Santa CLAWS!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a completely unecessary photograph of your child scared shitless on the lap of a bearded stranger.

There Will Be Blood

OK, Ok, ok... Just a little pin prick. From Wednesday's Republican-American:

SOUTHINGTON -- Rob Brownell came with his mother to buy a couch, but he left empty-handed and a down a pint.

Brownell, a 20-year-old student from Avon, joined about 50 people who donated their blood at a Connecticut Red Cross drive at Bob's Discount Furniture Store in Southington Wednesday. But after back-to-back winter storms, the effort represented a few drops into a blood inventory that could use an infusion this holiday season.

“Every day we can't operate, we lose about 20 percent of our inventory,” said Paul Sullivan, the chief executive officer of blood services for the Connecticut Red Cross. “The storms represented nearly 40 percent of our inventory.”

According to the American Red Cross, someone in the country needs a transfusion of blood every two seconds, and only 5 percent of eligible donors give blood in any given year. Sullivan said his group tries to collect 650 units a day just to break even with the demand. But in order to supply the state's 30 acute care hospitals with the blood they need, Sullivan said his group imports about 10 percent of its supply from out of state.

And because of the snow and ice that mixed with holiday distractions, vacations and irregular routines, donors have been more scarce than usual, forcing Sullivan to order supplies of O-negative blood held back at the group's Farmington headquarters unless they are needed for transfusions. In addition, Sullivan said his staff will try to collect an extra 50 units a day to help bridge the gap.

“We're trying to collect over our normal goal at a time we usually collect below our normal goal,” Sullivan said. “I'm convinced if people in Connecticut understood how short we were, we would see them respond.”

Brownell said he understood, agreeing to join the Red Cross as a volunteer beginning with an orientation scheduled for Wednesday night. But first, there was the matter of a small needle and a bag of blood.

Brownell answered a Red Cross worker's confidential questions about his medical history in a private room in the back of one of two specially-outfitted buses parked in front of the store. Questions about malaria, jail time, syphilis and sexual activities with a risk of acquiring disease.
Larissa Finley, a 26-year-old phlebotomist, or blood-drawing specialist, directed Brownell to a cushioned reclining chair, where he lay back, rolled up his sleeve and stared out the window toward the parking lot.

“I hate blood,” he said.

Finley attached a blood pressure cuff to Brownell's exposed upper right arm and asked him to pump a red ball. She marked a vein in the crook of his arm with a purple marker, swabbed the surrounding area with yellow iodine and slid in a needle.

“Ohohoh-ow,” Brownell said with a soft groan, squinting his eyes and pursing his mouth before looking down to see a rush of dark red flow through a clear tube toward a bag hooked to scale near the floor.

After 18 minutes, some tube massaging, some red-ball twirling and some Welch's orange-drink sipping, Brownell filled the now-bulging bag with 1 pint of his blood.

“I feel empty,” he said.

Finley removed the needle, while Brownell held a gauze pad in place with his arm raised into the air. Finley attached a fresh bandage with strips of tape hanging from overhead lights, wiped off some of the iodine and gave him a list of instructions. He should drink extra liquids, keep the bandage on for five hours and avoid exercise.

Another Red Cross worker packaged Brownell's blood in ice for shipping to Farmington. A laboratory will test it for diseases before it can be sent to a hospital, separated into red blood cells, platelets (the cells responsible for blood clots) and plasma (the liquid in which the blood cells are suspended).

“You just saved three people,” Finley told Brownell before directing him toward a bin with cookies, crackers and chips.

Bob Kaufman may have saved many more than that. Kaufman, the founder and president of Bob's Discount Furniture Stores, has hosted blood drives for the Red Cross since 1996. Sullivan said Kaufman's efforts have brought in 20,000 donors.

“The American Red Cross has no greater friend than Bob Kaufman,” Sullivan said, noting all seven of Wednesday's drives were held at a Bob's store.

Kaufman said he began the drives as a way of being a good corporate citizen.

“What's a more universal way to do it than giving blood?” Kaufman said. “We all need it, can't live without it and there is no artificial substitute.”

About eight years ago, the effort became personal for him when his nephew and then his father [Dash] who have since died [Dash] were both diagnosed with blood diseases that required regular transfusions. Kaufman recalled accompanying his father for his treatments.

“He'd be lethargic, and when he came out, he was like a different person,” Kaufman said. “Like flipping a switch. I guess I understood it on a more personal level that giving the gift of life is real. It's not a cliché or a motto.”

Emily Ostroski would agree. Ostroski, a 25-year-old waitress visiting family in Farmington, gave blood for the seventh time Wednesday.

“I always thought it was important to donate something,” Ostroski said. “I can't donate money, because I'm always broke. So I donate blood.”

Ostroski said she liked giving blood because it is an anonymous gift.

And as she walked outside the store for her date with the needle, she said she wished she'd brought her stuffed animal. She would have had something to look at while giving her gift.

The Other Twin?

By Arielle

Appetite For Detention

My story in today's paper got a lot of play on the wires, making it all the way to Austria. No comment yet from Axl.

ROXBURY — A Booth Free School teacher barri­caded herself in a classroom Wednesday when she mis­took someone singing a Guns N’ Roses song over the pub­lic address system for a threat. State police detained three teenagers temporarily until an investigation at the scene cleared up the misunder­standing.

The teacher, whom police did not name, called 911 at about 5:45 p.m. when she heard someone over the school’s public address sys­tem say that she was going to die. She believed no one else was supposed to be inside the school, police said.

A police dispatcher called for all available troopers to re­spond, drawing about six troop­ers and three police dogs to the school at 14 South St. When the police arrived, they discovered three teenagers, one of them a custodian at the school. The police did not re­lease their names.

The teenagers had been playing with the public ad­dress system, police said, and one of them sang “Welcome to the Jungle” by rock group Guns N’ Roses into the micro­phone. The song contains the lyrics “You’re in the jungle baby; you’re gonna die.”

Police cuffed the teenagers on the ground in front of the school for about 15 minutes while checking the school and speak­ing to the teacher. Dogs barked inside police SUVs. Police brought the teenagers back into the school, questioned them and released them by 6:45 p.m.

“There won’t be any criminal charges,” said Sgt. Brian Van Ness of state police at Troop A in Southbury. “We contacted the principal, and the adminis­tration will handle it internal­ly.”

Van Ness said the three teenagers did not know the teacher was in the school.

“These things happen,” Van Ness said. “Luckily it was hu­morous. You kind of have a gut feeling. As soon as we got there, we spoke to the three kids. They understood.”

Fun With Wife Batterers

Ladies and gentlemen: The New York Post. Funny. Tasteless, classless and mean. But funny.

Smelling Like a Rose

In honor of the Mitchell report on baseball's steroid era, here's some nostalgia from one of the sport's earlier scandals. From my (wait-listed) application to the Columbia University School of Journalism in 2003, completed during a timed test without notes or internet access:

Pete Rose, like many great sports figures of the 20th century, invoke strong opinions in even the most casual fans. A sparkplug of intensity on the baseball diamond, his lifetime ban from the Major League Baseball has provided the country with an almost equally passionate forensics pasttime: Should he be allowed reinstatment into baseball?

In actuality, reinstatement is a two-pronged question. Under current bylaws, his ban precludes him from induction to the Baseball Hall of Fame, clearly the obvious destination for the sport’s all-time leader in hits. However, should he be permitted to profit from a sport against which he has committed perhaps the greatest crime imaginable?

Pete Rose, Charlie Hustle, the great Cincinatti Red player and manager was sentenced to baseball’s death penalty after the then commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti investigated and proved conclusively that while managing the Reds he placed numerous bets on baseball. And worse, he bet on his own team.

