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October 31, 2004
MAD SONGS SAY SO
MAD SONGS SAY SO MUCH
So turn 'em on... turn 'em on... turn on those mad songs. Here's Eminem's new video... a big, animated middle finger to the Bush regime. For those who don't speak rap, here's some of the lyrics (with my favorite lines bolded):
Let the president answer our high anarchy; strap him with a AK-47, let him go fight his own war. Let him impress daddy that way. No more blood for oil, we got our own battles to fight on our own soil. No more psychological warfare to trick us to thinking that we ain't loyal if we don't serve our own country with patronizing "our hero;" look in his eyes, it's all lies. The stars and stripes have been swiped -- washed out and wiped, and replaced with his own face."
The video's in the same animation style as Korn's "Freak On A Leash." It takes even more shots at the regime than the lyrics does. Submitted for your approval.
GO PACK GO! Having
GO PACK GO!
Having grown up in Minnesota as a Vikings fan, I never -- ever!! -- expected to say what I am about to say. But the importance of the times calls for desperate measures.
I would pay money to make sure the Green Bay Packers win today.
Why would I commit the ultimate Viking treason, and cheer for the Cheeseheads? Simple. Because the Pack goes on the road to play the Washington Redskins this week. And the game apparently has much greater ramifications than just the NFL standings.
Going back to 1944, if the Redskins win their last home game before the election, the party that occupies the White House continues to hold it; if the Redskins lose that last home game, the challenging party's candidate unseats the incumbent president.
Look at the link; it's held true for fifteen consecutive elections now. So come on, Packers -- the fate of American freedom is riding on your backs!
(Of course if football follows the election with Bush involved, then the Packers could win 27-24, but then the Redskins' coach would appeal the decision on the field to the head of the referees' union... which would just happen to be run by the brother of the coach. And then when the refs' union seemed about to decide in favor of the Packers despite the explicit instruction of the coach's brother, the Washington coach could then appeal to the NFL -- the commissioner of which just happens to have been appointed by the Washington coach's father. So no matter what the play on the field dictated, the commissioner would want to make sure Washington won, the Packers' last touchdown would not be counted, and Washington would win 24-20.)
Anyway, go Packers!
Posted by Christopher at 01:12 PM | Comments (0)ALL IS NOT PERFECT You'd
ALL IS NOT PERFECT
You'd think I'd be so thrilled with the Red Sox' title that I would be just floating on air, not examining the state of baseball or the economic circumstances of the game that the Red Sox flourished in. Unh-unh.
I've been hearing a lot of the self-congratulatory east coast media raving about how the game of baseball is on a roll, has never been stronger, has had however many great post-seasons in a row... blah, blah, blah. They're wrong.
But they can't be blamed for being wrong. They're based in New York -- and to a lesser extent, Boston or Philadelphia. And if you live in the Northeast corridor, it's been a great run so far in this decade.
But what if you don't? What if you live somewhere that's not within 90 minutes of an ocean? What if you cheer for a team that's not based in New York, Boston, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Atlanta or Chicago? Are these really the glory days?
I hate to say so, but baseball's still broken. Here's the payrolls for all 2004 MLB franchises. Notice anything? Only one of the bottom-half payroll teams -- the Minnesota Twins -- made the playoffs. (And before you Twins fans out there go running your yaps all smug-like, take a look at something... the Twins outspent every team in the AL Central except the White Sox. The Twins are as guilty of buying their division titles as the big payroll teams you love to self-righteously hate.)
Does a large payroll guarantee success? Ask the Mets; the answer is no. But only an inexplicable late season collapse kept the Cubs out of the playoffs, and only player-manager friction kept the Phillies out. But if you look at the 12 highest payrolls, only the Mets (incompetence) and Mariners (age) failed to finish at least ten games over .500. Meanwhile, of the bottom twelve payrolls, only two -- the Twins and Marlins -- finished with winning records, and only two others -- the Orioles and Indians -- finished within 10 games of .500.
So once again in 2004, the major key to success would not appear to be pitching, hitting, bench depth or managing. The key to success is payroll.
The Red Sox are part of the problem. They spent $127M this year on payroll. That pales in comparison to the kings of buying success, of course. The Yankee payroll was $184M -- $57 million more than the second place team. Look at the payroll list; there are 14 teams whose total payroll is less than $57 million. The difference between the Yankees and #2 is greater than basically half the league's entire teams. Then, the difference between the Sox and #3 is another $26.7 million. And 17 teams have total payrolls less than half of what the Sox spent.
So before we on the east coast break our arms from trying to pat ourselves on the back too vigorously for what we're calling a great postseason, let's remember that the Yankees and Sox were in the position to play those games primarily because they were able to spend more money than everyone else. That's a harsh fact for Sox fans like me to have to deal with -- that we are rightfully lumped in with our despised arch-rivals. But the odiousness of the thought doesn't change that fact.
And 2005 promises to be even worse. George Steinbrenner has been choking on bile every day for the last two weeks, and it is a virtual stone cold, lead pipe cinch that the Yankee payroll will push $240M, possibly even $250M as he tries to avoid watching the Sox celebrate a second time. And no amount of pressure or anger from the rest of baseball will stop Steinbrenner; he just doesn't care about how much he is hated, and he doesn't care about the damage that overly high payrolls do to the overall health of the game. Mark it down, today, October 31, 2004: the New York Yankee payroll in 2005 will be at least $240M.
The Red Sox, for their part, suffer from similar myopia -- exacerbated now by the taste of World Series champagne. Sox management cares about one thing: beating the Yankees and stuffing that success down George Steinbrenner's throat. As a Sox fan, I love that; I wish I could have had a camera near Steinbrenner while the Sox were celebrating in Yankee Stadium... I'd be replaying that moment on TiVo pretty much non stop, freeze-framing the exact moment when the blood vessels in his forehead burst and the veins on his neck bulged.
But as a baseball fan, I can't see the trend as healthy. Sure, east coast apologists will trot out the '03 Marlins or the Oakland A's and say, "See? It's not so bad!" But the problem is, mid-budget teams have to rely on catching lightning in a bottle, a la the '03 Marlins, to win a title; low-budget teams can find some measure of success, like the Twins and A's, but will never have the resources to go acquire a Schilling or an A-Rod or a Sheffield, the guy who will put them over the hump. Meanwhile, big payroll teams like the Yankees, Red Sox, Angels, Dodgers, Cubs and Braves continue to guarantee themselves that they will at least be in the playoff hunt every year, if not the World Series, simply by virtue of their payroll.
So while we on the east coast congratulate ourselves on what we believe to be great post-seasons and astounding runs, many of the baseball fans everywhere else in the country simply stop caring about baseball by the All-Star break. And I just can't see that as a sign that the game is healthy, no matter how thrilling the games on the field may be. What good's a thrilling game if no one outside of the Northeast corridor is watching?
For a good perspective on how it feels to be a fan of a small market team, I strongly recommend this article from the New York Times... it seems no one in Pittsburgh was watching the playoffs. They didn't care.
This is a difficult time of year in most baseball-loving American cities. But it feels especially gloomy in places like Kansas City, Milwaukee, Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, small-market cities with substantial baseball traditions but where the modern economics of sport mitigate against success. The Yankees' payroll is $183 million; they pay Derek Jeter and Mike Mussina alone more than the Pirates - whose payroll is $32 million - pay their entire roster. It is now possible to argue that some franchises, like the Pirates, have been consigned to perpetual mediocrity.
Oh - and for those east coast fans who are inclined to say, "Well, they just need to spend more money, and then they'll compete," I offer this reminder: Boston's metro area is 5.8 million people -- you could fit 3 1/2 Kansas Citys into that. New York's metro area is 21.2 million; you can fit five Atlantas, seven Minneapolis-St. Pauls, 8 1/2 Pittsburghs, and 14 Milwaukees into that. There is a huge difference in the size of the fan bases. Not only that, but only the Northeast teams own their own TV networks and get revenue from those sources. Other teams do not have the resources we do. And for a fan of a big budget team like the Yankees or Sox to say, "they should just spend more," it's a little like people who live in Palm Beach or the Hamptons or Back Bay or Martha's Vineyard walking into Harlem or Appalachia and saying, "you should just build a five million dollar house." It's arrogant and uninformed for us to say so.
So what's the solution? Well, obviously I am in favor of a salary cap. I don't think the luxury tax works; people like Steinbrenner, and to a lesser extent John Henry, will decide to just suck up the tax and wear it like a badge of honor. I don't think it's good for the game that the biggest factor for success in MLB is how much you can spend and which players you can afford to sign away from someone else. And I don't think that it's good for the game that at least half the league has been for all intents and purposes eliminated on Opening Day.
On the other hand, I also would support a salary floor. It's not fair for revenue sharing to kick in and have New York, L.A., Chicago and Boston paying into the smaller teams, and have owners like Kansas City's David Glass or Minnesota's Carl Pohlad simply pocket the money and not put it back onto the field as it was intended when revenue sharing was developed. Revenue sharing was not intended to make every franchise a money maker; it was intended to improve competitiveness.
So I'd be in favor of a solution that dictated both a floor and a cap -- all teams would have to have payrolls no higher than $95 million, but no lower than $55 million. The players union ought to support that, because it would up the salaries of the lower-end players would go up. And then it really would be scouting, farm systems, pitching, defense, hitting, and managing that ensured success.
Posted by Christopher at 10:08 AM | Comments (0)A NEW DOCTOR'S OFFICE So
A NEW DOCTOR'S OFFICE
So as you all know, the Doc is not only one of my closest friends, he's also the sucker responsible for introducing me to blogging. (You can yell at him for that foolish mistake on his own site.)
Well, he's finally switched his blog address to match his name. So for those of you who've linked to him -- or for those who just want to read his ramblings -- please note that the new URL for the Doc is:
Take two asprin and read him in the morning.
October 30, 2004
HERO NO MORE You can
HERO NO MORE
You can take the Curt Schilling jersey off my Christmas list.
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm just mad because Schilling endorsed Bush and was going to make a campaign appearance with him until public reaction made him back out for "medical reasons." You think that if Schilling had endorsed Kerry, I'd be fine with what he did.
You're wrong.
Don't get me wrong. I was personally very disappointed to hear Schilling reveal that he is a member of the Dark Side. Now I know how Michael Jackson's biggest fans felt when they first realized that he likes to touch little boys.
But though I am disappointed, I'm not angry with Curt Schilling for his politics. I'm angry with him because he chose to inject his personal politics into the biggest New England sports moment ever. During a moment bigger than any one person, he believed it was about him and his ideas.
Politics has even less place in baseball than it does in art. And if it's annoying when actors spout politics when winning an Oscar or Grammy, it's outright infuriating to have sports figures doing it.
The city of Boston, all of New England, and citizens of Red Sox Nation everywhere waited 86 years for this moment. When it finally came, it was euphoric, it was delicious, it was altogether glorious. How self-involved and narcissistic do you have to be to inject your personal agenda -- whatever it is -- into a moment that's so clearly about millions of other people, a moment that's been generations in coming? This day, this weekend, this moment... this feeling was something people waited for all their lives. They deserved to be able to savor it for what it was.
Whether Schilling was supporting Bush or Kerry is irrelevant. In an election as close as this one, with people as polarized as any American electorate in a century or more, an endorsement of either candidate was bound to somewhat alienate about half of the fan base. It didn't ruin things per se, but it left a taste in the mouths of some of the fans -- as a Kerry endorsement would have -- and Schilling had no business acting as if he and his personal beliefs were bigger than this moment.
