings that it received $18.3 million in donations, and had assets of more than $104 million, including $34 million in stocks or other publicly traded securities.
Nice little nest egg for eternity, no? But that's ok, since all those marks who gave it won't be needing their kids' college funds, their retirement savings or home downpayments once God gets done smoting and all. Just one question: how much does an 89 year old guy need to steal to feel secure? You know, for his Golden Years. On Earth.
This Just In: God's Testing You!
Twice-revealed fraud Harold Camping has notified a desperately waiting world that he will have something to say on tonight's Family Radio International (whatever the hell that is) broadcast. Which will be remarkable, as he hasn't had anything to say yet. According to the Associated Press, Camping's underlings are attributing the non-Rapture to God playing tricks. That's understandable, as God has always been known for practical joking. Just look up the whole "Abraham and Isaac build an altar" joke in Genesis.
"Family Radio's special projects coordinator, Michael Garcia, said he believed the delay was God's way of separating true believers from those willing to doubt what he said were clear biblical warnings. 'Maybe this had to happen for there to be a separation between those who have faith and those who don't," he said. "It's highly possible that our Lord is delaying his coming.'"
Garcia, apparently the person in charge of Rapture-related activities for Family Radio, obviously sees God jerking around the merely semi-rapture prepared whackos. For those without the secret decoder ring to understand these con artists, this means that they still believe there is some money to wring out of the weak-minded, desperate and despondent in the world. Saturday's lack-of-rapture stories included a "mystified" New York retiree who had sunk his entire life savings of $141,000 into Family Radio to "publicize" the Crapture dreamed up by Camping and/or others who should be imprisoned for defrauding the defenseless stupid of the country and perhaps world.
So, to wrap-up and review:
Harold Camping: multiple defrauder
Michael Garcia, et al: accomplices
God: practical joking jerk
Followers of Camping: too gullible for words, probably deserving their losses, and, apparently, headed for round three of bogus rapture predictions after tonight's broadcast.
Good night, and good luck!
"Family Radio's special projects coordinator, Michael Garcia, said he believed the delay was God's way of separating true believers from those willing to doubt what he said were clear biblical warnings. 'Maybe this had to happen for there to be a separation between those who have faith and those who don't," he said. "It's highly possible that our Lord is delaying his coming.'"
Garcia, apparently the person in charge of Rapture-related activities for Family Radio, obviously sees God jerking around the merely semi-rapture prepared whackos. For those without the secret decoder ring to understand these con artists, this means that they still believe there is some money to wring out of the weak-minded, desperate and despondent in the world. Saturday's lack-of-rapture stories included a "mystified" New York retiree who had sunk his entire life savings of $141,000 into Family Radio to "publicize" the Crapture dreamed up by Camping and/or others who should be imprisoned for defrauding the defenseless stupid of the country and perhaps world.
So, to wrap-up and review:
Harold Camping: multiple defrauder
Michael Garcia, et al: accomplices
God: practical joking jerk
Followers of Camping: too gullible for words, probably deserving their losses, and, apparently, headed for round three of bogus rapture predictions after tonight's broadcast.
Good night, and good luck!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Alright, Already; One on the Crapture
First off, this isn't biblical. It's the invention of those whackjobs who invented fundamentalism in the late 19th/early 20th century.
Second, let's see: it's based on a code found in Harold Camping's tea leaves or poop, I'm not sure which. I used to be pretty good at these cyphers: we'll take what we know:
H A R O L D C A M P I N G A P R O F E C Y
Ok, drop the H 'cause it starts Hitler, and Hitler's bad.
Drop the M 'cause it starts Man and God hates Man, just like the Bible says.
Drop the I 'cause there's no I in team. Or Rapture.
Drop the N 'cause it starts Nazis, and there's Hitler again.
Drop the G 'cause you're headed for the Gates of Hell!
Drop a P 'cause it starts both parts of Pontius Pilate, and you know about him.
Drop an R 'cause of Regis Philbin.
Drop the E 'cause of Elvis, of course; 'nuf said!
Drop a C 'cause the Catholics aren't invited.
And drop the Y 'cause Camping's 89, and wants all Young People off his lawn.
That leaves:
A R O L D C A P A O F
Rearrange those letters, and you get: A LOAD OF CRAP, which is precisely what this whole thing is!
ps. I know how to spell prophecy, but it served my purposes to misspell it, and under fundamentalist rules, it's always ok to do whatever serves your own purposes.
Second, let's see: it's based on a code found in Harold Camping's tea leaves or poop, I'm not sure which. I used to be pretty good at these cyphers: we'll take what we know:
H A R O L D C A M P I N G A P R O F E C Y
Ok, drop the H 'cause it starts Hitler, and Hitler's bad.
Drop the M 'cause it starts Man and God hates Man, just like the Bible says.
Drop the I 'cause there's no I in team. Or Rapture.
Drop the N 'cause it starts Nazis, and there's Hitler again.
Drop the G 'cause you're headed for the Gates of Hell!
Drop a P 'cause it starts both parts of Pontius Pilate, and you know about him.
Drop an R 'cause of Regis Philbin.
Drop the E 'cause of Elvis, of course; 'nuf said!
Drop a C 'cause the Catholics aren't invited.
And drop the Y 'cause Camping's 89, and wants all Young People off his lawn.
That leaves:
A R O L D C A P A O F
Rearrange those letters, and you get: A LOAD OF CRAP, which is precisely what this whole thing is!
ps. I know how to spell prophecy, but it served my purposes to misspell it, and under fundamentalist rules, it's always ok to do whatever serves your own purposes.
Monday, May 02, 2011
A Dose of Reality, A Pinch of Honesty
I do not believe in the death penalty. I am not troubled in the least by the splendid performance of our Navy Seals, or the decision by the Commander-in-Chief to send them into action, to excuse Osama bin Laden from the planet. I preach the Bible that says that God wants to save and not condemn. Bin Laden, directly responsible for the deaths of some 3,000 people in the 9/11 attacks and indirectly responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands via his provocation (arguable) for at least two wars, had to go. We are a nation of law that seeks justice. We had no intention of arresting bin Laden and experiencing another trial like that of Saddam Hussein. I believe that everyone deserves a second chance. I cried, applauded, cheered and sang along with those in Washington and New York last night when the President made the announcement of bin Laden's killing. We will not elect a President who cannot convincingly parrot the broad, general tenets of the Christian faith. That President will not be reelected (Jimmy Carter) if he (so far) cannot lay aside that faith in the snap of the fingers. The Vatican announced today that there should be no delight in the death of any person. Too bad they couldn't figure out over the last forever that there should be no delight in or protection for child molesters.
Life is not fair. It too often makes no sense. The rules can protect the incompetent, the criminal, the evil. And an awful lot of the time they do. But this time, things are different. The bastard is dead. I'm delighted.
Life is paradoxical. Faith is often inconvenient, and therefore set aside. I know of no one who is consistent in every instance. Walt Whitman said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself."
Such is life.
Life is not fair. It too often makes no sense. The rules can protect the incompetent, the criminal, the evil. And an awful lot of the time they do. But this time, things are different. The bastard is dead. I'm delighted.
Life is paradoxical. Faith is often inconvenient, and therefore set aside. I know of no one who is consistent in every instance. Walt Whitman said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself."
Such is life.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Bits and Pieces
Things I hadn't known until now:1. At least as of April 29, the Cardinals' signing of Lance Berkman looks brilliant. I thought he was washed up. He looked washed up last year with the MFYs. He looks like Lance Berkman-plus so far this year (.410, 8 hr, 22 rbi). One for the Cards' GM, whose name I cannot spell.
2. The Hawks are pretty good/the Magic stink. See any of that series? Surprised as I am? Or were we all just confused? One-man basketball teams don't tend to be very good, and the Magic look very much like a one-man team.
3. Preparing for retirement is fun. Almost every day, there is something that I realize I won't have to do in 52 days. Something that I don't like doing, and will be glad to be relieved of.
Things I suspected but wasn't sure of:
1. The Grizzlies are very, very good. I was fortunate enough to be in FedEx Forum for games three and four and am thrilled to see that, while the Spurs aren't the Spurs of five years ago, they are still the slapping, scratching, flopping, whining, cheap shot artists that they have been since the honorable David Robinson retired. And we're up 3-2. And that's after losing a game where the Griz were the better team for 47 minutes and 57.2 seconds. Prediction: the series ends tomorrow night, and it won't be close.
2. The NFL Draft, the "royal" wedding, all "reality" programming and TNA Wrestling are vital to occupy mouthbreathers everywhere.
3. Donald Trump's megalomania truly knows no bounds. Can't chase the birther crap any longer? Well let's just jump straight into the George Wallace campaign of 1968! How did that black fella get into a good school anyway? And how on earth did he write a book? Hey, Don, Lester Maddox, Bull Connor, James Earl Ray, Richard Russell, Strom Thurmond and Wallace are all smiling up at you today!