In a sport that endured the 1919 scandal in which the Chicago White Sox intentionally lost the World Series after accepting payments from organized crime figures, perhaps only a worse crime would be to bet against his own team.

After much negotiating and what most consider unimpeachable evidence against him, Rose signed a document agreeing to his lifetime ban. However, he has never admitted publicly that he bet on baseball [note: he has since -- to sell a book, of course] nor has he ever tendered any semblance of apology. That person lied, never saw this betting slip, alibi, excuse, not him, his constant litany. He has always contended that he was railroaded into signing that document in the hopes that he would eventually be permitted to petition for reinstatement.

Which, when the appropriate time elapsed, he did. After the sudden death of Giamatti, subsequent commisioners have refused to budge on the original stance, although the current embattled commisioner, Bud Selig, appears to be testing public opinion for Rose in a ploy to boost his own. (Not to mention that of a league that cancelled the World Series a few years back, almost did so again this year, played an All-Star Game without a winner, merged two teams and threatened contraction of another, all the time crying financial woes in the face of contrary evidence.)

And yet, the argument for reinstatement need not be clean-cut. Is it imperative for Rose to be fully reinstated, with the league’s blessing to apply for managing or front office positions with teams and appear at league sponsored events? Or is it possible for him to remain in exile, refused admission to the sport he denegrated and to which he refuses admission of guilt, but still be permitted election to the Hall of Fame?

The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., houses con-artists, womanizers, gamblers, racists, thieves and players of such moral turpitude as to make Professor Henry Hill Blush with a capital “B.” Babe Ruth, arguably the best in the bunch, was a notorious alcoholic lech. But he sure could hit that ball.

Pete Rose currently makes a very good living sitting in chairs and writing his name. Over and over on baseballs, hats, and posters. He also shares his opinions on his own radio show. One could argue that his current outsider status affords him a great deal of free publicity, allowing him to play the underdog role that won him fans as a player. Only now, he’s against the sports/television conglomerate power structure.

And one could argue that his election to the Hall but exclusion from paying baseball jobs would still permit him the ability to raise the price of all those autographs and maybe spike his ratings.
Basically, the Hall of Fame has never been nor needs to ever be a Hall of Justice. It is a place where best players are honored for their achievements on the field. Regardless of the dubious end to his career, it is where Pete Rose belongs even if he is forbidden to ever step on a field.

His bronze plaque should make mention of his monumental achievements between the white lines. And perhaps space should be reserved for full disclosure of the brash manner in which he blurred some others.

Post Script: Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens and all other future Hall-of-Famers should receive similar treatment. A plaque to commemorate their indisputable achievements, balanced by the knowledge they had plenty of chemical help in their later seasons.

The Real Santa Claus

Just a couple of samples of what I've been up to recently. In case you care and stuff.

BETHLEHEM - All year round, children look at Henry Church and their eyes light up. They see his wispy white beard and the white tufts sprouting from his balding head. They see his ample gut and the wrinkles under his eyes leading to his bulbous nose.

He winks at them as though sharing a secret.

And during the holiday season, Church, a 67-year-old Watertown resident, dons his own red-and-white Santa Claus suit for events like Bethlehem's 27th annual Christmas Town Festival, where he will light the tree on Friday.

"Kids point to me and whisper to their parents: 'That's the real one. That's him.'"

But this weekend, Church will be one of four Santas posing for pictures with children for two-hour shifts in the old schoolhouse by the green. And they ho-ho-hold the experience as dear as anyone.

"The first time I did it, I thought this was going to be boring," said Herb Schmeer, a 65-year-old retired purchasing manager from Bethlehem. "After I sat down for five minutes, they told me I was a half-hour over. The time went that quickly."

Lenny Assard, a 61-year-old civil engineer who serves on the town's board of finance, said he has played Santa for about 10 years because he loves watching the kids.

"To watch their eyes sparkle, and their smiles and stuff," Assard said.And then there's the red-faced fear."Some of them are just scared," Assard said. "You try to take them. Sometimes you just hand them a candy cane and let them go. You don't want to terrorize them."

Beyond the laughter and tears surrounding Santa, the festival will feature a candlelight procession Friday at 6 p.m. and musical performances by choirs and bands. The First Church of Bethlehem will hold its traditional Advent service, and more than 70 exhibitors will sell hand-crafted items.

In addition, the Bethlehem Post Office will stamp Christmas cards for people interested in sending their season's greetings from a town bearing the same name as the one considered the birthplace of Jesus of Nazareth.

Assard, whose mother Bernice organizes the Santas, sees no harm in playing the fictional Santa role.

"I think it's good for kids to have dreams and some fantasy in their life," Assard said. "Not necessarily Santa Claus the guy, but Santa Claus the spirit."

And anyway, Assard, who wears a fake wig and beard when playing Santa, knows who really owns his part.

"Henry is the real deal," he said. "My grandkid, when he was 2 years old, saw him at church and called him Ho-Ho."

Church and his wife live on a farm with cows, sheep, pigs, chickens, geese, cats and dogs.But no reindeer, except for some ordinary-nosed hunting trophies hanging on a wall in his basement.

He usually trims his beard after Christmas, but he smiles through his whiskers when discussing the fun he'll have until then.

"If I can have one child sit on my lap and hug me, that's worth everything I'm doing it for," he said.

Cats: Better than Gremlins, Better than E.T.

WOODBURY - When Harriet Villinger walks out to the mailbox, she always has company. One companion has a fluffy tail, and the other does not.

They are two of some 14 cats that prowl the woods around her home on Plumb Brook Road, a feral cat colony she inherited from her husband, who began feeding and sheltering them about five years ago. Since her husband died in April, Villinger struggles with the best way to care for the animals.

"I feel bad for them, but I don't know what the solution is," Villinger, 80, said. "I don't want my house to be known as the cat house."

No one knows Connecticut's exact population of feral cats -- those who were born and live in the wild without human contact. A University of Florida study estimates there are about .5 cats per household in a community, which would bring Connecticut's total to about 700,000. Experts and policymakers disagree over what to do about them.

"Once you start feeding a cat, you become the owner," said Frank L. Ribaudo, director of the Department of Agriculture's Animal Population Control Program. "When you feed a feral cat population, you are keeping the population healthy. You can do that, but you need to get them altered."

A state law took effect in October, establishing a program in which Ribaudo's group can provide up to 10 percent of its income for the sterilization and vaccination of feral cats and another 10 percent of its income for the sterilization and vaccination of dogs and cats owned by low-income residents.

Ribaudo estimated the program - which derives 68 percent of its revenue from dog license fees - could provide about $60,000 each for both feral cats and low-income pet owners. The new law replaces a program in which the state had provided $40,000 in grants to private animal control groups.

Municipal animal control officers generally don't deal with cats, leaving their fates up to private, mostly volunteer groups. To prevent the cats from breeding, the groups practice a method called trap, neuter and release, or TNR. Volunteers practicing TNR trap the cats for a veterinarian to spay or neuter before clipping off a piece of one ear for identification and returning them to their habitat.

Villinger, working with Helen Hatfield from Animals For Life of Middlebury, said she spent about $600 to have about seven cats treated and fixed before releasing them.

"It's the only way to go," Hatfield said. "It's better than shooting them."

Hatfield, who supports three colonies, said she delivers 50 pounds of cat food to Villinger every few weeks, donated by Science Diet. Villinger, who admits she might be overfeeding them, spends about another $20 on cat food each week.

Tait's Every Animal Matters (TEAM) out of Westbrook says it has spayed or neutered about 107,000 cats since it began its mobile operation 10 years ago. The group estimates about a third of those cats have been feral.The group schedules about 45 cats a day on its three 32-feet-long vehicles, charging $67 for sterilization and vaccines. They also provide people with a contraceptive pill for cats that can help control breeding while they work to trap a cagey critter.