It's a shame such a huge talent has such a huge ego to go along with it.
Posted by Christopher at 11:05 AM | Comments (0)October 28, 2004
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... THE BAMBINO
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... THE BAMBINO HAS LEFT THE BUILDING
I've been lucky enough in my life to see some amazing things. I've seen the magic bullet, Lee Harvey Oswald's Manlicher-Carcano rifle, and Jackie Kennedy's pink Chanel suit close up and with my own eyes. I've looked down upon Washington DC from the outdoor walkway atop the Capitol dome (just under the pedestal with the "Freedom" statue -- visible here, right at the top of the curved part of the dome but under the pedestal going up) that you can only access if a member of Congress escorts you. I've looked out on a crowd of several thousand from a stage listening to me give the valedictory address at a commencement; seen some of the most powerful business leaders in the world speaking words I wrote for them, and heard a crowd of 1,500 roar its approval at them. I've seen a full moon while out on the ocean in the middle of the night, out of sight from land, when moonlight is the only light in the blackness. I've seen the casinos of Monte Carlo, and driven across France from south to north and arrived in Paris -- the City of Lights -- at midnight. All of these things were great, but none of them can even compare:
Last night was the most exciting thing I have ever seen in my life.
The city of Boston erupted into the largest display of wanton, unrestrained, unabahsed joy that I will ever witness. The Red Sox won the World Series, as you know... and set off a celebration that I was lucky enough to be a part of. My hands are sore from all the high fiving, and I'm all hugged out for the next two weeks at least.
The only way I can think to explain it to you is this: picture the one event or one thing that you have been saying for years, "I want to see this," or "if this ever happens, I've got to be there to see it"... that one thing that you expect to wait literally your whole life to see, and maybe never will. Are you thinking of it? Well, that's what I saw last night.
Since about my second week in Boston as a grad student, I've have been saying, "if the Sox ever do win a World Series, I have got to be in Boston when it happens." And you know what? I was there. Whether it happens four more times in the next ten years, or doesn't happen again in my lifetime, I was there the night the Red Sox finally won for the first time since 1918. It was the best night of my life. (Sorry, this is going to be a verrry long post... but I want to remember it all and have it down somewhere so that I'll have it for my own self to look back on... usually I write with an audience in mind, but tonight I am writing for me... so you're just going to have to sit through a long one. My sincere apologies for the lack of editing.)
First of all, I don't know if there is a better time or place for a drive than New England in autumn. As I drove from New York, through Connecticut and into Massachusetts, I was treated to the peak of foliage season in New England. For 200 miles, you get brilliant hues of orange, gold, red, and yellow that seem to come right off an artist's palette and into the landscape. I've done autumns in this part of the country since 1997 now, and it hasn't yet ceased to amaze me. If you have not ever seen New England in the fall, the colors here are more brilliant and varied than anywhere else in the US; I highly recommend that you make a trip to see it in person someday.
I don't know if you have the same sensation when you return to the place where you went to college, but every time I get back to Boston I get this instant sense of "I'm home." Not even heavy traffic could dilute my sense of happiness of being back, and being back for this reason. Anyway, I got into downtown and found the hotel that my friend Steve and I had reserved. (By the way, for some more good reading, and a personal account of Sox fandom, check out this piece that Steve wrote for Boston Magazine. Ever read something that made you realize that there are things about your friends' lives that you never knew? This is one of those articles. It's really good.)
Steve and I decided that anything close to Fenway was already going to be packed to the point of claustrophobia, so we decided to stay down in the financial district. We were only about two blocks from J.J. Foley's, one of the banking area's more well-known pubs... so we went in. It was quieter here at 7:15 yet; there were still a couple of booths open, so we quickly got one. Over the next hour, people started filing in slowly; at first, we were kind of worried that we'd chosen a bad place to be, but as game time got closer it started picking up.
My best performance of this early part of the evening was trying to convince a guy who was about to sit down at the booth next to us that the booth was already taken... it wasn't, but there was a cute little blonde who'd just walked in, and I was kind of hoping she'd be next to us. Ever try to convince a person who desperately wants to sit somewhere that the seat is taken even though no one appears to be sitting there? I'm proud to tell you that I turned on the silver tongue long enough to actually make the guy go away; I got the companion I wanted for the booth next door. (big cheesy grin)
So the game began... every time Fox showed some moment from past Sox failures (Slaughter's mad dash, Bob Gibson on the mound, Buckner, Bucky F.N. Dent, etc.), the crowd booed raucously. Something was different tonight; Sox fans actually felt -- dare I say it -- confident about a World Series. Johnny Damon led off the game with a home run, and the place just erupted; "Jesus" had set the tone for the game, and the assembled crowd seemed to know that it was our night. (First t-shirt purchased: "What Would Johnny Do?")
As the game progressed, the place filled up; by the 5th inning, it was standing room only. Steve's friend Steve (and this is my other brother Darryl) showed up in the 3rd after driving in from Connecticut after work. We ran into a stringer reporter from the New York Times who was doing a story on the passion and extent of Red Sox Nation; she was specifically looking for Sox fans who were not from Boston. Steve and I spent 20 minutes jockeying over who could deliver the best sound bite. If I see the article run, you'll get a link to it right quick, I promise.
The Sox made it 3-0 by the 3rd inning, and then Derek Lowe settled in, pitching a great game. Steve and Steve talked a lot, which was fine with me because it gave me an excuse to talk to my blonde friend, much to the chagrin of her three male companions. (Heh, heh.) Steve won the title for Most Unneccesary Tip of the Night by leaning across the table and saying, "Hey, I think she kind of likes you."
By the 7th inning, the noise in the bar was deafening; there was no more room to stand, everyone was shoulder to shoulder on the floor, and we were really glad for our booth. The crescendo rose with every out, every pitch. My cell phone started ringing off the hook in the 8th; my friend Mike from Boston, my friend Brent, Tim calling in from New York... every Sox fan in my circle was calling in.
The blonde next door had started leading the crowd in chants of "Let's go, Rrrred Sox," by the 5th inning; not wanting to be left out, the guys with her started chants now of "No more years," and "Yankees Suck." (It's always about the Yankees with Sox fans. They always suck, no matter who we're playing.)
By this point, there are no strangers in this bar. No one gives names; there is no need to. But you are on a face to face level with everyone; you've exchanged high fives or hugs or "Yeahhhhhhhhhhh!"s with every single person. There will be no such thing as personal space tonight, or boundaries of any kind. You are best friends with hundreds of people whose names you'll never know. You hug them as if you've known them your whole life.
By the start of the bottom of the ninth, I'm not sure if pandemonium is even descriptive enough to explain the atmosphere. The Steves and I just looked at each other with cat-eating grins, and sounded barbaric yawps at each other in disbelief that this was happening. It was so loud in the place that even from two feet away, we could barely hear each other shouting at the top of our lungs. My blonde friend and I were clasping hands and hugging over the top of the booth with every out. The entire bar was high fiving with every pitch.
And as first Scott Rolen and then Jim Edmonds got out, leaving us with only one to go, the anticipation level rose to something I will never experience again. There had to be 300 people in that bar, all of them waiting for something they'd wanted desperately all their lives but had never gotten. The noise reached ear-ringing levels. Everyone in the booths stood up; if they couldn't get floor space, they stood on top of their benches or tables. The entire place seemed to be bursting at the seams. I took out my cell phone and called Tim; I couldn't even really tell if he had answered on the other end, but I just yelled into the phone, "I'm not saying anything else... but I wanted you to hear this. You're here, Tim. You're with us." And as I stood on the floor at the edge of our table, I held the phone up over my head and turned to the big screen to watch...
I will replay the next moments in my head for the rest of my life. On a 1-0 pitch, Edgar Renteria grounded back to Keith Foulke (t-shirt #2: "Foulke the Curse"). Foulke fields it, starts running to first. He seems unsure if he wants to tag Renteria or toss to first. The bar starts shouting and screaming. Foulke underhands the ball to Mientkewicz. He catches it. The bar erupts even louder. Malphabet jumps into the air. There is bedlam at J.J. Foley's. The noise in the bar is so loud that we can't even hear the final call from Joe Buck. I look at Steve, who's been waiting 36 years for this, his arms raised.
On screen, Varitek leaps into Foulke's arms. In the bar, my blonde friend leaps over the top of her booth, steps across our bench, and hurtles onto me, leaving the ground completely and nearly knocking me over with a bear hug, her arms around my neck and legs around my ribs. I hold onto her with my left arm while holding my right in the air with the phone, hoping Tim can hear all this. I'm screaming "YEAAAAAAAGGHHHHHHH!" so loudly and barbarically that Howard Dean is jealous. I get hugged from my right by some random bar guy, and I nearly drop my phone. The bar has erupted into a mass war cry, one giant hug, and as I look around I don't see anyone not jumping and embracing.
My blonde friend gets down long enough to hug her companions. I hug the Steves. Someone else from the floor gives me a high five. The Steves scream at each other. I hug the blonde's companions, who at least for the moment have forgiven me completely because hey, we're all Sox fans. One of them is wearing a Minnesota Wild sweatshirt; it turns out that while he's a Sox fan, he's from St. Paul. I tell him I grew up in Minnesota. He hugs me tighter.
My connection to Tim is lost when my friend Irina from DC calls me. She doesn't care a bit about baseball, but knows how big this moment is for me. I don't know if she can even hear me. I cannot hear her, so I just yell, "I'm in a bar in Boston, I can't hear you!" I think she says "Congratulations" and then hangs up. My blonde friend grabs me by the hand and says, "Come on, we're doing shots!" (There is only one acceptable response when a person you find attractive says, "Come on, we're doing shots." That response is, "Okay.") It takes us two minutes to traverse the 20 feet to the bar, because everyone wants to hug us or high five us.
We get to the bar, and as we order the shot (I don't even know what I drank; she ordered it), the house stereo system cranks up THE song, as loud as it will go, the one they play at Fenway every time the Sox win a game... the six guitar notes sound out, and the crowd yells even louder. The tambourine kicks in, and the singer says, "I'm gonna tell you a story..." and suddenly the whole bar is dancing, singing along at the top of our painfully hoarse voices. No one has voice left, but everyone is screaming along, "Well I love that Dirty Water... awwwwohhh, Boston, you're my home!" and it's the best rendition of the song I have ever heard. I can't dance for squat, but tonight, we're Fred and Ginger.
We down the shot, and she kisses me. Very well. (Heh, heh.) We walk back over to our booth, hugging a dozen people on the way back. She's not letting go of me; she jumps back up into my arms again as we get back to the booth, clinging for dear life. I put her down, and suddenly Steve taps my shoulder, and says it's time to go to Fenway, 2.5 miles away. I look at him in disbelief for a second, as if to say, "Do you see this cute blonde person attached to me right now? I'm going nowhere with you, pal!" But I think better of it; tonight is a night for celebrating the Red Sox, not chasing girls. We say our goodnights to the crowd around us (some goodbyes are longer and friendlier than others). The Steves are outside before me, but when I get outside they're standing on the sidewalk just grinning like children on Christmas morning. The Red Sox have won the World Series. We begin walking to Kenmore Square.