4. It truly is time to amend the Book of Discipline to require that every newly-elected bishop will be appointed to serve his or her home Annual Conference immediately upon election. That's the only way we'll ever stop this practice of the large Conferences passing on preachers they want to get rid of into the episcopacy. And brother, would that one change have benefitted our Annual Conference!
Things that Boneheads still won't acknowledge:
1. Have you seen the storms this week? Climate Change? Hello? They used to be 500 and 1,000 year floods, now they're just the worst since last week. And 300+ people killed in one round of tornadoes? Really? Mother Nature's back, and she's pissed off!
2. Government budgets are moral documents. Or immoral documents. And all our fine "family values" folk who suddenly got religion on deficits after spending the nation into bankruptcy on GWB's Wars of Proving My Manhood couldn't give a rat's ass less about all of those that Jay-sus described as "the least of these." And they prove it every time Speaker Boner opens his orange mouth.
Awesome things on the horizon:
1. The Levitt Shell's season-opening benefit is May 14. Jimbo Mathus' latest crew, Alvin Youngblood Hart and Todd Snider will perform on what promises to be an utterly fabulous Saturday night!
2. The Shell's Spring Series starts the week following. This is one of the best things about living in Memphis! Whatever kind of music moves you will be offered at some point during the run, and if there is no music that moves you, lie down and gather some dirt over you, as you're already dead!
3. It's only 51 days now!
2. The Hawks are pretty good/the Magic stink. See any of that series? Surprised as I am? Or were we all just confused? One-man basketball teams don't tend to be very good, and the Magic look very much like a one-man team.
3. Preparing for retirement is fun. Almost every day, there is something that I realize I won't have to do in 52 days. Something that I don't like doing, and will be glad to be relieved of.
Things I suspected but wasn't sure of:
1. The Grizzlies are very, very good. I was fortunate enough to be in FedEx Forum for games three and four and am thrilled to see that, while the Spurs aren't the Spurs of five years ago, they are still the slapping, scratching, flopping, whining, cheap shot artists that they have been since the honorable David Robinson retired. And we're up 3-2. And that's after losing a game where the Griz were the better team for 47 minutes and 57.2 seconds. Prediction: the series ends tomorrow night, and it won't be close.
2. The NFL Draft, the "royal" wedding, all "reality" programming and TNA Wrestling are vital to occupy mouthbreathers everywhere.
3. Donald Trump's megalomania truly knows no bounds. Can't chase the birther crap any longer? Well let's just jump straight into the George Wallace campaign of 1968! How did that black fella get into a good school anyway? And how on earth did he write a book? Hey, Don, Lester Maddox, Bull Connor, James Earl Ray, Richard Russell, Strom Thurmond and Wallace are all smiling up at you today!
4. It truly is time to amend the Book of Discipline to require that every newly-elected bishop will be appointed to serve his or her home Annual Conference immediately upon election. That's the only way we'll ever stop this practice of the large Conferences passing on preachers they want to get rid of into the episcopacy. And brother, would that one change have benefitted our Annual Conference!
Things that Boneheads still won't acknowledge:
1. Have you seen the storms this week? Climate Change? Hello? They used to be 500 and 1,000 year floods, now they're just the worst since last week. And 300+ people killed in one round of tornadoes? Really? Mother Nature's back, and she's pissed off!
2. Government budgets are moral documents. Or immoral documents. And all our fine "family values" folk who suddenly got religion on deficits after spending the nation into bankruptcy on GWB's Wars of Proving My Manhood couldn't give a rat's ass less about all of those that Jay-sus described as "the least of these." And they prove it every time Speaker Boner opens his orange mouth.
Awesome things on the horizon:
1. The Levitt Shell's season-opening benefit is May 14. Jimbo Mathus' latest crew, Alvin Youngblood Hart and Todd Snider will perform on what promises to be an utterly fabulous Saturday night!
2. The Shell's Spring Series starts the week following. This is one of the best things about living in Memphis! Whatever kind of music moves you will be offered at some point during the run, and if there is no music that moves you, lie down and gather some dirt over you, as you're already dead!
3. It's only 51 days now!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Ellis Island
Ellis Island has always been, for me, one of the truly iconic American sites. I had wanted to see it myself for decades. Friday I had the opportunity, by the good and generous graces of my friend, Mike Gilliam. Most of us have seen the black and white pictures of ships, decks crowded with people coming from other places, faces full of hope and expectation as they sail past the idealism of the Statue of Liberty to the reality of Ellis Island. These are the people who chose to come, overwhelmingly from Europe, white, young and wanting something different than what they had known wherever home was. This path is the one of interest to me personally, because I am here and who I am due to people who followed this path. I honor and respect the journey, suffering and struggles of those who did not choose to come, those who came through the west coast, those who were not welcomed like the northern and western Europeans. But my family came from Ireland and Scotland, and if not through Ellis Island (we were here before the years Ellis was in operation), then similarly at some other point of arrival.
What was it like on those ships? What did it take to make the decision to leave home, or send the child or children away from home? Did they find community through shared dreams en route, or did they realize at times that they could be in competition for quota slots with their countrymen and women? What was America to them, that they would take the chance on a new life in another part of the world? As I sat in the room where they were taken for sorting and evaluation I couldn't help thinking about those questions. In its peak years, Ellis Island really did look like Francis Ford Coppola's recreation of it in The Godfather Part II, as he showed the young Vito Andolini arriving and being renamed Corleone by a tired, irritable clerk who mistook his hometown for his last name. Given the tens of millions of people who passed through Ellis Island in those years, it's a miracle any of the information was recorded properly.
There is a door at one end of the hall, with a stairway that is divided into three sections. If you were directed to the first section, you were approved and admitted into America. The second section meant that you were found to be ill, and were being taken into isolation for whatever time your malady required. If you were sent down the third part, you were being rejected and sent home to wherever you had come from. I can't imagine the joy of the first group, the terror of the second and the absolute heartbreak of the third.
There was, in many cases, a harshness to Ellis Island. Mistakes were made, from the names that were botched, to the policies that required pregnant women traveling alone to be rejected, lest their babies be born here as American citizens (sound familiar?), to laws that limited the influx of people into the country to the quota of the total population of this or that census that came from a given country. At times, as few as 150,000 were allowed in in a year's time. The immigration debate has been long and often even uglier than it is today. I walked alongside descendents of Chinese immigrants as I took in the exhibits at Ellis Island, including those that detailed the Chinese Exclusion Acts of the 19th Century. I wondered how they felt about the promise of America while reading those exhibits.
We have failed on many occasions and in multitudes of ways to live up to our documents and ideals. But Ellis Island bears witness to the importance of the idea of America to the whole world, and the desperate desire on the parts of people who came from anywhere and everywhere to be part of that idea, to possess it and live out its blessings.
It was a powerful experience that I was privileged to have on Friday, and it is one that I would encourage everyone to undertake at some point in their lives, as well.
What was it like on those ships? What did it take to make the decision to leave home, or send the child or children away from home? Did they find community through shared dreams en route, or did they realize at times that they could be in competition for quota slots with their countrymen and women? What was America to them, that they would take the chance on a new life in another part of the world? As I sat in the room where they were taken for sorting and evaluation I couldn't help thinking about those questions. In its peak years, Ellis Island really did look like Francis Ford Coppola's recreation of it in The Godfather Part II, as he showed the young Vito Andolini arriving and being renamed Corleone by a tired, irritable clerk who mistook his hometown for his last name. Given the tens of millions of people who passed through Ellis Island in those years, it's a miracle any of the information was recorded properly.
There is a door at one end of the hall, with a stairway that is divided into three sections. If you were directed to the first section, you were approved and admitted into America. The second section meant that you were found to be ill, and were being taken into isolation for whatever time your malady required. If you were sent down the third part, you were being rejected and sent home to wherever you had come from. I can't imagine the joy of the first group, the terror of the second and the absolute heartbreak of the third.
There was, in many cases, a harshness to Ellis Island. Mistakes were made, from the names that were botched, to the policies that required pregnant women traveling alone to be rejected, lest their babies be born here as American citizens (sound familiar?), to laws that limited the influx of people into the country to the quota of the total population of this or that census that came from a given country. At times, as few as 150,000 were allowed in in a year's time. The immigration debate has been long and often even uglier than it is today. I walked alongside descendents of Chinese immigrants as I took in the exhibits at Ellis Island, including those that detailed the Chinese Exclusion Acts of the 19th Century. I wondered how they felt about the promise of America while reading those exhibits.