Donna Sicuranza, executive director of TEAM, blames humans for the explosion of feral cat populations. She said people dump unwanted cats on the side of the road or don't fix their pet cats, who then wander off and reproduce.

Sicuranza said euthanasia doesn't address the root of the problem, while TNR allows a colony to stay healthy and defend its territory from other groups that would take its place. She believes the populations are decreasing and praised the job Villinger is doing.

"A lot of these folks get a bad rap. But there is a way to manage it. People don't need to resort to inhumane and archaic tactics. Nor should they persecute somebody whose trying to do the right thing," Sicuranza said.

Villinger's neighbor, Sharon Brinnier, would prefer Villinger's cats stayed away from her backyard, which she had certified as a habitat by the National Wildlife Federation. She said the cats fish in her pond and kill the frogs and birds that join the snakes, otters, squirrels and foxes in her yard.

"I don't like the wild cats," Brinnier, 56, said. "They are not part of the natural order of things."

Bird lovers would agree. Linda Winter of the American Bird Conservancy surmises feral cats could be responsible for killing between 3.5 million and 45 million birds each year.

Killing is in the nature of most cats, even if they are well fed, said Milan Bull, senior director of science and conservation for the Connecticut Audubon Society.

"They don't discriminate between common birds, uncommon birds, rare birds or endangered birds," Bull said.

The state Department of Environmental Protection does not take a position on trap and release, said Jenny Dickson, a DEP wildlife biologist. Such programs present complications in the wild, she said.Vaccinations require booster shots, she said. If no booster shots are given, a cat vaccinated against rabies could still contract and spread the disease in the future. There also is the possibility that anyone supporting a feral cat colony near a state-listed bird species, like the piping plover along the coast, might be violating state and federal endangered species laws.

"It seems to make sense, Dickson said. "But when you think about all the different pieces of the puzzle and what the ramifications could be, how does that impact everything around it?"

Villinger, an animal lover, said she doesn't see much choice."You either refuse to feed them, which I can't do, or do TNR," she said. "If you love animals and you are kind to them, it's hard to turn them away."

The Seeds of Disappointment

Might as well teach a child to root for Michael Jackson's career to rebound...

The Golden Era of Free Video

YouTube. From the sublime:



To the ridiculous:



I know I've praised the virtues of YouTube on this blog to the point where many of my posts are mere links or embedded clips of fun shit I've found there recently. But last night, as I was watching the entirety of Eat the Document, the never-released documentary of Bob Dylan's 1966 boo-laden electric tour through Europe with The Band, I had an epiphany: This shit ain't gonna last forever.

Corporate overlord Google has already caved to pressure from corporations like Viacom, which forces the site to pull any of its copyright protected content, such as "The Daily Show." I figure we might only be a year or two away from a complete blackout from so much of the wonderful, pirated stuff that makes YouTube the best place to kill a few hours with some time-travel to see all of that stuff you've always heard about but never had the money -- or connections -- to buy.

Which is why I've begun to save YouTube videos to my hard drive with SaveTube. That way, when the bottom falls out of this free-for-all era, I'll still be able to check out a 23-year-old Robbie Robertson grooving like mad before a show in which he and the guys play some of the most urgent, rollicking music ever inflicted on a hostile audience completely missing out on the significance. They were witnesses to a seismic shift in the history of rock and roll. For the rest of us, it's time to capture it before its gone.

Dog Police

This might be my scariest childhood memory. Now I can't get it out of my head. Damn you, YouTube!

Spending Time at the Airport...Together

I know I've been neglecting my blogatory duties. Such is life. But please allow me to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving with this tender news piece.

Eat Your Kucinich

And now won't you all please play USA Today's Candidate Match Game? I did. The results, I must say, were troubling. Your turn.

The Incredi-Perls

By TPerl


Ready for Trick-or-Treating!


Another day, another world saved...

In a Row?

100 movies, 100 quotes, 100 numbers. I'm particularly fond of 55, 36 and, of course, 11.

Animate

Animator vs. Animation by *alanbecker on deviantART

Very Cool.

The Replacements

SI's Lee Jenkins looks at an NFL team's practice squad, those dispensable bubble players. And more importantly, Slate's Josh Levin looks at how pieces like Jenkins' are so rare in today's diminished Sports Illustrated. Dan Patrick traded for Rick Reilly to ESPN: The Magazine? Sounds like Horrible: The Decision.

Greenwich Village Halloween Parade, 2004

On the subway en route to the 30th annual New York Village Halloween Parade, a witch checks her palm pilot, three pumpkin heads head-butt each other, and a tall, pale, spiky-haired ghoul poses for a picture with his girlfriend. Oh. He, um, wasn’t wearing a costume.

In the center of the city’s long bohemian tradition, it’s a night for children and a night for everyone else to remember why children have so much fun. It’s a night for bizarre encounters.

On the way to Sixth Avenue from Astor Place, a policeman at the entrance to Washington Square Park bars entrance to a pudgy gladiator. “Sorry, the park’s closed, he says.” And then, after receiving a quizzical look, adds, “If you had your sword, maybe we’d let you in.”

Another woman asks a policewoman how to get to the C and E train. “It’s that way,” she says and points downtown. “I’m not really a cop, by the way.” At this, the woman walking toward the subway glances back to notice the policewoman is handcuffed to another woman in broad-striped, cartoon-like prison attire, complete with one of those striped beanies and holding a ball and chain. All three of them can only smile.

A woman with a (fake) bullet hole in her head says to a (real) cop, “I like your costume.” The cop says, “Yeah, I like yours, too.”

One trend easy to note on this unseasonably warm New York October 31st is the abundance of skin. Judging by the women tonight, someone might suppose there are no dowdy nurses or chaste catholic schoolgirls in America. Only a vast procession of sexy nurses, sexy school girls, sexy devils, sexy angels, sexy teachers and even—Lord forgive her—a sexy nun.

A Greek chorus of ghost-faced “Dead Presidents” perches on top of newspaper dispensers and provides a running commentary on the parade of costumes that runs up and down the sidewalk beside the parade. They give mad props to the pimps, taunt the nerds with cries of “Waldo!” cross themselves in mock pious deference to the priests, ask of the udderless cow-man, “Got Milk?” and chant “Let’s go Marlins!” at the pinstriped Yankees. The scantily clad women receive crass double entendres. To the sexy nurses: “Can you take my temperature?” To the sexy teachers: “Mommy, can you teach me a lesson?”

The women accelerate and the crowd eats it up.

Meanwhile, on Sixth Avenue, the actual parade advances uptown from Spring Street to Chelsea attended by as may as two million participants and spectators. Puppet skeletons hover overhead accompanied by marching bands and a float featuring grand marshal Audrey II from the Broadway revival of “Little Shop of Horrors.”

Josh Dankowitz of West Orange, N.J., dressed as an army soldier with a deep neck gash and a gaping chest wound walks past a man in overalls simply wearing the Michael Myers mask from the “Halloween” movies. “Now that’s scary,” he says.

That mask, famously created on short notice and a low budget on the set of the 1979 John Carpenter film was originally a William Shattner Star Trek mask painted over in white. Now that’s scary.

Paul Sansone of Bellport, Long Island exhibits perhaps a less inspired makeshift costume. “I was late getting out of work today,” he says in response to the question, “Why are you wearing a FedEx envelope on your head?”