We get up to Tremont Street, along Boston Common. There's already bedlam. Cars line Tremont, cabbies honking their horns, people leaning out of their windows and shouting. It's literally already bumper to bumper, and we're still two miles to Fenway, and it's already this crazy? I'm on the phone with my buddies from grad school, the guys with whom I developed my passion for the Red Sox, the guys who went with me to about 30 Sox games in our year and a half in Boston, the guys I wish were here to experience this with us... first Dave out in California, and then Damian in upstate New York. Dave says, "You lucky bastard, I can't believe you're there!" and I realize how fortunate I am to be in the middle of all this. The car horns grow louder, a constant cacophony now. "Can you hear this?" I yell to Damian. He's just repeating, "Unbelieveable" over and over, and asking me to hold the phone out to the street so he can hear it. (Damian has "1918" tattooed on his bicep. That's devotion. But now he's going to need to get some new ink done.) I call Tim as we get to Boylston Street and turn toward Fenway so that he can hear the craziness too.
There are first hundreds, then thousands of people on the street. Everyone either high fives you or hugs you on the way as you walk past them; it's an unwritten rule. (My hand was literally a little bit swollen by the time we got to Kenmore from all the high fives.) As we got to Newbury Street (the Rodeo Drive of Boston), there were so many cars in the street that no one was even moving anymore. People sat on the roofs of their cars and drummed a beat, others leaned out their windows waving Sox flags... and the crowds on the sidewalk thickened to shoulder to shoulder. There was nothing out of control about it; no one was vandalizing anything, as far as I could see.
Everyone just seemed compelled to be in the streets and head to Kenmore Square and Fenway. The closest comparison I can think of is Times Square on V-J Day. (No, war and baseball are not even close to the same thing; I would never make that comparison. I'm just trying to describe the crowd reaction and how everyone seemed compelled to just go outside and congregate and be happy together.) Even more than the sights, I will best remember the sounds of this evening; all the car horns and stereos playing Dominican music (for Pedro) or "Dirty Water," all the cheering. That's going to stay with me forever.
We got to CommAve (Commonwealth Avenue, for the unintiated) and completed the walk to Kenmore Square. We walked past riot police in their Robocop gear, which seemed odd, but we figured that a show of force might be what was keeping the crowd so well-behaved. More riot police lined the store fronts, discouraging anyone who might think about looting. We stopped to talk to a couple of them; most of them were civil and in a good mood. I've read reports that 100,000 people were there; I believe it. It was amazing, but truthfully was kind of anti-climactic. The walk there was giddy and celebratory; once people got there, it was like they didn't know what to do. We looked around for a few minutes, then tried to walk back.
The commander of the riot squad must have been the only cop in a bad mood. (Maybe he was a Yankee fan?) He decided it was time to clear people out; he cupped his hands and yelled that everyone had to move. (A joke, trying to get the attention of 100,000 revelers without so much as a megaphone.) The problem was that the Steves and I were right in front of them as he said it. We made the "mistake" of stopping to talk amongst ourselves about how best to get back... the cop seemed to take this as a slight. As he gave the order to his team to march forward, he looked at us and growled, "You had your chance." Shocked, we took a couple steps toward them, since our hotel was behind them. We had our hands up, to show no threat; Steve started to say something like, "We're leaving." The commander unsheathed his nightstick. We thought, "Uh oh." We turned around and went the other way.
I pointed across to the other side of CommAve (which is a divided boulevard with an island in the middle), we ran across the island and tried to turn down the other side. When we looked right, there was another phalanx of riot cops advancing on the square. It felt odd. I know why they were there... and I don't disagree with it necessarily. But it was still weird to be in a city, in a square that I know so well (in grad school we all lived literally right around the corner from Kenmore Square) and be staring down the barrel of a squadron of riot cops. It seemed to me they were overreacting; the crowd was extremely well behaved, from what I could see. But whatever their reason, there we were, looking at riot police with shields and sticks advancing on our position. I don't wish to repeat that experience -- though I must admit to a small bit of an adrenalin rush that was kind of like going down a black diamond run when skiing... you know you're in over your head, but there's still something sort of cool about it and you want to keep doing it even though you know you could be in danger. I wasn't scared so much, even though I knew we should leave; I kind of wanted to stay and see what would happen. (I never did outgrow that troublemaking imp phase where I just want to see "what would happen if...") Thankfully, Steve is saner than I, and we decided to leave.
However, via some of the back roads (thank you, Bay State Road!) we were able to get back to downtown without further incident. We walked back to the hotel, said goodnight to the other Steve, and settled in to watch the ESPN coverage of the win, before finally falling asleep around 4:00. We got up at 7:15 and drove back to New York and worked today, which was a bit of a challenge. But for the experience of being there in Boston when it happened, Steve and I got a little bit of celebrity out of it. We spent all of lunch and much of the day recounting the night's events. And I must say that the Yankee fans around us were gracious and classy and let us enjoy our moment. Thanks, guys.
So that was it... that was being in Boston when the Red Sox finally won the World Series. I have two more baseball posts left in me for tomorrow (mostly because Curt Schilling ticked me off today, but that's another story and I'm not letting him take this moment from me... and one that cousin Joe will actually appreciate), and then I promise you, no more baseball and no more Red Sox posts until February, when spring training begins and we start this all over again. (And for the record, there never was such thing as a "Curse." Just an 86 year run of bad luck.)
But no matter what happens next season, this one belonged to us. They can't take it away; we'll always have it. And I will always have the memory of the most exciting night I've experienced yet. I'm going to be hoarse for the next four days... I don't care. I took pictures, but I still have a couple of shots left on the roll, and we have the Halloween party this weekend, so I will wait till there are shots of me as Fat Elvis before I develop them... but I'll post them after this weekend.
Thanks for putting up with my delirium for the last two weeks, friends. We now return you to your regularly scheduled 'Mudge.
October 27, 2004
UPDATE It's in the books
UPDATE
It's in the books and set. I am going to Boston this afternoon for what may be the world's first party that took 86 years to plan. Photos and stories to come.
Hte Red Sox will win tonight. I believe.
EDIT: ESPN.com's Page 2 has a great column here by Bill Simmons, "The Sports Guy," who is from Boston. In it, he says much of what I tried to say in my post last night, only he says it better. He also links back to the Sons of Sam Horn message thread that started this... if you want to know what this week means to Red Sox fans, I humbly recommend that you read that thread, whether in its entirety or just pieces of it. The number of Sox fans saying, "this one's for Dad/Grandpa/Aunt Louisa/whoever" is just mind boggling. Many of these are tear-jerkers -- so have the tissue ready.
86 years in the making...
And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Good on ya, Boston.
Posted by Christopher at 01:35 PM | Comments (0)October 26, 2004
HTE RED SOX WILL
HTE RED SOX WILL WIN TONIGHT. I BELIEVE
My beloved Red Sox won Game 3 of the World Series tonight, 4-1, to take a three games to none lead over the S. Louis Cardinals. Pedro Martinez -- whom I freely admit to cursing and doubting in the last month -- turned in the performance of his dreams, shining bright on the big stage in his first World Series start and cementing his legacy in Boston and in history. He may not be the "old Pedro" anymore, but for one night, he turned back the clock and asked us all to join him one last time.
I'm a grown man. Is it ridiculous that my heart is about to burst? Is it frivilous that I am almost as we speak making arrangements to be in Boston Wednesday night, or whenever it needs to be?
As I have said before, part of the magic of baseball is that it can instantly turn grown men into little boys. I have been eight years old for a week now, and if the Sox can hold on and win one more game, I may never get back past nine.
Maintaining a residence in the New York area for the last six years, I have repeated something ad nauseum to the Yankee fans who have delighted in the Sox' many woes: that it takes a special kind of nobility, a special kind of fan to love the Red Sox... knowing that every year they will break your heart, and yet every year offering it up to them anyway. There's been a truth to that, and it determines the mindset of every Sox fan. I have been bleeding with the Sox for seven passionate years now, and I truly believed I might not see the Sox win a Series in my lifetime -- might never see the day that now should come sometime before Sunday.
But now that day is almost here, and I have no words to explain the joy of seeing a day you really expected never to live long enough to see.
You wouldn't understand unless you've lived in Boston or gone to college there. You wouldn't understand how much passion is dedicated to this team by its fans, or how it is impossible to spend more than a month there without that passion seeping through your pores and into your soul. You wouldn't understand unless you have been there, in the pubs and on the streets, in the parks and in the schools, and seen what this team means to its fans. You wouldn't understand unless you have heard men get a catch in their voice talking about how their father passed away this past winter without ever having seen the Red Sox win it all.
Dan Shaughnessy of the Boston Globe had a column Tuesday that tried to explain that sense of generational unity.
That's why this matters so much.
They remind you of your father and mother, maybe your grandfather, too. And they remind you of your sons and daughters and all that you taught them when they were young. Like green eyes and freckles, love of the Red Sox is passed through bloodlines, and the shared passion can bridge the gaps that come with maturity and growth.
In every family there's inevitable distance -- sometimes geographic, sometimes philosophical or emotional. But the Red Sox furnish common ground, which is why they are more than a baseball team and why this is more than a story of a surge to a long-awaited championship.
How many of you have heard from relatives in the last 10 days, maybe a sibling you haven't spoken with in a while? And how many former New Englanders are watching their televisions in Colorado, Arizona, or Florida, remembering growing up with the mellow voice of Curt Gowdy pouring out of the porch radio into the humid night?
How many of you watched the thrilling comeback against the Yankees and thought of a parent or a spouse who has died? How many watched the first two games of the World Series and thought about how much more special this would be if Uncle Joe or Aunt Elizabeth had lived to see it?
Those who have adopted Boston share the family secrets. People around the globe who went to college in our town still carry a love of the Red Sox along with memories of that first beer in the Fenway bleachers. The Citgo sign beyond the left-field wall was the lighthouse that steered them back to their dorms on those first wobbly nights of undergrad freedom. The Sox connected them then and they connect them now.
On the Sons of Sam Horn community message board that Tim and I frequent, there have been dedications to the fathers and grandfathers and mothers who infused the members with their love of the Sox. Some of them are enough to make me tear up. When I think of how many New Englanders were born, raised, and lived their whole lives only to die without ever seeing the moment I could be about to see in the next few days... and how many of those people have come back to life this week in the memories of those they left behind as the moment draws nearer... I get chills. This is not just about a baseball team winning a championship. It's about the heart of an entire region, about those who came before and those around now to see it.
I understand that Sox culture can seem foreign at best and flat out annoying at worst to fans of other teams or people from other parts of the country; how we can seem so over-the-top self-indulgent with this, and how we can seem to actually enjoy wallowing in misery that other fans cast aside after an off-season. Fair enough; I'll respect that point of view. But it's no matter. This means more than baseball to Red Sox Nation. You wouldn't understand unless you've seen it first hand.
So with a nod to a post I saw on SoSH, I'm exhorting and imploring the 2004 Boston Red Sox to win it all tonight.
Win for Teddy Ballgame, the greatest player never to win a World Series, and who deserved far more peace in death than his family allowed him.
Win for Johnny Pesky, who never held the ball, who was for a generation blamed for something he didn't do, and who even so never lost the faith. Win for Dom DiMaggio and Bobby Doerr and the rest of the guys from 1946.