We have failed on many occasions and in multitudes of ways to live up to our documents and ideals. But Ellis Island bears witness to the importance of the idea of America to the whole world, and the desperate desire on the parts of people who came from anywhere and everywhere to be part of that idea, to possess it and live out its blessings.
It was a powerful experience that I was privileged to have on Friday, and it is one that I would encourage everyone to undertake at some point in their lives, as well.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Barry Bonds, With a Side of Roger Clemens
Right off the bat, I will not refer to Barry Bonds by his common baseball title. Henry Aaron (not Hank Aaron, as The Hammer considers "Hank" a character he has to perform in public, but does not particularly like) was my first hero in sports, the man who carried the burden of approaching and then surpassing Babe Ruth on the Home Run list, and I will not now or ever describe any juicer as Mr. Aaron's better on baseball's greatest list. So...
The Giants' former slugger, Barry Bonds, is on trial in California due to steroids. Not because he used steroids. But because he lied about using them. He has repeatedly insisted, under various oaths and to multiple law enforcement officials in sworn statements, that he never "knowingly" used steroids. I did not use the popular "allegedly lied" because anyone who has seen pictures of Barry Bonds prior to, say, 1997, and after, say, 1998, knows that something happened. In his mid-30's Bonds' head went from being an orange to being a grapefruit. His shoulders went from those of a sprinter to those of an offensive tackle. His arms...well, you get the idea. His best single season home run total also went from 49 to 73. That's a lot. Many ballplayers saw a similar increase in those years.
Most of that many have owned up to what caused their improvement. A lot of them, granted, were outed by the Mitchell Report or the periodic spurts of names from the list of positive testers that set baseball's testing program into motion from 2002. But they've owned up to it. And not one of the people who has admitted what happened, either before Congress, the FBI, local police or other officials has ever been prosecuted for steroid use. Miguel Tejada pled guilty to perjury, with a full elocution of his usage, and had his sentence suspended. That, to my knowledge, leaves the prosecutions of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds.
Again, neither of them is being prosecuted for using steroids. They are being prosecuted for lying about their use of steroids. It does not matter that Clemens and Bonds seemed to themselves to have been bigger than the game of baseball, no usage pun intended. It does not matter that both men seem to believe themselves bigger than Congress (in Clemens' case) or federal grand juries (in Bonds' case). And, yes, this combination of charges may indeed mean that Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens find their freedom in peril because they are stupid. Nonetheless, as Bruce Pearl can now also bear witness, when you are caught, own up to it. Otherwise, it will cost you, and cost you big.
And it is precisely the nature of that cost that is now at issue. Bonds and Clemens have already cost themselves election to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. The Baseball Writers' Association of America, those who cast the ballots for the Hall, have already made themselves heard on steroid usage, and even whispered allegations of steroid usage. Look at Mark McGwire's vote totals, or Rafael Palmeiro's, or even Jeff Bagwell's this year. If you used, or are believed to have used, you aren't getting in, period. Bonds and Clemens don't have a prayer of being elected.
Any day now would be a good time for these two fellows to wake up, own up to their actions, beg the mercy of public opinion and the courts, and pray fervently that they get to live out their natural lives outside the bounds of a federal penitentiary.
Or, they can just keep going as they are, as arrogant and foolish as they have lived for pretty much their entire adult lives. And kiss their freedom goodbye for a few years, and what's left of their names goodbye forever.
The Giants' former slugger, Barry Bonds, is on trial in California due to steroids. Not because he used steroids. But because he lied about using them. He has repeatedly insisted, under various oaths and to multiple law enforcement officials in sworn statements, that he never "knowingly" used steroids. I did not use the popular "allegedly lied" because anyone who has seen pictures of Barry Bonds prior to, say, 1997, and after, say, 1998, knows that something happened. In his mid-30's Bonds' head went from being an orange to being a grapefruit. His shoulders went from those of a sprinter to those of an offensive tackle. His arms...well, you get the idea. His best single season home run total also went from 49 to 73. That's a lot. Many ballplayers saw a similar increase in those years.
Most of that many have owned up to what caused their improvement. A lot of them, granted, were outed by the Mitchell Report or the periodic spurts of names from the list of positive testers that set baseball's testing program into motion from 2002. But they've owned up to it. And not one of the people who has admitted what happened, either before Congress, the FBI, local police or other officials has ever been prosecuted for steroid use. Miguel Tejada pled guilty to perjury, with a full elocution of his usage, and had his sentence suspended. That, to my knowledge, leaves the prosecutions of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds.
Again, neither of them is being prosecuted for using steroids. They are being prosecuted for lying about their use of steroids. It does not matter that Clemens and Bonds seemed to themselves to have been bigger than the game of baseball, no usage pun intended. It does not matter that both men seem to believe themselves bigger than Congress (in Clemens' case) or federal grand juries (in Bonds' case). And, yes, this combination of charges may indeed mean that Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens find their freedom in peril because they are stupid. Nonetheless, as Bruce Pearl can now also bear witness, when you are caught, own up to it. Otherwise, it will cost you, and cost you big.
And it is precisely the nature of that cost that is now at issue. Bonds and Clemens have already cost themselves election to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. The Baseball Writers' Association of America, those who cast the ballots for the Hall, have already made themselves heard on steroid usage, and even whispered allegations of steroid usage. Look at Mark McGwire's vote totals, or Rafael Palmeiro's, or even Jeff Bagwell's this year. If you used, or are believed to have used, you aren't getting in, period. Bonds and Clemens don't have a prayer of being elected.
Any day now would be a good time for these two fellows to wake up, own up to their actions, beg the mercy of public opinion and the courts, and pray fervently that they get to live out their natural lives outside the bounds of a federal penitentiary.
Or, they can just keep going as they are, as arrogant and foolish as they have lived for pretty much their entire adult lives. And kiss their freedom goodbye for a few years, and what's left of their names goodbye forever.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Madagascar Live!
Dancing Baby's second foray into the theatre was Friday night at the opening performance of the utterly delightful stage version of Madagascar. The show basically follows the movie, with, of course, more music and silliness. These characters have been pretty significant for DB, as her first portable high chair's lion has always been Alex, and every zebra anywhere has always been Marty, and the species is, collectively, identified as Martys, at least in our house. And we usually ride Marty at the Wolfchase Mall Merry-Go-Round, too.
We had great, unobstructed seats in the Orpheum's balcony, which is vastly preferable for a petite two-year-old. Sitting in the only slightly inclined main floor's seating just doesn't get it, when taller people are all about. She fixed on the curtain immediately upon our arrival, and when the announcer declared that the Central Park Zoo would open in ten minutes, she started winding up. From curtain-up it was hysteria. She recognized the characters, made sure the requisite adults in tow did, too, and never looked away from the stage. For all 40 minutes of Act I. She danced and laughed and was just generally delighted with the whole thing. When Intermission arrived, she almost started to cry, wanting them to "Go Again!" After our best explanation, she took a bit of comfort, and waited for Act II, refusing to leave our seats for any reason whatsoever.
She clapped and cheered when the curtain went back up. And she started asking for "Moving Moving." If you've seen the credits of the movie, you understand. Her song came up at the end, and it was time to boogie. DB was begging, "Do it again!" before the show was even over. All the way out of the Orpheum and the two blocks to the car, she kept asking if we could "See it again?" If she hadn't been going to visit another grandparent for the weekend, we just might have done that.
It was a cute show, smart enough for us old people to be entertained. But the real show for me was watching my little bundle of curls transfixed for an hour and a half, transported into a world outside her everyday experience. No, it wasn't The Iceman Cometh, but DB is already learning the power and fun of the theatre, and if we can facilitate her enjoyment of it, we'll have done a good thing.
We had great, unobstructed seats in the Orpheum's balcony, which is vastly preferable for a petite two-year-old. Sitting in the only slightly inclined main floor's seating just doesn't get it, when taller people are all about. She fixed on the curtain immediately upon our arrival, and when the announcer declared that the Central Park Zoo would open in ten minutes, she started winding up. From curtain-up it was hysteria. She recognized the characters, made sure the requisite adults in tow did, too, and never looked away from the stage. For all 40 minutes of Act I. She danced and laughed and was just generally delighted with the whole thing. When Intermission arrived, she almost started to cry, wanting them to "Go Again!" After our best explanation, she took a bit of comfort, and waited for Act II, refusing to leave our seats for any reason whatsoever.
She clapped and cheered when the curtain went back up. And she started asking for "Moving Moving." If you've seen the credits of the movie, you understand. Her song came up at the end, and it was time to boogie. DB was begging, "Do it again!" before the show was even over. All the way out of the Orpheum and the two blocks to the car, she kept asking if we could "See it again?" If she hadn't been going to visit another grandparent for the weekend, we just might have done that.