It wouldn’t be American culture if Halloween didn’t inspire the distasteful, yet requisite shots at celebrities. Seigfried and Roy avatars march the parade route waving and smiling with stuffed tigers clamped at their bloody necks. A woman stuffs her pants with a rear-end sign identifying her protruding rump as “J-Lo.” A man walks by wearing a sweatshirt over a green turtle neck and a 1980’s-style walkman over his Chicago Cubs cap, in mock tribute to infamous interfering Cubs fan Steve Bartman.

But it’s all in good fun, this childish night in such a grown-up city.

As the parade disburses to the surrounding Greenwich Village restaurants and bars, Richard Scheffer with flowing robes, a wig of bedraggled white locks meeting his full white false beard, large wooden staff and cardboard tablets in hand, proclaims in a somewhat less-than-booming voice, “Thou shalt buy for Moses…many drinks!”

Nutmeg Bones

According to Wikipedia (and who can doubt anything there), Connecticut has the highest per capita income and median household income in the country.

Sorry, Connecticut. I will be dragging you down some.

Yes, I have left the snarled roads of Central New Jersey for the Nutmeg State. And just in time, as it seems Jon Bon Jovi has taken up residence at the new Newark hockey arena. Actually, I have nothing against Bon Jovi as a person or a band. But David Bryan (Rashbaum)? Is it really OK to call this a haircut? I'm just asking.

Anyway, sorry for the long lag in posts. So much has happened while I've been packing and unpacking and smashing my fingers with hammers and cutting them on boxes and talking to Dell customer support people in New Delhi.

So I'll try to come up with something entertaining to write about this week while I continue to fiddle around the house and spend quality time with the Connecticut DMV.

Thanks for picking up the slack, Perl. I really have been out of it. Any idea who won the World Series this year?

Only $29.95 - the Boras Bullshit Translator

By TPerl




As reported in today's NY Post:

"I got a call from Alex tonight, and he is going to opt out," Scott Boras, Rodriguez's agent, told The Post last night during Game 4 of the World Series. “He was just too unsure with new ownership talking about a transition where the organization is going right now. He is not sure what is going to happen with [free agents] Mariano [Rivera] and [Jorge] Posada, and if Andy Pettitte is coming back. He needs more time to assess where the Yankees are going in the future."

Now here's that quote using my new BBT-Boras Bullshit Translator (patent pending):

"I told A-Rod that I was going to announce it today. I know we have at least another 10 days, but fuck me if I'm going to let the Red Sox take the front page away from my $30 million dollar baby. He was unsure how I would spin it - I said I'll make up some excuse about 'uncertainty during the transition' and blah, blah, blah - cause I think all fans are idiots and all owners fear me."

It's no surprise A-Rod opted out, but Boras really must think highly of himself if he thinks nobody sees through his ridiculously self-serving antics. Or more likely, he and A-Rod just don't care.

I know there's no more loyalty in sports (except from us gullible fans, that is), but I still hold out hope that one day I'll be pleasantly surprised - maybe the Yanks holding true to their word to not negotiate with A-Rod would be a good start.

Fuck Me? Hey Boss, Fuck You!

By TPerl

Well the Yanks brass played chicken with Joe Torre, and lost. And they lost one of the most beloved, respected, and (most imoportant in Yankeeland) successful managers in their storied history. Well George, or whichever one of your idiot heirs actually made this decision, I hope it was worth it.

Personally, I'm surprised Joe stuck around this long. And I wouldn't mind his departure so much except when I think about how this will affect the off-season negotiations with Rivera and Posada, who clearly loved Joe as their manager (and essentially he was their only manager). Losing Rivera would be 100 times worse than when they lost Pettitte to Houston - and now whatever money they're "saving" on Torre, they're gonna have to give Mo that and much much more to keep him in the Bronx. Fucking brilliant.

So we will be entering a new era of Yankee baseball next season, and in all likelihood, it will be "Donnie Baseball". And that's a good thing, at least.

And maybe Mattingly can learn to throw the cutter, too?

Hey Pretty Darling, Don't Wait Up For Me -- Gonna Be a Long Walk Home

There are days when I'm completely lost.

I doubt my instincts, my reasoned judgment, my sense of hope. I stare from behind the wheel of my car at a metallic liquid swirl of humanity, oozing along New Jersey's clogged roads. Each life inside, disconnected from one another and the madness of more distant lands.

I live in a country divided by pride and shame — and blinded by both. I recognize my neighbors, but I do not know them. My country feels vibrant, but something is dying inside.

Is there anybody alive out there?

You're damn right there is.

When I went to see Bruce Springsteen open his "Magic" tour in Hartford, Conn., last week, I already knew the answer to that question — one he's been asking in one form or another since I was born. It's a question that echoes throughout the new album's first single, "Radio Nowhere," probing the void of American alienation and issuing a challenge to connect.

The song demands attention. It pleads and promises. Like his best songs, it offers a token of faith to escape the cold darkness. "I just want to feel some rhythm!" Bruce belted to the back of the old hockey barn.

Over the course of the show, the unsteady undercurrent of the new songs shake through the wall of sound. Springsteen is not just singing about girls in their summer clothes, sunsets, motorcycles, breakups, barmaids, lost soldiers and hometowns. As much as he's ever done, he's peeling the thin skin off of his country and exposing it to the elements. The songs might jump and swerve, but the aftertaste proves disarming and corrosive. What's happened to this great nation? Where are we going? How did we get here?

I was born here. Like Bruce, here in New Jersey. And like Bruce, I've always peered toward the edge of town, looking elsewhere, wondering, imagining. The best art teaches us something about our world, about human nature. Springsteen songs do more. They let you inhabit other lives, recognizing universal foibles and emotions through the behavior of strangers.

I grew up a white, privileged suburban kid. I've never known real hunger, real suffering, enduring danger or genuine hopelessness. I've never robbed a bank, raced cars, gambled away my life, fought in a war, married the wrong woman, worked at a car wash, or watched my brother's taillights disappear into Canada after he bashed a man's head in.

But thanks to Bruce, I somehow know these people. I feel more complete as a person. More compassionate and hungrier for real experience.

In concert, the E Street Band blows the lid off complacency. The set list takes us from the angry grief and desperate hope in the days after Sept. 11 ("The Rising") to the disastrous squandering of goodwill and good sense that defines our current adventure in Iraq ("Last to Die"). The songs puncture America's daydream, a fantasy in which our leaders do not imprison people indefinitely without due process, in which the rule of law can't be discarded with a signing statement and the machinations of hack toadies, in which we do not torture prisoners, in which fear does not trump bravery and liberties do not sell at a discount under a red, white and blue banner promising safety.

It's appropriate that I saw Springsteen in Connecticut — an old friend in a new place. I'm moving there next week to start a new job, share a home with my girlfriend, meet new neighbors. Maybe I'll get to know them better.

I hope something changes, and this country comes together, rediscovers what made it great, veers away from the cliff and arrives in The Promised Land.

"Here everybody has a neighbor," Bruce sings. "Everybody has a friend. Everybody has a reason to begin again."

Some days I'm completely lost. And some days, with a little help, I'm ready to make the long walk home.

Birthday Bones

By Arielle



Bon Anniversaire D. Bones!

Osi's in the Backfield Yet Again

By TPerl

Check out the link above, and see if you can top the seemlingly endless possible football-related double entendres already written in the comments section.

I admit that I stole my headline from one of the comments.

All Day Suckers

In case you needed evidence, here are two examples of the "We Report -- You Decide" credo as practiced by the good folks at Fox News.

The dustup over network loudmouth Bill O'Reilly's utterly moronic, if not mean-spirited comments are apparantly the fault of left-wing website Media Matters for reporting it with complete context. Not, apparantly the waterhead, paranoid demogogue who made the comments to begin with. God bless America.