Win for Carl Yastrzemski, the last Triple Crown winner, who carried the 1967 Red Sox to a pennant, and whose only son died from a blood clot only five weeks ago at the age of 44. Nothing will ever replace a man's son, but if you win you can make this load a little lighter for Yaz.
Win to finish the Impossible Dream of 1967; win for Carlton Fisk and Jim Rice and Freddie Lynn and Dwight Evans and the rest of the 70s Red Sox who should have had more than one pennant; win to finally erase one maligned moment from the otherwise incredible career of Bill Buckner.
Win for every Red Sox fan who taught their child or grandchild or niece or nephew to love the Red Sox just as deeply, win or lose. Win for all the parents who never saw this day, and win for the children who tonight are wishing those parents were here to see it with them. Win for the son or daughter I'd like to have someday, so that I can tell them about this day and this week and this season.
Win so that I can be in Boston for one of the greatest nights in my life. Hell, win so that Tim and I can finally start blogging about something else. Win because it will make every last one of you a New England legend.
Cause I love that Dirty Water... Hte Red Sox will win tonight. I believe.
Posted by Christopher at 11:17 PM | Comments (0)October 25, 2004
SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE MUST BE HUNG
So I did a little errand running when I left work tonight. Nothing major - actually, I started out looking for accoutrements for my Halloween costume. As I finished shopping, I happened to pass a Bath and Body Works, so I stopped in to pick up some hand soap for the bathroom. (Shut up, Doc. It's the same stuff you have in your house... so I'm not the only one shopping there.)
I went in... and realized to my horror that it has begun. By "it," I mean... retail Christmas season.
You must understand that perhaps the truest indicator of my curmudgeon-ness is the fact that I hate Christmas. I loathe the entire season. Have ever since I was a pre-teen. Something, even when I was a precocious, too-smart-for-his-britches 12 year old, just rankled me about the holiday. I find it to be little more than an extended exercise in phoniness and commercialism. And retail is one of the largest reasons why.
When I walked into Bath and Body Works tonight, the entire front half of the store was a mass of red and green displays and boxes. Banners hung from the ceiling imploring customers to "be naughty" and "be nice." And Christmas music blared from the speakers. (If they think I am cutting them a break just because it was B.B. King's version of a Christmas song and he laid down a hell of a solo in the middle of it, they are sorely mistaken.)
People... IT'S OCTOBER 25!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Christmas does not come for two more months!!! The holiday shopping season is still four weeks away! The leaves in the greater New York area have just hit their peak -- the colors are brilliant, and we're in the middle of enjoying a delightful autumn season. It's still six more days before children dress up like things that frighten fundamentalist Christians and go extorting candy from the neighbors under threat of vandalism. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind consider it appropriate to start Christmas now??? Christmas has turned into nothing but the longest Hallmark holiday -- if indeed it was ever more than that -- with the retail industry firmly in cahoots.
(Oh, and please spare me the "reason for the season" pablum-laced platitudes... there's nothing I hate more. For the doggone record, most historians and scholars believe Jesus Christ was born some time in the fall -- possibly October, but virtually 100% certainly not December 25. The "reason for the season" is that the Church's early leadership wished to coopt the pagan festivals of the winter solstice as they spread Christianity across the ancient world. It was easier to celebrate the Christian god on a day that people were already used to celebrating. So all those fundamentalist Christians who want to use the last five weeks of the year to proselytize the rest of us, I hope you realize that you're in fact paying homage to pagan ritual.)
There's not even room to list all the things I detest about the designated holiday celebration season. One has to be the utter phoniess of proclaiming a larger spirit behind a season utterly dedicated to commercialism. The raison d'etre for Christmastime is making money -- so the silly devotion to some spirit we're all supposed to have that emphasizes the unimportance of material things strikes me as egregiously phony.
Add in to this mix the fact that 99.999999% of those grinning morons in the stores or on the street who wish me "Merry Christmas" or "Happy holidays" have neither any clue who I am nor any honest care whether my Christmas is merry or maudlin; whether my holidays are happy or horrid. I could get hit by a bus on the way back to my car in the parking lot, and it wouldn't have any impact on their day in the slightest -- unless traffic got backed up even worse by the emergency vehicles attending to me. And if there's anything I disdain most, it's people engaging in phony sentiment toward me. You know what I'd really like? Someday, for some overstressed schmuck standing at the register to tell me flat out, "I don't know you, won't see you again five minutes after you leave the store, and really don't care whether your holiday is happy or not." I swear to you I would tip the person $50 simply for being candid with me.
Next, add in the fact that every musician and band feels tragically compelled to record a Christmas album. So we get "treated" to two things: one, 341 covers of the same seven damn carols, over and over and over... or two, "original music" that's even more infuriating than hearing about the stupid chestnuts in the stupid fire for the 90th time this hour. I tell you, if I never hear Wham's "Last Christmas" or that stupid Paul McCartney "Wonderful Christmastime" (which is now being played in ever more levels of Dante's Inferno now that Hilary Duff has decided to cover it) song again, it's still too late. The Christmas season is responsible for more bad music than The Cowsills and Celine Dion combined; it's time someone called that out.
Then we have the endless parade of schmaltz otherwise known as TV holiday movies. Whether it's some kid with a pair of shoes for his dying mother, or someone given a chance to live their last three days over again and be nice to people, or let's not forget the old classic plot line where some crusty, angry soul "learns the true meaning of Christmas" with the help of an orphan/a dog/Pat Boone/some poor kids/an angel/dying relative/new love interest/via an accident... there's more sap in December television than in all the maples in Vermont in November. I say, the only good Christmas story was A Christmas Carol -- and even that one was only good until Ebenezer Scrooge wussed out.
My point on all this is that my least favorite time of year is now being expanded and forced upon us all even earlier by the retail industry. Whoever the person is whose idea it was to start Christmas themse in Bath and Body Works on October 25, I'm going to find them, roast his chestnuts on an open fire until he hears silver bells and his eleven lords are leaping.
October 25. Sheesh!!
GET WELL SOON, LINDSAY'S BREASTS
I've neither ever hidden it nor ever made apologies for it: I am a shameless hit whore. And as such, I am not above stunts or tricks to get myself some extra search engine lovin'. Who knows - someone who stumbles upon my site looking for photos of "Sarah Michelle Gellar naked" or curious as to whether Jennifer Anniston has ever appeared in Playboy might actually see something he thinks is funny, and will come back every now and then.
So now that we have established that I have about as much shame as a Fox "News" producer, I wanted to make sure you were all aware of this story: that Hollywood's latest "It Girl," 18 year old Lindsay Lohan, has been hospitalized for a high fever and is undergoing tests.
The 18-year-old star of the teen film comedy "Mean Girls" was admitted to the hospital over the weekend after being ill for several days and running a temperature as high as 103 degrees Fahrenheit, her publicist, Leslie Sloane Zelnik, told Reuters.
"She's undergoing some tests," Zelnik said, adding that the actress may be suffering from the flu. "She's doing well and resting."
This would of course mean that Lindsay Lohan's breasts are running a 103 degree fever. This would be tragic. I mean, while they -- and she -- do nothing for me, I know that Lindsay Lohan's breasts generate thousands of search engine queries a day. So I hope you will join me in wishing Lindsay Lohan's breasts -- and the rest of Lindsay -- a quick and speedy recovery.
Posted by Christopher at 10:43 PM | Comments (0)THE PATH TO ETERNAL ENLIGHTENMENT
I love when the posts write themselves. Take this story, for instance:
Two Buddhist monks abandoned their vows after they fell in love with a pair of teenage girls who sold beer across from their temple in central Cambodia, a newspaper reported Monday.
Where to begin? First of all, I think I have discovered the major difference between Eastern religions and Western religions: in eastern religions, the priests go after legal young women instead of underage boys.
You know... I have been tempted to give up many things for a beer girl (hell, even for a beer!). But my whole career? Only if Jennifer Love Hewitt signs up with Corona.
But it begs the question... how exactly did the girls know that setting up an alcohol stand outside a monastery would be a winning proposition? Oh, wait... never mind.
I wonder if there's head with that beer?
What kind of beer was it? Michel-ohm? A HefeWISE-en?
Oh... the fun never stops here in Mudgeonland.
Posted by Christopher at 10:24 PM | Comments (0)ANOTHER CONSERVATIVE PAPER REJECTS BUSH
The presidency George W. Bush has been such an utter failure, based on deception and arrogance, that even die-hard conservative newspapers have found themselves with no choice but to reject his failed him. That's no surprise. But when even a paper in Idaho is urging its readers to abandon Bush, that shows you just how extensive Bush's failure has been.
Idaho has gone Republican every election since 1964. It's one of the most Republican states in the nation. And its main newspaper, the Idaho Statesman, has endorsed John Kerry for president.
Its endorsement is less an embrace of Kerry than a rejection of Bush. That's okay. Many voters aren't thrilled with Kerry. But as the Statesman points out, George W. Bush has been so deceptive in office, his policies so disasterous for our nation, and his presidency so destructive... that any alternative is preferable. As a voter, you don't have to like the alternative... so long as you recognize that a change still needs to happen. But don't just take my word for it. Listen to one of the most conservative papers in the United States:
Kerry has not won our confidence. But Bush has lost it.
Bush has made snap decisions. His shoot-from-the-hip style has polarized the nation. He has bulldozed environmental protections and piled up frightening budget deficits. Most critically, he rushed this nation into war in Iraq, costing more than 1,100 U.S. lives and damaging America's image abroad...
Nineteen months ago, we supported Bush's decision to go to war -- not just out of a sense of patriotism, but on the administration's claim that Saddam Hussein was stockpiling weapons. This president oversimplified the most complex decision of his term, and he got it wrong.
He went to war before allowing U.N. inspectors to complete their search for weapons. A recent Senate Intelligence Committee report called it "group think": Administration analysts believed Saddam had weapons and ignored evidence to the contrary. Perhaps. Or perhaps administration officials -- remembering the Iraq we encountered in the first Gulf War -- failed to adjust to changing conditions. Either way, Bush did not put enough critical thought into the war decision.
And now, even with a U.S. arms inspector saying the weapons weren't there, the White House seems to be making it up as it goes along. Instead of simply acknowledging a lapse in U.S. intelligence -- and saying it went to war based on the best information available -- this administration has improvised a new explanation, alleging that Saddam was abusing a U.N. oil-for-food program.
The biggest credibility question about Bush -- and it's significant -- is his famous inability to admit errors. By painting himself as a president who makes no mistakes, Bush seems to act as if he's above questioning...
Somewhere along the way, however, the man who promised to be a "uniter" took a turn away from common ground. He courted conservatives with deep tax cuts, controversial judicial nominees and his support of a superfluous constitutional amendment on gay marriage. Bush has denounced the partisanship on Capitol Hill as if he were a bystander. The record suggests otherwise.
October 24, 2004
LOUSY FIELDING MOJO IS ON!
The Red Sox continue to baffle me. They are playing atrocious, hideous, unspeakable defense -- setting a World Series record with 8 errors in the first two games -- but they don't give up any runs as a result in game 2. Terry Francona continues to make decisions that stop my heart (for example, taking Alan Embree out of the game after he'd just struck out the side in the 7th inning)... but they keep working out inexplicably. Curt Schilling's right ankle is held together with spackle, some duct tape and a wad of bubble gum... and yet he keeps delivering pitching performances for the ages.