It was a cute show, smart enough for us old people to be entertained. But the real show for me was watching my little bundle of curls transfixed for an hour and a half, transported into a world outside her everyday experience. No, it wasn't The Iceman Cometh, but DB is already learning the power and fun of the theatre, and if we can facilitate her enjoyment of it, we'll have done a good thing.
Monday, March 21, 2011
An Ideal Sunday Afternoon
It's been a pretty intense week, with a pretty heavy decision made (previous post) and plans for the future laid. That all just served to make it that much more enjoyable to spend part of the early evening at the Midtown Huey's. Grandmommie and I took Dancing Baby; MommaMomma and Auntie Em arrived shortly after. My old pal DiAnne Price was performing with 2/3 of her Boyfriends. We missed Jim Spake, but nobody's ever mistreated getting to hear DiAnne, Tim Goodwin and Tom Lonardo. DiAnne is Memphis music. She is at home in the Blues, Jazz, Standards, Rock 'n' Roll, and any other genre you can come up with. She can hammer out the barrelhouse, sing with the smoky authenticity of late nights and bad circumstances, turn on a dime, and bring more life to I'll Fly Away than I've ever heard in any church of any denomination. My girls have been listening to DiAnne and the Boyfriends play since Auntie Em was Dancing Baby's age, so I'm now indebted to her to the fourth generation (as my parents are fans, too!)
I don't know what to make of people who don't take music as a part of their lives. Such an absence betrays an emptiness of soul that I cannot account for. I can't begin to explain what relief I have found in seeing my granddaughter, since she was about six months old, literally moved by music. DiAnne was the first person DB heard play live, and she was wiggling and cooing from the first notes. Now, we've graduated to a need to stand on the floor, on her own two feet, to shake a tailfeather. My mother always conquered her low times at the keyboard of her piano. My daughters do the same. Saturday night, at our monthly family gathering, Miss 2-years-old handed out the instruments (woodblocks, cymbals, cow bells, triangle, etc.) as the whole family concentrated on her and followed her lead in Family Band Practice. She sang Itsy Bitsy Spider at the top of her lungs, as eleven or twelve hand-held percussion pieces thundered around her. Pretty much the way it should be.
I hope she will always find solace, diversion, direction, hope, joy and so much more through music. As I have come, this spring, to the realization that the work in which I have spent my life has no more use for me, it has been music that has comforted and mended my soul, something that the church doesn't seem interested in doing any more. But then again, there has always been more authenticity for me in the ministry of a musician performing for wandering souls than in the often absurdly rigid dictates of a faith that carries less and less relevance for humanity every year, with our endless, petty arguments over what kind of sinners God is willing to love and use, and our endless paperwork that reports on fewer and fewer people every time the reports are filed. Case in point: I preached to 12 people this morning. DiAnne played to a crowd of over 200 this evening. I'm glad she's doing the Lord's work.
And, fine, I'm sure those numbers are totally related to my incompetence.
But I know the truth. And so do you. And so does God.
I don't know what to make of people who don't take music as a part of their lives. Such an absence betrays an emptiness of soul that I cannot account for. I can't begin to explain what relief I have found in seeing my granddaughter, since she was about six months old, literally moved by music. DiAnne was the first person DB heard play live, and she was wiggling and cooing from the first notes. Now, we've graduated to a need to stand on the floor, on her own two feet, to shake a tailfeather. My mother always conquered her low times at the keyboard of her piano. My daughters do the same. Saturday night, at our monthly family gathering, Miss 2-years-old handed out the instruments (woodblocks, cymbals, cow bells, triangle, etc.) as the whole family concentrated on her and followed her lead in Family Band Practice. She sang Itsy Bitsy Spider at the top of her lungs, as eleven or twelve hand-held percussion pieces thundered around her. Pretty much the way it should be.
I hope she will always find solace, diversion, direction, hope, joy and so much more through music. As I have come, this spring, to the realization that the work in which I have spent my life has no more use for me, it has been music that has comforted and mended my soul, something that the church doesn't seem interested in doing any more. But then again, there has always been more authenticity for me in the ministry of a musician performing for wandering souls than in the often absurdly rigid dictates of a faith that carries less and less relevance for humanity every year, with our endless, petty arguments over what kind of sinners God is willing to love and use, and our endless paperwork that reports on fewer and fewer people every time the reports are filed. Case in point: I preached to 12 people this morning. DiAnne played to a crowd of over 200 this evening. I'm glad she's doing the Lord's work.
And, fine, I'm sure those numbers are totally related to my incompetence.
But I know the truth. And so do you. And so does God.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
March 15, 2011
Dear Judy,
I retire, effective June 30, 2011.
I'm confident that the District Office will forward this note to anyone else who needs to see it.
Joe
I retire, effective June 30, 2011.
I'm confident that the District Office will forward this note to anyone else who needs to see it.
Joe
Monday, January 24, 2011
Dancing Baby Roundup
I haven't reported recently on the doings of our Dancing Baby, so, time to catch up.
We were out running errands one night. DB had a new book, brought it with her, and wanted it read. Only problem: Auntie Em was her seatmate, and Auntie Em has motion issues. Auntie Em tried to explain, "We can't read it right now." Dancing Baby responded, "Well we can look at it, can't we?" In just the intonation that sentence needs!
On another day at the bookstore, Granddaddy and DB were shopping. We found a couple of good candidates, and I asked, "Do you want the Dora book, or the fish book?" DB doesn't miss a trick, answering, "Yes!"
Grandmommie always checks the sale racks at Barnes and Noble, and one day she found a three or four dollar dvd that featured animations of several Scholastic Books titles, including the old animation of Where the Wild Things Are. DB immediately fell in love with it. If dvds can be played out, we're probably getting close. The constant request: "See the Wild Chings (adorable sic)"
Dancing Baby has, courtesy of the Pink Palace's entry-way sign, developed an interest in the planets. As we went into the Palace one day, she identified Jupiter and Saturn by their obvious features. One of their workers, duly impressed, said that he hadn't seen that small a child able to identify two planets. Which left Granddaddy in a mood to show off. So I asked DB, "Which planet is little and close to the Sun?" "Mercury." "Which one has ice?" "Mars." Which one is ours?" "Earth" "Which one is like Mars, but no ice?" "Venus" "Which one is far away and cold and blue?" "Neptune." The fellow was stunned. We are expecting calls from MIT any day now.
The Palace incident was kind of like the day at the Zoo when a guy was standing in front of the elephant exhibit with his five or six year old little girl. He asked her, "How many elephants." She looked, pointed, and answered, "Two." "Look again," her Dad instructed. "Two," she insisted. About ten feet down the rail, the devil got hold of me (thanks, Flip Wilson!) I asked DB, "How many elephants?" The then-not yet two year old looked up, said "Three" and turned to go see the Martys (that would be the Zebras for those who do not know the cinematic classic, Madagascar), proud Granddaddy smirking quietly.
We like to go to Wolfchase Galleria to ride the Merry-Go-Round. On that back entrance to the Mall, there is an interpretation of a giant horse, announcing the location of the ride. As we approached the doors last week, DB looked up at the neon-lit figure, and breathlessly gushed, "Granddaddy, it's the most beautiful thing in the world." I didn't say it, but I sure thought it: No, sweetheart. It's not even close!
We were out running errands one night. DB had a new book, brought it with her, and wanted it read. Only problem: Auntie Em was her seatmate, and Auntie Em has motion issues. Auntie Em tried to explain, "We can't read it right now." Dancing Baby responded, "Well we can look at it, can't we?" In just the intonation that sentence needs!
On another day at the bookstore, Granddaddy and DB were shopping. We found a couple of good candidates, and I asked, "Do you want the Dora book, or the fish book?" DB doesn't miss a trick, answering, "Yes!"
Grandmommie always checks the sale racks at Barnes and Noble, and one day she found a three or four dollar dvd that featured animations of several Scholastic Books titles, including the old animation of Where the Wild Things Are. DB immediately fell in love with it. If dvds can be played out, we're probably getting close. The constant request: "See the Wild Chings (adorable sic)"
Dancing Baby has, courtesy of the Pink Palace's entry-way sign, developed an interest in the planets. As we went into the Palace one day, she identified Jupiter and Saturn by their obvious features. One of their workers, duly impressed, said that he hadn't seen that small a child able to identify two planets. Which left Granddaddy in a mood to show off. So I asked DB, "Which planet is little and close to the Sun?" "Mercury." "Which one has ice?" "Mars." Which one is ours?" "Earth" "Which one is like Mars, but no ice?" "Venus" "Which one is far away and cold and blue?" "Neptune." The fellow was stunned. We are expecting calls from MIT any day now.