Black People For Dummies

Many people wonder about my fascination with Bill O'Reilly. He's a demogogue and hypocrite of the highest order -- a vile and dangerous rabble-rouser completely divorced from facts, tolerance and reality. He's also a lot of fun to watch, mostly while screaming at the TV screen.

But all those screams are worth it when, quite regularly, he reveals his inner buffoon. Such as in this bit from his radio show the other day when talking with NPR's Juan Williams (excerpted at length to provide fair context):

O'REILLY: Now, how do we get to this point? Black people in this country understand that they've had a very, very tough go of it, and some of them can get past that, and some of them cannot. I don't think there's a black American who hasn't had a personal insult that they've had to deal with because of the color of their skin. I don't think there's one in the country. So you've got to accept that as being the truth. People deal with that stuff in a variety of ways. Some get bitter. Some say, [unintelligible] "You call me that, I'm gonna be more successful." OK, it depends on the personality.

So it's there. It's there, and I think it's getting better. I think black Americans are starting to think more and more for themselves. They're getting away from the Sharptons and the Jacksons and the people trying to lead them into a race-based culture. They're just trying to figure it out: "Look, I can make it. If I work hard and get educated, I can make it."

You know, I was up in Harlem a few weeks ago, and I actually had dinner with Al Sharpton, who is a very, very interesting guy. And he comes on The Factor a lot, and then I treated him to dinner, because he's made himself available to us, and I felt that I wanted to take him up there. And we went to Sylvia's, a very famous restaurant in Harlem. I had a great time, and all the people up there are tremendously respectful. They all watch The Factor. You know, when Sharpton and I walked in, it was like a big commotion and everything, but everybody was very nice.

And I couldn't get over the fact that there was no difference between Sylvia's restaurant and any other restaurant in New York City. I mean, it was exactly the same, even though it's run by blacks, primarily black patronship. It was the same, and that's really what this society's all about now here in the U.S.A. There's no difference. There's no difference. There may be a cultural entertainment -- people may gravitate toward different cultural entertainment, but you go down to Little Italy, and you're gonna have that. It has nothing to do with the color of anybody's skin.

[...]

O'REILLY: No, no, I mean, I like that soul food. I had the meatloaf special. I had coconut shrimp. I had the iced tea. It was great.

WILLIAMS: Well, let me just tell you, the one thing I would say is this. And we're talking about the kids who still like this gangsta rap, this vile poison that I think is absolutely, you know, literally a corruption of culture. I think that what you've got to take into account that it's still a majority white audience -- young, white people who think they're into rebelling against their parents who buy this stuff and think it's just a kick. You know, it's just a way of expressing their anti-authoritarianism.

O'REILLY: But it's a different -- it's a different dynamic, though.

WILLIAMS: Exactly right --

O'REILLY: Because the young, white kids don't have to struggle out of the ghetto.

WILLIAMS: Right, and also, I think they can have that as one phase of their lives.

O'REILLY: Yeah.

WILLIAMS: I think too many of the black kids take it as, "Oh, that's what it means to be authentically black. That's how you make money. That's how you become rich and famous and get on TV and get music videos." And you either get the boys or the girls. The girls think they have to, you know, be half-naked and spinning around like they're on meth in order to get any attention. It really corrupts people, and I think it adds, Bill, to some serious sociological problems, like the high out-of-wedlock birth rate because of this hypersexual imagery that then the kids adapt to some kind of reality. I mean, it's inauthentic. It's not in keeping with great black traditions of struggle and excellence, from Willie Mays to Aretha Franklin, but even in terms of academics, you know, going back to people like Charles Drew or Ben Carson here, the neurosurgeon at [Johns] Hopkins [University]. That stuff, all of a sudden, is pushed aside. That's treated as, "You're a nerd, you're acting white," if you try to be excellent and black.

O'REILLY: You know, and I went to the concert by Anita Baker at Radio City Music Hall, and the crowd was 50/50, black/white, and the blacks were well-dressed. And she came out -- Anita Baker came out on the stage and said, "Look, this is a show for the family. We're not gonna have any profanity here. We're not gonna do any rapping here." The band was excellent, but they were dressed in tuxedoes, and this is what white America doesn't know, particularly people who don't have a lot of interaction with black Americans. They think that the culture is dominated by Twista, Ludacris, and Snoop Dogg.

WILLIAMS: Oh, and it's just so awful. It's just so awful because, I mean, it's literally the sewer come to the surface, and now people take it that the sewer is the whole story --

O'REILLY: That's right. That's right. There wasn't one person in Sylvia's who was screaming, "M-Fer, I want more iced tea."

WILLIAMS: Please --

O'REILLY: You know, I mean, everybody was -- it was like going into an Italian restaurant in an all-white suburb in the sense of people were sitting there, and they were ordering and having fun. And there wasn't any kind of craziness at all.

Now, I agree that it's not worthy of coverage by the national news media. But really: What is these days?

It's not the kind of thing that deserve protests and recriminations and calls for his ouster. But this is hilarious. He lashed out at CNN last night for piling on -- blaming the messenger for his message. He accuses CNN, MSNBC and Media Matters of taking him out of context when they provide the complete context and links to recordings or transcripts of his actual words.

O'Reilly lives in New York City and works in media. It's amazing that he would explain to his audience that he "couldn't get over" the fact there was no difference between a black-owned restaurant and, you know, a normal restaurant. Even if he was striking an ignorant pose to relate to his audience, he's guilty of creating that ignorance in his audience by feeding them endless clips and sanctimonious derision of Ludacris and Nas and other black people he feels are dragging down the culture. His audience doesn't know any better, he figures. He's just trying to help defuse racism. But he should know better than to say something so obviously ignorant and demeaning about a black restaurant in Harlem.

Hey, Bill! I was on the Upper West Side of Manhattan yesterday at a Kosher diner. And you, know, the people there were kind, well-behaved and charged a reasonable fee. They dressed fashionably, but conservatively, covered their heads (I suppose to disguise their horns) and weren't scrambling on the floor for loose change or anything!

Perhaps his intentions were noble, but his statement reveals something particularly clueless and out-of-touch about this self-described man of the people. I mean, what was he expecting to see there?

As far as my fascination for Bill-O, I suppose Andrew Sullivan once said it best, using a term a friend of his had coined.

Hathos is the attraction to something you really can't stand; it's the compulsion of revulsion. I feel that way about Bill O'Reilly. Hannity is just evil. Grace is unwatchable past two minutes. O'Reilly, however, is compelling in some mysterious way. I need a fix every now and again - and not just of the turkey wobble neck. You find yourself watching him the way you sometimes smell your own farts: it's disgusting, but you can't help yourself.

Top Five Favorite Lists of Lists

Actually, I've got nothing. Except Monday's column, which will look familiar to all you hardcore Rolling Bones readers out there. I'm talking to you, Fruitless Web-Porn Surfer from Bangalore!

And then there are these often-hilarious nuggets from McSweeney's.

Such as "Who Said It: Vice President Dick Cheney or Phil Leotardo From The Sopranos?"

Or Titles of Songs From Pet Sounds, Translated In and Out of Japanese by GoogleTranslate.

Or:

No. 82: Movie Spoofs—Sample Dialogue (Nonporn Category)

From Comedy by the Numbers by Eric Hoffman and Gary Rudoren
- - - -
"The first rule of Polite Club: Don't talk about Polite Club. Please."
"I'm bald as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"
"You talkin' to pee?"
"Forget it, Jake—it's Funkytown."
"Ron Livingston, I presume."
"I'm out of quarters? You're out of quarters! This entire courtroom is out of quarters!"
"Gattaca! Gattaca! Gattaca!"
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a fuck."