And so it is that my beloved Red Sox have taken a 2-0 lead in the 2004 World Series. If this year's post-season teaches us anything, it's that nothing means anything until the 27th out is in the scorecard... so while I'm thrilled that we took the first two in Fenway, I am not thinking any further ahead than the next game. And for that, we have to go to the Cardinals' house -- where they have not lost a game in the post-season this year.
The Sox are lucky to be up 2-0; they should by all rights be down 0-2 given the 5-year-old-at-tee-ball defense they've been playing. And Pedro Martinez has looked more like the #4 starter for the Tigers lately than Pedro Martinez. So I do not feel overconfidence as the Series heads to St. Louis.
Other thoughts:
1) We had no IM mojo going on tonight, nor Hawaiian shirt mojo. But Tim had a great excuse... as those of you who read his site know, he had the chance to take his 83 year old grandfather to the game tonight -- the grandfather who is responsible for Tim being a Sox fan. It was a little piece of family magic, and I can only imagine what a moment it must have been for Tim and his Gramps to be there.
2) Curt Schilling continues to inspire me as perhaps the gutsiest man ever to play for the Red Sox (although Ted Williams still wins that title for being a fighter pilot in WWII and Korea and losing five years off his career). What he has done in the last week transcends greatness and extends into legend. Having a surgical procedure done just so he can play? And then doing it a second time five days later? The man is beyond gutsy.
I saw an interesting stat on ESPN.com tonight... one that made me wonder if we can call Schilling the greatest post-season pitcher in baseball history. Now, before you angrily accuse me of homerism, check this out:
Counting this start, Schilling now has allowed two earned runs or fewer in 12 of his 14 career postseason starts. In the division-play era, according to Elias, only four other pitchers have matched or beaten that: Tom Glavine (15 of 32); John Smoltz (14 of 26); Greg Maddux (14 of 29); Andy Pettitte (12 of 30); Schilling (12 of 14).
In the years from 1903 to 1968, when the World Series was the only level of postseason play, just Whitey Ford (12 of 22) had that many starts of two earned runs or fewer.
So since 1969, not only has Schilling pitched better in the postseason than almost any other pitcher, but he's done it in virtually half the time. And if you go all the way back to the first World Series, only one pitcher has matched Schilling's feat. For perspective, that means Schilling could pitch about 8 more post-season games, give up 3 or more earned runs in each, and he'd still be tied with Whitey Ford. Wow. This guy's got sack.
3) I couldn't help but notice this news today, and I had to share it with you.
Cardinal James Aloysius Hickey, 84, a champion of orthodoxy in church dogma and passionate provider of services to the poor during his 20 years as head of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Washington, died yesterday at a Northeast nursing home after several years of declining health.
Why does this matter? Well, it must mean something... on the day of Game 2, we're reading news stories about dead cardinals.
4) Only one thing left to say, really. And that's simply this...
We'll see you Tuesday night, folks.
Posted by Christopher at 11:09 PM | Comments (0)NO ONE WHO CALLED THEM 'SURRENDER MONKEYS' NEED APPLY
Couldn't help but notice this story. Guess who's coming to the rescue, to bail out America from the Bush administration's bungling of the flu virus situation?
A French company.
That's right. A company from France -- the nation that Bush's Stepford Voters loved to pillory, ravage and slander for the last two years -- is stepping up and supplying more than 2.6 million extra doses of flu vaccine in January, in addition to the 55.4 million doses it is already providing.
You know, not for nothing, but would it not be poetic justice if Aventis extracted a little nationalistic revenge for the way conservatives piled on to France since 2002? In other words... if you are a registered Republican, have ever listened to Rush Limbaugh, or supported the name change to "freedom fries," you're S.O.L. To paraphrase Seinfeld's Soup Nazi, "NO SHOTS FOR YOU!!!" And if you ever laughed at "Cheese Eating Surrender Monkey," Aventis gets to substitute flu germs into what you thought was your flu shot. When you're gacking your lungs out and can't get out of bed... let's see who you're calling a surrender monkey now.
Call it Freedom Vaccine. ;-)
Posted by Christopher at 09:41 PM | Comments (0)THE ORLANDO SENTINEL REJECTS BUSH
Newspaper endorsements for any candidate are of limited value, in my opinion. They're worth more for the PR value than they are for actually swaying many readers' opinions. (In other words, I am arguing that not too many undecided voters wake up in the morning, read the endorsements while scarfing down an english muffin and swigging a coffee, and suddenly say, "well, if the Daily Rag says so, then I'd better vote for him.")
However, when a heavily Republican paper -- one that has not endorsed a Democrat for president since 1964 and strongly supported Bush in 2000 -- not only endorses Kerry, but delivers a blistering rejection of Bush and a scathing indictment of his presidency... well, it's worth noting. So, I give you excerpts from the Orlando Sentinel's presidential endorsement for 2004.
Four years ago, the Orlando Sentinel endorsed Republican George W. Bush for president based on our trust in him to unite America. We expected him to forge bipartisan solutions to problems while keeping this nation secure and fiscally sound. This president has utterly failed to fulfill our expectations. We turn now to his Democratic challenger, Sen. John Kerry, with the belief that he is more likely to meet the hopes we once held for Mr. Bush.
... we cannot forget what we wrote in endorsing Mr. Bush in 2000: "The nation needs a leader who can bring people together, who can stand firm on principle but knows the art of compromise." Four years later, Mr. Bush presides over a bitterly divided Congress and nation. The unity following the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks -- the president's finest hour -- is a memory now. Mr. Bush's inflexibility has deepened the divide.
Four years ago, we expressed confidence that Mr. Bush would replace the Clinton-Gore approach of frequent military intervention for one of selective involvement "using strict tests to evaluate U.S. national interests." To the president's credit, the war in Afghanistan met those tests. But today, U.S. forces also are fighting and dying in a war of choice in Iraq -- one that was launched to disarm a dictator who did not have weapons of mass destruction. Meanwhile, nuclear threats from Iran and North Korea have worsened. Before the Iraq war, Mr. Bush brushed aside dissenting views -- some within his own government -- about Saddam Hussein's weapons capabilities. And because the president failed to round up more international support, more than 80 percent of the coalition forces in Iraq are American troops, and the United States is spending $1 billion a week on the conflict.
Four years ago, we also called on Mr. Bush to pay down the nation's multitrillion-dollar debt before cutting taxes or increasing spending. Yet since then, he has pushed through massive tax cuts, and the national debt has risen from $5.8 trillion to $7.4 trillion. Discretionary spending -- not including defense and homeland security -- has risen 16 percent over three years. The president has not vetoed a single spending bill. Mr. Bush has been unwilling to reconsider any of his tax cuts, even as the rationale for them -- a huge budget surplus -- has vanished, and the country has gone to war. Other presidents have raised taxes to pay for wars; Mr. Bush is borrowing the money, leaving the bill for future generations.
Four years ago, we called it a "disgrace" that 43 million Americans lacked health insurance. That number has risen under Mr. Bush to 45 million. Yet the plan he now touts on the campaign trail would reduce the ranks of the uninsured by less than 20 percent, and he has not offered a way to pay for it.
Mr. Bush has been a disappointment in other crucial areas. He has weakened environmental protections, pushed an energy policy that would perpetuate America's oil dependence and given up on free-market agricultural reforms that could jump-start trade talks. Indeed, Mr. Bush has abandoned the core values we thought we shared with him -- keeping the nation strong while ensuring that its government is limited, accountable and fiscally responsible.
We trust Mr. Kerry not to make the mistakes Mr. Bush has.
I couldn't have articulated the list of Bush's many failures any better.
Posted by Christopher at 08:59 PM | Comments (0)A SOLDIER'S STORY
If you're an American, it's important that you read this story. It's critical, in fact. You need to know the kind of person who's asking for your vote, and the kind of people who are backing him. You need to know the lack of regard they have for your rights, for your opinion, and for the soldiers they send to the war they started in Iraq. And you need to know that the crowds you see cheering Bush at his rallies are little more than extras in carefully managed political theater worthy of Leni Rifenstahl.
George W. Bush was in Pennsylvania on Friday. Like dozens of other stories this year, once again the stormtroopers allowed only hypnotized automatons into crowd around him. Once again, people were denied their constitutional right to free assembly. But this time, the one whose rights were spat upon was an active member of the US Army -- who is shipping out to Iraq in two weeks.
A 27-year-old registered Republican and member of the U.S. Army, along with three other people around him, was forced to leave the arena before getting inside. The Wyoming Valley man who did not want to be identified by name because of his loyalty to his service members is being deployed to Iraq in two weeks. His Army service and status were verified. He explained that he was attending the event in hopes of finding the right candidate to vote for on Nov. 2.
It gets better, kids. What happenes next is the real George W. Bush -- what the man really stands for.
While waiting in line, he noticed a stranger standing alone and invited the person to stand with him. "I didn't think that would be a problem," he said. It turned out to be.
Individuals from the Bush campaign spotted the individual with the soldier and identified the person as a Democratic supporter. The spotters, and eventually police, asked the Democratic supporter to remove a jacket, a sweater and some other articles of clothing in what was described as basically a police search. The soldier said the Democratic supporter did what was asked without any complaint. The person also provided a ticket to the event.
The soldier said that when he asked why the person was being hassled, the spotters said the Democrat's name wasn't on their 'master list.' "So I asked if we could see the master list? They said they didn't have it," he said.
Hmm... so there's a "master list" for a campaign rally -- one that no one actually has with them? What, they all have Ken Jennings memories and just look at the list once and then know everyone on the list by both name and face? Unless everyone working for Bush has a photographic memory, I'm at a loss to know how they could have pulled this one off without having the list with them.
The soldier said he stood up for the supporter, but was in no way hostile, because he was there to see the president and hoped to justify voting for him. Not long after showing his own ticket and being told he wasn't part of the "master list" either, the police asked the soldier to leave. He was told the event was for Bush supporters or undecided voters only.
Okay, first of all, the guy was an undecided voter. Secondly, here's your proof of how deeply Bush's appearances are managed and hand-selected. A Democrat with a ticket was not allowed in. An Army soldier -- one Bush is sending to Iraq in two weeks to fight the war he started -- doesn't qualify for Bush's master list. Only if you're one of Bush's Stepford Voters are you allowed to be anywhere near him.
But how gutless -- and how revealing of this candidate's character and his party's true colors -- is it that a member of our armed services is not allowed in to see the commander in chief... for the "crime" of associating with the wrong people? Good grief, isn't this America? Wait... it's George W. Bush's America. This kind of thing happens all the time.
The way this man and his party behave is truly embarassing -- a shameful splotch on America's good name and traditions of freedom and democracy. George W. Bush will send a man to war, possibly to die... but his people won't let the same man in the building if he doesn't think the right way or associate with the right people. That's the kind of man Bush is. That's the kind of people who want you to vote for him. Do not forget that.
Until Friday when he left the arena, the soldier was an undecided voter. Now he's voting for Sen. Kerry and volunteering for the Kerry-Edwards campaign.
"I thought seeing Bush would be enough to sway my opinion one way or the other. After today, it definitely has swayed," he said.
Posted by Christopher at 08:02 PM | Comments (0)PENNSYLVANIA STORIES
I spent the weekend in the Philadelphia suburbs visiting the Doc and family - thanks again to Mrs. Doc for the invitation and for feeding me and putting me up for a couple of days.