The Palace incident was kind of like the day at the Zoo when a guy was standing in front of the elephant exhibit with his five or six year old little girl. He asked her, "How many elephants." She looked, pointed, and answered, "Two." "Look again," her Dad instructed. "Two," she insisted. About ten feet down the rail, the devil got hold of me (thanks, Flip Wilson!) I asked DB, "How many elephants?" The then-not yet two year old looked up, said "Three" and turned to go see the Martys (that would be the Zebras for those who do not know the cinematic classic, Madagascar), proud Granddaddy smirking quietly.
We like to go to Wolfchase Galleria to ride the Merry-Go-Round. On that back entrance to the Mall, there is an interpretation of a giant horse, announcing the location of the ride. As we approached the doors last week, DB looked up at the neon-lit figure, and breathlessly gushed, "Granddaddy, it's the most beautiful thing in the world." I didn't say it, but I sure thought it: No, sweetheart. It's not even close!
Friday, January 14, 2011
50
There is a story that has been told in my family as long as I can remember. As a small boy, I was riding in the car with my grandfather. I asked him how old he was. He answered, "50." (He was certainly older than that at the time, as he was 52 when I was born.) "Granddaddy! You're old enough to die!" was the kid's response.
In fewer than 20 minutes, I will join the list of those, from my little-boy-opinion, old enough to die.
50.
I never thought I'd be this old. And I'm having trouble caring.
I find the non-caring interesting. I think that 50 is a symbol to a lot of people. I am in the business of interpreting symbols. It just seems like it should be a big deal. I should be let in on the secrets of life. That whole wisdom thing should just boil up from...somewhere.
Something! Anything? Nothing.
I don't feel any different. I don't know any more. I certainly hope I don't know any less, at least not yet. It's sort of like becoming a grandfather. Maybe there's just a bit more enjoying of the moment, at home, anyway. Perhaps in a different circumstance there would be a little more "be here now" rather than the constant "where will I be shortly." That one really doesn't apply to my life at the moment. (Where I'll be shortly is probably the largest single issue in my life at the moment.)
Most of the change comes from the outside.
When in Washington last spring, I let my utter joy at visiting the Jefferson Memorial get the best of me, and in my rush to get to old Tom's statue, I threw a shoe and took a header. Right in front of about a dozen teachers with their thousands of eighth graders. So a couple of the 30-ish teachers come rushing over with their heartfelt, "Sir, are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Is there anyone we can call?" I was so grateful that my wonderful friend, Mike Gilliam, had stayed with the car so that I could endure my humiliation and remarkably skinned legs in anonymity. You haven't lived until you've stood in the Jefferson Memorial with blood streaming down both your legs! People just kind of back away...
I used to go over to poor unfortunates like me, with those solicitous words that I found so unpleasant when they were spoken to me.
Bishop Roy Clark came back to preach at Annual Conference some years after his retirement. Dad had served as his Associate Pastor at St. John's, and the old friends made a date for lunch one day of the session. I got to tag along. Early in the visit, Dad asked the Bishop how things were with him since retiring. Bishop Clark told a story about becoming distracted while stopped at a red light, missing the light's turning to green, and getting honked at and waved at in those special ways that people do when they've been delayed for 10 seconds in traffic. He said that none of that really mattered. What got him riled up was the fellow who rolled down his window and hollered at him, "Get out of the way, old man!" Oh, those last two words! The scary ones. The ones nobody ever wanted to hear.
Maybe the deal with 50 is that "old man" suddenly doesn't seem impossible any more. In fact, "old man" seems pretty likely. Unless...well, you know.
Because that's another thing about 50-something: we may say "too soon" when it happens, but a death in one's 50's? Just not the same as in the 30's or 40's. We're told all kinds of things by today's actuarial tables, that if you make this age, then you can expect to make it to that age...and then comes 50. Not old. But no longer young. And young is farther away than old is. Brutal reality: no man in my family bloodline (at least four generations) has celebrated an 81st birthday. That's sobering for multiple reasons.
Just to be clear, I like being this age, reaching this point of life. (None of this seems morbid to me, just a little bit of honesty and reality) I like being Granddaddy. No, I LOVE being Granddaddy! There is no sweeter sound on this earth than my Dancing Baby laughing at my approximation of the Wild Thing's growl and responding with her laughing "Granddaddy!" It is amazing watching my daughters as grown women. Sara is a good mother, putting all that she's learned from Nana, her psycho aunts, and, for the last nine years, Shannon, to good use caring for her child (who is so much like MommaMomma that I sometimes get transported in time, back about 22 or 23 years!). To her credit, she's also learned a lot about what to discard in mothering. Emmy is getting ready to teach. She adores children more than anyone I know, alongside my mother, and will be the teacher that every parent wants for their child when she gets finished at the U of M and into the schools. The only frustration with my girls is that I know my time with them in our home will run out at some point. Totally selfishly, I'd keep them here with me forever. But that's my wants rather than their needs. At least that's what the therapist says.
I also like being married at 50. Sure, we drive each other crazy at times, but that just goes with the territory. It's fun having a playmate. It's fun not having to worry about what she's going to think when I'm being me. It's great fun grandparenting in tandem. She's awesome with our granddaughter. And our daughters.
If you know me, you're not surprised that this is mostly about family. Family is big with us. We take it very, very seriously. It's why we know who we are.
When it comes to work, I will currently invoke the Thumper Rule. (If you don't remember, watch Bambi) But check back with me in five or six months, and we'll see what's what.
I'm 50 now. Nothing's fallen off. Nothing's dawned. Life goes on. James Albert, I apologize for my ignorance all those years ago. Maybe you told me that being
50 wasn't bad. I'm pretty sure that you thought it, even if you knew I wouldn't understand. If, after 50, I can mean half to my grandkid(s), of what you mean to us, still, then I'll have accomplished something.
50, but there's a long way to go...
In fewer than 20 minutes, I will join the list of those, from my little-boy-opinion, old enough to die.
50.
I never thought I'd be this old. And I'm having trouble caring.
I find the non-caring interesting. I think that 50 is a symbol to a lot of people. I am in the business of interpreting symbols. It just seems like it should be a big deal. I should be let in on the secrets of life. That whole wisdom thing should just boil up from...somewhere.
Something! Anything? Nothing.
I don't feel any different. I don't know any more. I certainly hope I don't know any less, at least not yet. It's sort of like becoming a grandfather. Maybe there's just a bit more enjoying of the moment, at home, anyway. Perhaps in a different circumstance there would be a little more "be here now" rather than the constant "where will I be shortly." That one really doesn't apply to my life at the moment. (Where I'll be shortly is probably the largest single issue in my life at the moment.)
Most of the change comes from the outside.
When in Washington last spring, I let my utter joy at visiting the Jefferson Memorial get the best of me, and in my rush to get to old Tom's statue, I threw a shoe and took a header. Right in front of about a dozen teachers with their thousands of eighth graders. So a couple of the 30-ish teachers come rushing over with their heartfelt, "Sir, are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Is there anyone we can call?" I was so grateful that my wonderful friend, Mike Gilliam, had stayed with the car so that I could endure my humiliation and remarkably skinned legs in anonymity. You haven't lived until you've stood in the Jefferson Memorial with blood streaming down both your legs! People just kind of back away...
I used to go over to poor unfortunates like me, with those solicitous words that I found so unpleasant when they were spoken to me.
Bishop Roy Clark came back to preach at Annual Conference some years after his retirement. Dad had served as his Associate Pastor at St. John's, and the old friends made a date for lunch one day of the session. I got to tag along. Early in the visit, Dad asked the Bishop how things were with him since retiring. Bishop Clark told a story about becoming distracted while stopped at a red light, missing the light's turning to green, and getting honked at and waved at in those special ways that people do when they've been delayed for 10 seconds in traffic. He said that none of that really mattered. What got him riled up was the fellow who rolled down his window and hollered at him, "Get out of the way, old man!" Oh, those last two words! The scary ones. The ones nobody ever wanted to hear.
Maybe the deal with 50 is that "old man" suddenly doesn't seem impossible any more. In fact, "old man" seems pretty likely. Unless...well, you know.
Because that's another thing about 50-something: we may say "too soon" when it happens, but a death in one's 50's? Just not the same as in the 30's or 40's. We're told all kinds of things by today's actuarial tables, that if you make this age, then you can expect to make it to that age...and then comes 50. Not old. But no longer young. And young is farther away than old is. Brutal reality: no man in my family bloodline (at least four generations) has celebrated an 81st birthday. That's sobering for multiple reasons.