Or, my favorite:

Titles From Dr. Seuss's Brief Foray Into Realism
BY JONATHAN BAUDE AND J. ALEX BOYD
- - - -
One Fish, Two Fish, Catfish, Grouper
Scrambled Eggs and Ham
Hop on a Trampoline While Pop Watches
There's Some Spare Change in My Pocket!
Oh, the Places You'll Wish You'd Gone When You're Old and Dying!
The Cat in the Litter Box

Shouldn't OJ Stay at the Tropicana?

I know I'm a week late on this story, but damn if this didn't feel like Christmas came early this year. My disdain for The Juice is well documented, but I just couldn't resist the opportunity to do a little happy dance in the hopes of his imprisonment.

Of course, there is no way to empanel a jury in this case. And so much can go so wrong before justice is served -- though not for Ron and Nicole. So I'm just enjoying the circus. I mean, Greta Van Susteren was interviewing Kato Kaelin the other night for chrissakes. Now that he's out on bail, I'm anxiously awaiting to see what car he and Al Cowling will use to flee to Mexico. The trial will surely be a hoot. Bring on the ghost of Johnnie Cochran! If you've got the collectibles, conviction is inevitable!

This Post Brought To You By The Letter J

By Arielle

I've been a Jets fan long enough to know that even a trip to Sesame Street could be a nerve-wracking proposition for the Jets. Would Chad slip on Slimy the Worm and tear another rotator cuff? Would Mr. Snuffelupagus accidentally give Laveranues Coles another non-concussion concussion? Would Oscar the Grouch don a hoodie and illegally tape the Jets doing their alphabets?

Well, things turned ok this time. All three Jets and the coach survived, and Elmo played a lot like Justin McCareins.

Meet The Team

By Arielle

Meet the newest Jet.

Abram Elam played safety for the Cowboys last year. Before that, he was convicted of sexual battery and kicked out of Notre Dame after being accused of taking part in the gang rape of a fellow student.

The jury acquitted Elam of conspiracy to commit rape and criminal deviate conduct. A judge sentenced him to two years probation and community service for the felony sexual battery charge. At the trial, three of Elam's teammates testified that they heard the girl say "no" or "don't."

Fortunately, Elam never tried any funny business with dogs. Otherwise we might have a protest on our hands.

Six Years On

Six years ago today, I drove through the Lincoln Tunnel on a bright blue morning listening to The Black Crowes and oblivious to the airplane that just struck the World Trade Center. Like so many Americans, I was equally oblivious to the dangers that had been circling us around the world.

Five days later, I sent an email to everyone in my address book expressing my confusion, fear, resolve and doubt. I'm particularly struck by my inclusion of Iraq into a potential list of possibilities. How the hell did that stupid idea get into my head? Why were people talking about Sadam Hussein then? Fucking Dick Cheney.

Anyway, here's what I wrote. I know a lot more today then I did then. I'm not sure how much safer we are. I'm not sure how much we've learned. I'm not sure how many more years we'll only have this one day to remember these 3,000 people killed six years ago.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


My To Do List 9/10/01:

--Fix Sink
--2 Wedding gifts
--Buy new Dylan CD
--Register for New School writing course
--Buy pasta bowl
--Plan Vacation for fall

My To Do List 9/16/01:

--Survive

I don't want to be overly dramatic. But life doesn't get much more dramatic than airplanes slamming into skyscrapers. And I don't know what to expect next. And that's scary.

I'm not necessarily a man of action. I anticipate that the role of most Americans in the coming months and years won't be much more than working in our various, perhaps frivolous industries for nothing more than the expressed purpose of maintaining our economy and tangentially fueling our industrial and military strength through donations and taxes. No. I, like many of you, won't likely be taking any direct action in this newfangled war. And so my way of coping is simply to understand. To empower myself with knowledge of what sacrifices it will take and what life will be like in order to defeat global terrorism. Perhaps much more will be required of me. Since Tuesday, I have joked and smiled and laughed with friends and family--acts of both defiance and necessity. We must not lead morose lives cowed by madmen. Yet, through occasional teary-eyed bouts of helplessness and marvelous pride in this city's character, I ask questions.

Is our sometimes incompetent and often sluggish government capable of ensuring security for thousands of daily domestic commercial flights? If necessary, are we prepared to invade and occupy Afghanistan and Iraq? To squelch any potential revolution and secure the nuclear arsenal in Pakistan as a potential result of their intentions to assist us in apprehending bin Laden? Do we have the capacity to defend our airspace and cities while spreading our military all over Asia? Will our actions polarize the moderate Muslim world against us in the holy war bin Laden clearly wants? How do you measure victory in such a war? Can we anticipate 5 more terrorist attacks in the next year? 50 more? All across the country?

I don't have a clue, and yet I am preparing for the worst. Six days ago, I barely knew a thing about the twisted motivations of Muslim extremists or the precarious nature of geopolitics. But I'm learning. And I'm attaching a few worthwhile articles and editorials that might help you out, if you haven't found them already. They are more difficult to read and digest than some of the fist-pumping jingoistic monologues making their way around through email. As always, we need to pick and choose in order to get any sense of the truth out of the media. I hope these choices serve you well.

Some of you, I may not have spoken to in ages. I can only hope these words find you and your families intact in the midst of this tragedy. And for those that have losses, I can only wish for you to find whatever it is you might seek in your time of grief. For now, I am still here. I feel as though I have so little of real importance to do. I want nothing more than an end to this madness.

This summer, I was concerned with weekend plans or whether the Writers' Guild strike could delay the premier of "The West Wing," whether I'd be able to ever keep a tee shot from launching into the woods, and lamented a hockey team's inability to bring dynastic glory to (of all places) New Jersey. Today, I live in a city of carnage, rubble and heartbreak while I shamelessly nurse an undying nostalgia for our lost frivolity.

Gedanken

Here's a reality-check thought experiment for pro-lifers that helps explain their disconnect in a way that hadn't occured to me. There is plenty of room for compromise on the pro-choice side, but you can hardly argue with this fundamental difficulty of the absolutist pro-life position.

Edited for clarification. This only applies to pro-lifers who won't budge under any condition.

New Logo, New Life

Are you ready for some football? And by that, I mean: Are you ready for something other than unwatchable preseason games and endless talk about dog fighting? Now's the time for the real dog fight ... and unwatchable regular season games.

I'm about as optimistic as a true Jet fan can ever be. Which means, not so much. Thomas Jones' calf, Chad Pennington's arm, a pathetic offensive line, little-to-no pass rush, a training camp-hold-out rookie starting cornerback ... these are not signs of hope.

But if you don't have hope when everyone is 0-0, then this sport isn't for you. Or you're from Arizona.

So tonight, I root for a tight shootout between Indy and New Orleans. It's always fun to root for a Manning and a Bush. Makes up for all the mockery I direct at Eli and George W.

To get all you folks in the mood for your team's debut this weekend, I recommend this series of articles by Aaron Schatz of Football Outsiders, a crew looking to redefine statistical analysis in the NFL.

Then there's Gregg Easterbrook's Tuesday Morning Quarterback, which never ceases to be provocative, exhaustive and funny, without all the masturbatory meanderings of Bill Simmons and his poker buddies.

And somehow no one ever told me that Pro Football Talk is the single best place to go for NFL scoops -- though it might be more valuable in the offseason than now that the bullets are ready to fly.

But enough talk. Let's get to playing. And I'll see you all in February when Tom Brady wins the Super Bowl again and impregnates a pit bull who then breaks up with him and names the puppy Laveranues.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

When summer ends, I feel 9 years old.

I feel like I've just said goodbye to my best friends at camp for 10 months. I feel empty. And full.

And though my camping days are long behind me and I've been out of school for more than a decade, the end of summer still stings with nostalgia.