Friday night was a surprise for the Doc - Mrs. Doc called me that morning at work and suggested that he could use a night out, and that if I got down to PA that evening, we were free to go hit the town. I wasn't supposed to arrive until Saturday afternoon, so it was something Doc didn't expect. We had a chance to get out into Doylestown and check out a couple of the local establishments that just happen to by chance serve a little alcohol -- Roosevelt's Blue 52 and The Mesquito Grille.
It was great getting out and catching up, but I noticed something quickly: Pennsylvania has not yet banned cigarette smoking in restaurants and bars, like New York City, Westchester County, Connecticut, and Florida. It's amazing how accustomed you get to being able to breathe when you go out to a bar - and to not reeking of cigarettes when you get home from a night out. And it's amazing how quickly your body adjusts. I've gotten spoiled over the last two years, actually being able to go out and have fun without getting a headache and having to leave within an hour.
We had a great time, but predictably, both Doc and I ended up with piercing headaches that lasted into Saturday from having to inhale other people's carcinogens. The town he lives in is charming, and there is a lot to like about Pennsylvania... but they've got to get on the bandwagon and make their public establishments smoke free.
Anyway, Saturday I joined the family for an afternoon of domestication, taking the kids to Pumpkinfest. I mention this only to share with you an ironic moment: one of the neighbors, the Doc and I each had the same comment about the event -- which is put on by the local anti-dependance organization: "This'd be even better if they served beer."
Saturday night was nice; the wives went off for a girls night, and the boys stayed in playing Daddy Daycare and watching the World Series. Doc's a Yankee fan and the rest of the guys were Phillie fans - but they are all cheering for the Sox this Series. Excellent.
All in all, not a bad weekend.
Posted by Christopher at 06:56 PM | Comments (0)AN UGLY WIN IS STILL A WIN
I'm beginning to think that this may really be destined to be the year for the Sox.
Don't get me wrong, I am not at all being cocky. On the contrary, I'm saying it because of one simple reason: the Red Sox played some of their worst baseball of 2004 in game one of the World Series -- they deserved to lose after making four errors and issuing more walks than a traffic signal in Manhattan. And yet they still won, 11-9. And when a team that deserved to lose 18-0 somehow ends up winning, you have to start thinking that the baseball gods are in your corner.
Things I liked about this game:
1) Papi's towering blast in the first inning
2) Keith Foulke sacks up yet again
3) Mark Bellhorn's foul pole home run in the 8th to go ahead to stay
Things I disliked about this game (well, in more detail than "everything else")
1) Manny Ramirez in the outfield. I didn't think it was possible for a guy who hit 40 home runs and knocked in 130 in a season could still be a liability to his team. Manny emphatically proved that it is possible.
2) Tim WALK-field throwing 11 straight balls on the way to walking four guys in one inning.
3) The rest of the Sox defense.
Thoughts:
I hope Tony Womack is all right - that was a nasty looking hop and I hope he's not injured.
I'm sick of Boston fans and his Red Sox teammates defending Manny Ramirez no matter what he does, saying simply, "That's Manny." The man's defense is atrocious - he has no business in a major league outfield. Yes, he is one of the best hitters in the game -- one of the best of his generation. And the Sox wouldn't even be here playing right now if not for him. But to call yourself a professional and then turn around and regularly be the worst defensive outfielder in the game ... and then doing nothing to improve your skills... that's inexcusable, no matter how much you do for the team on offense. Ramirez nearly gave away tonight's game.
Schill has got to come up big in game 2. The Cardinals showed that not only are they dangerous from a talent persepctive, but that they have a ton of heart and will never quit.
But... hte Red Sox will win tonight. I believe.
Posted by Christopher at 01:31 AM | Comments (0)October 23, 2004
THE MOJO IS... ON
I don't have time tonight to do a full anti-Cardinal mojo blast like the anti-Yankee top ten last week. But since the key to a Red Sox victory is my engaging in mojo on my blog and in my game-watching habits, I have an image to share with you, straight from the Sons of Sam Horn community.
(It's actually apparently a goth-punk-rock band from Maryland. But the sentiment clicks here.)
As much as I want to be hating on the St. Louis Cardinals right now, it's hard to -- three of them delivered me a fantasy baseball title this year. But they stand between my beloved Red Sox and the promised land. And for that, they must be mojoed.
Hte Red Sox will win tonight. I believe.
Posted by Christopher at 06:29 PM | Comments (0)October 21, 2004
IT WAS TEN YEARS AGO TODAY... SGT. MUDGEON TAUGHT THE BAND TO PLAY...
There are days in your life that you say changed your life forever... and then, there are the days that actually do.
Here's an example. I will hyperbolically say that October 20, 2004 changed my life, because the Sox finally beat the Yankees. That won't really be true. The events of that date made me ridiculously happy, but if I'm honest with myself I should not say my life changed because of it.
On the other hand, October 21, 1994 really was a "before and after" date in my life. In fact, it was the before and after day in my life. Because on that day -- ten years ago today -- I left Minnesota (where I'd lived since age 4) forever and moved to the east coast. More than simply a change of time zones, that move was the seminal, defining move of my life. As many times as I have moved since then, and as many cities/states as I have lived in the ensuing years, none involved as dramatic or as defined a change as that move.
I won't bore you with the details of the circumstances surrounding my decision. Suffice it to say that it involved a woman I expected to marry, another guy, a real big surprise... and that it got to me so much that I didn't just need time to recover, I needed distance. If you called it running away from a bad situation, I couldn't argue with you -- though I looked at it as proactively taking control at a point where most of what I thought would be my life was spinning out of my control.
I suppose the truth is that the events of that late August and September gave birth to The Curmudgeon... because that's when I went from being optimistic, trusting and annoyingly "can-do" to becoming the towering giant of cynicism and skepticism you see before you today. They say everyone has a moment where the insulated innocence of youth (no matter how old you are when it happens) is finally and apocolyptically confronted by the harsher realities of life. That summer was my such moment. So certainly from an attitude standpoint, that was the before and after point.
So anyway, I needed to leave. A friend of mine from politics had just been named to a post in Washington DC, and there was a chance I could go to work for him. So he arranged for an interview for me with the Chief of Staff for Monday the 24th. That Friday, I tossed everything I could fit into two huge suitcases, put $150 in my wallet, and hopped on a Greyhound for Washington. They might have thought I was just coming out for an interview. I knew I was never going back home. I think my dad thought I would be back by Christmas. I think my mom knew I wouldn't. But they both drove me to the Greyhound station -- just down the street from Minneapolis' only famous club, First Avenue (of Purple Rain fame), and saw me off.
I know how B-movie it sounds for me to say that I got on a bus out of the prairies and headed for the coast with only the clothes I could carry, and all the money I could save in the ten days between the day I learned of the interview and the day it would take place. (And I know $150 sounds like very little, but committee clerks at the Minnesota Senate made $14,400 per legislative year in 1994. $150 in a week and a half was no small feat, given other bills I had to pay. And without exaggerating or overdramatizing my background, I'll just say that it was up to me to come up with whatever money I needed; no one else was able to help out. If I'd have taken more time to plan it out or think about what I was doing, I'd have had more... but it really was a decision made in the span of ten days.)
But that's what I did. No definite job lined up, very little money in pocket, nothing but two suitcases in hand. Most everyone's been in that post-split stupor, where you just get so fixated on making a change that you can't be worried about the details of how it will happen. My older cousin (Joe the Bartender's older brother) was stationed in Silver Spring, Maryland... so I arranged to crash in his spare bedroom until I knew what I was doing. When I think back on it now, it seems so impetuous and ill-thought out. But I guess one of the good things about being 26 and having not yet really ever failed at anything was that the idea that things wouldn't work out never occurred to me. Of course I'd get that job. I was me, after all - didn't the world know that? Why would DC be any harder than Minnesota had been?
So I got there, did the interview, and was told that though I had the job, I wouldn't start until March. This complicated my plans a little. But by the end of that week, I'd gotten a job working at a hipster clothing store in the Pentagon City mall (I was still thin way back then, and could pull off working in a store for the young, svelte and trendy) to keep some money coming in. I talked to the former campaign cronies I knew who worked on the Hill, and moved in with one of them on December in her spare bedroom on Capitol Hill (I wanted to be in the middle of things and not up in Maryland, at the time). I interned at then-Congressman David Minge's office during the day for three months to keep learning and to meet people. And never once did I consider going home to Minnesota; my Rubicon had been crossed, and I was never looking back.
I started the job the following March; I ended up spending three years in the DC area before leaving for grad school. Since my original move, I've pretty much lived up and down the entire east coast; five different states, about a dozen different houses or apartments, in every kind of life circumstance. I've moved so often that U-Haul knows me by face. I still don't know where I'm going to end up eventually when I grow up. But none of those moves and none of my life circumstances have ever felt as before and after as that first one. (Funny thing... my luck with women never really changed, though. The more some things change, the more they stay the same - no matter which state you live in.)
As I look back on the last ten years... do I regret moving? There are a couple things I know would have been very different about my life. From all the political stuff I'd done, I had positioned myself very strongly within the local Democratic party in the town-becoming-exurb I lived in; it's not at all an exaggerated supposition to say that I probably would have run for state office by now with the party endorsement - and since it was a Democratic area, I would likely have won. I could have been State Senator Curmudgeon by now; depending on how the cards shook out, I might even be making my first run for US Congress in 2004. And there are a few things I think might well have been different had I stayed... people and relationships that might have played out differently had I not been so intent on getting away that particular fall.
But had I not moved, I would have missed out on everything that's happened to me in the last ten years, both good and bad. (And there's been plenty of both.) I'm not going to subject anyone to the roll call of what I think I've accomplished or have yet to accomplish in my life out here, what I am happy about and what I feel regretful of. I'll simply say that all things happen for a reason; whether you choose to ascribe that to God, fate, chance, or whatever... whoever or whatever is responsible for the plan, I do believe that there is a reason for everything. Whether I will ever get let in on the plan or not, I don't know... but there is one.
I do know that I've met the best friends I'll ever have in DC, in Boston, in New York, in Florida. My life's better for that. And I've had a bunch of experiences that obviously I would never have had if I had stayed in Minnesota. It's been a roller coaster at times... but dammit, it's my roller coaster.
So considering all that, my answer is no... I don't regret it. I wouldn't do it any differently. I'm where I am and who I am, for better or worse, because of a decision made on October 11, 1994 and carried out on October 21.
Ten years ago today.
Posted by Christopher at 10:19 PM | Comments (0)FUNNY PENIS STORIES III
I'm not sure what it says about me that whenever I go to AP Offbeat News or Reuters Strange News to see what kind of weird stuff I could write about, strange stories involving penises always seem to catch my attention as blog-worthy.
(Yes, I realize that I have just opened myself up to all sorts of ridicule from the Doc, my cousin Joe the Bartender/Bum, Erika, and a host of other characters. All I will say in my defense is this: for anyone inclined to skewer me over this self-observation, ask yourselves whether you didn't find the story of the crazed Romanian surgeon who removed his patient's penis and cut it into three pieces funny... ask yourself whether you were amused at the old Romanian guy who cut off his own penis thinking it was a chicken's neck. Yeah, I didn't think you could have skipped over those stories either, kids.)
So anyway, this story comes to us from Cambodia. (Hmmm... Cambodia, Romania... I guess the moral of the story is that bad things will happen to your penis if you visit countries whose name ends with "ia." Guess I'll be canceling that road trip next year to Slovenia, Croatia, Bulgaria, Ethiopia, and Slovakia.)