Just to be clear, I like being this age, reaching this point of life. (None of this seems morbid to me, just a little bit of honesty and reality) I like being Granddaddy. No, I LOVE being Granddaddy! There is no sweeter sound on this earth than my Dancing Baby laughing at my approximation of the Wild Thing's growl and responding with her laughing "Granddaddy!" It is amazing watching my daughters as grown women. Sara is a good mother, putting all that she's learned from Nana, her psycho aunts, and, for the last nine years, Shannon, to good use caring for her child (who is so much like MommaMomma that I sometimes get transported in time, back about 22 or 23 years!). To her credit, she's also learned a lot about what to discard in mothering. Emmy is getting ready to teach. She adores children more than anyone I know, alongside my mother, and will be the teacher that every parent wants for their child when she gets finished at the U of M and into the schools. The only frustration with my girls is that I know my time with them in our home will run out at some point. Totally selfishly, I'd keep them here with me forever. But that's my wants rather than their needs. At least that's what the therapist says.
I also like being married at 50. Sure, we drive each other crazy at times, but that just goes with the territory. It's fun having a playmate. It's fun not having to worry about what she's going to think when I'm being me. It's great fun grandparenting in tandem. She's awesome with our granddaughter. And our daughters.
If you know me, you're not surprised that this is mostly about family. Family is big with us. We take it very, very seriously. It's why we know who we are.
When it comes to work, I will currently invoke the Thumper Rule. (If you don't remember, watch Bambi) But check back with me in five or six months, and we'll see what's what.
I'm 50 now. Nothing's fallen off. Nothing's dawned. Life goes on. James Albert, I apologize for my ignorance all those years ago. Maybe you told me that being
50 wasn't bad. I'm pretty sure that you thought it, even if you knew I wouldn't understand. If, after 50, I can mean half to my grandkid(s), of what you mean to us, still, then I'll have accomplished something.
50, but there's a long way to go...
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Thank You, Santa Theo!
One Possible Batting Order for the 2011 World Champion Boston Red Sox:
1. Carl Crawford, LF
2. Dustin Pedroia, 2B
3. Adrian Gonzalez, 1B
4. Kevin Youkilis, 3B
5. David Ortiz, DH
6. JD Drew, RF
7. Jarrod Saltalamacchia, C
8. Marco Scutaro, SS
9. Jacoby Ellsbury, CF
Theo Epstein has a remarkably youthful appearance, but he sure looks like Santa Claus tonight!
1. Carl Crawford, LF
2. Dustin Pedroia, 2B
3. Adrian Gonzalez, 1B
4. Kevin Youkilis, 3B
5. David Ortiz, DH
6. JD Drew, RF
7. Jarrod Saltalamacchia, C
8. Marco Scutaro, SS
9. Jacoby Ellsbury, CF
Theo Epstein has a remarkably youthful appearance, but he sure looks like Santa Claus tonight!
30
Thirty years ago tonight, Howard Cosell told us during a Monday Night Football telecast that John Lennon had been shot and killed. His murder is every bit as nonsensical today as it was then.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Life Is Good! (At Least This Part!)
It was a Monday, so I picked Kaly up from Mothers’ Day Out. As we walked to the car, I asked her what she wanted to do for the afternoon. “I want to see the forest,” was the immediate response. Not unexpected, as we go to the Pink Palace frequently on Mondays, and with the Enchanted Forest open now, well…Off we went. She got excited when she saw the fence along Central, and by the time I got her out of the car seat, she was wired. I had trouble keeping up with her crossing the parking lot and getting to the doors. I had to tell her to slow down, as she went toward the escalator when I approached the ticket counter. When she stopped, she looked at the mobile of the solar system in the lobby. “Jupiter!” she screamed out when she saw the big boy. “Saturn’s rings!” followed as she spotted the next one. “Spot! Rings!” and by now, everyone including the ticket selling kids were staring at this tiny little girl who seems to know way, way too much about her universe.
We escaped around the corner and checked out the penguins prior to her calling out for the escalator to the second floor, and the Christmas Tree garden. When we got to the door of the Forest, I went into my pocket for the tickets to show to the attendant. Kaly went for Frosty. I had to run to catch her. I didn’t want her to turn the corner, out of my sight, for some reason. She was so wound up that she was making monkey sounds. We’ve been through the Forest at least nine times (usually two rounds per visit; we’d made three once), but this time brought out her internal monkey. “Granddaddy, the mouses! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Penguins! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Fox! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo!” This was the pattern through the first half, all the way to the Marty Bear. She avoided the elves again. She went right to the big, floppy reindeer, as soon as the family ahead of us finished their pictures. She marched right up, looked up to me, and asked, “Can I pat him?” “Yes.” “Can I hug him?” “OK.” She added a kiss for good measure.
We wandered over to the train display, with one eye on the bridge penguins. I haven’t ever known her to watch Thomas the Tank Engine on television, but she loves him at the Forest. We checked out the entrance to his tunnel, and the exit and watched him go in and come out for about 20 minutes. She actually tried to follow him through the mountain and time his emergence. She’ll be two in January. After the trains comes the Big Guy himself. Fortunately, there was a family with a baby and a little girl about Kaly’s size visiting with Santa. Fortunate for Kaly, that is, as Granddaddy simply walked along the back rope and tried to catch Santa’s eye to wave (unsuccessfully).
We started the second loop much like the first, Granddaddy struggling to catch up with an excited little monkey. We followed the path until skipping from Marty Bear to the Beaver camp. We wound around, and this time, Santa was alone, talking only with the photographer. He spotted her this time, stood up, and walked over from his house to the velvet rope. As he made his way over, she buried her head in my shoulder. Santa, a very, very skilled man, recognized the situation and made his allowances. He actually got her to give him a high five! He leaned in, and said “I bet you’d like a baby doll for Christmas. A little pink baby doll, with diapers and a stroller.” Kaly’s eyes grew into saucers! “How did you know that?” was all over her face. He told her that he wanted to give her a candy cane, but that children have to stand on a magic spot to get the candy. She let me carry her over, into Santa’s house. She agreed to be put down on the spot. He handed her the little, cellophane-wrapped candy cane, and held his hand out, envisioning another successful enticement into a package of photographs, $20 for a 5X7 and four wallets, but his dreams were just torched! “NO!” My granddaughter never has any difficulty making herself understood. “Sit with Santa just for a moment?” he asked, plaintively. “NO!” the little bundle of fury and curls declared! “Granddaddy!” she demanded, with her arms reaching up, her voice sounding like the most demanding woman in Manhattan hailing a cab. And with that, her conveyance whisked her away from the large man in the very red suit, a successful escape effected flawlessly.
As we left, I told her that we are going back on Thursday, with MommaMomma. She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think you might sit with Santa for a picture with Momma?” Granddaddy asked with a fair amount of trepidation. “OK,” she lied, to let Granddaddy live a little longer with his delusions.
We got home just a few minutes before Grandmommie, and then MommaMomma. We spent our “us” time turning on all the Christmas, which must be done anytime the family comes home and enters the den. Don’t sit down without hitting the trees, the banners, the things that require cords, because you’re just going to be getting up.
The “time to go scramble” cranked up as soon as Grandmommie and MommaMomma got home. There is so much to do: change the diaper, change the shirt, change the shoes, get a cup for her milk, check the diaper bag for the appropriate contents, assemble the blankets, mittens, hats and layers, and then head for the car to discover what mandatory equipment we have left inside the house. Kaly always helps Granddaddy drive up to the first curve on our street. It used to just be the end of the driveway, but she mastered that space so quickly that we needed to make it more challenging.
This time, the vast quantities of material were precisely as needed, so the adventure was on.
The larger plan for the evening: attend the Court Square tree lighting, with flatbreads at the Majestic and a trolley ride to, before, and from, after. Mission Accomplished Evaluation: mostly pretty good. The pizzabread substitutes (Grandmommie insists there is a difference) were more than acceptable. We ordered the standard roasted chicken, and MommaMomma wanted one with artichoke hearts, feta, spinach, olive oil and lord knows what else (it was awesome!) and asked about ordering a cheese and sausage plate, one of the great Majestic appetizers. Kaly was in total agreement, adding “Cheese, yeah!” when MommaMomma spoke to the waitress. We attacked all the food as it arrived, and wiped out everything. Kaly ate her crackers and cheese, and then, smooth as a jewel thief, lifted the crackers off MommaMomma’s plate and seemed to swallow them whole, too. She liked the cheddar, which was aged and very sharp, and ate a good bit of the goat cheese, too. I was concerned that they might both be harder than she would appreciate, but no worries. I should have known.
Then, on to the trolley. Kaly has been in love with the trolleys ever since she first saw one. It was months ago. But she hadn’t ridden in one until Monday. If it wasn’t love at first ride, then it was surely over by the time we had moved the hundred yards from Peabody Place Station to Union Avenue. The driver stopped for the light, and Kaly was immediately upset that the ride was over and incredibly too short. I quickly explained why the pause. She turned on MommaMomma’s lap to verify that there was, indeed, a red light impeding our progress, and, once satisfied that I had told her the truth, she turned back to studying the holiday displays in the stores and restaurants along Main Street.