September meant days at desks, homework and a different set of friends. For some reason, I was more popular in the summer. I rallied the troops, kept the peace and made a fool of myself without fear of embarrassment. At home, I wandered in the neurotic void between the cool kids, the kids who studied too much, and the kids who didn't feel the need to study or act cool.

But not in summer.

In the summer, we played softball, flag football, floor hockey, basketball, tennis and capture the flag. We swam, water-skied, filled water balloons and learned just how far you could bend the rules. Our greatest concern was how to suck every last drip of fun from our privileged, obscenely expensive eight-week vacation from home.

September meant 180 days of least common denominators and "Great Expectations" and Hawley-Smoot Tariff Acts. It meant sweat shirts and Sunday school and piano lessons and swim practice and badly played soccer on Saturdays.

September also meant football season: the thrill of barbecue in the crisp air, mingling with mud, sweat, leather and blood. Though for a Jets fan, while the atmosphere might be ripe, the team only occasionally offered actual joy.

But in summer, there was hope.

In the summer, I could bounce on my bed and off the walls for hours after Danielle Upbin kissed me goodnight. I have since had far more rewarding relationships — some that even lasted more than a week or two. But it's difficult to match the giddiness of a peck on the lips when you're 13 years old. The promise of fleeting meetings, casual touches, scrawled notes delivered with giggles.

September in college wasn't so bad. The freedom made it feel a lot like sleepaway camp — only with lectures and midterms and alcohol.

I suppose we had as much fun in college as should be permitted while ostensibly educating ourselves at our privileged, obscenely expensive four-year vacation from the real world. But deadlines loomed around every ivy-covered corner. It took five years after graduation before I stopped dreaming about some assignment I had forgotten or a test for which I had neglected to study.

Now, summer is just another season. The weather changes. Football kicks off. The job — rewarding as it can be — stays the same.

So as students return to school this week, I pity them some. But mostly I envy them.

Though they are trapped in stuffy rooms with stuffy students and occasionally droning instructors cramming information into them lest they be a child left behind. Though their parents likely schedule every last minute of their lives and dress them with itchy, unfashionable fabrics. Though summer is as far away today as it will ever be . . .

At some point, fall and winter and spring will end. And it will be summer again.

The Decider

Worth checking out the excerpts from Robert Draper's new Bush book at Slate. I was struck by this passage below, which for me, typifies our president's meager intellect.

It's part of a rambling monologue in which Bush attempts to explain his thinking process when deciding policy. In the process, he reveals the black-and-white simplicity of his worldview and even more galling -- his inability to assimilate new facts into his pre-ordained conclusions. All the while, he explains the simplest things he's learned as though they are deep insights. And he does so in a tone of voice that mistakes us all for naive children. Is it 2009 yet?

Oh. And the man is a sloppy eater.

"The job of the president," he continued, through an ample wad of bread and sausage, "is to think strategically so that you can accomplish big objectives. As opposed to playing mini-ball. You can't play mini-ball with the influence we have and expect there to be peace. You've gotta think, think BIG. The Iranian issue," he said as bread crumbs tumbled out of his mouth and onto his chin, "is the strategic threat right now facing a generation of Americans, because Iran is promoting an extreme form of religion that is competing with another extreme form of religion. Iran's a destabilizing force. And instability in that part of the world has deeply adverse consequences, like energy falling in the hands of extremist people that would use it to blackmail the West. And to couple all of that with a nuclear weapon, then you've got a dangerous situation. ... That's what I mean by strategic thought. I don't know how you learn that. I don't think there's a moment where that happened to me. I really don't. I know you're searching for it. I know it's difficult. I do know—y'know, how do you decide, how do you learn to decide things? When you make up your mind, and you stick by it—I don't know that there's a moment, Robert. I really—You either know how to do it or you don't. I think part of this is it: I ran for reasons. Principled reasons. There were principles by which I will stand on. And when I leave this office I'll stand on them. And therefore you can't get driven by polls. Polls aren't driven by principles. They're driven by the moment. By the nanosecond."

I'm Smaaht!

Sleep with the fishes, Alberto "Fredo" Gonzales.

It's hard to imagine an attorney general doing more to damage the Constitution, separation of powers and rule of law in our country. Here's a man who never really left his job as White House counsel, preferring to gut the Justice Department than say no to Karl Rove or George Bush. A man who signed a memo authorizing torture that he didn't even write. A man who either authorized or happily turned the other way when eight or nine U.S. attorneys were fired prior to an election because they chose to uphold their oaths of office instead of following Republican marching orders.
A man who lied to Congress and whose only defense was basically "I'm completely incompetent, so I can't be blamed for wrongdoing."

See ya, later Gonzo. I'm sure George will be happy to find you another cushy job that hopefully won't destroy too many of our nation's institutions and values.

Couldn't Agree With You More

By TPerl



Oh. My. God.

Kermit the Forg

Because it's just not easy being green. And I'm still waiting for my Bones the Blogger T-shirt to come in.

Dearly Beloved

They say a wedding is not a marriage. And by the way some of us get married, that's probably a good thing.

Now, I'm still officially single, though happily girlfriended. Most of my friends are married with kids and dogs and mortgages and arguments about poker night. My girl is seven years younger than me, which helps alleviate any immediate pressure to run and hire a cocktail hour flutist or begin matching flatware with doilies.

But two weeks ago, we attended the wedding of two of her college friends in Vancouver, overlooking Coal Harbor and snow-capped mountains. And -- inexperienced with these affairs as she had been -- she began to look with fresh eyes at the strange ritual of wedding ceremonies.

It probably had something to do with the strange wedding officiant. She was perfectly pleasant -- smiling and serene. Then she started in with the shtick.

As a Jewish man, I'm quite familiar with the folksy wit and wisdom of a mugging rabbi with a captive audience. It's no coincidence that so many comedians come from the same tribe. But it's one thing to watch Jon Stewart yuck it up with Joe Biden on TV and another thing to have your wedding presided over by a secular Shecky Greene.

She cracked jokes about how they met and where they went on their first date (Wendy's, ha-ha). She tossed shout-outs to distinguished members of the crowd and coached us for some climactic audience participation. She was the center of attention, and all that was missing was a brick wall and a two-drink minimum.

But she didn't spoil the moment, as no one really could when all that really matters is the public declaration of love and commitment between two people.

My girlfriend's mother got married in May to her long-time, often-long-distance Brazilian boyfriend in a utilitarian civil ceremony at the Lake County courthouse in Illinois. They went by themselves, signed some papers and were handed brochures on safe sex.

A friend of mine got married in a Pennsylvania arboretum, incorporating a poetic statement of oneness by ""Babylon 5'' writer J. Michael Straczynski, a song written by Nigerian-born musician Sade Adu, and an Apache blessing into a ceremony that only mentioned God once in passing.

A Jewish friend of mine got married to his Irish-Catholic wife by a rabbi and a priest. And though I'm still not sure how these religions are compatible (Jesus being the particular divine fly in the holy ointment), there was something touching and inclusive about the irrationality of it all.

I had a similar revelation a year or so later at the wedding between an Irish friend and his Italian wife, where many of his Jewish friends instigated a completely random Klezmer hora, dancing in circles to "Hava Nagila" and lifting the bride and groom high above the befuddled faces of grandparents.

When I was in Thailand, dozens of scuba-diving couples -- mostly Westerners -- married on Valentine's Day, submerged beneath the Andaman Sea.

And a friend's wife's cousins just got married in spacesuits by a man wearing a Dracula cape and Elvis goggles whom they met while waiting on line to buy the new Harry Potter book.

I'm not sure what lesson to draw from all of this. I've known people who have spent upwards of $100,000 on the pomp surrounding the first six hours of their marriage. I guess it's obvious to say people should enjoy the moment, but focus more on the shared remainder of their lifetime.