A Cambodian woman stabbed her husband's penis with a knife during an argument in which she accused him of being a violent drunk, police said Monday.
Tuy Narin called her husband a drunkard, prompting him to retaliate by throwing a sandal at her, Mang Penh said. Tuy Narin's mother and two sisters then wrestled the outnumbered husband to the floor and his angry wife stabbed him with a knife, the police officer said.
Okay, dude's mother-in-law helped attack his manhood! And his wife's sisters too! Somehow, I don't think I'd want to be around for family picnics at that house.
But the funniest part of the story is the last line.
Chhun Saran withdrew a complaint against his wife after relatives intervened and urged the couple to reconcile, Mang Penh said.
Oh, man. Can you just imagine that conversation? "Yeah, Chhun, I know she had her mom and sisters help her as she tried to slice your johnson off. But everybody has bad days, right? I mean, just last week, my wife tried to lop off my willy, but you don't see me filing for divorce now, do you?"
Spanning the globe... to bring you the constant variety of penis stories: The thrill of dick-tory... and the agony of de meat... This is The CC's Wide World of Sports! (Sorry... I couldn't resist.)
Posted by Christopher at 09:51 PM | Comments (0)NOT THE SHARPEST KNIFE IN THE DRAWER
Okay, I may not be the world's smartest guy. And I certainly don't have any experience with court appearances over possessing ecstasy pills.
However, I am pretty sure that if I ever was to appear in court in front of a judge for possessing ecstasy pills, I would not show up to court wearing a t-shirt with the single word, "Cocaine" on it.
It would appear that this guy in Hong Kong does not share my philosophy.
Ho Heng-chau pleaded guilty to possession of three ecstasy pills, but while his lawyer was arguing for a lenient sentence on Wednesday the magistrate noticed the T-shirt, according to the Apple Daily newspaper.
"Do you know you're appearing in court?" Magistrate Ernest Lin was quoted as saying. "What are you doing wearing a 'cocaine' T-shirt? You might as well carry a sign that says 'I'm a drug head.'"
Once again, I have fulfilled my mission of bringing you tales from the shallow end of the gene pool.
Posted by Christopher at 09:26 PM | Comments (0)FAMILY KNOWS BEST
Who am I to argue with the extended members of the Bush family?
Check out Bush Relatives for Kerry here.
Posted by Christopher at 09:15 PM | Comments (0)THEY KNOW NO SHAME
While I've been obsessing over the Red Sox this week, I've been missing some stories. Thankfully, others are around to pick up the slack. Marine's Girl from Across The River alerted me to the supressed 9/11 report (read the next post down); and Jillian over at The Snarky Cat posted a story tonight that I had to read twice to be sure I wasn't mistaken.
I don't know why I am ever surprised by Republican sliminess when it comes to "patriotism" and "Americanism." After all, this is a party whose candidate, Saxby Chambliss (who managed to miss going to Vietnam because of the old "trick knee/old football injury" routine), managed to attack Senator Max Cleland's patriotism and call him soft on defense -- despite Cleland's having lost three limbs in the service of our nation. But I think this story takes the cake for being utterly the most despicable thing I have ever seen a Republican do.
Those of you who were around and old enough to have coherent memories of the mid-to-late 80s may remember Terry Anderson. Anderson was the Associated Press correspondent in Beirut in 1985 when he was kidnapped by Hezbollah. He was held hostage for six years before his eventual release in 1991.
Anderson has gone on with a normal life since returning to the United States. This year, he is running for the State Senate in his home state of Ohio. He's running as a Democrat. And that brings us to our story.
His Republican opponent is distributing a brochure that uses a photograph of Anderson with his Hezbollah captors. Incredibly, this Republican slimeball is using the photo to argue that Anderson is soft on terrorism.
The brochure is illustrated with a photo of Anderson sitting across from a turban-clad man who is not identified in the brochure. Anderson said the photo was taken when he returned to Lebanon to confront his captors.
Terry Anderson went through a more grueling ordeal than any of us can even imagine. As part of his healing process, he went back to Lebanon a few years ago looking for answers from the people who'd taken him hostage. And now, not only is this disgusting Republican is now using this photo to paint Anderson as soft on terror... she's defending her actions and saying she's justified in doing so.
This really is the kind of people we're dealing with. A Democrat loses three limbs in Vietnam, but a Republican who never served gets to question his patriotism. A Democrat leads a swift boat squadron in Vietnam, but a Republican who used family connections to get a cushy Guard slot (that he skipped out of in Alabama) gets to have underlings question the Democrat's service.
And a Democrat gets taken hostage in Lebanon by Islamic militants, and a Republican gets to use photos of those militants to suggest that the Democrat is soft on terror.
Yeah, I can understand how Republicans sleep at night, all right.
Posted by Christopher at 09:11 PM | Comments (0)WHAT'RE THEY HIDING??
So you think that the Bush Administration has told you everything there is to know about 9/11 and what they knew before it happened, do you?
You'd be wrong.
According to the Los Angeles Times, the CIA completed an Inspector General's report on 9/11 back in June. But not only have we the people not seen it... the Congressional intelligence committees that ordered the study haven't seen it yet either. Why? It seems that the Bush administration has ordered the Agency to withhold the report until after the election.
Why on earth would Bush and his people do this? Simple. The report names names. It says exactly who was sleeping on watch. It tells you what Bush desperately does not want you to hear.
"It is infuriating that a report which shows that high-level people were not doing their jobs in a satisfactory manner before 9/11 is being suppressed," an intelligence official who has read the report told me, adding that "the report is potentially very embarrassing for the administration, because it makes it look like they weren't interested in terrorism before 9/11, or in holding people in the government responsible afterward."
3000 Americans died, and the Bush Administration doesn't want you to know the truth until after the election. What are they afraid of?
I can hear it now... the Bush apologists complaining about that gol-durn liberal media out to get them once again. Because after all, if there's any news that's unflattering to conservatives, that's just because of the liberal media, right?
Well, except that one of the members of Congress who asked for the report is a Republican.
When I asked about the report, Rep. Jane Harman (D-Venice), ranking Democratic member of the House Intelligence Committee, said she and committee Chairman Peter Hoekstra (R-Mich.) sent a letter 14 days ago asking for it to be delivered. "We believe that the CIA has been told not to distribute the report," she said. "We are very concerned."
According to the intelligence official, who spoke to me on condition of anonymity, release of the report, which represents an exhaustive 17-month investigation by an 11-member team within the agency, has been "stalled." First by acting CIA Director John McLaughlin and now by Porter J. Goss, the former Republican House member (and chairman of the Intelligence Committee) who recently was appointed CIA chief by President Bush.
The official stressed that the report was more blunt and more specific than the earlier bipartisan reports produced by the Bush-appointed Sept. 11 commission and Congress. "What all the other reports on 9/11 did not do is point the finger at individuals, and give the how and what of their responsibility. This report does that," said the intelligence official. "The report found very senior-level officials responsible."
By law, the only legitimate reason the CIA director has for holding back such a report is national security. Yet neither Goss nor McLaughlin has invoked national security as an explanation for not delivering the report to Congress. "It surely does not involve issues of national security," said the intelligence official.
Ah... now I get it. The report tells the truth -- and as we know, truth is something this administration is mightily challenged by. And this report holds members of the Bush administration responsible for some of the mistakes before 9/11 -- and as we know, responsibility is a foreign concept to a president who doesn't even think he's ever made a mistake.
So just remember, kids... the United States of America is currently led by a man who would prefer to hide the truth until after the election about an incident in which 3,000 of our countrymen died -- all so that he can hold on to the power he was given by the Supreme Court in December 2000.
Sure, other presidents in recent memory have hidden the truth as well. But you know... somehow, this seems just a little more egregious to me than "I did not... have... sexual relations with that woman..."
Posted by Christopher at 08:39 PM | Comments (0)SIX OF ONE, HALF DOZEN OF THE OTHER
So what do you do when two people you believe to be two of the biggest liars on the planet get into a public he-said, she-said spat? Who do you believe?
Christian Wa'Habi-ist Pat Robertson said this week that George W. Bush, before he started the Iraq war, Bush naively and inconceivably told him privately that there would be no American casualties in Iraq.
Robertson, an ardent Bush supporter, told CNN in an interview Tuesday night that he urged the president to prepare the American people for the prospect of casualties before launching the war in March 2003. Robertson said Bush told him, "Oh, no, we're not going to have any casualties."
Through spokesmen (of course), Bush (of course) denies having said any such thing.
"The president never made such a comment," White House press secretary Scott McClellan said. Senior Bush campaign adviser Karen Hughes, a longtime confidant of the president, said she was "certain" Bush would not have said anything like that to Robertson.
"Perhaps he misunderstood, but I've never heard the president say any such thing," Hughes said on CNN's "Inside Politics."
Hmm... it would appear that we have a quandry here. I mean, let's face it: Pat Robertson is not the world's most credible source. This is the person who believes he prayed a hurricane away from the US shore in the past (note to Pat: if you could do it a year ago, why didn't you help out Florida this year? I mean, they even helped your boy out in 2000 - one would think Jeb Bush and Katherine Harris earned your help in September); this is the guy who said 9/11 was God's retribution on America for having all those durn homosexuals. Robertson is to Christianity what Osama bin Laden is to Islam, and it is virtually impossible to take him at his word.
On the other hand, it is entirely consistent with what we know of George W. Bush's character and arrogant outlook that he could have said such a thing. The guy proclaimed "Mission Accomplished" 18 months and 737 American deaths ago. The guy used the "certain" existence of Weapons of Mass Destruction to whip us all up about a war he started, and now denies that WMD were the primary reason for war. Hell, he doesn't even think he's ever made a mistake. So if there has ever been an American president who might possibly have told someone that we could have a war without American casualties, it's Bush.
So what we have is The World's Biggest Liar vs. The World's Other Biggest Liar, facing off on pay-per-view in the Mother of All Prattles. One of these guys is lying. But which one?
The only way to settle this is for Bush himself -- and no more hiding behind spokespeople, W; you get your sheltered, hand-selected audience lovin' self out here and do your own talking -- to come right out and directly answer the question: Is Pat Robertson lying when he says you told him there would be no casualties in Iraq?
It won't even take up much of your time, Dubbs. It's a simple yes or no question; the answer will be one word -- one syllable! -- long. Surely a man of Bush's considerable intellect can handle a one word, one syllable answer to a yes or no question, can't he?
So which one is it, Dubya?
Posted by Christopher at 08:26 PM | Comments (0)SHOUT OUTS: NEW KIDS ON THE BLOG
So as you know, I have been bound by the Baseball-Only Blog Mojo. So that has meant that I've had to wait till now to do some shouting out.
As you know, when I call someone a "new kid on the blog," I mean only that they're new to me.
Check out Corey over at The Cynic. When I went over there tonight, he had posts of the New York tabloid covers bemoaning the Yankee fate, which makes him cool. Yesterday, he spent the day chastising the "undecideds" for the lunacy of not knowing yet who they're going to vote for - also cool. And he's got a running debate with my cousin over at The Corner Bar over the age-old question, Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Anniston. Besides, anyone who's proud enough of his cynicism to just come right out and put it in his blog title... well, he gets a link automatically. So go check out The Cynic, and tell Corey you said hello.