We got to Court Square. It was deserted. No one anywhere in sight. Not even any of the notorious cadre of beggars who haunt the park. No lights. No trees. Nobody. And way too cold to wait for them. We walked around for just a moment, complained about the apparent disruption, and decided to take refuge in a southbound trolley. Which left Kaly utterly delighted! She hadn’t wanted to get off the trolley in the first place. We rode back to our stop, but she still wasn’t ready to get off. We promised, in the face of threatened tears, that we would return shortly for a longer ride.
Once in the car, we headed toward Central Gardens. There is an absolutely beautiful and overwhelming display on one of the old mansions, all in red and white lights, on the house, the shrubbery and even some of the stately oaks that dot the majestic yard. We had wanted to show it to Kaly for several days, since Grandmommie and I had first seen it. Upon arrival, I pulled onto a side street, parked and retrieved my lights-looking partner from the car seat. MommaMomma and Grandmommie wanted to sit this one out, so Kaly and I walked down the sidewalk in front of the fabulous house, to get the full experience. Kaly smiled as she looked. That’s all the reward I need. We spent a couple of minutes before the cold drove us back toward the car.
As we walked back, I asked my granddaughter, “Did you like the lights?” The light of my life looked up at me a little bit sideways, and answered, “I liked the trolley.”
It was a perfect night!
We escaped around the corner and checked out the penguins prior to her calling out for the escalator to the second floor, and the Christmas Tree garden. When we got to the door of the Forest, I went into my pocket for the tickets to show to the attendant. Kaly went for Frosty. I had to run to catch her. I didn’t want her to turn the corner, out of my sight, for some reason. She was so wound up that she was making monkey sounds. We’ve been through the Forest at least nine times (usually two rounds per visit; we’d made three once), but this time brought out her internal monkey. “Granddaddy, the mouses! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Penguins! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Fox! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo!” This was the pattern through the first half, all the way to the Marty Bear. She avoided the elves again. She went right to the big, floppy reindeer, as soon as the family ahead of us finished their pictures. She marched right up, looked up to me, and asked, “Can I pat him?” “Yes.” “Can I hug him?” “OK.” She added a kiss for good measure.
We wandered over to the train display, with one eye on the bridge penguins. I haven’t ever known her to watch Thomas the Tank Engine on television, but she loves him at the Forest. We checked out the entrance to his tunnel, and the exit and watched him go in and come out for about 20 minutes. She actually tried to follow him through the mountain and time his emergence. She’ll be two in January. After the trains comes the Big Guy himself. Fortunately, there was a family with a baby and a little girl about Kaly’s size visiting with Santa. Fortunate for Kaly, that is, as Granddaddy simply walked along the back rope and tried to catch Santa’s eye to wave (unsuccessfully).
We started the second loop much like the first, Granddaddy struggling to catch up with an excited little monkey. We followed the path until skipping from Marty Bear to the Beaver camp. We wound around, and this time, Santa was alone, talking only with the photographer. He spotted her this time, stood up, and walked over from his house to the velvet rope. As he made his way over, she buried her head in my shoulder. Santa, a very, very skilled man, recognized the situation and made his allowances. He actually got her to give him a high five! He leaned in, and said “I bet you’d like a baby doll for Christmas. A little pink baby doll, with diapers and a stroller.” Kaly’s eyes grew into saucers! “How did you know that?” was all over her face. He told her that he wanted to give her a candy cane, but that children have to stand on a magic spot to get the candy. She let me carry her over, into Santa’s house. She agreed to be put down on the spot. He handed her the little, cellophane-wrapped candy cane, and held his hand out, envisioning another successful enticement into a package of photographs, $20 for a 5X7 and four wallets, but his dreams were just torched! “NO!” My granddaughter never has any difficulty making herself understood. “Sit with Santa just for a moment?” he asked, plaintively. “NO!” the little bundle of fury and curls declared! “Granddaddy!” she demanded, with her arms reaching up, her voice sounding like the most demanding woman in Manhattan hailing a cab. And with that, her conveyance whisked her away from the large man in the very red suit, a successful escape effected flawlessly.
As we left, I told her that we are going back on Thursday, with MommaMomma. She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think you might sit with Santa for a picture with Momma?” Granddaddy asked with a fair amount of trepidation. “OK,” she lied, to let Granddaddy live a little longer with his delusions.
We got home just a few minutes before Grandmommie, and then MommaMomma. We spent our “us” time turning on all the Christmas, which must be done anytime the family comes home and enters the den. Don’t sit down without hitting the trees, the banners, the things that require cords, because you’re just going to be getting up.
The “time to go scramble” cranked up as soon as Grandmommie and MommaMomma got home. There is so much to do: change the diaper, change the shirt, change the shoes, get a cup for her milk, check the diaper bag for the appropriate contents, assemble the blankets, mittens, hats and layers, and then head for the car to discover what mandatory equipment we have left inside the house. Kaly always helps Granddaddy drive up to the first curve on our street. It used to just be the end of the driveway, but she mastered that space so quickly that we needed to make it more challenging.
This time, the vast quantities of material were precisely as needed, so the adventure was on.
The larger plan for the evening: attend the Court Square tree lighting, with flatbreads at the Majestic and a trolley ride to, before, and from, after. Mission Accomplished Evaluation: mostly pretty good. The pizzabread substitutes (Grandmommie insists there is a difference) were more than acceptable. We ordered the standard roasted chicken, and MommaMomma wanted one with artichoke hearts, feta, spinach, olive oil and lord knows what else (it was awesome!) and asked about ordering a cheese and sausage plate, one of the great Majestic appetizers. Kaly was in total agreement, adding “Cheese, yeah!” when MommaMomma spoke to the waitress. We attacked all the food as it arrived, and wiped out everything. Kaly ate her crackers and cheese, and then, smooth as a jewel thief, lifted the crackers off MommaMomma’s plate and seemed to swallow them whole, too. She liked the cheddar, which was aged and very sharp, and ate a good bit of the goat cheese, too. I was concerned that they might both be harder than she would appreciate, but no worries. I should have known.
Then, on to the trolley. Kaly has been in love with the trolleys ever since she first saw one. It was months ago. But she hadn’t ridden in one until Monday. If it wasn’t love at first ride, then it was surely over by the time we had moved the hundred yards from Peabody Place Station to Union Avenue. The driver stopped for the light, and Kaly was immediately upset that the ride was over and incredibly too short. I quickly explained why the pause. She turned on MommaMomma’s lap to verify that there was, indeed, a red light impeding our progress, and, once satisfied that I had told her the truth, she turned back to studying the holiday displays in the stores and restaurants along Main Street.
We got to Court Square. It was deserted. No one anywhere in sight. Not even any of the notorious cadre of beggars who haunt the park. No lights. No trees. Nobody. And way too cold to wait for them. We walked around for just a moment, complained about the apparent disruption, and decided to take refuge in a southbound trolley. Which left Kaly utterly delighted! She hadn’t wanted to get off the trolley in the first place. We rode back to our stop, but she still wasn’t ready to get off. We promised, in the face of threatened tears, that we would return shortly for a longer ride.
Once in the car, we headed toward Central Gardens. There is an absolutely beautiful and overwhelming display on one of the old mansions, all in red and white lights, on the house, the shrubbery and even some of the stately oaks that dot the majestic yard. We had wanted to show it to Kaly for several days, since Grandmommie and I had first seen it. Upon arrival, I pulled onto a side street, parked and retrieved my lights-looking partner from the car seat. MommaMomma and Grandmommie wanted to sit this one out, so Kaly and I walked down the sidewalk in front of the fabulous house, to get the full experience. Kaly smiled as she looked. That’s all the reward I need. We spent a couple of minutes before the cold drove us back toward the car.
As we walked back, I asked my granddaughter, “Did you like the lights?” The light of my life looked up at me a little bit sideways, and answered, “I liked the trolley.”
It was a perfect night!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
RIP Leslie Nielsen (1926-2010)
Jane: I've heard police work is dangerous.
Lt. Frank Drebin: It is. That's why I carry a big gun.
Jane: Aren't you afraid it might go off accidentally?
Drebin: I used to have that problem.
Jane: What did you do about it?
Drebin: I just think about baseball.
*********************************************************************************
Drebin: It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girls dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Jane: Goodyear?
Drebin: No, the worst.
*********************************************************************************
(as a food-poisoning epidemic sweeps the plane)
Captain Oveur: What is it Doctor? What's going on?
Dr. Rumack: I'm not sure. I haven't seen anything like this since the Anita Bryant concert.
*********************************************************************************
Dr. Rumack: Can you fly this plane, and land it?
Ted Striker: Surely you can't be serious.
Rumack: I am serious. And don't call me "Shirley!"