And date 25-year-olds who are happy to wait a little while.

Worst. Addiction. Ever.

By TPerl

I guess this happens when you have no life outside of work and kids. I've been into collecting since I was a kid, mostly with baseball cards. But I never really went overboard with having the "ultimate collection".

But now it seems as if I'm more easily conned into being the guy who, as the ads always command, "collects them all!". Two cases in point:

1) Burger King Simpsons Figures - My wife and I have been buying nothing but kids meals now whenever we go to BK, which now has become a twice-a-week event since these toys came out. We have all but four of them, as shown in the chart below. Of course, being the collector-geek that I am, all of them are still in the protective plastic - the kids only get one if it's a double of one we already have. Notice that we were lucky enough to have gotten the "Limited Edition Golden Homer" - Woohoo!


It looks like they've now stopped the promotion. So if anyone is also collecting these, I have extras (also in the original plastic) that I can trade for the ones I need. Let me know.

2) Pixar's Cars Movie diecast cars:
The movie was released over a year ago, and yet they're still releasing new toys from the movie. The most popular are the diecast Matchbox Car-like recreations of the characters in the movie. What started out as getting a couple for my son's upcoming birthday turned into a quest to have every damn one of these things, including the 8 (!!!) different variations of the main character, Lightning McQueen -see below.



They even have cars for all the scenes that ran during the credits, which were recreations of scenes from past Pixar movies with all the characters "Cars-ized". So yes, I have the Woody, Buzz, and Hamm cars from Toy Story as well as Mike and Sully cars from Monsters, Inc. (and the abominable snowman just came out and seems to be a tough one to find, dammit!).

And now I have to get a replacement for Sarge due to the lead paint recall.

Is it time for an intervention yet?

He's out! No wait - Safe!

By TPerl

RIP Phil Rizzuto, who died today at age 89. I definitely took for granted how great it was listening to Scooter in the broadcast booth - reading all those birthdays, talking about cannolis, and never shy about how anxious he was to leave early so he can beat the traffic over the GWB.

There was a great series of clips that WPIX ran as a tribute during Scooter's last year in the booth - I wish I could find it. But the best I could find was 3 different links here - click on each of the 3 "Rizzuto's Memorable Broadcasts..." links - great stuff.

Are We In Calgary Yet?

I missed the blogportunity to celebrate Jerry Garcia's birthday last week while caught up in preparations for my trip to Vancouver and Seattle. He would have reached the happy retirement age of 65 on Aug. 1, if only he didn't spend most of his life as an obese heroin addict.

And yet Karl Rove lives on, slinking away from Washington secure in his role as one of the most destructive forces in the country, guaranteed to earn millions on the lecture circuit and certain from the sidelines to toss turd blossoms all over the 2008 election. Sigh.

But because I feel no joy in his departure (for the damage is done, and done well), and because I so love and miss Rick Danko as well -- here's a clip tribute to good times, good friends, free-flowing alcohol and train rides through Canada in 1970.

Ain't no more cane on the Brazos. It's all been ground down to molasses.

Ebert Victorious

So read the Onion's headline after the death of Gene Siskel in 1999. And now you can revisit over 5,000 reviews from "At the Movies" at a new online archive. Sadly, although the show began in 1975, the show's producers only started saving video of the episodes when Buena Vista took over in 1985. But that still leaves many classic encounters between "the fat guy" and "the bald guy" to satisfy my nostalgia.

Almost as entertaining as this insight into their relationship during the taping of this promo.

The Commuter Rants

By TPerl

Rant #1:
So I'm sitting on the NJ Transit train going home from work yesterday. It's 90+ degrees, hot and humid, and I'm in my usual suit and tie. I have my iPod on and I'm holding my monthly train pass out for whenever the conductor comes by while I read my Blackberry. I also need to point out that my train pass says "ORANGE" since that's the name of my station stop. I'm hot, sweaty, and just trying to listen to some music before I get home and have to switch into Daddy mode and help with the kids. So then the conductor passes by and I finally realize that he is trying to say something to me - so I take my headphones off...

"You going to Orange?"

[Now if you were paying any attention to all the exposition above, the response I should have given is:]

"Yeah, fucknuts, I'm going to Orange! That's why my fucking train pass says 'ORANGE' asshole. Couldn't figure that one out on your own, huh? Or are you worried I'm trying to slip one by you, cause I'm really going all the way to Dover and I was gonna cheat the Port Authority out of an extra 5 bucks? Well, way to go, Columbo - you fucking nailed me. Bravo. How you ended up a fucking conductor for New Jersey Transit, and not director of Homeland Security is beyond me. Osama better look over both shoulders now that Conductor Joe is here to save the world from deadbeats like me."

[Instead I just said:]

(in timid, child-like whisper) "Yeah. The train does stop there, right?" (Please don't hurt me, Mr. Conductor)


Rant #2:
Sticking with the train, this week my train home has started making the following announcement as people are boarding:

"This train does NOT make the following stops..."

And then proceeds to rattle off about a dozen stops. Now anyone boarding the train midway through this little announcement is going to be confused as shit. And you'd think they'd annouce which stops they DO make right after this idiotic speech? But no. I think they just like to fuck with us.


Rant #3:
To all tourists visiting New York: Welcome to our great city, and have a wonderful stay. But if you're walking through Midtown during rush hour, DO NOT FUCKING STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SIDEWALK! Or worse, suddenly decide you need to turn completely around and go in the opposite direction without warning. The next one of you who does this in front of me while I'm speed-walking to catch my train will get a forearm to your nose, right through your fucking sinuses. You've been forewarned. That is all.


Rant #4:
There are the homeless people I pass on my way to work that everyone obviously avoids, and I don't blame them. But there's one woman who sits on the same corner every morning with her little cardboard sign, her little dog, and her pity cup, and she constantly has people stopping to chat with her . And not just a quick "Hello" or anything, it's like they're fucking long lost buddies or something. If she's that fucking charming, why don't you give her a fucking job! Then you can talk to her all day and she won't need to beg anymore - kill two birds! I'm not trying to be insensitive here, I just don't get it is all.


But I'll finish up here on a positive note - you still can't beat the people-watching experience that is Midtown on a hot summer day. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you're obviously not a guy. Or you're gay.

The Bronx is Booming

By TPerl

[Author's Note: Now that Bones is away, I am free to talk baseball without incurring his wrath]

I admit it. It happened a week or so before the All Star Game. For the first time in almost 15 years, I gave up on the Yankees.

The starters were bad, the bullpen was even worse, and to say the lineup was underachieving would be a huge understatement.

But I kept watching the games, and sometime around July 1st, it seemed that something clicked, and they started winning. Guys like Cano, Abreu, and Cabrera started hitting, and then Shelley Duncan provided another lift, and Vizcaino continued his emergence as the eighth inning guy. And maybe it's all the attention that the '77 team is getting these days. Or maybe it was just Torre's calming influence infusing the club with the confidence they needed to play to their abilities and make a run.

Whatever is was, I now have to admit that I've done a total 180 and now expect the Yanks to make the playoffs, and at least make it interesting in the division. So go ahead and call me out for it, but I'm sure I wasn't alone among the diehards 5 weeks ago.

And with Phil Hughes coming back and last night's promising debut of Joba Chamberlain, the future looks bright indeed.

Let's take a look to see how far the team has come since July 1st:

In the Wildcard race:




And the division:




If you're counting that's a 24-9 run. And I know that it's almost impossible to keep up that pace, but it's setting the table for this team to play well down the stretch due to their increased confidence.

So let's hope I'm not talking about a complete 360 come September...