And for anyone who does not get enough pro-Sox love on my site or Tim's site, I give you The Joy of Sox - a great blog on all things Red Sox. For some reason, he says his traffic is up this week. I can't figure it out. ;-)
Posted by Christopher at 08:12 PM | Comments (0)BEYOND WORDS.... I BELIEVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You know what happened, by now.
You know that my beloved Boston Red Sox tonight completed the greatest comeback in the history of baseball, defeating the hated Yankees 10-3 to win the American League pennant and advance to the World Series for the first time since 1986.
I don't have words for this feeling. I don't have the ability to articulate what tonight meant or what it was like.
We had all the right mojos going on: Hawaiian Shirt Mojo was properly engaged; Proper Viewing Position Mojo taken care of as we each took our designated positions in our designated spots; me on the left side of the couch, Tim in his recliner, with the lap top on in front of him in order to IM with Red Sox Die Hard in North Carolina and to follow along with SoSH.
As the game progressed, we had much to be excited about early; by the time Johnny Damon hit his grand slam in the second inning, we were doing bizarre little dances in Tim's living room and having a Rocky Balboa-Apollo Creed-running-on-the-beach-and-hugging-awkwardly-from-Rocky III moment. And when the Sox went up 8-1 in the fourth, the countdown was on. Not that either of us was actually audibly counting anything down, mind you. Any mere suggestion that things were in hand was met with angry growls and snapped reproaches.
I should apologize to my friend Jay in DC and Erika in Chicago, each of whom called me during the 7th inning to "congratulate" me on the Sox' impending victory. I snapped at each of them; I think what I said might be sanitized and translated as, "Do not talk to me right now, because I do not believe it is over yet." That's not quite how it came out, but I suspect that each of them got my meaning. Sorry, guys. What you didn't understand is that the Yankees had just closed to 8-3, from 8-1, because Terry Francona had for some reason put Pedro Martinez into the game, and Pedro was getting tagged. (I still maintain that this was one of the most inexplicable decisions in baseball history - and one of the dumbest.)
As the Sox needed only nine more outs, and then only six, they added an insurance run to make it 9-3;Mark Bellhorn hit a home run off the foul pole in right that clanged and reverberated throughout the night air, sounding very much like a Roy Hobbs shot off the lights in "The Natural." And suddenly, it was the Sox breaking someone else's momentum, not them breaking ours. And then, just as the clock struck 12:00 midnight... ground ball to Pokey Reese... the throw to Mientkewicz... and the Boston Red Sox had done the impossible, coming back from a 3-0 deficit to win the ALCS.
Bedlam ensued in Tim's basement. Part of the beauty of baseball, to me, is that every now and then the sport has the ability to induce moments of pure joy or exhilaration that turn two thirtysomething, paunchy, professional adults into 8 year old boys for a few minutes. And that's what happened at 12:01 this morning in Tim's basement. We were eight years old again, each of us, jumping and dancing and hugging and looking like the two biggest idiots on the planet. And we didn't care. Our friend from North Carolina called up, and we went on speaker phone, and our voices were cracking with emotion... and none of us was embarassed in the least. Anything that can turn grown men back into little boys is one of life's small miracles. Baseball, like little else in this world, can reverse time.
The next two hours are already a blur. Instant messages, phone calls, e-mails... watching the TiVo'd moment over and over again. I don't remember how many people we talked to, but there were quite a few. I know I called Dave, my buddy from BU, out in California; I could hear whooping and yelling in the background, as Dave delivered one of the great deadpans ever delivered to me: "[Mudge], what are you doing calling me so late?" The cell signal dropped shortly afterward - but Dave, that was a great line, buddy.
Thank you, Derek Lowe, for pitching the game of your life last night. Thank you Johnny Damon for finally busting out of your slump. Thank you, Papi Ortiz, for delivering yet again. Thank you Orlando Cabrera for being a better defensive shortstop in your sleep than Nomar ever was awake. Thank you Alan Embree for closing it out. Thank you Keith Foulke and Curt Schilling for gutting it out and sacking up in epic fashion. Hell, thank all of the Sox for giving me a moment I will never forget. Thank you for turning me eight again.
There is work left to be done; the Sox have not yet won the World Series, and we have four wins left to go. But they have already done something that no team in baseball has ever done, with this most improbably of comebacks, and against the most intense of rivals... in their house. After watching the last four days, you'll forgive me if I feel strangely confident that this actually could be the year.
Hte Red Sox will win this year. I believe.
October 20, 2004
DARE TO DREAM... HTE RED SOX WILL WIN TONIGHT... I BELIEVE
No instant message conversations to share with you tonight. A walking-out-of-the-office phone call to Tim at 6:30 this evening resulted in the spontaneous, game-time decision that I should catch the game from the friendly confines of Blair's living room. (Thanks are due to the lovely and talented Mrs. Blair for once again feeding me and opening her home to my tubby self.)
The logic was simple: the Sox were at home last night, so I watched from home. Tonight, the Sox were on the road, so I should be on the road. (However, you can catch the IM conversation between Tim and our friend the Red Sox DieHard in North Carolina on Tim's site.) The mojo was set: Tim would be in the recliner and on the computer, and I would be Net-less on the couch.
As you can guess and have probably heard, the Sox tonight did what no other team in baseball history has ever done: come back from a 3-0 deficit to force a game 7. They won this game 4-2, setting up a cataclysmic, climactic, apocolyptic game Wednesday evening for all the marbles. Thoughts on tonight's game:
1. Curt Schilling just became my favorite player of all time - an honor that has belonged to Hall of Famer Carlton Fisk since I was seven years old. I may live to be 90, and I will never again see such a courageous display of sheer guts and fortitude and will to win. What Schilling did tonight goes beyond tough, beyond important to the team, and beyond description.
The man has a dislocated tendon in his ankle. He needs surgery to repair it, which he will have after the season. In order to keep it from flapping around over his bone when he planted his foot, team doctors literally sutured the tendon to his skin and stretched the skin so tight that the tendon couldn't move.
Most any of the rest of us, with an ankle in that condition, would be calling for the crutches and avoiding putting weight on it. Curt Schilling walked to the mound with blood leaking from the sutures and soaking his sock (see photo below), a scene straight from a real-life "The Natural." And then all he did was throw seven innings of 94 mile an hour fastballs, darting splitters, and nasty curves. He held the Yankees scoreless for six innings, and gave us 99 pitches and seven innings in the single gutsiest performance I, you, or anyone else will ever see. That was one for the ages.
All I will say is this: there are only two things I want for Christmas: one is a Curt Schilling Red Sox #38 jersey, and the other is a baseball signed by Curt Schilling. Win or lose Wednesday, what Schilling did tonight is already New England legend, and he's permanently etched himself onto my list of all-time sports heroes. Wow.
2. Alex Rodriguez showed you all exactly what he is made of tonight. When the game was on the line, this overpaid, petulent child could muster nothing more than a 57 foot squibber back toward the mound. And then, seeing that he was beaten, what did that candy-assed little gerbil do?
He cheated.
That's what Alex Rodridguez is all about, kids - a karate chop to the opposing player's arm, a hack worthy of the Cobra Kai dojo. (See photo below) I half expected to hear Gary Sheffield yelling, "SWEEP THE LEG!!"
If you can't beat 'em, cheat 'em - thus goes Alex Rodriguez's motto. And
once he was caught (hard not to get caught when you deliver a kung fu chop worthy of Bruce Lee, huh A-Fraud?), this bum actually whined to the umps about it. See the picture below; doesn't it look like he is about to start to cry?
Anything you wanted to know about Alex Rodriguez' character, you saw in the eighth inning of tonight's game. He cheats, he whines - and most of all, he can't come through when his team needs him.
3. What a game, and what a classic series. I've never loved a Sox team so much as this one - win or lose Wednesday night. They took the Yankees' best shot... and then like Rocky, they crawled up off the mat, walked right back over to them, and yelled, "Is that all you got? That's not so bad!" I mean it; win or lose game seven, this team has made me feel better about being a Sox fan over the last four days than I could ever have imagined.
And I have to give it to the Yankees, begrudgingly, for also rolling out a classic effort. Not many teams can lay a 19-8 whupping on the Red Sox. No matter what I think of their fans and how much I despise their players, you can only have a great series if both teams are involved.
Wednesday night is history in the making, an instant-classic end to an already-legendary series. I'm nervous about our starting pitching; but the Yankees have to be nervous about theirs as well. I don't know what mojo Tim and I will invoke for game seven... we really made the game six mojo up on the fly. I do know that, as I told Sarah in the comments last night, I will not blog on anything else until this series is over... keep the Baseball-Only Blog mojo going for one more night...
All I know is what my heart tells me: Hte Red Sox will win tonight. I believe.
Schilling's blood-soaked ankle ... Roy Hobbs, eat your heart out
Wax on, wax off - eh, A-Rod? Aw, whaddaya mean I can't cheat?
October 18, 2004
SPEECHLESS... JUST SPEECHLESS
So I bolted out of the office at 5:10 in order to watch the Sox-Yankees game. Here we are past 11:00, and I am just able to start a wrap up post on one of the most amazing games I have ever watched.
Rather than try to put words to my thoughts -- I really am mentally exhausted and emotionally spent -- I thought I'd steal a page from MG's book and post an IM conversation. As you all know, Tim is a die-hard Sox fan too. We got on IM in the second inning, around 6:30, and had a non-stop conversation until the game ended after 11:00 and in the 14th inning -- all while following along on the Sons of Sam Horn message board. Excerpts are posted below. ("Jesus" is Johnny Damon; "Fruit Bat" is Mariano Rivera of the Yankees, "Papi" is David Ortiz, "Malphabet" is Doug Mientkiewicz... you'll figure out the rest as we go.)
As a bit of explanation... as former athletes, Tim and I are each superstitious when it comes to sport. As Red Sox fans, we take that quality to Herculean levels. So you'll notice us repeating the same mantra before nearly every pitch. Why? Because when something's working, you don't mess with the mojo. Period. End of sentence.
In the words of Crash Davis in Bull Durham, "A player on a streak has to respect the streak. You know why? Because they don't happen very often... if you believe you're playing well because you're getting laid, or because you're not getting laid, or because you wear women's underwear, then you ARE! And you should know that!"
And so it was that despite a typo in the word "the" the first time he typed it... Tim is a smart man, and knew not to fix it. The Sox did well because Tim didn't fix the spelling... and because I believed. (grin) (And for another IM conversation, check out Tim's site.)
As the eighth inning approaches, the Sox are down 4-2. Then Papi Ortiz homers, and it's 4-3.
Mudge: my [freaking] heart is racing, dammit
Tim: i know
Tim: but hte Red Sox will win tonight
Mudge: if i die because of this, they better win at least
Mudge: YES
Tim: hte Red Sox will win tonight
Tim: mueller v. rivera again
Mudge: MUELLER OWNS FRUITBAT
Tim: lol
Mudge: i believe
A sacrifice fly scores the tying run
Mudge: scores a run
Tim: tie game
Mudge: whew
Tim: ok good
Mudge: you IMing with [RedSox Die Hard]?
Tim: yes
Mudge: he is not responding to me
Tim: but he is not there. he is on the sofa
Mudge: good
Tim: that is why the sox tied the game
Tim: hte Red Sox will win tonight
Mudge: I be