*********************************************************************************
Dr. Rumack: You'd better tell the Captain we've got to land as soon as possible. This woman has to be gotten to a hospital.
Elaine Dickinson: A hospital? What is it?
Rumack: It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Baseball's Golden Era
It wasn't the glorified 50's. Nor the Hall of Famer-laden 60's. Not the wild 70's, the mild 80's or the steroid era 90's.
Baseball's Golden Era is right now.
Just think about the current decade. Baseball was instrumental in rallying the country after 9/11. Google Jack Buck's speech, check out the Braves-Mets series in the aftermath, or the Yankees winning the AL pennant for the 2001 season. The Diamondbacks may be said to have missed the part in the script where the trophy went to NYC at the end, but that 7 game series did a lot for the spirit of the country in those days.
In 2002, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles won their first World Series. The Angels' history had always been marked by just missing the mark, but Mike Scoscia's managerial skill was made evident to everyone who bothered to watch. Barry Bonds, holdover from the rampant steroid days, had a brilliant post-season to refute the argument that he couldn't perform in the big games. The Giants, without a championship since 1954, were perhaps only a Dusty Baker decision to leave Russ Ortiz on the mound in Game 6 from taking the title. They'll be back in a few paragraphs.
The 2003 season brought a bunch of young, poorly paid Florida Marlins players defeating the legendary New York Yankees in six games. The finale saw Josh Beckett shutting the Yanks down in Yankee Stadium for the win. The Marlins won their second World Series, without yet winning a Division Championship. Thus the influence of Bud Selig's tenure as Commissioner.
A year later, baseball's assumptions were turned on their collective ears: after 86 years of heartbreak and misery, the Boston Red Sox defeated the St. Louis Cardinals, and carried the trophy back to the Fens. This Series also marked the first time your humble blogger attended a World Series game. It was Game 3 at Busch Stadium. Pedro Martinez summoned up his last spectacular moment in a Sox uniform, and dominated the Cards.
In 2005, the Chicago White Sox went the Red Sox two years bettter. The Pale Hose hadn't won the championship since 1917. 88 years the Southside had waited. Ozzie Guillen finally led them to the promised land, and while you never knew (and still don't know) where Ozzie's mouth will blow up next, his skill at managing became indisputable.
2006 saw the St. Louis Cardinals as champs. The Cards hadn't won since 1982, and that 24 year drought was their longest since they started winning titles in 1926. Tony LaRussa became only the second manager in baseball history (along with the late Sparky Anderson) to win a World Series in each league.
In 2007, the Red Sox proved that 2004 wasn't a fluke, and became the first team with two titles in the 21st Century.
For 2008, The perpetually pitiful Tampa Rays won the American League pennant, and the typically awful Philadelphia Phillies took the NL flag. Joe Maddon and Charlie Manuel are two great managers who got to show the whole baseball public what they can do. The Phils, baseball's oldest team that has played in only one city with one nickname, took the Series for only the second time.
The New York Yankees, the greatest franchise in the history of professional sport, reasserted their dominance in 2009, taking their 27th World Series title by defeating the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies. Joe Girardi was in his first season managing in the Bronx, after Joe Torre's long, successful run. The Bombers were also celebrating their first season in the new Yankee Stadium, a gleaming billion dollar plus palace across the street from The House that Ruth Built.
Finally, in the season just ended, the San Francisco Giants won for the first time since 1954. They defeated the Texas Rangers for the championship, the first time that the Rangers had ever won a playoff game at home, won a playoff series, or won the American League pennant. It was baseball after the old style, brilliant pitching, timely hitting, speed and defense. The legendary Giants' manager, John McGraw, would have had no trouble recognizing the game that he dominated at the turn of the 20th century, as played by Bruce Bochy's team. Add to that the retirements of Bobby Cox, Joe Torre and Lou Piniella, and the stage is set for a new era to begin.
The only thing that I now hope to live to see in baseball is a championship won by the Chicago Cubs, now set to begin their 103rd season since they won the World Series last, in 1908.
Baseball's Golden Era is right now.
Just think about the current decade. Baseball was instrumental in rallying the country after 9/11. Google Jack Buck's speech, check out the Braves-Mets series in the aftermath, or the Yankees winning the AL pennant for the 2001 season. The Diamondbacks may be said to have missed the part in the script where the trophy went to NYC at the end, but that 7 game series did a lot for the spirit of the country in those days.
In 2002, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles won their first World Series. The Angels' history had always been marked by just missing the mark, but Mike Scoscia's managerial skill was made evident to everyone who bothered to watch. Barry Bonds, holdover from the rampant steroid days, had a brilliant post-season to refute the argument that he couldn't perform in the big games. The Giants, without a championship since 1954, were perhaps only a Dusty Baker decision to leave Russ Ortiz on the mound in Game 6 from taking the title. They'll be back in a few paragraphs.
The 2003 season brought a bunch of young, poorly paid Florida Marlins players defeating the legendary New York Yankees in six games. The finale saw Josh Beckett shutting the Yanks down in Yankee Stadium for the win. The Marlins won their second World Series, without yet winning a Division Championship. Thus the influence of Bud Selig's tenure as Commissioner.
A year later, baseball's assumptions were turned on their collective ears: after 86 years of heartbreak and misery, the Boston Red Sox defeated the St. Louis Cardinals, and carried the trophy back to the Fens. This Series also marked the first time your humble blogger attended a World Series game. It was Game 3 at Busch Stadium. Pedro Martinez summoned up his last spectacular moment in a Sox uniform, and dominated the Cards.
In 2005, the Chicago White Sox went the Red Sox two years bettter. The Pale Hose hadn't won the championship since 1917. 88 years the Southside had waited. Ozzie Guillen finally led them to the promised land, and while you never knew (and still don't know) where Ozzie's mouth will blow up next, his skill at managing became indisputable.
2006 saw the St. Louis Cardinals as champs. The Cards hadn't won since 1982, and that 24 year drought was their longest since they started winning titles in 1926. Tony LaRussa became only the second manager in baseball history (along with the late Sparky Anderson) to win a World Series in each league.
In 2007, the Red Sox proved that 2004 wasn't a fluke, and became the first team with two titles in the 21st Century.
For 2008, The perpetually pitiful Tampa Rays won the American League pennant, and the typically awful Philadelphia Phillies took the NL flag. Joe Maddon and Charlie Manuel are two great managers who got to show the whole baseball public what they can do. The Phils, baseball's oldest team that has played in only one city with one nickname, took the Series for only the second time.
The New York Yankees, the greatest franchise in the history of professional sport, reasserted their dominance in 2009, taking their 27th World Series title by defeating the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies. Joe Girardi was in his first season managing in the Bronx, after Joe Torre's long, successful run. The Bombers were also celebrating their first season in the new Yankee Stadium, a gleaming billion dollar plus palace across the street from The House that Ruth Built.
Finally, in the season just ended, the San Francisco Giants won for the first time since 1954. They defeated the Texas Rangers for the championship, the first time that the Rangers had ever won a playoff game at home, won a playoff series, or won the American League pennant. It was baseball after the old style, brilliant pitching, timely hitting, speed and defense. The legendary Giants' manager, John McGraw, would have had no trouble recognizing the game that he dominated at the turn of the 20th century, as played by Bruce Bochy's team. Add to that the retirements of Bobby Cox, Joe Torre and Lou Piniella, and the stage is set for a new era to begin.
The only thing that I now hope to live to see in baseball is a championship won by the Chicago Cubs, now set to begin their 103rd season since they won the World Series last, in 1908.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Red Sox Season Finally Ends!
Dateline: Arlington, TX
ALCS Game Six Recap: TheRod Back to Postseason Stinking; Phil Hughes' Command as Reclusive as Howard Hughes; Yanks Fear Hamilton; 2010 Yanks Became Old and Older!
Fashion Critique: Brian Cashman looks much better in the cap whose logo read "Spring Training" than he does in one marked "AL Champions."
The Granddaughter's Assessment of the Yankees: Yankees Stink! (Very advanced for not quite 22 months)
Final: Yankees Lose...TheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeYankees Lose!
(Bite it, Sterling!)
The Sox may now Rest in Peace for 2010!
ALCS Game Six Recap: TheRod Back to Postseason Stinking; Phil Hughes' Command as Reclusive as Howard Hughes; Yanks Fear Hamilton; 2010 Yanks Became Old and Older!
Fashion Critique: Brian Cashman looks much better in the cap whose logo read "Spring Training" than he does in one marked "AL Champions."
The Granddaughter's Assessment of the Yankees: Yankees Stink! (Very advanced for not quite 22 months)
Final: Yankees Lose...TheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeYankees Lose!
(Bite it, Sterling!)
The Sox may now Rest in Peace for 2010!
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